by Skye, S. D.
Bullshit. But J.J. gave credit where it was due—the guy was good.
"We're not here to debate the validity of your political and military agenda," Nixon replied. "The FBI's primary concern is securing the homeland from terrorists and spies. So, if we could cut to the chase, why have you requested our presence here today?"
J.J.'s eyebrow arched. She'd never known Nixon to be a man with backbone. He usually preyed on the weak rather stand up to the strong.
"Ahhh, yes," Komarov said, relaxing his tone and posture, he leaned his back against the chair. "We brought you here to extend an olive branch, if you will. I've been asked to assure you that the Service is not controlling any operations targeting citizens inside the United States. Negotiations regarding the specifics of the new plans are underway within our executive channels and will demonstrate our proposed new era of cooperation. We would like to collaborate on issues, such as terrorism, which would be mutually beneficial to both our countries."
By now, the itching sensation had permeated J.J.'s entire being. If the human body contained over a billion nerves, every one of hers had been stimulated in the worst way. She clenched her legs together and strained not to dissolve into a scratching frenzy.
But, finally, the truth had been revealed. The Russians wanted to purchase conciliation with terrorism intelligence. J.J. felt relieved. With FBI Director Russell Freeman at the helm, U.S. national security could never be bought at so cheap a price.
Chapter 1
Monday Afternoon — Alexandria Jail
The U.S. Attorney’s Office had stacked so many charges against Maddix Cooper, the next time he set foot outside of prison would be to take the pine box dive into a six-foot pit. Mandatory sentences for espionage, conspiracy, first-degree murder, and obstruction of justice. The list of traitorous offenses had left FBI Special Agents J.J. McCall and Tony Donato in a major predicament: How to convince a man with zero motivation to divulge information contrary to his best interest – without the use of torture? This question plagued J.J. as she and Tony crossed through the barbed-wire fence into the detention facility. Within a few minutes, they’d be face-to-face with the lowest form of human in existence; the answer wasn’t coming fast enough.
The stench of confinement, an unsettling combination of despair and delinquency, permeated the cushy looking fortress on the outskirts of Northern Virginia and turned J.J.’s stomach. She’d spent more time in this hell hole over the past month than in her entire career, and she didn’t care if she never saw it again.
Her last visit was at the behest of her then jailed boss, Supervisory Special Agent Jack Sabinski. Framed for committing espionage by his Jezebel, the dead Lana Michaels, Jack summoned J.J. and pled for her help in proving his innocence, a feat she accomplished despite her longstanding contempt for his mistreatment of her.
Now, J.J. focused her mind on interrogating the newest offender—Maddix Cooper, who, to her delight, was on the verge of becoming some inmate’s bitch. He’d already ratted out Gary Mosin as the second member of Lana Michaels’ Russian sleeper agent network during their showdown on the Devil’s Rest. He also spilled that Mosin had disappeared off the grid and was fleeing to Moscow—but left out the details of Mosin’s travel route, facts they needed to know in order to intercept him.
Never had an interrogation been so pointless from J.J.’s vantage point. No way in hell would Maddix divulge the details of Mosin’s escape plans. The only reason he confessed their connection in the first place was to escape the bullet from J.J.’s gun. Now, tucked behind the bars of Virginia’s premier correctional facility for newly arrested spies, he awaited a conviction that would guarantee if he died twice and came back to life, he’d still have to serve forty years. As far as he knew, a plea bargain might do little more than eliminate only one of his many life sentences. He had no viable reason to reveal another word. Certainly not out of the goodness of the cavernous pit where his heart was supposed to be.
The Sheriffs walked J.J. and Tony through a series of security doors until they reached the interrogation room. They left their overcoats with their escorts and tugged their suit jackets straight before entering. The sight of Kendell Phillips’ murderer shrouded in orange and shackled at the hands and feet gave J.J. a burst of pleasure she hadn’t felt since her early morning romp with Tony. A reddish-blue bruise circled his eye and spread to the cap of his jaw. His gaze disintegrated under the weight of her glare and fell to his twiddling thumbs. She prepared to speak when an overwhelming scent jarred her senses—the smell of contemptible swine.
