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Nikita bit her thumbnail. The marshals warned her this could happen. An FBI agent under marshal identity was a target any of her enemies would want. “I see.”
“You have two choices the way I see it. Either stay in your current identity or allow the marshals to create a new one for you.”
“Hell no. I’ve worked too hard in this job. I’m not giving it up.”
“I assumed as much, which brings us to our next topic. We need to discuss your upcoming assignment.” He swiveled his chair to the computer and clicked the keyboard. “You’ve been digging into a motorcycle club in Colorado, is that right?”
Her pulse quickened. She’d been working on the case for the last six months, never able to crack into it until last month when she’d managed to secure an inside man—or more appropriately, woman.
“Yeah, the Greenback Cutthroats. I suspect they’re working with Diablos MC.” Her amber eyes darted from his computer to him. “Why? You’re not going to bury it, are you?” When he didn’t immediately answer, she stood and paced. “Because I have an inside woman there. She’s in deep too. Almost didn’t agree to be my CI.”
“Calm down, Stockdale. I’m not burying anything.” Randy grabbed a folder from his stack and handed it to her. “I received this information today. I think it could be useful.”
Opening it, Nikita scanned the contents. Photos of battered women and children of all ethnicities soured her stomach. It was exactly as she thought. “So theyaretrafficking people.” She cursed loudly. “And you’re sure it’s the Cutthroats?”
“Very.” He shuffled some papers on his desk and finally read one of them. “A local from Waverley, Colorado, sent those photos and verified the motorcycle gang had the Greenback Cutthroats emblem on their jackets.”
“Holy shit.” She tried not to get excited. People were being mistreated and that was nothing to celebrate, but the chance to shut down another motorcycle club was always reason for her.Especially one potentially working with Diablos.It was another hunch… but she knew it was legitimate.
“Since this is your find, I’ve contacted the Denver office. They’re expecting you this week.”
“All right, great.”
“But I should warn you—” He paused and eyed her warily. “If this is only about Diablos—”
“It’s not,” she quickly interrupted. It was no secret she was Diablos MC. Everyone in the department was aware of the manhunt that never panned out. Just when she thought she’d had them, they’d escaped. No one, except her bosses and the marshals knew the true reason she focused on her father’s MC.
“The jet will take you there whenever you’re ready.” He handed her a hefty manila envelope. “You’ve been begging to go undercover again, so here’s your shot. If you nail this, it’ll get you on the map.”
Nikita nodded. While she didn’t want her face splashed on the national news, she did want a promotion. Being in witness protection had its perks, but the marshals warned her what a life in the FBI would do. It kept a target on her back. One that Diablos may try to hit. Thus far, none had. The recent office break-in put her on edge. Anyone could want marshal files to sell to the highest bidder. Pushing the fear aside, she focused on her latest assignment.
“You can take an agent to be your second,” Randy said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Mandi Riggs.”
He smirked. “I figured as much. I’ll let you tell her the good news.”
“Thanks. I’ll finish my report from today and we’ll leave tomorrow.” She hurried from his office before he could attempt more conversation.
Hurrying to her desk, she opened the top drawer and grabbed her passport. It served her no purpose at home when she often plane-jumped with her job. Stuffing it in her jacket pocket, she typed up her report from the day’s bust and emailed it off to her supervisors. Mandi hadn’t returned from lunch yet, but that didn’t stop Nikita from texting her.
Nikita: Pack your skis. We’re heading to Colorado.
She grabbed her helmet and set off toward home. Her bag was ready to go already, and she was more than eager to leave Boston for a few weeks.
***
The private FBI jet soared higher, and with it, Nikita’s anxiety. As a child, she’d always flown private. She nervously cleared her throat. Mandi smiled over at her, flipping through a case file. The luxury on the FBI jet was much different than what her father insisted upon. Her mother didn’t give a damn about such frippery. At least that’s what Nikita always thought.
She pushed up her long sleeves, a myriad of tattoos coming into view. The small rose on her wrist made her think of her mother. Rose was somewhere safe. That’s what she said the last time they spoke. That’d been nearly five weeks ago. Making a mental note to call, she slowly traced the tattoos covering both arms with her gaze. They weren’t a rebellious statement or a phase. The tattoos were her past and present. Each one represented something important to her. The black and white hues reminded her that life was just the same. Black and white. No room for gray. No room for color.
The plane bumped slightly on a pocket of air, and Mandi gripped the arm of her chair. She’d never been fond of flying. She insisted on driving whenever possible. Nikita, on the other hand, would rather fly than drive anywhere. The shorter woman pulled out her earbud and listened to the hum of the airplane for a moment before returning to the reggae music. Nikita hid a smile. Her best friend didn’t go anywhere without earbuds or music.
Pulling out her own case file, she scanned the photos, both black and white and color. She preferred the black and white snapshots. Just as she preferred black tattoos over colored ones. Her tattoo artist always tried to convince her to add a little blue or green, but she refused. Her life was black and white. There was right and wrong. She didn’t color outside the lines. Not like her father had.
She turned to the next page of the folder. Every now and again, memories of her life before witness protection flooded her. Bright colors were her father’s favorite. He used to bring home the latest fashion from Paris for her, and they always had plenty of color involved. Nikita looked down at her standard black pants and gray FBI sweatshirt. She wore colors, sure, but not ones her father approved of and preferred.
The last page of the report piqued her interest, a photo taken from a long distance of a Cutthroat and another man. She squinted, trying to read any part of the second man’s jacket. It was leather like the Cutthroat’s, but there was something familiar about it.
