Girl Under Fire (A Sam Hemming FBI Thriller Prequel)

  Copyright © 2021 by Julia Payne

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  GIRL UNDER FIRE

  JULIA PAYNE

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Staying in Touch with Julia

  Other Books by Julia

  Chapter 1

  Raid

  I still couldn't believe Nyke's dumb luck. Of all the days this thing was supposed to go down, why did it have to be today? If I had a Christmas like everyone else, then this would be the whitest Christmas ever, and there would be presents. And family. Yes, definitely a family. But, no, not for me, it seems. That's apparently not in the cards I was dealt. I get a White Christmas chasing after the lead mobster from Mykonos.

  All the waiting is driving me nuts as I stand in the FBI's safe house in lower Manhattan. Somehow, someone who occupies a higher pay grade than I do think that letting Nyke get into the country and catching him here was better than bagging him at the private jet terminal where he landed. It's not how I would have done it, but whatever.

  My hand instinctively reaches to check my side holster. Part of me doesn't even realize I am doing that, but it has become a nervous tick of mine. And the hours before a sting can bring about a bunch of them.

  Nyke Pops was as icky as they came, but it wasn't the ick factor that got him on the Fed's most wanted list. It was money laundering that got their attention. There was already more than enough to put him away, but they wanted to nab him with the loot in his possession. Again, not what I would have done, but whatever.

  As I look down from the thirty-fourth floor of the building, I see the desolate streets of New York, ripped of merrymakers due to the blizzard that was almost upon us. On most nights like this – the night before Christmas, this would be crazy busy, but tonight, it was just lights and snow. Pretty. And mesmerizing, I think to myself, almost allowing the scene to seduce me into a dream state.

  But it's a working night; I remind myself as I see the reflection in the window. Harold doesn't know it, but I can see him walking up behind me. This was his operation. He had planned everything as best he could, considering that Nyke was a master of unpredictability, and the weather had moved in without much warning. It was a crapshoot all around.

  Harold is a nice guy. He was charming in his own sort of way. But a total worry-wort. Not sure how he got into Quantico or how he managed to get to be Special Agent in Charge. I find him a little wimpy, but I have to constantly remind myself that he has always had my back. And Millie, his wife, is a total sweetheart. If I were a guy, I'd probably have tried to marry her. She does deserve him, though. Harold is a straight shooter. What you see is what you get.

  "Do you still want to go through with this?" My boss asks as he falls within earshot behind me.

  "Yeah, what else can we do?" I reply, wondering what on earth he's talking about but not turning around to look at him. We are so far into this, and there is no way of explaining to the Attorney General that the FBI backed off a bust because of a blizzard. It would redefine the term, 'snowflake.' No. We had to do this. But why he was giving me the option, I had no idea. My gaze, intoxicated by the falling snow, was not easy to break away from. I just wanted to watch and not engage Harold in a conversation, but I couldn't. I shake myself out of it. What did he mean that there would be a chase that would undoubtedly follow when the raid went down?

  To clarify my answer, I press the issue. "What do you mean. We have to do this. No?"

  "We do, but there are difficult circumstances to all plans. The boys downstairs say that the snow is already a foot thick, and we are just as the beginning. It's falling at about eighteen inches per hour. By the time this goes down, the bust might pose the risk of collateral damage."

  "So, get the plow to roll in front of us," I say as I look at the reflection in the window. I can tell he is worried, but I am pretty sure I can get this done. Bagging Nyke would be good for my career. It will even work in my favor if I decide to pull the trigger and send my application in for a position with the Secret Service.

  As I try hard to cut Harold out of my focus and get back to gazing, I hear Matt hurry up from the other room where they've set up the communications equipment.

  "They're early. It's going down now," Matt says.

  Now? The sudden change of pace from crystal snowflakes falling outside the window to an FBI sting about to get underway was unexpected; I thought as I grabbed my jacket and made sure my main weapon was locked and loaded. More clips surrounded my utility belt, and my backup gun sat silently in my rear holster. I've done this a million times in my decade-long career at the FBI, but it still gets me going each time. The suddenness of the mission had its benefits - adrenaline.

  I can almost feel the synaptic activity in my brain explode, but in a good way, I turn super focused as I swing around.

  Harold didn't wait for me to get going. He had moved ahead and planted himself at the communications station while I rushed out the door and took the express elevator down to the basement, where the rest of the team sat waiting. I hopped into the SWAT team's field command vehicle and took my place up front, like Mac, one of the best tactical drivers in the business, gives me the nod.

  "Strike Force Bravo is ready to move," Mac said, waiting for me to take control of the operation. The chain of command was strict. Mac only took his orders from me from that point onward. I took my orders directly from Harold. No one else was allowed to breach the chain of command.

  "I have control," I reply.

  In my earpiece, I could hear Harold asking for a com check.

  "Yeah, I got you, five my five," I answered, then looked toward Matt. "Let's go," I replied, giving him the final green light he needed to get underway.

