by A K August
The quiet calm was disconcerting. I had banked on the chaos and sense of urgency in the office to distract me from Topher's investigation and missing Katie. No such luck. As expected, an email from Jeff told me to start preparing my after-action report on the Colby case. I decided to use this to my advantage and told Jeff I wanted to go home and talk to Katie, make sure we had a plan in place that would keep her safe after I was pulled off. Jeff agreed, and twenty-five minutes after arriving, I grabbed my bag and headed back to Topher's hub.
If he was surprised to see me, he didn't show it. Just nodded and tucked his head back into his computer. I camped out at the conference table and spun up my laptop, logging into the FBI's VPN to check for any updates to the case records.
Topher slid into the chair next to mine and turned his laptop so I could read his screen. "We're getting close. The material Katie left sent us in a new direction. There is an additional partition we'd overlooked on Criterion's system, that's where Katie got most of her information. We've connected the customer names and numbers, and we're running down the rest of the cryptic notations in those files. Any idea of how Katie got copies of their files?"
I shook my head. "She's a journalist. Tenacious. Good at her job." The sarcasm was thick in my voice; qualities I loved about Katie had highlighted a distrust path, taking her away from me.
Topher continued. "We confirmed the three platoon members who had gone to work for Criterion and have since died; Katie is right to be suspicious. They died in different cities under what looks to be accidental or natural causes, but all within two weeks of each other. The individual deaths were not deeply investigated, but taking their connections and timing of their deaths into consideration, we've passed this up the chain, and it's getting reviewed."
The team was working quickly, and I tried to be encouraged and not ungrateful, but my patience was on a short fuse. I focused on the updates Topher provided. "The customer names – recognizable?"
Topher pursed his lips. "Yeah, a lot of congress members, high-level military officials, government bureaucrats, defense contractors."
"Besides all being part of the government system, is there another link?"
Topher looked me in the eye with resignation. "Senator Hart's office has been in communication with most of these parties within the last couple of months. Repeated phone calls and meetings."
I didn't want to believe it, but I was running out of excuses to explain how my uncle kept popping up in association with Criterion connections. Topher patted me on the back. "Sorry, man."
I nodded but didn't say anything, what could I say? My uncle had made his bed, and I couldn't continue to champion him from the sidelines only to be disappointed again.
"Any sightings or chatter about Katie?"
"Nope. If someone took her, it's a tight circle. If she went to ground on her own, then she's got skills that are keeping her hidden. She's not popped up on cameras, and no one in her circle has been in contact with her as far as we can tell." Topher went back to his desk, leaving me with a litany of evil thoughts on what Katie was going through.
Where would she have gone? Not back to her apartment, too risky. Not the diner, she'd burned the location when she left the envelope. Not to Annie's, too obvious. Her parents moved to Arizona, if she went to them she'd probably drive to stay off the grid as long as possible, but that didn't seem likely, that would mean she was running. Katie didn't run; she didn't quit; she'd stay around and fight back. She could have gone to her office, but I didn't even know who she worked for, she'd only ever mentioned the office in passing, talking more about the people on her team or the types of projects she was assigned.
I grabbed my bag and went to Annie's apartment. I knew from her office she'd called in sick and I'd bet money she was helping Katie. After a minute of ringing her bell and knocking, she cracked the door, her security chain keeping the opening minimal.
"What do you want?" She scowled.
"I need to talk to Katie."
"I don't know where she is."
"I don't believe you. Bad people are looking for her. If I can track her to you, so will they. Help me."
She hesitated. I saw the wheels turning, her loyalty to Katie throwing up walls, but fear for Katie's safety warred inside her. Her mistrust in me was apparent. I should have had Missy visit her; she can talk an elephant into spandex.
"Let me ask one question, Annie. Where is Katie's office? Would she have gone there?"
She laughed and slammed the door in my face. Then I heard the chain sliding against the lock and the door opening. Annie got right in my face. "Are you for real?"
