Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series)

by Skye, S. D.

  “Tony?”

  “Shhhh…” He rolled off of her and whispered, “don’t move. Don’t make a sound until I give you the all clear.”

  “Okay,” she whispered back. Her every sense was heightened. She could smell smoke in the air from a wood-burning fireplace. Harried footsteps padded around her, but she could see nothing. She patted her hand until she felt the cool grip of her Glock against her fingers.

  On all fours, Tony crawled to the edge of his car bumper and scanned the area. “Looks clear. Shooter’s gone. You okay?”

  “I think so.” She pressed her fingers against her face and felt a warm ooze emanating from her temple. Her fingertips dripped with blood. “Gash in my head, but I’m okay.”

  Tony jumped to his feet, pulled his gun from the holster, and ran toward the sprawled body.

  Six, who had stood beside J.J. only moments before the shots were fired, was now in the street. He knelt beside Lana and checked for a pulse. “She’s dead.”

  “You stay here. Call 911 then Washington Field,” Tony said to Six. “I’m goin’ after the shooter.”

  J.J. jumped up to her feet, casting a callous glance at Lana before hurrying to reach Tony, who was already half way up Mr. O’Leary’s steps.

  “Stand by!” he said as he busted the glass with the butt of his gun, reached in, and twisted the doorknob. Then he stepped away from the door’s opening in case the gunman fired. After a soundless few seconds passed, Tony led the way inside, J.J. on his heels. He gripped the butt with both hands and pointed the barrel upward as he headed up the stairs. No sooner than his foot hit the riser did a familiar face appear at the landing.

  “You have some nerve showing up here,” Santino barked, clearly ready to run.

  “The fuck are you still doing here?” Tony said, lowering his weapon. His chest rose and fell at a rapid pace. “Thought you skipped town.”

  J.J.’s head volleyed between the two, her expression reflecting the confusion “You know him?” J.J. asked.

  Tony looked at J.J. and nodded. “Yeah. He’s my cousin. Works with my old man.”

  “Suzy Googotz out there offered me twenty-five Gs to put a couple in the back of your head…this one, too,” he said, jutting his head toward J.J.

  “Hmph,” J.J. said. “That explains why she approached me unarmed.”

  “Safe to say, the only thing she’s hittin’ now is the bottom of a fuckin’ six foot pit. I mean, you may not be ‘family’…but you’re still family,” Santino said. “Now unless you’re plannin’ to throw me a ticker tape parade, I need to get the fuck outta here before the cops come.”

  “I am the cops,” Tony reminded him.

  “You know what the hell I meant. You takin’ me in or what?”

  J.J. glanced at Tony, his expression asking a question she was unsure of how to answer. She thought for a moment and shrugged. “We’re FBI agents and we have jobs to do, but we should maybe ask ourselves what Freeman would do to a man who saved the lives of two FBI agents and took America’s most wanted agent killer off the streets?”

  Tony motioned his head toward the back door. “You get pinched, you’re on your own.”

  “Once a fed, always a fed. Don’t loyalty mean anything to you?”

  “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Tony said. “Yeah, it means somethin’ to me. That’s why you’re running out the back door…and not doing a perp walk in handcuffs out the front. Now get the fuck outta here before I change my mind.”

  J.J. and Tony stepped aside and turned their backs as Santino disappeared into the rear of the house and a door slammed. Before Tony could grab the doorknob, sirens blared. J.J. and Tony looked at one another curiously and ran into the street where an ambulance arrived, followed shortly by an unmarked FBI car.

  J.J. could see Kyle and Hopper inside.

  “Looks like the cavalry’s arriving. You better call in a BOLO on Santino, so our story looks legit,” she said, referring to a be-on-the-lookout alert to notify law enforcement that a subject was on the run. “We’re going to have enough questions to answers as it is.”

  “I’m on it,” Tony said, as Kyle and Hopper approached. He stepped out of earshot, leaving J.J. to handle the impending inquisition.

  Kyle glanced down at Lana as the EMTs checked her lifeless, soulless form and prepared it for the body bag. “We get her?”

