Becoming Rain
Page 21
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I wasn’t expecting a phone call from the assistant director tonight.
“I thought I was. I just need more time. I’m getting somewhere but it’s going to take more time.” Other cover officers get months—sometimes years!—to form relationships before people begin breathing down their backs. Me? Two freaking months! Less, technically, because the first few weeks were for case prep.
“If we don’t have something solid to bring back to the judge, he’s not going to extend the warrant. He was already being a tight-ass about granting it the first time around.”
“12 took that phone call,” I blurt out, desperate to get him off my back so I can think.
“You know better than that,” he mutters with irritation.
I do know better than that. I silently chastise myself for saying something so stupid to a high-level FBI superior as I head to the window, Stanley nipping at my heels.
“Your cover?”
“Still intact.”
“Good. I’ll start looking over the agent files. Maybe I can still salvage this case . . .” Sinclair’s words fade out as my eyes land on Luke, walking toward the adjoining bathroom in his bedroom. His bare ass in full view.
“Holy . . .” slips out, heat stirring through me as I admire his sculpted back. He’s a criminal, he’s a criminal, he’s a—
“What’s wrong?”
I feel my cheeks flush. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
“Special Agent Cortez could pass for your sister. You’ll introduce the two of them and then step back. She’s a bit older but one hell of an experienced undercover. Never failed.”
My full attention snaps back to the phone call. Special Agent Cortez? Who the hell is that? And why is Sinclair using words like “fail” and “step back”? My arrest record is great. And screw experience! My competitive streak comes out in full force. “I’m close. Just another few days. If you bring her in now, it may cause more harm than good.”
“How’s that?”
“He’ll pull back altogether, not wanting to cause friction between sisters.” I cringe as the words come out of my mouth. Even I don’t believe them.
“Oh, come on, Clara . . .”
“Just give me another week or two.” I’m borderline pleading now. Not good. This guy’s not going to hire an agent who begs.
“The Bureau’s dropped a ton of resources into this operation. I’m battling internal department feuds over my strategy. There’s no more room for failure, do you understand?”
“Got it. I’m close. I really am.” I press “end” just as my forehead hits the wall, a heavy groan escaping me. “I’m not going to fail,” I promise myself, peeking across the way again in time to see Luke disappear to the right. I assume, into the shower.
I dial a new number.
“Yup.” That’s how Warner answers the phone, whether he’s working or not.
“Hey, Warner.” There’s no missing the defeat in my voice. “Any chance you can swing by?” I hate talking candidly when I know that the call is being monitored for evidence. It’ll get erased eventually, but you never know who’s listening before it does.
“Doubt it. It’s going to be a long one.” Voices hum in the background. He’s got two other undercover cases going right now, and it seems like he works twenty-nine hours a day, dividing his time among them. “Why? I just talked to you. What’s going on?”
“Sinclair called me. He’s talking about bringing an agent in and having me pull back.”
“Shit.”
My panic sparks. “Shit? Shit, why? How bad is that? How often does this happen?”
He heaves a sigh and says with reluctance, “I don’t know. It happens, sometimes.”
“And what happens to the pulled agents?”
“Sometimes they end up on other cases. Sometimes . . . they don’t.”
A thought strikes me. “What happened to the other undercovers on this case?” The ones who failed.
There’s a pause, and I picture him biting his bottom lip like he always does when he’s not sure if he should say something. “Pushing paperwork in Nebraska or Utah or something like that, the last I heard.”
Perfect. “This is my one shot at the Bureau, isn’t it?” When I applied for the D.C. police force, I didn’t have my sights on going Fed. Being any type of law enforcement—armed with a gun and the power to change a person’s life forever—seemed both daunting and thrilling. But it didn’t take long before I started to excel at my job and commanding officers took notice. That’s when the career questions began. How high do you want to go? they’d all ask. The truth is, I didn’t join with aspirations to be the next female chief of police, or run entire units. I just wanted to feel like I was making a difference. A year in, I was already making contacts in the various units, bored with street patrol. Major strings were pulled by high-levels and I was transferred into the MCU. I figured I was in the right place. Doing undercover work came surprisingly easy for me, and I had one of the best arrest and conviction records in the group. But still, I soon found that the cases weren’t high-profile enough. I scoured the newspapers, reading about big arrests around the country. Those were the ones I wanted to work on. The kind where a bust shuts down terrorist cells, cripples trafficking rings, saves lives. The kind that the Feds typically spearhead.
