by Skye, S. D.
Six and J.J. glanced at each other, then at Tony, and in unison replied, “No!”
Tony strode into the corridor and shot back a blank glance over his shoulder. “I’m going to step outside to make a call. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”
Standing outside Kendel’s office, J.J. smirked and turned to Six as he studied her expression. “What is it, Six? You keep looking at me like I have spinach in my teeth,” she said running her tongue along the top row.
“No, no. Trying to figure out what’s up with you and the Italian Stallion. The air between you two was so cold I think my balls caught frostbite.”
J.J. chuckled and shook her head. “Is your brain in any way connected to your mouth?”
“Don’t try to deflect the question. Answer me.”
“If I wanted to talk about it, I would’ve.” She shrugged and paced ahead. “Let’s just say, what happened between you and me last Friday was a game changer. Things between Tony and I will never be the same.”
Chapter 11
Friday Morning, November 6th—FBI Headquarters
The Smirnov’s burn in J.J.'s throat served as a coarse reminder that she had knuckled under at the first hard blow, leveled by the human upper-cut called Grayson “Six” Chance. In five minutes, her life had taken a calamitous turn. One minute, she’d crossed the threshold into the FBI Headquarters Executive Conference room where Director Freeman had announced she'd be leading the Phantom Hunter Task Force along with her new love, her co-case agent Antonio Donato. By minute five, Six's lips were parting from hers and Tony walked in just in time to catch an eyeful of the remnants of their embrace, one J.J. neither invited nor welcomed.
After Sunnie left and her nerves calmed, J.J. set off to find Tony. She needed to make things right. Overcoming Tony’s stubbornness would be a difficult feat. Walking in on the disturbing scene no doubt ignited his ire and put a chink in his macho Italian armor.
She paced back to the office, rehearsing her speech with every step. You didn’t see what you thought you saw...Okay, you did, but it's not what you think...Okay, it is what you think, but he kissed me first...Okay, I kissed him back, but not much.
Nothing sounded reasonable. If the shoe was on the other foot, she wouldn't have believed a single excuse. Any attempt at explaining would've been met with a detailed description of the many express routes he could take to hell. In her final analysis, only one truth mattered: Whatever her wayward lips succumbed to at the moment, her heart belonged to Tony—and Tony alone.
J.J. flung her purse over her shoulder and gathered her inner strength as she twisted the doorknob. She stepped inside her office and scanned the area for Tony. Most cubicles were empty except for a couple of voices mumbling back near Tony's space. She wasn't surprised. Everyone tended to cut out early on Fridays if they put their hours in throughout the week. J.J. stood on her tip-toes to view over the top of the cubicles and noticed a brunette hovering around. A burst of jealousy quickened her steps. Just as she suspected—Gia Campioni.
J.J. growled in a low steady rumble as her stomach hardened. From the moment the interloper laid eyes on Tony, she knew Gia had put a target on his back. Her eyes were filled with the hope of a woman who longed to take the bull by its horn so-to-speak. As J.J. made her way up the aisle, Gia did a double-take before sidestepping to allow J.J. to enter.
“Hey, Tony,” J.J. said. “You ran off before I had a chance to explain what happened. Can we talk for a minute?”
When Tony glared at J.J., eyes narrowed, Gia’s gaze shifted nervously between them before she grabbed her purse and jacket from Tony's guest chair. “Uhhh, I know you two have a lot of work to do. Tony, if you get time tonight I’m heading up the block to Gordon Biersch. Maybe you’d like to stop by and have a drink.” She turned to J.J. and, with much less enthusiasm, said, “Of course, you’re welcome, too.”
“I'm sure,” J.J. snapped as she returned the cold sentiment. “But, no thank you. As you said, I’ve got work to do.”
J.J. watched Gia leave, waiting until she heard the door to shut before turning to speak to Tony.
“Seriously? Gia? The corpse of our relationship isn’t even room temperature yet,” J.J. whispered in aggressive hushes.
“Really, J.J.?” Tony responded, his expression tightly pinched and his cheeks visibly flush. He lowered his voice. “Don't even try to turn the tables on me. What you experienced is nothing compared to what I walked in on!”