  Keeping my head in the game was what would keep me alive until the night wound to its way to its logical conclusion. This was not the time for half-measures or inflated egos. I knew that. But Harold's question stuck in my craw like a splinter with an ax to grind. I still couldn't get why he seemed to be looking for an excuse to scrub the bust.

  But the second the lead Swat truck burst out of the basement and hit the asphalt behind the two snowplows, I put my head where it was supposed to be. We were flying blind on this one, and it wasn't just because of the snow. Nyke's rendezvous and where the bust would eventually go down were not known until the very last minute. Nyke was careful that way. He never set up meetings until just before the time it was due to happen.

  34th Street was dead silent except for the rumble of our convoy. I thanked the heavens for the two snowplows that cleared the road ahead. If it wasn't for them leading the convoy, I am not sure we would have been able to make it to the rendezvous point.

  I intended to use the back streets to get to where we were going, but Mac felt that using Park Avenue would be better strategically. Better planning would not have left this up to us to determine on the fly. But because we didn't know the rendezvous point, it became another hurdle to overcome.

  I could see his point, but I was looking at it tactically. Back streets were quiet, and we needed all the quiet we could get since no one was on Park during the blizzard conditions; I was sure the lookouts that would undoubtedly be parked on the intersections near Bleecker would see us coming from a mile away.

  "What's your concern about Park Ave
nue?" Harold asked over the radio.

  "Nyke is going to have lookouts as far north as Union Square. They are going to see us coming from a mile away. We need to deploy jamming equipment." I told him. My answer to his question was implicitly answered

  Mac nodded in agreement.

  "No doubt," Harold answered. "I'll take care of it."

  "How, boss? What do you have in mind?" I asked, hoping that he was reading my mind. The lookouts would be drones that would position themselves over the intersection and look down all approaching paths. At the slightest indication of trouble, the targets would be in the wind.

  "I've deployed a five gigahertz jamming device," Harold answered, the sound of ice in his voice coming across clearly.

  "Brilliant," I replied. It was exactly what I was thinking. Our communications channels were beyond civilian bands, and they were impervious to the jamming devices unless someone had the cryptographic code.

  "Okay, the drones are in position, and you were right. Eight drones were hovering at three hundred feet, and they were only transmitting video on the five-gigahertz wavelength. I let them fly but cut off their eyes."

  "Good thinking," I said as I figured he was definitely not on the ball tonight. He should have thought of it long ago. That bird should have been up above them while we were still in the basement. It would have only taken the drone. Cutting off their eyes alone was sufficient. Mac had just established himself on Park, and it was far enough down-range that they would not have picked up the convoy. Besides, our lights were all off. We were running night vision.

  The drive from 34th and Park down to Union Square felt like ages. I've been here before; when my juices are pumping, and I can feel the heightened pressure in my head, time seems to slow down. Everything leaves me with plenty of room to react. To make sure my brain can process all that, I have so much blood pumping to supply it with oxygen that it feels like I am about to stroke out. But I seem to be okay. The only thing I have to do is to remind myself to keep breathing so that there is enough oxygen for the blood to carry.

  "How's it looking on-site?" I ask. Harold now has a clear view of the vicinity where the meeting is going down.

  "Two cars just arrived," Harold replied.

  I sit up in my seat. It's getting real, I think to myself. Until we have eyes on them, everything usually just feels like a part of a plan. Once there are visuals; however, it starts to feel real, and the adrenaline gets amped up.

  "Is it Nyke?" I ask

  "No," Harold answers, his voice now showing a little excitement. It's getting real for him too. "It's someone I don't recognize," he says.

  "Let me see. Patch me into the feed," I insist, and I can hear him repeat my request to the techie working the drone control console. Mac's Crossing over from Park to Union Park East and heading south without breaking his rhythm. We are on time, and for an op that was this hastily thrown together, we seem to be doing well, I think.

  "Hang on a minute; they are patching the feed to your HUD," Harold advises. The techs at the Bureau are recruited from some of the best programs in the country. Doug – the kid at the console, was a whiz kid from Stanford. At fourteen out with a Ph.D. in software and hardware engineering by nineteen. Some say that he was the guy behind Bitcoin. He is supposed to be Satoshi Nakamoto. That would mean he developed Bitcoin – the cornerstone of all cryptocurrencies, at the age of twelve.

  I wait impatiently for the feed to show up on my Heads-Up Display mounted on the goggles I am wearing. In the course of a normal sting, all this would have already been done and ready for us. Not on the fly while we are in the process of executing the take-down. I still believe they should have taken Nyke down at the airport. But whatever.

  "Okay, here it is," Harold says as I see some static flutter across my goggles and the upper right-hand corner comes alive.

  "Who is that?" I start to wonder as I see the guy Harold mentioned. He was not on Nyke's list of known associates, and he was not supposed to be at this evening's meeting. "Who is that?" I repeat, a little louder this time directing my question to Harold.

  "I am running his image through facial recognition protocols. Give me a minute."

  "We are still a 'go,' right?" I ask.