“Figured you two would show up sooner or later,” Maddix said, his arrogance soaking up the little-remaining tolerable air in the room. It was a small box with dirty white cinderblock walls and a two-way mirror on the back side. He scratched the five o’clock scruff seeping from his square jawline. Red cracks peppered Maddix’s penetrating steel gray eyes, and Lipton-sized bags bubbled from beneath them. His first few nights behind bars had left him sleepless and worn, an inconsequential justice for a scumbag who offed his fiancé to ensure the survival of his spy ring.
He locked his eyes on J.J. and all but ignored Tony. “Hope you enjoy the view because I’ve got nothing to say to you…or your little partner here.” He jutted his chin toward Tony.
“My, my, my,” J.J. said to Maddix. “What an ugly fall from grace. Too bad they don’t make an Armani perp suit. You used to wear him so well.”
Positioned across from Maddix, Tony scanned the rat’s face and looked at him with a pained expression. “Rough night, eh? Did they forget to put you in solitary? Looks like you’ve been mingling with the locals.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said with a shrug. Then he leaned back, spread his knees wide, and placed his hands in his lap. “So, this is the reason you came all the way to Shangri-La? To gloat?”
J.J. savored his misery and then vexed him with a tight smile. “We’re here to discuss your comrade in arms, Hawk—Gary Mosin.”
The usual good cop/bad cop routine would have zero impact on Maddix, the former Secret Service agent. For him, the routine would be a day at the office. The puppet show held no mystery. The little information he’d dribbled to date wouldn’t help a dog find bone. Even with the odds stacked against her, taking down Mosin before he found comforting shelter in the eager, waiting hands of Russia’s FSB was an imperative, not an option. He’d hatched what appeared to be a fool-proof escape plan before defecting to Russia, but even the best-laid plans had vulnerabilities ripe for exploiting.
“Newsflash, doll.” Maddix forced out a grating laugh, overplaying his weak position just a smidge. “You get nothing from me, not without a deal. I want immunity.”
“Immunity?” J.J. blinked in rapid motion. After rolling her neck and eyes, she folded her arms over her stomach, lifted a single eyebrow, and prepared to kill any dream he’d concocted of shaking his bid. She’d arrived with the intent to take the path of least resistance, but his crassness suggested he sought the off-road experience. “First of all, my name is J.J. or Agent McCall, not doll. Secondly, if you ever deign to—,” she started. Tony rested his arm on hers to stop her rant and signal he’d take over. He understood better than anyone that the bees-to-honey approach went out the door with the word “doll.”
“Listen, you ain’t gotta make this difficult. We didn’t come here to pick a fight. Give us the information we need, and you can go back to counting the tiles on the ceiling . . . or whatever it is you do on the inside.” Tony contrived a calm demeanor as he reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro 100s and a book of matches. He slid them to the middle of the table until they stopped beside a plastic ashtray. “Our treat. Enjoy. But if you choose to stay on the difficult route, we can reverse course any time.”
Maddix cupped his hands and with no show of gratitude, pulled the offerings to the table’s edge, his shackles jangling with his every move. He folded back the foil on the corner of the pack and knocked the open end against his wrist
until a cigarette emerged. Then his brow drew together, furrowed in confusion. “You don’t have a clue, do you?” His gaze ping-ponged between J.J. and Tony before he shook his head. “That’s why you’re here. You don’t know!” With a slight air of cockiness, the corners of his mouth edged upward in a sneer; he eased back against the chair. “At the rate you’re going, The Washington Post will get the scoop before you do.”
“The fuck you talkin’ about?” Tony’s gruff New York attitude released like the Kraken. His face reddened as the sound of his grinding teeth emitted a low hum. Maddix’s arrogance stoked his anger, affecting Tony as easily as J.J.’s. “What part of ‘you ain’t gotta make this difficult’ did you not understand? You’re already testin’ my patience. I promise you that’s not a smart move, not for someone in your position…which in...”—he glanced down at his watch—“about an hour will be bent over for some booty bandit.”
