Page 26 of Fixed Asset

“I’m not sure I like that the CIA is involved,” Fallon put in.

“I’m positive I don’t,” Mason volleyed. “Makes me twitchy and leaves me wondering how many ways they’re gonna fuck our op.”

“Why would they screw with your op?” I asked.

Mason morphed back into a seasoned warfighter, leaving the lady-killer smile in the dust and replacing it with a deep scowl.

“I mean no disrespect, but you asking that shows your inexperience with the Agency. Rule one: If they can fuck you, they will. Rule two: Always cover your ass, because they won’t. Rule three is a mash-up of one and two: They’ll let you swing to protect themselves. Whatever it is they want you to deliver to Berta is what’s important to them at the moment, but that moment can shift second to second and something else can become more important. If they feel like we’re in their way, they’ll fuck us however they need to make sure what’s important to them is what happens.

“We have one objective—get Berta the resources she needs to complete her mission. Once we have her and her convoy safe and secure, we’re mission complete. The CIA catches wind, decides they don’t want those bodies moved out of Honduras, they tip off the authorities, the authorities alert the gangs where we’re headed and what routes we’re using, we’re screwed . . . as in dead.”

A strange tightness coiled in my stomach. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. An instinct I’d spent my adult life honing and perfecting, one that had saved my life many times, alerted.

Something wasn’t adding up.

And worse, I had a bad feeling I was being used as a pawn.

“Why wouldn’t the CIA want Berta to escape the country with her convoy, whom I presume are women and children?”

Mason exchanged a look with Fallon before he refocused on me.

“What message are you delivering?” Mason shot back.

It wasn’t annoyance I was feeling. It was panic when I begged, “Please, Mason, no games, no chess moves. Why wouldn’t the CIA want her to leave?”

Mason’s attention turned acute. “Berta’s taking the president’s wife, Maria Sanchez, and, at her request, their children, out of the country. If the CIA deemed it would be in their best interest, they could use this information to make nice with the president, and of course lord the good turn over his head for future use.”

I needed to think.

The puzzle wasn’t making sense.

Was I overreacting?

Jack’s hand wrapped around my bicep and swung me to face him.

“What’s going on?”

“I need a minute.”

“To do what?”

“To think. Something’s not right. It never is, but pretense and duplicity are to be expected when dealing with the CIA. This isn’t my first time working with them. So contrary to Mason’s assessment, I’m well aware of all the ways the Agency can screw you over. Tom would likely sell his grandmother out, then claim it was for the greater good. However, that’s not what’s bothering me. It goes deeper than that, and now that I have more information, it’s nagging at my gut. I feel it. I just can’t figure out what it is.”

Jack didn’t let go, but he did tilt his head to the side to study me.

“Talk it out,” he demanded.

“Jack—”

“No game. No intel-gathering expedition. Just talk through the problem.”

I glanced around the room. Mason and Fallon were both alert, watching closely, but I didn’t get the read from either of them they were playing me. This wasn’t an elaborate setup to get me to tell them something I was closely guarding. I didn’t have to look at Jack to know he wouldn’t do something underhanded to get me to talk—get angry, yes. Yell at me, yes. Threaten wild and crazy warnings he had no intentions of inflicting, also yes. Play me dirty, no way.

“I have a subcutaneous tracking device in my hip,” I announced.

“Motherfucker,” Mason growled and got to his feet.

Jack gave me a little shake when my attention went to Mason. “Go on.”