A Murder in Time(5)

No, Kendra thought. There was no way they were going to keep her from the front lines when this operation went down. She raced after Carson. “Sir. Sir?”

Carson gave her an impatient look. “In case it’s escaped your attention, Special Agent Donovan, we don’t have a lot of time here.”

“Yes, sir. I want to be in on the final phase of the operation.” Kendra fixed her gaze on his. “I’m not a computer geek,” she reminded him, and again had to fight to keep her voice steady. But she was tired, so damned tired of having to prove herself. When she’d first joined the FBI, they’d taken one look at her and stuck her behind a desk. She’d fought hard for a chance in the field. To prove herself. The chance to be treated like everybody else.

Yeah, as if.

Her stomach knotted, but she refused to look away from the assistant director as he scowled. “I’ve been trained for the field—I’ve been in the field,” she pointed out. “You know that. You know I can handle myself.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Carson growled.

“She got Greene . . . and Balakirev.” Thompson, who’d been standing near the window, pocketed his cell phone and now strode toward them. Something in his demeanor suggested that he didn’t give a damn whether the woman went on the mission or not—he just liked pissing off Carson. “We’re wasting time. You may have been put in charge—” Despite his best effort, irritation sizzled to the surface. Bureaucratic bullshit, to give jurisdiction to the f*cking FBI. “—but we need to lock this down. Today. If you can’t, the FBI can kiss my ass, because I won’t have you screwing this up.”

He shouldered his way past them, disappearing out the door. The three CIA agents followed. They were too well-trained to smirk, but by the gleam in their eyes, Kendra got the impression they were smirking all the same.

Carson glared at the departing men. Fucking spooks. Then his gaze shifted back to Kendra. Thompson was right—and he’d eat nails before admitting it—but they were wasting time.

“Fine,” he spit out. If there was one thing he’d learned in the last eight months, it was that Kendra could take care of herself. She’d been born to win. Literally.

“Sir?”

Carson gave Sheppard a narrow-eyed look as he approached. “What is it, Agent?”

“Well, I am a computer geek . . . but I’d also like to be part of the final phase of the operation. I’ve had field experience.”

“I don’t have f*cking time for this!” Carson snapped. “Fine—we’re all in on the final phase. Happy? Now I want those goddamn blueprints! We’ve got five hours to finish this mission. We need eyes and ears in the warehouse so we can hook Greene and f*cking nail Balakirev. No one leaves this building. No one takes a piss without my permission. I want Balakirev by nightfall or all your asses are on the line.”

Kendra was careful not to smile, but she felt triumphant. She’d won.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.





2

At somewhere north of 2.6 million residents, Brooklyn was the most densely populated borough in New York City. Even so, there were isolated pockets within the big, bustling city that made it feel eerily deserted. The warehouse in which Balakirev had made his base and that Sir Jeremy owned was in one of those pockets, too far from prime waterfront real estate to entice developers to tidy up the area and create upscale condos and lofts, cute little boutiques, and quaint restaurants.

Here, it was still gray and grimy. Beneath the swath of overcast sky, bunker-like structures and Quonsets lined the dingy streets. A scattering of semitrucks were parked next to warehouse loading docks, but it was Sunday, so the normally frenetic hustle was reduced to those tired souls anxious to clock out and get home to maybe crack open a beer and veg out in front of whatever game was playing on television. Thanks to Team One, the perimeter around the target was clear.

Kendra surveyed the scene from inside the Batmobile—the military van with souped-up technology that only the U.S. government could afford. Less than a mile away from where they sat, Kendra imagined the city pulsing with life, vibrant and wonderfully chaotic: people strolling, chatting, having a late afternoon coffee or early dinner at the small restaurants that dotted the streets.

Being normal.

Just for a second, wistfulness welled up inside Kendra. It shook her. Or more aptly, the wanting of it shook her. Normal was something she’d never had, never been. Didn’t know how to be. And because she didn’t know how to be normal, she chose to be good—very, very good.

“Nervous?”

She glanced up at Sheppard, who was squished next to her. He looked different, tricked out as they all were in a black military flak jacket, helmet, and tactical gloves, and carrying the standard-issue SIG Sauer. Prior to that moment, the deadliest object she’d ever seen in Sheppard’s right hand was a computer mouse. Though after eight months of working side-by-side with him, watching as he hunted in cyberspace, Kendra knew that Sheppard with a computer mouse in his hand could be pretty damn deadly.

She smiled slightly. “No. You?”

“Shit, yeah. I haven’t been out in the field in six years.”

“Why’d you come then?”

He grinned, blue eyes twinkling. “Maybe I wanted to see you in action. See what everyone’s talking about.”