Page 17 of Smoke and Shadows

The news stunned everyone. Some sat with their heads bowed in dejected resignation. Marissa felt a slight queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Matthews’s death indicated one thing; the bodies were piling up.

“Foul play?” Allison asked quietly.

“Probably,” Yeager said. “Too much of a coincidence. AGS confirmed the death of one of their retired agents three weeks ago. Another one barely survived. But I don’t see a connection between Matthews and this string of assassinations. Marissa?”

She shook her head. “I don’t.” But Harry Matthews played a pivotal role in getting Viktor and his men dischargedfrom the Army for insubordination more than eighteen years ago. That mission was to extract Russian scientist Luski, his wife, and daughter in exchange for information regarding a plutonium cache. The CIA reneged on their deal with Luski, and instead, decided to go for the bigger fish when the Russian mob turned up at the Luski house. Viktor paid Matthews back—from Deputy Director of Clandestine Service demoted to case officer. Marissa wasn’t aware of the details of Harry Matthews’s fall from grace, but she knew that Viktor had everything to do with it. Her eyes widened. “Unless—”

No. It wasn’t possible. He wouldn’t.

“What is it, Marissa?”

“I need to speak with you privately, Sir,” Marissa requested.

Yeager's eyes narrowed, but he nodded for everyone else to leave.

“Allison. You stay,” Marissa informed her analyst.

After the final person left the room, Marissa said, “We need to find out what files Matthews had accessed in the last three months.”

“What are you alluding to?”

“I have a hunch,” Marissa said. “But if proven—it could get ugly.”

Yeager cursed under his breath. “Matthews hasn’t been very happy with the agency for a long time. I was surprised he hadn’t retired sooner. But I don’t think he’d sell us out, Cole.”

“I don’t either, Director,” Marissa said. “But the NOC on the agents on Operation Smokescreen had been leaked. Matthews’s suicide reeks of conspiracy to silence the source.”

“Why?”

Marissa scowled.

Yeager took a deep breath and said, “Viktor Baran. It’s not far-fetched, but the last thing this agency needs is a scandal when our agents are being targeted. This may still be a simple suicide. Do this under the radar. You got me?”

“Understood.” Marissa turned to Allison. “The Smokescreen files reside on Argus and have been monitored these past three weeks for access. But we haven’t considered what was stored in the Cellar. I want you to track every item Matthews had checked out from there. Any questions?”

Allison shook her head.

Argus was one of the giant super-computers at the agency that contained highly classified and encrypted information. The Cellar, as the name implied, was a warehouse several floors below CIA HQS where any physical item related to an op or case—files, evidence, reports, disks —was stored.

“I hope you’re wrong about this, Cole,” Yeager said.

“Same here.” However, if she was wrong, they wouldn’t be any closer to finding who was intent on killing Guardians and CIA agents. And something told her the clock was ticking on the next target.

Parking!Marissa thought and swerved immediately to snag the coveted space. It was a few blocks from her house, but parking near Dupont Circle had always been a nightmare. Still, she loved her Victorian row house on T Street, although, she hadn’t had much opportunity to enjoy it lately. Marissa sent Allison home after laying out the strategy to handle the influx of information from their assets in Damascus and the CIA station in Lebanon. There was no movement on the money trail on the hit in Paris, and her analyst had been working non-stop for a month and deserved some semblance of a weekend. So she gave Allison firm orders to take a Saturday night and the whole of Sunday off because it looked like another hellish month ahead. When hitting a dead end, it was always helpful to take a step back and have a break before diving back in. A good rest might just turn the tide toward gaining a new perspective.

Before exiting the BMW, she clocked any possible threats. Situational awareness was deeply ingrained in her training; the man standing across the street idly fiddling with his phone, the person in the parked vehicle a few cars behind her, or the woman crossing the street in front of her. She double-checked the 9mm in her purse, making sure the safety was off. In an emergency, an engaged safety on a gun could make the difference between life and death.

Her heels clicked noisily on the sidewalk, and she winced at the damage that the intricately paved walkway would inflict on her pumps. Shoes and clothes were her guilty pleasure. Besides, she wanted to keep up her cover as a successful architect. Marissa’s face lit up when she spotted her neighbor, Brian, grinning at her. His dog, Bruiser, a Bullmastiff mix, was sitting beside him, drooling all over the ancient mildew-stained concrete steps that led up to the house.

“Hey, stranger,” Brian drawled in that sexy Southern accent that used to make her melt. He had moved in next door three years ago after his divorce. As an aide to a congressman, he was well versed in Beltway politics and had a personality of charm and tenacity. Add in the mesmerizing pull of those baby-blue eyes, a lean, muscular body, and a busy schedule, he’d been perfect as her once-upon-a-time fuck buddy. Heck, she hadn’t had sex in six months—although, Brian had always made it known that he was available. “Haven’t seen you around.”

Marissa grimaced. “Tough project. Boss is a slave driver.”

“So quit. You don’t need the money,” Brian said. “Have some fun.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Marissa laughed. This was why she liked Brian. He wasn’t complicated—he wasn’t after commitment. There was no awkwardness between them. They knew what they wanted out of their friendship. He wasn’t demanding or autocratic like one other man she knew.

“Hey, boy.” She bent slightly to pet Bruiser. Big mistake.The gigantic dog rose up on his hind legs and nearly knocked her off her feet. She avoided that disaster, but her suit ended up with a gooey streak of disgusting dog drool.

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