"Excuse me?"
"Her boss is the bad guy and you're telling me you don't know."
"Criterion." I was reeling, even as more pieces fell into place. It wasn't a fluke or superb investigative skills that allowed Katie to amass the Criterion correspondence; she walked right into the office and pulled it off the computer. Damn, that girl had guts. I almost smiled with pride, before reality doused that thought; Katie was off the grid and playing with fire. She had to know Criterion would eventually notice the breach and tie it back to her; if there were a chance before, they would back off, that was now off the table.
"No shit Sherlock. And you're friends."
Annie shifted her weight and swiveled her hips. It was a small move, but I recognized the kickboxing stance. My eyes flashed on Annie's hands, where she clutched a baseball bat, ready to swing it at my head.
I stepped back and held up my hands. "You must believe me, Annie. I was just as surprised to find out Mark was involved in this shit. I care for Katie. I would never hurt her. I'm trying to stop them."
Annie holds her position another moment before relaxing. She hasn't dropped the bat, but at least she's considering not knocking me out.
"I got the package she left. Read the material. She took a huge chance and now they'll be gunning for her more than ever. I have to get to her first."
She regards me another minute before inviting me inside, locking the door behind her. "I don't know exactly where she is, but we draft each other emails in the same account and check them every half hour."
She logs onto the account and crafts a message, updating Katie on my visit. We wait to see if Katie logs on and leaves a new message. A draft pops up, and Annie opens it, reading the single line.
Met with Claire, then Anthony's dad.
What the hell? Why would she involve my father? I thank Annie and start to head toward my father's cabin as Topher calls. "Got a lead. Up for a game of cat and mouse?"
"Katie went to my dad's cabin."
"What? Why? How does she even know your dad?"
"I'm not sure, but she met with Aunt Claire first, so it's likely she told Claire everything she thinks she knows, and Claire went to Dad to help problem solve. There's no protection at the cabin, Topher."
"I get it. Go. We got it on this end. Update me when you get closer."
Once I flagged my interest in Dwyer, the clock started ticking. Mark knew he'd have a finite amount of time to clean up behind him. Mark also knew I was related to Senator Hart, and my uncle had gotten in deep. Mark probably had eyes on my aunt as well, which means they might have seen Katie with Claire. It's a six-hour drive to my father's cabin. I tried to call Claire and my father, but no one picked up. I add some pressure to the gas pedal as my stomach tightens, not liking the visual of everyone I love trapped in a small cabin with hired guns ready to kill them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MISSY
My hone beeped in the middle of a meeting, and I glance down.
Rand: I need you. 1 hr
My heart raced. Rand needs me. I let myself daydream for a minute, imagining all the ways he would need me. Up against the wall, in the shower, over the arm of a chair, in his bed. I lick my lips as the visuals pop in my head, like a slideshow on hyper-drive, before chastising myself for my wanton thoughts.
If only Melissa. He doesn't see you that way. Rand Top
her doesn't need anyone.
I needed to get over him.
It had been over seven years since our first kiss, a drunken dare, and five years since we went undercover, posing as a couple and finished what we'd started with that kiss; that perfect kiss that took over all my senses and knocked my knees out from under me. Like a fool, I forgot it was pretend and believed he felt it too, that electricity when we were together, fighting and loving side-by-side. I saw us as the unbeatable team in the field and unstoppable team in bed. God, he rocked my world.
He just saw the mission. When it was over, he patted me on the back and said, "good job."
GOOD JOB?
I was stunned. I wanted to run from the room crying, but I wasn't the dramatic type. I wanted to slap him and scream, 'FUCK YOU!' but I worked too hard to be considered one of the guys. That's what I got. I was just one of the guys. I stood there, schooling my emotions as the grenade exploded in my heart. Gathering up my gear, I gave him a curt nod in acknowledgment and walked away.
