The Complete Alexis Parker Prequel Series Read online

  Outcomes and Perspective

  The Complete Alexis Parker Prequel Series

  Three Novellas in One:

  Assignment Zero

  Agent Prerogative

  The Final Chapter

  G.K. Parks

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and other concepts are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, establishments, events, and locations is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2014 G.K. Parks

  A Modus Operandi imprint.

  All rights reserved.

  Print ISBN: 0989195821

  Print ISBN-13: 978-0989195829

  For all those who have made the ultimate sacrifice and have lost their lives in the line of duty, may they never be forgotten.

  Full-length Novels in the Alexis Parker Series:

  Likely Suspects

  The Warhol Incident

  Mimicry of Banshees

  Suspicion of Murder

  Racing Through Darkness

  Camels and Corpses

  Lack of Jurisdiction

  Dying for a Fix

  Intended Target

  Muffled Echoes

  Crisis of Conscience

  Misplaced Trust

  Whitewashed Lies

  On Tilt

  Prequel Alexis Parker Novellas:

  Outcomes and Perspective: The Complete Prequel Series

  Assignment Zero (Prequel series, #1)

  Agent Prerogative (Prequel series, #2)

  The Final Chapter (Prequel series, #3)

  Julian Mercer Novels

  Condemned

  Betrayal

  Subversion

  Reparation

  Table of Contents

  Assignment Zero

  Agent Prerogative

  The Final Chapter

  Assignment Zero

  An Alexis Parker Short

  G.K. Parks

  One

  Pounding out the last half mile, I was relieved to cross the finish line and immediately put my hands on my knees as I sucked in some air. My heartbeat was reverberating through my ears, and if I didn’t thoroughly stretch, walking tomorrow would be a challenge.

  “It’s about time,” Michael Carver remarked, tossing a water bottle in my direction. “As usual, you’re still following my lead.” I glared at him as I unscrewed the cap. “How did you ever pass the physical regs? You run like a girl.”

  “I am a girl, and just because I can’t run a five minute mile doesn’t mean shit. Frankly, my six and a half minutes are very respectable. You’re just a freak of nature.”

  “Is that the argument you plan to use when you let a suspect get away?” Carver could be an ass. During the last five months of training at Quantico, he had been the bane of my existence, constantly competitive, arrogant, a slight misogynistic streak, and always with the jibes.

  “Thank god we get our field assignments tomorrow,” I muttered. “If I had to spend another twenty weeks, let alone two years, with you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “Who are you kidding, Alexis?” He grinned. “You know exactly what would happen.” He cocked an eyebrow up. “Do you want to come over tonight? There’s a chance we may never see one another again. We might as well go out with a bang.”

  “In your dreams,” I scoffed. I finished stretching and found my keys. “Let me know who your supervisor is so I can send a sympathy card. Being forced to spend two years with you qualifies as a violation of the Constitution.”

  Not waiting for a response, I continued down the path to my apartment. It wasn’t an apartment so much as a converted dorm room I had been assigned to share. The FBI and other law enforcement agencies used the Marine Corps base to conduct their own training programs, and I was relieved it was over. Although I had become close with Kate Hartley, my roommate, I preferred having a certain level of free will and privacy.

  “Alexis Parker,” she squealed and shoved an envelope in my direction as I walked in the door.

  “What?”

  “It’s our posting. They issued our assignments early. I’m working white collar division.”

  “Big surprise,” I teased. Kate had been a professional CPA for a few years before being recruited by someone at the Bureau. She wasn’t up to snuff for fieldwork, barely managing to score high enough on the firearms proficiency test, but she could work magic with numbers and bank accounts. I put the unopened envelope on the table and found a change of clothes. “I’m going to take a shower. Do you feel like going out tonight?”

  She looked astonished. “Of course. It’s our last night. Everyone’s meeting at the Blue Diamond later.” I had meant dinner, not spending hours at a bar with a group of people who were going to be tooting their own horns. “Aren’t you going to open it?” She picked up the envelope and tried to hand it to me as I went past her on the way to the bathroom.

  “Why? Do you think the courier is going to come back and rescind it if I don’t open it immediately?”

  “Smartass.” She looked annoyed and went into her room.

  The time alone was a nice reprieve. Having a chance to think about things was typically a benefit, but I was nervous. Maybe I was going to be sent across the country to Alaska, Utah, or somewhere equally small. I liked the anonymity a large city provided. The FBI offices in the bigger cities had more divisions, plentiful resources, and opportunity for promotion and growth. I shut the water and tried not to let Carver’s constant digs get to me. The actual agents had all been impressed by my physical and mental acuity. Carver was just intimidated and jealous, I hoped.

  After dressing and giving myself a final word of encouragement, I went into the main room of the apartment and tore open the envelope. I was reading and rereading the words, looking for some clue as to whether or not this was a joke.

  “Well?” Kate asked impatiently. She was standing in her doorway, dressed in a cute outfit.

