by Juno Rushdan
A smug-ass expression swept across Sybil’s face. She put a fist on her hip and pointed a French manicured talon at his face. “Let me remind you, the director of national intelligence, our boss, asked me to provide oversight due to your glaring incompetence.”
One, the DNI was a liaison acting on behalf of the White House, and the president was Sanborn’s boss. Two, he had things under control until the DNI anointed this backstabbing viper with enough power to do serious damage. The Gray Box might very well get crushed as a result.
“Follow protocol,” she said, jabbing her talon at him again. If she stuck that finger in his face one more time, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t bite it off. “You can’t dismiss the evidence.”
Evidence he didn’t trust. Twenty-seven years of operational experience told him protocol, in this instance, would make matters worse. “It’s within my discretion to handle this as I see fit. Overstep your bounds, and you’ll regret the day you ventured into my lane.”
“If you don’t get this clusterfuck cleaned up, the DNI will whitewash this house.”
They’d both been in the business long enough for the meaning to ring clear without elaboration. Funny how the threat hadn’t been mentioned to him last time he spoke to Lee.
“Do your damn job.” She spat the words. “If you don’t, I intend to salvage what I can of my division.”
Her section wouldn’t survive. Nothing survived a whitewash.
As much as he hated to admit it, a breach of this magnitude warranted a purge if he couldn’t clean his house. This operation had gone from finding a traitor to literally saving his people and the Gray Box—after he’d risked everything to secure its future.
Sanborn tamped down his rage to keep his voice smooth as cold steel and stepped forward, not stopping until Sybil lowered her finger and reeled back. “Don’t presume to tell me how to do my job. In this situation, your reach exceeds your grasp. You have no clue what it takes to run Operations. The only reason Lee gave you oversight is because you have your head shoved so far up his butt, he can’t think straight with his prostate throbbing in his throat.”
“Watch yourself.” Sybil shifted her weight from one hip to the other, balancing on her killer three-inch heels. Contempt set her brown eyes ablaze. “I will go balls to the wall with you. We may have once had a relationship, but I will do everything I can to see you prosecuted if you fail to follow procedure and lock up the traitor.”
Au contraire. She wanted him to burn precisely because they’d had a brief thing and he hadn’t fallen for the Machiavellian maneuvers behind her seduction. A damn shame she’d tried to manipulate him. She was fierce and cunning and would’ve made a formidable ally. Instead, she’d foolishly declared herself his enemy.
As if he’d ever let her win this war.
It was one thing to prosecute a mole for treason, another entirely to prosecute the director of the Gray Box, an organization that wasn’t supposed to exist. Sybil was dancing with the devil, and they were all going to fry because she had a vendetta.
He needed the viper out of his hair. “We never had a relationship. We screwed around to pass the time.” He let his tone dip to the ugly bowels of condescension, the only way to send her scurrying off and keep her out of the conference room. “I’m sorry if our brief and forgettable time meant more to you.”
Her pale cheeks flamed to match the crimson dress that fitted her like a second skin. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She swiped long platinum layers from her eye. “Now I’m going to be sweet, give you a break from my company while I call the DNI and give him an update about the new evidence. Maybe I’ll even pay him a visit and tell him about all this face-to-face.”
“Don’t do me any favors, Sybil. And be sure to wipe your mouth and brush your teeth when you’re done with Lee.”
“Well, you do know how to clean up after a good rim job, Bruce. Thanks for the tip.”
Sybil spun on her heel, flipping her shock-white hair, and strutted off. His blood pressure lowered, but the repugnance left a vile aftertaste in his mouth.
Hard to believe he’d ever slept with her, even if it had been years ago.
Turning to go back into the conference room, he caught sight of Emily “Doc” Duvall, their resident CDC scientist. Her gaze met his and her face lit up bright as sunshine. He couldn’t help but wonder what she saw in him to spark joy.
“Any leads on where the bioweapon came from?” he asked.
