Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
My gaze moves back to the monitor, and I see the login fields. I scramble to input my credentials, then I’m inside the secure Jameson database.
There’s a slight flush of guilt creeping up the nape of my neck as I move to the mission files we keep. A digital retelling of every case every agent here has ever worked on, from something as simple as protective services to infiltrating a terrorist regime. This information is a collation of all reports, which will eventually be input into Dozer’s new AI database, along with the physical files I’m currently still working through. Because it’s my job to move this information, Kynan has given me full access.
Even though I have every right to be here, it’s the purpose that has me feeling slight regret. I’m not here to do the assignments I’ve been tasked with. Instead, I’m snooping for information about Malik. It feels like a violation of trust, yet I’m not deterred. I need to know what happened that night Jimmy died.
Even if Malik is right, I need to decide how my heart feels about it. Is it possible I could hate him?
My chest feels like it’s about to implode from the possibility, and tears prick at my eyes.
I find the folder I’m searching for, an innocuous-looking thing simply labeled as JtTaskSyr 6.12.19. I’ve never wanted to enter this realm, preferring to accept the brief overview of what happened. Kynan provided mine and Jimmy’s, Malik’s, and Sal’s families with explanations. They were glossed over since some of it was classified months ago when it first happened, which was at the direction of the federal government. But it’s all de-classified now.
At least, I think it is.
Regardless, this file holds the answers I need.
I double click on it, bracing for the deluge of information that will be spread before me, only to get a pop-up window that says, “Access Denied”.
For a minute, I don’t believe what I’m seeing, not really understanding it. I click on the “OK” button, which makes the window disappear. Immediately, I double click on the folder again, only to get the same wall blocking me.
“What the hell?” I mutter, leaning back in my chair and staring blankly at the screen.
I’ve been denied access to the folder that holds what I now firmly believe to be horrible secrets about my husband’s death.
A surge of adrenaline propels me out of my chair with such force that it rolls back, hitting the low bookcase behind me. I charge around my desk, out of my office, and then cut left. More people have arrived, some of the desks in the open area filled with agents logging onto their computers or standing around talking before the workday starts. Ignoring them all, I march right into Kynan’s office.
He glances up with a lazy smile that immediately slides right off when he sees me. I can only envision the image I present as I can feel my body is wired like it’s a bomb set to go off. My hands are curled into fists, and I can feel the heat of color from high emotion in my cheeks.
I shut the door, not able to slam it because it’s on heavy hinges. When it snicks shut, I demand, “I need to know what happened the night Jimmy was killed.”
Kynan frowns, the slight veil of confusion only pissing me off.
“Did Malik get Jimmy and Sal killed?” I snap.
“I don’t believe so,” he replies, but it’s a vague answer and not mollifying at all. Pointing at one of his guest chairs, Kynan barks a command, “Sit.”
A tiny part of me wants to defy him, to put on a show that I’m not to be trifled with right now. It’s only due to the fact my legs feel like jelly that I plop my butt down, but I remain perched on the edge, poised and ready to spring up should the moment demand such an action.
“What would you like to know?” he asks calmly, leaning back in his office chair and folding his hands over his stomach.
“What part of my question was confusing?” I retort sarcastically. “I want to know if Malik is the reason I don’t have a husband.”
“And I repeat,” he says slowly, enunciating every syllable. “I don’t believe so.”
“That’s your opinion,” I point out with a huff of frustration. “I want facts.”
“Why?”
I blink, affronted he’d ask such a thing. “Why? Because Jimmy was my husband. That’s why.”
“No, why do you suddenly want to know?” he clarifies. “It’s been months since his death. Why now?”
“Because I just tried to access the folder, and I was denied.”
Kynan lifts his hands, spreading them in question. “Still, it doesn’t tell me why you want to know. Why did you come in this morning, hell-bent on finding answers?”
“What does it matter?” I cry.
“It matters because that information is still classified,” he replies calmly. “There’s an active government investigation ongoing into this matter. There are hostages still missing—the ones who were originally going to be rescued. There are dead ISIL members our team left behind when rescuing Malik. That file’s going to remain closed for months and months to come.”