"You
wanted to see me, sir?"
"Yes,
Jackson." Deputy Director Malone motioned with his hand. "Come in and shut the
door."
Christopher Jackson stepped into the director's office and shut the door
behind him. He nodded to the other man in the room, a man he knew well, and
walked over to stand in front of the director's desk, his hands clasped behind
his back as he waited to find out why he had been called to the director's
office.
"Oh,"
the director said when he looked up from the papers he was reading over. He
waved his hand. "Have a seat, Jackson."
Jackson sat down, although he felt a little funny about doing so when his
immediate supervisor, Special Agent Maxwell Bernaro, was sitting on the edge
of the director's desk, his arms crossed over his chest.
"I
need you for a special assignment, Jackson," the director began.
"Yes,
sir."
Deputy
Director Malone set his pen down and leaned back in his chair, rubbing the
bridge of his nose between his fingers. Without the director looking straight
at him, Jackson could still see that the man was worn out and tired. He had
the beginning of light bags under his eyes and age lines that had never been
there before.
Jackson wouldn't want his job for love or money.
"How
long have you been with the agency, Jackson?" the director asked as he lowered
his hands to his desk and looked at Jackson.
"Seven
years, sir. Two years as a field agent and five years on the Alpha One Fly
Team."
"And
before that?"
Jackson wasn’t really sure where this line of questioning was going. "Five
years with Navy Intelligence, sir."
The
chief looked down at a file lying open on his desk, nodding as he read.
Jackson knew it was his file. He could see his name at the top in big bold
black letters. Jackson glanced up at Max, wondering why the man was here if
the special assignment was meant for him.
"It
says here that your area of expertise is technical analyst for one of our fly
teams."
"Yes,
sir."
The
chief glanced back up, his face stretched tight with a grim look. "Do you like
working in the field, Jackson?"
"Very
much, sir."
"You
came highly recommended by Special Agent Bernaro."
"Thank
you, sir."
"Don't
thank me yet, Jackson. You haven't heard what the assignment is."
"Yes,
sir."
"I
have a situation that requires someone with your unique set of skills."
Jackson's eyebrows shot up. "My unique set of skills, sir?" What in the hell
was that supposed to mean? His one main skill was being a technical analyst.
He wasn't good at much else. He couldn't even drive a car.
"He
means you being gay, Jackson," Max said.
"Oh."
Jackson wasn't exactly sure being gay was a skill—at least, not that he had
heard of.
"Yes,
well…" The director's face flushed. He looked uncomfortable. Max did not. He
looked amused. The slight smirk on the man’s face was a big clue.
Jackson had never hidden the fact he was gay from anyone. Everyone on his team
knew he was. He refused to hide it. He was gay. So the fuck what? Jackson just
didn't understand what sleeping with other men had to do with this current
assignment.
"While
this wouldn't normally even be discussed in the bureau, Special Agent Bernaro
is correct in this instance." The director folded his withered hands together
and rested his elbows on the desk, his face still slightly flushed. "Your
unique skills would be of great asset on this assignment."
"My
gayness would be of great asset?" Jackson glanced from the director over to
his immediate supervisor. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going. Never
before had his being gay affected his job in any way. Now they wanted to use
his sexual orientation? "For what?"
"Have
you ever heard of the RAF?"
Jackson’ brows pulled together as he quickly racked his memory for the
definition of those letters. "The Revolutionary Armed Forces, sir?"
The
director nodded. "We've suspected for some time that they were moving arms
into the country. For what purpose, we haven't been able to discover, but it's
something big. The shipments that we have been able to track have been moving
into the country at an alarming rate, nearly two a week for the last six
weeks."
"Last
week we were able to track one of those shipments to an Irish pub in Boston,"
Max added.
"An
Irish pub in Boston?" Jackson arched an eyebrow in amusement. "You don't say."
"This
is no laughing matter, Agent Jackson," the chief snapped.
"No,
of course not, sir." Jackson instantly straightened his shoulders and dropped
the smile from his face. "If you want to give me the pertinent facts to the
case it shouldn't take me more than a couple of hours to get up to speed. I
can have a suggested scenario for you by morning."
"That’s not why you're here, Jackson," Max said.
It
wasn't?
Jackson glanced between the chief and Max. He was a technical analyst. Putting
bits of information together to make a whole picture was what he did. "So,
what do you need me to do then?"
"The
pub where the arms shipments have been going to is owned by a man named Hayden
Flynn."
"Is he
a suspect?"
"No."
The chief grimaced. "He's a witness, a very important witness."
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