by Jacob Chance
“I had to keep you safe. That was the best added incentive.”
“Aw, Nash. You’re such a softie under this gruff agent exterior. Who would believe it?”
“No one, because I’m only like this with you.” I tap the end of her nose with the tip of my index finger. “We don’t have to worry about Natasha seeing us in here, do we?”
Zoe giggles. “It’s a little late to think about that isn’t it? But no, she’s not gonna be home until later. I shouldn’t give you any grief about it because I forgot too.”
“Hmm, that’s not like you, but I like it.”
“What can I say? My brain isn't functioning properly. I wonder whose fault that is?”
“Whoever he is, he’s a talented motherfucker if he got your brain to shut off for a bit.”
She snorts and rests her chin on my chest, staring up into my eyes mischievously. “You just caught me at a weak moment.”
“We’ll have to see if I can catch you at another weak moment soon.” I wiggle my eyebrows lecherously and then my face settles into the crooked smile she brings about so much. “We are going to do this again, right?”
“I’m okay with that. I just don’t want anyone at work to be able to tell we’re....”
“Fucking?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re not fucking though.”
Her only reply is a raised brow.
“This is much more than us fucking. We can be professional at work and still be a couple. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I mean, I know it will be difficult to resist all this.” I gesture at my body. “But you can exhibit a little self-control each day while we work.”
“Pftt. I’ll be just fine. You’re the one who’ll be struggling.”
My hand trails down her back, fingertips teasing the petal soft skin along the crack of her ass. “Are you sure about that?” I tease.
Reaching between our bodies, she wraps her hand around my growing cock and smiles. “I like to think we’re evenly matched.”
“Before you take that any further, what do ya say we move this to the bedroom? My ass is sticking to the mats.”
I’m a fortunate guy. I have a great job, a condo I own, and I come and go as I please. I answer only to myself, and yet there’s always been some intangible component missing from my life. Lying here with Zoe in my arms feels unbelievably right. Is she the key to my complete happiness?
My fingertips stroke along the graceful line of her spine. Her fair skin is delicate, but her muscles are well defined and firm under the surface. She’s been training for years and her leanly muscled frame reflects that.
“Mm, if you keep doing that I’m never leaving,” she murmurs against my chest.
“This?” I slowly skim my fingers up and down her back teasing along the crease of her ass.
“Yes, I love it.”
“I’ll never get sick of touching you. Your skin is softer than anything I’ve ever felt.”
“Your touch is pure wizardry and I’m lost under your spell.”
I laugh. “I forgot you’re a Harry Potter fan.”
“I thought you remember everything?”
“I remember the important things.”
“Like what?”
“I remember the first time I saw you at the safe house. You were standing by the fridge and giggling at yourself until you noticed me. Your expression switched from happiness to fear in a flash. I swore to myself I’d do everything I could to make you feel safe. I never wanted to see that expression on your face again.”
“Nash,” she whispers, raising her head from my chest. “You’ve always made me feel safe.”
“I hope so. I’d do anything to protect you.”
“I know you would. You have. You almost died guarding me and I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for you.”
“Doesn’t that mean you belong to me?”
“I think I always have.”
Chapter Twenty
Nash
“Everyone likes to think they’re going to be the hero of their own story.” I lean in smiling and force his chin up until we’re eye to eye, checking him for a concussion.
“Fuck you.” He snaps at me like a wild dog and struggles in vain against the zip-ties securing him to the chair. “Motherfucker.”
“Don’t bother.” I step back to the duffel bag and slowly take out a suppressed pistol, two small knives, a hammer and finally, a loaded syringe. “We’re not telling your story today.”
All the struggling and shouting is causing the muscle and veins in the side of his neck to bulge at the surface of his skin. “Thanks.” I stab the tip of the needle into his neck and bury it, before pushing down the plunger with my thumb, emptying the chamber. His head gets heavy and begins bobbing within seconds. “Now try to relax.” I steady his chin and check his pupils “It’s gonna be a long day.”
“Are we good?” Martin’s voice pops through my ear bud.
I take another look at our guest, who is now completely unconscious, “We are good to go.”
“I’m sending in room service.”
The suite’s doorbell rings, before he can finish. Agent Georgia Cohn leads the support team into the suite.
“What is it with you and this guy?” She pauses to look at the weapons laid out on the table. “You could’ve just dosed him.”
“He needed to feel afraid.”
“But the wakeup would’ve been enough. Why traumatize him?” she persists.
“The trauma pushes him toward his safety net, our target.” I pick up the weapons and place them back into the duffel bag.
“And when he wakes without any injuries or signs of torture?” She makes a good point.
I pull one of the knives back out of the duffel and retrace my steps over to our unconscious guest, who’s still bound to the chair.
“Make sure you take his cell phone and get this site wrapped as soon as possible.” I tear one of his sleeves and slide the blade across his forearm. It bleeds right away, but not enough to be a problem. “Let me know when you’re ready for transport.” I toss the knife back in the bag and step out of the suite into the hallway.
