by RJ Blain
Anyone who ate nothing but pepperoni pizza for two months and could doggy paddle for three consecutive miles needed an evaluation and therapy. I recognized the wisdom of the decision.
A little courtesy, however, would have been appreciated. That my partner knew I was losing my gun before I did stung.
Arguing, however, was pointless.
“Understood, sir.”
Without my firearm, there would be no field work for me. An indeterminate amount of time with a desk job loomed in front of me, and once an agent’s weapon was confiscated, getting it back would take a lot of time and effort. I would have to qualify again, a process I had breezed through several times.
When Jake’s father led the way, I followed, not paying much attention to where I was going. Having flown in and out of BWI countless times, I knew the way out of the airport better than I did my own apartment in New York.
Outside the terminal, a cold wind blew. A car was waiting for us, and Jake’s father took the front seat. I slid into the back and stared out the window, ignoring the murmur of conversation between the driver and the Thomas family.
If I handed in my badge and emailed my resignation, I could at least end my career in the FBI on a high note. With a notice of evaluation in, the resignation process was easy; I had no loose ends to close. Without a firearm, I was not a field agent, which meant I didn’t have to go through as lengthy of a procedure to legally resign or quit.
Leaving for good was a single email away, and it’d be for the better. I hadn’t made any real contributions to Jacob Henry’s recovery, but I had done some good. I had found a break in the case dealing with Annabelle’s kidnapping.
It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough. Everyone had limits, and I had found mine. In the morning, I’d finish what I had started in New York.
What was the point in wasting resources on an evaluation I’d likely fail? I had been a fool to hold hope for the future. As always, hindsight was perfect, and I had paved a yellow-bricked road to my career’s grave.
I maintained appearances by working through my emails, answering each and every message on my phone despite knowing my effort would mean nothing in the morning. Manipulating Jake into believing I was disappointed but would bounce back was simple enough; I gave him my best silent stare whenever he tried to talk to me, gestured with my phone to indicate I was busy, and went back to work.
Jake’s father lived on an estate forty minutes away from the airport, and when we arrived, I met Jake’s mother, a woman almost as tall as her son. She had a bright smile, a faint silvering to her hair, and equally contributed to Jake’s curse of eternal youth.
Holding out her hand, she said, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Karma. It’s nice to meet you.”
After pocketing my phone, I shook with her. “The pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”
“Pauline. You have got to be tired. Dinner’s almost done, and there’s a guest room ready when you want to get some sleep.”
While I wanted to just give up on the day and go to sleep, I knew better. Someone who had her head on straight would eat. “Thanks. It’s been a long day.”
“So I’ve heard. The investigative business isn’t easy, is it? You’re CARD, right?”
I nodded. It was true enough. Until tomorrow, I belonged to CARD.
“So, you little shit. What is this I’ve been hearing about a gorge?” Jake’s father demanded, turning on his son with a scowl.
Jake flinched. “It’s no big deal.”
Turning to me, Jake’s father asked, “Agent Johnson?”
“Ten feet, landed in a mud puddle,” I reported, careful to keep my tone neutral. “As he said, no big deal.”
“Sebastian, you leave that boy alone. He’s had a long day. Come to the kitchen.”
The kitchen was larger than my apartment in New York and included a dining room table capable of seating twelve. I was relieved when Jake sat at the island close to the counters and stove. I picked the stool on the end so I would have space, pulled my phone out of my pocket, and went back to work answering emails.
“You’re just like Jake, grabbing every last second you can to deal with paperwork.” Pauline sighed. “Do you ever take time off?”
“I’ve worked in the field for less than a week in the past two months. That probably counts as a vacation,” I replied without looking up from the screen. Two full days counted as less than a week.
Without clearance to work in the field, my anchor had disconnected from the ship and was on a one way trip to the bottom of the ocean.
“You were already pulled from field work?” Jake’s father asked.
I glanced up from the screen, arched a brow, and replied, “Why are you asking me? You have access to my file, sir.”
Jake groaned and slumped over the counter, covering his head with his arms. “It’s too late to fight.”
“Your file states you were active duty since your transfer into CARD.”
“Did my file neglect to mention I have been serving as anchor, sir?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Jake? Were you aware of this?”
When I said nothing, Jake sighed and replied, “She was notified of her assignment after the Greenwich case broke.”
“How many days of field time have you had since you transferred into CARD, Agent Johnson?”
I turned my attention back to my phone, selected an email from Daniels updating me on the Henry case, and replied, “Two. Today and yesterday.”
“And what, exactly, were you doing during your team’s deployments?”
“I’m willing to bet there’s no CARD team within the FBI with such neat records or prompt filing of paperwork.” In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t an accomplishment I was proud of. “I’m also willing to bet it’s the worst-rated team in the FBI.”
“That I was aware of.”
