“Not my thing,” I say without even looking back over my shoulder. Walking out of the door, I shut it softly behind me.
God, I fucking hate this part of the operation. Peddling ass to sleazy men that are here cheating on their wives in order to ride the next big thrill. It’s fucking abysmal, so I keep reminding myself that the end goal will save numerous women.
When this sting is over, I know I’m probably going to bath in Clorox just to get the slime off me. I also know that after this, my undercover days are over.
Chapter 2
Andrea
I wipe my sweaty palms on my slacks, thankful the black material won’t show the wet trail I’m leaving behind. Taking a deep breath, I knock on the SAC’s door and let it out slowly while I wait for admittance.
“It’s open,” I hear the gruff voice say from within. Squaring my shoulders, I turn the knob and push the door inward.
FBI Special Agent in Charge, Dale Lambert sits behind his desk, which is covered with stacks of files and empty, paper coffee cups. His silver hair, though, is sharply styled and his dark, charcoal-gray suit is pressed to perfection.
He looks up and gives me a blank look. “What can I do for you, Somerville?”
“You wanted to see me, sir?” I ask as I clasp my hands behind my back, legs slightly parted to stand at attention.
“Right,” he says distractedly and starts digging through the stacks of files on his desk. “Take a seat. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”
My heart starts racing, and I try to maintain my rigid posture as I stride around one of the chairs that sits opposite of his desk. I sit down, perched on the edge, with my back ramrod straight. I clasp my sweaty hands in my lap and pray that he has the news that I’ve been dreaming of getting.
Four months ago, I applied to the Behavioral Research and Instruction Unit of the FBI or, because the FBI loves its abbreviations, the BRIU. I asked my SAC, Dale Lambert, for his recommendation, and he gladly gave it although he said he’d hate to lose me in the Pittsburgh field office where I’ve been assigned to him for the past two years. I’ve been through the interview process with the BRIU—three to be exact—and while I know it’s a long shot—I can’t help but keep my hopes up. I’ve never let anything stand in the way of my goals before.
Even at the cost of sacrificing something very important.
The reason it’s a long shot for me to get accepted is because I’ve only been a special agent with the FBI for going on two years now. I’ve worked in the Criminal Investigative Division at the Pittsburgh field office since then and while I’ve done some pretty boring shit like background checks for new federal hires, I’ve also been a part of some interesting investigations ranging from violent to white-collar crimes.
Lambert pulls a file out, flips through it briefly, and then hands it to me. “The Raleigh field office is doing a joint investigation with the local police of a potential sex slavery ring. They need a female agent to go undercover.”
I take the file from his hands even as dejection courses through me. Definitely not what I had wanted to hear. Not that this couldn’t be a great opportunity, but I was really hoping he was going to tell me I was on the way to Quantico instead.
“There’s been no word from the BRIU so get that forlorn look of despondency off your face,” he growls at me.
My eyes snap to his, and I smooth out my facial features. I don’t address his most recent statement, asking instead, “Don’t they have an agent in Raleigh that can do this?”
The question isn’t inappropriate. I’m merely curious because our field offices are usually well staffed. It’s rare to have to go out on loaner when agents abound.
“Not one as qualified as you,” he says with a sheepish smile.
“As qualified as me?”
“The head of this ring is Simon Keyes. He’s a mid-level criminal, done some time. But he’s smart and slick, and they don’t have any hard evidence tying him to the traffic. We believe he uses a strip club he owns as the front and is pulling his stock from the dancers.”
I nod in immediate and clear understanding, dropping my gaze back down to the file. “Of course I’m qualified then,” I say softly, with absolutely no embarrassment whatsoever.
“Look kid,” Dale says gruffly. “You’re not the only special agent who worked a stripper pole in her life. You just happen to be the only female one in the FBI right now that’s not immersed in another case at the moment. Plus, you have a southern accent and your cover will be as a local girl on the down and out.”
I snicker and start flipping through the file. It’s true enough… I know how to work a pole and work it good. I paid my way through undergrad and law school just dancing part time. It’s not something I’m overly proud of, but it sure as hell isn’t something I’m ashamed of either. I came out of school with two impressive degrees and not a dime of debt to my name. Of course, the FBI knows all about my “prior career,” as I truthfully disclosed that information on my application. This was not a deterrent to getting in, because unlike most dancers, I actually reported my wages and tips and paid the appropriate taxes on my income. It was a legitimate job, and while I was grilled hard about it during my interview process before getting into the Academy, it was ultimately something the FBI didn’t really care about.
Until now.
“What do they want me to do?” I ask with interest, my stomach now starting to fill with butterflies of excitement over the case. While I really, really want to get into the BRIU and do crime analysis, I get super charged up over helping to bring down any type of crime ring.