“Why?” Carson interrupted, his eyes bright with irritation and suspicion.
The question threw her for a second. Recovering, she said, “I recognized his name from an agency report I’d read.” In fact, she’d read the report eleven months ago, but her memory had never been an issue. While it wasn’t quite eidetic, it came pretty damn close. “Greene filed a flight plan from Heathrow yesterday. His private jet touched down at JFK this morning at three a.m. He was picked up by a limousine and taken to his penthouse on Park Avenue.”
Thompson stared at her. “Greene’s in New York?”
Carson scowled. “He has nothing to do with our mission, which remains Balakirev.”
Kendra didn’t need him to emphasize the Russian’s name to know that Carson was warning her. Jesus H. Christ, this was probably how it felt to find yourself in the middle of a minefield. Her stomach churned. One wrong step . . . “Greene is scheduled to be at the Brooklyn warehouse today at four p.m.”
Thompson sucked in a breath. He looked like a man who’d just found God. “How’d you know that?”
“He uses a smartphone.”
Carson didn’t look like he’d found God—he looked coldly furious. But at that bit of information, he snorted. “For a smart man, that’s pretty stupid.” Even he knew that wireless technology, no matter how many layers of security measures one stacked on, could be infiltrated. Especially by somebody like Kendra Donovan.
“Not stupid—arrogant,” corrected Kendra.
There was a short, heavily charged silence. Thompson threw her a speculative glance—it wasn’t the first one he’d given her in the past eight months—before turning his attention back to Carson. “If we can get Greene on record consorting with a known terrorist, that’s a fucking big deal. If we can hook him, we could blow apart not only Balakirev’s operation, but a hundred more like it. We’ll need him alive.”
He didn’t wait for an answer before pulling out his cell phone. As he moved off to the far end of the conference room, the stony-faced CIA agents broke away to stand near their leader.
Carson gritted his teeth. Diplomacy may be the watchword in Washington these days, but he knew Thompson was just salivating to take over the operation. His operation.
He turned back to his own agents. “If we’re going to take them both down, we need to work fast. Sheppard, get me the blueprints for that warehouse. I want the layout, security. Two teams, plus FBI SWAT. Donovan, coordinate with HAZMAT.” He swung away, striding toward the door, and slid a fiery glance at Thompson. “I’ll call Langley.”
No, Kendra thought. There was no way they were going to keep her from the front lines when this operation went down. She raced after Carson. “Sir. Sir?”
Carson gave her an impatient look. “In case it’s escaped your attention, Special Agent Donovan, we don’t have a lot of time here.”
“Yes, sir. I want to be in on the final phase of the operation.” Kendra fixed her gaze on his. “I’m not a computer geek,” she reminded him, and again had to fight to keep her voice steady. But she was tired, so damned tired of having to prove herself. When she’d first joined the FBI, they’d taken one look at her and stuck her behind a desk. She’d fought hard for a chance in the field. To prove herself. The chance to be treated like everybody else.
Yeah, as if.
Her stomach knotted, but she refused to look away from the assistant director as he scowled. “I’ve been trained for the field—I’ve been in the field,” she pointed out. “You know that. You know I can handle myself.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Carson growled.
“She got Greene . . . and Balakirev.” Thompson, who’d been standing near the window, pocketed his cell phone and now strode toward them. Something in his demeanor suggested that he didn’t give a damn whether the woman went on the mission or not—he just liked pissing off Carson. “We’re wasting time. You may have been put in charge—” Despite his best effort, irritation sizzled to the surface. Bureaucratic bullshit, to give jurisdiction to the fucking FBI. “—but we need to lock this down. Today. If you can’t, the FBI can kiss my ass, because I won’t have you screwing this up.”
He shouldered his way past them, disappearing out the door. The three CIA agents followed. They were too well-trained to smirk, but by the gleam in their eyes, Kendra got the impression they were smirking all the same.
Carson glared at the departing men. Fucking spooks. Then his gaze shifted back to Kendra. Thompson was right—and he’d eat nails before admitting it—but they were wasting time.
“Fine,” he spit out. If there was one thing he’d learned in the last eight months, it was that Kendra could take care of herself. She’d been born to win. Literally.
“Sir?”
Carson gave Sheppard a narrow-eyed look as he approached. “What is it, Agent?”