“Because you didn’t like me six years ago.”
Well. That.
21
The following day, as soon as he was back in Chicago, John set up a meeting with the Special Agent in Charge. They met late that afternoon in Nick’s office.
Nick stood up from his desk when John walked in. “Funny coincidence, Shepherd. I heard a rumor that HRT calls went out yesterday. Then this morning, my assistant told me you’d requested a meeting.”
John saw no reason to beat around the bush with that lead-in. “I made the team.”
“So you did.” Nick stepped around his desk and shook John’s hand earnestly. “Congratulations, John. It’s an incredible achievement—and very well deserved.”
“Thank you, sir.” John took a seat in front of the desk, opposite Nick.
“You’ll start NOTS in a couple weeks, then?” Nick asked.
He nodded. “The Tuesday after Labor Day. My plan is to head down to Virginia the weekend before.” He’d thought about trying to rent an apartment in advance but had decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. Instead, he’d booked a reservation at an extended-stay hotel just outside Quantico and figured he’d look for something more permanent once he got there.
“I’d like to tell you the easy part is ahead of you, now that you’ve made it through Selection. But I doubt any part of HRT can be called ‘easy.’” Nick spoke jokingly, but his tone also held an unmistakable measure of respect.
“I suspect I’ll be finding out how true that is in the very near future.” John had talked to Piser about the HRT training agenda, so he knew what to expect. He would spend the next thirty-two weeks in New Operator Training School (NOTS), after which he and his fellow classmates would be divided among the sniper and assault teams, depending on HRT needs. If placed on a sniper team, he would then be sent to the Marine Corps’ eight-week sniper school for additional training.
It sure as hell wouldn’t be easy; John didn’t need to be told that. But there was an adrenaline rush that came with the knowledge of what lay ahead—similar to, but even more powerful than, the thrill he’d felt when he’d been asked to join the 75th Ranger Regiment. Sure, after one tour, that thrill had subsided and he’d decided to leave military life and pursue a career in law enforcement. But this was the Hostage Rescue Team. The elite of the elite. He’d set out to achieve something few could, and he’d been accepted.
Frankly, the whole idea still humbled him.
“What’s your caseload look like?” Nick asked. “Anything that can’t be transitioned to someone else?”
“My only active undercover case is the Jacksonville assignment, and that should wrap up next week. Agent Harlow and I will be giving the mayor his final chunk of cash as soon as he pushes our zoning variances through the city’s Land Use Committee. Everything else can be transitioned—which I’m sure my squad mates will be thrilled to hear.”
Nick chuckled. “Good to hear about Jacksonville. Hope it hasn’t been too rough for you, moonlighting on the public corruption squad.”
An image flashed into John’s head of Jessica in the shower last night, naked, wet, gorgeous, and digging her fingers into his hair as he’d licked her to an orgasm.
Hardly rough, that.
“I’m getting by.” He struck a nonchalant tone, not wanting his boss to get even a sniff of anything beyond a professional relationship between Jessica and him. What had happened in Jacksonville was their business alone. “At least I scored a few fancy suits out of the assignment. Not that I’ll need them where I’m going.” Unlike other FBI agents, HRT operators showed up for work in T-shirts and workout clothes. No sense bothering with a suit and tie when the day started with a two-hour training session in the gym.
Nick met John’s gaze. “Well, I can’t say I’m thrilled to lose you. Speaking as a former undercover agent, you either have what it takes to do this job or you don’t. And you have it. When you first asked to transfer here, the SAC in Detroit personally called me to put in a good word for you. He said I’d be lucky to have an agent with your dedication to the job, and as proof of that, he told me a story about your first undercover assignment.” He looked amused. “Something about a ‘staged altercation’ at a motorcycle bar?”
That story sure was making the rounds these days. “Heavy on the staged part,” John said modestly.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” Nick continued, “but the Detroit SAC said your squad leader had originally picked you for that assignment because of your size—he figured it would impress the motorcycle club even more if the other undercover agent took down a guy as built as you. But when he saw how much you committed to the assignment—how eager you were to take on a thankless role for a case that wasn’t even your own—he knew he was working with an agent who was going places. You’re talented and a true team player, John. Selfishly, I wish your time with this office could’ve been longer. In the two years you’ve been here, you’ve certainly impressed both your squad leader and me every bit as much as the Detroit guys promised you would. But if HRT is where your heart and aspirations lie, I can’t argue with that. And I genuinely wish you all the best.”
John swallowed, not having expected all that. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”
A few minutes later, while riding the elevator down to his squad’s floor, he mulled over his boss’s words.
If HRT is where your heart and aspirations lie, I can’t argue with that.
As with many things in life, it wasn’t quite that simple.
Did he have mixed feelings about giving up a successful career as an investigator and undercover agent? Of course he did—this was a big decision, one involving a move halfway across the country and a job completely different from the one he held now. Sure, he would get to play “full-time superhero,” but anyone who focused exclusively on the swagger of being an HRT operator and didn’t give serious thought to the realities of the job—the grueling missions, the life-and-death stakes, the nonstop training—probably wasn’t sane enough to hold the title.
