by Evans, Misty
“Morning.” Closing the door, he returned the gun to its spot in his waistband. Good was questionable.
Julia followed the smell of coffee into the kitchen. She nodded at Smitty, and he smiled at her as he resumed his seat at the table. “Cups are in the second cabinet.” He pointed with his spoon before dipping it into his cereal.
She pulled a clean cup down and poured coffee into it, catching sight of Conrad in her peripheral vision. He was scowling at her from the end of the counter. I’m Miss Sunshine, she told herself. I’m here to follow orders.
Of course, she was always better at giving them than following them.
Turning around, she leaned casually against the counter, resting her focus for a moment on the tiled floor. “So what’s on my to-do list today?” she asked, glancing up at Smitty.
He stopped in mid-chew and looked at Con, then back to Julia. Swallowing his food, he frowned. “You mean in terms of helping us?”
She smiled at him over the coffee cup. “Unless you’ve suddenly realized how asinine this plan is and have decided to go to Michael with your information.”
Conrad snorted. “Goddamn. You are amazing, girl. After all the evidence we’ve shown you”—he rapped the countertop with his knuckles—“you have the balls to stand here and tell us our plan is asinine? Suggest we pay Stone a visit? Michael Stone—remember who he is? The man who gave you up, Julia. The man who sold you out.”
Julia straightened on an inhale, and she cut her eyes to him. I will not let you get to me. I’m Mary Find-the-Mole Sunshine.
Forcing her eyes away from Con’s scowling face, she returned her gaze to Smitty. Smiled again. Then she repeated the question with exaggerated politeness. “Please explain to me what I’m supposed to do to help you.”
Smitty grabbed his coffee cup and stood up. “Let’s head into the living room.” He motioned her forward and shot Flynn a look. “Con was just heading to the shower, so I’ll go over the plan with you.”
Conrad placed his hands on the counter and kept his head down as Julia walked past him. She knew he wanted to reach out and grab her, shake some sense into her, or maybe just kiss her again like last night, and the thought of him wrestling with himself made her smile. Pushing her, trying to force her to do and think the way he wanted wouldn’t do any good. The harder people pushed her, the harder she pushed back. The people in her past who’d been stupid enough to tell her she couldn’t win, wouldn’t succeed, never saw what hit them.
Conrad knew from experience that under the soft sweaters and sweet perfume Julia was a pit bull, just like him.
And pit bulls went for the jugular.
Chapter Twelve
Someone was watching him. The hairs on the back of Michael’s neck were standing straight up. His stomach was tense. The easy gait he’d usually affected by this point in his run was absent. His legs were feeling a push of adrenaline. He tried to ignore the flight response his brain was sending them.
Jesus, Stone, you’re getting paranoid.
He glanced at the Rottweiler running a few paces ahead of him. No paranoia there. Pongo was in full dog-mode, sniffing and spreading his scent on every bush and rock within shooting distance.
But he felt it. Someone was watching him. They weren’t nearby or Pongo would have picked up the scent. That meant they were probably using a scope.
Holy Mother. Scopes usually came attached to rifles. Was there someone out there who wanted him dead?
At one point in his life, Michael had been trained to expect and react to such a scenario with the calm and self-assured manner of a U.S. Marine. However, those days were long gone, and right now he felt more like a sitting duck than a trained solider. He was stupid not to have his assigned security guard running with him these days, but a running partner cramped his freedom, his morning peace.
So, what was he going to do? Hide?
Trees sparsely populated the path to the lake, not one of them big enough to conceal his six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame.
Scratch that idea.
He casually scanned the area, eyes and ears on full alert. There was nothing beyond the birds and the sound of his running shoes on the path and a rustle of grass as Pongo zeroed in on another tree. He attempted to reassure himself that if someone was really out there and wanted to kill him, he’d already be dead. Whoever it was was simply watching him.
But should he run, really run?
Don’t overreact, Stone. Stay cool.
Why would someone be watching him?
Because of Julia. Ryan Smith warned you they might come for her.
Michael frowned. If the group Flynn had infiltrated had wanted Julia’s head on a platter, they would have found her long before now. It had been close to a year and a half and even with her name change and the other security precautions they had taken, a determined party could have found her within a few weeks, maybe a month or two tops.
On the other hand, he had previously been the director of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center and now was the DO in charge of the CIA’s spies. That would be the obvious reason someone might be watching him. Terrorists, mercenary vigilantes, Republicans—there was always someone who wanted to get his nuts in a sling.
Unh-uh. It’s Julia.
Ah, Christ.
Michael double-timed his pace.
Conrad rocked slowly in the chair and stared at the far wall, feeling Julia’s presence in the room even though she was miles away, zooming up the George Washington Parkway to another day of work at CIA Headquarters.
Conrad Flynn was scared. Scared shitless to be more precise.
It wasn’t an easy thing for him to admit, but it was hard to ignore when it was slapping him in the face. He’d felt fear plenty of times before, but this time he was unprepared for it. Not that he was unprepared for what he was doing. He was mercenary-trained, had more field experiences than even he cared to admit, and pegged the top rung of physical and psychological fitness. He was confident about his skills and about the mission he was on. There was no doubt in his mind who the responsible party was and he was only days, maybe hours, away from getting the proof he needed. He could feel it in his gut. Stone was the man it would end with.
