Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (42 page)

She struggled to stifle her emotion, to not speak the words she wanted to say, to walk out the door and try again next week with lower expectations.

But she couldn't.

After all, she was the daughter of Max and Naomi. Neither had made a habit of holding their tongues.

“Dad, can I speak with you in the living room for a moment, please.” Her voice was stern and her back stiff.

“Sure, excuse us,” Max said, dabbing the napkin along the corners of his mouth. He dropped it beside his plate and slipped out of his chair. “We'll be right back.”

J.J. tromped in front of the fireplace and crossed her arms across her chest. “All I want to understand is why? Why would you do this? And don't tell me you didn't know he'd be stopping by because I have no doubt you did. Next time you could at least
pretend
to be surprised.”

“I'm sorry, baby, but you understood how I felt before you came,” Max said. “Listen, for what it’s worth, he seems like a perfectly…decent guy.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, J.J.—he's not for you.”

“Hmph. Same thing Grandma Jackson said about
you
. Mr. Black Panther marrying her upright, FBI agent daughter. As I recall, society wasn't wrapping its arms around you, either. But you survived together… right up until the end,” she said, choking up.

“Yes, you're right,” he said. “But we were different.”

“No, you weren’t,” she fired back. “And until you can see that, you and I will be standing on opposite sides of the fence.”

He lowered his head. “So, you won't be coming to Sunday brunch anymore?”

“I said fence, not wall.” She glanced at her mother's photo. “I’ll be here, but I won't enjoy it as much. Neither will you. Because every time I come here, he’ll be right beside me! So there.”

Max shook his head. “You got that snippy attitude from your mother's side.”

“Yeah, I also got her sense of curiosity, too. Which brings me to my next question: do you know Jack Sabinski?”

“I've heard you mention his name once or twice. Your mother, too. But that was years ago. Trust me when I tell you, I know more FBI personnel than I ever want to know,” Max responded. J.J. waited for a reaction but got none. His answer was the truth, even if only half of it.

“He told me I should ask you what happened to Mom. No more beating around the bush, Dad. Every corner I turn leads me back to you. What are you not telling me?”

Max stood to his feet and walked over to the window. He pulled the curtain back and stared out into the distance. “This was your mother's favorite kind of weather. She loved the rain...nature’s cleansing, washes away the old and makes life new again.”

“Dad, please. What happened?”

“J.J., it's complicated. What you must understand is—”

“What's going on in here?” Malcolm interrupted, his smile the mirror image of his father's. “Had to make sure there was minimal bloodshed in this room because I don't think I can hold those two off much longer.”

“Oh God,” J.J. said. “What's Six doing now?”

“Being Six,” Malcolm said. “You better get in there or only one's coming out alive. My money's on Tony.”

J.J. chuckled. “That's a good bet,” she said to Malcolm before turning to Max. “Dad, we'll continue this another time. Soon.”

He nodded in agreement. “Don’t I know it.”

Chapter 23

Monday Night—Irving Street

6 Days Left…

The sun burned red beneath the horizon and the rain clouds had begun to thunder in when Lana returned home from checking the signal left by her embassy handler, her father. He had somehow managed to evade FBI surveillance; he filled the dead-drop. Now, her travel documents and money were ready to be retrieved but she had no safe transportation. She had to find her way there so she could get the hell out of the United States.

And not a moment too soon.

Unfortunately, the drop must be cleared under the cover of night and she had no car to drive to the location, Henson Creek Neighborhood Park, off a windy walking trail in the heart of Prince George's County. It was supposedly accessible by metro, but such a lengthy trip would leave her too vulnerable; she might be detected. 

She glanced out of the window. Santino's car sat parked in front of the house. Maybe she could convince him to let her borrow it. Wouldn't take her much more than an hour or two to retrieve the drop. Surely he would accommodate her.

She unbuttoned her blouse down to her cleavage, exposing the heaping mounds of flesh and silicone beneath. After slipping on her jacket, she skulked to his room.