She slipped into his guest chair and pulled it close to him.
With his face crumpled, Tony closely examined hers.
“Something in my nose?” she asked.
“No, something’s missing,” he said. “Ohhh, yeah. Six's lips!”
She released a heavy sigh. “That's how you're going to carry this?”
He turned from her, aligned his fingers to the keyboard, and tapped annoyingly loud. His bullheadedness never ceased to amaze her. She never believed the day would come in which she’d bear the brunt of it. J.J. struggled to find the right words to say. She opened her mouth and hoped they would come.
“Look at me,” she said, her eyes chasing his. She needed him to believe her sincerity and hear the truth in her tone. Still he refused. “Please, Tony. Look at me.”
He didn't turn around. Just kept typing up his report.
“Okay, fine. The only reason I even stayed behind is to tell him in no uncertain terms that I don't love him anymore. Whatever he wants or believes, my heart belongs to someone else. Before the words formed in my mouth, bam! On my mother's grave, I didn't welcome it. He caught me totally off-guard.”
He abruptly stopped and turned to her. “What about the picture on your entertainment shelf?”
“It's gone. Last night. In about fifty pieces at the bottom of my trash can, along with the Belvedere bottles. I'm trying, Tony. I'm trying.”
He shifted his gaze back toward the computer. “Well, if I was the right man for you, maybe you wouldn't have to try so hard.”
Her rapid blinking was followed by an open stare. “Or perhaps this situation presented the excuse you needed to pursue more family friendly options at the bar tonight.”
He cut his eyes at her. “You must be freaking kidding me. Man, you’ve got a hefty pair given that we’re here because of you.”
“No, Tony, we’re here because of Six,” J.J. replied. Then she disobeyed her mother’s biggest piece of advice—she asked the question she didn’t want the answer to. “You’re attracted to her, aren’t you?”
Her stomach plummeted. She knew there was a possibility her gift would tell her much more than she really wanted to know. But she needed to know.
“How do you expect me to respond?” he asked.
“With the truth.”
He rolled his eyes and hesitated before barking, “No!”
A sharp stab jabbed at her heart, which was unrelated to the intense itching sensation permeating her feet. He did have a thing for Gia. For the first time, he’d deliberately lied to her. She rose to her feet sullen and defeated.
“I'm going to my desk. Director Freeman expects our report by close of business.”
“Whateva,” he mumbled under his breath.
J.J. sulked with every step toward her cubicle and collapsed into her chair. She hadn’t anticipated this level of anger from him. She hoped Tony would cool down and drop by her desk later, but she realized convincing him that Six meant nothing to her would be difficult. The question was how to convince him that he meant more? And even if she managed to convince him, did she mean anything to him? If he could switch his feelings off like a light switch, maybe his words to her last night were as empty as her heart felt that moment.
She wondered if this conflict was a sign they weren't as compatible as she’d hoped. Maybe Gia would be a better match. An attraction that crumbled under the weight of one week’s turmoil may suggest they weren’t meant to be together. The mere thought gave her a migraine, so she rejected the notion by refocusing her attent
ion on other pressing matters—like her own safety.
She needed to plan her next steps.
Lana was still on the streets, no doubt drowning in rage, desperate, and vengeful, which made her a very insidious threat to both J.J. and Tony. J.J. would need to be extra vigilant about her safety with every move she made, on guard every moment of every day. While J.J. had no clue about Lana’s strategy to strike back at her, she knew Lana's success would culminate with one of two events—J.J.’s admission to a hospital or burial in a casket—unless she got to Lana first.
As J.J. stirred in her thoughts, the phone rang. She eyed the caller ID and hesitated to answer. She didn’t recognize the Northern Virginia number and feared Six might be trying to woo her. After second-guessing herself, she picked up the receiver.
“McCall.”
“Uh, J.J.? This is Debbie. Debbie Cartwright. We met last year at the Christmas Party,” the woman said as her soft voice trembled. She was the wife of James Cartwright, the former FBI Assistant Director of Counterintelligence and father of two whom Lana murdered before attempting to make her escape to Moscow. “I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time.”
