by Misty Evans
She’d better be, considering the Federal Bureau of Investigation expected her, and the handful of other agents in the D.C. field office that were lucky enough to have been recommended for sniper school, to hit targets the average shooter wouldn’t attempt. Sniper school had lured her to apply and—eh-hem—make the FBI SWAT team, a position taken in addition to her regular duties as a special agent.
Caroline glanced back at the jokers behind her. “You were saying?”
One guy stared at the ground as the two shuffled away. “Helluva shot.”
“Bet your ass,” she said.
Still grinning, Joe checked the spotting scope again. “I gotta try this shot sometime. I bet I can’t do it. Damn, that sucks.” His cell phone rang and he checked it. “I need to take this. You done here?”
“Yep. All wrapped up. Thanks.”
Caroline leapt to her feet, dusted off what dirt she could and laughed. The boys at the office would love this story. Definitely helped alleviate the angst from her boss putting her on paid leave.
But rules were rules and blowing a target’s skull apart tended to make a lot of people twitchy. Three days ago, Jeff Klausner, the ASAC—Assistant Special Agent in Charge—had summoned her to a hostage situation after negotiations failed. Negotiators liked to talk through issues. Caroline didn’t mind. She had patience. If talking got someone out safely, that would be the best possible outcome. Unfortunately, that hadn’t happened. As the best sharpshooter in the D.C. field office, she’d been dispatched to handle the creep who’d shot his wife.
Throughout their careers, most FBI snipers rarely fired their weapons. Caroline was the exception. In the three years she had been on SWAT, she’d eliminated a target three times. In each incident, she’d been given the standard time off until a full investigation had been documented. Her latest mission had gone as planned and maybe the time off irritated her, but she was a good little employee and didn’t argue. Caroline, being Caroline, had taken the time to visit the practice range. To keep her skills sharp.
To keep from thinking about ending a life.
Because as much as she was bothered by that fact, as much as she told herself it was part of the job and she was saving innocent lives by ending a not-so-innocent one, her finger was still the one on the trigger.
Criminal or not, her targets were loved by someone and those someones mourned their loss.
A lesson she’d learned on her second mission when everything the Bureau had done was questioned in a lawsuit filed by a grieving family. Every move she and the other agents had made was scrutinized and she relived the shooting day in and day out until the case had been dismissed. No wrongdoing had been discovered, and maybe for the Bureau it went away, but not for Caroline. She still thought about the nineteen year-old, bi-polar young man who’d lost his life at her hands and wondered if it could have been avoided. If the negotiators could have talked longer…if they’d known about his illness. If…if…if.
“I always said you had the best ass in the FBI.”
Her body froze. Eleven months, five days and—she did the math—twelve hours had passed since she’d heard that voice. The one she’d thought about time and again after his last brief visit to her apartment, and she still managed to be equal parts pissed off, concerned and flat-out heartbroken. That voice could only belong to one person. Thus the remark about her ass and—wow—she always knew he had a set of stones, but this was too much even for Mitch Monroe. The man she’d spent all these months trying to forget. Months of burying herself in cases, months of begging her boss for every available opportunity to keep her mind occupied, months of a busy life that didn’t allow for downtime.
Or thoughts of Mitch.
Without turning, she picked up her weapon. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. A girl puts her career on the line for you and you don’t call, you don’t write, nothing. To say the least, your technique needs work.”
And then he laughed. She’d waited months to hit him with that line and he laughed. Classic Mitch. She closed her eyes and—forget that he was a federal fugitive now wanted for murder—she’d kill him herself and be done with the whole affair.
Mitch, a murderer? She couldn’t believe it. No matter what the White House was spinning about Kemp Rodgers’ death, Mitch wouldn’t kill his friend.
Then, again, she’d been Mitch’s friend once…
Finally, she turned, bracing herself for whatever disguise might greet her, but found none. Brave.
As usual.
