Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (78 page)

Chapter 28

Monday Afternoon — Moscow Safe House

Talking with J.J. invigorated Six’s resolve to find the intel as well as to determine what his detainee knew about the drug and arms network linked to funding the sleeper network. Six hovered over Mosin’s chair, his eyes burning like a desert brush fire from the stench of his body odor. He was in desperate need of a bar of soap and water. Animals in the woods smelled less offensive—at least they could lick themselves clean.

Before Ghost left the two alone, he told Six that he’d deprived Mosin of sleep. The obstinate detainee dozed for two hours after staying awake the last twenty-four hours, but Ghost also admitted he made no progress and was no closer to breaking Mosin than the day he arrived. In Six’s eyes, Mosin’s refusal to cooperate signaled one of two things: He was so confident they’d never find the intel, he had nothing to lose—or he believed he, in fact, had more to lose by revealing the location. Six’s only hope of breaking him down before the mandatory stand down was to find out which case was true. His discussion with J.J. provided him with some leverage, enough facts to provoke a reaction. If he couldn’t get Mosin to confess the intel’s location, then the next best option was to create a scenario in which Mosin believed his life depended on him giving it up.

Mosin’s head bobbled to the side in a jarring sweep, startling him awake. He jerked his head back and narrowed his eyes once they trained on Six. He sneered, “Back again, huh? You’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t think so.” Six grabbed a chair and placed it parallel to Mosin’s. He faced the chair-back forward and sat down with his legs straddled across the seat. “I came to thank you…for the netbook. It has proven very helpful so far, the calendar in particular.”

Mosin’s eyes froze.

“Yeah…we know all about the shipment,” Six said.

Mosin’s mouth fell open, and he gasped. His eyes widened before he squeezed his lids shut.

“Mashkov’s entire organized crime syndicate will be wondering how the FBI all of a sudden compromised an operation they’ve been running for years. One that’ll cost them millions of dollars in drugs and cash. One thing about the mob, they don’t like people responsible for fucking up their money, you understand? That’s a hazardous occupation.”

Mosin shook his head in disbelief, and a tenuous smile took over his face.

“I’m certain the netbook will be even more helpful when the FBI completes their forensics examination,” Six said. “They’ve got a supercomputer able to crack encrypted files in less time than it’ll take you to get out of this chair. So, you’ve got a choice here, Hawk. Tell me where you stashed the intel, or I make sure the mafia finds out you’re the reason their shipment got seized.”

“I gave you nothing!” he snarled.

Six shrugged. “Well, you and I know that…but they don’t.”

“Heh,” he said, his tone laden with condescension. “You are so full of shit. Think I can’t hear what’s going on between you two? Ghost, he schooled you like you were his child, and he was your daddy. You cower to him and bend to his will because you don’t have the guts, the cold-blooded instinct it takes to turn my name over to the mob or even to your own government.”

Six smirked and let out an uncomfortable chuckle.

“You should’ve brought that cunt bitch FBI agent you work with to handle your business. She’s got bigger balls than you.”

Six leaped out of his chair, which collided with a loud thud against the floor, and grabbed a fistful of Mosin’s shirt and chest hair. He could feel the hair pull as he tightened his grip. “Let me tell you something,” he rumbled through clenched teeth. “You keep that woman and everything about her out of your mouth, capiche? Keep talking shit, and I will fucking end you right here. The only thing they will find from your body is that tongue you keep wagging. ”

“Careful,” Mosin lashed back with a devious grin. “Your weakness is showing.”

Six caught himself and released Hawk’s shirt with a shove, rocking his chair backward. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m the only person standing between you and a painful, torturous death. Ghost despises traitors and rats. He would’ve killed you on sight if it weren’t for me so don’t get it twisted. The only reason you’re still sucking breath today is because I have honor…and I don’t need to torture you in order to get what I want.”