And Julia was obviously in love with him.
Goddamn. Didn’t that just frost his balls? In his overall master plan, he’d somehow missed that contingency.
That’s what had him scared shitless.
He stopped rocking.
But if Julia was in love with Stone, why was she willing to go after him? She’d agreed to bug Stone’s house and was going to attempt to bypass his laptop’s security and download any files and e-mail correspondence that confirmed or even hinted at his involvement in the shadow operation. It was dangerous for her, but she could handle it. She’d performed similar operations before.
It was her sudden cooperation that was bugging the crap out of him. After her reckoning with him the night before, he was completely surprised at the morning’s change of tune. Julia was not a Jeykll and Hyde personality. If she really believed Stone was innocent, she would have told Conrad to go to hell without batting an eye.
In the beginning, when Conrad had first learned about the sellout, he had given hard consideration to the idea of following the trail on his own and simply putting a bullet in the head of whoever was responsible. He’d been furious and dangerously close to losing control. However, Smitty’s common sense brought him back from the edge. They had to be clever and thorough, Smitty advised, to make sure they flushed out everyone involved.
It had never been part of their original plan to involve Julia. They had figured it would take them less than six months. Then they would walk in, reveal the rogue operation and bring the traitors to justice. But the trail was not as easy to follow as they had expected. It had taken months longer to track all the evidence back to its source.
And they’d never planned for Julia’s involvement with Michael Stone.
Operationally, it was a gold
mine to have her so close to the source. Like having an agent on the inside of a terrorist cell, it should have made his job easier.
Yeah, right. He should have stuck with his original plan. Put a bullet in the responsible party’s head. Maybe not as thorough, but definitely more satisfying.
There was a faint noise behind him. The click of the door handle. Conrad was out of the rocking chair, stilling it with a hand and concealing himself against the near wall in one fluid movement.
“Con!” Smitty called, barely above a whisper.
“I’m here.” He pushed off the wall and strode into the hallway.
“You better come quickly.” The shit-eating grin was back in place. “She’s talking to you from the car.”
Traffic was horrible, inching along in spurts, thanks in part to an early morning accident. Julia hit the brakes yet again and lowered the volume of the Audi’s CD player.
“Hope you enjoyed that selection from Creed,” she said to the invisible ears of the car. “It’s called ‘Who’s Got My Back Now’, which brings up an appropriate subject for us to discuss this morning. So, get yourself a cup of coffee, Con, and take a comfortable seat. I have a few things to say to you.
“I appreciate how you’ve been watching my back since your, uh…pseudo death. And I’m considering accepting your apology, however”—she slapped the steering wheel with her hand—“I’m still mad as a hornet that you lied to me. That you left me behind, ignorant of your game, so you could use me down the road for this sting operation. You had no right to play God with me, Conrad, but as usual, you’re too busy trying to save the world to care about the consequences of your actions. Did it ever occur to you the world is too screwed up even for the Great Conrad Flynn to save?”
Julia could feel eyes on her and she glanced to her right across the passenger seat. Stopped next to her in a hearse was a young black man, a red and white striped knit cap pulled down over his rowdy hair. After meeting her gaze for the briefest of seconds, he looked away, a faint smile on his lips.
Yeah, I’m talking to myself. Big whoop.
She returned her attention to the car in front of her and continued her lecture. “I know what you’re saying to me right now. I know how you’re trying to justify your actions.”
She lowered her voice, doing her best imitation of him. “Jules, you know I couldn’t turn my back on what was happening and let this group of traitors ruin what you and I and dozens of others have worked for. Traitors are cut from the same cloth as terrorists and murderers. You know I have to fight them, Jules. We have to fight them. If we don’t, who will?
“Well, I guess on an intellectual level I understand that, even agree with it. But right now, I don’t give a rat’s fat ass about the logic behind your actions. For all your integrity and honor, you still suck. You let me down, Conrad.
“And, from here on out, I don’t want to hear any more justifications, and I don’t want you bristling around with anger at me for refusing to jump on the Let’s-Crucify-Michael-Stone bandwagon. I’ll make my own decisions and draw my own conclusions as soon as I have all of the evidence. But let me be clear about one thing. Even with what you’ve shown me, I’m not convinced Michael is responsible. I know him. He’s…” Her voice trailed off and she smiled to herself imagining how her next words would send Con straight up out of his chair. “He’s a lot like you.”
She let the words hang in the silence for a moment before continuing. “So for now, I’m going to help you and Smitty, but I want you to know I really hate…” you. Damn it, she couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“I hate this whole big, fat lie.” Okay, not quite as effective, but… “I hate what you did to me and I hate what you’re making me do to Michael. If he finds out I’ve helped you, he’ll never forgive me. And by the way, I have a polygraph test this morning. You’d better pray I don’t fail it. If I do, Michael’s going to be asking questions and I swear to God, if my butt ends up on the line, I’m going to tell him everything. I will not take the fall for you, Flynn.”
