Chapter 39
JUDAH
My eyes burned from staring at endless UC reports. The blue light from the screen I had been looking at for the better part of four hours didn’t help. I glanced at the clock and wondered if Amelia had made it home from her first day of class yet.
Thankfully, Amelia’s Monday morning in-person class started before I had to report for another day of mind-numbing punishment disguised as work. I had waited with bated breath for the text from Cole, confirming that she made it into the building without a problem.
That chip on her desk still ate at me.
I logged it the way I would have logged evidence when I was undercover—timestamped photos of it undisturbed with a written report that I hadn’t turned in.
I’d be bitched out for not reporting something like that, but I wasn’t supposed to be near the Valentine case.
Since John Valentine was in federal custody, awaiting trial, Amelia was the Valentine case.
I had checked the chip for prints the best I could without a fingerprinting kit on hand, but I came up empty. Not that I was surprised.
This was no ordinary game. We weren’t playing games of luck anymore. This was high-stakes strategy.
That poker chip was a message. A very clear message.
I’m one step ahead. I can get to her before you can.
Game on.
To my surprise, Amelia agreed to me following her back to her apartment and doing a sweep to make sure it was clear before she locked herself back inside.
I knew it was self-preservation, but I wanted it to be more. I wanted her to trust me again. I wanted her to open up to me, even if it was in anger.
. . . I wanted her to fucking text me.
I glanced at my phone as I tried to force a message from her to appear with nothing but pure desperation.
Before I’d left Amelia’s apartment yesterday, I scribbled down my number—my real number—and left it on her fridge.
She didn’t immediately throw it away, but she also hadn’t given me her number. Not that I couldn’t get it if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to pull it from a database. I wanted her to want to give it to me.
I dragged my attention back to the screen and pulled up the next batch of reports I was supposed to archive.
I logged the case number, then froze.
I had memorized that number long ago.
These were my UC reports from when I was undercover with Valentine. Why the hell were they on the docket to be archived? They should have been active. I checked the access log to see who they had been shared with. My handlers, my chain of command, and—
They hadn’t even been shared with the prosecuting attorney’s office.
How the hell were they taking John Valentine to trial without the reports?
That’s what should have been used to get the warrant for his arrest and the warrants to search his properties and businesses.
The prosecution had to have the reports.
If they didn’t, any casual watcher of courtroom TV could make the case that the search and seizure was unlawful and get the case thrown out.
I dug further into the arrest reports that had been tacked onto the end of years and years of documentation that I had submitted.
That was weird.
The arresting agency named in the report was the New Jersey field office in Newark, but the ORI number didn’t match. It wasn’t even close. The letters at the beginning of the nine-digit originating agency identifier always matched the state. But instead of NJ, the code started with NV.
Nevada.
Who the hell made the Valentine arrests? I knew I wouldn’t find the arresting agents’ names in the report. Only the agency was included. To my knowledge, it hadn’t been a joint operation, which either meant that it was a clerical error or it had been intentional.
Since I had been granted access to the digital archives and had plenty of time on my hands, I went digging.
“Greear. My office,” Agent Sanders barked as he strolled by without so much as a glance my way.
Echoes of “ooh” rose up from the bullpen of desks like I had been called to the principal’s office.
I looked at the time before logging out of my computer. 4:58 PM.
There was no such thing as “time off for good behavior” when it came to undercover agents going rogue and then returning to duty. I’d be punished for as long as he held a grudge, which meant I had no incentive to earn brownie points and gold stars for staying late and working past quitting time.
He’d better make this quick. I expected to be in the elevator by five sharp.
I slipped through the door just as he dropped into his rolling chair. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Take a seat,” Sanders said as he pointed to the chair across from his desk.
The clock on the wall said 4:59, but I sighed and sat anyway.
James pushed a stack of papers across his desk, clearing the top so he could rest his elbows on top of it and steeple his fingers.
He stared at me.
I stared at him.
Neither of us said a word.
Finally, he broke. “What are you doing here, Judah?”
Huh? Tension pulled between my brows. “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
“Here. At the bureau.” He pushed away from the desk and leaned back in his chair.
“You had a stellar career in the Navy. Graduated Quantico at the top of your class. And between you and me—you’re one of the best UCs we’ve got.
You’re intuitive, smart, and calculated.
You cultivate useful assets and get the best out of them. ”
I didn’t know what he was buttering me up for, but I didn’t trust the compliments.
“So what are you doing here?” he asked again.
“What do you want out of your time with the FBI?” He kicked one ankle up on top of his knee.
“You want to run up the ranks? You could go from SSA to ASAC within a year. Run your own field office within five. With your military experience, you’d be looking at a direct ladder that’ll take you as high as you want to go.
You could be the director one day.” He reached over and picked up a pen, rolling it between his fingers.
“You want something more like what you were doing in the SEALs? I can make a call and put in a good word to get you over to HRT.”
HRT wasn’t just any ol’ division. The hostage rescue team was the elite of the elite in the FBI.
It was the equivalent of the most experienced units of the military’s special operations.
They worked domestically, responding to hostage situations, threats of terrorism, and complex situations that required extensive tactical experience.
I was qualified, but getting onto HRT definitely wasn’t a “put in a call” kind of favor.
“I’m happy where I am now. I like the mix,” I lied. “It’s a good blend of fieldwork and research. You’ve put together a good team.”
The corners of Agent Sanders’s mouth tightened in disdain. “Here?” he said in a blend of annoyance and disbelief. “Doing fucking secretary shit all day?”
