Read Online Naked Risk (Shatterproof #3) by Jordan Burke - Free Book Online
Authors: Jordan Burke
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roses.
Chapter Twelve – Watts
Spencer and I had turned our phones off and had been out of contact with everyone for the better part of seven hours as we waited in the back of the van.
When the FBI started doing a sweep of the neighborhood, they brought the bomb-sniffing dogs out. We weren’t concerned abou t the dogs alerting on the van, but there was a good chance the FBI agents could have gotten a visual on us, so we had retreated to the back of the van and covered ourselves with the movers’ blankets that came with the van.
They brought the dogs twice. I figured it was two different dogs. Each time, we kept very still. I held my breath and I was sure Spencer had too.
I felt hunger and fatigue creeping up on me, but was able to fend both off. That’s where the training really came in handy. It served its purpose well, provi ding both Spencer and I the ability to hide out, stay safe, and stay alive.
There were so many ways we could have been caught. The one I worried about the most was an FBI agent checking the name and phone number of the fake company on the magnet Spencer had placed on the side of the van.
When we were relatively sure it was safe, we emerged from beneath the blankets and c rawled to the front of the van. By then, the media had showed up. The street was filled with TV trucks, people walking around with big cameras, reporters crowded around various officials.
I started the van , pulled away from the curb, and we were out of there unnoticed.
. . . . .
Back at the hotel in Alexandria, we watched all of the local major cable news channels covering the story of the terrorist cell that had been taken down in the early morning hours.
One report said: “The FBI and the Department of Homeland Security were tipped off by a neighbor who first called local police about an alleged noise ordinance violation. When police arrived, there was no noise coming from inside the house, so no ticket was issued. The neighbor kept a close eye on the house in the following days and became suspicious when he was taking the garbage out one night, heard a few of the suspects speaking in what he called ‘a foreign language’ and then observed them dry-firing weapons in the back yard.”
“I still can’t fucking believe it,” Spencer said. “How did we not know they knew?”
I’d been wondering the same. We had experienced holes in the intelligence reporting before, but nothing like this.
“Maybe our time is up,” I said.
Another report er stated: “There are unconfirmed reports—I want to stress uncomfirmed—that federal investigators have linked two previous murder scenes to terrorists from the same region. Both of these scenes are in Maryland and are under active investigation. Back to you.”
I stared at the TV as they played loops of video from the scene overnight and showed a map pinpointing the two previous scenes. Fuck.
“Are those yours, Watts?” Spencer said.
I nodded. “Like I said, I think our time is up.”
He mumbled, “Yeah. Screw it. This was my last mission. I’m out anyway, so what better timing?”
I was beginning to feel the same way.
. . . . .
Spencer went to his room just before noon. We agreed to sleep until we didn’t need to anymore and we would meet later that night and wrap things up.
I turned on my personal phone for the first time since the night before and found a text from Catherine asking me to guess what she was eating. It had been sent a few hours earlier, and there were no follow-up texts or voicemails from her. I considered answering her, but I really needed to sleep. She was apparently fine, otherwise I would have heard from her.
I looked at the clock. 12:03. I decided I would call her later.
I collapsed on the bed, still fully clothed, shoes still on, exhausted. I don’t think more than two minutes passed before I was asleep.
My phone rang, jolting me out of a deep sleep. I looked at the screen and saw Catherine’s
Chapter Twelve – Watts
Spencer and I had turned our phones off and had been out of contact with everyone for the better part of seven hours as we waited in the back of the van.
When the FBI started doing a sweep of the neighborhood, they brought the bomb-sniffing dogs out. We weren’t concerned abou t the dogs alerting on the van, but there was a good chance the FBI agents could have gotten a visual on us, so we had retreated to the back of the van and covered ourselves with the movers’ blankets that came with the van.
They brought the dogs twice. I figured it was two different dogs. Each time, we kept very still. I held my breath and I was sure Spencer had too.
I felt hunger and fatigue creeping up on me, but was able to fend both off. That’s where the training really came in handy. It served its purpose well, provi ding both Spencer and I the ability to hide out, stay safe, and stay alive.
There were so many ways we could have been caught. The one I worried about the most was an FBI agent checking the name and phone number of the fake company on the magnet Spencer had placed on the side of the van.
When we were relatively sure it was safe, we emerged from beneath the blankets and c rawled to the front of the van. By then, the media had showed up. The street was filled with TV trucks, people walking around with big cameras, reporters crowded around various officials.
I started the van , pulled away from the curb, and we were out of there unnoticed.
. . . . .
Back at the hotel in Alexandria, we watched all of the local major cable news channels covering the story of the terrorist cell that had been taken down in the early morning hours.
One report said: “The FBI and the Department of Homeland Security were tipped off by a neighbor who first called local police about an alleged noise ordinance violation. When police arrived, there was no noise coming from inside the house, so no ticket was issued. The neighbor kept a close eye on the house in the following days and became suspicious when he was taking the garbage out one night, heard a few of the suspects speaking in what he called ‘a foreign language’ and then observed them dry-firing weapons in the back yard.”
“I still can’t fucking believe it,” Spencer said. “How did we not know they knew?”
I’d been wondering the same. We had experienced holes in the intelligence reporting before, but nothing like this.
“Maybe our time is up,” I said.
Another report er stated: “There are unconfirmed reports—I want to stress uncomfirmed—that federal investigators have linked two previous murder scenes to terrorists from the same region. Both of these scenes are in Maryland and are under active investigation. Back to you.”
I stared at the TV as they played loops of video from the scene overnight and showed a map pinpointing the two previous scenes. Fuck.
“Are those yours, Watts?” Spencer said.
I nodded. “Like I said, I think our time is up.”
He mumbled, “Yeah. Screw it. This was my last mission. I’m out anyway, so what better timing?”
I was beginning to feel the same way.
. . . . .
Spencer went to his room just before noon. We agreed to sleep until we didn’t need to anymore and we would meet later that night and wrap things up.
I turned on my personal phone for the first time since the night before and found a text from Catherine asking me to guess what she was eating. It had been sent a few hours earlier, and there were no follow-up texts or voicemails from her. I considered answering her, but I really needed to sleep. She was apparently fine, otherwise I would have heard from her.
I looked at the clock. 12:03. I decided I would call her later.
I collapsed on the bed, still fully clothed, shoes still on, exhausted. I don’t think more than two minutes passed before I was asleep.
My phone rang, jolting me out of a deep sleep. I looked at the screen and saw Catherine’s
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