WASHINGTON, D.C.
I’m fucked.
Monica stared at her reflection in the one-way mirror of a holding room, awaiting her fate.
But she was pretty damn sure what it would be.
This room on the first floor of the FBI headquarters at the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue was one of several reserved for questioning. She had been ordered here after Metro PD contacted her boss, Gustavo Porter, chief of domestic terrorism and weapons of mass destruction within the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division.
Unfortunately, Porter was tied up in a videoconference with the White House on the attack on Bagram Airfield, so Monica was told to wait until he was out.
A pair of detectives, who’d arrived after the uniformed officers, had already taken her statement back at the hotel. As she had suspected, Amir and his Saudi friends had indeed booked all forty-eight rooms. She learned that the cameras in the lobby had been disabled to provide privacy for them. And that meant the only video of the incident was from Amir’s own phone. It made Monica appear out of control, smacking everyone with her baton, including striking Saddam when he was already down. She had continued claiming self-defense, but lacking any other video, it was basically her word against theirs. And “theirs” included the bellhop and the two hotel security guards, who had sided with the Pakistanis.
On top of that, all three bodyguards were under diplomatic status, so the incident now involved the State Department. And, knowing Amir’s friendship with John Wright, probably even the White House.
And all that meant Monica was, well …
Fucked.
She sighed and continued staring at her reflection. Her shoulder-length dark hair stuck to the sides of her face from wearing the motorcycle helmet. It framed a pair of large brown eyes on a dark olive face showing the fine lines from a lifetime of field ops.
The word that came to mind was damaged.
Monica gave the mirror a final frown and just paced the room.
When the door finally swung open, Gustavo Porter stormed in holding a manila folder. He was a large man, built like a linebacker, over six feet tall, with broad shoulders. His bull neck always seemed on the verge of popping the top button of his dress shirts.
“Morning, Gus.”
“Not for any of us, Cruz, and certainly not for you,” he said, walking to one side of the interrogation table and sitting down. “I’ve heard about your little stunt with Amir. I even got a call from John Wright asking what the hell was happening.”
Monica sat across from her superior and calmly crossed her legs.
Porter opened the manila folder. “Three victims, all with diplomatic immunity. According to the ER report from George Washington University Hospital, one has a concussion, cracked ribs, and a broken foot. The other two have bruised knees and one also has a broken wrist. Witnesses include Amir Dham, one Prince Khalid al-Saud, who is on an official visit from Saudi Arabia, and his sister, Princess Lisha al-Saud.”
“I guess I no longer need to run their faces through the database,” she said, more to herself than to Porter, who closed the manila folder and just glared at her.
“Now, please … enlighten me.”
Leaning forward and resting her arms on the table, she said, “I was tailing Amir and—”
“Amir was off-limits.”
Monica paused and just stared at him a moment before asking, “Are you going to let me tell you my side of this?”
He sat back, inhaled deeply, and slowly nodded while exhaling.
Monica related everything in two minutes, leaving nothing out.
Porter looked down at his hands and slowly shook his head. “Cruz, you’re one hell of an agent, leading the division in arrests. One of your strengths is your personal commitment, your relentless drive to get to the bottom of each case. And while your approach sometimes tends to piss people off, even your own fellow agents, your heart’s in the right place and you do deliver results. This time, unfortunately, you may have overplayed that strength.”
“Look, Gus, every bone in my body tells me we missed something during our investigation, and I was just keeping an eye on the man from a distance.”
He pointed at the report. “That’s some distance, considering the number of bruises and broken bones.”
She slowly shook her head.
“Well, Cruz, it was your day off and it is a free country,” Porter said, locking eyes with her before leaning forward and adding, “As long as no one got hurt.”
“It was self-defense, boss.”
“Yeah, well … not according to the evidence and the eyewitnesses.”
“Okay … consider the following: Amir, who, like it or not, was associated with a gun run involving someone with ties to ISIS—”
“Alleged ties.”
