The End Game (35 page)

EPILOGUE

The End Game

New York

N
icholas slept twelve hours on Friday night, ate pizza Nigel made for him, and made his plans.

Mike slept longer, had a hankering for Thai food, and ate it three straight meals.

Saturday night, just before ten o'clock, Mike got out of the shower, pulled on a sleep shirt, and turned on the television to watch something mindless. Her parents' excitement had worn her out.

And she waited.

The doorbell rang.

Finally.

She padded barefoot to the door. “Who is it?”

“Delivery.”

“What are you delivering?”

“A skinny baguette and Nigel's famous tuna salad.”

She opened the door, pulled him inside, slammed the door, locked, chained, and dead-bolted it, took the baguette and carton of tuna salad from his hands, laid them carefully on the table, and turned.

“It's about time you showed up.”

“That's what Nigel said. I like your T-shirt.
She Who Sleeps with Dogs
—does that include bad dogs?”

“Yeah, big lamebrain butt-biting, face-licking bad dogs.” She leaned up and bit his ear.

“I, ah, I came to talk.”

She backed up, folded her arms over her chest. “I've told you a dozen times, Drummond, there's nothing to talk about,” and she gave him a manic grin and jumped him, her legs going around his waist, her arms around his neck, and he pulled her up hard against him, laughing, kissing all of her he could reach.

“Maybe you're right,” he said into her mouth as he carried her down the short hallway to her bedroom, “maybe talk is overrated.”

He pulled off her glasses and tossed them into the bathroom where they landed squarely on top of the laundry hamper.

She stopped kissing him, pulled back. “Nicholas? Do you know Handel's
Messiah
?”

“Yes, I suppose. Why?”

“I have this feeling that in a few minutes we're going to be singing the ‘Hallelujah Chorus.'”

“Amen to that,” he said. “Nice bedspread.”

26 Federal Plaza

Monday morning

•   •   •

Mike hummed “Mamma Mia” as she stashed her newly replenished go-bag in her bottom desk drawer, and booted up her computer.

Nicholas had left her two hours before to go back to his house and change.

A red notice was flashing on her screen—a meeting had been scheduled with Milo Zachery. She and Nicholas had spoken to him a good half-dozen times over the weekend. Always, he had one more question. He'd never said a word when Nicholas had answered Mike's cell. Mike admired her boss for that. She supposed that since they hadn't heard from him in twelve hours, he'd made up a whole new list.

She grabbed a notepad and a pen, ran into Nicholas in the hall. She shoved up her glasses, gave him a silly grin, and patted the small butterfly bandage on his forehead, his only remaining injury from the mad time at Camp David. As for her face, her makeup was light since there was no more black eye, no more patches of green and yellow.

Nicholas got within six inches, but no closer. “Good to see you, Agent Caine. Been too long.” He looked her up and down, from her shiny blond ponytail, vivid eyes gleaming from behind her glasses with pleasure at seeing him, and that made him feel very fine indeed. He'd swear she glowed from the inside out. He probably did, too, he'd have to ask Nigel.

She was wearing her signature biker chick black and those butt-kicker boots. “I miss the little black dress, that was a visual treat, particularly with the boots.” As if he couldn't help himself, he
lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. “You'll get your Glock back today.”

“I sure hope so. I mean, if we'd been attacked over the weekend, I'd have had to bruise my knuckles protecting you.”

“Nah, you have your ankle piece, but if you'd like I could teach you to fight without using your fists.”

She laughed, couldn't seem to keep it in. As for Mr. James Bond, he couldn't look more different from her this morning in a lovely gray pin-striped suit, white shirt, and Italian loafers shined to a high gloss. “I gotta say, you sure clean up well.”

“Thank you, ma'am. Nigel wanted me to tell you he's practicing enchilada recipes, wants you to come over and be his taste tester.”

That silly grin bloomed again, plastered itself all over her face. “I can't wait. Come on, we've got to go see Zachery.”

They saw the updated threat matrix glowing on the wall of the conference room as they passed by. There was always something new, which meant, for them, that life was never boring.

They passed Ben Houston, who grinned and high-fived them. He stopped, cocked his head to the side, looked back and forth between them. Slowly, he nodded, smiled. “About time,” he said, and gave them a little wave and headed to the conference room.

“About time for what?”

Nicholas laughed. “You, me, us.”

