Page 125 of Diamond In The Rough

“Hey!” Roscoe pushes up from his chair and goes toe to toe with our boss, risking his job. Because of me. Because of my actions.

“Stop,” I groan. I set my elbows on the table, then my face in my hands. “Roscoe, sit down.”

“You’ve taken your swipes,” Roscoe snarls anyway. “You’ve said your piece and expressed your frustration at an op gone bad. But now you’re done.”

“Sit down, Agent.”

“You’re done!” he snaps. “You’re sprinting from work and sliding head-first into harassment. I will go over your head on this.”

“Roscoe!” I grab his belt loop and tug him back. “I said enough.” I look at Dickerson, then to the dozen other agents surrounding our table—yeah, we have an audience to my humiliation and twelve sets of eyes morbidly thrilled to have a front-row seat to a discussion where my sex life and work life collide.

Releasing Roscoe and a deep breath, all in sync and stuff, I look across at Agent Jazmine Collier—Jazzy, of course—and know we were this close to her being the one sent to CeCe’s to lure the formidable and terrifying Micah to his knees, and me being the ditzy, slutty friend who drew focus everywhere she went.

She allows a small, soft smile now. A look of support. Though she’s not so brazen as to battle our boss the way Roscoe does.

“The cover was blown,” I finally murmur, dragging my eyes back to a seething Dickerson. “I said nothing I shouldn’t have said. I did nothing I shouldn’t have done. The operation was exposed through no fault of my own. And the cold hard fact is, the identity manufactured by the Bureau had holes in it, so whether you sent me in, or Roscoe, or anyone else in this room, it was always gonna fall apart. Now we need to figure out our next steps. What are we gonna do about it?”

“What are we gonna do? Nothing! It took us twenty-three years to get an agent through their doors. Twenty-three! That’s how long it’s been since we last had someone in there for more than a second. Now they’ve been burnt, so they’re gonna be especially wary of unfamiliar faces.”

“So instead of telling us what we can’t do,” Roscoe growls, “why don’t you share with the class what we can do? It’s not Tiia’s fault her background check fell over. But it sure is the Bureau’s fault she was in danger. We know the Malones take lives. We know they could have taken hers, and it would have been because of an administration fuck up. Seems to me, instead of shouting at her for shit falling apart, you owe her an apology for the outcome that could have ended her life.”

“Roscoe—”

“An apology,” Dickerson sniggers. “A fuckin’ apology.”

I don’t think I’m getting an apology.

Sorry you got busted, Tiia.

Sorry you were taken to a torture hut in the middle of the forest and made to cry.

Sorry you had to sit in someone else’s blood and a seat that no doubt has been coated in urine before.

Sorry your heart hurts and the dark scares you.

And sorry the man you love hates you.

“Where are we up to with Wilkes?” Jazzy inserts, stealing attention as though we’re still working a mark, and saving me from the beady, heated stare of people I don’t even like. “Where to next?”

“Wilkes is getting cocky,” Dickerson finally grumbles, stepping away from an incensed Roscoe and moving to the massive screen on the wall. He faces away from me, which muffles his words. “He was kjbkaubdfkh kfksef wdkfsfdg.”

“Turn back around, sir.” I lift my hand like a good little schoolgirl, and fake a smile when his head swivels, exorcist style. “I can’t understand you when you’re not looking at me.”

My hearing loss is also from a fuck up on the job. His fuck up. And he knows it, so he turns, gritting his jaw so tight, I wonder how much his dentist dislikes him.

He forces his lips into an ugly smile, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Joseph Wilkes’ associate attempted to smuggle girls into Mexico. Local authorities picked them up eight miles from the border and now they’re dealing with the fallout. Thirty-three females, and only a half dozen of them were adults. The associate, Gaines, is claiming to not know Wilkes at all.”

“Which would be the party line,” Jazzy inserts. “If he narcs, Wilkes slits his throat anyway.”

“Correct,” Dickerson agrees. “They have their stories prepared, always, and a stint in prison for Gaines would be far less painful than the outcome of snitching on Wilkes. However, a paper trail proves their connection, which will help us once we go to trial.”

“But in the meantime?” I press. “The guy is smuggling children into a life of forced sex work.”

“For now, we continue to build our case, and we hope to save the innocent before they disappear forever. We got lucky with this most recent truckload. Unfortunately for those girls, luck isn’t something we should count on.”

No shit.

“In addition to all that, Wilkes is getting ballsier. Word circulating underground is that he intends to carry out a drive-by at one of Malone’s clubs again, soon.”

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