Chapter 26
Austin
“What’d you leave out?” I asked as Gibson drove away from SSI.
“The CIA investigated the Singers, but despite the accusations, there was no evidence they’d turned traitors.”
Someone had left the doctored case accusing them open, so they’d looked guilty for the last twenty-five years.
“And?”
“The officers from the audio are dead, so they aren’t responsible for whatever is happening now.”
“And?” I hated it when Gibson held back.
“And I need to know you aren’t going soft on me.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what was that display in the conference room?”
Me losing my edge. Me going soft. Me putting the case in jeopardy because I cared more about Nina than being professional.
“Nina needs to be handled carefully.”
“And that requires you to keep touching her because?”
“Because I won’t risk blowing this investigation because she clams up.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“Fuck you, Gibson.”
“Right back atcha, Boss.”
I didn’t have to tell him he was right. This investigation was different. I was handling it differently.
Nina had gotten under my skin, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t shake the desire to take care of her and the need to protect her.
“What else do you know?”
“This stays between us.”
Fuck, I won’t like this.
“We’re being watched.”
Instinctively, I glanced in the rearview mirror, but nothing stood out.
“Digitally?”
“Both.” When I glanced in my mirror, he added, “They’re not behind us right now.”
“Do you know who?”
“No. Whoever traced our steps to find Nina covered their tracks better than we did.”
Of course they had. We didn’t realize we had to until it was too late.
And now I’ve placed Nina in even more danger.
We had more questions than answers, and getting those answers just got harder.
“But their CIA?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“Yes.”
“We need outside help,” I stated the obvious.
“Not SSI.”
“No, the connection is too obvious.” And getting more involved would put the employees and their families in danger.
“I can reach out to my guy."
"Not yet." I didn't want to more people involved yet.
"Tell me when."
I nodded, hoping we wouldn't need to call in any more help.
“We need to cover our tracks and throw them off our scent.” He laughed, reminding me that he liked this part of the job just a little too much.
I thought about what that meant. I’d have to add notes to the investigation file and dismiss the Nina connection. Buy burner phones. Rent a car and change hotel rooms.
“Can Sheppard get us burner phones?” Gibson asked.
Why didn’t I think of that? “I’ll ask.”
“The fewer bread crumbs we leave, the better.”
I glanced at Gibson. He nodded.
It was official. We were going after one of our own. A criminal in our house.
A foe who’d be as well-trained and experienced as we were.
A faceless adversary with a head start in the game.
“Shit.”
“We have targets on our backs.” He didn’t need to remind me.
“We need to know who’s behind the scope.”
“I’m working on it.”
Back in my temporary Dallas office, my left eye twitched as I typed my falsified notes. Lying on an official report went against my core beliefs, but the threat to Nina was from someone within the CIA, and putting an innocent in danger was out of the question.
In the back of my mind, I thought about Nina’s blanket and stuffed bear and wondered what secrets they might hold.
Until I knew who we could trust, falsifying a report was the safest course of action for everyone involved.
Gibson and I would follow up on the rest of our to-do list after we’d left the office. Too many opportunities for prying eyes and listening ears.
The CIA didn’t bug their offices, but corrupt personnel might have bugged ours.
It sucked knowing someone in our agency had traded their patriotism for greed, but no agency was without its fair share of bad agents. People who abused their knowledge and power for personal gain. No matter the cost.
The biggest mystery was the supposed treasure the Singers had hidden away. There had to be proof of the treasure somewhere if people were still ready to kill for it twenty years later. We just have to find it.
The people after Nina weren’t interested in her. She was just a means to an end. They wanted the treasure mentioned in the video transcripts and files, and they wouldn’t hesitate to kill her after they got what they wanted.
They had to know it was a long shot. Nina was an infant the last time she saw her parents, and according to the medical examiner’s report I’d just finished reading, they’d been dead approximately twenty-two years.
They died after the Foster’s home burned down.
Shit, did they die thinking their daughter burned to death?
Maybe the two cases were connected. I made a mental note to access the police and fire reports.
What a clusterfuck. We had seemingly non-related events tied together with the flimsiest of connections and next to no evidence.
My path so far was a collection of random, unconnected circumstances that lined up perfectly if you looked at them in relation to each other.
My current investigation led me to a cold case. The cold case led me to two bodies. I’d received the lab report today confirming my suspicions; the DNA tests positively identified the bodies as Travis and Melissa Singer.
I added asking Nina for a DNA swab to my list. I had zero doubts she was the Singer’s missing child, but I’d need hard evidence for my final report.
The old CIA reports listed several theories explaining why they’d gone missing. The theories given the most credence were that they’d turned traitor and gone to work for one of our enemies, or they’d sold out, taken a huge payout and run.
Given their histories and track records, neither scenario fit.
