Final Play: A Sports Novella (Players Book 3)

by Stella Marie Alden

  Sitting down in front of her, I scoot forward knee-to-knee and flash her a reassuring smile. “No need to worry, Miss Jones. Just explain to me in your own words what you saw.”

  Instead of spilling secrets, her eyes get glassy and her expression goes blank. Dammit. Did she swallow some kind of poison pill? She gave no outward signs of suicide. How did I miss that?

  I open her mouth and drag a finger around to make sure it’s empty. Narcolepsy? Then after feeling a strong pulse at her neck, I breathe easier. That is until I spy the small cord running from her glasses to an expensive earpiece.

  I was right. She’s either law enforcement or a terrorist. I slip the gadget off her head and click my radio to call for an ambulance.

  “Give me those.” She grabs the headset and scoots her chair back which screeches against the linoleum. Then her eyes flit back and forth between the two exits as if she’s planning to escape.

  “Please ma’am, stay seated.” I hold open a palm in front of her face until she hands back the electronics. “Explain these, if you will, Ms. Jones.”

  She’s got top-of-the-line gear, complete with expensive camera and military grade earpiece. “It’s Doctor Jones. And I don’t know anything about that bomber.”

  “I never said there was a bomber.” There it was. Her first mistake. I’ll Mirandize her, get a full confession, and still have time for a beer.

  “I’m not an idiot, Colin. I saw the bomb squad unit.” The tops of her cheeks brighten when she realizes that she said my first name.

  How does she know me? Something about her is vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. Those deep green eyes… that high, girlish voice.

  Before I can ask, the banquet door swings open, bangs against the back wall, and Special Agent John Drew struts across the dance floor like he owns the place.

  I really can’t stand him.

  “Back off, O’Brien. She’s way above your security clearance.” He grabs a chair, all eyes on Miss Jones. If he sat any closer, she’d be on his lap.

  Picking nonexistent lint off the sleeve of his Italian suit, he rests his eyes ever-so-softly on my suspect and puts an arm over the back of her chair. “Jenna, I just heard. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  His voice is laced with honey and eyes creased with phony concern. The only thing missing is a lollipop and a Band-Aid for her boo-boo.

  “No thank you. Releasing me will be sufficient but I’d like to be updated now that I’m not a suspect.” She glares my way, triumphant-like, with eyebrows raised.

  I’m certain I’ve seen that look before. But where? The name Jenna Jones doesn’t ring any bells or conjure any ghosts.

  While I ponder, Drew slaps a fist into his palm like he just hit a homerun in the ninth. “There was a bomb in the canvas bag. Your program was spot on. Kudos.”

  Then his face skews, making him appear more confused than usual. “When did you launch the beta version?”

  “It’s been out there for a while.” She shrugs with gaze lowered to the floor, an easy tell. The woman is obviously lying and Drew doesn’t have a clue.

  I need to break up this little repartee before I throw up. “Please stay seated, Ms. Jones. We’ll be right back.”

  “After you.” My hand points my coworker to the kitchen door.

  “Of course, officer.” He grins, winks at Jones, and slowly ambles forward.

  “It’s detective.” Annoyed that I let him get under my skin, I follow him through the swinging door.

  Inside, pots and pans hang from the ceiling. Steel countertops mirror blue fluorescent lights overhead. Stoves and grills stand quiet and pristine as if waiting for the staff to arrive.

  Taking a deep breath, I force my voice to calm. “Special Agent Drew, kindly back off.”

  That was done quite well on my part. After all, it’s a perfectly rational request. This is my investigation. Unless I hear differently, he reports to me.

  “Not going to happen.” He grins smugly, waiting for me to blow but I behave as a perfect professional with hands clasped behind my back.

  “She hacked into the software at HQ. She knows something.”

  I step back when he tries to jab at my chest with an index finger. “You’re way off base. She’s not the enemy. That’s Doctor J. Jones. She’s owns the patent on HQ’s latest facial recognition software.”

  “No way. She’s what? Twenty-five?” Cracking open the door, I take another look at the stunning auburn-haired beauty.

  “Thirty, to be exact. And she didn’t break in, she logged in. Jeesh, O’Brien, let it go. We’re done here.” With an exaggerated huff, Drew straightens his silk tie and pushes at the door which swings wildly, whacking him in the ass as he exits.

  I hold back my chuckle when he stumbles. Joint Task Force? Bull. And he’s dead wrong. I’ve worked with our latest software and what popped up on the war-board today was definitely not it. Whoever locked us out of our own network was good and left no trace. If it was her, she’s beyond frightening.