“Seriously? Please let me finish.”
Porter made an apologetic wave with his right hand.
“Alleged ties to ISIS, fine,” Monica continued. “Now Amir meets with Saudi royalty, who we all know have been funding ISIS for years, and the meeting is held hours after ISIS detonates a nuke. On top of that, the surveillance cameras in the lobby were disabled during the meeting, and the beef I had with the bodyguards was over the photos I took, because it’s pretty damn obvious they didn’t want any record of the meeting. Heck, the Saudis booked the entire hotel to ensure privacy. That’s one too many coincidences, Gus. If it walks and quacks … hell, we’ve pursued cases on weaker leads than this.”
Porter waited a few moments, and then pulled out a paper bag. “Finished?”
She nodded.
“Well, while I have to admit there may be something there, Cruz, you went about it the wrong way, and in the process sent three diplomats to the emergency room, creating a shit storm in the State Department … and the White House.”
“So, let’s go about it the right way then. Let’s do it by the book.”
“That ship’s already sailed.”
“But—”
Porter held up a hand, and she just crossed her arms and sank into her chair.
“Cruz, as much as I hate doing this, until the smoke clears, I need to place you on administrative leave for a month.”
“Seriously?”
“Very,” Porter said, tapping an index finger on the shiny metal surface of the table next to the paper bag. “Gun and badge.”
She rolled her eyes. “We’re really not doing this, are we? Just tell Wright that I’m very, very sorry—with sugar on top—to even consider that his golfing buddy could be a terrorist.”
“Won’t work. You went too far. Gun and badge. Now.”
“A terrorist identified as Ibrahim al-Crameini, who we all know heads the ISIS caliphate in Afghanistan and Pakistan—meaning he has to have very strong ties in those countries—releases a video claiming responsibility for nuking our base and you’re suspending me for tailing one of his kind?”
“His kind? The Bureau has no tolerance for that kind of racial profiling. Amir Dham is a respected Pakistani businessman, and he was off-limits. You knew it, you still chose to tail him, and in doing so you harmed diplomats, triggering an international incident.”
“Like you said, it was my day off and it’s a free country.”
Porter tapped his desk again. “Well, now you get to enjoy your freedom for a whole month without pay. And consider yourself lucky. The White House wanted you terminated and thrown in jail.”
“I doubt everyone at the White House speaks for Wright. I bet Vaccaro doesn’t even know what her little helper is up to.”
“Leave the president out of this. I can assure you she’s got enough on her plate.”
“Well, perhaps Amir should be added to her menu. Main course. The guy’s a snake in the grass, and you know it.”
“Face it, Cruz. You blew it. You let your emotions get the better of you and went about it the wrong way. And then you let the situation get out of control—and it’s all captured on video!”
“So it’s the word of a federal agent against the word of Pakistani nationals with ties to ISIS, plus a one-sided video? Seriously, Gus?”
“Stop saying that. ‘Seriously.’ What are you, sixteen?”
“Forty, actually. Today.”
“Yeah … well, happy birthday, Cruz. Gun and badge.”
“Dammit, Gus, the day ISIS blows up a nuke at one of our bases in-country, the White House—and you, the head of the FBI’s WMD—can’t think of anything better but bitch about surveillance I’ve conducted on a terrorist suspect.”
“Amir was cleared of all charges. He reported the truck stolen the day before the joint task force caught the guy and recovered the guns and explosives. Any of that ring a bell?”
“Sure, since I was the motherfucker who orchestrated it and even chased down the driver through half the city. But MPD took all the credit and then let him get lawyered up.”
He shrugged. “It was within his rights.”
She leaned forward. “What rights? The asshole was an illegal alien driving a truck loaded with guns and Semtex! Exactly which part of that gave him any rights? Except maybe for the right to spend an hour alone with me, a bottle of water, and a hand towel.”
