The Assassin Read online

  Thankfully though, when I walk in the front door, there's no one at the front desk, giving me the chance to hightail it to the elevator. Anders is on the seventh floor, so I hit the button and lean back while the elevator climbs up.

  Outside in the hallway, it's quiet, which is good and bad. I can't bust into the apartment, but that means there's no one to see me quietly break in.

  I walk down the hallway until I find 738. In my jacket, I pull out my lock pick and slip my gloves on. One quick glance over my shoulder to confirm there's no one around, and I lean down to get to work.

  After I jimmy the lock a few times, the door swings open, and I slide through, locking the door behind me. Safely inside, I take a look around. The hallway shoots off in a diagonal angle. There's a door on the left, and when I peek in I see that it's a bathroom. Further down the hallway, there are doors that probably lead to a washer and dryer.

  Once I'm out of the little hallway and out into the hallway, I stand there for a moment, looking around. Connor Anders definitely doesn't live like I thought he would. On the whole, the apartment feels...too pristine. The main living area is decked out with the latest technology, including a mini home theater system. All the modern designs in the apartment make me notice the two rockers by the balcony door. They remind me of my grandparents' house, two little rockers next to one another. There, one's pink and one is blue. Here both are beige. Who does the second chair belong to? A girlfriend? Nothing in his file suggested he has a girlfriend, and I haven't seen a woman in the time I've been tailing him.

  Around the corner, I find the kitchen. It's shallow, but open. It's hard to imagine him here in this kitchen. He would take up the whole space. The walls are a deep red, almost the color of blood. Like the people you suspect he's killed. I wince at my own thoughts. The worst thoughts always seem to surprise me the most, but I bury the idea away and focus back on the kitchen. Like most of the apartment so far, the kitchen features that modern look.

  Coming out of the kitchen, I look back to the rockers. If there's a woman living here, who's to say she won't show up at any moment? I mean, I have my gun, so I'd have the upper hand, but I'd rather not be caught breaking into someone's apartment.

  On the wall across from the kitchen, I notice some pictures. Walking over, I see a picture of Anders and a little girl with curls. She looks so much like him, but nothing otherwise would suggest he has a daughter. No children's toys or anything.

  Funny, even though I've followed him for weeks and know his daily schedule, I'm realizing there's so many things I don't actually know. With one last look at the pictures, including one of him, the little girl, and a woman, I fight back the usual dread of family pictures. So many people take things like that for granted, but being on the outside looking in, I wish I had belonged to a place long enough to have a family.

  Get your shit together, Morgan. I take a deep breath but freeze when the phone goes off. When the phone stops ringing, I finally let out my breath. I need to stay focused.

  Across the living area, there's a door, and nosey me decides to go see what it is. When I open the door, I realize I've hit the jackpot - the office. An "L" shaped desk is shoved into the corner, under the window. Bookshelves take up the wall next to the door, but besides that, the room feels kind of empty.

  I walk to the desk and begin looking around. A computer takes up a good deal of space, but next to it, there's a line of binders, all white, none labeled. Then, next to the keyboard, there's a binder pulled out from the row. The binder has a sticky note slapped on it, with "FBI" scribbled in chicken scratch. The beginning is a condensed version of the FBI handbook. It looks like the copy in my apartment. Why would he have a copy still? Ex-FBI agents aren't supposed to keep these things, or I wouldn't think they would want to keep these things. Behind the handbook, there's a picture of a woman. Rebecca Smith, another ex-FBI agent, from what I remember in her file, the two were involved somehow when they both left the FBI. The Romeo and Juliet of the FBI, or something lame like that.

  Except, I don't think a man who left the FBI just for a woman would be causing me this much trouble. I wonder if any of the other binders contain his secrets? Maybe they have FBI secrets that the agency thinks he's telling. Flipping the page, I stop for a moment. It's a list of special agents. Just names, with the first few scratched out. I pop the page out of the binder and hold it up to the light to see the names under the sharpie line. After squinting for a moment, I realize, they're all agents I know.