There wasn’t any point in hiding my intentions, not with the issue already brought up for discussion. “Then you can probably guess why I will be handing in my resignation and badge in the morning.”
Silence answered me, and while I wanted to believe it was because everyone was stunned by my proclamation, I couldn’t help but believe I had been railroaded into it.
I went through the motions of eating dinner, quietly went to the guest bedroom, and ended up staring at nothing until five in the morning. My body craved sleep, but I couldn’t stop tossing and turning long enough to find relief from my own thoughts.
The memories from dinner stabbed through me. Jake’s father claimed he understood. Jake said nothing at all, and his mother had offered a small, sad smile that told me far more than words.
Shit happened.
Giving up on sleep, I got up, made myself presentable, and emailed in my resignation, heading to the kitchen to leave my badge for someone to find.
Jake’s mother was at the island reading a book.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that my husband loathes having the wool pulled over his eyes,” Pauline said without looking up from what she was reading. “Your intent to resign took him by surprise, and he does not like being surprised. It’s good for him. It reminds him the people he manages are individuals, and that behind success and failure are circumstances he can’t see.”
I set my badge and phone on the island. “I’m finished with being walked on. There are a lot of eager agents waiting in line for a spot in CARD.”
“That may be so, but are they good enough to replace you?”
“I guess they’ll find out, won’t they?”
“You look like you’re ready to hit the road. Where are you going?”
“The airport. It’s time I took a vacation, anyway. A change of scenery sounds like a good idea right now.”
Pauline reached for a bowl in the center of the island and pulled out a set of keys, which she tossed to me. “Take my car and park it at the airport, dear. I’ll have Sebastian drop me off on the way to Washington in a few hours to pick it up.
Park it anywhere you want; it has a tracker in it, so I’ll be able to find it. It’s the Jag. You go take some time and clear your head. That’s the spare set of keys, so just give them back when you’re done traveling.”
I stared at the keys in my hand, baffled by her offer to take her car. “Why?”
“Are you kidding? If you think airport parking fees are horrific, you should see the cab fare to get to the airport from here. It’s brutal.” Pauline chuckled and returned to her book. “I’m all about letting my husband and son learn life’s hard lessons through experience, dear. After you went to bed, we had a little talk. Sebastian confessed he had approved the evaluation request based on certain recommendations, but he lacked the backbone to confiscate your weapon directly. It seems a woman who is capable of kicking hard enough to knock keys out of his hand intimidates him.”
“I see. What I don’t understand is why they were discussing this with you.”
Pauline smiled. “I’m in the FBI, too. Technically, I’m Sebastian’s boss, although he gets a little twitchy whenever I get uppity and remind him of that fact. I’m in upper management of Human Resources. You have yourself a nice vacation, dear. The alarm’s off, so you can just trot yourself out the front door. I already moved the Jag out of the garage, so you can leave without waking anyone up.”
“Thanks, I think.” I frowned at the keys, stared at Jake’s mother for a long moment, and shrugged. I had a feeling I was missing something, but I had no idea what.
“I knew you were a smart one. Have a safe drive.”
I left without looking back.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When I arrived at BWI, I was disgusted by how far away I had to park from the international departure terminal. I had no idea where I was going, but I was determined to leave everything behind for at least a week.
In a week, I’d be better equipped to evaluate what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Staying would kill me one way or another. I’d already lost all control of my temper.
Kicking a supervisor had started the death throes of my career. Kicking Jake’s father had crystalized something in me, although I couldn’t quite figure out what. Until I did, my best move was to get as much space and distance as possible so I could think.
I had gone from calm, cool, and calculating to volatile in two months, cracking open wider and wider each day until my caged rage spilled out. The instant I had started pursuing a career in CARD, I had known it wouldn’t be easy. I had known working in the violent crimes division would leave as many emotional scars as physical ones.
The confiscation of my weapon bothered me. However, the fact no one trusted me to turn in my gun was the blow that broke me.
No one trusted me, not even Jake. If he couldn’t trust me, no one could.
I wasn’t like Jake, who acted on some gut instinct I lacked. I had to stop and think. I crept forward and made up for my weaknesses with caution—or I was supposed to, at least. Once I committed, there was no room for hesitation or doubt. The five or ten extra minutes I took to plan had saved my life many times.
I should have taken a hell of a lot more than five or ten minutes to think about marrying the bastard. I filed the mistake as one I’d never repeat for the rest of my life. Until I figured out what I’d do about it, I’d pretend it had never happened.
All I had to show for it was a new last name and some signatures on a piece of paper.
For the first time since I had turned twenty-three, I lacked the protection of my badge, the right to carry a firearm, and the comfort of having the ability to protect myself. When I took a shower alone, I wouldn’t have a gun nearby.
I certainly didn’t have a partner to watch my back, not anymore.
I would be like most other women in the world, and I would do the best I could with what I had. It wasn’t much of a start, but it was a first step.
