“I’m so done with this crap,” Tara said, pulling out her phone. “I spent a week talking to him, and things seemed to be going well. Then this morning he messaged me to say that he’d had a dream about me last night, and that he woke up like this—” She held up her phone, showing Jessica a photo of a man’s hand wrapped around an erect penis.
Hello. “He just sent you that out of the blue?”
Tara set her phone back down. “Oh yes. Because, apparently, in today’s day and age, a woman saying, ‘Hey, you seem cool, maybe we should meet for coffee,’ is code for ‘I’m horny, please send me a picture of your penis.’ And what sucks is how normal these guys seem at first, so I’m thinking, ‘Hey, maybe we actually have a connection here; maybe I somehow miraculously found a normal, single, thirty-something guy.’ And then—bam—dick pic.” Tara paused as the waitress stopped by their table. “Sorry, you caught me midrant.”
“Tinder?” the waitress asked.
Tara turned to Jessica. “See? Be glad you can’t be on it. I think I’d rather be single for the rest of my life than debase myself with any more of this shit.”
Jessica smiled at the waitress. “Any wine recommendations? What can you pour the fastest?”
After they ordered drinks and some appetizers, Tara switched gears. “So. Tell me what’s going on with John.”
Prepared for this line of inquiry, Jessica shrugged. “He’s gone. He left for Quantico two weeks ago.”
“How are you doing with that?”
“I’m fine.” Both Jessica’s tone and expression were relaxed. “It’s not like his leaving was a surprise.”
“And how’s John doing? At Quantico, I mean,” Tara said.
Jessica paused, not having anticipated that particular question. “Actually, I haven’t talked to him. But I’m sure he’s doing just fine.”
Tara raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said this Hostage Rescue Team is a big deal. You’re not curious to know how it’s going?”
“It’s a very big deal. But trust me, if anyone can handle it, John Shepherd can. He’s one of those people who are good at everything.”
“Don’t you hate people like that?”
Jessica chuckled. “Sometimes, yes. Although, professionally speaking, it’s not a bad quality to have in one’s partner.”
“True. But if he’s that good, maybe it’s not entirely a bad thing that he’s gone.” Tara grinned. “Now you don’t have to fight with him to be the superstar of your office.”
Knowing Tara meant the comment as a joke, Jessica smiled. “Exactly. Good riddance.”
But then, out of the blue, her eyes prickled with tears.
Quickly she looked away and cleared her throat.
Tara leaned in and squeezed her hand. “Aw, Jess. I’m sorry. I was just trying to be funny. I thought that’s what we do when it comes to you and John.”
“That is what we do,” Jessica said firmly. Yes, the good-bye with John had been harder than she’d expected. And yes, maybe, she’d been working even more than usual to keep her mind off him. But if that was what she had to do, so be it.
John was gone. That was the reality of the situation, so these persistent sad feelings she kept having—or whatever they were—needed to hit the road pronto. Like a gray, early-morning fog that lingered past noon, they had long overstayed their welcome.
“I’ll be fine,” she added, seeing Tara’s look of uncertainty. “Really. Joke away.”
Tara seemed to consider that and then nodded. “Okay.”
That settled, they both leaned back in their chairs as the waitress dropped off their glasses of wine. From her sheepish smile, it was clear she’d overheard the last part of Jessica and Tara’s conversation.
“I swear we’re not normally this dramatic. You’ve caught us on a very odd day,” Jessica said.
The waitress chuckled. “It’s all good. I’ll check back on you guys in a few minutes.”
After she left, Tara held up her end of the deal and kept the conversation light and fun. “So, I’m guessing you at least got some hot good-bye sex before John left.”
Jessica shook her head at that. “Unfortunately, no. I’d been in South Carolina for an undercover assignment, and there were bad storms the night I was supposed to fly back to Chicago. I got stranded there.”
“Ugh. That sucks. Did the airline at least put you up at a hotel for the night?”
“Actually, I didn’t spend the night in South Carolina. I rented a car and drove home.”
Tara blinked. “You drove from South Carolina? What’d that take you? Fourteen hours?”
“Twelve hours and twelve minutes,” Jessica said proudly. If nothing else, she had, at least, made very good time that day.
“Twelve hours and twelve minutes. In a rainstorm,” Tara said.
“Technically the rainstorms cleared up by Tennessee. But yes.”
Tara looked her in the eyes. “All so that you could see John.”
The bluntness of the comment caught Jessica momentarily off guard. But then she scoffed. “I mean . . . I just wanted to get home. I suppose, in part, that was to see him. We are friends, you know.” She took a sip of her wine, going for casual.
“Hmm. Right.”
Seeing Tara’s mouth quirk upward, Jessica sighed. “Do not make a big deal out of this.”
“Oh, honey, we are so past the no-big-deal phase. That ended the moment you said you drove halfway across the country, overnight, just to say good-bye to the man.”