There would be no more “up close and personal” work, as Jessica had called it. No more getting the bad guys to trust him and tell him their dirty little secrets. The Hostage Rescue Team didn’t play “nice,” and they certainly weren’t trying to gain the bad guys’ trust. It was a different line of attack for a specific kind of situation. HRT operators rolled into a mission full-bore, wearing body armor and armed with submachine guns, automatic assault rifles, flash-bang grenades, breaching gear, and the confidence that they were the toughest and most prepared guys on the scene.
Yes, there was a lot he would miss about Chicago: his family and Wes, his job, his squad mates, and . . . other things. But he’d committed to this course of action the day he’d arrived at Quantico for Selection, and he had great admiration for the Hostage Rescue Team and what they could accomplish.
He’d given Piser his answer, and now he would see that through.
When the elevator hit the fifth floor, John stepped out and headed to his desk. Two of his squad mates, Brandon and Jared, were hanging out at Jared’s cubicle, discussing a drug-trafficking investigation and a new lead they’d uncovered during a wiretapped telephone conversation. His other squad mates in the surrounding cubicles were relatively quiet, going about the daily business of reviewing files, conducting online research, and filling out interview reports.
Another reason to join HRT, John thought. Less damn paperwork.
Or so he hoped.
He took a seat at his desk and began organizing his case files, not expecting whichever of his squad mates inherited his cases to understand his “creative” filing methods. About ten minutes into that project, an all-office e-mail from the SAC popped up on his computer screen.
John’s name was in the subject line.
I’m pleased to announce that Special Agent John Shepherd will be joining this year’s cla
ss at New Operator Training School—
Several whoops rang out from nearby cubicles before John had finished reading the e-mail.
Jin rolled his chair into the center aisle to gape at him. “Holy shit, Shepherd. You made HRT?”
“Goddamn, that’s kick-ass.” Ryan was on his feet, grinning as he headed over to John. “When did you find out?”
His squad mates circled around him, slapping his back and shaking his hand in congratulations. As they fired questions at him, their squad leader—to whom John had broken the news earlier—came out of his office and joined the fray.
“When was the last time someone from this office made the team?” Brandon asked their squad leader.
Gunnar thought about that. “It’s gotta be five years now.”
Ryan fist-bumped John. “Way to represent the squad.”
John soaked in the camaraderie. Maybe the swagger alone wasn’t a good enough reason to join HRT.
But it sure as hell was a nice perk.
• • •
That evening, Jessica caught a cab outside her condo building and gave the driver the address for Sepia restaurant. She was running late for her dinner with Tara, having gotten stuck in rush-hour traffic after being out in the northwest suburbs conducting interviews related to another bribery case—this one involving a clerk for the Cook County Recorder of Deeds who’d been accepting cash payments in exchange for preparing fraudulent quitclaim deeds.
As the cab weaved through the city streets, she scrolled through her e-mails, making sure she hadn’t missed anything urgent while conducting her interviews.
When she saw the e-mail from the SAC with John’s name in the subject line, she paused momentarily before clicking.
I’m pleased to announce that Special Agent John Shepherd will be joining this year’s class at New Operator Training School, starting September 5. Agent Shepherd has given six years of exemplary service to this office and the Detroit field office and has been instrumental in several of our most significant organized crime investigations. Agent Shepherd’s hard work and dedication has led to countless arrests and successful prosecutions. Our loss will be HRT’s gain.
So, it was official.
Jessica could only imagine the celebration on the fifth floor when the news had broken. Probably, John’s squad mates had cheered and preened collectively that one of their own had been selected for the team, and then had dragged him out to a bar for a night of drunken revelry. At least, she hoped that was what they’d done. Organized crime agents might be a little rough around the edges, but she assumed they knew when a few shots of whiskey were in order.
She thought about texting John, maybe a teasing comment about being partnered up with the office celebrity, but then thought better of it. If he was out drinking with his squad mates, there was too big a risk that one of them might somehow see her message. And on top of that, that kind of flirty-ish, out-of-the-blue text felt a little intimate, like something she would do if they were dating.
Which, obviously, wasn’t the case.
When the cab pulled to a stop, she stuck her phone into her purse and paid the driver. Located inside a historical building and formerly an 1890s print shop, Sepia had a warm interior that blended both rustic and contemporary elements: exposed brick walls with vintage prints, an Art Nouveau tile floor, and ornate chandeliers surrounded by modern sheer drum shades.
The hostess led Jessica to a table near the back of the restaurant, where Tara was already seated with a glass of wine. When she saw Jessica coming, she stood up and gave her a hug.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic coming back into the city was awful,” Jessica said.
Tara squeezed her tighter. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you could make it.”
“I’m really glad you suggested this,” Jessica said as they took their seats. Tara had texted her earlier that day about dinner, and she’d been all too eager to accept. Given the events of the last twenty-four hours, she had some seriously juicy gossip to share.
