19. Delayed by International Crime
DELAYED BY INTERNATIONAL CRIME
MILES
By Monday afternoon, Maxwell Shaw has survived two rounds of Julian Rooke’s vetting, and we are no closer to proving that Rooke is selling the identities of six living CSA assets.
We do, however, have a new lead.
Emerson stands at the front of the conference room with a web of names projected behind him.
Rooke is at the center. Around him are confirmed clients, suspected clients, employees of Rooke Strategic Services, businesses his clients have used, and a growing collection of people who may have performed a single favor without ever knowing whose operation they were part of.
“The contact relay that handled part of Maxwell’s second-stage verification overlaps with one from a suspected Rooke transaction eighteen months ago,” Emerson says.
Nora adds a photograph to the display. A man in his early fifties wearing an employee badge.
“Daniel Acer,” she says. “Logistics coordinator for a commercial property management company. Clean financials. No criminal history. Nothing connecting him directly to Rooke.”
“Except?” Evelyn asks.
“A secure contact number used during Maxwell’s verification pinged a device associated with Acer for four minutes this morning. Then, it went dark.”
“Of course it did.”
I study the connections on the screen. We know Rooke sits somewhere behind them. That’s no longer the mystery. The problem is proving which people know they’re working for him, which are doing favors for someone who knows someone, and which have no idea they’re part of a criminal operation at all.
Rooke has built exactly the kind of network I would have admired if he weren’t using it to sell people’s lives.
Emerson points to Acer’s photograph. “He normally leaves work at six. Based on the activity around the relay today, we think he may make a handoff tonight.”
“Handoff of what?” I ask.
“We don’t know.”
Ledger sighs. “I’m noticing a theme.”
Evelyn looks at both of us. “Follow him. Identify whoever receives it. Do not intervene unless circumstances require it. If this is part of Rooke’s current transaction, I want to know how far the chain goes.”
I nod. It should be straightforward.
My phone vibrates beside my notebook. Like a good operative, I ignore it during the briefing.
We spend another fifteen minutes discussing vehicles, routes, and contingencies before the director dismisses us. Ledger heads toward the equipment room. Emerson remains behind to reorganize information on the screen. Nora returns to her station.
I pick up my phone and see there’s a message from Reese.
Reese: I’ve got an important relationship question.
I stare at it. The words are significantly more alarming than any combination of shell companies and covert aviation providers.
Miles: I’ve got an important relationship answer.
Miles: Probably.
Miles: Maybe.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then appear again.
Reese: Are you ever going to kiss me?
Everything inside me stops.
The sounds of the operational floor continue around me. Nora is talking to someone in Technical. A printer starts behind Emerson’s desk. Ledger calls my name from across the room. None of it registers properly.
I read the message again. Are you ever going to kiss me?
I have spent years imagining kissing Reese.
Not constantly—that would make functioning difficult.
But often enough that I know several versions of it.
A first kiss in the university library, before I witnessed her reaction to my Winter Ball question.
One in my car after a late-night drive. One in her kitchen while she was laughing.
One during any of the hundreds of moments when she stood close enough that I could see the tiny golden flecks in her eyes and had to remind myself that friendship was the only thing she wanted.
I almost kissed her on Saturday. I only stopped because I felt the moment deserved room. Apparently, Reese has decided the room is ready.
I type and then delete several responses.
Yes.
Absolutely.
I almost did on Saturday.
Name a time and place.
I can be at your house in twenty minutes.
I settle on When can I see you? and press send. Her answer comes before I can take another breath.
Reese: Tonight?
Miles: Yes.
Reese: You answered quickly.
Miles: I’ve had time to consider the general question.
Reese: How much time?
Miles: Years.
The dots remain on the screen longer this time.
Reese: Right. Still adjusting to that.
Reese: 7:00?
I begin typing Yes when Nora’s voice stops me. “Miles.”
I look up. She is standing behind her workstation, one hand pressed to her headset. “Acer just left.”
I glance toward the clock. “So soon? Where’s Ledger?”
“Equipment.”
Nora’s expression changes as she looks at my phone in my hand. “Bad timing?”
“The worst.”
“Target’s heading west on Interstate Seventy.”
I look down at Reese’s message again.
For one irrational second, I consider how quickly we could complete the surveillance, find the target, and identify the contact. Could it all happen before seven?
