“Unless something changes, yes, those are the names we have for now,” Natasha said. “We’d like to rule them out first.”
“What kind of sources are we talking about?” A.J. cocked his head. “What do they have in common?”
“You mentioned cases, plural. You saying these sources were connected to different cases?” Roman spoke up for the first time since Admiral Chandler arrived with Natasha.
“Yes, the three sources are attached to different cases,” Natasha clarified, “which is why we’re ruling out the FBI field offices for now since it was only Headquarters that had access to all three names and their locational details. But the section chief in charge of the Counterintelligence Division has concerns about one of his sources down in Atlanta, so he’s en route there now to check on him.”
“Since when does a section chief go out into the field to check on a source?” Harper asked.
“The source is an Iranian the Feds managed to turn. He now spies on Iran for the FBI and CIA,” the admiral explained.
Roman set his hands on the folder, eyes downcast as if working through the problem. “Three, maybe four, sources all go off-the-grid at the same time. Yeah, that raises some red flags.”
“Spying on spies whose job is to spy on spies. Hmmm.” Chris raised a brow.
“Sounds illegal-ish,” A.J. shot back.
“I think the ‘ish’ makes it slightly less illegal,” Chris said, no hint of a joke in his tone.
Harper cleared her throat and tipped her head in the direction of the admiral as a reminder he was in the room during their back-and-forth quips.
“It’s okay,” the admiral responded. “I remember my days in the service. Sometimes humor is the only way to make it through the tough times.”
And A.J. liked the man even more. “So, do we have access to the case files related to the missing sources as well?”
Natasha pointed to the folders. “We figured you might want to take a look at everything, so yes, that information has been provided.”
“The assets we’ve confirmed to be MIA are connected to a Russian crime group, the Chinese government, and lastly, to Hamas.” Something in the admiral’s eyes when he’d spoken suggested to A.J. he was holding back, not telling them everything, but A.J. wasn’t sure if he was prepared to press the issue.
“These sources are managed under the FBI’s Confidential Human Source Program—HUMINT. You’ll be monitoring a team of six agents, the ones operating those aforementioned sources in conjunction with the corresponding field offices under the leadership of their unit and section chief,” Natasha said. “We were also alerted their unit is receiving an additional agent on Monday, but we’re still firming up the details on that.”
“The President agrees you all are best suited to handle this situation,” the admiral began, drawing their eyes, and A.J. felt something big was coming, the “whatever he’d been holding back” was on the verge of heading their way. “Especially since there’s a small chance that the Daylight Ledger may be mixed up in all of this.”
“I thought that was an urban legend. A myth,” Roman spoke up, since of course, Roman would know what in the hell the Daylight Ledger was when the rest of the guys, aside from Harper, looked puzzled.
Harper and Chris both opened their folders as if quickly ripping off the Band-Aid, intrigued to learn more.
A.J. wasn’t ready yet to view the possible agents who were sworn to protect their country only to screw it over. There was a special place in hell for traitors. He also didn’t know if he was ready to chase down an urban legend when he was already chasing ghosts from his past, ghosts that felt real since yesterday.
“Ohhhh shit.” Chris grumbled before Roman had a chance to explain more about the ledger. A few more curses under Chris’s breath stole A.J.’s focus.
Chris’s eyes landed on A.J., and A.J. just knew what that “ohhhh shit” meant. It probably had nothing to do with the damn light-of-day, or whatever it was called, list, either.
A.J. flipped open the folder and stared at the photos of the six potential traitors before him, but it was only one that caught his eye.
The redhead he couldn’t stop thinking about.
The woman he may or may not have accidentally drunk messaged last night.
Chapter Six
Ana was at the office, so she shouldn’t have had her personal phone glued to her ear, once again replaying A.J.’s voicemail from Saturday night. No, she should’ve been focused on the unit’s major crisis, but she couldn’t help herself from listening one more time.
She’d been right to fear A.J. would be a distraction, and a massively inconvenient one at that. Thoughts of him had bounced around her mind all day yesterday. And even now, his voicemail, his sweet words . . . while obviously drenched in booze, somehow brought a smile to her face on such a bleak day. A day when her world was quite possibly on the verge of flipping upside down.
She ended the voicemail before it finished and set her phone next to her keyboard.
Her desk was sparse. No picture frames. No knickknacks. Nothing personal. No way for others to glean any information about the type of person she was, and that was how she liked it.
Cold. Dead. Heart. But her cold heart had warmed a touch when listening to A.J.’s message. It was all so strange. So unlike her.
Focus.
After her promotion, but prior to relocating to D.C., she’d returned to Quantico for a four-week course specific to her new line of work in counterintelligence, which was aptly nicknamed “Spy Hunting” by her colleagues at the Bureau. And catching spies was pretty much her job for the National Security Branch of the FBI.
Most of her work had to do with recruiting and creating sources. Turning criminals and spies to the side of Uncle Sam. For a price, of course. Some sources made six figures a year, substantially more than her salary, courtesy of the government.
Americans often believed the age of spies was a bygone era that belonged to the Cold War, but that was the furthest thing from the truth.
No, there was a race to steal secrets in every corner and crevice of American society. From universities to corporations—everyone was capable of becoming a target.
Absolutely everyone.
Even me.
“Hey, Red.”
“Can’t come up with anything more original?” Ana spun in her swivel desk chair to eye Dean, one of the six members on her task force. Most squads at the FBI field offices were made up of ten to even thirty agents and analysts. She’d quickly learned Headquarters was different, and also had a lot more layers of power and bureaucracy.
D.C. was where she needed to be, though, even if it wasn’t easy for her to live there again.
Dean’s forearm rested atop the cubicle partition separating her from another workstation. He drummed his fingers. “Ginger?” Dean tested.
“How about Agent Quinn?” she offered with a smirk.
Dean smiled, showing the slight gap between his two front teeth. “You know I’m just teasing with you.” He winked, the same wink she’d seen him give a source outside the courthouse last week before the commencement of a trial, in which he’d said, “Gonna take care of you at the end. No worries.” That was code for, Keep up your end of the bargain and testify, and you’ll see a payout after.