She took in his long brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail, his dark eyes and ripped jeans, and shook her head. “You’re insane for coming here.”
He shrugged. “It’s a private range. Not like I walked into Quantico.”
It wasn’t enough that he’d almost destroyed her career when he’d first started working The Lion case, now he wanted to have a second go at it. He was a fugitive wanted for murder and she was an FBI agent. She should arrest him.
Yet, she stood waiting for him to say something that would make a damned difference. I’m sorry? I didn’t do it? Anything that would erase the idea that he could have murdered his friend.
She set her rifle on the table behind her, slid the bolt open. Not loaded. She knew it wasn’t, but she checked anyway. Always.
Mitch shuffled behind her.
Too bad. He could wait like she’d waited for him all these months.
Her canvas carry case sat on the bench seat. Like many people, she preferred canvas over hard plastic because the softer material didn’t make the rifle sweat. She dug through the case for her lens covers, popped them on, set the rifle into the case—bolt upward—and zipped it.
She’d clean the rifle later. For her, keeping a weapon in top working order meant cleaning it after every use. Even if only one shot had been fired, her weapons got cleaned. Every time.
She sensed Mitch moving closer, stirring the air around her, upsetting the energy, letting her know he was near. He had that way about him. Sometimes good, sometimes not.
“I need your help.”
Of course he did. Should have known. Radio silence for eleven months and now he wanted her help. “I should shoot you and dump your body in the Reflecting Pool.”
“Yeah, you should.”
She spun and—crack!—smacked him, sending his head sideways and making her hand sting. She’d never physically attacked anyone before and she couldn’t say it felt right or just, but unleashing it felt good. To let him know he’d hurt her. “We were friends. I helped you and you disregarded me.”
“Disregarded you?” Mitch slid a hand over his cheek. “I’ve stayed away and I’m sorry. But what, Caroline? You want to do lunch or hit the shooting range with me? A guy wanted for assaulting your boss and now a federal fugitive?” Gently, he knocked on her head. “Think about it. I was protecting you.”
She didn’t need his protection. “I’m mad at you.”
“Atta girl.”
God, he was annoying. “You had a good reason to take a swing at Donaldson when he threatened you during The Lion case, but honest to God, Mitch, I think he should have swung back and ended it right there instead of trying to throw you in jail. But you should have manned up and never run from the charges, so whatever this is, I can’t help you.”
“Tommy Nusco.”
“You murdered him, too?”
Surprisingly, he blanched. “I didn’t kill anyone. I need to know what went down with Tommy.”
Oh, please. He really had lost his mind if he thought she’d touch that subject. That involved ATF and the State of New Mexico and she wasn’t about to step into that snake pit. “You better worry about what went down with Kemp Rodgers and why the White House is after you. Turn yourself in, Mitch.”
“Kemp told me the White House is buzzing about Executive Privilege being invoked on Tommy’s case. A few hours later, he’s dead. Put two and two together, Caroline. There’s a cover-up in the works and what happened to Tommy is at the heart of it.”
> She faced him, still hating that he stood a good six inches taller and managed to make her feel small. She folded her arms and stepped forward, got right into his space. “No.”
“Whatever they’re concocting about Tommy is bullshit.”
“I don’t know that.”
“Yeah, you do. When we all worked together, we hung out. You knew him.”
“Not that well.”
He rolled his eyes in that typical I’m-Mitch-Monroe-and-I’m-bored way of his. “He was not dirty. Whatever he was doing, the government is letting a dead agent take the heat. Why not? He’s dead anyway. Doesn’t matter that he was a decorated officer. The government obviously needs to clean up a mess and—” he inched closer, tilted his head and stared right into her eyes “—I know all about how the government cleans up a mess.”
Back away. She should, but that would play into what he wanted. He wanted to control this conversation. His looming presence used to be enough that she’d give him that control.
Not this time.
She tilted her head the opposite direction, eased out a half-smile. “Mitch?”
“Yes?”