She knocked. No answer. Again. No answer.

He must've gone out for a walk.
She noticed he did so from time to time when he didn't want to smoke his stogies in the house. Helped keep Mr. O'Leary's complaints to a minimum. She quickly paced back to her room and poked her head out the window to see if he was on his way down the block. Then she retrieved her Metro Smart Card and returned to Santino's door. It only took her a minute to slip it into the door jamb and pop the lock. Once inside his room, she searched through every drawer and closet, hoping to find an extra set of keys.

She heard sound, froze, and waited. Perhaps it was her imagination. She dashed to the door and peered downstairs. Nothing. She returned to her search, her frustration increasing. She couldn't find them. Maybe he only had one set of keys. Perhaps he'd taken them with him. After one last ditch effort to ensure the coast was clear, she checked the pocket of the two coats still hanging in the closet.

A jingle sounded when she slid one hanger aside. She dug her hand inside the pocket.

“Yes!” she screamed in a whispered tone.

She bounded for the door, scanning the street up and down before jumping in the car and taking off. Lana left nothing in her wake except fumes.

Once the package was in hand, she’d be on the ocean and back in Moscow by week's end. However, not before exacting revenge against J.J. McCall. Her game required a pawn, and Santino had proven that he would serve well. He helped set up a fake robbery in a matter of hours. And the final deed, the one that would seal both of their fates, would free Lana from the United States and all suspicion in the death of Max McCall.

•  •  •

A furious Santino had rounded the corner in time to hear the rumble of his engine and spot the flash from his brake lights as his car passed by.

“What the f—” he barked, cutting himself off. He grumbled with a vicious sneer and tromped back to the house as the rain began to pour. “I can't believe that cunt stole my car with all that shit in the trunk! Ohhh, if she has the balls to show her face back here, she's as good as dead!”

Chapter 24

Monday Night—Washington Field

Rain pounded against the office window by the time Kyle finished filing his 302s for the day. He scrolled through the caller ID for the fifteenth time hoping to see D.C.'s number. With each passing minute, the Russians' chances of delivering the travel documents to Lana increased exponentially. Wouldn’t be long before some other priority subjects threatened to shift surveillance resources to different investigations, a threat which loomed heavily. Everybody knew it...including Lana.

Kyle turned off his desk lamp and headed to Hopper's cubicle. Maybe Junior's conversation with the Gs had yielded information that would indicate whether or not the Russians had resumed operational activity. When he rounded the corner, Hopper held up his index finger, gesturing Kyle to wait a minute as he finished up a phone call.

“All right, Jiggy,” Hopper said. “I'll discuss it with Kyle and see what we can do. We'll call you back.” He hung up the phone and his face crumpled; he pulled out his guest chair. “You may want to sit down for this.”

“Uh oh. The expression on your face says it all.”

Kyle grimaced as Hopper recounted Jiggy's bleak report from the Gs. Not only had the Russian not stood down operations—they’d ramped them up a notch. After more than 15 years in the field, Kyle learned most intelligence officers avoided antagonizing surveillance; they strove to stay under the radar and off the Gs’ shit list. Only a critical operation would make them reverse this policy intentionally. With only two officers making runs, it was clear the rest of the residency was standing down operations. So why take the chance and send out Lana’s father and the
new
counterintelligence officer…to drive in circles during one of the most contentious periods in U.S.-Russian relations? There was only one reason worth that level of risk: Saving Lana Michaels.

“Your thoughts?” Kyle asked.

Hopper shrugged. “I dunno. It’s obvious they are establishing a pattern. Maybe they’re trying to gauge how many surveillance personnel we’ve got posted on the streets. At a minimum, they are going out of their way to make us believe they’re just fucking with us.”

“You nailed it. That’s what they
want us to believe
. The question is why? I'll tell you this...if an FBI agent went on the run after a sanctioned op went bad, we'd stop at nothing to get them home...even provoke the local security service.”