She felt the eyes watching again and let out a sigh. Pulling her sunglasses down on her nose, she flipped her head to the right to look at the man, shooting her eyebrows up.
What?
This time he held her gaze for a moment longer and she experienced a twinge of recognition. His face was an open book and he looked at her as though she was familiar to him.
He glanced away again and she studied his profile for a second as she pushed the sunglasses back up on her nose. Damn, was that…? No. Couldn’t be. Conrad wouldn’t have Ace Harmon tailing her, would he? The man was a mortician for heaven’s sake. Access agent or not, Ace wouldn’t know the first thing about tailing someone.
Traffic began to move and Julia watched the hearse pull into her lane several cars back. Shaking her head, she chuckled to herself. That’s a first. I’m being followed by a freaking mortician. Absently, she turned her focus back to driving and eased the Audi forward.
Now where was I?
“So, having said all of that, I also want you to know…” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “I’m glad you’re still alive.”
There. It was out.
She released the rest of her breath.
Accelerating as the traffic in front of her moved forward, she kept an eye on the hearse moving behind her.
“Oh, and one more thing, Flynn.” She glanced in her rearview mirror as she opened the Audi up. “I really hate it when you call me ‘girl’.”
She reached for the volume knob, “And now back to our regularly scheduled program.”
I’m glad you’re still alive…
Conrad closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, bringing his hands behind his head.
While it wasn’t exactly an admission of her undying love, it was good enough. Julia was glad he was alive.
Life was good.
Chapter Thirteen
Langley Julia was pulling a file when Michael approached her from behind. She felt her stomach tighten. Abigail Quinn was supposed to be laboring through the stacks of communications and news updates about the latest military recruiting and outfitting in Iran as well as a conflict developing again between Israel and Palestine. Titus Allen was in Florida of all places and Michael was to have a briefing with the Senate and House Select Intelligence Committees in two hours to bring them up to date on the CIA’s related intelligence gathering.
Analyst Chuck Atwater, the CTC’s official Middle East expert, was undergoing gallbladder surgery, and Susan had asked Abigail to have the important information culled for Michael in time for his meeting.
But Julia was struggling with nagging doubts about Michael’s possible involvement with the shadow CIA. Her gut told her he was innocent, but now that the seed of doubt had been planted, she couldn’t keep from thinking about it. Her brain kept replaying the last few months of their relationship over in her head as she looked for any hint of betrayal or manipulation on his part. She couldn’t come up with anything solid, but it was still easier to hide from him while she tried to figure things out than face him.
So she was sort of hiding, but still doing her job. After another round of morning intel analysis, she was picking up the trail of a known terrorist. One whom she was convinced was on his way to America.
Keeping her back to Michael, she pretended to be deep in concentration as she fought the butterflies in her stomach. He’s innocent, Julia. You know he is. Just relax.
Loosening his tie a notch, Michael stopped to watch Abigail. Surrounded by the towering gray metal shelves that held rows of terrorist biographies, Abby was, Michael thought, the polar opposite of the fanatics she studied.
At one end of the spectrum were men focused on ideological and secular hatred, attempting to control the world through fear and violence. On the other, Abigail Quinn, a woman who they would perceive as weak and would expect to be submissive, fighting them and their fanaticism with every breath she took.
Watching Abby pull out
another file, the male part of his brain admired the snug jeans and high heels that came bundled with her incredible intellect and integrity. Lucky for him and the United States of America, Abby was on their side.
Without turning, she addressed him. “Good morning, Director Stone.”
He smiled. “Good morning, Ms. Quinn. Finding anything of interest?”
Facing him, she pulled a file from the stack in her hand and tapped it against the others. “I think our long-lost friend Fayez Raissi is up to no good.”
“A hunch of yours?”
“He dropped off the radar after 9/11, but three months ago a field operator spotted him in Paris. Susan asked me to keep an eye on him, see if he was stirring anything up. Last week, a state department cable stated he was recruiting for Takfi-wal-Hijra in London at the Finsbury Park mosque. That group is a hard-line Islamist movement founded in Egypt as a splinter group from the Muslim Brotherhood.”
“I thought he was with the Armed Islamic Group.”
Abigail nodded. “He was, and before that he was with an extremely radical group in Kazbekistan. He joined them as a teenager to fight the K-stani Army whom he believed was responsible for the death of his two brothers.”
“Refresh my mind on his MO.”
“Charismatic and intelligent, Raissi is an expert in explosives and weapons. He is an excellent sharpshooter, has done some assassination work, but prefers taking out his targets in more spectacular ways, such as car bombs. He has no trouble finding young Muslims to do his dirty work and has orchestrated more than a few suicide bombings.”
“Hmm, builds bombs and jumps from one extremist group to another. Sounds like your kind of guy.”
A smile played on her lips. “The Takfi organization is under bin Laden’s umbrella of fanatic Islamic groups. They have received financial and material support from him, but Takfi is even more puritanical with their beliefs than bin Laden. Even Muslims who don’t adhere to their views are regarded as infidels and are targets in their holy war. Raissi has point-blank executed several Muslims himself.”