Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series)

by Skye, S. D.

  Chapter 39

  Wednesday Morning — New York City

  Santino walked out of Max Novikov’s meeting with his life, a half million dollars for the family, and a name—Pavlov Mashkov. His next priority was eighty-sixing that son of a bitch as insurance that Pavlov would never threaten his family again. But to handle Step Two, he needed to accomplish Step One—collect thirty pieces of silver from Judas.

  Uncle Sal had bought Santino and Knuckles a thirty-minute window. It’d take the guy at least a half hour to get over to Queens and back. By then they’d be gone. Good thing, too. Breaking into the house of a made guy was enough to get them both whacked.

  “So, explain this to me again,” Knuckles said to Santino as he shut off the headlights and slowed his speed to a crawl in the alleyway. “We just got half a million dollars from the Russians and you wanna boost a TV from some schmuck’s house? I don’t get it. Did Nicky give you the go-ahead on this?”

  “You don’t worry about who authorized it. Just stand watch and back me up. Trust me, this’ll be worth your trouble, but don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

  The house, a vinyl-sided duplex that had been converted to a single family home, was familiar to Santino, but Knuckles had no idea what Santino had gotten him into. It was better that way. Santino knew the ins and outs well. The mobbed-up owner lived in a different house over in Dyker Heights from day to day. He used this place as a stash house when he received money from his dealers and packages from his drug runners. Sometimes as a place to bone his goomar…all of them. Didn’t need an alarm or any type of security system. The neighborhood was borderline incestuous the way everyone was family, blood-related, or surrogate. Second, third, fourth, fifth… tenth cousins. Everybody was a cousin. So, anyone with half a brain had a clue about who lived there, and no one from outside the neighborhood could get close enough to break in. If a stranger dared to drive in the area, a gossip mill hotter than the TMZ hotline would alert every made guy in a five block radius…which was everyone. Between the barrage of foul-mouthed insults and the gun play, they’d never come back again.

  In Santino’s favor, he was a friend of sorts, not foe; his presence would not be news, and he knew the general layout. The guy kept the goods in similar locations in every stash house he owned. His only problem was getting in and out without drawing unwanted attention.

  Cloaked in black from head-to-toe, from skull caps to sneakers and thick gloves, Santino jiggered the lock for what felt like forever before they made their way inside. He’d gotten slow in his old age. Ten years ago he could break inside in less than a minute. He considered sharpening up his skills but after he succeeded in his challenge, he might never have to return to his thievery roots again.

  Once inside, he slipped a Maglite out of his pocket and held it low to his body, snaking through the almost bare living room. A few metal folding chairs, a card table, and a full mattress on the floor covered in dirty sheets served as the furnishings. Curtains covered every window, so the black of the darkness was pitch.

  “You sure we got the right house?” Knuckles asked. “There can’t be anything valuable in this old dump.”

  “On the contrary,” Santino said. “Our future is in this house and we have less than thirty minutes to find it before we’ve gotta get outta here.”

  Knuckles cut his eyes at him and give him the side-eye. “Might help if you told me what we were looking for.”

  “A package,” Santino lied. “You’ll recognize it when you see it. Take a quick look around. If you don’t see anything, stand lookout. I’ll check around upstairs. And for godssakes don’t yell, no matter what happens,” he said in loud whispers.

  Santino ascended the stairs and barreled in and out of each room, three bedrooms and one bath. His heart pounded in his ears, his breath heavy; his stomach curled with the surrounding smell of old socks, year-old garlic, and the pungent scent of cooked meth. Santino guessed that they used the room with the powder-coated tables to cut the cocaine before they distributed it.

  The bathroom was disgusting. More brown than white. Rusted water flowing in the commode. A sheet of paper with an address lay next to the sink. He lifted it and panicked. It had a Queens address written on it.

  “Fuuuuuuuuuuck!” he yelled in a louder voice than he’d intended.

  He returned it to its place, but not in its exact position, a mistake he feared he’d pay for soon. His eyes flitted around as he calculated his next step. If he was right, they needed to leave in a matter of minutes. He’d already made one pass through the rooms and found nothing even though he knew something was there. He had to check again. There was no other option. If he walked out empty handed, he, his cousin, and uncle were dead men walking.