Porter crossed his arms, his face blushing. “We don’t even joke about that.”
“Who’s laughing?”
“There are other ways to get to the truth, Cruz.”
“Like leaving him alone in his jail cell, where he allegedly hung himself before we could interrogate him?”
Porter exhaled heavily. “Yeah … that was unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate for us, but very fortunate for Amir.”
“Look, the man paid his fine for the illegal worker and even invited us to scrub his operation.”
“Whoop-de-fucking-do.”
Porter tapped the table a third time. “Now, Cruz.”
“Don’t you get it, boss? The president is doing her job. She’s operating with the information she has, which is controlled to a fair degree by John Wright, who, by the way, is also doing his job: protecting the president. Hell, he’s done that since the day he hauled her into that Black Hawk.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that we also need to do our job, which is following up on suspicious activities, especially when it comes so damn close to our job description. You know, domestic terrorism … weapons of mass destruction? Any of that ring a bell?”
Porter didn’t reply.
“Look,” she added, “let’s go with your theory that Amir has a buttload of trucks and had nothing to do with the guns or the Semtex. That would make him … naïve, meaning he lacks full transparency inside his own organization. Well, my instincts—combined with the skills I acquired at Quantico of all places—tell me that successful business leaders like him don’t get to be successful by being naïve. So, with all due respect to the White House, the odds are stacked against him. Based on that, I’m strongly suggesting here that the Federal Bureau of Investigation needs to do its job and investigate.”
“Now who’s being naïve?” Porter replied. “The world isn’t that simple, Cruz.”
“Oh, but it is that simple, Gus. Do you know why the terrorists are winning?”
Porter sighed and said, “Why, Cruz?”
“Because their strategy is so damn simple.”
“And what’s that?”
“To them there are two kinds of people, those who believe in their cause and the rest of the world. And the latter needs to die. Period. There is no middle ground. No compromise. And they’re willing to do whatever it takes to eradicate nonbelievers from the face of the planet. So, what’s our strategy?”
Porter remained silent, staring at the damn paper bag on the table.
“My point exactly. Until we also choose to fight fire with fire, even if it means operating outside the purview of laws, we will continue to lose.”
“Cruz … I refuse to drop down to their level. That is not how we’re going to defeat them. And in the specific case of Amir Dham … he was investigated every which way but Sunday, and he came up better than clean, from every possible angle. The line was drawn and you crossed it. And for that…” He tapped the table again.
Monica stood, removed her Glock, released the thirteen-round magazine, and ejected the 9mm round in the chamber. She caught it in midair, took her badge and credentials, and slammed them on the metal surface. Her movements were smooth and therefore very fast, making Porter jerk back and nearly fall off his chair.
She almost grinned.
Regaining his composure, Porter also stood. “Cruz … what the hell’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me is that I’m suspended while that asshole with alleged ties to the same bastards who just deep-fried the Bagram Airfield runs free.”
“Sorry,” he said, taking her gun and credentials. “We don’t have enough evidence.”
“What the hell do you think I was trying to do on my day off?” she shouted, slapping the table. “I was trying to catch the dipshit with his pants down so we could nail his balls to his forehead. But instead, you’re suspending me!”
Porter waved at her. “See you in a month.”
Slowly shaking her head while watching ten years with the Bureau being dropped inside a brown paper bag, Monica replied, “Since when does the White House get to tell the FBI what to do, especially a glorified secretary like John Wright? You need to man up.”
“Tread lightly. You’re biting the hand of your biggest fan, and frankly, even I’m growing quite tired of your attitude.”
“Why don’t you try growing a pair instead?”
Porter shook his head. “Last warning. Be very careful, Cruz,” he replied before pointing at the door.
As she reached for the doorknob, Monica paused, turned around, found his gaze, and held it.
She knew she was pushing her luck, of course, but the circumstances certainly required it. ISIS had detonated a nuke and had made threats that more would follow—and on American soil—unless their demands were met.
