The Bigot List: (A J.J. McCall Novel) Read Online Free Page B

biggest case of your career. You’ve got to promise me you’ll hang in there a little longer.”
    She pursed her lips. He wouldn’t allow her to quit, and she didn’t understand why. She had a job to do, one he apparently needed her to finish. “You know me. I won’t leave until my job is done. But, frankly, you’ll never understand my predicament,” she said, standing to leave. “The core of your humanity will never endure this kind of challenge. We, as minority FBI agents spend every damn day defending rights that we are still fighting to fully enjoy right here at the F-B-One. Don’t you see? When all goes according to plan today, we will get the answers we need. And when this case is over, so is my career.”
    He grunted as J.J. huffed and turned to leave.
    “They won’t let you resign, J.J.”
    His words stopped her cold. She turned back toward him. His face had turned pale. “Excuse me? Let me resign?”
    “They need Viktor Plotnikov and he won’t work with anyone but you.”
    “I beg your pardon, but I don’t need the Bureau’s permission to quit.”
    “But you’ll need your reputation. The FBI’s reach is far and wide in the investigative community. You know what they’ll do. And let’s face facts, you don’t work well with rules. You’ve given them plenty of ammunition to leverage,” he said, his face now unnaturally colored as if he’d decided to hold his breath until she relented.
    She whipped her head toward the door and willed her feet to follow.
    “Ahhhhggggghhhh!” Mr. Cartwright yelled out.
    Her head snapped back toward him. His entire body shook; his face turned a deep red and finally blue. He collapsed against the back of the chair then his body slid onto the floor.
    “Mr. Cartwright!”
    She dashed to his seat, watching his body thrash like a caught fish. White foam formed on the edges of his lips, and the veins in his crimson-colored neck bulged above his collar.
    J.J. kicked his chair toward the wall, dragged his desk across the floor. Another inch closer and he’d have a concussion. She forced her hands under his back and flipped him onto his side. If he was going to choke, it’d be by her hand and hers alone.
    “Mrs. Slater! Call the nurse!” J.J. yelled to Mr. Cartwright’s secretary praying she’d returned. “It’s Mr. Cartwright! He’s having a seizure!”
    She heard a faint reply. Fortunately, FBI Headquarters had a small medical facility for such emergencies.
    J.J.’s heart thumped through her chest as she watched his hopeless flail subside. She knelt down beside him and put his head on her lap, felt as if a million minutes had passed. The faint sound of harried footsteps padded closer.
    “It’s gonna be okay, Mr. Cartwright. Help is on the way.” She wiped the sweat from his brow. Her hands trembled more than usual, but she attributed that to the moment’s intensity not the more likely cause. “And the next time I don’t believe you, Jim, you can just swear on the Bible. This was overkill.”
    A weak grin struggled to part his lips.
    Time had changed nothing in the FBI. And J.J. had a double dose of the Bureau’s glass-ceiling blues. She was a minority to the second power—black and a woman. Every single day she’d begin at square one, proving herself the next day as if she’d done nothing the day before. Work twice as hard, be twice as good, to earn half the respect. The stodgy old white males who ruled Russian counterintelligence in the FBI? They didn’t give a damn about equality. And the youthful ones were too naive to perceive the lack of it.
    Her stellar record was mandatory.
    Mistakes a liability.
    In a long, slow, faith-shaking siege, she buckled under the weight everyone’s expectations, as well as her own misguided belief that she must achieve perfection at all personal costs. She could not fail her sources. She could not fail her co-case agent. She could not fail her mother’s legacy. She could not fail the hundreds of agents who might