He got a little buzzed from the wine, but it wasn't enough. Their chemistry was a little off throughout the meal, as she steamed ahead with the martinis, and he didn't get the information he desperately sought during dinner. Still, he managed to convince her that she needed FBI protection until they figured out what was going on with her husband. She stopped denying that her husband might be involved, but stubbornly kept insisting that her husband would never hurt her, which was fine for now. He had made enough progress to get her into the hotel room, which he told her was the FBI's idea of a security precaution.
The elevator stopped on the fourth floor.
"What, we're not hiding out in one of the suites? The FBI must be going through some budget cuts," she said, in a silly manner that grated on Edward's nerves.
"We like to keep this as low profile as possible. If it were me travelling with someone like you, I'd go for the suite," he said, eager to gauge her response.
"Are you supposed to flirt with protected witnesses?" she said, and for a second Edwards saw a look that suggested he would be in business once they got comfortable in the hotel room.
"Not usually, but in your case, it's hard to resist. Ladies first," he said, motioning to the open door.
"Why, thank you," she said, and he was pretty sure she glanced down at his bulge forming in his pants.
He led her down the hallway to room 438, hoping for a discreet moment to adjust the awkwardly protruding erection stuck in his underwear. Maybe she'd just rip his pants down as soon as they were in the room, and it wouldn't matter. He felt like exploding as he put the key card into the door slot. The door opened, and his phone rang, which was a real buzz kill. He let it ring, showing her into the room, which already contained his personal belongings.
A spare suit hung in the closet, above an extra pair of dress shoes and a pair of running shoes. He could see his toiletry kit neatly arranged in the bathroom as he passed. He wondered what she thought of his stuff being here, but didn't think she'd notice anything beyond the chilled bottle of white wine in a silver bucket on the desk. She'd begged him for another drink at the restaurant, but he didn't want her to become incoherent and legless yet. Instead, he'd stepped outside of the restaurant, pretending to take a call, and ordered the wine. He watched as she took the bait.
"Very nice. Is this how you treat all of your protectees?" she said, slurring her speech a little more than before.
"Only our VIPs," he said. He removed his jacket, still ignoring the cell phone. When he hung the jacket in the foyer closet, he briefly considered answering his phone.
"You gonna answer that?" Jessica said, pouring herself a glass of wine.
"Not right now. We have more important things to do," he said.
The phone finally stopped ringing.
"I guess we do," she said, pouring a second glass.
He started to walk toward her when his phone rang again.
"God damn it," he muttered. "Hold on, let me get this over with."
He turned around, walking toward the front of the room in case he needed to seek privacy in the bathroom or in the hall. He needed to make this quick. It looked like things were progressing quicker than he thought they would. He'd probably fuck her, then get her to squeal on her husband. Either way, he planned to make her squeal a lot tonight. He looked at the caller ID before flipping the phone open. It was Sharpe.
"Special Agent Edwards," he said.
"Justin. This is Special Agent Ryan Sharpe. Whatever you do, do not interrupt me, or say a word unless I tell you to. Are you with Jessica Petrovich? Answer yes or no, and do not look at her."
**
Jessica watched Edwards from the desk as she poured a glass of wine intended for Edwards. Actually, both glasses were for the FBI agent, along with the rest of the bottle, which she planned to force him to chug. Edwards examined the phone and appeared to debate whether to answer it. She placed the bottle back in the cooling bucket, which distracted Edwards and caused him to turn his head in the direction of the icy sound. She listened carefully as he answered the phone and could sense a shift in his posture. When he stiffly answered, "Yes," and didn't say another word, her hand flashed under her blouse and pulled a sleek knife from the front pocket of her jeans. She pounced as Agent Edwards tried to draw his gun.
Jessica crossed the ten foot divide before Edwards cleared the pistol from his holster, and put him in a chokehold, squeezing the inside of her forearm harshly against his neck. She pulled his head back and pressed the tip of the knife against the right side of his throat.
"I think you know what could happen next," she whispered into his ear, "drop your gun and cell phone."
He hesitated, and Jessica pushed the razor sharp blade a millimeter further and anchored her grip across the top of his throat, under his chin. She heard both items hit the carpeted floor a few seconds later and detected a faint ammonia smell. The cell phone continued to squawk from the floor, and she could hear someone repeating Edward's name. She turned his body ninety degrees to the left and stomped on the cell phone repeatedly, until she was sure it was completely destroyed.
Jessica glanced into the mirror and saw a dark stain spreading down Edward's pants, originating from his groin, which was a welcome sight compared to the numerous erections she had been forced to ignore most of the night. She barely noticed the steady trickle of blood flowing down his neck and saturating the collar of his blue dress shirt. She yanked him out of the mirror's view and turned him to face the chilled bottle of wine.
"Try anything, and I'll cut you open so badly they'll have no choice but to bury you in a closed coffin. Understood?" Jessica said.
"Please don't kill me. I won't say a…"
She pulled hard against his neck, right under his chin, and he choked on the words. His hands uselessly grabbed at her rock-solid grip, and she pushed the knife another millimeter into his neck. His hands went still.