  "Yeah, it is definitely a 'go.' Nyke just arrived. But something tells me that it's going to be one hell of a short meeting," Harold says. I detect a dose of premonition in his timbre. If I've learned one thing in the time, I've been at the FBI, and it's that instincts go a long way in law enforcement. None of that would hold up in a court of law, but intuition certainly comes in handy when one is flying blind like we are tonight.

  "The full complement has now arrived," Harold announced as I pondered the meaning of it all. The location, the new mystery guest, the way he got into the country. It was all just too chaotic and made me feel like I was pushed into it. It likely was what was stirring my trepidation. But we had just crossed another hurdle. Everyone that was supposed to be at that meeting, plus one, was now there.

  It was my cue to get the guys ready for the assault. "Alright, boys, let's look alive," I said, watching the mission panel on the dash—only thirty seconds to rendezvous based on the clock that was measuring our speed and distance. "Night goggles armed. Shooters, remember, no one hits Nyke. He's mine. You are free to shoot anyone else. No explosives if possible, and keep your body cams on."

  I turn my thoughts to Nyke in the few seconds I have before my game face comes on. He is one slick perp. Twenty years since his first appearance on the global scene of villains, he had only been brought in twice. Both were inside jobs. The first was a man Interpol got close to. They used a combination of threats and incentives to get him to turn on his boss.

  Interpol arrested Nyke in Cyprus but could not make the charges stick. He managed to use a series of high-profile lawyers and bribed a couple of key witnesses to take the fall for his misdeeds. The rumor was that he made a deal with the star witness to set his family up for life if he cooperated. The alternative was unacceptable. Nyke promised him that his family would be sliced, diced, and fed to the sharks if he sang in the witness box. I remember the look on the prosecutor's face as the witness recanted the testimony in court. The case was thrown out by the first afternoon.

  Then it was Scotland Yard's turn two years later. They had built a solid case. Nyke had crushed the British Pound in a move that almost bankrupted Britain and dragged the E.U. with it. Scotland Yard's Financial Crimes Division built a strong case and nabbed him as he landed at London's City Airport. Nyke made bail the same day, showed up in court, and, just like the first time, the witnesses recanted her testimony. He was out by lunch.

  This time, the Feds didn't want to make the same mistake as the other law enforcement agencies. They tried to catch him red-handed in the act. No more witnesses he could manipulate, and no more technicalities he could wiggle through. At the tip of that spear, the Bureau had placed me. Well...technically, it was Harold. But it was me on the ground.

  But that nagging feeling keeps bugging me.

  "Bravo Three in position on Lafayette," I heard a voice say, just as I was about to get a status check.

  "Bravo Two ready on Broadway," the second group's team leader announced, following his comrade, who made the first SitRep seconds earlier.

  "Bravo One is approaching Crosby from the south," Krebs, Bravo-One's team leader called out.

  I was coming up at the intersection one block east of the rendezvous.

  "Final com check. We have eighteen seconds on the clock," I announce on the radio.

  In rapid succession, the com check responses rolled in as I exited the Humvee and took a last look at the clock.

  "Eight seconds," I tell the team as Harold comes on in my ear. "We've identified our mystery guest, and you are not going to believe it…"

  I suddenly begin to hear gunfire. It's confusing. I am hearing the gunfire in my earpiece but not around me.

  "Harold," I scream, forgetting protocol. He is my boss, not my friend. Bu
t nothing, and no one, comes back to me. What is going and why won't anyone answer me?

  Did they all?

  No, I can't believe it as I break out, running toward the sound of the gunfire.

  Chapter 2

  Ambush

  Landing a block south of the penetration point, I began to hear muffled gunshots. "Who's shooting," I ask over the radio. The only sound I hear is the continued sounds, like shots from a muffled riffle. They come in rapid succession but not the kind that sprays from a fully automatic weapon. These were shots coming from multiple riffles in the air, each firing once.

  "They were set to selective fire," I thought as I kept running and not even turning to look behind me. If there was someone behind me, I may likely not make it home.

  "Com check," I scream for the third time. No one comes back while I am running up the snowy curb. The only thing that is giving me the cover is the snowbank that was piled up when the plow went through. It towered above me, providing the refuge I needed. I was tempted to shout over the intercom one more time when I figured no one was there. It was an ambush, and I just lost all my men.

  Mac took a hit right after we got out of the vehicle, and then everything went silent. Pragmatism dictates I make the assumption that I remain the only survivor. It was starting to look bad, I thought, as I ran as best I could on the blanket of white. My feet were not gripping the sidewalk like they usually would. Snow-covered the sleet that had fallen earlier, and it made my flight to safety tough.

  "What's going on?" I wonder, desperate for an answer. Mac was supposed to be right behind me as I double-timed it up the street to the entrance. Now he's gone too. The mission has gone sideways. That much is obvious. I have two priorities that need to happen, and they need to be simultaneous. The first is that I need to capture Nyke. That's the only way all this gets better. The second is that I have to keep myself safe long enough to get him, get out, and get to safety.