The departure terminal was quiet, and I headed for the ticketing counter. Somewhere in the world was a place for me, just for a week or two, somewhere I could escape, regroup, and have the time to really think.
The woman behind the counter looked up as I approached and offered a smile. “How can I help you, miss?”
I pulled out my New York driver’s license along with my passport since my government identification card was no longer valid. “I’m looking to go somewhere exotic and warm. Any suggestions with a flight that leaves soon?”
The woman accepted my identification, looked them over, and went to work on her computer. “There’s a flight to Morocco that leaves in an hour and a half. You should have time to get through security. You will have to change airports in London to make your connecting flight, however.”
“Book it, please,” I said.
Morocco sounded as good as any other place in the world. My global geography wasn’t a strong point, but it was either in Africa or the Middle East. I had never been farther beyond America’s borders than Canada.
“Coach?”
“First class if available, please.”
The woman tapped a few keys. “Yes, I can book you in first class.”
“Cost isn’t an issue.” I handed over my credit card. If what I had heard of international flight was true, I’d be in the air for at least ten hours. She charged my credit card, handed me my booking pass, and gave me directions to the security gate.
I headed for security, looking over my receipt. Two thousand dollars to reach freedom was both a huge and a small price to pay. I’d probably regret the decision later, but I’d just add it to the mountain of regrets and bad decisions I had piled up in the past two months.
What was one more? I hadn’t touched the profit I had made from selling my home in Baltimore, and my lackluster diet of pepperoni pizza hadn’t done a whole lot of damage to my bank account. Sitting around doing paperwork for the men living my dream had paid well enough, if I cared about the money.
If money had been my main concern, I probably would have been happy with my job. I would have been content with doing my job, not caring the failures of the others on my team had caused so much harm.
I probably would have been a lot better off if I hadn’t cared so much.
If it meant I could think of something to do with myself or find a little peace, I wouldn’t miss the cash. I navigated through security in a numb, tired daze. I had a bad moment when I forgot my federal identification card was tucked in my passport, but it got me past the TSA guards without any problems.
I’d take scissors to it when I found a pair. I should’ve left the damned thing along with my badge.
Stopping in one of the after-security shops resulted in a carry on filled with the basics. Once I reached Morocco, I’d dress like the locals and disappear somewhere calm and quiet. Maybe I’d find a garden and waste away the days, allowing myself to think of nothing.
Maybe I’d find a beach and dip my toes in the ocean. Maybe I’d swallow my fear and be brave enough to wade in for the first time in my life. A world of possibilities stretched out in front of me.
All I had to do was get through the flight.
I marched back to the store and bought a handful of books. If I broke down into hysterical giggling, at least I could blame the book. If I got lucky, I’d have a talkative seat mate, preferably one who had zero interest in what I did for a living. Maybe I’d find one who liked talking about television.
I couldn’t even remember the last time I had watched a show. Hearing someone ramble about a plot or favorite character would fill the hours. When I reached the correct gate, they announced the boarding for my flight, and I discovered the first perk of flying first class. I was belted in with a book in my hand and my bag stuffed under the seat before general boarding began, sparing me from the frustration of dodging people.
When my seat mate sat down, I glanced up from the novel I wasn’t reading. I swallowed my resigned sigh at the sight of his black suit, white shirt, and black tie. Old habits died hard, and I had him identified as a middle-aged white male, probable
businessman, before I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be profiling anyone anymore.
I survived the flight without having to say more than a handful of words to anyone. Sleep claimed me most of the time, and when I woke, the sun over the clouds seemed a little brighter, the sky a little bluer, and blankets of white hid the world from me.
For the first time in my life, I was grateful I couldn’t see the ground or feel it beneath my feet.
The change of airport in London went a lot smoother than I had hoped, and I was relieved when the final stretch of my journey to Morocco came to an end.
When I thought of Africa, I expected heat, but the bright colors of the buildings and the architecture of a vibrant past caught me by surprise. My worries about clothing eased at the staggering variety of people. It wouldn’t be hard to find a balance between modest and comfortable.
Despite being weary from the long flight, I exchanged the cash I had on me and went on a hunt for clothes.
The cash’s origin opened the wounds I had tried to leave behind. At least I rid myself of the bills I had swiped from Jake’s wallet after he fell in the mud.
Damn the man, anyway. Why hadn’t he trusted me? I could understand his father, but why hadn’t Jake even tried?
I had been a stupid fool to trust him with everything.
Melancholy tightened my throat, and armed with local currency, I searched for something to distract me from the reasons I had run away. Africa was supposed to be my escape, not a prison full of reminders.
I scoured Marrakesh for peace, but all I had to show for my efforts was a pair of slippers, clothes favored by the locals, and a heavy heart.
Sleep helped, but I woke up aware I was alone in bed.
I missed Jake’s warmth. I missed the scent of the coffee he made, and how he always managed to have a fresh pot ready right when I needed it.