“Gus,” she finally said, measuring her words. “The day is approaching, and fast, when this country is going to get exactly what it deserves for being so politically correct … and so fucking careful.”
She left before Porter could reply and briskly walked straight for her bike, slipping on the helmet hanging from the handle bars. The Ducati whirled to life and she drove out of the garage and onto the street.
She gave the FBI headquarters across Pennsylvania Avenue a final look, suddenly feeling as obsolete as the leaky structure due to be demolished as soon as the new headquarters was completed in a pretty suburb a few miles away.
Out with the old and in with the new.
And that included her politically incorrect views.
She frowned. Nowhere in the oath she had taken three times did it state that she would defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies … so long as we didn’t offend the feelings of any race, religious organization, special interest group, or political party.
She steered down Pennsylvania Avenue and turned left on Fourth Street to head to the spa. Monica still had a half day left and perhaps a massage, a facial, and a steam bath were just what she needed to help her forget the—
She stopped the bike in front of the DC Veterans Affairs building on Fourth Street, spellbound by the sight. A couple dozen men and women, all in their sixties and seventies, wearing old war uniforms, stood at attention beneath the Stars and Stripes swaying in the midday breeze at half-staff. A military chaplain stood in front of the group, reading from his Bible.
She watched them for a minute or two, until a Metro PD officer signaled her to move. Deciding she didn’t need another altercation today with the local cops, she took off while betting that those aging soldiers had probably lived up to that oath more than some people in her building.
And maybe that explained why she’d ended up alone in this world, like the vets, with nothing to show but old, worn-out uniforms … or a fading FBI career.
Monica always knew she was different, from the moment she’d enlisted in the military after college instead of following the wishes of her late father—a Mexican immigrant—to take over the ranch alongside her older brothers. But unlike her siblings, who to this day still carried on the tradition started by her father, Monica just needed to get away, see the world. So while she loved her family and the land her father had turned into a profitable cattle ranch, she had packed up and headed to Fort Benning, Georgia, to attend the U.S. Army Officer Candidate School.
And the rest is history, she thought as she accelerated toward the parkway. She wondered if perhaps no one wanted to be with her because few were like her, which probably also explained why she never stayed at one place for very long.
Monica became a second lieutenant and a hell of a sniper, with five combat tours, three in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. She was the recipient of a Silver Star and a Purple Heart for events she’d tried very damn hard to forget. But it was those same events that allowed her to become the first woman to make the ranks of the prestigious Los Angeles SWAT team. A few years later, after she’d grown tired of shooting bad guys from sweltering rooftops and of boyfriends intimidated by her line of work, the FBI came knocking at her door.
So, she’d happily traded sunny L.A. for a shot at Quantico.
Now, a decade later, her passion for the Bureau was dwindling.
Maybe this suspension was her wake-up call signaling it was time to move on again.
But where?
She had literally been just about everywhere, from Texas and L.A. to D.C., from the scorching Iraqi desert to the coldest mountains in …
Afghanistan.
Inhaling deeply, Monica remembered her last trip to Kabul.
She had joined the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division, who sent her overseas for six months to collaborate with the CIA. It was there that she’d worked with an amazing Special Ops team, crossing paths with someone she’d met a few years before at a shooting school in Arizona.
She sighed at the old heartbreak, especially as her biological clock started signaling that she’d likely end up alone. Her chosen line of work had been thrilling through her twenties and her thirties. But there was something about that numeral four rolling to the front of her life’s odometer that made her question this life she had chosen.
She glanced at the Ducati’s electronic dash as she drove up the parkway’s ramp. Call it coincidence, fate, or something divine, but forty thousand miles rolled in just as she approached the parkway’s east-west split.
East would take her to the spa for a chance to escape her world, if only for a little while.
Monica steered the bike west, toward the headquarters of Jasmine Companies.