Chapter 22 #2
“The stakes changed when we decided to expose federal corruption instead of running away.” She leans forward, meeting my gaze with steady resolve. “I stood beside you in Washington, D.C. I helped analyze evidence that could get us all killed. Don’t try to protect me by cutting me out now.”
The argument we’ve been having in various forms since she told me about the pregnancy resurfaces with familiar intensity.
My every instinct screams to keep her safe, to lock her away from danger until this is over, but I also understand the woman I fell in love with isn’t someone who can be locked away without damaging the trust between us.
“If you come, you follow my rules completely.” I study her face, looking for any sign of compromise or uncertainty.
“You stay in the vehicle. You stay out of sight unless something goes catastrophically wrong. Do you know how to shoot?” The question occurs to me suddenly.
I’ve been assuming she can handle a firearm, but we’ve never discussed it.
“My father taught me.” Something shifts in her expression, revealing a hint of fondness from an old memory.
“He took me to the range several times a year from the time I was eight and even arranged trap shooting for one of my birthdays when I turned sixteen.” She gives a nostalgic smile. “Some sweet sixteen party, huh?”
I smile but quickly return to the topic of discussion. “You’re comfortable with firearms?”
“It was always more his thing than mine, but I’m competent. Dad insisted I understand gun safety and basic marksmanship.” She pauses, seeming to consider her next words. “I never thought I’d be grateful for those lessons, but I am now.”
“Good. You’ll carry a pistol, and you’ll use it if necessary to protect yourself.”
She doesn’t hesitate to say, “Agreed.”
That partially mollifies me but the speed of her acceptance makes me suspicious. “I mean it, Celia. This isn’t negotiable.”
“I understand the risks. I also understand that we’re stronger together than apart.” She reaches for my hand. “Besides, you need someone watching your back who isn’t walking into potential gunfire with you.”
Leonid closes his laptop with finality. “The meeting is set for tomorrow afternoon in a remote forest location in Washington state. According to topography, it has multiple exit strategies and minimal exposure time. In and out is only a brisk mile walk to the location I’ve picked, with a parking area nearby.
” He looks between Celia and me. “If we’re doing this, we do it right.
You’ll have binoculars and a parabolic mic to hear and see the meeting but maintain a safe distance. ”
She nods her agreement, and I finally huff a sigh. “Fine. You can come.” She knows better than to give me a smile of victory, but I can hear her cheering in her head. I’m a fool, but I’m her fool and can’t change that now.
The next afternoon finds us driving through winding forest roads toward coordinates that place us thirty miles from the nearest town in Eastern Washington.
The SUV handles the rough terrain easily, but tension fills the enclosed space like smoke.
Celia sits in the back seat, hands clenched around the strap of her bag, watching the forest flash past through tinted windows.
“Final rundown,” says Leonid without taking his gaze off the road. “Meeting is transactional. Get the intelligence, verify its authenticity, and get out. No unnecessary conversation, and no extended exposure.”
I check my sidearm for the third time, muscle memory from years of operations where preparation meant survival.
“Celia stays with the vehicle, engine running, and ready to move if anything goes wrong.” I turn to look at her.
“If shooting starts, you drive away. Don’t wait for us, and don’t try to help.
Get to the secondary safe house and wait for contact. ”
Her reflection in the rearview mirror shows the kind of expression that suggests she’s agreeing to something she has no intention of following through on, making me snort and shake my head. “Understood.”
The rendezvous point comes into view through the dense forest. It’s a crumbling structure that appears to have been a ranger station several decades ago.
The building’s collapsed roof sections, shattered windows, and weather-stained walls tell a clear story of long abandonment.
It is an ideal location for a covert meeting, provided that our contact is truly the only person aware of its existence besides Leonid, who picked the meeting spot.
I scan the surrounding forest through binoculars, looking for signs of surveillance or ambush. The tree line offers dozens of potential hiding spots, but I don’t see movement or unusual shadows. Either we’re alone, or whoever might be watching is better at concealment than I am at detection.
