to a Russian crime group, the Chinese government, and lastly, to Hamas.” Something in the admiral’s eyes when he’d spoken suggested to A.J. he was holding back, not telling them everything, but A.J. wasn’t sure if he was prepared to press the issue.
“These sources are managed under the FBI’s Confidential Human Source Program—HUMINT. You’ll be monitoring a team of six agents, the ones operating those aforementioned sources in conjunction with the corresponding field offices under the leadership of their unit and section chief,” Natasha said. “We were also alerted their unit is receiving an additional agent on Monday, but we’re still firming up the details on that.”
“The President agrees you all are best suited to handle this situation,” the admiral began, drawing their eyes, and A.J. felt something big was coming, the “whatever he’d been holding back” was on the verge of heading their way. “Especially since there’s a small chance that the Daylight Ledger may be mixed up in all of this.”
“I thought that was an urban legend. A myth,” Roman spoke up, since of course, Roman would know what in the hell the Daylight Ledger was when the rest of the guys, aside from Harper, looked puzzled.
Harper and Chris both opened their folders as if quickly ripping off the Band-Aid, intrigued to learn more.
A.J. wasn’t ready yet to view the possible agents who were sworn to protect their country only to screw it over. There was a special place in hell for traitors. He also didn’t know if he was ready to chase down an urban legend when he was already chasing ghosts from his past, ghosts that felt real since yesterday.
“Ohhhh shit.” Chris grumbled before Roman had a chance to explain more about the ledger. A few more curses under Chris’s breath stole A.J.’s focus.
Chris’s eyes landed on A.J., and A.J. just knew what that “ohhhh shit” meant. It probably had nothing to do with the damn light-of-day, or whatever it was called, list, either.
A.J. flipped open the folder and stared at the photos of the six potential traitors before him, but it was only one that caught his eye.
The redhead he couldn’t stop thinking about.
The woman he may or may not have accidentally drunk messaged last night.
Chapter Six
Ana was at the office, so she shouldn’t have had her personal phone glued to her ear, once again replaying A.J.’s voicemail from Saturday night. No, she should’ve been focused on the unit’s major crisis, but she couldn’t help herself from listening one more time.
She’d been right to fear A.J. would be a distraction, and a massively inconvenient one at that. Thoughts of him had bounced around her mind all day yesterday. And even now, his voicemail, his sweet words . . . while obviously drenched in booze, somehow brought a smile to her face on such a bleak day. A day when her world was quite possibly on the verge of flipping upside down.
She ended the voicemail before it finished and set her phone next to her keyboard.
Her desk was sparse. No picture frames. No knickknacks. Nothing personal. No way for others to glean any information about the type of person she was, and that was how she liked it.
Cold. Dead. Heart. But her cold heart had warmed a touch when listening to A.J.’s message. It was all so strange. So unlike her.
Focus.
After her promotion, but prior to relocating to D.C., she’d returned to Quantico for a four-week course specific to her new line of work in counterintelligence, which was aptly nicknamed “Spy Hunting” by her colleagues at the Bureau. And catching spies was pretty much her job for the National Security Branch of the FBI.
Most of her work had to do with recruiting and creating sources. Turning criminals and spies to the side of Uncle Sam. For a price, of course. Some sources made six figures a year, substantially more than her salary, courtesy of the government.
Americans often believed the age of spies was a bygone era that belonged to the Cold War, but that was the furthest thing from the truth.
No, there was a race to steal secrets in every corner and crevice of American society. From universities to corporations—everyone was capable of becoming a target.
Absolutely everyone.
Even me.
“Hey, Red.”
“Can’t come up with anything more original?” Ana spun in her swivel desk chair to eye Dean, one of the six members on her task force. Most squads at the FBI field offices were made up of ten to even thirty agents and analysts. She’d quickly learned Headquarters