“Are we set up at his place?” I ask Martin as I hurry down the back stairwell and into the underground parking garage of the Long Wharf Marriott in Boston.
“Yes, we are,” he responds without hesitating. “We’ve got his loft, his office, his car and the three burner phones we found hidden inside the floor safe in his bedroom.”
“What about his passport?”
“Tagged. Trust me Nash, we own this prick.”
“I’m on my way to you now.”
“Where are we at?” I question Martin as I arrive at the loft we’ve taken over directly across the street from our new friend.
Our suspect, James Parker is a well-connected lawyer with offices in the Back Bay and an overpriced walkup on Beacon Hill. He’s also the legal point man for our real target, a ruthless Chechen gangster operating a human trafficking ring up and down the entire east coast.
“We’re on schedule. The support team is on their way with the package.”
“Any deviations?”
“None.” Martin turns from the bank of monitors he’s been facing. “I know you hate anything involving the Russians, but we’re ready.”
“It was such a quick set up, not enough lead time,” I mumble the words as I check the screens and familiarize myself with the angles on the surveillance cameras we have in place. “Too much can go wrong. Any issues with the audio?”
“Nash, we’re ready.” Martin is sure, but he double checks the communications relays anyway.
“Georgia, how are we looking on transport?”
“Ninety seconds out. How’s our next location?”
“Set up and secure. You are green for go on our end.”
“Super green on this end,” she responds in her usual sarcastic manner.
“She’s a pain in the ass,” Ma
rtin chimes in off comms to me, or so he thinks.
“Yeah but it’s a nice one.” Georgia joins in. “Maybe you should worry about working the comms instead of my ass, Marty.”
“Knock it off, both of you.” I shut them down before they can take it any further. “We’re in the eye of the storm here, let’s stay focused.”
There’s a moment of silence over the line which Georgia feels the need to fill with one final smart-ass response adding, “Check, super green here, sir.”
Exactly eighty-nine seconds later the support team’s four SUV caravan stops on the street in front of both buildings. Agent Georgia Cohn exits the lead vehicle and begins directing the others, who remove Parker’s unconscious body from the back seat of the primary vehicle and disappear through the front door of his apartment building.
Ten minutes later, she leads the support team out of the building. The rest of the agents post up and down the street, awaiting orders and the possibility of mobile surveillance.
“I had to stitch up his arm on the way here.” Georgia comes in and joins us for the next stage of the operation - waiting. “It started to bleed a bit too much.”
“Stitches,” Martin repeats. “How's that play on wakeup?”
I think about it for a moment and nod. “It'll add to his confusion and fear. It should work in our favor.”
“This poor bastard is in for a bad night.” Georgia pulls up a chair. “Can't you just feel it?”
“We'll see,” Martin argues.
“Well either way, it won't start for at least sixty minutes, when the sedative wears off.”
We spend an hour floating between casual small talk and checking, then rechecking all the equipment.
We spend the next thirty-two minutes watching and waiting, in silence.
Things happen fast when Parker wakes up. His confusion and fear are obvious as he leaps from his bed and then realizes he’s naked.
“Did you need to strip him?” Martin asks, turning to Georgia
She pauses before answering. “It’ll add to his confusion and fear… it should work in our favor.” She performs a purposely shitty imitation of me, while staring intently at the bank of monitors.
Parker gets dressed in a hurry and frantically searches the loft to ensure he’s alone. He stops running around within seconds and sits on the edge of the couch.
“That’s it you piece of shit,” I mumble as we watch. “Let it sink in.”
Parker tentatively runs his fingers along the freshly stitched knife wound on his arm.
“I think he likes my work.” Georgia elbows Martin.
Slowly rising from the couch, Parker shakes his head. He spins around in a circle, stops and suddenly runs back into the bedroom.
“Here we go.” Georgia elbows Martin again.
He’s in a full-blown panic, grabbing the burner phones, cash and a passport from the floor safe, before scooping up a pair of shoes on his way out of the loft barefoot.
“Street teams at the ready. Target is on the move and heading your way,” I alert the agents in place outside.
Martin quietly hands Georgia a twenty-dollar bill.
“I knew it.” She snatches the money from his hand and heads for the door to coordinate the street teams.
“Are you gonna tell me what that’s all about?” I raise a brow toward Martin once she’s gone.
“We had a bet.” He shrugs. “I thought he’d stay put longer.”
“Not a chance in Hell,” I laugh. “This guy’s too big of a pussy.”
“She said the same thing.” Martin scratches his head.
Parker uses one of the cell phones, before he even makes it out of the lobby. Martin quickly turns up the sound as we focus in on the call.
“It’s me.” He sounds panicked. “I need a face to face.” The call ends without a word from the person on the other end. He drops the phone in a trash can by the front door, with his head shooting from left to right like he’s watching a tennis match and walks to his car, parked several blocks away.
“Wheels up,” I alert the support team. “He’s got car keys in his hand.”
“Fuck me.” Georgia knows what a nightmare vehicle surveillance can be in Boston.
