Jiggy’s itchy foot hovered over the gas pedal, waiting to slam and roll the minute his target appeared. No sooner than Jiggy spotted him, Dmitriyev careened over the horizon and hooked a right, barely avoiding a head-on collision with Jiggy’s vehicle.
“Shiiiiiit!” Jiggy yelled. “He turned! He turned!”
Dmitriyev’s car tilted as it spun onto the street. His hair-trigger move put the fear of God in Jiggy.
“Idiot! You almost side-swiped my door!” he yelled. Dmitriyev was long gone. “Damn! Too much traffic coming.”
He jerked his head left and right, looking for an out. Nothing opened up. Couldn’t make a U-turn fast enough. Change of plans. Jiggy decided to hook a right on Wisconsin Avenue. He’d catch him a block down, off P Street.
“Jiggy you got him? You got him? What’s goin’ on?” Jake yelled. He’d begun to sweat from his armpits, nervous.
Jiggy fumbled for his radio. Damn, he was supposed to go straight ! he thought. He had selected the position on the one-way street explicitly so Dmitriyev couldn’t turn into him from Wisconsin Avenue. And that bastard did it anyway.
It’s almost as if he knew where I’d be sitting, he thought.
“Damn! He’s in the wind! Gone.” Jiggy said, after wrapping his sweaty palms around his radio. “I think he’s headed south toward M Street. I’m gonna try to get turned around and catch up with him! Cham? Money T? Anybody else got eyes on?”
“Negative,” Cham replied. “We’re stuck at S Street. Dmitriyev ran the light and MPD rolled up behind us. If we pursued, we’d have gotten pulled over and lost him anyway. But I’ve got a hunch about where he may be headed. Money T and I are going south.”
Once traffic cleared, Jiggy circled back on the next block, accidentally blowing a stop sign. Dmitriyev’s car was nowhere in sight…but another was. Not two seconds later— Whoop! Whoop! The melodic stylings of the D.C. police sirens.
Son of a bitch!
Jiggy grabbed his radio. “Jake, what’s your twenty? I’ve got a big negatory on his location.”
Jake blew out a long hard breath. “I’m heading back to headquarters.”
“Don’t know what to tell you dude. I’ve got no idea in which direction he’s driving, and MPD just pulled me over. Dmitriyev drives like freakin’ Dale Earnhardt on crack and I get popped.”
Chapter 6
T he STE, a secure phone J.J. often referred to as the ‘Bat Phone’, rang inside the vault. She and Tony had nearly finished fixing and photocopying the files, so they could prepare to head to Rock Creek Park to clear the drop. The end to this “mole business,” as Mr. Cartwright called it, was near.
“McCall,” J.J. answered.
“I’m back. And I’m afraid I don’t have good news.” Jake’s voice sounded like burnt coffee and cigarette smoke. “Meet you at your desk.”
Her stomach plummeted to the floor. Something had gone wrong, and she instinctively knew. Best-laid plans always went awry.
J.J. glanced at Tony with an oh-shit face. They both raised their eyebrows, silently left the vault, and entered the fray.
Back in the office, spastic phones rang and gun-toting, business casual-clad FBI agents milled about the office trying to look important and busy. She approached Jake whose face bore the weight of failure and a sheepish grin.
“Whatcha got for me?” J.J. asked.
“We lost him.” His voice was flat. Day old pancake flat.
J.J. suppressed the emotional surge and maintained her cool. She couldn’t afford to rattle Jake or arouse suspicions about Plotnikov’s true importance. She’d already ripped him a new one several days prior. His skills had degraded and he knew it. The Russians had all but requested him to provide surveillance coverage.
“I don’t understand,” she began, “this was supposed to be a routine op. What the hell happened?”
“Dmitriyev,” Jake said. “He got in the car with Plotnikov. Drove him.”
“Dmitriyev?” It struck her that Dmitriyev had
“Shiiiiiit!” Jiggy yelled. “He turned! He turned!”
Dmitriyev’s car tilted as it spun onto the street. His hair-trigger move put the fear of God in Jiggy.
“Idiot! You almost side-swiped my door!” he yelled. Dmitriyev was long gone. “Damn! Too much traffic coming.”
He jerked his head left and right, looking for an out. Nothing opened up. Couldn’t make a U-turn fast enough. Change of plans. Jiggy decided to hook a right on Wisconsin Avenue. He’d catch him a block down, off P Street.
“Jiggy you got him? You got him? What’s goin’ on?” Jake yelled. He’d begun to sweat from his armpits, nervous.
Jiggy fumbled for his radio. Damn, he was supposed to go straight ! he thought. He had selected the position on the one-way street explicitly so Dmitriyev couldn’t turn into him from Wisconsin Avenue. And that bastard did it anyway.
It’s almost as if he knew where I’d be sitting, he thought.
“Damn! He’s in the wind! Gone.” Jiggy said, after wrapping his sweaty palms around his radio. “I think he’s headed south toward M Street. I’m gonna try to get turned around and catch up with him! Cham? Money T? Anybody else got eyes on?”
“Negative,” Cham replied. “We’re stuck at S Street. Dmitriyev ran the light and MPD rolled up behind us. If we pursued, we’d have gotten pulled over and lost him anyway. But I’ve got a hunch about where he may be headed. Money T and I are going south.”
Once traffic cleared, Jiggy circled back on the next block, accidentally blowing a stop sign. Dmitriyev’s car was nowhere in sight…but another was. Not two seconds later— Whoop! Whoop! The melodic stylings of the D.C. police sirens.
Son of a bitch!
Jiggy grabbed his radio. “Jake, what’s your twenty? I’ve got a big negatory on his location.”
Jake blew out a long hard breath. “I’m heading back to headquarters.”
“Don’t know what to tell you dude. I’ve got no idea in which direction he’s driving, and MPD just pulled me over. Dmitriyev drives like freakin’ Dale Earnhardt on crack and I get popped.”
Chapter 6
T he STE, a secure phone J.J. often referred to as the ‘Bat Phone’, rang inside the vault. She and Tony had nearly finished fixing and photocopying the files, so they could prepare to head to Rock Creek Park to clear the drop. The end to this “mole business,” as Mr. Cartwright called it, was near.
“McCall,” J.J. answered.
“I’m back. And I’m afraid I don’t have good news.” Jake’s voice sounded like burnt coffee and cigarette smoke. “Meet you at your desk.”
Her stomach plummeted to the floor. Something had gone wrong, and she instinctively knew. Best-laid plans always went awry.
J.J. glanced at Tony with an oh-shit face. They both raised their eyebrows, silently left the vault, and entered the fray.
Back in the office, spastic phones rang and gun-toting, business casual-clad FBI agents milled about the office trying to look important and busy. She approached Jake whose face bore the weight of failure and a sheepish grin.
“Whatcha got for me?” J.J. asked.
“We lost him.” His voice was flat. Day old pancake flat.
J.J. suppressed the emotional surge and maintained her cool. She couldn’t afford to rattle Jake or arouse suspicions about Plotnikov’s true importance. She’d already ripped him a new one several days prior. His skills had degraded and he knew it. The Russians had all but requested him to provide surveillance coverage.
“I don’t understand,” she began, “this was supposed to be a routine op. What the hell happened?”
“Dmitriyev,” Jake said. “He got in the car with Plotnikov. Drove him.”
“Dmitriyev?” It struck her that Dmitriyev had
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