“Hmph. Then you’re a fool, because I’m not saying shit to you or your daddy. And honor will get you nothing…except a gold watch, a plaque, and a useless thanks for your service.”

“And what will you end up with? You think the Russians give a shit about you? Without the intelligence, you mean nothing to them. Zilch, nada, goose egg. You’re risking your life to pass the FSB intel, and they haven’t expended a single resource to locate you. I’m in and out of the embassy like a cleaning crew—nobody’s following me. They can’t miss intel they never had, so you are useless to them.”

Mosin batted his eyes; Six realized he had hit a nerve, so he continued.

“You talk about my honor, what about yours?
You know
how this ends. Turn yourself over to the FSB. Get a party and a leased country house, a flat, an unlucky fall and a broken neck or a ‘suicide’, and a state-issued tombstone?” he said, reminding Mosin of the fate of other Russian defectors who led miserable lives to tragic ends, like Edward Lee Howard. “You look clueless enough to believe the tall tales about Howard dying in a slip-and-fall accident at his dacha. While his death could be characterized as a slip-and-fall. Accident? Yeah, okay.”

Six wanted to ensure Mosin received his message loud and clear: If Americans are nothing else, they are relentless in settling scores. And the record reflected that the U.S. sowed seeds of vengeance until she reaped the justice she sought, no matter how long it took. “So, if you want to rot in this shack, knock yourself out. I guarantee you, confessing in here is better than the rude awakening waiting for you out there.”

Six glared at Mosin and waited for a response. He had given him much food for thought. But he didn’t eat for long.

“Your mind tricks will never work on me! Never. I will sooner die here than betray my country.”

Six tightened his lips and grimaced. “And this is your final decision.”

He shook his head. “No, but I’m sure about you—and you will never turn me over. So return to your embassy and push some paper. Your time is wasted here.”

Six glanced at his watch; Bart would return soon. It was time to go. He slipped into his jacket and left, but not before saying, “As you wish…”

Six didn’t need to stay a second longer. Mosin had given him the answer he sought. Mosin was so confident Six wouldn’t find the intel he was willing to call Six’s bluff.

Another day down—four to go.

Six’s direction was clear now.

He only hoped he could live with his choice.

Chapter 29

Monday Morning — FBI New York Office

“This is some bullshit!” J.J. growled. Murphy’s Law had further knotted an already impossible situation. She’d set herself up for failure believing Fitzpatrick was fair. Even with the additional intel, he still shut down their request. No surveillance team so nowhere near the number of cars they needed to cover Troika’s executive team for the day. Manny, Tony, Scott and J.J. would have to run their own ops. No TAC team—they were supporting a higher priority op. If an arrest went down, they could call in for support, if required. No warrant—Fitzpatrick wouldn’t seek one based on the available evidence. So now, they must have probable cause to stop and search the vehicle. With an hour before the bust, J.J.’s anger was flowing along with her creative juices. The team needed to devise a ruse to stop that car or the entire operation was screwed.

Two things worked in their favor: the element of surprise—no one was expecting them—and Tony’s secret weapon, two NYPD officers in Brooklyn’s narcotics squad. The high school chums were the only two people who hadn’t turned against Tony for joining the FBI. They had wet dreams about running joint ops with the Feds; today their dreams would come true.

The op wouldn’t be complex
if
they could identify the suspect       vehicle. NYPD would stop them claiming a traffic violation. When officers asked for license and registration, they’d claim to smell a strange odor and ask the driver to step out of the car to conduct a search. Yes, the team was stretching the bounds of the law. The alternative was not an option.

The team got fitted with their operational radios and set up static surveillance along North 10
th
, a one-way street lined with brownstone warehouses and industrial buildings. Fresh gentrification abound, the neighborhood was in the midst of evolving from its dilapidating industrial roots to an artsy residential scene, with pristine brownstone apartments and boutique-style businesses sprawling up between graffiti-ridden, abandoned warehouses and old manufacturing strongholds. The difference was stark; Brooklyn’s past juxtaposed against its future, uncoiling into the new Manhattan that everyone who knew anything about New York touted it to be.