“Oh my goodness, Mrs. Cartwright. I hardly know what to say. I'm...I'm so deeply sorry for your loss. Jim was a good man.”
“Thank you for those kind words at this difficult time. I hope he’s remembered that way. He just...” Her voice cracked then trailed off. Moments later J.J. was deflated by a barrage of sniffles.
“Are you okay?” J.J. asked as if she had the power to ease what she could only imagine must be crippling grief.
“I'm sorry. It's all so overwhelming. News reporters camped outside on the front lawn. FBI Agents turning my house inside out. It's all just ... so overwhelming,” she said, collecting herself.
“How are you and the girls holding up?”
“We're all devastated, of course. The girls are struggling to understand. I'm trying to help them understand situations I can't even begin to grasp myself,” Debbie said. “But we do what me must, right? With God's grace and mercy, we'll make it through.”
“Yes…you certainly will,” J.J. said, still confused as to the reason Debbie had called to speak with her. After a lengthy, uncomfortable pause, she continued. “Is...Is there something that I can do for you? As you can imagine, things are pretty crazy here.”
“Oh, of course, dear,” Debbie said. “I called because I was going through Jim's things. He had the forethought to collect his insurance policies, retirement accounts, and such. And among the paperwork, I found a letter specifically addressed to you. His secretary, Sue, gave me your number.”
J.J.'s eyebrows scrunched. “Jim left a letter for me?”
“Yes. Marked 'For J.J. McCall Only',” she said. “It’s thin, one or two pages at the most. I thought you might want to come by and pick it up.”
J.J. shifted in her seat and sat back. Her mind began to spin, wondering if he wrote the confession she suspected he'd planned to deliver before his death. She was tempted to ask Debbie to open the envelope but decided against it. She didn't want to add anymore to Debbie’s hurt and confusion than humanly necessary. J.J. sensed her struggle to come to grips with the man she loved and the man she was now discovering him to be. “I can't imagine what it could be. I'm finishing up a report for the Director today. Would it be possible for me to stop by tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. We're having family here about noon, following the memorial service. Any time later would be fine.”
She fell back into her seat, curiosity piqued. He died before he and she could meet. She had an inkling about the contents, but she'd have to wait until Saturday to find out for certain.
Chapter 12
Later that Friday
Took her a little over an hour but J.J. had finished her report when the office door opened and closed.
She stood up, and called out, “Hello? Tony? Anybody?”
No one responded, so she grabbed her report and made her way to Tony's space. His desk was dark and clean except for a short stack of paper. He’d shut off his computer and hadn't so much as bothered to leave a Post-it note saying goodbye. She grabbed his stack, scanned them, and headed to Director Freeman’s office. She’d drop them off with Mrs. Whitehouse.
Her heart ached. Tony had left to meet Gia for drinks. How could she compete with Pantene hair and Sicilian genes? Seemed their relationship had ended before it began. Tears welled behind her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them fall.
She entered her cubicle and printed out her section of the report, placed both in a folder, and delivered them to Mrs. Whitehouse's desk in the director's office and paced quickly to her car.
As she pulled out of the FBI garage and waited for the guards to lower the barrier, she wondered what more she could've said or done to make him understand and believe her. At that moment, an epiphany told her to take the leap and say the one thing she had not yet said.
She grabbed her cellphone and called him, expecting his voicemail. When she heard the beep, she spoke the words her head could not force her heart to silence.
One last thing...I love you.
Her greatest fear, more painful than outright rejection, was deep-seated dread that his behavior reflected the fact that he did not share the same feelings. It struck her, the courage she’d displayed, baring her heart to a man who might be in the arms of another. She had no regrets, though, and she’d done everything possible to prevent it.
There was truly nothing left to do.
And even less to say.