  I wait in the kitchen for a minute to regain my composure. Something about that guy makes my skin crawl. Then when I reenter the banquet room, the two of them stop arguing, her elf-like face blushing. Again, I get this uncomfortable sense we’ve met before.

  Drew glances at his watch and smooths back his hair. “You’ve got exactly five minutes to release her, O’Brien. I’d stay but the press is waiting for me outside. Jenna, call me if you need anything, anything at all.”

  I give her a bit of credit for rolling her eyes when he pats her on the head. Apparently she’s had enough of me, too, because when she turns, she gives me an evil eye. Then her feet plop on top of the table.

  What’s this? She’s wearing a pair of…it can’t be but it is… A grown woman with bright red Wonder Woman sneakers. Her arms cross behind her head, she leans way back, and her short skirt rides up her thighs.

  My cock, having a mind of its own, takes notice.

  “You could break your neck.” That comes out more annoyed than I intended but it can’t be helped. I’m not at all pleased with this attraction. Especially because she just made me look like a fool in front of Drew.

  I hate know-it-all women. And liars.

  “Can I go now, Detective?” She tugs down on the hem of her skirt but leaves her comic-book shoes parked on the table top.

  “Certainly.” However before I can do that, I need to be certain she won’t lodge a complaint.

  I don’t need that on my pristine record. After all, I was doing my job. A job I’m real good at. In fact, I’m much better at it than the man who just left to preen in front of the TV cameras.

  I use my special tone. The one reserved for nuns, elderly ladies, and small children. “Please accept my department’s abject apologies, Doctor Jones, for detaining you unnecessarily.”

  She ignores my amazing efforts, juts out her heart-shaped chin, and glowers with this how-dare-you kind of attitude. There’s also something else behind her mask, as if I’d hurt her feelings.

  It’s downright asinine but I can’t help but stare back, waiting for her to blink first. I’m certain at some point in my life that I’ve played this game with her. Flashcards of faces flick through my mind, frustrating me, but I come up blank.

  Suddenly her pupils dilate and her pelvis tilts up. When she licks her lower lip with a flick of her tongue, my cock twitches.

  Absolutely not.

  This kind of thing isn’t going to happen to me, especially not on the job. I won’t get turned on by a beautiful liar with bright red sneakers and really bad timing.

  I blink.

  She smirks and lowers her lashes.

  I go in for the kill. “Doctor Jones, before you go, can you explain how your facial-reco software found a random terrorist with a bomb in a canvas bag in a city of millions? And the traffic jam? I know your program did that as well. And if you can login to our software, why did you hack in?”

  She squirms, screams, and her stupid sneakers flay the air.


  Unbelievable. I spring forward and grab the back of her chair a millisecond before her head would’ve bounced off the floor. Then while I’m congratulating myself on the save, I realize I’m straddled across her lap with my interest inches from her ‘V.’ If that position isn’t bad enough, she digs her short nails into my waist and stands.

  Blood rushes south.

  Her stunned face no doubt mirrors mine at the sexual attraction zapping between us. “S-sorry. Are we done, here? I’ve got a lot of work and I’m already late.”

  “Yeah. I’ll help you call a cab.” I haven’t felt anything like this since the biggest mistake of my life but back then, I was a whole lot younger and whole lot more stupid. I got no excuse for what’s going on between my legs and step back.

  It’s good my dress pants have ample room in the front because I need to pass my coworkers on the way out of the restaurant. You’d think a brisk walk across Fifty-Third would curb my lust, but not so. Now that I’m walking behind her, all I can think about is why there’s no underwear lines across her tight ass.

  At the curb of Seventh Avenue I whistle through my teeth, a yellow cab comes to a halt, and I get in one final jab. “You know, if a low tech guy like me is asking, how long do you suppose before someone smarter figures it out?”

  “Figures out what?” Holding her purse to her chest, she parks her rear-end on the blue fabric, her skirt climbing high on those mile long legs.

  “That you broke into our network using some new mind-blowing piece of software.”

  She ignores me and gives the cabbie her address which I commit to memory. “We’re not done here, Doctor Jones. Not by a long shot.”

  Her eyebrows raise and thick lips purse into a one-sided smile. “I might have something to say about that.”

  When she tries to close the door, I shoot out my hand to keep it open, the small brain below my waist doing all the talking. I need to know more. It can’t be helped.

  “Why not meet up with me later, Dr. Jones? Coffee? Dinner?”

  “Are you threatening me?” Frowning, she slides to the other side of the seat and eyes me with that same pained expression as earlier.

  Did my offer of a date sound remotely dangerous? Again, warnings clang in my brain as traffic starts to back up behind the cab. I definitely know her and her odd behavior from somewhere.