I put in for a transfer that afternoon. I'd been putting it off. Rand Topher had messed with my plans. When I'd been reassigned to his Unit after Anthony retired, I thought we could be together. We belonged together; we completed each other, our better halves. I'd known it for years. I thought Rand finally figured it out too. I should have turned down the assignment. I had a list of achievements to tick off if I was going to be in line for the directorship of the CIA in fifteen years. Staying with Rand's Unit wouldn't help me in that endeavor.
But my plan assumed I'd never fall in love.
Two years later, I was doused with a bucket of cold-water reality. Rand Topher broke my heart.
After leaving DELTA, I completed my final tour working a desk job in intelligence, taking a position with the CIA after the military, and working my way through the red tape and nepotism to become Technical Operations Deputy Director. Just a few rungs away from my goal. I tried to put Rand Topher behind me and thought I succeeded until I got a knock on my door at three a.m.
I retrieved my gun from my gun safe and chambered a round as I approached the front door. No one was there, but inside the manila envelope left on the mat was a phone with only one programmed contact. I dialed the number and a voice I wasn't sure I'd ever hear again answered.
"Hello, Washington."
His voice oozed sex appeal, a gravelly tone that sounded like a growl when he got worked up, like during sex, just before he climaxed. The memory shuddered over me and I almost dropped the phone.
I didn't trust my voice but needn't worry. Rand wasn't much for casual conversation when he was in the middle of an op, which seemed to be the case that night.
He dove right into the purpose of his call. "I need your help. Something's not right, and I can't go through chain of command. Can you meet tomorrow night?"
Again I should have said no, but I never could with Rand. The idea of seeing him in any capacity wasn't something I was strong enough to refuse. I was a glutton for punishment.
I agreed and we started collaborating, sharing information. He was right, something was really wrong, and it kept going higher. Teammates were dying on missions that should have been a cakewalk, details pointing to user error, but we knew these guys wouldn't make rookie mistakes. We couldn't figure out to what end connected the compromised missions.
When Anthony brought us the Criterion issue, it was just another tack in the map, but it opened paths and connections we hadn't seen.
Now Rand was contacting me on my work phone, something that was out of character for him, as it left a digital trail. It seemed Rand had found something big, something urgent, something worth exposing our relationship.
I texted him back as I scanned the room and tried to come up with a plausible excuse to get me out of the office for the rest of the day.
Missy: Copy.
My burner phone rang forty minutes later. Only one person had that number. I answered the call but didn't bother saying hello, Rand barking orders as soon as we connected. "Swing by and pick up Handsy at the Galleria, outside of Cheesecake Factory, then cross over to DC. I'm sending you GPS coordinates."
"Copy." My reply was met with a click as Rand hung up the call. I chuckled and pulled the visor down on my helmet before merging onto Chain Bridge Road to zigzag my way to Tyson's Corner. I'm pretty sure he didn't wait for my response before moving on to his next task.
Rand Topher had one of the best tactical minds I'd ever worked with and he was a hell of an operator. His father had been special ops in the '90s and taught Rand military tactics and martial arts fighting styles from a young age. Rand was an expert in Muay Thai and Krav Maga, but I got him interested in yoga for its stretching and meditative benefits.
He'd been helping me hone my fighting abilities for years and I love sparring with him. I never win, but it was getting harder for Rand to beat me, and I felt close to gaining the upper hand. It spurred me forward.
I turned my bike into an alley behind a tall office building a few blocks from Tyson's Corner, where I was to pick up Mike Henderson. Handsy, the nickname he'd picked up for his frequent and inappropriate drunken touching exploits, was the best sniper in the Unit and had great instincts for avoiding danger. Just not with women. He's been slapped more times than Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.
I exited the alley and made a loop around the building, looking for possible tails. I felt clean but executed a detection route to verify before pulling into the Galleria parking lot. Handsy jumped on the back of my bike and I squealed out of the lot heading toward DC as he'd slammed the helmet over his head.