“I had a gift for him—a very nice bottle of bourbon. I didn’t want to see it go to waste.” When she saw that this only made Tara’s smile widen—yeah, fine, even she couldn’t sell that one—she regrouped and went for a more pragmatic approach. “Look, maybe it meant something. But it doesn’t have to mean everything. John’s in Virginia. I’m here. It is what it is.” She looked at Tara pointedly. “And before you say whatever it is I can see you’re dying to say, keep in mind that it’s not like he’s been blowing up my phone these last two weeks. I haven’t heard from him once since he left.”
“Maybe he’s been pining away and avoiding the situation the same way you are.”
A sudden ember of hope flared inside Jessica. Staying rational, she quickly stamped it out. “I’m not pining.”
“Does John know you drove from South Carolina to see him?”
Jessica shook her head. “We didn’t have a lot of time the morning we said good-bye. And I felt weird telling him, anyway.”
Tara cocked her head, her expression curious.
Jessica frowned. “What?”
“Hypothetically speaking,” Tara led in.
Jessica groaned. “Oh crap, not this again.”
Tara ignored her. “Is there any way around the transfer rule with the FBI? Any exceptions, say, for badass undercover agents with top-notch records?”
“You’re not seriously asking me this with respect to a guy that I slept with for two weeks, are you?”
“South Carolina, Jess. What’s that, like, seven states you had to drive through?”
“Six. Three of which are very skinny,” she shot back.
“Besides, you’ve known John a lot longer than two weeks. So, come on. Are there any exceptions to the FBI transfer rule?” Tara pressed.
“No. Two years is the minimum before I could even try begging for another transfer.”
“Oh.” Tara’s shoulders slumped. “Damn.”
A silence stretched between them, and Jessica knew she should simply let the conversation die there. Really, she should.
But something compelled her to keep going.
“However, the D.C. office is generally considered the easiest field office to get to as a special agent. It’s filled with people who want to climb the ladder instead of doing the actual work. So while I couldn’t officially transfer
there, at least not for two years, I might—might—be able to get a TDY. Hypothetically speaking,” she was quick to add.
“What’s a TDY?” Tara asked.
“Temporary duty.”
“I see.” The gleam had returned to Tara’s eyes. “And . . . D.C. is close to Quantico, isn’t it?”
“About twenty-five miles away.”
Tara’s gleam grew into a full-fledged grin. “So there is an option, if you and John wanted to make a go of it.”
Jessica held out her hands, incredulous that they were even having this conversation. “I mean . . . technically, yes. But it’s not a good option. First of all, I wouldn’t even request the TDY until I’d been in Chicago for at least a year. I can’t keep asking to move around. That would mark me as trouble.”
“All right, so we’ve got some office politics to work through. But still, now we’re looking at only a one-year separation between you and John, instead of two or three.”
“A year minimum, and one in which he and I would hardly ever get a chance to talk, let alone see each other. He’ll be going through months of intense training at Quantico, and then they’ll be sending him to specialty schools all over the country.” Jessica pointed to herself. “And I don’t exactly have a nine-to-five job, either. How are we supposed to build a relationship through all that? Hell, I couldn’t make my marriage work with a schedule that wasn’t half so chaotic.”
“It wouldn’t be easy,” Tara agreed.
Jessica kept going, barely hearing her at this point. “And all of this is based on the assumption that I’d be willing to move to D.C. That I’d be willing to leave my home, even though I like being back and close to my family and to you. And despite the fact that my career is on a great track here in Chicago.”
“That would be a lot to give up. Any guy worth all that would have to be very special.”
Jessica looked her friend over. “Why are you so in favor of this? You were the one encouraging me to have fun with a Mr. Wrong who I would shamelessly use for dirty, no-strings-attached rebound sex.”
“I’m not in favor of this. Heck, I don’t want you to move to D.C.” Tara sighed. “I don’t know, maybe you’ve caught me in a funny mood here, after encountering yet another jerk on Tinder this morning. But as someone with a lot of experience with what’s out there, I can tell you that finding somebody who makes you happy, and gets you, and respects you, is a special thing. And I guess I’d like to think that when two people feel that way about each other, somehow, some way, they can find a way to make it work.”
Jessica said nothing at first, then shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Christ, you get one dick pic and suddenly you’re as sappy as a Hallmark movie.”
Tara laughed. “So ignore me. We’re speaking hypothetically, anyway, right?”
“Yes.” The word sounded a little uncertain, so Jessica said it again more convincingly. “Yes.”
• • •
Monday morning, Jessica arrived at the FBI office bright and early. She’d been feeling a little off all weekend, ever since her conversation with Tara, so she was eager to get back to the familiar routine of work.
The office was relatively quiet; most of the agents on her squad weren’t in yet. She returned a few e-mails as she sipped her coffee, and then, as she had every morning for the last two weeks, she unlocked the top drawer of her desk, where she kept Ashley’s cell phone—the burner she’d used while working undercover in the Jacksonville investigation.
Leavitt had e-mailed her last Thursday to let her know that the U.S. Attorney’s Office had taken the Blair case to the grand jury, and that the mayor, as well as the eight developers who’d bribed him, had all been indicted. Leavitt expected they would be making their arrests imminently, as soon as they finalized the logistics. Because the plan was to arrest Blair and the eight developers all at the same time, it would be a coordinated effort by the Jacksonville field office, involving forty-five special agents grouped into five-person arrest teams.