Chapter 13
Late Friday Afternoon—FBI Headquarters
Director Russell Freeman released the tie from his neck and collapsed into his office chair. He stared out the window and watched the cloudless sky succumb to dense mounds of silver. The dizzy spell had passed but he was still a little short of breath. He’d regretted bumping his doctor’s appointment three times in the last four weeks to handle the massive fallout from Assistant Director Jim Cartwright's murder, Agent Chris Johnson's arrest, Jake McGee's death, and Agent Lana Michaels' escape. But the powers that be refused to wait for answers. His confidence in leaving agents McCall and Donato in charge of Task Force Phantom Hunter eased his angst, particularly given the mettle they'd demonstrated in identifying the ICE Phantom, but Lana Michaels’ disappearance troubled him.
He sifted through the stack of phone messages that his secretary, Mrs. Whitehouse, had left for him. Two from the DNI. One from Rayna, his beautiful wife. One from SAC MacDonald, who headed up the Washington Field Office. And the last from US Marshall Service Director. Deputies from his department had been working non-stop alongside WFO agents in a joint effort to hunt down Lana. He hoped the bounty on her head might yield some loose tongues, but he didn't care whether they located her dead or alive. After the cold-blooded murder of his dear friend Jim Cartwright, he wanted her off the streets and would exhaust every resource in the entire law enforcement community if he must to ensure she'd pay for her actions. He only hoped John had positive news to report.
“Hey, Russell?” Acting Assistant Director John Nixon called out in his blustery Southern twang from the threshold of Freeman's office door. Freeman turned to his voice, his eye drawn to Nixon’s his coal-colored coif that had somehow escaped the stress-born grey peppering in his own hair. “Can I speak with you for a minute? I've got an update on the Michaels investigation.”
Freeman waved him inside and asked him to have a seat. Nixon, the lone senior executive holdover from the previous administration, was a solid counterbalance to Freeman’s own easygoing manner. But his inability to separate his personal leanings and agendas from FBI business might cost him more than Freeman’s trust. “Good news, I hope. After this week, I’d be excited to hear the FBI still had the authority to conduct investigations.”
“Well, we can conduct investigations,” Nixon said, pressing his lips together in a tight grimace. “But I’m afraid there’s no sign of her anywhere. Apparently, we trai
ned her well. Metro Police located footage of her entering the Alexandria metro station. They're still reviewing to find out where she exited.”
“What about her house? Any activity?”
John shook his head. “It's cordoned off and we've had the Evidence Recovery Team at the premises around the clock recovering evidence. That's the last place Lana will turn up.”
“So she could be anywhere,” Freeman said. “I think we can all agree her primary objective at this point is to get the hell out of the United States. She won’t risk buying travel documents from an FBI snitch.”
“No, we think the Russians will attempt to make a drop with money and travel docs.”
“What about the Russian Embassy? Any intelligence officers been spotted outside the compound?”
“No one's left the embassy since the news broke. Security's locked down for the near future,” Nixon said. “Stanislav Vorobyev is still scheduled to depart today. Dmitriyev, who we believe will take over as the embassy Security Chief, will probably drive him to Dulles and pick up Yuriy Filchenko, the new Counterintelligence Line Chief.”
Freeman nodded. J.J. had already revealed that she’d recruited Dmitriyev. If any op had been planned J.J. would find out before anyone.
“Think they'll attempt to fill a dead-drop for Lana?” Freeman asked.
“Doubt it,” Nixon replied. “Dmitriyev’s a declared officer and can’t engage in operational activity, plus we’ll have them covered like wax on a hairy ass. They'll wait a few days before conducting any operational activity. The heat’s high and the Bureau smells blood,” John reasoned. “Lana's the wildcard. They won't disavow her so they'll attempt to provide support at some point. Even so, the question is whether she’ll risk returning to the grid to receive it. In the meantime, we've potentially got a more critical issue to deal with.”
Freeman rolled his eyes and took a seat on the edge of his desk. “God, what now?”
“Lana kept a journal, random thoughts, in an encrypted file on her computer.” John rubbed his forehead. “To say she harbored great resentment toward Agents McCall and Donato would be an understatement. And hate was an accurate description before Agent McCall killed the love of her life. With Jake McGhee dead, we think Lana's going to avenge his death before she’s extracted to Moscow.”