“Vehicle stays running, doors locked, and windows up.” I turn to face Celia. “Any sign of trouble, you leave immediately.”
She nods, though her grip on the pistol I insisted she carry suggests she’s prepared for possibilities beyond simple escape.
Leonid sets up the parabolic mic for her, showing her how to use it.
Right now, it reveals the sound of wind blowing through the trees, but it’s working.
She lifts the binoculars he gives her and focuses on the wrong area.
I gently redirect her toward the dilapidated structure. “We’re meeting there.”
She flushes but gives a small chuckle. “A sense of direction isn’t my forte.”
Overcome with fear of losing her, I pull her in for a long kiss. “Be safe and make smart choices.”
She nods. “I will.”
Leonid and I cautiously approach the building, weapons ready but not obviously displayed. It’s the kind of alertness that comes from years of walking into situations where the difference between suspicious and dead is measured in milliseconds.
Inside, our contact waits with obvious nervousness radiating from every movement.
It’s a man, and younger than I expected, probably in his early thirties, with the kind of pale complexion that suggests too much time in front of computer screens.
His gaze darts constantly to the broken windows and doorways, fingers twitching with barely controlled anxiety.
“You came alone?” His voice carries the strain of someone operating far outside their comfort zone.
“As agreed.” I keep my own voice neutral and professional. “You said you had something we need to see?”
He produces a manila folder from his jacket, thick with documents and photographs.
“I’ve been compiling this for a while and had planned to turn it over to internal affairs, but I realize how that would end now.
I’d be dead, and nothing would change. You see, Lang was never the top of this thing.
He was only middle management. The Belovs financed his entire operation, but they’re not the only family involved, as you’re aware. ”
I accept the folder and flip through its contents quickly.
There are black and white surveillance photos, financial transfer records, and internal memos with official letterheads.
One document stops me cold. I curse as I lift a forged federal warrant with my name typed clearly across the top, authorization for lethal force if I resist arrest.
“They’re planning to frame you for the murder of Assistant Director Patricia Hendricks.
She’s a clean agent, twenty-year veteran, and has two kids.
” The contact’s voice drops to barely above a whisper.
“They plan to make it look like you killed a hero to cover your tracks and get every clean agent in the Bureau hunting you personally.” His voice trembles. “Notice the name on the warrant?”
I curse again as I read aloud, “Director Stephen Frayne.” I look at him. “This goes all the way to the director?”
The young man nods, looking sick. “You’ll see now why I’m turning it over to you and pulling a Snowden. I have a flight booked for Moscow that leaves from Tacoma in three hours.”
The information is like a fist to the solar plexus.
They’re so desperate and so outside the bounds of law that they’re not just corrupt.
They’re willing to commit murder and frame innocent people, and the Director of the FBI is authorizing it.
Whatever I’ve done in my life, it’s nothing compared to this.
A sound from outside freezes all conversation. It’s the distinctive crack of a high-powered rifle. Our contact’s expression shifts from nervous to terrified in the space of a heartbeat. Then his chest explodes.
Blood sprays across the folder in my hands as he crumples forward without ceremony. Leonid curses and drops to one knee behind fallen debris that used to be part of the wall. I slam the folder shut and dive for cover as another round splinters the wooden beam above our heads.
“Sniper on the east hill!” Leonid’s voice cuts through the chaos as he draws his sidearm.
We return fire toward the tree line, using short controlled bursts designed to suppress rather than eliminate. The goal is survival and escape, not prolonged engagement with an unknown number of attackers in an unfavorable position.
During a brief lull in incoming fire, we bolt from the building in a controlled sprint toward the SUV. The clearing feels endless, with every step measured against the possibility of another rifle shot finding its target.
More rounds crack past our heads as we close the distance, finding cover among the trees once we leave the cleared area. As we get closer to the parking area, I see Celia in the driver’s seat through the SUV’s windows, but something about her posture looks wrong. She’s too rigid and too still.
As we reach the vehicle, I realize why.