Janie Crouch - Infiltration

“Look, Tom, I don’t have a lot of time,” Cameron barked quietly into his cell phone as he sat on a bench and looked out at Washington, DC’s Potomac River. Joggers ran by in front of him and a mother chased a squealing toddler, but Cameron paid them no mind.

He especially paid no attention to the man sitting on the other side of the bench next to him who was also on his cell phone while glancing at a newspaper.

Except neither man was actually talking on his cell phone. They were talking to each other.

“Protocol dictates that we meet twice a week unless circumstances prove it impossible,” Cameron was reminded by “Tom.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have a whole lot of concern about protocol right at this moment. What I care about is bringing down the SOB who killed Jason.”

Tom sighed and turned the page on his newspaper, without ever looking at Cameron. “You’ve been under a long time, Cam. And you missed our last two scheduled meetings. I can only cover for you so much before higher-ups start noticing.”

“Well, it’s not always easy getting away from the bad guys so we can have our chats,” Cameron all but sneered. He knew his anger at Tom was misplaced, but couldn’t seem to keep his irritation under control. He just wanted to get back to work.

“Everybody knows your undercover work in DS-13 is critical for us and for you personally. But it’s important for us to do things by the book.”

Cameron sighed but didn’t say what was on his mind: doing things by the book was probably what had gotten Cameron’s previous partner killed.

“All right. I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.” Cameron almost believed it as he said it.

“Is everything still on for tomorrow’s buy?”

“Yeah. It should go without a hiccup. Just make sure the warehouse stays clear.”

“Cameron, I needed to meet with you about something else.” Tom closed his newspaper and then reopened it. He seemed to be hesitating. Cameron knew this was bad. He’d never known his handler to be at a loss for words. “The parameters of your mission have changed.”

Damn. “How so?”

“Taking the members and leader of DS-13 into custody is no longer your primary objective. For neither their black market activities nor their presumed part in your partner’s death.”

“Dammit, Tom...”

“I know, Cameron. But recent intel notified us that DS-13 has obtained new encoding-transmitting technologies that they’ll be selling to terrorists.”

Cameron sighed and waited for Tom to continue.

“It’s called Ghost Shell. This technology is like nothing we’ve ever seen—it could cripple communication within government agencies. It would give multiple terrorist groups the edge they’ve been looking for, and open us up to attacks all over the country. It’s critical that this technology doesn’t make it to the black market.”

“Why isn’t the cyberterrorism unit on this?” Cameron murmured with a sigh.

“It’s beyond cyberterrorism now. Straight into terrorism. Besides, it’s already out in the open. And since you’re already neck-deep in DS-13...”

Cameron just shook his head. He knew what Tom said was true. Technology like this in DS-13’s hands—the group was solely focused on financial gain—was bad, but in the hands of terrorist groups who were intent on destruction and loss of life, it would mean disaster.

“Roger that, Tom. Change of primary objective confirmed. I’ll be in touch when I know something.” Cameron got up from the bench and walked away. Tom stayed, as Cameron knew he would, pretending to talk on his cell phone a while longer as he looked at the paper.

Yeah, Cameron’s primary objective had changed. But he’d be damned if he’d let justice for his partner’s memory suffer because of it.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY, sitting in the back of the extended SUV with windows tinted just a bit darker than what was probably legal, Cam Cameron, as he was known to DS-13, pretended to chuckle at a filthy joke told by one of the other riders. When a second rider chimed in with another joke—something about a blonde, a redhead and a brunette—Cameron just tuned them out. He stretched his long legs out in front of him. At least there was room to do that in this vehicle.

One thing he had to give DS-13: they may be an organized crime ring with ties to almost every criminal activity imaginable—weapons, drugs, human trafficking, to name a few—but they knew how to travel in style.

Cameron had been undercover with them for eight months. Eight months pretending to be a midlevel weapons dealer. Eight months of trying to move up in the ranks of DS-13, so he could meet the boss.

The man who had ordered the execution of Cameron’s partner over a year ago.

Cameron had made very little progress in the meeting-the-boss area of his work. Instead he’d been stuck with lower-level minions, who evidently thought a punch line about high heels and a sugar daddy downright hilarious, given the guffawing coming from all corners of the vehicle. Cameron chuckled again, just so it wouldn’t be obvious that he wasn’t laughing.

Blending in was key. Cameron’s looks—black hair just a little too long, dark brown eyes, a perpetual five o’clock shadow—made him particularly suited for blending in with bad guys. Cameron had specifically cultivated the dark and unapproachable look. His six-foot frame was muscular—made even more so over the past few months since a favorite activity of the DS-13 minions was lifting weights—and he was light on his feet.

All in all, Cameron knew he came across as someone not to be messed with. Someone who could take care of himself. Someone menacing. It had helped him in undercover work for years, this ability to blend in physically.

The problem was, he felt his soul starting to blend in, too.

“Cam, don’t you know any good jokes, man?” the driver called back to Cameron.

The best joke I know will be on you guys when I arrest all you bastards.

“No, Fin. I don’t know any jokes. I can’t be this beautiful, able to outlift all you princesses and be able to tell jokes. Wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the world.” Cameron smirked.

This led to an immediate argument over which of the four people in the SUV could bench the most weight, as Cameron knew it would.

Cameron was tired. He was tired of the lies, tired of keeping one step ahead of everyone else, tired of spending every day with these morons. And yesterday’s meeting with Tom had confirmed what Cameron had already known: he wasn’t checking in with his handler at Omega Sector as often as he should.

But since Cameron worked for Omega—an elite interagency task force—there was a little more leeway about check-ins and staying undercover longer. Omega agents had more training, more experience and the distinct mental acuity needed for long-term undercover work, or they never were sent out in the first place.

They were the best of the best.

God, it sounded so Top Gun. And Cameron certainly didn’t feel best of anything right now.

“Two-ninety clean and jerk, two-seventy bench,” Cameron responded to one of the guys asking about his top weight-lifting ability.

A round of obscenities flew through the vehicle. Nobody believed him.

“I’ll take any of you pansies on, at any time.” Cameron looked down at his fingernails in boredom. “But you better call your mommies first.”

Another round of obscenities about what they would do to his mother, then arguments resumed about lifting, leg weights this time. Cameron zoned out again.

Cameron had promised Tom he would check in with the handler more often. He wasn’t particularly worried about what Tom or the agency would do if he didn’t. But he was worried his brothers, one older, one younger, both with ties to Omega Sector, might decide to storm the castle if they thought Cameron was in trouble. Not to mention his sister.