Maddix took a slow drag from his cigarette and allowed the smoke to swirl around his lips before resting the cancer stick in the ashtray. He again shifted his cocky gaze between the two. “The great and powerful J.J. McCall. Just as ignorant as he is, huh? Man, I should tell both of you to go screw yourselves. I don’t need you. You need me.”
J.J. caught a glance of Tony’s fist which had curled into a tense ball. She pressed her hand to his arm to dissuade him from any impulsive actions. Like an electric current coursing through her brain, the touch sparked an epiphany, brought to light the answer to the question she posed to herself earlier. The solution to her Maddix predicament was simple. How do you make a man divulge information against his best interest?
You don’t.
Chapter 2
Monday Evening — FBI Headquarters
Standing at his seventh-floor window, Assistant Director John Nixon stared down into the stone-paved courtyard in the heart of the J. Edgar Hoover building. The personified bronze figures representing Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity glowed like beacons of justice in the fluorescent up-lighting. They shone a stark light on his glory . . . and his shame. While his mind should have been focused on overseeing the operations to hunt down fugitive traitor Gary Mosin and Task Force Phantom Hunter’s efforts to shut down the illegals network, his thoughts centered on more selfish concerns—ending his career in humiliating disgrace.
Jack Sabinski had warned him days ago that J.J. had started asking questions neither he nor Jack ever expected to answer. They struck a deal; they buried the truth…until now. What were the chances the daughter of FBI Special Agent Naomi Jones would follow directly in her mother’s footsteps and position herself as one of the top agents in the counterintelligence program?
His stomach curled at the thought of J.J. discovering the truth. She’d supplanted her mother as the bane of his Bureau existence and posed a dangerous threat to the life he held dear. Jack should’ve eliminated the risk when he had the chance. Now, the more success she experienced, the better her chances of discovering the secret and the greater the effort required to contain her.
Leaving the important task of concealing the Black Panther Party investigation to the likes of his inept friend demonstrated poor judgment, at best, unbridled stupidity at worst. Nixon realized he should’ve dealt with the situation in his own way. Now with the burn of his deception flaming at the nape of his neck, he would make damn certain he succeeded where Jack failed. He’d use his power in the way Jack never displayed the balls to do.
Serving as acting director in Freeman’s absence while he recovered from his mild “episode,” Nixon planned his first step: Obtain the file holding the key to his and Jack’s collective fates. He’d ensure the damning document disappeared forever. Tying the missing documents to him would prove an almost impossible feat. He’d claim they were gone before he received the file.
Nixon released a groan and, in a swift motion, turned to his desk and hit the intercom button.
“Get Jack Sabinski on line one,” John barked to his secretary. “I need to speak with him now.”
“Yes, sir. Right away,” Luisa Sanchez replied.
The decision to hijack the documents rested on his shoulders, but keeping the lies consistent was both of their responsibilities.
A few moments later, a buzz jarred him out of his thoughts. “Jack Sabinski on Line 1," Luisa said.
“Johnny Johnny Johnny!” Jack bellowed. His words slurred as if he pulled them from the bottom of a liquor bottle. Rumor had it Jack filled the empty first weeks of his retirement swimming in a pool of Jack Daniels, to Nixon’s dismay. All available evidence had proved the gossip was grounded in fact.
“Jack, long time, no hear from,” Nixon said, the tone in his voice measured. “Heard you skipped the interview I set up for you last week. Wasted a lot of pulled strings.”
“Johnny, come on,” he said. “I’m a thirty-plus year FBI vet. You can’t expect me to take a job as a glorified security officer. Makes me appear desperate.”
“No, it would’ve made you appear employed. Stopped you from drowning your sorrows…and your liver.”
Jack sighed. “If I wanted a guilt trip, I woulda called my mother. You’re wastin’ your breath. So, what’s goin’ on?”
“As a matter of fact,” he replied. “I called for a more important reason. Have you been keeping up with recent events?”