  J.J. shook her head no. “She got got—but unfortunately the pleasure wasn’t mine. A sniper took two shots from up there,” she pointed to Mr. O’Leary’s upstairs window. “The one on the right. Both struck Lana—two in the back. He must’ve run out the back door. By the time we ensured the area was clear and got inside, the shooter was gone.”

  Kyle turned toward Hopper. “You think it was Castellano?”

  J.J.’s eyebrows popped up before she could catch herself. “Castellano?”

  “Yeah, he picked up Lana’s fake passport today,” Kyle said. “From the looks of things, something went wrong. My guess is Lana’s mouth. I always told her it’d get her killed one day.”

  “Well, he made tracks pretty quickly. Left it clean. But we’ve called ERT in to collect evidence and Tony’s calling in a BOLO right now. If he’s still in D.C. we’ll get him,” J.J. said.

  “Left it clean, huh?” Kyle said with more than a hint of doubt in his voice. “Sunnie tells me he’s related to Donato.”

  “Yeah.” Her stomach sank as she attempted to improvise. “Cousins. From what I understand, they went to school together, but since Tony split from the family, he hasn’t exactly been welcomed with open arms. He can’t go within a hundred miles of New York or Jersey without risking his life.”

  “Apparently. Gotta love family,” Kyle said.

  “Tony spoke to him yesterday, but he said he was skipping town. He had no idea all this was going down.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of time to find out what Tony knew and didn’t know. In the meantime, we need to draw straws on who’s gonna go brief the director first thing in the morning. We’re going to have a late night cleaning up this scene.”

  “Oh, please. Let me do the honor,” J.J. said. “Nothing could make me happier than informing him in person that the wicked witch is dead.”

  Chapter 62

  Monday Morning, November 16th – FBI Headquarters

  “Are you okay, Director Freeman?” J.J. had nearly talked herself hoarse as she conveyed to Director Freeman the events of the past week. He appeared pleased, but unwell somehow. America’s Most Wanted was dead, and a covert black ops manhunt was in full gear to find that piece of shit traitor Hawk—Gary Mosin. Task Force Phantom Hunter had cut off the head and the tail. Now, it was time to target the heart, the source of the money—Troika Technologies. Once the New York office took the Mashkov organization down, it would be only a matter of time before the entire network imploded.

  He gripped his left arm and shoulder. “I’m fine. Think I strained myself lifting weights yesterday. I’ve got an appointment to get it checked out after my meetings this morning.”

  She sighed with relief and stood to leave. “Well, we can wrap this up then. I think we’ve hit all the high points.”

  “You have,” he said. “But I have not. Have a seat.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked, returning her butt to the chair.

  “I want you, Donato, and the rest of the task force—save one—in New York. I’ve already cleared it with the SAC and the DNI. They’re expecting you Friday. Nobody knows how this network operates better than you. You have the lead on the investigation—New York is supporting.”

  J.J. lurched forward in her seat. “But, sir, Tony can’t…you know his history. If he goes to New York, he may not make it back to Washington, at least not alive. I can’t risk putting him in harm’s way, not for this case.” She thought to herself, not for any case.

  “The threat is legitimate?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t get much more real than this.”

  He sat back in his seat, r
ubbed his temples, then leaned forward on the desk, again. “Okay,” he said. “The rest of you should take a couple days off and then get ready to go.”

  “But, sir, you said, ‘save one,’” J.J. said. “Who isn’t authorized to go?”

  “Grayson. He’s one of the best exfil experts in the CIA, and he developed some very critical contacts during his last tour. We need them. So, we’re sending him to Moscow to help get Stanislav Vorobyev back to the United States.”

  J.J. felt a conflicting sense of relief and consternation. She wouldn’t trust Vorobyev’s impending exfiltration to anyone more than him, but going to New York without Tony or Six was like Princess Leia without Luke and Hans Solo. She’d be stuck with…C3PO and R2D2.

  “So, it’s just me, Gia, and Walter?” she said. “No offense, sir, but they’re not exactly top cover.”