"Do not resist, and do not say a word unless I ask. Understood?" she hissed and loosened her grip.
"Yes."
"That's better," she replied and loosened her grip a little further.
"Did you think you were going to fuck me all night on that bed?"
Silence. She moved the knife against his neck, but not enough to draw blood.
"I…I don't know what I was…"
"You like to take advantage of women? Degrade them, make them feel vulnerable, wrecked…then fuck them like trash? Is that what you like?" she whispered in his ear.
"No. No. I really…"
"Are you a rapist?" she whispered and ran the blade up and down his neck, catching his stubble.
"No," he pleaded.
"Date rapist? Bet we find some Gamma in your piss-soaked pockets," she said.
"Who are you?" he asked weakly, as if he knew this question would cost him.
"Didn't they tell you?"
"No," he said.
"What exactly did they tell you?" she asked, and he didn't answer.
She removed the knife from his neck, which caused Edwards to tense. At this point, any movement near his neck caused him to flinch. She quickly placed the knife as far as she could between his legs and pushed upward through the wet fabric of his pants against his testicles, which appeared to have retracted as far as possible into his abdomen.
"I'm going to slash this knife upward and back if you don't start talking. I imagine that crime scene photo would end up in every Power Point lecture, given by every crime scene investigator across the country. Might go international. Are you looking to get famous tonight?" she said, adding a little more pressure to the knife against his crotch.
Edwards sucked small, careful breaths through his teeth. "They…they just told me that you were highly dangerous…and…" he hesitated.
"And what," she breathed into his neck.
"That…that I was to hold you here at gunpoint and use lethal force if you tried to escape," he admitted.
"Do they know about this room?"
"Yes. You do
n't have much time before—"
She pulled back on her left forearm and stepped back, pulling Edwards further off balance and angling the knife forward, where a backward slash would cut deep into his now completely limp manhood.
"I'll give you one shot at this, and I'm going to help you out. I know your team is staying at the Econo Lodge by the mall. I figured a pretentious little prick like yourself would not be content with shitty government-authorized lodging, so I think this room is off the books. Am I right?" she said.
"Yes, but they'll trace the cell pho—"
"We both know that's not happening. Your phone is dead, and if you don't follow my explicit directions, you'll be dead too. I'll need the password to the laptop in your briefcase," she said. Edwards didn't respond.
"Password, please. Don't make me ask again," she said.
He whispered something that she heard, but needed to hear again for her own amusement.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," she said.
"Ladykiller69," he grunted.
"No shit. Are you wearing a backup piece?" she barked.
"No."
She used her right foot to feel around his ankles for a holster. In a swift motion, she withdrew the knife, leaving his undercarriage intact, and released him, following with a solid kick in the lower back. Edwards hit the bed and crumpled over the corner, still in shock. He laid there, his chest pressed against the down comforter and his legs dangling uselessly over the side onto the floor. Jessica picked up his service pistol and pointed it at him.
"No time for a nap, Justin, dear. We have some partying to do. Stand up and strip," she said, emphasizing the point by aiming the pistol at his groin.
"What?" He slowly stood.
She delivered a sharp kick to his kidneys, which caused his back to arch and straightened him up quickly.
"I don't have all night. You wanted to get naked with me, right? Now's your chance. We have some partying to do," she said.
She could see tears welling up in his eyes as he unbuttoned his shirt.
"You didn't have enough to drink?"
"I don't drink on the job unless I have to. I do love martinis though," she said, watching him remove his blue dress shirt, along with his undershirt.
Edwards took good care of himself. He had a slightly chiseled body, with little body fat, clearly the product of endless high repetition, low weight circuit training, combined with a daily thirty-minute fat-burning stint on a treadmill. He avoided her piercing stare, occasionally meeting her glance with a combination of humiliation and anger.
"I told the bartender that a late dinner was your idea of a job interview for a promotion. He substituted water for vodka and refused to take a nice tip for helping a poor lady out. Now that was a true gentleman. I'd say you could take a few lessons from him, but I think your hatred of women runs too deep. Time for the pants," she said.
"Why do you want me naked?" he asked.
"Because we're going to party, Justin. I don't like to waste good wine, and I must admit, a 2003 St. Francis Chardonnay is a nice choice," she said and pointed at the bottle with the gun.
He glanced at her, barely meeting her eyes as he dropped his pants and boxer shorts.
"Now what?" he said.
"Drink both of those glasses, and chug the rest of the bottle," she said, emphasizing her request with the pistol aimed at his head.
"What?"
"Drink up. The clock is ticking," she said and watched with satisfaction as he downed one of the drug-laced glasses of wine.
Justin Edwards is going to have a rough morning, she thought and cracked a thin smile.
Chapter Forty-Three
12:14 a.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Special Agent Sharpe listened to the phone and finally spoke with a dejected voice.
"Thank you, D'Angelo. Let's keep each other posted," he said and closed his phone.
He turned to O'Reilly's workstation. She shook her head.
"Nothing from his cell phone, and his GPS signal is dead," she said.