  The driver taps on the meter, horns blare, and I let go. Then she slams the cab door shut, leaving me stunned at the curb. What just happened? Obviously I’ve been working too hard, not taking enough time off. Maybe I just need to get laid.

  Once back inside the restaurant, I whistle through my teeth, and my partner, Joe D’Angelo, looks up. His starched white shirt is untucked with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing his Semper Fi tat. We’ve been together for five years and it sucks that I know that he knows what’s going on below my waist.

  He raises one eyebrow and smirks. “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. She clammed up when Drew walked in. I tried to get more out of her, but he said my security clearance wasn’t high enough. Can you believe that guy? So much for joint in JTTF.”

  “Forget him. He’s never going to change…” Joe scrolls through a file on his tablet and then glances out the window. “So that was J. Jones. Who knew? She’s not the little bald-headed, myopic guy that I’d pictured in my head. She’s like what, a nine? A ten?”

  “I didn’t notice.” My glower says it’s not up for discussion.

  “Riigght.” He grins, no doubt planning the payback he’s going to have at my expense.

  It’s my fault. The last time he’d fallen hard for a woman, I’d been merciless. I’d almost felt bad about it except for one thing. Like my ex, she too, was a scheming, conniving bitch. That brings my mind back to our job. I got a really bad feeling about this latest attack on the city.

  “You call Georgio. I’ll meet you back at HQ.” Joe’s a mind reader. It’s one of the reasons he survived three tours in Iraq. That and he’s a cold mother under fire.

  “Where’s the owner of this place?” I bite into a donut, something I almost never do but need the sugar rush.

  “Got it covered. Gave him a PBA card for his dash. He’ll never get ticketed again.”

  “I’m so proud of you.” I smirk.

  Then before my partner can get in another dig about the state of my junk, my phone vibrates in my back pocket.

  It’s a text from my boss. He wants me to report in.

  I text back that I’ll be there in five. No doubt Drew already gave him his perspective on events. Then after pouring some caffeine for the road, I head out to my car double parked in front of the restaurant. It seems like days but it’s only been there a few hours. Sitting, I speed dial the brightest analyst on the force and try to guess his language du jour.

  I count three rings.

  “Allo?” His French is pretty good.

  “Bonjour, mon ami. What’ve you got for me?” I purposefully butcher my accent.

  He snickers. “Nice, O’Brien. The name of the suspected terrorist is Roger Preevil. Home town is Chicago. Married. He got laid off last week. No known religious affiliations. Allah told him to build a bomb, so he did. He’s with the shrink now. The Feds think they can get more out of him. But from what I hear, I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “The suspect is adamant. He says he remembers rien. Nothing about this morning. We’re pulling his computer now.”

  “Okay. Keep me informed. And about Doctor Jones’ program…” I turn off my police beacon-light, whoop the siren, and pull into traffic.

  Georgio speaks my thoughts aloud. “You think our HQ program is nowhere near as sophisticated as what she was using this morning? You might even be asking, could any known program in the world have found that terrorist on that bus?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.” His lame humor makes me chuckle and for a moment there’s silence as my phone connects to the car’s Bluetooth speakers.

  “Whatever she’s got, O’Brien, it’s light years ahead of Microsoft and Google. Probably worth millions, maybe even a billion on the black market.” The kid drops the accent, suddenly dead serious. That worries me about as much as anything that’s happened today.

  Good God. No wonder Jones was reticent to give out details. “Drew says FBI has an eyes-only file on her. Can you get at it? Quietly?”

  “Mais oui. And there’s one more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Doctor Jones? Her birth name is Megan McCarthy. She changed it when she became an adult.”

  “Meggie?” Holy B’Jesus. That explains everything.

  “You know her?”

  “Yeah, I did. I’ll fill you in later.” I hang up and stop at the next red-light, confused. The last time I saw her, she was young. What? Thirteen? For God’s sake, she still had a gaping hole where an adult tooth hadn’t fully grown in.

  Even as I put the two faces side by side in my mind, I can’t see much similarity between the cute fat kid and the mind-blowingly gorgeous woman in the restaurant.

  I liked Meggie, she was a good egg, but the rest in that fat camp had been merciless. She always had a hard time connecting with the other girls. At the time I did my best to help her to survive what had to be the most miserable three weeks of her life.

  Then I smile when I recall how she souped-up my computer. I had an old Dell and it was hurting. She ordered more RAM, a new motherboard, and a solid state hard drive. She completely cleaned out the malware. Basically, she rebuilt it from scratch at only a fraction of the cost of what a new one would’ve run me. When she was done, it ran better than it ever had and kept me going another couple years.

  That was right before I enlisted. Before the incident and before that bitch of an ex got her claws into me. When I was young and stupid.

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