  “FBI New York is 2,000 strong. You’ll have plenty of support,” he said. “Now, if that will be all. I’m going to get myself to the doctor and get this arm checked out.”

  J.J. hesitated for a moment. For the first time she was alone, without Tony or anyone. And she wanted to ask him about her mother’s case. He was in a position to get her all the information she needed.

  “Is there something else, Agent McCall?”

  “Well…no,” she said as she stood to leave. She turned toward the door and suddenly found the courage to ask. “On second thought, sir…”

  When she turned to face him, Director Freeman was slumped over his desk, clasping his chest, barely breathing. “Director Freeman?!”

  Her mind blanked. She couldn’t think. Her every action was driven by autopilot. She rushed to him and pressed two fingers against his throat to check for his pulse. “Mrs. Whitehouse!” she yelled. “Call 9-1-1!”

  She stretched him out on the floor. He was still breathing…but barely. She couldn’t do CPR, not unless his heart stopped. There was nothing for her to do but tilt his head to ensure he could breathe and wait in desperation. She grabbed his hand and held it tightly. “Help is on the way, Director. Help is on the way.”

  “Listen…Nixon,” he struggled to say in a barely audible whisper. “Be….caref….”

  Fear washed over her as the Headquarters nurse burst through the door and ordered her to stand back. “Nixon?” she called out from the distance. “I don’t understand…what—” she began as emergency personnel whisked in.

  As they wheeled him out on the gurney, he reached out for her hand.

  “Tell his wife to meet us at the George Washington University Hospital emergency room. I’m riding in the ambulance,” J.J. called back to his secretary.

  In the midst of the flurry of thoughts flittering through her mind on the way to the hospital, she wondered why Freeman warned her about Nixon. He headed the good-ole-boys club that counted Jack Sabinski as a member, but J.J. had never taken him for a racist. His problem was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. One thing was certain: Freeman’s illness had thrown one more monkey wrench in her ability to operate freely in New York.

  She didn’t know what Nixon had against her, but whatever it was she felt certain he would make her life at the FBI impossible until Freeman returned to office—or she found out what the problem was.

  Chapter 63

  Monday Afternoon—The Russian Embassy

  Aleksey was stunned by the turn of events. Never expected for even a moment that Svetlana would be killed, even though he hoped like hell that she’d get caught. But he felt no guilt. None whatsoever. The hardest part for Dmitriyev was pretending as if he cared.

  Continuous film loops of the crime scene replayed on every news channel at least twice hourly to fill the otherwise slow news day. He was thankful the Resident shut down most operations to give the residency time to mourn their fallen. He strode down the hall to Lana’s father’s office and found him glaring at the television screen with cracked bloodshot eyes and a steely, empty glare. His usually pale face was sullen and plum with a dangerous mix of anger, frustration, and grief for his lost joy.

  Aleksey struggled to find words of comfort and solace, something that lacked the typical trite expressions of sympathy. Mikhaylov’s pain was one he hoped never to experience in this lifetime or any other. “Brother,” he said. “I have no words. I’m here for whatever you need.”

  He bowed his head in appreciation and gestured for Aleksey to fill the empty chair in front of his desk. Aleksey obliged.

  “She was so young. Had her entire life to live for. All wasted.” He tried to keep his voice from cracking but failed. Then he turned sharply toward Aleksey and though clenched teeth declared, “She will not die in vain. But the son of a bitch who did this will.”

  “I don’t understand,” Aleksey said. “You know the identity of her killer?”

  He reached into his desk and pulled out thin stack of papers and then pushed them across the desk toward Dmitriyev. Told him they were copies of documents Lana had found to finger the mobster responsible. “She sent these to me only days ago. Told me if anything happened, I should find him. He would have answers. The news reports may indicate his identity is unknown, but I know where he is, and I know where to find him.”

  “So, what will you do?”

  “Golikov’s men have already returned to New York. Mashkov’s people are already searching the streets. They will find him…and they will kill him. For me. And for my Solnyshko.”