Their last op to prevent the sale of a super strain of smallpox left them with this proverbial ticking time bomb of a traitor. Doc was doing what she could to find the origins of the biological weapon.
“I keep getting the runaround, hitting brick walls.” The warmth in her voice wrapped around him like the first sip of single malt scotch at the end of a hard day. “It’s only strengthening my resolve to knock them down. I won’t stop until I find out who created it. My job is usually pretty boring, but this is the perfect challenge.”
Since she’d been at the Gray Box, Doc had been exposed to horrors most civilians didn’t have the backbone to handle, and yet she never lost her optimism and always saw the silver lining.
“Keep me posted on your progress. Is there anything else?”
“I heard there was a meeting.” She strode up to him and stood close, testing the bounds of professional propriety. Teasing him with the scent of her hair, strawberries and cream. “Came to see if you needed me.”
After his divorce, he’d made certain never to need any woman again, but part of him wanted to see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
Sanborn shook his head. “No, you’re not needed.”
“Maybe I can be of assistance in another way. I overheard your conversation. Sounds like you’re having a rough morning.”
Oh, crap. He didn’t want Doc to know he’d slept with that hell-raiser Sybil.
“If you need a nonjudgmental ear to listen,” she said, “or want to go for a run to blow off steam or something, let me know.”
Confiding in others was a firm no-go, and he always ran alone to clear his head. “A generous offer. Thank you.”
She was radiant, full of life, and he couldn’t help but stare. He swore he could read her emotions in the bright blue depths of her eyes, as if she didn’t want to hide any part of herself.
An inclination he’d never understand.
“I’m sure you’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” she said. “You should take a break.”
“Breaks are for slackers.” But he needed one from the relentless high-ops tempo, and he wanted time to know Doc better. “Even if I took one, I wouldn’t be able to unwind.”
“Melatonin would help you relax. Or exercise for the release of endorphins.” She tousled her hair, a languid gesture, kicking up that sweet scent. “Any vigorous exercise would do. Sex works too.” She laughed nervously as though embarrassed, dropping her gaze for a heartbeat, then looked at him again, throwing an inviting smile his way. “I’m always up to lend a friendly ear over dinner or”—she shrugged—“for some exercise.”
He was tempted. What sane man wouldn’t be? And thankfully, Doc was only a liaison, and the CDC director of the Washington office was her boss, so she wasn’t off-limits as a subordinate. But her timing was piss-poor. Too much at stake. He’d never let anyone close while hunting a mole. Not even his protégé, Castle, who’d started hovering over Sanborn like a scavenging grizzly—part of the job to weed out the traitor.
“I might give melatonin a try,” Reaper said behind him.
Hell’s bells. The man had the stealth of a wraith. Good for this line of work, but bad for Sanborn this morning. As soon as he saw Doc, he’d forgotten about Reaper lurking behind the cubicle divider.
“You can get it at any health food store,” she said.
Sanborn cleared his throat.
“I should get inside,”
Reaper said, picking up the cue. “Lots of great tips this morning.” He went into the conference room before Sanborn gave in to the urge to throw him the evil eye.
Sanborn refocused his attention on the beautiful, young woman in front of him. “Doc—”
“Emily. Please.”
“I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but—”
“I get it. It’s unlike me to be so forward. I’m not the put-yourself-out-there type of girl.” She eased back, running a hand through her copper-blond hair. “When I’m around you, I find myself saying whatever pops into my head. I can’t shut my mouth—like right now. I should really stop talking. Let you get back to work.” She spun as if ready to bolt.
“Wait.” He hated the noticeable edge in his voice and erased it. She tossed a glance at him over her shoulder. “Once this situation is done, let’s talk.”
She smiled, rousing something long forgotten inside him. “I’d like that.”
Inside the conference room, Gideon cursed the lingering smell of Sybil Parker. Her overpowering perfume infested the air, expensive and fussy with a dizzying mix of scents. Trapped in a room with any fragrance, especially one so potent, would give him a headache before too long.