  And they're all alive. Why would their names be scratched out? Isn't that supposed to mean they're dead? If this isn't a hit list, why are the names crossed out? People he's made contact with? People he's following? The possibilities are endless. I pull out my phone and take a picture of the list.

  Just before I close the binder, a blue post-it note catches my attention, sticking out from a page in the back. I flip to it and stare at it. There's the FBI logo at the top, suggesting he may have access to the database still, or this is a copy from a while back.

  The page is a generic letter about FBI protocol for handling these files, I've read it time and time again. The sticky note is on the backside of the page, so I flip it over and read the note on it. "She's next," is all it says. When I look further up on the page to see who "she" is, and if there's a picture, I have to take a step back.

  The woman in the picture is me.

  CHAPTER 3

  Twenty minutes later, I'm back at headquarters, unsure what to think of all of this. Just like in school, the director's office has two seats that sit on the outside of his door, and as agents walk by, I feel like I'm in trouble. The assistant director, Special Agent Reeds, is in the office, talking to him. I can hear them, but I can't hear what they're saying. She's probably trying to convince him that I'm crazy. When I showed her the binder with my picture in it, she didn't know what to think about everything I've learned.

  If The Director believes my story, he's probably trying to decide what to do. As a special agent on probation, I shouldn't have a target on my head, but somehow, I do. Whatever their standard protocol is for this will be thrown out the window. Of course, my whole career in the FBI has been built on the non-standard.

  "Special Agent Morgan, The Director will see you now," Special Agent Reeds says, almost sulking out of the office. With a quick, disapproving glance at me, she heads down the hallway without another word.

  "Thank you," I say to no one in particular. Binder in hand, I stand up and walk into his office.

  "Sit down, Cassandra," he says, pointing to the two chairs that face his desk. I take the right one, special agent instinct kicking in. Always take the chair closest to the door if possible.

  He's busy writing something down on his notepad, so I wait a moment before I begin talking. He drops the pen; he looks up at me. "A target on your head?" he asks.

  "Well, it's not 100 percent certain, but the note next to my picture says, 'she's next,' I think that's a pretty good indicator that." The nervous laugh escapes, and I bite my lip to keep the rest of it contained. Nervous laughs have no room in a field like this.

  "Did you have a warrant?" he asks.

  "No, but I knew that Anders wouldn't be coming home soon," I say. His eyebrows go up. Does he really not know? "I was following him earlier today, and there was a bit of an altercation that ended with a bullet in his leg, but he escaped in a car. Special Agent West has been watching hospital reports all day. Once we confirmed he was in a hospital, I went to his apartment, where I found this." I hold up the binder for him to see, but he's not looking. Is he even bothering to pay attention?

  "You shot him?" The Director asks. Yep, pretty sure he isn't paying attention. It could be disbelief, but I'm pretty positive he's not focusing.

  "Yeah, I shot him. After he refused to stop when I ordered him to do so numerous times," I say.

  "Let me see the binder," he says, crooking his finger at it. I stand up to pass it to him. "Now where are you in this binder?"

  "The last page."

  He flips through, stopping about halfway. Reaching over his desk, he grabs a sticky note and marks the page. Is it the page where the names are crossed out? After he marks it, he continues going. Is that the page I found or did The Director find something that I missed?

  After a moment, he finally finds the page. "Cassandra, what have you done?" He shakes his head in disappointment. "You know, in most cases, I would have to reassign you, but I don't think that's going to stop you from going after Anders."

  "No, sir," I say. I may be the youngest agent in the FBI, but I've already proven to have dedication to get the job done, no matter what it takes. A few months ago, I went undercover to turn a drug lord's girlfriend. They wouldn't let me work with her after she was prepped to be an informant, partly because the DEA was mad I interfered. Once I proved that letting someone so young in could be helpful, people began to take me much more seriously. It also proved that The Director should stay in his position. Either way, turning the informant proved to be useful for both of us.