  He retraced his steps, examining the most minute of details from ceiling to floor to make certain he hadn’t overlooked anything critical. By the time he reached the last bedroom, the one adjacent to the staircase, he’d almost given up hope. The sound of Knuckles’ footsteps faded in louder, closer. Maybe he hadn’t found anything either.

  Santino opened the door and re-entered the last bedroom, shining the flashlight over every inch. The space was stone empty. He glanced down at his watch. He’d be out of time soon.

  He opened the closet door and examined the walls. He found it odd they were paneled with laminate wood. Unusual feature in any house. Every closet he’d seen had been enclosed with drywall. At that moment, he realized—the choice was no accident.

  Santino pressed the panes from top to bottom until one gave way. He squeezed his fingers behind the gap and gently pulled until a secret compartment was revealed.

  The mother lode.

  Piles of drugs, paraphernalia, a case of dime bags, a few stacks of cash, maybe a hundred large, a familiar briefcase—and a pile of handguns. He palmed the case handles and lifted them from the floor to ensure the weight reflected what he knew the contents to be, as opposed to empty. Then he slipped his hands into a pair of leather gloves, inspected the guns, ensuring he’d set the safeties. He pulled a plastic bag from his oversized jacket pocket and dropped a Sig inside. He grabbed a stack of cash before backing out of the closet and stepping out to return the panels to their original positions.

  The briefcases could stay…for now.

  Just as he stepped toward the door, Knuckles ran up to him panting like crazy. “I didn’t find anything but somebody’s coming.”

  Santino snatched Knuckles inside and whipped the door to a whisper-soft shut. He considered hiding behind the panel but noise echoed in the empty house, and the level of knocking around it would take to get inside might potentially spark a confrontation that would’ve landed him in the hot seat with more than just the owner. He held the flashlight to his face and pressed his index finger against his lips, warning Knuckles not to speak or budge.

  Knuckles shot a quick look inside the compartment; his eyes bulged.

  Santino shut off the light.

  Seconds later, footsteps, at least two sets, tapped toward the staircase. He could hear them getting closer, and his pulse made a loud pounding in his ear. Santino reached in his pocket and gripped the gun. The plastic was loose enough to allow him to fire a shot, if necessary. He prayed the situation would never come to that. A muffled crumple of the plastic was followed by the sound of a man’s voice, the garbled rasp familiar to Santino. In a stroke of bad fortune, Knuckles would recognize it and no doubt begin shitting his pants. Santino had some explaining to do… if they made it out alive.

  “I think I left the address in the bathroom when I was taking a leak. Gimme one sec,” the man said in his indiscernible mutter.

  The footsteps faded away, and the house went silent for a few moments that felt like a lifetime. Seconds later, the footsteps scurried again.

  “Hey, Monty. Did you use the John up here? I found the address on the floor. Coulda swore I left it on the sink. Fuckin’ Feds. Bet they’ve been wiring up the place. I want to do a sweep just in case.”
>
  Santino’s eyes darted although he couldn’t see anything but the floaters in his own vision from his eyes searching for light. His every sense heightened. He heard the shuffle of shoes against the hardwood floors. He smelled the musty scent of old dog and cigarettes in the air. Adrenaline ran his pulse high and temperature hot. Sweat began to seep from his between the cracks of his fingers.

  “C’mon, you fuckin’ kidding me? What do I look like, NSA? We gotta get Richie Rich or Gino to do it, but let’s take care of this thing for Sal first.”

  “Just answer my fuckin’ question. Did you move the paper?” he said, walking into the bedroom.

  The man let out a hard sigh. “Yeah, I think so. Don’t remember. It was sittin’ there. I mighta moved it to wash my hands.”

  There was a long pause. “Quit lyin’. You don’t wash your hands, you nasty bastard.”

  “Fuck you, I’m a nasty bastard. Can we finish the inquisition later and get outta here? We’ve got an appointment, and we’re already late.”

