The Girl and the Unlucky 13 (Emma Griffin™ FBI Mystery) A.J. Rivers (historical books to read TXT) 📖

empty, but there are a few patrons around. Right outside, parked right next to the van containing other agents and law enforcement, are people who have absolutely nothing to do with this, who have no idea what’s going on. They shouldn’t be caught up in it if it is at all avoidable.

Patience is one of the greatest challenges of orchestrating an operation like this. Sometimes when out in the field, I get to rush into a situation and everything happens in a split second. I get to kick down doors and storm rooms within moments of actually getting to a place. But not always. A lot of times it ends up just like this: long stretches trying to not look suspicious while waiting for everything to fall into place.

And then it all suddenly happens.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the sliver of light appear and the movement I’ve been waiting for. I run my fingers back through my hair, and seconds later, three more agents walk through the front door. They move with smooth confidence to the nearest table of patrons, acting as if they know them.

They don’t want to bring any attention to themselves as they subtly let the people know they need to get out of the restaurant. I continue to watch the shadowy space, making sure I have my eyes on the doors as well as the figures moving back there.

It takes a few minutes for the agents to convince the customers at the nearest tables to leave. There’s only one table left, and when I look up, the two people sitting at it make eye contact with me. I don’t know if it’s because they’ve caught on to the fact that I’ve been sitting there for so long, or simply because I’m the only other human in this space other than the waiter, and they want to make sure I see what’s happening.

I shouldn’t give myself away. But it’s obvious they aren’t comfortable with being there. I give as subtle but convincing a nod as I can and tilt my head toward the door. It’s a compelling enough move and they get up, tossing money onto the table before leaving. The waiter tries to stop them, but the agents follow right after.

Then I’m the only one left. He starts toward me, and I don’t like the look in his eye. My watch makes a subtle sound that tells me everyone is in place around the building.

Let’s do this.

I give the final signal. Seconds later, a cacophony of shouts erupts from the back of the building. I get up to my feet, push away from the table, and reach for my gun. The waiter immediately heads for the door, but the other agents are waiting.

From there, everything happens in a blur. The adrenaline and sheer fury push me through. By the time I’m standing with my foot in the middle of the back of a handcuffed man, my gun pointed toward his head, I more than remember why I started doing this.

There have definitely been times that I’ve doubted my place in the FBI. I tend to buck tradition and err on the side of my feelings and intuitions, rather than always precisely following the rules and procedures. It used to get me in trouble fairly often. At the worst point, it landed me behind a desk and out of the field for six months.

Last year, I went through a difficult time and I didn’t know if I could stay in the Bureau. Clashing with my supervisor and struggling to be respected and properly recognized by others drove me to the edge. As much as being an agent had been everything I’d worked for since I was eighteen years old, I just didn’t feel the same satisfaction and fulfillment anymore.

It only took one case that threw me into the depths of human darkness to remind me of who I am. Challenges and clashes or not, I’m an FBI agent.

My career isn’t the same as it used to be. But I’m not the same as I used to be, either.

For a while I worked purely as a consultant, while also working with my fiancé, Sheriff Samuel Johnson, in the Sherwood, Virginia police department. Then I got involved in some private investigative work with my cousin Dean Steele. He’s a licensed private investigator and is constantly on my back, reminding me that I can’t refer to myself as a PI or say that I was doing any private investigating until I go through the training, get tested, and get my license just as he did.

But I’ve been telling him that, as the young folks are saying these days, I ain’t got time for that.

Nope, still can’t pull it off. If I have the compulsion to preface something with “as the young folks are”, and then add in some sort of action word, such as eating, drinking, doing, or saying, I just need to take a step back and tell myself “no.” No good is going to come of this.

Dean doesn’t know I’ve been working my way through the training. I’m actually just about to finish the course. I haven’t wanted to tell him and build it up too much. He wants me out of the Bureau and working with him full-time, but now I realize I can’t do that. At least not at this time.

I’ve been easing back into the field more and more and I’m not ready to leave it. I can’t do as much as I used to. The notoriety that’s come from my recent jobs has made it much more likely for me to be recognized. I’ll probably never be able to go undercover again. But there’s still plenty of work to be done. Too many smaller elements of larger crime rings I busted were either never identified or have gotten out of jail. They’re not going to hit the straight-and-narrow and start living choir boy lives.

It isn’t likely, anyway. Not that