Setting the container of scones on the table, he sat beside Maddox, grateful she knew him well enough not to wear any perfume, much less something that horrendous.
From the conversation he’d overheard in the hall, they’d caught a break in finding the mole, but for some reason, the chief was locking horns with Parker over the new evidence. It was rare to hear the term whitewash used, and even more rare for such an order to be issued. He only knew what it meant in such excruciating detail because people with his training were the ones who did the cleansing.
Tension hung in the conference room like a noose. Ares sat across the table eyeing him, arms folded. Reece sighed and tipped the bill of his “Beaver Lover” cap down. Castle and Alistair swiped through pages on their touchscreens, reading something with furrowed brows while the forensic accountants whispered among themselves.
“What’s up?” he asked Maddox.
“See for yourself.” She tapped the built-in screen in front of him and brought up a forensic report.
The chief strode into the room and sat at the head of the table. To his right and left were the forensic accountants. Brainiacs in brown and black suits respectively, who lived and breathed to cull data and follow monetary trails.
“I still find this hard to believe,” Sanborn said.
Gideon scanned the digital documents. An offshore account. Grand Cayman Island, Nova World Bank. One-million-dollar balance.
Account holder: Willow Harper.
He went dead still, eyes locked on her name.
“We have enough for you to hold her for interrogation,” the heavier-set accountant in the brown suit said. “This type of account had to be opened in person. We’ll request copies of all supporting documentation, but these banks are notorious for not cooperating. We can’t wait for additional proof that may never turn up.”
Sanborn ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Let’s start with verifying the date the account was opened and cross-check her whereabouts. If she was here at work, that’s reasonable doubt, and we can take a step back.”
“Not necessarily,” the lanky accountant in black said. “If she was out from work anytime within the month prior to the account being opened, that would be enough. Account holders can submit documentation at least thirty days in advance and specify a future date for activation. With the short flight time, she’d only need to be out one day. And if she planned it correctly, flying in the night before, theoretically, she could’ve made it back early enough, only missing half a day.”
Gideon’s teeth ached for a piece of gum, but he held a neutral expression as he read the rest of the information. Dates. Amounts of deposits.
The account had been opened with a four-hundred-thousand-dollar initial deposit right after Kelli died. A fist of ice punched his heart.
Sanborn had given everyone the day off when they received news about the accident, and all personnel had been excused from work for the funeral. Ample time for anyone to have flown out, opened the account, and returned without missing an unexcused work day, but the documentation painted a flaming bull’s-eye on Willow.
This was bad. His pulse hammered at his temples and he fought to stay focused, to think, for Willow’s sake.
Gideon never went against protocol, never acted against evidence, but his gut was churning with certainty that this was a setup. Someone had gone to tremendous effort and trouble to frame Willow.
“I’ll check the TSA data logs for a specific date,” Maddox said. “Her passport would’ve been scanned departing and reentering the country. But I’m with you, this doesn’t feel right.”
“According to ITM Parker, Ms. Harper didn’t pass the polygraph last week.” The lanky accountant looked at Sanborn, his gaze stern.
Every muscle in Gideon’s body tightened. Willow was the worst at deception. When he’d asked about the cut on her face, she’d gotten choked up, but she hadn’t lied.
“The first was inconclusive.” Sanborn leaned back in his chair. “Harper has a condition the examiner didn’t understand. Nothing that prevents her from doing her job, but it skewed the results. She passed the second polygraph without any doubt.”
The information Gideon had read last night on ASD substantiated the fact that Willow might have difficulty passing a high-stress examination administered by a stranger. For someone with her extraordinary talent and verifiable condition, a covert agency such as theirs would allow accommodations. They’d given her multiple opportunities to pass, but it also made her the perfect choice to take the fall for someone else. During an interrogation under pressure, her answers could be read as evasive, sealing her supposed guilt.
