Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (30 page)

Situation Critical (A J.J. McCall Novel)

The Spy Catcher Series (Book 2)

Frankie V Books

An Imprint of LadyLit Press

Cheltenham, MD 20623

Copyright © 2013 by S.D. Skye

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Publisher’s Note:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

October 2013

First Edition

To Mommy

Acknowledgments

Thank you God. I’m still writing because of the gift You gave to me, and my earnest desire to use it to tell the stories you put on my heart. 

Thank you to the men and women of the FBI who lay their lives on the line for this country every day. The United States is safer today than ever because of what you do.

Thanks to my beautiful son, William.

To my Dad. Without his love and support, I couldn’t have brought J.J. McCall this far.

To my dear friends and beta readers Lisa and Becky. Thank you for suffering through my early drafts.

And last but never least, thanks to my cousin and graphic designer RheQuan Robinson for yet another couple of great book covers.

Prologue

Friday, November 6
th
– Irving Street NW

Mist crawled through the darkness as the sound of revenge echoed with Lana Michaels’ every step along the quiet residential street. It was lined with a mix of neglected and pristine darkened row houses. Her body teetered on the edge of collapse since she’d broken free from the hospital. She'd grown tired of riding the metro, looking over her shoulder, flinching at each splashed puddle, paranoid that police cars stalked her in the darkened side streets. Still, she kept her pace swift and determined, pressed into the fog, ready for battle. She tightened her paper-thin jacket around her neck as the wind wrapped her in a shivering blanket. Nothing could quell her insatiable thirst...nothing except that bitch's tears.

She had no doubt J.J. McCall was now a hard target. FBI protocol demanded it. Lana suspected the Bureau had already retrieved her personal files from her laptop. The director had probably assigned a detail of Special Surveillance Group personnel to tail J.J. and ensure Lana didn’t get within five feet. That’s the reason Lana selected a softer target, one easier to kill. And Lana planned to savor his death and the untold pain inflicted on her nemesis.

For too many years, Lana had labored tirelessly in virtual isolation, sacrificed her body, and risked her freedom, all to end up with nothing. No small thanks to that meddling so-called star FBI agent and her bitter ex-lovers.

When Jack Sabinski, Lana’s lump of a boyfriend, was freed from Alexandria jail, he went into seclusion and hadn’t been seen in public since. According to
The Washington Post
clenched beneath her arm, Chris Johnson, her moronic stooge, was now keeping Jack's cot warm. He sang like the Harlem Boys' Choir during his Bureau interrogations and confessed each and every one of their sins, still angry the baby she claimed to be carrying had never spawned. She had no one to rely on except the Service—which was stifled by diplomatic protocols and bound by the Embassy compound gates.

Then her mind flashed to
him
, and tears for Jake McGee’s spilled blood flooded her eyes. She tightened her lids and saw him laying in a scarlet pool, murdered by the merciless bullet fired from J.J.’s Glock.

Lana's TV photo, the one in which she played the blond FBI agent, now fueled intensive manhunts for the so-called Red Honeytrap across six states. Her treachery had been splashed over headlines from LA to Moscow, and the FBI had issued every all-points bulletin, short of the Amber alert, dangling a million dollar bounty to sweeten the pot for greedy hunters. Her dyed black hair and green contact lenses couldn't conceal her for long. But by the time they figured out her location, the deed would be done. Her work would be complete. And she wouldn't be the only one left suffering a crippling loss.  

Head down, shrouded in her hoodie, she rounded the corner onto Irving Street and pulled the folded newspaper from beneath her arm. She glanced at the address, then strained to see house numbers through the night fog. Halfway up the block she'd finally arrived.

“Here it is.” She opened the rickety gate to the three-story duplex, trotted up the steps, and rang the doorbell. A tall, older gentleman with cotton-colored hair answered moments later. He stretched inches above her head, but his frame was thin, frail.

She peered up at him and noticed the hearing aid and thick bifocals. “Hi. I'm here about the room? I called earlier.”

He inspected her, squinting his eyes and leering skeptically. The dead air gave Lana pause. For a moment, she believed his expression revealed a glint of recognition. How she hoped she was wrong. Exhausted, she grimaced at the thought of using her last shred of energy to slaughter the old man. Her right hand tensed when she imagined tightening her grip around his neck until his motionless body slammed against his pristine wood floors. An easier feat than convincing him she wasn’t Lana Michaels when, in fact, she was.