“It’s a good refresh on all the cases we’ve worked,” I said casually. “It makes the transition from living under a cover to being back in the office a little easier.” Lies. All lies.
But he didn’t know that. He was too busy being pissed that I didn’t take the bait.
“I’ll be frank: you have no future in this department,” Sanders said. “Not after that stunt you pulled. You know we have no tolerance for UCs acting outside of the—”
“I was cleared by OPR, so if you have an issue with me after their investigation, I recommend you take it up with them.” I made a show of glancing at the clock. “If there’s anything you’d like to discuss about my current job performance, I’ll be back tomorrow morning at nine a.m. sharp.”
Sanders gripped the armrests of his chair like he was trying to crush them in his palms. “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”
I pushed out of the chair and rose. “Oh, I finished archiving all of the reports.”
His eyes flicked to me, full of fury. “All the ones you were working on today?”
“No. I finished all of them.” I grinned. “I look forward to whatever you have for me tomorrow.”
There was an extra spring in my step as I exited the building and headed to the parking garage. I had gotten a new car after blowing up my other one. Even though this one had the new car smell and heated and cooled seats, I missed the truck.
Driving up to New Haven at rush hour was the dumbest thing I’d ever done. It added an hour to the trip, and most of that was just creeping through Manhattan at a snail’s pace. Any other day, I would have taken the train.
It was still light by the time I pulled into the parking lot of Amelia’s apartment complex, but just barely.
I hopped out, popped the trunk, and grabbed the bag I had stashed there this morning.
When I’d escorted Amelia back to her apartment last night, we didn’t touch. We didn’t make small talk. She let me sweep the rooms, clearing them to make sure no one was lurking in the shadows. And when I walked back to the front door, I spotted one very important piece of information.
She would be meeting with her therapist in person today at exactly seven p.m.
The after-hours appointment was a courtesy, but her therapist wanted to meet with her in person following Amelia’s first day back to teaching.
Cole was working in the area, so he personally tailed her from a distance to make sure she got there safely and texted me when she was in the building.
It wouldn’t be long before she was back, so I made quick work of picking the lock to her apartment and slipping inside.
Thankfully, Joel was gone too. I didn’t feel like losing my kneecaps today.
Amelia kept her place clean, which made bugging it just a little harder.
I had a feeling that her not immediately telling me where to shove it came from the fact that she was tired. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally.
No matter how worn down she was, I knew that, if she was aware I let myself into her apartment . . . again, she’d take a swing at my kneecaps herself.
That was why she wasn’t going to find out.
I was doing it for her safety.
Everything I ever did was for her.
I could have tried to reason with her, but I had a feeling she would object to me installing a very discreet security system of sensors on the door and windows that would let me know whenever someone came or went.
. . . And maybe some pinhole cameras in the communal spaces.
It wasn’t like I was putting cameras in her bedroom or the bathroom. Amelia lived with her brother. She wasn’t lounging naked in the living room on a daily basis.
Installing them would give me some peace of mind and keep her safe.
One of the tech savants Cole worked with at Keller & Associates hacked into the Alcott University security system and siphoned off the feed into their servers, giving them live access to Amelia’s workplace.
Unlike Alcott’s system that deleted footage after forty-eight hours, Keller & Associates would archive it indefinitely.
The upside of apartment living was the limited egresses. There was one door and, since she wasn’t on the ground floor, window entries were highly unlikely unless someone rappelled from the roof.
I did one final pass through the apartment, checking the video feed on my phone to make sure I had eliminated any blind spots.
The window in her room was my biggest concern.
There was a massive tree outside of it that could give someone access, should they be determined enough.
It wouldn’t be a discreet way to enter, since someone would have to climb the tree, a balcony, and the side of a building, but I’d done crazier things for Valentine.
Nothing was beyond the realm of possibility.
I tested the window and winced when the shrill sound pealed out of the earbud I wore, piercing my eardrum.
Yep. That worked.
Amelia wouldn’t hear a thing, but I would.
If I couldn’t get to her, Cole or one of his teammates could. If they couldn’t, I’d call 911 or the New Haven field office. I needed to grease some wheels with them so they didn’t think I was overstepping if I needed their help.
I locked her window and turned to leave when I froze mid-stride.
The book of poetry I had been reading at the cabin was on her bedside table. Her train ticket was in it as a bookmark. Beneath it was the notebook I had been writing in.
I hadn’t intended for her to find it, but maybe—just maybe—she’d know it had been real for me too.
Loving her was never something I could fake.
Not once, during the entire investigation into my actions, had I ever apologized. I wouldn’t. I refused to feel any sort of guilt over what I felt for Dr. Amelia Hawthorne.
That would be like feeling guilty for breathing.
She was undeniable.
I had just locked the front door behind me when footsteps echoed up the stairs that led to the parking lot. I shouldered the backpack and untucked my shirt, hiding my gun.
I hated carrying a gun, but I wasn’t about to get written up for something stupid if I got caught without it on my person. The whole “don’t commit crimes while committing crimes” thing still rang true, especially when it came down to bureau policy.
“Hey, how’s it going?” The nonchalant greeting the guy offered as he passed me on the way up was muttered without expectation of a response.
I kept walking, but his footsteps stopped.
I turned the corner to go down the next set of stairs and glanced out of the corner of my eye to find Jake Hastings staring down at me as I headed to the parking lot.
Shit.