Washington, DC
6:10 AM Wednesday, January 14
Jack Hudson took the steps two at a time, passing the stylized griffins guarding the entrance to the Acacia Building on Louisiana Avenue. It was barely after six in the morning, and business in Washington, DC, was already at full tilt. A wintry mix had pushed commuters onto the Metro, the increase causing delays that had forced Jack to grab an Uber.
Tucking his mother’s casserole dish against his chest with his right hand, he used his left to open the glass door and step inside. His entire team would chase him out of town if he dropped his mother’s famous lasagna. Shaking the dusting of snow flurries from his hair, he walked through the glass atrium to the elevators and scanned his card key before pressing the button for the eighth floor.
The 1930s private office building faced the Capitol and was the perfect location for the Strategic Neutralization and Protection Agency because it gave them quick access to specific people, businesses, and agencies integral to their assignments.
Shifting the covered dish in his hand, he checked the time. If Director Walsh was calling his team in before seven, it meant the assignment was serious. “This assignment takes precedence.” Jack let out a breath, checking off a mental to-do list. Passports were current. Rent and utilities prepaid. His fridge freshly stocked with his mother’s cooking. Would he even get a chance to eat it? He glanced down at the lasagna. At least he had one meal covered.
The elevator door slid open, and Jack took another breath. He loved his job, but there were days when the long hours, travel, and constant state of alertness wore on him. Walking down the hallway, he passed the façade of doors leading to nonexistent companies before stopping at the last door on his left. A brass placard bearing the letters S-N-A-P was positioned next to the door above a black security panel. After he swiped his card, the red light turned green and he heard the mechanical sound of the lock shifting to allow him entry.
Jack shrugged out of his coat and hung it up in the closet. SNAP’s office took up half of the eighth floor. The large front room was set up almost like a studio apartment. The sitting area to his left held a long gray couch positioned to take in the panoramic view of the Capitol, and a glass coffee table separated it from two black club chairs. On the right, a modern kitchenette with white cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and the Miele 6800 coffee maker Lyla had insisted on. Jack still wasn’t sure how the expensive coffee maker fit into the budget, but then Lyla did have a way of getting what she wanted.
At the steel door at the corner of the room, he entered a code and scanned his thumbprint on the lock panel. Jack walked through the hallway and into an L-shaped space longer than it was narrow with twenty-foot ceilings. Like the front room, the wide windows spanning the length of the room gave their workspace, the inner sanctum of their office known as the fulcrum, a million-dollar view of Washington, DC.
This was where they did their everyday work and handled all the details before any assignment or operation. Home base, or for Jack, mostly just home.
Except someone had beat him there.
“How long you been here?”
Nic Garcia pulled a faded Red Sox cap off his head and ran a hand through his dark-brown hair, bringing it up an inch in every direction, before putting on the hat again. “What time is it?”
“After six.”
“Then two hours.” Garcia rose from his chair, stretching his six-foot frame before grabbing a file off his desk. “Got an alert about another shipment of fertilizer delivered to Guam.”
“Should we be concerned?”
Garcia shrugged. “Not sure yet, but I want to stay ahead of it in case this new assignment requires more attention.”
“Good call.” Jack eyed a bouquet of balloons tied to a chair. “What’s with the balloons?”
“They’re for Lyla. Her birthday.”
“Right. That’s this weekend.”
“Today’s her birthday, but her party is Saturday.”
Jack’s gaze met Garcia’s, and in the predawn light, he saw the look of a man who didn’t miss much when it came to Lyla. “The Princess Bride movie party, I remember.”
“She worked late last night.” Garcia tugged his ball cap lower over his eyes. “The Sideris job.”
Garcia joined SNAP five years ago, and within a few weeks Jack recognized Garcia’s feelings for Lyla. Unfortunately, Lyla either remained oblivious or chose to remain oblivious to his feelings and had friend-zoned him. Fortunately for the team, that meant their focus remained on their assignments.
Jack checked his phone. “Lyla messaged me an hour ago and is on her way.”
The beeping noise of the lock disengaging echoed down the hall, and Garcia looked momentarily relieved until an Everest-sized man appeared.
Kekoa Young’s brown eyes landed on the casserole dish and a wide smile shone bright against the Hawaiian’s dark skin. “Please tell me that’s Mama Rosalie’s raviolis.”
“Sorry. Lasagna.”