“You don’t remember? I told you…my apartment caught fire and I need a temporary place to stay.” She flashed a sheepish smile and nervously swiped her bangs from her forehead. Then she glanced down at the newspaper where she’d scribbled the name beside the advertisement. “I believe I spoke with a Mr. O'Leary? I'm Katherine.”

He hesitated for another moment then patted his chest. “Katherine, ahhh yes, yes. Come in.” He stepped aside and his smile warmed. She scanned the foyer and waved to the matronly woman poking her head out from the kitchen. “I'm sorry, but I've been getting so many calls, it's hard to keep all the names straight.”

She exhaled and the rigidness in her body released. “No problem, I understand. The room is still available, right?”

“Yes, yes. Do you have the deposit?”

Lana pulled a wrinkled white envelope from her pant pocket and counted out five one-hundred dollar bills. “This should do it.”

He held a bill up to the light and stretched it at the ends. “Can't be too careful. You'd be surprised by how much counterfeit money is floating around D.C. these days.”

He pulled a key from the drawer of the side table near the door and led her outside.

“My wife and I live in this half. We rent out the rooms on the other side. There is a gentleman sharing the home with you. Nice guy. Respectful. Very quiet. You'll be perfectly safe. We've got bolts on both bedroom doors so no one can get inside.” He escorted her back outside, opened the door, and led her up the wooden steps. “You two will share the kitchen, but you each have a bathroom. Yours is here,” he said pointing to a water closet-sized room containing an old-fashioned pedestal sink and footed bathtub with a shower.

“Here's where you’ll be staying. Rent's due by the fifth of the month. All utilities included.” The cramped space was clean, old fashioned, contained the basics. A bed, dresser with mirror, and a nightstand were positioned against the longest wall. Lace curtains hung from the windows which covered the venetian blinds.

She walked over and peered out. “I like it. You've saved my life.”

“You're welcome,” he said, easing toward the doorway. “Will that be all?”

“What about the neighborhood? It’s not dangerous, is it? I mean, you know, I’m single. I'll probably be alone a lot, sometimes at night.”

“Oh yes, yes, perfectly safe. Most of the residents have lived here for twenty years or more. Except one. Max McCall. He lives in the red-brick house right across the street. He's been here longer than any of us.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, keeps to himself mostly. Doesn't go out much except to check on his business.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he owns a corner store a three blocks down 7th street. You can pick up eggs, bread, milk, and the basics there. A Giant grocery store is located near the metro,” Mr. O'Leary said. “Now, if that's about all, I'll be getting back to the house. Time for Law & Order.”

He grasped the rail and descended down the stairs. “Oh, by the way, not that I'm rushing you out or anything but how long do you think you'll be staying? The wife and I are going on Caribbean cruise for two weeks starting tomorrow.”

Lana smirked as she once more peered at the house across the street. “Not much longer than a week or two. The minute I finish my business, I'm going home.”

And her business was sinking hot lead into the skull of J.J.’s father—Max McCall.

Chapter 1

“Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved.”
Helen Keller

Monday, November 16th – G.W. University Hospital

Exactly three moments defined the entire course of J.J.’s being—the day she got “the itch,” the generational curse that sparked random irritating tingles through her body anytime she heard a lie; the day her mother died; and this one, the day in which she grasped the fragility of life and how it could slip away in an instant.         

The ambulance siren blared down Pennsylvania Avenue through the remnants of rush hour traffic as she stared down at his tearful eyes, his face shredded with pain, his body curled with anguish. Slowly, his lids opened to expose a bloodshot blank stare. She saw her mother’s eyes in his, and his last breath whispered in the distance, drawing ever near.

“I’m here. You’re going to be okay. We’re almost there,” she said as her voice shook.

George Washington University Hospital was just a few minutes away and had one of the best trauma centers in the D.C. area.

He placed his trembling hand on hers and struggled to speak. “There…
something
…you should…kn—”

“Shhhh. Save your strength,” J.J. shook her head to dissuade him from speaking. She stroked his fingers and tried to maintain a steady front. “You’re gonna be okay. You can tell me everything when you’re better.”

Her mind whirred as the ambulance zipped into the circular driveway beneath the overhang and masked emergency personnel in blue and green scrubs swarmed the doors. They out pulled the gurney, wheeling him inside beyond her view. She’d never felt so alone in her life. She had calls to make, people to notify, but her mind was still foggy from the shock.

She searched her purse for the flask, the reminder of just how far she’d come and how much further she had to go.