She stopped cold. “But how could he tell? Am I wearing a red SS on my forehead?”

“SS?”

“Not telling. Work it out in that feeble brain of yours.”

He was laughing when they walked into Zachery's office to see Savich sitting on the black leather couch, his leg swinging, fiddling with MAX.

He looked up when they came in. He rose, shook their hands. “Hi, Mike, Nicholas. Neither of you look worse for wear after the excitement at Camp David.” He paused, then, “As for your weekend, I have to say it appears it was, ah, congenial. Sherlock sends her love and Sean is chomping at the bit for another video game knock-down, drag-out with you, Nicholas.”

Congenial?
Now, that was an understatement for the ages. Mike said, “It's great to see you, Dillon, but what are you doing at Federal Plaza? Are you here to take over the New York Office?”

Before he could answer, Zachery said, “No, he's not. Savich knows I'd fight him to the death, very likely mine. Come on in, you two, and shut the door.”

Now, what was this all about?
Nicholas closed the door, then sat next to Mike. He cocked an eyebrow at Savich. “What's happening?”

Mike said, “Please don't tell us Zahir Damari had a brother, a really nasty mean vengeful brother?”

Zachery said, “He does, actually, but thankfully, they're not what you'd call a close family.” He turned to Savich. “You tell them.”

Savich set MAX aside, leaned forward. “Let me say that you two have proven yourselves to be an interesting problem for the FBI. You have a tendency to find cases that explode into something bigger. You're both excellent investigators, you're both out-of-the-box thinkers, actually, you're both unlike anything we've seen before. To be honest, too, you clearly don't care about flaunting the rules when you want to achieve a goal.”

Zachery said, “Mike follows the rules, yes, but Nicholas, alas, would just as soon burn them.”

Mike felt like screaming.
Who cared about rules?
Where was this going? Were they going to be booted out?

Zachery continued: “But the fact is, we are an organization of
rules. Nicholas, it's obvious to all of us who work with you that you are inclined to feel occasionally hampered by our constraints and procedures.”

Mike shot Nicholas a look. Another vast understatement.

Savich said, “I think we've come up with a way to make sure you two can follow your instincts, be wild-hairs when you feel it's necessary, and the U.S. government won't have to arrest you and throw out cases because you've overstepped legal bounds. We're creating a special unit, authorized by Vice President Sloane directly. We know the president will sign off, too, once he's better.”

“A special unit?” Mike said, her heart beginning to pound.

Savich nodded. “You're going to be a small mobile unit, handling some of our more esoteric cases. Your scope is international, your budget is unlimited. Well, if you decide to buy a small country, I imagine there would be questions raised. You are a black ops line item, as of this moment.”

Mike clamped her jaws to keep her mouth from dropping open.
Black ops line item?

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “We're still FBI, correct?”

“On the surface, yes, absolutely,” Savich said. “But your unit will have exceptional powers. You will be able to move through all areas of the government as needed with no roadblocks. You will pick your team, though we have some suggestions. We think Gray Wharton, Ben Houston, Louisa Barry, and Lia Scott would be excellent teammates. You've proven your ability to work well with all of them in the past.”

“Adam Pearce,” Nicholas said. “I want Adam Pearce, too.”

Savich nodded. “An excellent idea. Talk about keeping you humble—rounds you out to an even eight.”

Mike said, with a half-smile, “Who runs this unit?”

“You and Nicholas are joint chiefs,” Savich said. “I trust you to keep each other in check. You'll report directly to Mr. Zachery and you'll continue to have your base of operation out of the New York Field Office. You will have your own section that, I understand, is being set up for you as we speak. After this meeting, you will meet with your team, get settled in.

“I might add that you will have your own transportation for any trips you need to take so we don't have to keep borrowing other people's planes.”

Zachery said, “We vacated a space on the twenty-second floor for you. It will fit all of you nicely, plus there's a good-sized conference room. You can put it together however you'd like.”

Savich said, “You will have access to everything the Hoover Building, the New York Field Office, and Quantico have to offer.”

Savich glanced at Zachery. “We both feel this is the only way to keep you two out of jail. So, what do you think?”

Nicholas looked at Mike. Her eyes glittered, she looked ready to leap out of her chair and dance and hoot and holler, like she would burst with both astonishment and wild happiness. He felt his blood pumping fast and hot, and couldn't help it—he stood up, grabbed her, and whirled her around.