Tara’s tone turned serious. “Of course. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
Jessica cocked her head, thinking that was a curious thing to say. “You have?”
“Well, yeah. I still can’t believe the news about Alex.”
Right—that. Jessica had completely forgotten, again, about her ex-husband and his new fiancée. In her defense, she had quite a lot going on these days, between her undercover assignment, traveling back and forth to Jacksonville, her other cases, and a smoking-hot interlude with her partner last night.
Or, if one was being technical, four smoking-hot interludes with her partner last night.
Just saying.
Quickly, she mustered the proper level of indignation about Alex. “I know. You’d think he’d at least do me the courtesy of sending an e-mail as a heads-up, so that I wouldn’t have to find out the news from a magazine in an airport.”
Tara nodded in agreement. “What a jerk. It sucks that you were blindsided like that.”
“No kidding. I was looking for something to read in one of the bookstores, and then I turned around and—bam—there was the magazine, right in my face.” Jessica glanced down at the wine list, then nodded at Tara’s glass. “By the way, what are you drinking?”
“The sangiovese.”
Interesting choice. “Is it any good?”
“I like it. Here, try it yourself.” Tara held out her glass.
Jessica took a sip. “Mmm. I think I’ll go with that, too.” That decided, she set the wine menu off to the side and steered the conversation toward something more pleasant than her ex-husband. “So, what’s going on with you? With all my traveling, I feel like we haven’t talked in forever.”
Tara stared at her. “Um . . . is that it?”
“Is what it?”
“Aren’t we going to talk more about this thing with Alex? Burn the man in effigy? Bitch about how men suck, then get drunk and make snide comments about how his fiancée’s last movie stunk? Which it did, by the way. I saw it in the theater a couple months ago, and twenty minutes in, I was so bored I pulled out my phone and started playing Candy Crush.”
Jessica doubted it was that bad, but she appreciated the loyalty. “I’ll be sure to skip it when it comes out on iTunes,” she said, a touch dry.
Tara pointed. “There. That’s the sarcastic Jessica I know.” She paused on that note when the waiter dropped by the table to take Jessica’s drink order and tell them about the specials.
After the waiter headed off, Jessica returned to the topic at hand. “It’s a slippery slope,” she explained. “If I start talking about Alex, I’ll start asking questions. Like when they first hooked up. Or how interesting it is that his fiancée is five months pregnant when we were still married six months ago. And if I go down that road, the next thing you know, I’ll be scouring the Internet for every detail I can find about their engagement.”
Tara shrugged. “That’s what I would do.”
Jessica half smiled. “It would drive me crazy if I thought I missed some sign that Alex was cheating. I think I’m better off not knowing.”
Now you’re stealing my lines, Harlow, she could practically hear John saying.
Apparently, even in her imagination, the man couldn’t pass up an opportunity to gloat.
The waiter brought Jessica her glass of wine, and after she and Tara ordered dinner, their conversation turned to topics that were less fraught with peril: work, who went home on The Bachelorette, and Tara’s most recent Tinder horror stories. Jessica bided her time, waiting until their entrées arrived before she ever-so-casually changed gears.
“So, a funny thing happened last night,” she led in, cutting into her strip steak.
“While you were working? It’s been a while since your last crazy FBI story. Do tell.”
“Technically, this happe
ned after we’d finished working.” With a sly air, Jessica took a sip of her wine, just to prolong the moment.
Tara cocked her head. “What’s with the look?”
“Are you braced?”
“I need to be braced for this? Why? What did you do?”
Jessica set down her wineglass. “I slept with John Shepherd.”
“Get OUT.” Tara giggled when Jessica shushed her. “But you can’t stand him.” Her eyes widened. “Ooh . . . was it hate-sex? I’ve always wanted to have hate-sex.”
“It wasn’t hate-sex.” Jessica mentally scrolled back through their night together. “Just really, really good regular sex.”
“Aw, look at you with your cheeky grin. Jessica’s got her groove back.” Tara lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Not that I give a crap, but are you two allowed to hook up? You know, since you’re partners?”
“There’s no official rule against it, and I guarantee this isn’t the first time it’s happened. It’s more a judgment thing.”
“Ah. And what convinced you more when you were ‘judging’ the situation: his handsome face or his Thor-like body?”
“That’s funny.”
Tara winked. “So, come on. Give me all the details: what, where, when—I think I know the why and how already.”
Jessica thought about where to start. “Well, we got stuck on this undercover investigation together, and we’ve been traveling as part of that. And . . . I don’t know, we just started talking and getting along. Last week, we had an argument—actually, I’d call it more a misunderstanding—and that led to a pretty incredible kiss”—she caught Tara’s look of indignation—“I know, I’ve been meaning to tell you about that, but work’s been crazy and I thought it was just a onetime thing. Then last night, we had a few drinks to celebrate some good news he’d received, and we were joking around and sharing work stories, and there was a beach and moonlight . . . and one thing led to another.” She smiled coyly. “And then one thing led to another three times after that.”