She opened the desk drawer and turned on the phone, expecting to find the same thing she’d found every morning for the last two weeks: nothing. But this time, she saw that she’d missed one call and had a new voice-mail message.
From Blair’s private cell phone.
Jessica listened to the message and played it back a second time. Then she grabbed her own phone and called the Jacksonville field office.
“Are you sitting down?” she asked, when Leavitt answered.
“Yes . . . why?” he asked.
“I think you might want to hold off on Blair’s arrest.”
32
The following day, over seven hundred miles away, John and his six classmates lined up along the bank of the James River, just a few miles south of the Chesapeake Bay.
Standing in front of them while giving out instructions, per usual, was Tom Watts, their NOTS coordinator. In his clipped, brash tone, he told them that anyone who didn’t want to partake in this particular activity was free to stay on the riverbank.
John exchanged a subtle glance with the guy standing next to him, Tony Rivera, a special agent from Nevada. Whether the activity was phrased as an option or not, he and his classmates knew this was another test. The James River jump was an annual NOTS tradition, an initiation ritual for all HRT operators.
No new recruit would ever lose the respect of his teammates by sitting this one out.
The task, as explained by Watts, was straightforward enough: climb sixty feet up a caving ladder to the gunwale of an old freighter docked in the river, wait for his signal, and jump.
“Keep your toes pointed down and your body straight and tight. Land wrong, and it’ll be like hitting a brick wall at forty-five miles per hour. That won’t be pretty.” Watts nodded in Tony’s direction. “Rivera, you’re up first. Shepherd, on deck.”
There was some good-natured taunting and trash-talking as the group made its way toward the freighter. Per tradition, they would be scored on their jump, so they were all pumped on a mix of competitiveness and adrenaline.
The rest of John’s classmates came from around the country, with a variety of pre-FBI backgrounds: a civil engineer, a surveillance specialist, a Marine sergeant, an ICE agent, a cop, and an Air Force pilot. They were a solid group, each of them confident, athletic, and highly capable. So far, the seven of them got along well—which was a good thing, seeing how they spent sixteen hours a day together.
Their mornings began sharply at five A.M., with Watts leading them through a routine of agility drills, long-distance runs, high-intensity interval training, and close-quarter-battle sessions. Afternoons typically were spent on the shooting range, for combat firearms training, and then there were lectures in the evenings, after dinner. Intermixed with that over the course of the next eight months would be several types of specialty training: explosives breaching, knot tying, fast-roping and rappelling, fire training at the “hot house,” high-speed evasive driving, and dignitary protection.
Every day, John and his classmates were tested. Their instructors pushed them to their limits and beyond, demanding that they move faster, run farther, hang on longer, shoot better, and trust themselves to take more risks. The days weren’t easy, not by a long shot, but there was no complaining in NOTS. Every recruit had volunteered for the job, and, as they were frequently reminded, if they didn’t like it, they were free to leave. These were life-and-death stakes they were preparing for, and nothing less than complete dedication to the team was acceptable.
And so John gave them exactly that.
As he had with Selection and as a Ranger, he threw himself into every task, drill, and challenge. For those sixteen hours each day, he pushed himself physically and mentally, to the point of exhaustion. And he felt it, too. Every night, when he got back to the corporate housing apartment he’d temporarily rented and climbed into bed, his body was aching, bruised, and be
gging for sleep. By all rights, he should’ve passed out cold and been dead to the world for hours. But instead, he found himself lying awake in the dark, feeling restless and edgy.
So the next morning, he’d start again and push himself even harder.
John’s mind snapped back to the present as Rivera hit the water with a splash. He and his classmates cheered from the shore when Rivera’s head popped up in the water a few seconds later. A handful of HRT divers, hanging out on the river in a Zodiac boat with Watts, shouted out Rivera’s scores.
And then John was up.
He scaled the caving ladder, climbing up to the cargo ship’s gunwale. Heights had never bothered him, so when he got to the top he checked out the view while adjusting the strap of his helmet. The James River stretched out for miles, its shores lined thick with trees just beginning to show off their fall colors. Up here, he couldn’t hear his classmates bantering on the shore, nor Watts and the diving team in the Zodiac—everything was quiet and still.
It was quite peaceful, actually.
Perched on the edge of the gunwale while waiting for Watts’s signal, John took a moment to soak it all in. Six years ago, he’d come to Quantico with the goal of ending up right here, in this very spot. The men floating in that Zodiac, his classmates on the shore, and the rest of the operators back at the HRT compound were among the best of the best, part of a team—a brotherhood—that had judged him during Selection and decided that he was worthy of being included in their ranks.
He inhaled deeply, waiting to feel a sense of fulfillment.
But instead, as he stood there, sixty feet above the water, his brother’s voice popped into his head.
If Jessica had been looking for something more serious, you would’ve had to leave for Quantico knowing that you might’ve actually had a chance with her.
“Fuck,” John muttered.
Steeling himself when he saw Watts’s signal, he looked ahead at the horizon and jumped.