Page 35 of Code Name: Harbor

My chin jerks inward, an eyebrow shoots up. “What does that even mean?”

“You know… life’s too short. Eat cheesecake. Josie’s the cheesecake.”

“An incredibly weird metaphor,” I point out.

“You get what I’m saying,” he says, taking a few steps backward. He lifts a hand, points it at me. “I got your back, brother.”

“I know you do,” I murmur and watch as he turns on his heel and heads toward The Quartermaster.

I get in my truck and drive home. I think about Josie’s hand at the side of my neck last night and the way her breath caught. I think about Mikhail and the certainty if he gets his hands on Josie, she’s dead.

Lastly, I think about Marcus telling me to eat the cheesecake and I wonder just how stupid it would be of me to pursue something with Josie.

It could end very badly for both of us.

CHAPTER 8

Josie

Valerie Royce has been with the FBI for almost twenty years and after talking to her for no more than thirty seconds, you know she’s a force to be reckoned with. I met her just over a month ago during our onboarding meeting for the Voronin case and have had several conversations with her since.

Today we’re having an in-person strategy session and I’m grateful I’ve been invited to attend. Apparently, Malik isn’t completely sidelining me from this case.

Valerie is set up in the main conference room at the end of the large table, laptop open and her files arranged. She has silver streaks through her dark hair, which is cut just above her shoulders and pinned back on the sides. She’s wearing a sharp navy pantsuit with sensible shoes she can run in if needed. I wore something similar every day of my career with the NSA.

There’s a junior agent beside her—a younger man with the eager posture of someone who’s not been in the bureau long enough to lose the impulse to take notes on everything.

Malik’s at the opposite end of the table, Cole to his left and Reid to his right. Cole lifts his chin in greeting to me; Reid winks. Malik nods to the chair beside Reid and I drop down in it, opening my laptop so I can take notes.

We all chitchat for a few minutes and two more Jameson agents stroll in—Avery Wright and Joe Fanasick. They’re both regular field agents and will probably be handling front-line grunt work from here on out.

Malik leans forward when everyone’s settled. “All right, let’s begin. Agent Royce.”

Royce straightens in her chair. “As you know, today is a recap to see where both sides are on the Voronin investigation and further develop our game plan.”

She taps a few keys on her laptop and a slideshow begins on the flat screen hanging at mid-wall. She walks us through the bureau’s two-year history with Anatoli Voronin and does so without flourish or notes. It’s clear it’s been a long part of her life trying to take down this human trafficker.

I’ve heard this background before, but there are new members on the team. I don’t mind listening in again. I’m so heavily invested on an emotional level, every reiterated fact is like fuel for me.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation opened the file in early 2024 after a trafficking victim—a twenty-three-year-old Romanian woman—was recovered from a brothel in Tukwila, Washington. The FBI became immediately involved and Royce was able to identify Voronin’s organization as the source of her transit out of Canada. The bureau spent six months building a working picture and cultivated two confidential informants. One was a low-level dock worker who had been at one of the off-loads. The other was a woman who had been trafficked through the pipeline and escaped after eighteen months in the network.

Both informants died in the second year of the investigation.

A slide appears with their photos and Royce’s lips flatten in dismay over the loss of her assets.

“Mr. Salah was found in his apartment in March. Cause of death was officially listed as a fentanyl overdose, but he had no documented history of drug use.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Ms. Petrenko disappeared in July, and her body was recovered from Puget Sound.”

My chest squeezes painfully as I think of those women who were being off-loaded the other night. Where will they eventually die?

This is why Jameson was contracted to help with the case. The death of the informants put the FBI back to ground zero and they needed fresh eyes and an intelligence network as good as the bureau’s.

Royce taps a key on her laptop and a photo of Voronin appears. It was taken recently—he’s in a tuxedo. Early sixties with iron-gray hair neatly cut short on the sides.

He could be anyone’s grandfather out for a night at the theater.

“Voronin came from Russia to the United States in 1991 with organized crime ties through the St. Petersburg networks. He naturalized in 1998 and has no US criminal record. He owns a logistics consultancy in Bellevue and a primary residence on Mercer Island. He donates to the Seattle Art Museum and to Children’s Hospital. He’s a model immigrant on paper.”

“But not in practice,” Reid mutters.