“Yeah, I agree,” he said. “But we support counterintelligence—how do we neutralize this activity.”

“I think it's pretty obvious.” 

“Obvious?”

“Yeah. We need to fight fire with fire. They think they've faked us out. So we need to use that to our advantage. We need to use these fake runs to get the information we need to disrupt their operation.”

“Hmm. I was going to suggest backing off, but it sounds like that's the last thing we want to do.”

Kyle shook his head, then scraped his fingers through his grey infused strands of blond. “No, can't back off now. But we need to find a way to make them believe they’ve successfully evaded our coverage and are operating in the black when, in fact, we still have eyes on them.”

“Problem is, we have no way of letting them get in the black...without letting them get in the black.”

“Ahhh, not necessarily,” he said. “We could go through air, a plane or a drone, but we don’t have time to get the authorization.”

Hopper jerked his head back and popped his right eyebrow up.

“They’ve timed their stops perfectly, you say?” Kyle asked.

Hopper nodded. “That's what Jiggy said. Each stop's predictable almost to the second. Leave the same time, stop the same time, return to the embassy at the same time. Like clockwork. About forty-five minutes for the longest phase.”

“That means we’ve got a forty-five minute window. That’s plenty of time,” Kyle said, rubbing his hands together sinisterly. “I’ve got an idea for the next run.”

“What is it?”

“Weeeellll,” Kyle began, “it’s a complicated operation and you’ll play a critical part. The Gs have done it before. It’s old hat for them,” Kyle said. “First things first. We need to get SAC authorization. Then we’ve got to go to Special Projects to get some toys.”

“Toys?” Hopper said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Okay, I’ll start the paperwork now.”

“No, no. I’ll get a verbal and we can do the paperwork later. It's been a long day and we've got a tough few days ahead of us,” Kyle said. “Why don’t we grab a beer and discuss your upcoming meeting with Filchenko?” 

“Filchenko?” Hopper froze and locked a confused glared on Kyle, his eyes wide. He shrugged and said, “Okaaaaay.” Just as he stood to leave, his phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID, opened the line, and mouthed the word. “Metro.”

“Mack,” he answered. “How can I help you?”

Kyle twiddled his thumbs as he waited for Hopper to wrap up his conversation.

“Okay, thanks.” Hopper hung up the phone and turned to Kyle. “They think they’ve got footage of Lana leaving a D.C. metro station. We’ll have it first thing in the morning.”

“Great. Another good reason for a beer. Let’s go.”

As Kyle led Hopper to the Capitol Grille, he questioned whether he could pull off the op he’d conceived, especially given the current climate. Such operations were simple in theory but much harder to execute on the streets. Things could go very right or very wrong—and very wrong would be very ugly for the FBI and the country. Kyle wanted no part of
The Washington Post
headlines.

He resolved not to spin his wheels for too long. At the end of the day, the move would get him closer to finding Lana. She’d already taken down his best friend and had set her sights set on another agent. Any op designed to put a stranglehold on support for her escape was worth a shot.

• • •

Back at Irving Street…

With the drop contents resting on the passenger seat of Santino’s Mustang, Lana pressed the gas pedal through the floor, the tires screeching on every turn back to Irving Street. There was no time to open the package and ensure everything she needed had been provided, but with her father at the helm she trusted with blind faith. It’s thickness suggested it contained the cash, passport, and travel tickets. She’d stopped at a drive-through carwash to quell Santino’s inevitable anger and ease his suspicions. The cash she’d pay him, now that she had the resources to do so, would ensure his expedient forgiveness. She didn't much concern herself with the potential blowback from her brief pilfering; after all, he was just another silly little man. She'd tangled with men much more foreboding than an Italian thug and always came out on top…so to speak.