He set her down and both of them turned and said in unison, “Yes!”

Nicholas shook Savich's hand, then Zachery's. “Thank you both. We like the sound of this new unit. We would like to do this.”

“Good,” Savich said. “Now, let's go over how you're going to structure this. And we need a name for you. What do you think, we could call you the Double Os?”

Mike said, “It has a ring to it, but unfortunately there's quite a tradition of the Double Os getting killed in the line of duty.”

“More like replaced, at least in the movies,” Nicholas said. He looked thoughtful a moment, then a smile bloomed. “How about we call ourselves For Your Eyes Only.”

Mike knew this was good, it was exactly right. She stood straight and tall and said formally, “As of this moment, we're your official covert eyes.”

•   •   •

When they broke
ten minutes later, Mike hooked her arm through Nicholas's and nearly danced him down the hall. “Let's get a cup of coffee and talk about this.”

He stopped, an eyebrow raised. “What? You really want to talk? Well, it's about time. Let's go tell the lads and lasses first, though.”

Mike said, “I can't wait to see who yells the loudest. Nicholas, can you imagine? We'll have power over our own cases, and as a black ops line item? Do you have any idea what this means?”

He did. Autonomy, being in charge, no limits, exactly what he liked. He gave her a manic grin.

“Of course you do. Now, we'll have to come up with a way to break ties, in case you and I disagree about how to go forward on an operation. I like rock, paper, scissors. Do you think that will cut it?”

He could imagine future arguments, knock-down, drag-out fights, but not which cases to take, but how they'd proceed, how close they could get to the edge without swan-diving over. The list would go on and on. He felt excited, content, and, he suspected, as happy as she was. He felt—
giddy
, Nigel's word. Yes, that was it.

“I can't wait for our first argument,” he said.

“You'll lose,” she said immediately, then, “We have so much to do—you know, so many procedures to establish and set into motion, so many rules to see everyone follows—”

He burst into laughter. “I can see our very first argument right over the horizon.”

“That was a joke, lamebrain. Well, mostly.”

Their announcement to Ben, Gray, Louise, and Lia ended in a tie. Shouts all around, loud ones. While everyone was clapping one another on the shoulder, already arguing about who would have the better space, Nicholas called Adam, explained to him about the new unit, For Your Eyes Only, or Covert E for short.

Adam was silent for a long moment, then said, “Like if you tell me to hack into the CIA, it'll be okay? I won't go to jail again?”

“Not for even a minute.”

Adam whooped. “Sign me up!”

“Get on a plane. We'll see you soon. I hope you won't mind having a cubicle?”

Adam groaned.

Ten minutes later, all of them were walking down the stairs to the twenty-second floor to scope out their new digs when Nicholas's mobile rang. He didn't recognize the number, hardly a surprise these days. “Excuse me a moment. Drummond here.”

“Hello, Nicholas. I trust Michaela is nearby?”

“Yes,” he said, his heart thudding. He signaled to Mike, and pressed the speaker button.

A familiar voice said, “This is Kitsune. I need your
help.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE

“I failed to make the chess team because of my height.”

—Woody Allen

Bobby Fischer and Donald Byrne evidently both met the height requirement. They played what has been dubbed
The Game of the Century
in 1956 in New York City. Bobby Fischer was thirteen years old and Donald Byrne was twenty-six, a leading American chess master. Midway through the game, Byrne saw that he would lose. Because Fischer was only thirteen, and because Byrne was a gentleman, he finished the game. It was exactly eighty-two moves.

So get out a chessboard and play the moves listed at the top of each chapter. (I've made them very clear so you should have no problems even if you're a beginner.) Enjoy this amazing game.

Why a chess game? This was J. T. Ellison's brilliant brainchild and played right into the title—
The End Game
. When she realized we had eighty-two chapters, the same number of moves that are in
The Game of the Century
, she knew it was meant to be. She could be heard singing the “Hallelujah Chorus” all over Nashville.

In a game of chess, toppling the King is the goal. In
The End
Game
, the moves and countermoves made by the players of both sides lead to an actual end game where either side could win. Fortunately, for all of us, the right side won.

Rudolf Spielmann, 1883–1942, known as the Master of Attack, once said,
“In the opening a master should play like a book, in the mid-game he should play like a magician, in the ending he should play like a machine.”

—Catherine
Coulter