J.J. perched herself just south of the meet location so she could serve as the lookout for the transport vehicle and warn the team when she spotted it coming.

She sat in her government-issued vehicle, an ancient Ford Taurus bound for the scrap heap, picking her fingernails and praying the op would draw to a trouble-free end.

When her stomach growled, she checked her operational backpack to ensure she’d brought the necessities. No cheese crackers but she did run her fingers across the compact .45 she copped from a perp years ago while on Major Crimes rotation. It was her first big take-down, had sentimental value and was a constant reminder of how close she came to death. It was a key reason she preferred operating against spies.

She sat inside the lemon that the New York office must’ve pulled from its final resting place to serve as loaners for this op.

The one-way road restricted her view to the rearview and side mirrors. Her senses were in overdrive as she trained her eyes on them and cracked the window to listen for the sound of a truck or van coming down the street. She figured it must be one of the two.

At last,
two a.m.
came and went. And still not much movement except a few stray cars cutting through to other destinations. She craned her neck looking around. No places were open for business on the block. The area appeared almost deserted, an industrial ghost town missing only tumbleweed flipping across the road.

As random thoughts buzzed around in her head, she received a text from Tony, who’d posted himself a few blocks ahead, adjacent to the target address—555 North 10
th
Street. He sent J.J. a picture. Max Novikov had arrived with three henchmen. Incredible Hulks if she ever saw them. Could’ve been the front line of any NFL defense, tall and solid, like human walls. J.J. Watts’ bigger brothers. The picture showed them walking into the target location, an old industrial building with a fenced-in lot next to it. She figured they opened the gate to allow vehicles carrying shipments in and out. Once the vehicle was off the streets, they’d need a warrant to get to it—and with Fitzpatrick at the helm, they had no hope of getting authorization.

“Everyone in position?” J.J. asked. The FBI team responded in the affirmative. No NYPD.

“Farley? Fischer?” Scott said. “Hello?”

“Shit! Their radios must be jammed,” Scott said. “We’re out of time. Let me drive to their position and make sure everything’s okay.”

“Tony?” she called out. She was met with silence.

He responded to her with a second text. This time photos of Santino and an older Italian-looking man walking inside the warehouse.

Jesus! What the hell is going on? Does Santino have a death wish? Are they going to war right now?

Tony sent another text.

I don’t believe what I’m seeing.

We might have another problem.

No sooner than she processed the gravity of the situation, a truck appeared at the corner behind her and stopped. She grabbed the binoculars and trained them on the truck’s front bumper. Out-of-state plates.

“Guys. I’ve got a white van registered in Florida. This has got to be it,” she said, waiting on a response. “Farley? Fischer? Tony?” Nothing. From anyone.

Stone silence.
Shit.
She gulped hard and scrambled to action.

She had to think fast. How in hell could she stop this truck? And who would be there to back her up if something went wrong? She watched it turn onto the block and approach her position. Time was short, and her choices were few. She glanced down at the ops bag and clenched her eyes shut.

She hated to do it, but she had no choice. She slipped on her gloves and went to work.

As the van crawled down the street, J.J. grabbed the .45 from the backpack, used her gloved hands to wipe off her prints, and shoved it in her jacket pocket. It would, at last, come in handy. After ripping the radio receiver from her ear and laying it on the seat so she didn’t spook the driver, she took a deep breath and prepared to tap into her inner ghetto.

She prayed her NYPD reinforcements would be back online within a few moments, and this scene could end before it got out of hand.

“All right,” she said to herself. “This is gonna hurt a little bit.”

As the truck slow-rolled to within feet of her vehicle, J.J. mashed the gas, bolting into the single lane. The truck slammed into her driver-side door jarring her a bit. She emerged unhurt except where the door pressed against her arm.

Showtime.