“I thought I was. I just need more time. I’m getting somewhere but it’s going to take more time.” Other cover officers get months—sometimes years!—to form relationships before people begin breathing down their backs. Me? Two freaking months! Less, technically, because the first few weeks were for case prep.
“If we don’t have something solid to bring back to the judge, he’s not going to extend the warrant. He was already being a tight-ass about granting it the first time around.”
“12 took that phone call,” I blurt out, desperate to get him off my back so I can think.
“You know better than that,” he mutters with irritation.
I do know better than that. I silently chastise myself for saying something so stupid to a high-level FBI superior as I head to the window, Stanley nipping at my heels.
“Your cover?”
“Still intact.”
“Good. I’ll start looking over the agent files. Maybe I can still salvage this case . . .” Sinclair’s words fade out as my eyes land on Luke, walking toward the adjoining bathroom in his bedroom. His bare ass in full view.
“Holy . . .” slips out, heat stirring through me as I admire his sculpted back. He’s a criminal, he’s a criminal, he’s a—
“What’s wrong?”
I feel my cheeks flush. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
“Special Agent Cortez could pass for your sister. You’ll introduce the two of them and then step back. She’s a bit older but one hell of an experienced undercover. Never failed.”
My full attention snaps back to the phone call. Special Agent Cortez? Who the hell is that? And why is Sinclair using words like “fail” and “step back”? My arrest record is great. And screw experience! My competitive streak comes out in full force. “I’m close. Just another few days. If you bring her in now, it may cause more harm than good.”
“How’s that?”
“He’ll pull back altogether, not wanting to cause friction between sisters.” I cringe as the words come out of my mouth. Even I don’t believe them.
“Oh, come on, Clara . . .”
“Just give me another week or two.” I’m borderline pleading now. Not good. This guy’s not going to hire an agent who begs.
“The Bureau’s dropped a ton of resources into this operation. I’m battling internal department feuds over my strategy. There’s no more room for failure, do you understand?”
“Got it. I’m close. I really am.” I press “end” just as my forehead hits the wall, a heavy groan escaping me. “I’m not going to fail,” I promise myself, peeking across the way again in time to see Luke disappear to the right. I assume, into the shower.
I dial a new number.
“Yup.” That’s how Warner answers the phone, whether he’s working or not.
“Hey, Warner.” There’s no missing the defeat in my voice. “Any chance you can swing by?” I hate talking candidly when I know that the call is being monitored for evidence. It’ll get erased eventually, but you never know who’s listening before it does.
“Doubt it. It’s going to be a long one.” Voices hum in the background. He’s got two other undercover cases going right now, and it seems like he works twenty-nine hours a day, dividing his time among them. “Why? I just talked to you. What’s going on?”
“Sinclair called me. He’s talking about bringing an agent in and having me pull back.”
“Shit.”
My panic sparks. “Shit? Shit, why? How bad is that? How often does this happen?”
He heaves a sigh and says with reluctance, “I don’t know. It happens, sometimes.”
“And what happens to the pulled agents?”
“Sometimes they end up on other cases. Sometimes . . . they don’t.”
A thought strikes me. “What happened to the other undercovers on this case?” The ones who failed.
There’s a pause, and I picture him biting his bottom lip like he always does when he’s not sure if he should say something. “Pushing paperwork in Nebraska or Utah or something like that, the last I heard.”
Perfect. “This is my one shot at the Bureau, isn’t it?” When I applied for the D.C. police force, I didn’t have my sights on going Fed. Being any type of law enforcement—armed with a gun and the power to change a person’s life forever—seemed both daunting and thrilling. But it didn’t take long before I started to excel at my job and commanding officers took notice. That’s when the career questions began. How high do you want to go? they’d all ask. The truth is, I didn’t join with aspirations to be the next female chief of police, or run entire units. I just wanted to feel like I was making a difference. A year in, I was already making contacts in the various units, bored with street patrol. Major strings were pulled by high-levels and I was transferred into the MCU. I figured I was in the right place. Doing undercover work came surprisingly easy for me, and I had one of the best arrest and conviction records in the group. But still, I soon found that the cases weren’t high-profile enough. I scoured the newspapers, reading about big arrests around the country. Those were the ones I wanted to work on. The kind where a bust shuts down terrorist cells, cripples trafficking rings, saves lives. The kind that the Feds typically spearhead.