  He moved forward a few steps and stopped. “I thought I closed this door too. I’m tellin’ ya. Somebody’s been in here.”

  Santino’s heart collapsed in a colossal thump.

  “How would you know? Ain’t nothing in there. What? You can see the air now? Come on for chrissakes.”

  His feet tapped closer to the closet. The doorknob wiggled. Santino swallowed so hard he thought the sound was audible. He wanted to release the safety, ensure he could get off a shot if he needed to. But he stood paralyzed. Couldn’t make a sound or the jig was up.

  “Let’s go, Nicky. We need to get outta here. With everything you’re tryin’ to do, you can’t afford to piss off Sal, and we’re already fifteen minutes too late for that.”

  A cellphone rang. Seconds later someone whispered, “Shit, it’s Sal.”

  He paused again…and the doorknob stopped wiggling.

  Santino held the breath he wanted to exhale.

  “Yeah, let’s get outta here. The Feds can wait. We gotta keep the boss happy…for now. Thanks to those useless Russian fucks our plan is gonna take a little longer than I thought.”

  Santino could feel his fingertips roll into his palm. He wanted to beat the Italian outta that asswipe, but he forced himself still. The door closed, and the sound of the car engine disappeared into the distance.

  Knuckles’ hand bumped against the door as he felt for the knob; he twisted it open while Santino flipped on the flashlight.

  “Are you fucking out of you mind? You must be. This is Nicky Mumble’s place. You tryin’ to get us clipped?”

  Santino reached into his pocket and handed Monty a wad of cash. “As a matter of fact, I’m tryin’ to keep us alive. I’ll explain later.”

  Knuckles fanned the cash and looked askance at Santino. “Why are we leaving all of that stuff?”

  Santino patted his jacket pocket; the guns were secure. “Fughetaboudit. We’ll be back for it at a later date. I got the most important thing right here.”

  Knuckles shook his head as they made their way to the back door. “Nicky’s tight on a dime; he’s gonna notice it missing…and he’s gonna hunt down whoever took it.”

  Santino chuckled. “I’m counting on it.”

  Chapter 40

  Wednesday Afternoon — New York City

  Tony seethed in a cloud of repressed fury as J.J. pitched her idea to infiltrate Troika. She agreed the operation required significant risk but the clock was winding down, and the time to debate had passed. She empathized with Tony but, in her view, he sounded like a whole lot of pot calling the kettle black.

  “I’m in,” J.J. said, looking around the table. While Manny and Scott and even Gia were cooperative, Tony, on the other hand, buttoned his lips tight and refused to offer a word in assistance. He remained adamant in his opposition to J.J.’s plan even though it was clear she was the only one within the team who could pull it off. The cleaning company, as they found out, was owned by a Jamaican and staffed by black West Indians, brown-skinned like she. Abigail Moncriefe had served as the most trusted nanny of Max Novikov’s New York, white-bred socialite wife. Scott did some checking with his contact at Immigration and found out her status to compel her to cooperate. Turned out they didn’t have to twist her arm too much. She hated the husband, who was abusive to his wife. Although she refused to participate in the op, she offered assistance and a plan to get J.J. inside. To get out, J.J. was on her own.

  “I expended a lot of capital getting us in, so we better make sure this op pays dividends,” Scott said.

  “I agree,” said J.J., anxious but ready to go. It’d been years since she’d gone undercover. The prospect gave her a rush better than any drug. “So, how are we going to play this? Based on what Misha said, once I get past security it should be a piece of cake. His cousin says the offices are always empty at night by the time the cleaning crew arrives. All I need to do is go in, copy the hard drives and files, and get out.”

  “You gotta get out clean or else run the risk of getting Abigail and her entire crew killed.”

  Manny handed her a high-capacity flash drive. “When you get inside the office, you stick this inside any USB slot and it’ll clone the drive. Press this red button, the light will flash. That’s how you confirm it’s running. Once the cloning is complete, the light will shut off, and an audible beep will sound. Remove the drive and hit the next office until you get them all.”