“Are you okay?” Maddox whispered to Gideon.
He met her gaze, raking his mind over what had given away his concern. “I ate something bad last night.” He grimaced and held his stomach. “Probably the sushi.”
Nodding, Maddox refocused on the main discussion.
Willow was no mole. Gideon would stake his career on it. But things might get even worse. More falsified evidence incriminating her could surface. And if she was held in custody while they tried to prove her innocence, the real traitor would find a way to get to her like they had gotten to Novak. Whoever was setting her up must be confident that either the evidence would crucify her, or they could kill her.
“You should pull her clearance. Begin interrogation,” the guy in the brown suit said. “Even ITM Parker agrees with that course of action.”
Gideon repeated the offshore account number in his mind, memorizing it. “The last person to enter our holding cell was murdered.”
“I presume you have a safe house somewhere in the city. You could hold her there,” the black suit suggested.
Sure, they had a safe house but wouldn’t disclose the location. Not to the suits or even the director of national intelligence.
“We have to entertain the possibility,” Castle said, “that someone could reach out and touch her there. We don’t know how deep this problem goes.”
The traitor worked for a mysterious information broker. They knew that much. Novak, the psychopath who had been murdered under their noses, insisted the broker had spies all over the damn place, from government agencies to high-value corporations.
“We should turn her over to a different agency,” Gideon said deadpan, feigning ignorance that he’d just pulled the pin from a live grenade with the suggestion.
Sanborn’s jaw tightened, a vein in his temple bulging. The brown suit nodded, bright-eyed with enthusiasm. The black suit launched into a list of pros and cons.
The idea would never leave the room. The Gray Box couldn’t call attention to itself. Besides, no agen
cy wanted to admit they had an in-house problem they couldn’t handle. Not to mention that red tape required time. And Parker had the authority to take this over Sanborn’s head to the DNI and all the way up to the president if Willow wasn’t detained today.
Protocol dictated that Sanborn interrogate her and hold her in custody. She had an inconclusive polygraph and supposedly one million dollars sitting in a bank on Grand Cayman Island. Sanborn wasn’t in a position to refuse.
Gideon stood, holding his stomach. “Excuse me. Bad sushi last night. I’m going to see if Doc has anything to help.”
Sanborn waved at him to leave as if relieved to be rid of him, but Maddox stared at Gideon with her hawk-eyed gaze. He strolled out of the room and headed to his cubicle, a rough plan full of holes forming in his mind.
If he miscalculated in the slightest in the next five minutes, he could end up with a bullet in his head, and Willow would be left to whatever fate the mole had in store for her.
He hustled to his desk. The gut-reaction idea forming in his head was insane. It was madness to go against the evidence and behind Sanborn’s back no less, but there wasn’t any other way to keep her safe. He had to get Willow out of the Gray Box now.
Yesterday, someone possibly tampered with her brake line. Today, there was an offshore account in her name. What would happen tomorrow? The traitor had managed to kill Aleksander Novak, an experienced assassin with combat training. Taking out someone like Willow would be easy if given the opportunity.
This investigation would drag on, the team’s attention divided between protecting Willow in custody while trying to prove her innocence. Opportunities would be plentiful, and the mole was clever.
Opening a drawer, he spotted the lightweight bulletproof vest he’d acquired while working with the special operations unit of the Mossad—the Israeli intelligence service. True badasses. The Israeli-designed vest hugged the body like a glove, the best he’d ever seen. He stuffed it inside the empty rucksack he kept for weighted jogs—a training routine he’d picked up from Reece—then scribbled a note telling Maddox to have Willow’s car inspected by someone in forensics she trusted, along with the address of the garage. He put it on her desk, where only she’d see it. Telling the chief what’d happened to Willow’s car wouldn’t clear her. The mechanic’s assessment proved nothing, but maybe Maddox could dig up something concrete the chief could use.