J.J. walked into the waiting area and slipped onto one of the cold, cramped seats near the television, hoping to check the news for signs of a press leak. Instead, the hospital station replayed loops of doctors giving prevention tips on high blood pressure and heart disease.

Disappointed in the dearth of distractions, J.J. allowed her eye to drift from one ailing patient to another. She gazed at her feet until her vision blurred and left her wondering how she got to this place of confusion and despair. She was irresistibly drawn to this duty to her country, but with every day that passed she longed to understand her true purpose, the one that perhaps wasn’t tied to her mother’s legacy.

Even still, she was committed to seeing the task force through until every Russian spy was caught despite, once again, being neutered by the FBI.

The first Monday after Lana’s escape—seven days ago—J.J. had arrived in Director Freeman’s executive conference room, the one he had personally reserved for Task Force Phantom Hunter. The team, comprised of DIA, CIA, NSA, and FBI, had been established under DNI authority to identify members of a suspected Russian illegals network operating throughout the U.S. intelligence community. After getting passed over for well-deserved promotions and years of second-class, stepchild treatment, Freeman had entrusted J.J. with leading this critical mission, and the significance did not escape her.

But the gratification didn’t last long.

Not even a day passed before the Bureau reneged. The offer that kept her from quitting that Friday was off the table. The shocking reversal, prompted by political machinations occurring in pay grades way above hers, left her wondering why in hell she didn’t pack it in while she had the chance.

She didn’t even have time to plan out the agenda for the first task force meeting before the next order came down from on high. President of the United States high. The directive was clear and unwavering, and J.J. had the dubious honor of breaking the news to the team.

She trudged through the drab, hollow corridors at FBI Headquarters to arrive a half hour before the rest of the group. Needed a quiet moment to collect her thoughts. It was her first day back to work since Tony Donato, the sexy co-case agent with whom (in diplomatic terms) J.J. had hoped to explore significantly warmer, friendlier relations, caught Six’s lips parting from hers. 

J.J. emptied a large bag of M&Ms into a plastic candy dish on the oversized mahogany conference table. She’d dig in whenever the alcohol cravings became too intense. She peered up, hearing footsteps pad toward the door. Walter Lowenstein, the NSA representative, straggled inside toting an attaché. He pushed his Coke-bottle, wire-rimmed frames onto the bridge of his nose. His ill-fitting suit sagged from his shoulders and waist as if he was twelve and had pilfered the ensemble from his father’s closet.

She tried to mask her exhaustion to no avail. “Good morning, glad you made it.” J.J. greeted him with a cheerful but forced smile. She gestured her hand toward the empty chairs on her right. “Grab a seat. The others should be here in a few.” 

“Thanks,” he said, his toothy grin mirroring hers. He worked his way to the other side of the table, dropped his briefcase onto the floor, and gawked as if her feeble attempts to mask her disappointment had failed. “Looks like you need coffee as much as I do. Will we have time to grab a cup?”

She smiled weakly. “Fret not. Director Freeman’s secretary Mrs. Whitehouse will be bringing in a carafe after we get started I hope. I think most of us will be more effective with a caffeine fix this  morn—” J.J. began, interrupted by the next team member’s arrival.

Tony’s wannabe girlfriend bounced in the door with all the cheer of a drunken valley girl, gazelle graceful in her four-inch stilettos and body-hugging cranberry-colored pantsuit. After flipping her irritating Pantene hair behind her shoulder, she smiled and sang a bright, “Good morning!”

J.J. grabbed a handful of chocolate with the quickness of a hungry toddler. “Gia, you made it,” J.J. replied in a flat tone, offering a polite but grudging head nod. Her ears and cheeks warmed as she soundlessly growled and narrowed her eyes. “Please make yourself comfortable,” she said as the words “on Mars” flitted through her mind. She stuffed the M&Ms in her mouth and waited for the next arrival.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she replied, full of herself. In the contest for the heart of Tony Donato’s heart, she’d scored a major victory over J.J. by all appearances. A flirtatious grin edged the corners of her lips upward when, seconds later, Tony arrived in all his muscled Italian glory. The towering hunk of olive-colored fine. Her voice bounced as she sang, “Ciao, Signore Donato.”

Show off
, J.J. groused as she shifted in her chair and shook her head in disbelief at Gia’s shameless pandering. The attraction between the two was undeniable, and Tony’s first lie confirmed her fears.