Rand's coordinates sent me to Adams Morgan, a trendy DC suburb on the northwest side of the city. I crossed the Memorial Bridge and cut through Georgetown to jump on Rock Creek Parkway and snaked through the middle of the city, my bike turning on Adams Mill Road twenty minutes later.
"Wash, you read?" Handsy had connected our comms via Bluetooth.
"Copy." I followed Rand's directions through the back streets of Adam's Morgan, taking in the long stretches of century-old row houses in the neighborhood; million-dollar properties crammed together like sardines. This area catered to two demographics, the established urbanite, who can afford to drop a couple million to buy and renovate the brownstone properties or college students who didn't mind sharing with ten others to live on a quiet, skinny street only three blocks down from Eighteenth Street where the nightlife pulsed with a hodgepodge collection of eclectic clubs and restaurants.
I liked Adams Morgan, but I loved my view of the Tidal Basin.
Handsy tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a parking spot between an Audi TT and a two-ton dumpster in front of a major renovation project. I killed the engine, and we got off the bike, switching roles. I was the dainty girlfriend, bored and impatient, while my burly boyfriend tried to fix the bike. I hated stereotypes, especially when it implied the girl was stupid or inept. Still, I also knew to have a six-foot beefcake ogling my ass at the same time I pretend-fix the bike, which Handsy would do, would draw more attention, especially after I kick his ass for pinching me. There's only so far I will go for a cover.
Rand opened the comms and had everyone check-in before he filled us in on the plan and status. Our target was four-doors down and about to leave based on the conversation we heard from the audio microphones aimed at his house. We shouldn't have to fake this long.
The brilliant thing with modern electronics, you can attain so much information so quickly. We'd gotten into his social media, banking, and credit card records. We had audio and visual surveillance camped at his house for the last two days and placed a GPS tracker on his car.
We tried to get in the house, but the downside of Adams Morgan, everyone lived on top of each other, there was always activity. The target had cameras showing every egress point. Posing as the mailman, we were able to get a tiny remote camera tacked to the corner of a picture window that gave us a view of the living room so we could monitor activity. Still, it hadn't provided an
y further useful information. We thought about scaling an adjacent building and entering from the roof, but knowing how security conscious he was on the ground, the odds were high he monitored the roof as well. We'd only expose ourselves, scrubbing the mission.
Three minutes after we'd arrived, the target exited his house and bounded down the steps; a backpack slung over his shoulder.
"Right ankle," I said to Handsy. His eyes shot to the gun, tucked into an ankle holster under his jeans, a prominent bulge on his pants when you compared it to his left leg. He didn't look to have any further weapons on his person, but we couldn't see what was in the backpack. I was surprised he'd armed himself, not something you typically see, a corporate computer geek with an ankle holster. I wonder if he knew how to use the gun or if it was mainly for show.
I started the engine as our target coasted his Mercedes toward the end of the street. We generally knew where he headed; the tracker on his car had isolated his movements to routine locations: gym parking lot, curb parking at a coffee shop, dry cleaners, and two locations in the gentrified Southwest waterfront area. One served a grocery store; the other was a generic lot one block from the harbor boardwalk. It was to one of these two locations we assumed he end up tonight. He'd driven to these locations three times in the last two days. Considering his credit card slips indicated he ate all his meals in restaurants and didn't make any charges to the grocery store, we were researching the area around that lot to see if we could correlate anything to our target.
Bravo Team and Charlie Team were in position ahead of our path, and Echo Team was staking out the two lots in the Southwest Waterfront; Handsy and I were trailing behind our target, a significant distance, in case he deviated to a different location.
We watched the Mercedes turn left toward 18th street and pulled out to follow. The tail should be smooth; the route followed heavily trafficked areas, down 16th Street, cut over on Massachusetts Avenue, through Chinatown on Ninth, then swing onto the Ninth Street Expressway to cut under the National Mall and monuments, exiting Maine Avenue into the Waterfront. We would hang several cars back, taking our cues from Rand, who was tracking our movement through GPS.