“Screw you.”
She turned her back to him and scooped up her rifle case. Right now, she needed to walk away and not let him talk her into something that would wreck her career.
“You worked with him. You knew him. Are you going to let them do this? Are you going to do this?”
“I didn’t work with him recently. I can’t help you.” She angled around him, bumping him as she walked by. “Goodbye, Mitch.”
“Look into it, Caroline. That’s all I’m asking. Just look into it.”
Chapter Three
At 7:47 the following morning, Caroline dropped into her desk chair, stowed her briefcase under her desk and booted up her laptop. Happy to be back to the normal—and comfortable—tasks of her day, she watched the little hourglass on her screen spin and drummed her thumb on the side of the keyboard.
Mitch Monroe. Total poison. She’d finally—maybe—gotten him out of her system and now he’d returned. Needing something. Not me. Something else. Typical.
If she were smart, which her History degree from American University told her she was, she’d ignore him. And his looks. And that wicked sense of humor. All of it. She’d pretend he didn’t exist.
As. If.
Her laptop dinged and she entered her password. A noise from two cubicles over sounded and she scooted her chair along the cheap industrial Berber carpeting to check it out. Beyond the cubicle walls she spotted Ron Mills, a fifteen year veteran she now supervised, getting settled.
“Hey, Ron,” she called.
“You’re back?”
Yes, thank God. “They cleared me last night.”
Before scooting back to her laptop, she glanced right. The ASAC’s office was dark. Perfect. It would give her a few minutes to snoop around about Tommy.
Even if she were ignoring Mitch, she’d been up most of the night obsessing over the possibility that the president, if the White House were subpoenaed, would invoke Executive Privilege on Tommy’s case. God knew there were plenty of reasons politicians did certain things and hid others, but this one surprised her.
Someone knew something they didn’t want the rest of the country to know.
And that was the thing keeping her from ignoring that pain-in-the-ass Monroe.
Back at her computer, she clicked a few times, found the drive she needed and started scrolling. As a relief supervisor, she had access to certain files. Whether she had access to whatever Tommy had been working on, she didn’t know.
She scrolled directories for a few minutes, but found nothing remotely intriguing. Finally, she typed THOMAS NUSCO into the search field and a list—a really long list—of files popped onto her screen. This might take a while.
Twenty minutes later, she’d found a whole lot of nothing regarding Tommy’s current cases. Nothing, as in, oddly nothing. Even when cases had been closed, the agents still had access to the files for future reference. In this instance, it was as if everything pertaining to his current assignment had been wiped away. Or hidden.
But there was one more place she could try. She clicked over to the drive and repeated her search.
Bingo. Four files. She clicked on the first one. Access denied. Interesting. Second file. Access denied.
“I see a trend here,” she whispered.
The bleep-bleep of her desk phone gave her a start and she laughed at herself. Idiot. She scooped up the phone. “Caroline Foster.”
“Yeah, Caroline. Good morning. It’s Neil from IT. I got a ping on a file you were trying to open.”
What now? “Hi, Neil. I’m looking for something and accidentally clicked on those files.”
Twice. She winced. Terrible excuse.
“Okay, well, you don’t have access to those files. They’re classified. You need to speak to Special Agent Donaldson about that.”
Ha. Now that was funny. Somehow, no matter how much she tried to avoid the man, Donaldson always wound up in her orbit. After that fiasco with Mitch, she was damned lucky to still manage getting bumped to a higher pay grade. Although, that was probably more the Assistant Director’s doing than anything else. Despite her young age for FBI management standards, Jeff Klausner knew she was smart, could dig up leads like any twenty-year veteran, and more importantly, could blow open a case.
Donaldson? She didn’t trust him. Although she knew there had been times he’d been backed into a corner with certain cases when he’d been forced to make unpopular decisions, she worried that all he cared about was his career track and his budget. As a relief supervisor, she could empathize. Everyone in management had to make cuts in the budget on a regular basis and reassign agents when necessary to other field offices. And as an agent at times putting her life on the line, she’d always felt he had her back. It was just in the office, surrounded by politics and cutthroat executives, she didn’t trust him.