Tony revealed an uncomfortable grin. He exchanged greetings with Walter and Gia before turning to J.J. “Agent McCall. Morning,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual lightness and affection, the cold greeting she had been expecting.

Caught off guard by Gia’s earlier gush, J.J. could only manage a weak, “Hi.”

“Well, well, well, the gang’s all here,” Six bellowed, strutting inside dressed tack-sharp in a navy pinstripe suit custom-cut to every bend and curve of his frame; the tension born from his impulsive kiss sucked the air from J.J.’s lungs. The aroma from his cologne wafted across the room, blurring J.J.’s thoughts. He locked eyes with hers and asked, “Everybody ready for round two?”

J.J. pulled back sharply and squinted until she could feel the pulse of heat-seeking missiles fire from her pupils. With the warmth Six radiated, he’d be dead before he could kiss his own ass goodbye. Although no one else would get the subtext of his comment, nothing escaped her. His late Friday night visit to her condo still lingered on his mind…and hers too. For different reasons.

“Come in, gentlemen,” J.J. said, expressionless. “Please, take your seats. I’ve got an announcement to make.”

“Somebody die?” Six asked facetiously. “Your expression is pretty damn grave.”

“No, nobody’s dead yet…but give me a couple of hours,” J.J. responded. “Freeman, per orders from the President, has requested that the Russian Program stand down. No offensive counterintelligence operations targeting Russian intelligence personnel. No Taskforce Phantom Hunter. The Gs can still conduct low-profile surveillance. However, the rest of us apparently must wait until a Russian intelligence operative straps a Top Secret-cleared U.S. government employee to the roof of his car and drives past FBI headquarters before we can conduct an investigation.”

“What!” Gia said, bolting upright in her seat. Six expressed little-to-no surprise, and Tony had heard the news from Assistant Director Nixon on the same day as J.J.

“I don’t understand. What happened?” Gia continued.

“Thank the CIA Director and the President. They convinced Freeman. With the Mikhaylova Affair blowing up in the press, the Russian FSB has arrested two U.S. businessmen in Moscow, accusing each of being CIA NOC officers. Moscow Station fears more arrests if the FBI becomes too aggressive.”

Tony turned to Six. “She in the ballpark?”

Six cleared his throat and slumped back in his chair. “Unfortunately, yes. These provocations against CIA personnel might be the tip of a Titanic-sinking iceberg, and we have a much more important asset to protect—one that is key to operations across the entire community. So, yes, the stand-down is painful, but it’s necessary to protect national interests. The Agency can’t afford any more retaliatory expulsions.”

“How’d the Russians assume the position of power and put us on the defense?
We
should’ve been expelling
their officers
, not the other way around,” Tony said.

Walter clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “So, maybe this is a moot point, but what’s next? Sounds like we’re no longer needed here.” 

“Yeah, what the hell do we do now?” Tony asked. “Sit around playing with our balls, eatin’ tea and crumpets?”

“Well, we’ve been downgraded from a task force to an analytical working group,” J.J. said. “We get no investigative resources. No Gs. Any cases referred for preliminary inquiries must be vetted through AD Nixon, who will probably send them to WFO for action. Put in layman’s terms—we’re no longer the hammer, we are the nail. Quite frankly, I wouldn’t blame any of you for wanting to bail.”

“How long this will last?” Gia asked.

J.J. responded with a shrug. “The Russian National Security Council Director is supposed to visit next week and the President’s trying to smooth relations. Once he’s gone, we may get some breathing room. Until then, nothing.”

“I’m still in, but what do we do now?” Gia asked. 

J.J. opened her mouth to answer when the song “Gettin’ Jiggy With It” blasted from her cell phone. She recognized the ringtone given she’d heard it a thousand times over the past week. It was her favorite G. “Uhhh, if you'll please give me a minute. I should probably take this.”

J.J. answered the phone as she stepped outside the conference room and closed the door behind her. “Hey, Jiggy. I'm in the middle of a meeting.”

“You and Tony need to get down the Ellipse right now. It's urgent.”

“The Ellipse? That’s Secret Service territory. What interests could the Bureau have there?”

“With all the shit hitting the fan right now,” Jiggy said, “you may not want to know.”

“Then why’d you call?” J.J. replied.

“Because I have a sneaking suspicion the Russians have somehow gained access to a U.S. government agency communications network in this area…and judging by the close proximity to the White House…I think it’s in the White House.” 

J.J. released a heavy sigh and shook her head. “You’re right. I didn’t want to know.”