“You’re not getting three million dollars of taxpayer money for some half-cocked scheme.”

“It’s not a half-cocked scheme, Lindy. It’s right there in the file. If we wire three million to that account, we’ll have Vick’s trust.”

“You know how much a middleman’s trust is worth to me?”

“Three million?” Davies said, her big eyes only half hopeful.

“No. Stop wasting my time.” I continued typing on my laptop, checking my schedule.

Val and I had a lunch meeting at Fuzzy’s, and then I had to ask Thomas if I could speak with the other language expert, Agent Grove, about some discrepancies I had found in his FD-302.

Davies slapped my desk and stood up. “Just another goddamn bossy…” Her grumbling trailed off as she got closer to my door.

“Agent Davies,” I called.

She turned around, her long brown ponytail flipping as she did so. The annoyed expression on her face hardened when her eyes met mine.

“You need to get one thing straight. I am not bossy. I’m the fucking boss.”

Davies’s stern look softened, and she blinked. “Have a nice day, Agent Lindy.”

“Likewise, Agent Davies.” I motioned for her to shut the door, and as it closed, I put on my headphones and listened to the digital file Thomas had sent me this morning.

The file Agent Grove had translated a few days before was accurate, except for a few key elements. I’d meant to ask Thomas about it earlier, but something felt off. It was mostly a number here and there, but then Grove had listed a suspect by the wrong name and begun leaving things out altogether.

I pulled off the headset and walked out into the squad room, noticing Grove wasn’t at his desk. “Val,” I called, “have you seen Maddox?”

She walked over to me, holding a small bag of potato chips in one hand and licking the salt off the other. “He’s interviewing someone over at the Taliban Welcome Center.”

I frowned. “Really? We’re really going to call it that?”

“It’s what everyone calls it,” she said, shrugging.

Val was referring to the million-dollar building that sat in front of our multimillion-dollar building. It served as a security checkpoint for visitors, and it was where we would question persons of interest. That way, if they or their friends attempted to bring explosives in, the main building wouldn’t be at risk.

Someone had dubbed this checkpoint as the Taliban Welcome Center, and for some bizarre reason, the nickname had stuck.

I flicked my ID badge—habit to make sure I had it on before I left—and I headed out. It was normally a nice jaunt across the parking lot to the checkpoint building, but low gray clouds were rumbling across the sky, and huge raindrops began to fall a few moments after I’d stepped onto the concrete.