I’m snapped from my dangerous thoughts when the technician mumbles, “He could be borrowing a cup of sugar?”
He laughs, apparently amused. I’m glad he can find humor in our situation. I am anything but amused. I left Regan in a . . .vulnerablestate. The last thing I want is Isaacrelieving her of her predicament.
“Listen. . .” I read the technician’s name off his ID badge, “. . .Brandon. I’ve been running this operative from the ground the past four months. Isaac doesn’t borrow sugar. I kissed a member of his team to see if he would react. He’s reacting.”
“Your kiss was staged?”
My chest puffs high from the shock in Brandon’s tone. He either thinks I’m a brilliant actor or full of shit. Praying it is the former, I continue to pull the wool over his eyes, “Yes. You’ve met our head of unit, right?”
He nods before his hand darts up to tug at the collar of his polo shirt. It’s not hot. The temperature inside the van is sitting at a pleasant 74°F. He’s merely responding how every rookie agent does when they meet the very definition of a ball crusher.
“So you’re well aware Theresa demands her agents to go above and beyond the norm, right?”
Looking a little ill, Brandon nods again.
“That’s why I kissed Rae. I was following orders.”
“Rae?” Brandon double-checks, somewhat confused.
I curse under my breath before stammering out, “Rae, Regan. What’s one blonde to another?” I backhand his chest, acting like an Grade A moron. “We should call them all ‘babe’ to save the awkwardness in the morning when you can’t remember their names.” I laugh, ending my chauvinist routine worthy of an Oscar nomination.
In the corner of my eye, I spot Isaac walking away from Regan’s unopened apartment door. When he enters an empty elevator car a few seconds later, a sense of relief washes through me. Not enough I forget my original campaign, but enough to unclench my jaw.
“Pass me a pen. We should be jotting this down so we can forward it to Theresa for analysis.” I’m referring to Isaac’s movements—not my kiss with Regan. I gesture to a stack of pens on Brandon’s far right, purposely knocking his mug of coffee onto the box responsible for backing up surveillance images.
“Ah, fuck. Jesus. What did I do?” I grab the wad of napkins under his half-eaten donut to soak up the mess sprayed across his keyboard while he frantically strives to save the mainframe from fritzing.
Confident he is distracted, I remove any traces of my exchange with Regan from the startup system before it’s transferred to the mainframe.
When it is all said and done, I feel no less guilty. I expected a weight to lift off my chest the instant I removed Regan from Theresa’s vindictive strike. All I get is more worry.
This is wrong. I am a federal agent. I don’t destroy evidence. I gather it to charge criminals and protect the innocent.
I guess I could use that as the reason why I’ve allowed Regan to misalign my moral compass twice in my career. She’s an innocent caught up in a game she doesn’t belong in.
Even with a shattered kneecap, I followed the Substanz case with an eagle eye. What Regan said that night was true. There was no evidence whatsoever that she was part of the illegal brothel operating as a side business from Substanz. She was purely a dancer—a good one.
Who’s to say that isn’t the case this time around as well? Perhaps she is just Isaac’s business lawyer. The corrupt are known for surrounding themselves with honesty. It’s how they fly under the radar so long. No one scans their own backyards for criminals.
When I slump into my chair, perplexed, a note scribbled on Isaac’s movement sheet captures my attention.
Electrician arrived at the apartment across from target at 9:16 PM. Departure time:
No departure time has been noted. I drop my eyes to my watch, noticing it is a few minutes short of 11 PM.
“Why didn’t you jot down a departure time for the serviceman? Although we no longer have agents allocated to Isaac’s team, we still track their movements like we do Isaac’s. Every breadcrumb must be noted.”
Brandon dumps coffee-soiled papers into a bin with a grumble before twisting around to face me. His eyes are narrowed, and his lips are hard-lined. He’s peeved. Rightly so. One swipe of my hand ruined hours of surveillance while adding more work to his already tight schedule. Lucky for all involved, Isaac’s routine rarely alters. A quick copy and paste of yesterday stats will cover my “mishap.”
After dropping his eyes to the note I am referring to, Brandon returns them to me. “He hasn’t left yet.”
My brow cocks, certain I heard him wrong.
I didn’t.
“It must have been a private callout—he entered the apartment unattended. Usually, the front desk has someone escort them.”
He rifles through a pile of handwritten notes, oblivious to my bubbling anger. I don’t know why I am angry, but with no other plausible explanation for my skyrocketing blood pressure and reddening cheeks, I’ll assume it is anger.