Within ten minutes of driving through the narrow, unforgiving and seemingly circular streets of downtown, Georgia’s on fire. “Goddamn, powdered wig wearing forefuckers must’ve been smoking something pretty powerful when they sat down to plan the layout of this city,” she barks through the open comm line.
“Did she just call the Founding Fathers powdered wig wearing…” Martin starts to repeat her comment, until I raise a hand cutting him off.
“I heard what she said.”
Parker drives another thirty minutes before finally receiving a response.
Martin and I instinctually lean in, as if the extra inches will somehow help us hear the call better.
“Hello, I’m here.” His voice is shaky. He sounds like he’s unraveling.
“Location two,” an altered voice responds.
“Location two? But I’m closer to location one. This is a real emergency,” Parker pleads.
“Location two.” The answer comes back the same and then the caller hangs up.
Parker slams on his brakes, pulling an erratic U-turn and tossing the second phone from the passenger side window as he accelerates in the opposite direction. He cuts across two lanes of traffic on his right and speeds up the nearby highway on-ramp, heading south.
“Jesus, this guy’s falling apart.” The primary support team driver shouts through the comms, as he quickly follows the path of stopped traffic carved out by Parker seconds ahead of him. “There’s no way he’s not seeing us follow him up the ramp.” He reports back.
“Georgia what’s your twenty?”
“Same location, thirty seconds behind them.” The roaring strain on her SUV’s engine as she speeds toward them is clearly audible in the background.
“Primary, stay in place.” I want to keep the additional support out of sight as long as possible.
“Primary in place, check.”
Moments later Georgia reports in again. “I have visual on primary team and target.”
“Hang back,” I instruct. “Watch for spotters.” I'm concerned the Chechen may have counter surveillance set up for an emergency meeting like this one. They could be running Parker around on purpose before a face to face, so they can filter out and ID anyone in pursuit.
“Hanging back,” Georgia responds. “Eyes open.”
Parker drives for another forty minutes toward Cape Cod before he gets off the highway, jumping right back on at the same exit and heading north, back toward Boston.
“This guy’s a pain in the ass,” Cohn complains as she switches with the other team into the primary surveillance spot. “I don’t think he knows where he’s going.”
“Is he on to us?” Martin asks me off comms.
“I don’t think so. If he’s heading back this way he’s just been killing time.”
“Killing time?”
“Maybe so they can secure the meeting site?”
Thirty minutes later, Parker is leading the surveillance teams back into Boston when his last burner cell chimes. He answers on the second ring, “I’m here.” sounding less afraid and more agitated.
“Now,” an altered voice instructs.
“I’m ten minutes away,” Parker responds before the call ends.
“Meeting is a go and he’s telling them he’s ten minutes out,” I relay the information to the support teams. “We’re going to operate on the assumption that the meet site will be secured.”
Within minutes Parker is getting off the highway in the Seaport District. He pulls around the newly renovated buildings, into a rundown section, still waiting for redevelopment.
“Set up on the perimeter and get me a visual on his contact,” I direct the street teams to move quickly. “I need eyes, yesterday.”
“I've got audio,” Martin offers. “He never t
ossed the cell from that last call.” He turns up the volume and it sounds like shoes scuffing against pavement. Parker’s out of the car and on foot.
“He's heading into the harbor park,” Cohn reports in. “I'm setting up for a visual.”
“James, what has you so worked up?” A new male voice, with a heavy Chechen accent comes over the comms.
“That's gotta be our guy,” I call out over the line. “Someone get me a visual. I need eyes now.” Martin and I focus back in on the audio. “Nicholas, I didn’t know you were coming.” Parker sounds afraid again. “I just needed to…”
“Shut up.” The unidentified male voice snaps. “Now settle down and tell me why you’re so eager to meet today. What is it you want?”
There’s a brief hesitation over the comms, which I’m sure is so Parker can calm himself enough to speak coherently. He’s probably ready to piss his pants.
“I was having some lunch and a couple of drinks earlier today when an FBI agent approached and said he needed to speak with me. We stepped outside the restaurant to talk and before I knew what was happening I was forced into the back of an SUV, blindfolded and driven to a hotel where they tied me to a chair and stuck a needle in my neck.”
“I’ve got eyes,” Georgia reports over the comm link.
“And what did they want with you?” The unidentified male questions him. “What did you talk about with this FBI man?”
“I’m recording.” Martin sets up Georgia’s video feed onto the bank of monitors in front of us. The angle isn’t the best and his face is mostly obstructed.
“Can you get any closer?”
“Not without alerting his friends.” Georgia passes the camera along the immediate perimeter, stopping to capture images of no less than three hostiles mixed in with what appears to be at least two dozen civilians, enjoying the Harbor Park. They all appear to be carrying small Mac-10s, tucked under their arms on shoulder rigs.
“Wh…what?” Parker stutters. “I don’t know what they wanted, I didn’t say anything. After they stuck the needle in my neck, the next thing I remember is waking up in my loft with this.” He shows him the freshly stitched arm wound.