Page 3 of Code Name: Admiral

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ADMIRAL

Ihated cold coffee. One would think, given how often I drank it, I would’ve acquired a taste for it by now, but I hadn’t. Its bitter dregs served as a constant reminder of all the times I’d gotten too wrapped up in cases and forgot the steaming cup on my desk.

“Hey, Admiral. The boss is waiting for you to start the briefing,” Tank said, sticking his head in my door.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” Both Tank and I were former military, and he knew as well as I did that my cavalier attitude would’ve never flown with an active-duty commander. Back then, being thirty seconds late for any briefing would’ve earned me a creative form of punishment involving push-ups, extra duties, or both. The memory of those days still made my shoulders straighten instinctively.

The FBI was different. These days, I was almost always the first one in the room, and being kept waiting pissed me the hell off.

This particular meeting was one I would’ve given just about anything to avoid. If an urgent call came in right now, requesting a special agent in charge, I’d be all over it. Hell, I’d take a cat stuck in a tree if it meant dodging this briefing. The weight ofwhat was coming pressed against my chest like a bulletproof vest worn too tight.

Knowing I’d stalled longer than I should have, I picked up my cold coffee and walked down the hall, hoping my boss had already started and wouldn’t notice me walk into the room. It wasn’t that I was worried about him giving me shit for being late—we were long past that kind of formality. No, I wanted to stay as far from this case as I possibly could.

It involved a death linked to the Castellano crime family, currently one of the most powerful Mafia organizations operating out of New York City. That the woman who’d died was a six-year agency veteran who was undercover at the time of her death pushed this case ahead of all the rest. But that wasn’t what made my stomach churn. Soon, I’d have to recuse myself, and when I did, I’d be forced to finger a guy who’d been like a brother to me when we were growing up.

Bobby. My cousin. Born four months after me, he was my only male relative on my father’s side in my generation. In high school, he’d been the football star, well-liked by everyone, and destined for greatness. Me? I was the kid who spent lunch periods in the library, reading about military history while Bobby held court in the cafeteria, and who was still only half his size when we graduated.

It wasn’t until I went to college that my growth hormones finally kicked in. In my first semester at Cornell University, I shot up six inches, then grew four more in the following six months. I filled out enough that, if we were still in high school, I could’ve given Bobby a run for quarterback. But by then, our paths had already diverged so dramatically that comparing ourselves seemed pointless.

Sadly, while my life had improved exponentially, Bobby’s took a turn for the worse. In his first semester playing college ball, an injury had him sidelined for the season. He got addictedto the pain meds his doctor prescribed, and when it came time to wean him off, he moved on to the harder stuff. Or so was the story my father had told me, his voice always dropping to a whisper when he talked about it, as if speaking it too loudly would make it more real.

At the time, I was at Cornell on an ROTC scholarship that required I serve four years in active duty after graduation. Between the crushing academic load of an Ivy League school, classroom instruction, field training exercises, leadership labs, and the physical fitness required to keep my scholarship, I spent every break at school rather than going home like most other students. The military had become my new family while my blood relatives became increasingly distant figures in my rearview mirror.

Consequently, by the time I’d served two years post college before being recruited out by the FBI, I had zero situational awareness of the road my cousin had taken. The Bobby I remembered from childhood existed only in faded photographs and holiday memories. The man he’d become was a stranger wearing my cousin’s face.

Six years later, that stranger was back on my radar, but for all the wrong reasons. I’d recently been promoted to the bureau’s Criminal Investigative Division—or CID. It was the primary unit responsible for overseeing investigations of traditional crimes such as narcotics trafficking and violent attacks. In particular, transnational organized crime. The irony wasn’t lost on me that my first major case would involve the boy who’d once defended me from schoolyard bullies.

“Admiral?”

“Here, sir,” I stood and responded when my boss called out the code name I’d been given by my college detachment. Being named Pershing, after the famous World War I general, it was almost inevitable I’d end up with a military nickname. ThoughI suspected my unusual fascination with naval warfare history and my service in that branch of the military had influenced it equally.

I glanced over and saw the bureau’s deputy director, Chad Sweeney, walk in and stand near the back. We made eye contact and both nodded.

It was Sweeney who’d convinced me to transfer to the Manhattan field office from Albany. He was also the person who’d originally recruited me and negotiated my early release from the Navy.

While I didn’t get to work directly for him then or now, I’d always admired the guy. Regardless, I couldn’t help but wonder why someone two ranks above the man speaking was attending this briefing. Was it because the victim was an agent? That seemed like a stretch. Another thing that confused me was why our division—Criminal Cyber—was so deep in an investigation that should’ve belonged to the branch specializing in organized crime.

“Admiral, my office, as soon as this briefing concludes,” I heard the executive assistant director of our division, Drake Harrison, code name Grit, say from the front of the room.

“Yes, sir,” I said a second time, my throat tightening. This was it—the moment I’d been dreading since I first saw the surveillance footage.

Twenty minutes later, I followed him out of the briefing. Grit moved with the same precise efficiency he’d learned in the service, though he’d traded the structure of the military for a more relaxed FBI environment a few years ago.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a conference table that had seen its share of difficult conversations.

When an electronic evidence board lit up, I cleared my throat. “Before we get started, sir, there’s something we need to discuss.”

“Your connection to Bobby Kane?”

“Yes. He’s my cousin, sir.”

“Took you long enough,” said Grit, leaning up against the wall with folded arms. “I take it you watched the footage from the night Agent Gordon died?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

“Can you positively ID him? And before you answer, can you cut the ‘sir’ shit?”

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