  Aleksey was taken aback. He had no idea Mashkov, Golikov’s most sadistic and vicious henchman, was connected in the United States, let alone New York City. He had a gnawing feeling that if the matter was handled sloppily—as Russian organized crime usually handled such matters—the fallout would compromise the residency. But attempting to reason with Lana’s father while he was in this torrid emotional state was pointless. He’d avenge the death of his only child, no matter what. Unfortunately, he didn’t realize he’d also just sold his soul to the devil.

  “I will leave you to your thoughts, but if you need anything at all. I’m here. We’re all here,” Dmitriyev said.

  Mikhaylov’s cheeks trembled as he fought back the tears. He couldn’t choke out a thank you. Only managed another nod in appreciation.

  As Aleksey stood to leave, a streak in the hall blasted by him as the sound of heavy footsteps pounded toward the residency leadership offices. He stuck his head out of the door and saw the panicked figure burst inside the Resident’s door.

  It was Gusin. The Resident had authorized him to monitor RAPTURE before the self-imposed operational stand down. He figured Svetlana’s death would be briefed at the highest levels and wanted to find out what the Americans knew…and didn’t know.

  What he gleaned must’ve been significant.

  Aleksey lingered in the hall, until the Resident’s door flung open moments later. The Resident tromped into the hall pointing out officer after officer—all leadership. Aleksey called for Lana’s father and followed Gusin and Komarov downstairs to the basement meeting room. Once everyone was seated, the Resident addressed the captive audience.

  “Comrade Gusin has collected some valuable information this morning,” he said. “According to our unwitting sources at the highest level of the American government, that traitorous, backstabbing, pig Stanislav Vorobyev…is dead. Piece of shit had a heart attack.”

  Several loud gasps erupted around the table before a moment of stunned silence. Once the news settled in the room, everyone exploded in cheers. They celebrated his death like New Year’s Day or Christmas. Vorobyev had betrayed his country and he would betray no more.

  Dmitriyev’s mouth fell open and he squeezed his eyes shut before he regained enough awareness to join in the cheers with his comrades. Anything less would signal his guilt. But his heart hurt for Vorobyev’s family. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. Absent the chain of events that led to his interrogation, his friend would never have reached a level of desperation that would induce him to betray his beloved Russia. He died a victim of circumstance,
one of both his and Dmitriyev’s making.

  Aleksey forced a fake, hearty laugh. “Serves him right. It’s too bad the Government will have to waste taxpayer dollars to throw his decomposing body face down in a shallow grave.”

  The Resident shook his head no. “He is an American problem now. Let the American taxpayers waste resources to bury a man who was too dead to deliver the goods. What do we care?”

  In that instant, Aleksey had learned one thing that tempered his solemn mood. First, Stan’s body was still in American custody. Second, the FBI knew about the bug and would only share information they wanted Russian intelligence to hear. That meant this story about Vorobyev was probably a fabrication aimed at misinforming Moscow.

  He reached into the small liquor cabinet. The occasion called for a bottle of single-malt scotch—Oban. He poured a cup two fingers high and then held his cup high in the air. “This moment calls for a toast. To our fallen comrade, Stanislav Vorobyev,” he said facetiously. “May his soul find a home exactly where it belongs!”

  Chapter 64

  ‘We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face . . . we must do that which we think we cannot.” — Eleanor Roosevelt

  Monday Night—J.J.’s Condo

  J.J. stared out the window and basked in the quiet of the stolen moment. She and Tony had been running at 200 miles per hour since the Sit Room case began. There’d been little time for anything other than investigating. But after Director Freeman’s heart attack, after spending five hours in the waiting room with Rayna Freeman, after watching her stew in worry while the fate of her husband’s life hung in the balance, J.J. found the time to remember love. The not-so-subtle reminder jolted her, shifted her focus to what was really important in life. Reminded her that nothing, no case, no investigation, no spy was more important than her health and happiness, further steeling her resolve to stay off the bottle and shifting her evermore close to quitting. She’d reaffirmed that her life was finally moving in the right direction, with Tony beside her, around her, behind her, in and outside her.