No. I know better than that. Operations do not respect schedules, dinner reservations, or first kisses.
Miles: I’ve just been pulled into something. I can’t see you tonight.
The message shows as delivered. I hate how much it resembles the kind of text I sent her for years. An abrupt cancellation. A vague explanation. The difference is that now she knows what the words mean.
Reese: Classified something?
Miles: Yes.
Reese: Okay. Go do mysterious government things.
Reese: But I’m putting the kiss on your pending-task list.
I smile despite the ache of disappointment.
Miles: It was already at the top.
Reese: Good.
Reese: Stay safe. I’d hate to have to start over with another best friend.
Miles: Impossible. The position has been permanently filled.
Ledger crosses the floor carrying two equipment bags and stops beside me. “Are we leaving?” I nod, and his gaze drops to my screen before returning to my face. “You’re smiling.”
I slide my phone into my pocket. “Target is already moving.”
Ledger studies me for another second. Then his expression changes. “That was Reese.”
I take one of the bags from him. “She asked when I’m going to kiss her.”
Ledger goes completely still. It is the most effective way I have ever found to silence him. Then his face splits into a grin. “She asked?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“So, why aren’t you kissing her right now?”
I look at him, and he looks toward Nora. “Yeah, that’s some terrible timing.”
As we’re in the elevator, heading down to the parking garage, I pull my phone out once more and reread Reese’s texts, trying to soak them in. Then I turn off the screen and lock it in my equipment bag.
We leave the CSA in a dark sedan registered to one of the agency’s cover organizations, and Nora directs us toward Acer’s vehicle. He is twenty minutes ahead of us, but a slowdown ahead traps him long enough for us to close the distance.
By six ten, we have him in sight. He leads us west for nearly an hour, then spends the evening drifting between a grocery store, a gas station, a pharmacy, and a diner.
By nine fifteen, we have learned nothing except that he needs milk, batteries, disposable razors, and an unreasonable amount of time to eat alone.
At nine fifteen, he drives into a multilevel parking garage near a commuter rail station and gets out.
“This looks more promising,” Nora says over comms.
We shadow him between levels until he stops beside a row of commuter storage lockers. He opens number thirty-eight and places something inside before closing the door. Then he walks away without looking back.
“Transfer confirmed,” I say. “We’ll wait for the recipient.”
Ledger switches off his mic and asks, “How was the date?”
I let out a breath as I switch off mine, too. “Remember when you said, ‘Just because you make a detailed plan, doesn’t mean things will go according to it’? One of us probably should’ve knocked on wood.”
“That bad, huh?”
I nod. “I had planned to take her on a sunset cruise, where I would open up to her about how I’ve felt about her for years. Maybe even kiss her. It was the part of the date I’d thought through the most. And then we missed the boat.”
“It couldn’t have gone so bad if she’s asking to kiss you now.”
I smile, just thinking about her coming back out to my car after I had taken her home. It kind of changed how I looked back on the date. “Yeah. The date went well.”
At ten twenty, we’ve turned our mics back on, no one has approached the locker, and I’m forcing myself to stay focused instead of letting my mind wander to where it really wants to be—thinking about kissing Reese.
How it felt when I had my hand on her cheek or our foreheads pressed together.
Or how it felt when she came back and kissed my cheek.
And how much I wish I was there with her, right now.
At eleven forty-four, a woman wearing medical scrubs enters the garage and walks directly to locker thirty-eight.
“Possible recipient,” I say.
She enters a six-digit code, and the lock releases.
She pulls out a padded envelope, replaces it with a folded piece of paper, and leaves.
We follow her, and forty minutes later, she pulls into a twenty-four-hour laundromat.
She carries the envelope inside and walks past the six people in the building, placing the envelope inside an empty detergent box on top of a vending machine.
Then she begins loading quarters into a washer as though she intends to remain.
We wait. At one twelve in the morning, a delivery driver enters the laundromat carrying a stack of restaurant menus. He leaves menus near the door, walks past the vending machine, and swaps the detergent box for another without breaking stride.
“He has the envelope,” I say.
The driver exits through the rear. We continue surveillance for another hour and a half as he makes two legitimate restaurant deliveries before stopping behind an office building and placing the padded envelope beneath the front passenger seat of an unlocked rental SUV. Then he leaves.