“Undercover. They already have a local cop on the inside, and he’s well entrenched. He’s ready to help coordinate a sting, and they don’t want to put a civilian at risk. They need an agent to pose as a dancer. Be bait, so to speak.”
“That I can do,” I say solemnly as I flip through the file, looking at the color photographs of the women believed to have been abducted and sold.
So many of them.
“Knew you’d be up for this. And listen… you know the BRIU is selective. Your lack of experience hurts, but if you complete a successful undercover mission that brings down a slave ring, you know your chances of getting accepted increase tenfold.”
My face tilts up to his, and I can’t hide the smile of opportunity from my face. “You know that’s my dream, sir, so rest assured… I’ll put all of my effort into busting this ring.”
“Make me proud, Somerville. I want you on a plane first thing in the morning. Head home and get packed up.”
Walking out of Lambert’s office, I head back to my desk down in the bullpen. I take a few moments to respond to some emails and set an auto responder that I’ll be out indefinitely. Transferring a few files to some coworkers, I send the rest back to Lambert to reassign, and then jump online to Delta to make a plane reservation to Raleigh, North Carolina.
When that’s all complete, I log off my computer and shut off my desk lamp. I take a look around the bullpen and shutter the smile on my face.
It’s time to go undercover.
When I get home, I immediately crawl up into my small, dusty attic where I have a few boxes stored. Even though my dancer days are long over, I know I kept some of the costumes I had accumulated. Nostalgia, I guess, and maybe to remind myself that there is always a way to reach your goal, even if you have to swallow your pride a bit.
It doesn’t take me long to find the box labeled “Law School” next to one labeled “Dad”. I push the law school box aside for a moment, knowing it contains old textbooks, crib notes, and sparkly bras with tassels on them. Sitting back on the dusty floor, I open the one that simply says “Dad” and rummage through.
I flip through the old photographs of him and Mom, chronicling their love affair, their wedding, and then the arrival of my brother, Kyle. A few more years of memories, and there I am… being held by my father in a dark blue blanket with the U.S. Naval Academy crest on it in deep yellow. I run my finger over the picture… particularly the seal, which has a hand holding a three-pronged trident at the top and a galley ship in the middle. Below that sits an open book with the motto “Ex scientia tridens,” which means, “From knowledge, seapower”. Yeah… my dad was a Navy man for a brief time and while I very much wanted to be like him, that did not include any desire to follow in his footsteps to Annapolis. Instead, I did my undergrad and law school at the University of Virginia before applying to the Academy.
There aren’t many photos of us together, because he died when I was just six months old.
Dropping the photos to the floor, I reach into the box, pull out the leather bound wallet, and flip it open.
Special Agent James Somerville.
I smooth my thumb over his picture, proud of the strong resemblance I have to him. Same golden-blond hair and crooked smile with a dimple in the right cheek but not the left. Kyle looks just the same.
My father became an FBI agent after he completed six years in the Navy after graduating from Annapolis. He was killed in the line of duty when he and the rest of his team closed in on a suspected serial killer who went out in a spray of bullets. He was a member of the BRIU, although it was called the Behavioral Science Unit at that time.
I place the mementos back in the box and issue up a silent prayer to my dad. “Watch over me, Daddy. Shit’s about to get real.”
Dusting my pants off, I rummage through my law school box and grab up the pile of sequined bras and thongs, as well as my only pair of hooker heels that may be a bit outdated but would work well toward my cover. If I’m supposed to be a girl down and out on her luck who has to resort to stripping, the clothing I show up with has to look secondhand.
As I walk back over to the folding staircase, a small, stray shoebox sitting just to the side of it catches my eye. It’s not labeled, but I know what’s in it. I reach down, pick it up, and bring it with me.
In the kitchen, I set the box and clothing on the counter and make myself a sandwich. I eat it with swift efficiency while standing at my Formica kitchen counter, looking out of the front window of my little bungalow house. I don’t make much money as an FBI agent but enough that I was able to buy this little abode. Besides, it’s not like I have anything else to spend my money on. I’m without close friends because I work all the time, so there’s no drink budget for girls’ nights out. Dating is out of the question because my heart is still too bruised since David broke up with me almost three weeks ago. And, even if I was ready to get back into the game, I have found most men’s egos can’t handle the fact I’m an FBI agent, so no need to spend my money on pretty clothes and silky lingerie. I don’t even have a dog to keep me company because I’m never home, so there’s no kibble or bones to buy. I have a modest clothing budget that keeps me in black dress slacks, French blue dress shirts, and fitted, black blazers. Add in professional yet sensible black shoes, and you have the standard FBI uniform.
Rinsing my plate off and grabbing a beer from the fridge, I grab the stripper gear and box, heading into my bedroom. I pull my small suitcase from the closet and throw it on the bed. Dale told me this operation will be for an indefinite period of time and to pack lots of clothes. Sadly, what I have won’t fill my large suitcase so it takes me no time whatsoever to get packed, and then I have nothing to do but wait for the next day to arrive.