“Don’t be sorry, brah.” Kekoa looked at the dish and then between Jack and Garcia. “Unless either of you is expecting to eat it, because then I’m sorry.” He chuckled.
“You realize it’s freezing outside, right?”
Looking down at his feet, Kekoa wiggled his toes in his sandals, or slippahs as he called them, and then smiled up at Garcia. “You can take da boy outta da island, but you can’t take da island outta da boy.”
Kekoa slipped off a messenger bag and began unfastening his coat, which somehow managed to restrain the brute physical form of the man setting it aside. Unrestrained, Kekoa’s body always seemed to grow right in front of his eyes. Jack was convinced the man bench-pressed refrigerators in his spare time.
Jack brought the lasagna to the fridge and put a sticky note on top warning Kekoa to leave it alone. He was halfway back to his desk when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He smiled, seeing Amy’s name on the caller ID.
“Happy six-year anniversary, Jack.”
Her voice tickled his ear. “Thank you.” He paused in the hallway and leaned against the wall. “Are you in town? My mom made a ten-pound lasagna, and I’d be willing to fight Kekoa to save you some.”
“I’d hate to be the reason you lose your life.”
“I could hold my own . . . for like an hour. Probably.”
“Well, you won’t need to go to battle for me today. Production got delayed for a couple of days.”
Jack ran a hand through his hair, not sure how to read his emotions on this. He’d met Amy Carmichael through Lyla, whose intention he was certain was to create an instant love connection. However, as a location scout for movies, Amy traveled the world for months at a time, which left them trying and failing more times than not to fit dates into their busy schedules.
“You’re going to miss Lyla’s birthday?”
“I know.” A note of disappointment in her voice. “But—and don’t you dare tell her—I’m going to beg Ryan Reynolds to call her and tell her happy birthday.”
Another beeping noise echoed, pulling Jack’s attention to the front door just as Director Thomas Walsh walked in.
“Hey, I’ve got to go. The boss’s in.”
“Okay, I’ll try to call later tonight. I’ve got to find the perfect safe house in Essex for a spy.”
“Good luck with that.”
Ending the call, Jack followed Director Walsh into the fulcrum.
“Sorry I’m late.” He crossed the room, not removing his hat or coat, an urgency to his tone and movements. “Jack, let’s talk.”
Walsh started to step into his office, a square space separated by a floor-to-ceiling, steel-grid glass wall, when he paused and looked over his shoulder at Kekoa. “You have everything you need?”
“Shootz, boss. Just gotta wake up my babies.”
“Get to it,” Walsh said. “We’ll need those babies up and screaming.”
Kekoa’s “babies” were state-of-the-art, high-tech computers nestled into an office space similar to Walsh’s except it ran the width of the building. The glass-and-steel wall separating the space was designed to prevent radio or electrical signals from coming in or going out.
As Kekoa disappeared into his office, Jack continued after Walsh.
“I’ve spent the last two hours with CIA Director Peterson and the National Security Advisor, Doug Martin.” Walsh set down his briefcase. “Sometime yesterday morning, an operative for the Egyptian Mukhabarat went missing.”
“Mukhabarat?” Jack repeated, frowning. “There’s an Egyptian spy missing here? In America?”
Walsh moved around his office, collecting folders and putting them into his briefcase. He handed one to Jack. “Remon Riad is a senior intelligence officer for Egypt and was here as part of a program called Diplomatic Intra-Agency Cooperation sponsored by the CIA. A week ago, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, France, the United Kingdom, Canada, Iraq, and Australia sent members of their intelligence communities here for a week-long conference. According to Frank, all the participants were vetted—”
“But they missed something,” Jack interrupted, glancing quickly at the folder Walsh had handed him. It was Riad’s dossier. “And they’ve asked us to get involved.”
The sole mission of SNAP was incorporated into their name. Strategic neutralization and protection. They were a private agency contracted by the government to handle local, national, and international issues that could be a threat to US security and safety.
Because it was a private firm, the typical red tape preventing the military, CIA, FBI, and NSA from engaging didn’t apply, giving Jack and his team the opportunity to strategically monitor threats and respond in a manner that went unnoticed by the public—a goal they measured their success by because Americans did not like deviations in their perceived status quo.
Walsh nodded. “Next week President Allen is flying to Egypt to dedicate Wadi Basaela, and needless to say, Riad’s disappearance is problematic. If there’s any malicious intent behind his purpose here in the US, then we need to figure it out, stop it, and make sure it has nothing to do with what’s happening in Egypt. The last thing we need is the president of the United States walking into a trap.”
