Page 25 of Avenging Jessie
As they reached the curb, Jessie glanced over at him. “You really think Flynn’s gonna get axed over this?”
Spence hesitated, then gave a single, grim nod. “I think everything’s about to blow. And we need to be ready when it does.”
Eleven
Jessie
The meeting pointlooked like the kind of place people went to vanish.
Under pouring rain, thanks to the storm system moving through the area, a half-collapsed loading dock slouched behind a wall of stacked shipping containers, graffiti bleeding across the rusted steel. A single overhead bulb flickered and buzzed, casting strobe shadows across the cracked asphalt.
Jessie scanned the perimeter from the rental car, every nerve on edge as her nose picked up fumes of oil under the scent of rain. “Too many entry points. Too easy to bottleneck us.”
Spence shifted in the driver’s seat, calm in that unnerving way of his. He hadn’t spoken much—just drove them out here like a man on rails, locked in his head and scanning the digital map in his mind. “He won’t bottleneck us,” he said. “If he’s going to screw us, he’ll drive a truck straight through and detonate it.”
“Comforting.” Her hand went to her waist to check her sidearm before she remembered she wasn’t carrying.
And didn’t that make her feel even more like a sitting duck?
This meetup wasn’t just about buying gear, and it wasn’t a simple dead drop with a street-level asset. This was black market territory. An appointment with someone who didn’t give a damn about CIA credentials or mission parameters.
Jessie held onto the door handle. Her gaze snapped to every movement in the shadows around the hulking warehouse. A dog barked in the distance, and once in a while, she heard engine noises from the highway.
Her fingers drummed on the handle in time with the rain. It wasn’t only this setup that had her skin prickling. It was Washington.
Flynn’s warning replayed in her skull on a loop. If he went down, Black Swan went with him. If the division fell, so did every operation they’d worked on. Every life they’d saved. Every file they’d buried and every enemy they’d arrested.
They’d become fugitives overnight. Not soldiers. Not operatives.
Ghosts.
Ironic, that. Part of their off-the-books description wasto be ghosts. To stay in the shadows so the world didn’t know who they were or what they did to protect their country.
The worst part? If the Black Swan Division were terminated, Brewer would win.
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen. She mentally repeated her promise to Flynn as she checked her watch. It was still early in D.C., but the president and her advisors would call their morning meeting soon, if they hadn’t already. “You think he’s already gone? Flynn?”
Spence didn’t answer immediately. The sound of a diesel engine growled in the distance, growing louder. “He’ll fight until they drag him out by his badge.” He glanced at her, voice like cut stone. “Deputy Director Stone and Director Allen will fight to save him. I want to believe he’ll survive this morning’s meeting and still be standing, but let’s be prepared for the worst-case scenario. From here on out, until we hear differently, we act like we’re on our own.”
A van appeared without headlights, its matte black body gliding into view like a predator emerging from the gray mist. No plates. No markings. Just a shadow with wheels.
Jessie gripped the handle tighter. “Tell me again that this guy doesn’t kill his clients after they pay.”
Spence didn’t smile. “He only kills the ones who lie.” He cut the car engine. “And I did betray him once, so stay alert.”
“You what?” She flicked a glance his way and caught his wink. Was he kidding? She wasn’t sure. “Okay, good to know.”
The van stopped twenty feet ahead under an overhang for deliveries that no longer came. “Come on,” Spence said, exiting the car.
Jessie opened her door with care. Stepped out. Her boots crunched on broken glass.
Every instinct screamedambush, but she walked forward anyway, ignoring the drenching she was getting, only because Spence was at her side.
If Flynn was out, if Langley turned its back on them, if Black Swan collapsed in the fallout—they’d have only each other.
The van’s side door screeched open like the gates of hell. A man exited. He was late forties, maybe early fifties, and moved with uncanny grace—rigid spine, squared shoulders, every step economical and silent. She inventoried him from head to toe. Combat boots. Weathered cargo jacket. Glock holstered at his side, and a KA-BAR strapped to his thigh that told Jessie this guy didn’t rely on bullets.
Beneath his untamed hair and a thick beard, his eyes were stone. No shine. No warmth. Just a cold, calculating void that said he’d been through enough wars—official and otherwise—that nothing surprised him anymore.