Once home, she crept upstairs to the landing, slipped the key beneath the mat, and approached her bedroom. Before she could grip the knob, the door had flung open and Santino's large hand tightened around her neck. He yanked her inside and jammed her back against the wall. She could feel the rush of blood turn her face plum red as she gasped for air. Thickened veins popped out of his arms as she struggled to release his stone hands from her neck, but his limbs felt as solid as concrete.

“What the fuck are you playin' at Katherine?!” he growled through clenched teeth. “You take my car without askin’! You tryin' to get me pinched? I could break the bones in your neck with one squeeze!”

She shook her head feverishly, her face beyond purple as she tried to respond. “Money. Mo-ney,” she gurgled and mouthed, desperately yanking at his fingers.

He loosened his grip and she sucked in a breath through the eased constriction. “Please. Please. I can explain,” she gurgled as tears streamed down her face. She’d underestimated him for the last time whether she died in his grip or changed tactics. “I promise,” Katherine squelched. “Just listen.” 

He released her from his chokehold, stepped back, and pulled a pistol with a silenced tip from the small of his back. He dug it into her temple. “You fuck with me, you make one wrong move, and your brains will be sliding down this shitty wallpaper!”

She grasped the nape of her neck as she sucked in deep breaths, her appreciation for air increased exponentially. Holding one open palm up and facing him to reassure him her movement was non-threatening, she bent her knees slowly and descended toward the floor. “Please, I needed to pick up my package. I'll show you.”

He backed up, only a half-step, and turned his gun toward the bed.

She grabbed the bag, sat down, and ripped out her words out in rapid succession as if each syllable cost might cost her something more precious than the money she planned to sacrifice. “I've got to leave the country. I was going to pay you,” she explained as she ripped off the mounds of duct tape and pulled out the contents.

An envelope thick with cash. A ticket. And a note.

No passport.

She fanned the cash on the comforter beside her. “See? I'd planned to give you half.”

Santino pursed his lips and returned the barrel to her head. “What would stop me from putting a bullet in your head and taking the whole thing?”

“Because, if you help me,” she said, dividing up the money up and tossing his share at the end of the bed, “I can get you triple this amount. You'll have enough to pay off your debt and pocket the rest.”

His eyebrow popped up. “Triple, huh? You got my attention. I'm listening.”

“First, I need to check something.” She pulled the ticket from the envelope and reviewed the travel plans. “Maris Freighter Cruises. Le Havre, France. This Sunday,” she looked up toward the ceiling and remembered France had no extradition treaty with the United States, and she’d always wanted to visit Paris. She smiled and turned to Santino. “I’m going to need a ride to Baltimore.”

“Hell, I can handle that.”

She opened the note.

We will drop your new passport at the emergency location on Thursday. Once you retrieve the package and mark the signal indicating receipt, we will sever communications until you return to Moscow. Safe travels and your courageous service shall be

rewarded.

Andrei Komarov

“Is that all?” he asked.

She shook her head no and hesitated before speaking. “What would you say if I told you I needed...to
take care of
someone?”

“Take care of?” He jerked his head back. “Who?”

She smiled and rolled her eyes.
Dumbass
, she thought. It wasn't his fault she was the only one between the two of them who knew precisely with whom they were dealing. “Does it matter,
mudak
?” she sang sweetly as if using a term of endearment. “It means darling one,” she lied.

“Hmph, Sounds like a sissy name. If you’re gonna give me a nickname, at least make it something with balls.” 

She let out a hearty laugh at his expense. Dare she tell him the name had more balls than he knew? “I’m sorry, Santino Santino, but you didn’t answer my question.”

He shrugged. “Nah, what do I care? As long as your people aren’t my people, we’re good.” He smiled. “So, is this about your husband? You want to get revenge on the person who off'ed him?”

“Please. Revenge is for children bullied out of their lunch money. I want justice,” she said, her voice flat and cold. “If I can’t kill the one responsible. I’ll kill someone she loves. Let her live with that pain, as I have to, for the rest of her miserable days.”