“Agreed.” As unsettling as that possibility was, Jack was troubled by the CIA’s involvement. “Will I be working with Director Peterson?”
The hurried movement stopped, and Walsh locked eyes with Jack. “The director is sending over the officer who runs the program. She’s an excellent officer—”
The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood. No. There were hundreds of other CIA officers. It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be—
“Officer Brynn Taylor will be acting special missions manager and cooperating with us until Riad is found.”
Brynn. Jack’s mouth went dry as he tried to regain the balance of the room spinning around him.
“Is this going to be a problem?”
Jack blinked, bringing his focus back to Walsh, who stared at him with concern. It made sense now why Walsh hadn’t spoken to him about the assignment earlier. He was the only one who knew of Jack’s past, giving the question he asked deeper meaning.
Was this going to be a problem?
Flexing his fingers a couple of times, Jack tried to work out the tension threading through every muscle in his body. It used to be a different kind of tension wrapping itself around his heart whenever he thought of Brynn. But now? Now he wasn’t sure if it was anger or bitterness or hurt or fear causing his heart to race.
“There’s no one else?”
Walsh removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “She’s the officer in charge.” He slid his glasses back on. “She was the one who invited Riad into the US.”
A heaviness stole over Jack’s shoulders. That meant she was the one at fault and the one who would bear the consequences of whatever Riad had planned. A familiar ache began pulsing in his chest.
“I can ask Garcia to take the lead if—”
“No.” Jack returned his attention to Walsh. “I want the assignment. It’s just—”
“You’ll be working with the woman who broke your heart.”
It sounded juvenile hearing Walsh speak his feelings aloud. Yet it was the truth. Brynn had not only broken his heart—she’d betrayed him.
A gentleness creased the edges of the skin near Walsh’s blue eyes. “Jack, it’s been eight years. People change. From what I could pull from Peterson, Taylor’s made a name for herself within the agency. She’s good at her job . . . very good.”
Jack sighed. “I never doubted she would be.”
Setting his glasses down, Walsh tapped the folder. “What’s your fear here?”
His fear? In a flash Jack was back in the final days of training at the CIA facility, the Farm, in Williamsburg with Brynn. Each recruit had to lead a team through a simulated mission, adjusting to whatever the training officers threw at them. Moles, informants who defected, false leads resulting in the mission being uncovered by the enemy—an error leading to capture or death. After twelve intense weeks, it was the trainers’ jobs to use this test as a filter to weed out the recruits by exposing their weaknesses. Brynn had been his weakness, but it was her betrayal that sealed their future.
“Sir, Riad’s disappearance is critical enough to warrant our attention, and given what I know of Br—Officer Taylor, I’m concerned about whether or not . . . we can trust her.”
Walsh studied him for a few minutes, and Jack resisted the urge to shift. If he was going to take on this assignment and lead his team, then Walsh needed to know what bothered him the most about working with Brynn—his fear. He’d trusted her once.
“Well”—Walsh leaned forward and flipped open the folder—“we don’t have much choice in the matter, I’m afraid. We have to trust—”
“Sir, with all due respect, I’m willing to take the assignment. But I’m not willing to risk my team on someone who can’t be trusted, and I don’t trust her.”
“Sir?”
Jack and Walsh twisted their focus to the door, where Garcia stood running a hand down the back of his neck. He glanced at Jack, his expression melting apologetically, and when Jack saw the blonde woman waiting next to him, he understood why.
Garcia gestured to her. “Sir, Brynn Taylor.”
Heat blossomed in Jack’s cheeks, and he stood stock-still as Walsh walked around his desk. Brynn’s sharp blue gaze met Jack’s, and he knew she’d heard him. But being the professional she was, she quickly averted her eyes to Walsh and pasted on a smile.
“Good to see you again, sir. It seems you’re getting the extended version of my dossier from Mr. Hudson. I do hope he’s told you that among my many bad qualities, I do have a few good ones.”
Jack’s shoulders knotted at her sarcastic tone because it contradicted the expression of surprise and hurt shadowing her blue eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words dried up on his tongue.
Brynn pivoted to Jack. “It’s been a long night and I understand working with your team is necessary, so I hope we can put aside any past biases and focus on the mission.” She gave him a tired smile. “I’d like this to be over as quickly as possible.”