“Will do, Neil. Thanks for letting me know.”
She dropped the phone into its cradle and laid her head on the desk sending her ponytail swinging. Damned Monroe. Twenty minutes into this covert operation and she’d almost blown it. The man was the worst kind of distraction. Trouble followed him like a horny teenaged girl…
“Foster!”
…or a pissed off FBI Special Agent in Charge.
She closed the window on her computer and shoved back from her desk, rolling into the aisle.
Bearing down on her was Donaldson in one of his ugly brown suits. The suit wasn’t the worst of it. He had that pinched look on his face. The one where he scrunched his nose right before he tore into whomever stood in his way.
She popped out of her chair and shoved it back into her cubicle. “Sir?”
He stormed past her and she tugged on her suit jacket. His office assistant, Mary, hustled after him, files in her arms. Mary shot Caroline a you screwed up look. “My office. Now,” he shouted.
As much as she didn’t always trust him, Donaldson knew how to be scary and that awarded him a sort of twisted respect Caroline had given up trying to understand.
She trailed behind Mary, the little ducks following along, until they reached his office and Mary set the files on the edge of his desk. “I’ll cancel those appointments for you, sir. Anything else?”
“Get me some coffee.”
Nice guy.
Mary glanced at Caroline. “Would you like some too?”
Valium for me, thanks. “No, thank you.”
Caroline waited for Mary to exit and faced Donaldson already seated and shuffling through notes. Had he even looked at her yet? She didn’t think so. Why should he? She was simply a subordinate. And clearly, he wasn’t happy with her. “Something wrong, sir?”
His eyes stayed on the papers. “What the hell are you up to this morning, Foster?”
“Sir?”
He slowly lowered the papers in his hands. Too slowly. His fingers tightened, creasing the
memos. “Why are you trying to access classified documents on Tommy Nusco?”
Now what? Crap. “I was searching for another file on the Burnson case. I clicked on the Nusco files accidentally.”
She had no choice but to go with that excuse after she’d used it on Neil in IT. One lie was bad enough—thank you, Mitch—two she’d never remember.
“The Burnson case. Hmm…” He set down the papers, leaned back in his chair. “Seen your pal Monroe lately, Agent Foster? The fugitive wanted for murder?”
Caroline stood stock-still. If she fidgeted, moved an inch, she’d be made. Making direct eye contact, she shook her head. “Mitch Monroe is off the grid. As you know. Why would I have contact with him?”
“He nearly ended your career once. Could still. We clear?”
Okey-dokey. What she had here was one of her bosses letting her know that the files she accidentally clicked on were important enough that IT had been directed to alert superiors when unauthorized access was attempted. Those files, whatever they were, hid something. She’d have to write down those file names, see if Mitch could have his buddy Justice Greystone get into them.
“We’re clear, sir. I apologize. Anything else?”
Donaldson shuffled through the stack Mary had left and grabbed a file. “I just came out of a meeting.” He handed her the file. “Deal with this.”
Eyeing him for a second, she took the folder and somehow knew whatever was in there was meant to be a very strong message. One thing about Donaldson, he was consistent. After the Monroe debacle, he’d done the same thing. Like she was a five-year old being put in the Bureau’s version of Special Agent time-out.
She flipped open the file and perused the one-page report. A lead from another office.
But this one wasn’t a meaty one that supervisors, or even relief supervisors like her, would normally be handed. This was a “nothing lead” from the Baltimore field office requesting the D.C. office comb through a dumpster behind a restaurant in Southeast D.C. in search of documentation on a fugitive.
Good. God. He expected her to spend her afternoon sorting through two-day old food and slimy raw meat. Donaldson didn’t just want her busy, he wanted her out-of-the-office busy.
