Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) by S.D. Skye Read Free Book Online Page B

or he knew he could evade them.
    Jake made a mental note and prepared for the ride as he watched them pull through the exit gate. “Okay, team, they’re out. I’ve got the eye.”
    Time to rock , Jake thought.
    Dmitriyev’s vehicle approached a stop sign at the corner of Tunlaw and Calvert Road, a few blocks from the embassy grounds. Jake pulled in behind them, using the three civilian cars he’d allowed to pull in front of him as cover.
    “Traffic’s heavy,” Jake advised his team. “We shouldn’t be crappin’ our clothes during hairpin turns today. I’m heading east on Calvert. You in position, Jiggy? If I should lose him, you gotta pick him up.”
    The team decided to use leapfrog surveillance, switching the eye among multiple cars posted in positions ahead of the lead eye—in this case Jake. The Russians would never see the same face, the same car. But Dmitriyev, a seasoned counterintelligence officer, would expect the Gs to be there whether he spotted the team or not.
    “Copy that, Jake. I’m locked and loaded. Ready to roll,” Jiggy responded.
    Minutes into the surveillance, Plotnikov’s arm pointed out the window toward a Starbucks on Wisconsin Avenue. He motioned Dmitriyev to pull over to the right. Once at the curb, Dmitriyev stopped and got out. When Jake radioed the status, the silence suggested the move had left everyone scratching their heads.
    “Since when do counterintelligence guys hop out for coffee? Something’s not right,” Jake said. “Get a shadow on him, so we can find out what the hell is going on in there. He knows we’re watching. Any other units nearby?”
    “This may be a stretch, but any of y’all ever think he might be going in for a Caramel Macchiato?” Jiggy joked. “I’d pimp my sister for one right now. I’m just sayin’.”
    They had no time for jokes, but everybody laughed.
    “Jumping out! I’ve got this one,” Cham’s voice called out. She always took control when the boys lost focus.
    Jake watched in his side-view mirror as she exited her vehicle and approached the store entrance.
    By the time she reached the door, Dmitriyev had returned to the entrance with two steaming coffee cups in hand. He bowed his head at Jake before getting into the car, a provocation if he’d ever seen one.
    Jake slammed his hand against his thigh, infuriated by Dmitriyev’s blatant smugness. With that, Jake authorized himself to cover more aggressively. He’d hug their bumper no matter what J.J. said.
    Dmitriyev waited for a break in traffic and eased out, then exploded down Wisconsin Avenue. The Daytona 500 had slower starts. Jake reacted too late.
    He’d been duped.
    Dmitriyev made the stop as a ploy to draw out surveillance, and it worked.
    Zigzagging in an out of traffic, Dmitriyev weaved through the streets like a fucking nutcase. Jake’s Charger engine roared, tires hugging the road as if on train rails. He tried to stay on Dmitriyev without breaking cover or killing an innocent bystander, but the pockets of stopped traffic and wayward pedestrians proved too much to avoid. As they approached the intersection at Wisconsin and R Streets, he saw her. A grandmother with a rolling walker and two kids at her side stepped into the crosswalk against the light.
    “Noooo, get out the way!” he yelled, leaning forward on his steering wheel.
    They moved onto the road. Only twenty feet ahead. Jake was going too fast.
    Too fast.
    SCREECH!
    He slammed his brakes, fishtailed to a stop, and banged his hand against the steering wheel. Dmitriyev disappeared and left nothing in his wake except smoke and exhaust fumes.
    Jake snatched his radio from the passenger seat. “I’ve lost him. I’ve lost him! He’s on fire. Headed down Wisconsin. Here we go people! Jiggy he’s less than two minutes away. Don’t lose him!”
    “Dude, already? He beat you in the paint!”
    Jiggy idled at the intersection of Wisconsin and O Street, a one-way street a few blocks down from where Dmitriyev smoked