Read Online Spy Thriller: The Fourteenth Protocol: A Story of Espionage and Counter-terrorism (The Special Agent Jana Baker Book Series 1) by Nathan Goodman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nathan Goodman
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way.
“Where’d you go for lunch? I was going to see if you wanted to grab something at Fado.”
“Aw man, sorry,” said Cade. “That’s where I went. Sorry, I just needed to get out of here and take a breather.”
Whitmore didn’t hide his disappointment very well.
“Oh no, that’s cool. We’ll do it again soon.” He paused and said, “Hey, what was the big hubbub with them calling you upstairs? Everything cool?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, no big deal. Some guy who normally works up there was out today or something. They just had a server that needed a little medi-Cade,” Cade said, trying to cover up what had happened.
“Medi-Cade?”
“You caught that? See what I did there? My name is Cade . . .”
“Cade, dude, now that’s just gay,” joked Whitmore.
“Gay? You’re gay.”
“Yes, I’m gay. We all know I’m gay. But damn, I’m not that gay.”
Cade looked at him then laughed. For the first time that day he felt good.
Whitmore’s demeanor shifted. “Hey, can you believe it about those kids? Thirty-one people, man, unbelievable.”
Cade replied, “Wait, what? What thirty-one people? You mean the Tucson thing? They said there were four.”
“Dude, no. It’s unreal—every single one of the survivors are now dead. It’s like the bomb fragments were poisoned or something. No one knows.”
Cade flopped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Thirty-one? Holy crap.” Cade wanted to search the news on his browser but thought better of it, knowing the company logged website visits. Then, another thought crossed his mind. He remembered the incident when he placed masking tape over the lens of the laptop webcam, and it was gone the next day. Did that have anything to do with those guys on seventeen? Cade’s mind raced. Maybe he wasn’t being so paranoid after all. Maybe there was something to it. He glanced at the little lens of the webcam. What if they’re watching me right now? he wondered. The thought gave him the willies.
Down here, it seemed like a typical day. People in a conference room, others moving in that direction. Others on the phone, several banging away at their keyboards. But Cade didn’t feel comfortable anymore.
The desk phone rang again. “202 area code? Who the hell is calling me from New York?”
“No, nimrod. 202 is DC,” replied an amused Whitmore.
The phone rang again. “DC? Who do I know . . . holy crap!” Cade answered the call, “Cade Williams.”
“Hey, man!”
“Kyle! Hell yeah. I knew it must be you,” he said, glancing back at Whitmore who smirked at him. “Man, how’s it going?!” Cade said as he walked toward the break room.
“God, it’s almost over! I’m stoked, but damn I’m tired,” said Kyle.
Kyle MacKerron had taken Cade under his wing in college. Cade had been just a green freshman pledging the fraternity when Kyle was a senior. Cade always looked up to him like the big brother he never had.
Cade cut in with his trademark sarcasm, “So you’re telling me you’re about ready to graduate? Those suckers in the FBI want to give you a badge and a gun!” Cade knew the FBI had literally recruited Kyle. They were after him. Kyle’s subtle southern drawl was pure coastal Georgia, but bespoke nothing of what talents lay underneath. Kyle possessed everything the bureau was looking for—a graduate degree in forensic accounting, fluency in Farsi, a private pilot’s license, and letters of commendation for distinguished service in the Gulf War.
Kyle jabbed back, “Hey, when you get up here on Friday, I’ll let you hold it.”
“Hey, man, I don’t even want to speculate on what ‘it’ you’re talking about.”
“The gun, nimbleweed, the gun. If you promise not to shoot your toe off, I’ll let you hold the handgun. Just don’t tell anybody. I don’t want to get kicked out of here because of some pencil-neck.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Cade. “I’m taking Friday off and driving up. What happens when I get
“Where’d you go for lunch? I was going to see if you wanted to grab something at Fado.”
“Aw man, sorry,” said Cade. “That’s where I went. Sorry, I just needed to get out of here and take a breather.”
Whitmore didn’t hide his disappointment very well.
“Oh no, that’s cool. We’ll do it again soon.” He paused and said, “Hey, what was the big hubbub with them calling you upstairs? Everything cool?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, no big deal. Some guy who normally works up there was out today or something. They just had a server that needed a little medi-Cade,” Cade said, trying to cover up what had happened.
“Medi-Cade?”
“You caught that? See what I did there? My name is Cade . . .”
“Cade, dude, now that’s just gay,” joked Whitmore.
“Gay? You’re gay.”
“Yes, I’m gay. We all know I’m gay. But damn, I’m not that gay.”
Cade looked at him then laughed. For the first time that day he felt good.
Whitmore’s demeanor shifted. “Hey, can you believe it about those kids? Thirty-one people, man, unbelievable.”
Cade replied, “Wait, what? What thirty-one people? You mean the Tucson thing? They said there were four.”
“Dude, no. It’s unreal—every single one of the survivors are now dead. It’s like the bomb fragments were poisoned or something. No one knows.”
Cade flopped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Thirty-one? Holy crap.” Cade wanted to search the news on his browser but thought better of it, knowing the company logged website visits. Then, another thought crossed his mind. He remembered the incident when he placed masking tape over the lens of the laptop webcam, and it was gone the next day. Did that have anything to do with those guys on seventeen? Cade’s mind raced. Maybe he wasn’t being so paranoid after all. Maybe there was something to it. He glanced at the little lens of the webcam. What if they’re watching me right now? he wondered. The thought gave him the willies.
Down here, it seemed like a typical day. People in a conference room, others moving in that direction. Others on the phone, several banging away at their keyboards. But Cade didn’t feel comfortable anymore.
The desk phone rang again. “202 area code? Who the hell is calling me from New York?”
“No, nimrod. 202 is DC,” replied an amused Whitmore.
The phone rang again. “DC? Who do I know . . . holy crap!” Cade answered the call, “Cade Williams.”
“Hey, man!”
“Kyle! Hell yeah. I knew it must be you,” he said, glancing back at Whitmore who smirked at him. “Man, how’s it going?!” Cade said as he walked toward the break room.
“God, it’s almost over! I’m stoked, but damn I’m tired,” said Kyle.
Kyle MacKerron had taken Cade under his wing in college. Cade had been just a green freshman pledging the fraternity when Kyle was a senior. Cade always looked up to him like the big brother he never had.
Cade cut in with his trademark sarcasm, “So you’re telling me you’re about ready to graduate? Those suckers in the FBI want to give you a badge and a gun!” Cade knew the FBI had literally recruited Kyle. They were after him. Kyle’s subtle southern drawl was pure coastal Georgia, but bespoke nothing of what talents lay underneath. Kyle possessed everything the bureau was looking for—a graduate degree in forensic accounting, fluency in Farsi, a private pilot’s license, and letters of commendation for distinguished service in the Gulf War.
Kyle jabbed back, “Hey, when you get up here on Friday, I’ll let you hold it.”
“Hey, man, I don’t even want to speculate on what ‘it’ you’re talking about.”
“The gun, nimbleweed, the gun. If you promise not to shoot your toe off, I’ll let you hold the handgun. Just don’t tell anybody. I don’t want to get kicked out of here because of some pencil-neck.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Cade. “I’m taking Friday off and driving up. What happens when I get
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