"D'Angelo said all of the FBI hotel rooms were empty, and her office is clear. She's coordinating a search of hotels near the satellite office. He has to be in the Old Port section of Portland," he said.
"Why would he have a hotel room in the downtown area?" she asked.
"Who knows," he said.
He didn't plan to bring her up to speed on the nature of his phone conversations with Edwards. It had been a bad idea to share information with him in the first place, but Sharpe was desperate, and it sounded like Edwards might be able to extract some useful information out of her. Now Edwards was missing, and he had a bad feeling that the agent was dead. Sharpe had never cared for Edwards personally, but he had been a reasonably competent investigative agent and knew how to play the game within the Beltway.
Deep down inside, a part of him hoped Edwards was dead. Sharpe would have enough explaining to do tomorrow morning, without the added complication of why he unofficially sanctioned Edwards to press Jessica Petrovich, or whoever she was, with information that skirted the border of his CIS agreement. In the hands of a skillful prosecutor, he could wind up behind bars.
"This has turned into a complete disaster, and I'm starting to get the sinking feeling that we've been played. Played since last night. Nothing is what it seems to be, or should be," he said. His phone rang again.
"Mendoza. Any word from our agents? How are they doing?" Sharpe said.
"They're fine, sir. It was definitely the colonel. Calhoun and Harris said he walked in like everything was normal and just stabbed McKie in the neck. Then all hell broke loose. Forced Sergeant D'Onofrie at gunpoint to drag everyone into the back room, then hit him with the same neurotoxin. Farrington worked closely with D'Onofrie and Staff Sergeant Brodin for over two years. Turned on them like a viper."
"Was anything else taken?" Sharpe asked.
"The archives section wasn't breached, so it looks like all he took was the file. We found the last page of the fax in a pool of McKie's blood. Care to guess what it says?"
"That Munoz's specialty has something to do with infiltrating jails and police custody?"
"That pretty much sums it up," Mendoza said.
"Played."
"What was that, sir?"
"Played. We've been played all along, Mendoza. The murders, Munoz's capture, the Sanctum. Everything. And now Edwards is missing. I can't go into details on the phone, but he was with Jessica Petrovich."
"Jesus Christ," Mendoza whispered.
"Exactly. What's the CIA's angle on what happened?" Sharpe said.
"I wouldn't know. Keller bolted as soon as he regained consciousness."
"What! This is a federal investigation. How the fuck did he get out of the Pentagon?" he said, and several heads throughout the silent room looked in his direction.
"Someone high up at Langley convinced Pentagon security that Keller needed to make an immediate report, in person," Mendoza said.
"And you didn't stop him?"
"I have no authority to stop him. As a matter of fact, I have no authority in this building at all. This place is under lockdown, and I have been relieved of my weapon. Someone pulled serious strings to get Keller out of here," Mendoza said.
"And that reeks of bullshit. When did he leave?"
"Fifteen minutes ago," Mendoza said.
"All right. I need to take care of something. Keep me posted, Frank," Sharpe said.
"Will do, sir."
Sharpe set his phone down on a nearby desk and ran his hands through his matted brown hair, pausing to think for a moment. He briefly laughed at himself and turned to a young agent sitting at a desk in the communications section.
"Agent Fayad?" he said.
"Sir?" the dark-skinned agent said, swiveling his chair to face Sharpe.
"I need a cell phone GPS trace immediately," he said.
"Send me the number, and we'll activate the system. Should have it in a few minutes," he
said.
"We already have the number on file. Randy Keller."
"Our CIA liaison?" Fayad said, with a skeptical look.
"That's it. We don't have time to notify Langley. Wake up Weber if you need help."
"I can take care of it, sir."
"Thanks, Fayad. Let me know as soon as you have a signal. O'Reilly, scramble a team of agents. Four from the task force, including yourself. Two cars. I have a surveillance job for you," he said.
O'Reilly's face perked up for the first time in several hours, despite the fact that she was rapidly approaching twenty-four hours on her feet.
Chapter Forty-Four
12:25 a.m.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Keller got off the Metro at the Rosslyn Station and walked a few blocks over to North Lynn Avenue. He hailed a taxi, which drove him north over the Key Bridge and deposited him in front of a random bar along M Street in Georgetown. Still slightly disoriented, Keller paid his fare, leaving the cab driver surprised by the generous tip. To the driver and anyone on the street, Keller might have appeared slightly inebriated, which didn't draw any unwarranted attention on a Thursday night along M Street. Keller focused on his surroundings and took deep, slow breaths.
He was starting to feel better in the fresh air, despite the occasional wafts of tobacco and stale beer. He had fled the Pentagon in a hurry, not wanting to get caught in a bureaucratic prison for the next several hours. Berg's call had been convincing enough to get him out, and Keller was grateful for the favor. He had more data stored in his head and needed a brief respite to flush it out. He didn't have a headache or sore muscles, just a vague feeling that the gravity around his body had been slightly increased.
Keller spotted the street sign that would lead him deep into the quiet neighborhoods of Georgetown and to the safe house. He glanced at the traffic and found a break between cars large enough for him to cross safely.
Black Ops Bundle: Volume One Page 97