Without hard evidence, they weren’t convicted, but the accusations lingered.
The Singers getting murdered by corrupt CIA officers covering their tracks made a hell of a lot more sense.
It still shocked me that the higher ups accepted the theories and wrote them off as missing in action, persons of interest, presumed dead. The CIA tagged the Singers as wanted for questioning. Any agency, foreign or domestic, friend or foe, would see that the minute they ran a search.
I looked at my notes.
If I can falsify a report, so can others.
History is written by the victors, a quote drilled into our heads at the Farm.
The key takeaway—victors can, and do, manipulate the truth.
What if they were investigating someone higher up the chain of command?
That’d explain the sloppy investigation work, the POI tags without solid evidence, and Gibson and I coming under surveillance after looking into the case.
I leaned back in my chair and let my mind conjure up theories. At this point, no theory would be too far-fetched.
Did someone kill Nina’s foster parents? The reports stated that the fire was accidental, not arson. But what if?
What if the person responsible for killing the Singers linked Nina to the Fosters?
What if they searched the house before setting it on fire, then paid the fire inspector to lie?
I couldn’t dismiss it outright, but it didn’t stand up to scrutiny. If the guilty party had linked Nina to the Singers, they would’ve taken her before setting the fire.
I need to look deeper.
A knock sounded on my door. I closed my laptop and pocketed my personal phone before saying, “Come in.”
Gibson left my door open as he plopped into the old canvas covered chair on the opposite side of my desk.
“Weatherford was a dead end, so I’m thinking we focus on the current case.” It scared me how easily he could slip into a lie.
“Agreed, the link to the Singers was tenuous at best.”
People assumed lying and subterfuge came naturally to CIA officers, but it didn’t.
For some, like Gibson, lying was a cakewalk. For others, like me, it made our skin crawl.
I wasn’t the guy running clandestine ops; that was Gibson.
I was the guy doing the research, deep diving into every dark corner and making connections others didn’t see. When I went undercover, I drank coffee and manipulated people into sharing their secrets with a friendly American.
Lying on reports, stealing evidence, and baiting traps were all things I could do. Had done. It just wasn’t my strong suit, and I hated doing it.
And I’ve never had to use my skills to catch a criminal on my home turf.
“Let’s brainstorm over pizza and beer at the mom and pop joint everyone’s been recommending.”
The mom and pop joint in question was a local hangout for the personnel in the Dallas office. It’d be easy for a fellow officer to follow us without standing out.
Time to go fishing.
The Bunker Tap and Grill was exactly what I’d expected.
The American flag had a place of honor behind the bar, and flags from the military branches decorated the walls.
Scattered in the spaces between the flags and pictures of men and women in uniform were banners with patches from local law enforcement agencies.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked. It felt a little too obvious to be a CIA hangout.
“Yup.”
“Sit wherever you’d like,” a tall woman in her late thirties shouted from the bar.
We chose a seat in the middle of the dining room and waited for our server to bring us menus.
“Tonight is four dollar domestic tap night,” she said as she handed us our menus. “You guys need a minute?”
“We do, thanks,” I answered.
“Sausage, pepper, and onion sound good?” G asked.
“Good enough.” Once again, I found myself missing Roni’s home-cooked meals.
If I had a chance, I’d schedule dinner with my family before leaving the area again.
After ordering a large pizza and two pints of domestic beer, I said, “Too bad the Singer connection in Weatherford was a bust.”
Without context, that information meant nothing.
“It happens.” G shrugged it off. “We follow dead ends all the time.”
“You’d think with modern technology there’d be fewer,” I pondered.
“You’d think.”
Our server dropped off our beers.
G lifted his. “To fewer dead ends.”
“Amen to that.”
We clinked our glasses, then tapped them on the table, and drank.
After we finished eating, Gibson challenged me to a game of pool.
“Fifty bucks, I can beat you.”
“You’re on. You grab a table, I’ll order another round.”
I ordered the next round and paid the bill so the server could free up our table.
G racked the balls. “I’d say we’ll flip for it, but I don’t have any coins.”
“Neither do I. Rock, paper, scissors?”
“What are we, five?” He laughed, already warming up his hand for the game.
“Best two out of three.”
My paper beat his rock.
Expecting him to throw paper, I threw scissors and lost.
Thinking he wouldn’t be dumb enough to throw rock a third time, I made a fist. And lost to his flat hand.
Ryan Gibson was one big, badass, scary motherfucker, and he’d just reminded me that his brain was far more dangerous than his brawn.
He sank three balls on the break; the two solids meant he’d given me a freebie by sinking my first stripe.
We dropped more hints about how we’d have to start over on our investigation.
They’d mean nothing to anyone without a working knowledge of the case.
We hoped that the right person would overhear.