So Sinister (Faith Bold #31)

PROLOGUE

“I don’t give a shit!”

Jackson Entwhistle regarded the screaming passenger with the laid-back calm that had become his trademark over the years.

His junior agents shuffled their feet nervously as their boss held his ground against the belligerent asshole who insisted that his needs mattered more than the hundreds of other passengers in line at the security checkpoint at Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport.

The guy was big, drunk, and amped up by the disapproval of the crowd behind him.

To emphasize that point, he turned around and extended both middle fingers at the catcalling passengers. “I don’t give a shit!” he repeated, almost triumphantly.

Sure enough, the belligerent passenger's defiant glare instantly became an uncertain calculation. He looked at Jackson warily, trying to decide if Jackson intended to fight him right then. Jackson didn't, but he kept his hand where it was. "Let's talk over here, sir."

He gestured with his head to a corner a little bit removed from the line and partially shielded by a conveniently placed post. They called it the time-out corner because it was where they put misbehaving children, like this gentleman.

The man pulled slightly, again gauging Jackson’s intentions. Jackson didn’t yank the arm, just kept his in place and held the man’s gaze. This time, Colonel did react, not growling but ceasing the wag of his tail and adding the force of his gaze to Jackson’s.

The passenger chuckled and stepped back. Jackson released his arm, and the passenger lifted his hands in a whaddya want me to do? gesture.

“I have to get to Houston tonight, or I’m going to lose a nine-million-dollar deal. Do you get that? That’s what, a hundred times more than you make in a year?”

More like two hundred. “Let’s talk over here.”

“I don’t want to talk over there. I want to get through this goddamned line and make my goddamned flight.”

“That’s not going to happen, sir.”

The passenger took another step backward, blinking stupidly.

It was clear he had no idea how to deal with Jackson.

He was probably used to most people capitulating to his bullishness with maybe a few of them getting in his face and returning anger for anger.

Jackson's calm tone and firm grip unsettled him.

“I can’t wait,” he protested. “My flight leaves in twenty-three minutes.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Unfortunately, you need to go to the back of the line and wait.”

“Why?”

“Those are the rules everyone is expected to follow.”

A flush came to the man’s cheeks. How dare Jackson treat him like everyone else? “No one else here is making a seven-figure deal in five hours.”

Jackson was completely certain that deal was made up, but he didn’t argue the point.

He just gestured to the back of the line.

The passenger breathed heavily, then met Jackson’s gaze.

His lower jaw jutted, and Jackson prepared for the next phase of the argument, the one that started with, “I want to talk to your supervisor.” Jackson would inform him that he was the supervisor, and no, he wouldn’t be going to his supervisor.

They’d argue further until eventually, the passenger worked up the courage to be stupid or the intelligence to just do as he was told.

Perhaps thanks to the way Colonel lowered his head, this man found his intelligence early.

He stomped to the back of the line, muttering curses but otherwise not bothering anyone.

Jackson reached down to pat Colonel’s shoulder and nodded to Harry.

The junior agent gave him a thumbs up and flagged the man’s boarding pass so security both on and off his flight would know to watch him.

The other passengers began to cheer, but a look at Jackson’s sober face told them it was better to just take their victory in silence. The line continued to move, and all was right with the world once more.

***

Jackson sighed with relief when the door of his home in Mount Washington closed behind him.

He hated days watching the line. Well, hate was a strong word.

These days, he had a hard time feeling strongly about anything.

A better way to put it would be that days on the line drained him considerably more than days managing the K9s.

He was self-aware enough to understand that was mostly because managing the K9s involved very little work.

In his five years as supervisor of the TSA’s K9 program at Thurgood Marshall, he’d called upon his dogs exactly seven times.

Of those seven times, exactly zero were actual bombs.

Three of them were ordinary, mundane packages, two were specialized cosmetics that weren’t recognized by the system, one was an empty milk carton, and one was a kid’s drawing of a bomb wrapped around a cereal box filled with packing peanuts.

It was a testament to the monotony of the job that the last one had attained almost legendary status among the security officers at Thurgood Marshall.

Of course, the job hadn’t always been monotonous. When Jackson ran the EOD program at Thurgood Marshall, he’d experienced an incident that more than made up for the boredom of the rest of his career.

But that was years ago, and he’d learned his lesson. In fact, now that he thought about it, he was perfectly fine with the job staying boring.

He pulled his coat off, hung it on the rack by the door, kicked his shoes off, and left them underneath the rack. That brought another sigh of relief, and he headed for his kitchen for the best relief of all, the one glass of red wine he allowed himself per day.

He stopped halfway there. A box sat on his coffee table. It was about nine inches square and wrapped in iridescent paper that appeared to be left over from someone’s Christmas. A bright pink bow sat atop it.

Jackson’s brow furrowed. Had his daughter sent him a present? It was possible, but it was a month past his birthday and several more before Christmas. She’d already sent him the foot massager he looked forward to using later that evening.

A more chilling thought came to him. How did the package get inside? He hadn’t lived with anyone else since his three-month exercise in idiocy with Chenise, and that was three years ago.

He walked toward the box and picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy and felt colder than the air around it. A touch of disquiet came to him, but it wasn’t until he heard the soft ticking sound inside the box that he realized what he was actually holding.

His jaw went slack, and his eyes opened wide. “Oh, shi—”

He stopped when a shadow fell over him and the box. He started to turn. Then he opened his mouth to swear again.

He didn’t get the chance.