“You mean, J.J.?” Jack said. “Her position is strengthening with every success. If Freeman concedes and gives her access, that’ll set off a shitstorm from here to Houston. In hindsight, advising her to ask her father about what happened may not have done us any favors, either. She caught me off guard.”
“You listen to me, Jack. Your days of being off-guard are over. If you don’t pull your act together, Houston’s going to be the least of your concerns.”
“Agreed,” Jack said. “I guess I should’ve dealt with her while I had the chance. Funny, she believes the root of our dissension revolves around her race. She hadn’t even scratched the surface. Playing racist didn’t distract her; it added fuel to an out-of-control blaze. She’s more determined than ever to discover the truth. You and I both understand what must happen to make this go away, but I couldn’t get into headquarters now if Jesus escorted me.”
“I’m on top of it. I’ve already put in a call to Devin Fitzpatrick in New York. He owes me a big favor. If we can’t stop her, at least we’ll slow her down. In the meantime, I’ll recover the documents and make them disappear.”
“How? The Chief File Inspector or whatever he is, is anal and OCD to a fault when it comes to tracking the ins and outs of the files.”
“Yes, the files, not the documents. Once I get my hands on them, this entire nightmare will be over. By the time she returns from New York, she can kiss goodbye any hope of finding out what happened to her mother. The story will live and die with you and me.”
“Well, not quite. Don’t forget about Max McCall. He knows.”
“Yeah, but he’s got more to lose than either one of us if the truth gets out.”
“What’s that?” Jack asked.
“His daughter.”
Chapter 3
Monday Evening — Alexandria Jail
J.J. stood up and circled the interrogation cell, throwing her hands in the air for dramatic effect. “Caught me red-handed, Maddix,” J.J. said. “You’re right. If you don’t cough up the 4-1-1 on Mosin, we face major, if not insurmountable, challenges. Score one for you. But, uh, I came bearing news that might be of interest to you. We’ve contacted an attorney on your behalf. He’ll be here shortly to discuss the latest twist in your case.”
“What? I told you I already understand my charges. I’m not ready to talk to some shit public defender.”
“Public defender? With all the money you …” she paused. “Wait, he cleaned you out, didn’t he?” Of course, Mosin took the money and ran to Moscow, she thought. The question she had was why Maddix would still protect him.
He cut his eyes at her and drew another long drag from his cigarette.
He jerked his head back. “They wanna give me the death penalty? Bullshit!” His brow furrowed in confusion which transformed into anger. Then he laughed. “You two should become an act. What do you take me for? Get a new routine. I invented this one. Now, could you zip this farce along so I can return to counting ceiling tiles? Go ahead. I’m listening…cooperate with the FBI or blah blah blah…vain pointless threat…blah blah blah. Same old shit.”
Maddix’s split-second of shock did not escape J.J’s notice. She’d spotted the chink in his armor despite his bravado and committed to digging in until he fessed up the truth.
J.J. gave a half-shrug as the corners of her lips curled up into a smirk. “Is that what you were saying when you got cracked in the skull last night? Blah, blah, blah. What your bunk buddies do to your ass in prison is nothing compared to the stench of burning flesh after you spend seven minutes in the hot seat. And right now, two people stand between you and a, shall we say, shocking finale. I’ll give you one guess as to who they are. Go ahead. I’m listening.”
Maddix paused and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, ditching his poker face. “There’s no fucking way you’ve got the evidence to make capital charges stick. I’m law enforcement, remember? I didn’t contribute to the death of a covert agent, nor did I give information to aid and abet our enemies in a time of war. So you can take your piece of shit threats and stick ‘em where the sun don’t shine. Then pound sand back to FBI headquarters. I’ve got nothing left to say.” He tamped his cigarette in the ashtray. With a smug grin, he said, “Except one thing…thanks for the smokes. Guard! I’m ready.”
“Au contraire, mon frère.” J.J. sat back in her seat. “You can return to your quarters, but take this with you. We’ve got you on tape. You confessed your participation in a spy network responsible for the deaths of not one but two of my sources—Mikhail Polyakov and Kostya Belikov. Both covert agents. Dead. You may not have loaded the gun, but your prints are all over the trigger.”