  "I want you and your team to keep up with his hospital records. The moment he checks out, you need to be back on his case. If you shot him, he's going to take this as a warning sign and get into gear. While I think you did the right thing, I'm afraid this may have sped up the process."

  I bite my lip, realizing he's right. What if this whole operation is fast-tracked because Anders is scared now? He doesn't strike me as someone who would easily be scared, but then again, the only time I've actually spent time near him, I was busy putting a bullet in his leg. The FBI requires all agents to clock in hours every week at the gun range, but up until today, I had never shot anything except the little paper men at the gun range. It's a lot different shooting someone who actually reacts. "Sir,
you do realize, when the time comes, I'm going to need a team to help me. I can't bring him in myself."

  "Moore can help you, yes?" The director is too busy flipping through pages of the binder to really pay attention.

  "Yes, sir." The only problem with Kevin helping me is that I'm sure Anders will recognize him. I'm one of the few agents who came after he left. That's what makes me so good at this; he may have suspicions, but he can't confirm that I'm an FBI agent.

  "Now, it's late. You need to go home. You and West can listen for Anders from your apartment," The Director says. Right. Jess has all the equipment she needs at our apartment. Instead of sleeping tonight, Jess and I can have a police surveillance "party."

  "Yes, sir." I stand and take the binder before leaving the room. Once I'm on the other side of the door, I lean against it, staring at the ceiling. This just became so much more complicated, and I have no idea how I'm going to fix it. Hopefully Jess will have some insight on how to move forward.

  I walk down the hallway to the elevator press the "up" button. The Director's office is deep underground for security reasons, but the rest of the agents have offices upstairs. There are seven stories between The Director's office and mine. I start to wonder what will happen if this does happen sooner than planned? Will I be ready? Will the FBI be ready for this? If I'm not ready, I don't know if anyone will be. It's kind of scary. What is the end game here? How does sports gambling get the FBI's attention? Is it because Anders is a disgraced ex-agent? The questions in my mind are never-ending, even though all I want to do is turn my brain off.

  At this point, I'm not even sure what my next move is. I suppose I need to talk to Anders, but can I do that? Could I go to the hospital tomorrow, wait for him to come out?

  After a moment, I realize that could never work. I can't just go to the hospital and talk to him, that's beyond stupid. Sometimes, it makes me laugh how naive I can be with all of this still. Talk to him at the hospital? Maybe convince him to work with me? There's no way he'd work with me. There are only two ways to get to a man in this business: seduce or threaten. He doesn't look like anything would threaten him and I don't know how to seduce anyone.

  The elevator opens up to my floor and I head down the hallway. Jess' office is at the end and I give it a quick knock on the door before entering. "Hey," I say as I drop the binder on her desk. Kevin is sitting in the chair, up against the wall.

  "Thanks. I've been hearing about this all day," Jess says. She opens the binder and begins to flip through each page, almost delicately, like she doesn't want to rip them - which is ridiculous since this guy went sheet protector crazy on his binder. "Any specific directions on what to do about Anders?" she asks.

  I fill Jess and Kevin in on the plan, including how The Director is afraid we may have just sped up the process by spooking Anders. "So, Kevin, it sounds like you have the night off unless he's released," I say.

  Slouched over in his chair, Kevin pushes himself up in the seat before standing up. "To hell with that. I'll go pick up pizza and be at your place in forty-five minutes." Without another word, he walks out the door.

  I turn to Jess to see her staring at the door longingly. She doesn't think anyone knows about her crush on Kevin, but I work with both of them and I live with her. I may still be new, but even I can see the feelings on her face. "I really hope Kevin can't read through your poker face," I say.

  She's gone back to flipping through pages, but my comment makes her stop halfway through a flip. "You know?"

  "Of course I do. I live and work with you. It would be worse if I didn't notice." I sit down in the seat that Kevin just left, and look at the binder upside down.

  "It doesn't matter. He wants to propose to his girlfriend. That's how serious things are between them." She rolls her eyes and returns to scanning the binder. "Where are you in this damn book anyway?"