  “Okay,” J.J. said, walking through the process in her mind, visualizing helped her commit the steps to memory. “Misha’s cousin said the shift lasts two hours, give or take thirty minutes. Should give me plenty of time to get in and out.”

  “Do we have a TAC team standing by…in case anything goes wrong?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah,” Manny said. “We’ve got them for two hours before they have to cover another operation. So, we don’t have a second to waste.”

  After brooding in his feelings, Tony spoke up. “I foresee some problems here. J.J. may look Jamaican, but she sure as hell doesn’t sound Jamaican … and in case you all didn’t get the message, there’s a brand new two million dollar bounty on her head. They know what she looks like. What if someone recognizes her?”

  “Tony, trying to convince me not to do this pointless, okay? If I pull this off, do you understand what that means? The people responsible for Jim Cartwright’s death, your brother’s shooting…hell even this contract on my head—they will all pay.

  “This network allows sleazy traitors to thrive. We take it down, and we can flush out the rest of the treasonous bastards and lock them up where they can spend the rest of their lives wishing they’d picked our side. Isn’t that what we came here to do?”

  “But the contract…”

  “Tony, I’m going in wired. We’ve got a TAC team standing by a couple hundred feet away. If anything goes down, I’m covered.”

  “What if we’re too late?”

  “You won’t be,” J.J. said, barely getting the words out before Tony stormed out of the room and into the nearby stairwell. J.J. excused herself and followed closely on his heels. “Tony, Stop!” she said. “What the hell’s with all this drama? We’re FBI agents. This is our job.”

  “You’re not doing this. I forbid it. And if you go through with it, you’re making a choice—and your choice isn’t me, it isn’t our future, it isn’t our life together or our future family—it’s your job!”

  J.J.’s eyes welled with tears too fast for her to stop them. She shook her head in disbelief stunned by the overdose of testosterone that took over her boyfriend. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing. I would never ask you to make that choice.”

  “Yeah? Well, you wouldn’t have to.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have to?” She twisted her neck ghetto style and waved her finger. “You’re full of shit. Look around you, you hypocrite. Look at where we’re standing…in New York City. You brought your ass here with a contract on your head, if my memory serves me correctly. Do you thi
nk I wanted you to come here? Don’t you think I didn’t want you to stay in D.C.?

  “But, I pushed aside my fear and selfish desires and embraced my place in this relationship. Which, by the way, is not barefoot in a fucking kitchen knee-deep in red sauce or in bed with my ankles above my head. It’s at your side when you want me and right behind your back if you need me.”

  “But—”

  “No! You knew exactly who I was when we got involved. If my courage is too much for you to handle, if you don’t want to have my back? Fine! You can take your place right next to Six—in my past. Now, I have an op to conduct.”

  She stormed away with tears washing down her cheeks, hoping Tony would come to his senses. When only silence filled the space behind her, she remembered a Nietzsche quote she’d heard a long time ago during another low point in her life.

  In reality, hope is the worst of all evils because it prolongs man’s torments.

  Chapter 41

  Wednesday Morning — Russian Embassy, Washington D.C.

  Hopper’s request couldn’t be more impossible. Aleksey Dmitriyev wondered how in hell he would convince the Resident to send the SIGINT officer to check the Situation Room listening device on the FBI’s schedule. The op was almost out of his purview with the exception of the one time Komarov asked him to run countersurveillance. Any attempt to influence or interfere with the monitoring would be viewed with strong and immediate suspicion, especially with Filthchenko lurking around, breathing down his neck, and scrutinizing Aleksey’s every move as if his life depended on it. This was one occasion Aleksey feared he couldn’t deliver for J.J. but he would try to think of a way.

  As he entered into his office, a voice called out from behind. “Aleksey Yegorovich, come to my office now,” Komarov ordered. “It’s urgent.”

  Aleksey rolled his eyes wondering what had gone wrong. Nothing was ever urgent if it had gone well. And Komarov had called him by his first and patronymic names which meant either Aleksey was already in trouble or soon to be. He stepped into Komarov’s office as the resident gestured for him to close the door behind him.