The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

“Only if you intend to commit a federal crime in the next half-hour.” Matt reached into the jacket pocket opposite the gun to retrieve his FBI credentials.

Cleary inspected the badge and photo ID and then handed it back. “What can I help you with, Agent Christopher?”

Matt smiled. “I need you to write my will, and I need it done today.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

With the writing of his will now taken care of, Matt left the attorney’s office and set off for a brisk walk up toward the Academy. He needed to work off excess energy, get his body pumping, and prepare for his meeting with Morrison.

Despite the number of people strolling slowly through the city like Christmas shoppers at a mall, he was able to head straight to the Academy grounds. But as he approached the gate, he realized he’d made a mistake. Even with his FBI credential, he’d draw attention to himself if he informed the guards at the metal detectors that he was armed. Instead, he turned right and walked back down Maryland Avenue, around the State House Circle, over to Main Street and the Irish Pub.

Checking his watch, he hoped Morrison would show up early but not too early. Matt intended to find a good spot to watch and see if his lunch guest was traveling alone. He smiled when he looked at the TAG again, thankful the watch was waterproof, a present from Coleman on his thirtieth birthday. At 12:15, a black SUV pulled up in front of the pub, and Morrison hopped out. There was only the driver. Matt didn’t notice any follow-up cars.

After the customary greetings, Matt asked the hostess for a table, a quiet one, if possible, in the bar area. With food and drink ordered quickly, Matt focused on the man who could very soon be named Coleman’s successor.

Morrison, a former and highly decorated U.S. Marine, had maintained his lean, chiseled look and flat-top hair cut, despite having retired from the service 30 years before.

“What’s so important, Matt?” Morrison asked. He was a very busy man, and with the DNI recently deceased, things were in a state of flux. People were posturing for favor and an upgraded office, perhaps one with a window, while the security of the nation was supposed to be front and center of everyone’s attention.

“Let me ask you one question first, and then I’ll get right to it.”

“Go for it,” Morrison said impatiently.

“Does the name Sinclair mean anything to you?” Matt watched the man sitting across from him very closely. He knew him well enough already to know his tells. He had seen them in meetings with Coleman and others. Could this man be trusted?

“I know that Thomas Sinclair shot himself in London recently. I may have met him once a long time ago when I was on the embassy staff there. Why?” Morrison asked.

“Okay,” Matt said. Morrison’s answer seemed perfectly normal, so without further delay, Matt dove in. In full detail, he went over the same event itinerary that he and Dale had reviewed. London, Quebec, Moscow, the Swiss flight, Jackson Hole, his near-death experience, and the words the hitman had whispered nearly 12 hours ago.

Morrison sat back in his chair, clearly deep in thought.

Matt was famished. When it became clear the DNI man’s processing would take a while, Matt decided he wouldn’t let his meal grow cold and tore into the big plate of shepherd’s pie while he watched the gears turn in Morrison’s head.

When he finally sat forward, Matt leaned in as well.

“As far as I am concerned, I agree with the plan you and Dale put together. You should get the hell out of the country and lay low somewhere until we can find those two assholes or dig up more on who’s behind all of this.”

Matt exhaled. Working as an operator in the intelligence and counter-intelligence world often afforded all the adrenaline any adventure junkie or patriot might desire. But working with and against the best of the best at investigation, secrecy, manipulation, and execution was indeed dangerous. Mix in a heavy dose of political and monetary influence, the power struggles of generations, and the turbulent wind of changing CEOs and presidents – and operators were often isolated and left without support.

Matt didn’t need the job. But he was good at the work, thrived on it. He felt he was making a difference. Maybe someday he could walk away. Perhaps convince Dale he was finished with it. For now, though, he was set on revenge and felt much safer now that Morrison might have his back.

“So, why’d you call me instead of Helene’s number one?” Morrison asked, smiling at Matt as he nearly choked on his food. Matt took a few seconds to clear his throat and voice a response. He could feel his muted phone vibrating in his pocket but ignored it.

“You’re a funny guy, Freddie,” he laughed. Matt drank down the remainder of his Coke Zero. “That prick has had it in for me for years. Now that she’s gone, I have no idea if he’ll get the top job. If he does, I’m sure he’ll make a move on canceling my arrangement.”

Morrison reached for the check, but Matt had already dropped a crisp $100 bill on the table.

“Matt,” Morrison said as he stood up from their table, “my bet is that he’ll be so busy stuffing his head up the appropriate asses to try to get Helene’s job that you’re not even on his radar.”

Matt nodded. “I guess maybe you’re right.”

“Thanks for lunch, now get your butt to BWI and head over to Thailand or Vietnam until we know more about this. Nothing’s really changed. You still report to Dale at FBI, she’s your manager until someone says otherwise.”

They shook hands, and Matt watched as Morrison left the restaurant. The waitress came back and handed Matt the leather holder with $60 change.

“Keep it,” he said.

Minutes later, he was back in the Chevy, headed for an