  I ignore her, trying to process what she just told me. Kevin is about to propose to his girlfriend, Cindy? Jess and I have both met Cindy a few times, and I know Jess doesn't like her because she wants to be with Kevin, but I don't like her either. She just seems so clingy, and having grown up with no one to hold onto in the rough moments, any hint of clinging makes me want to run to the hills screaming my head off.

  Also, Cindy and Kevin look too much alike. Jess and Kevin would work together so well. He's tall and has the messy blond hair that he never brushes (Jess and I have looked - we're pretty sure he doesn't own a hairbrush at all), and Jess has the olive complexion and her black hair. They look good next to one another.

  Only a man could be totally oblivious to this.

  "He's not going to propose to her. They're too young for that nonsense," I say. "Let's go home."

  Jess nods and folds the binder before grabbing her jacket and keys. "I really hate December in D.C.," she says.

  "Don't we all?" I ask. If Texas was a tough place to grow up to prepare for D.C. winters, Jess had it worse in Arizona.

  "If we can ever transfer from this place, I'm heading back down south. I'd take 110 degree summers over snow any day," she says. I completely agree with that idea. "Let's go," she says.

  CHAPTER 4

  The sunset in DC is always pretty, especially after the rain, but it means my time on the swings will soon be up. Probably better that way, anyway. Jess wasn't thrilled when I ditched her for the park across the street from my apartment. It's where I get the best thinking done.

  Tonight, though is not about thinking, but about reflecting. I've been at the job for a year now, and catching Connor Anders was my first real assignment. Instead of bringing him in, I spooked him and put a hole in him. Not the best way to start a hopefully long career.

  Beyond Connor Anders, my mind drifts to my parents back in Texas, Joe and Beth. And for once in my life, I'm wondering about my birth mother. Only a baby when she died, I've never really known anything about her besides that fact. The foster care people never wanted me to know. When I was a kid, it was frustrating to be told "no," but I didn't have the resources to find anything out. Funny, now I'm in the FBI, and now that I've lived so long without knowing, I don't feel the need to know any more.

  Moments like this, though, I really do wonder about my mother. What was she like? Did she have red hair like me? Blue eyes? And my father? No one ever said anything about my father. He was a secret I wasn't allowed in on. For all I know, he could be dead.

  None of it matters anymore. What would I say to him? At this point, I can only assume he wanted nothing to do with me. It's been twenty-one years, he could have found me if he really wanted to.

  My feet hit the ground hard as I stop the swing. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, criticizing myself silently. This is why I never think about my parents. It gives me a fucking migraine almost. A few deep breathes and I think I've avoided it, but now that the sun has sunk beyond the horizon, I know it's time to go home. Back to my apartment with Jess. Back to my life where I act like I don't care.

  Well, I really don't care most of the time. What happened to my parents, that is. But every now and then, the feelings and emotions, or lack there of, get to me and my mind breaks out into this spinning wheel that can't be stopped. The questions are always the same, and I'm always left wondering.

  So, for most of the time. I don't let my mind go to that place. I don't allow myself to wonder what if? Because I know it's pointless to ask that question. Nothing will change it, so why bother?

  Thus is the way my life is. Work and work. Don't think about the past. Don't let your mind go back to the horrible things. Focus on the future. Think about the wonderful opportunity you have at hand, Morgan. Twenty-twenty years old and you're an FBI agent. That takes special strings being pulled.

  By no means am I ungrateful for the job. I truly appreciate it, but I can't help but wonder if The Director hadn't shown up the day I turned eighteen with the offer, where would I be now? Maybe in college? Instead, I take online classes and have special privilege to work at the FBI.

  I should be happy. I have a career that's just beginning and full of promise. I have a place where I actually belong, the only thing I ever wanted as a little girl, and yet, on the inside, I feel the need for more. The only problem is that I'm not sure what is "more" to me, and because I don't know what it is, I can't go after it or explain it to anyone.