  “Office of International Operations.” This fact was still processing, and I didn’t know whether I should be excited or scared shitless.

  She stood behind me, reading over my shoulder. “At least we’re going to be working out of the same city.”

  “Until they decide to send me overseas.” Sometimes, I missed free will. She made a tsk sound and took the paper away.

  “You have zero military experience. You’re a law school graduate for god’s sakes, and you don’t speak Farsi, Arabic, or anything useful.”

  “Thanks.” Sarcastic as always. It was nice some things never change.

  “They do more than just fight the war on terrorism. Hell, we’re all fighting the war on terrorism, but it doesn’t mean you’re going to the Middle East or anywhere overseas. They work a lot of the same cases Interpol does. Smuggling, forgeries, arms sales, et cetera.”

  “Wow, you just demoted me from operative to pencil pusher in two sentences.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Do you even know what you want?”

  “Dinner, preferably now.”

  Chuckling, she picked up her purse and met me at the door.

  * * *

  After we ate, Kate insisted we go to the bar. We were sitting on a few stools in the center, chatting easily. She had knocked back half a dozen tequila shots in the last two hours, and I was only on my second beer of the night. My life had taken many strange turns, and it was about to undergo another one. Everything in our government provided a
partment was packed, and tomorrow, I’d load up my car and drive to a new city to begin a new life. This was what I wanted. The one thing I had been striving for since I turned twenty. I was twenty-four now, the minimum age required to become a Special Agent in Charge.

  After working my ass off to complete my BA and pass the LSATs with flying colors, I received a scholarship to a decent law school with no intention of ever becoming a lawyer. It was just a stepping stone. Often, I was accused of being too serious. When I turned eighteen my entire life changed, and after spending the first two years of college completely lost, I witnessed firsthand how useful law enforcement agencies could be and found my focus. After law school, I sent my application to the Bureau, and by some miracle, they accepted me for training at Quantico.

  “Parker,” Carver called, sidling up to my barstool, “drinking your sorrows away?”

  “What sorrows?”

  “Your misery over missing me.” He sat on the empty stool next to mine and swiveled in his seat.

  “Clearly, that’s the best thing about this entire situation,” I deadpanned.

  Kate turned to us. “Michael,” she smiled, “where did you get assigned?”

  “Los Angeles.” He looked pleased.

  “Alex is going to work for the OIO, and I’m assigned white collar out of the same office.”

  The smug look left his face. “Congratulations.” He stood and picked up his glass. He leaned in and whispered in my ear, “I’m going to finish this and head home. Feel free to join me.”

  I snorted, and he walked away.

  “You need to let loose sometimes,” Kate commented, drawing my attention away from my to-do list for tomorrow. “Michael’s interested in you, and he’s going to be three thousand miles away. There’s no reason you can’t have some fun. The entire five months we’ve been here you haven’t brought anyone home or stayed out all night.”

  “I’m not here to party.”

  “No,” she swallowed the remainder of her shot, “you always have to be the best, practically perfect scores across the board on everything. All you do is workout, read, and study. You’re avoiding living your life. It’s almost like you’re running away from something or someone.”

  “Drop it.” I got up and put some cash on the bar. “If you bring someone home, try to make sure he's gone by the time I get up. I don’t want my final morning in our apartment to be awkward while I’m rushing around trying to pack my car.”

  “Sure.” She didn’t look convinced, but she had learned it wasn’t worth arguing. Stubborn was one of the things I did best.

  * * *

  The next morning, there were no strange men vying for bathroom time. Kate made a pot of coffee, and I filled my thermos and threw the few remaining unpacked items into a duffel bag.

  “Alex,” she just came up the steps from taking a box out to her car, “it’s been fun.”

  “That’s one way to put it.” I shrugged, hefting the bag over my shoulder. “Give me a call whenever you get settled, and we’ll go out for drinks to celebrate our new agent statuses.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Kate had a home elsewhere, and it would be a couple of weeks before her lease was up. This gave her some time to apartment hunt. I was a nomad, having moved from a dorm to a campus apartment to a studio apartment in law school. Setting down permanent roots was something I had yet to do in my adult life, and I would have to put it off a little longer.

  Kate’s position in white collar wasn’t starting for another month. Unfortunately, Monday morning, I was expected to meet with my soon-to-be mentor, Mark Jablonsky, and hit the ground running. Not all of us had cushy desk jobs; although, the thought of only working behind a desk made me cringe. Sure, investigations were ninety percent pushing papers, but it was the ten percent that made the rest worth it. Until I had some time to catch my breath, I could live out of a hotel room. I made reservations last night and would stay in a weekly rental for the next few weeks while I apartment hunted and cut my teeth at the OIO.

  Saying our goodbyes, I relished the five hour drive. It felt like freedom and the ability to make a choice. Admittedly, nothing from the time I turned eighteen until now felt much like a choice. It was all a string of theoretically good decisions in order to achieve a desired goal. Now that the goal was reached, things would be different.

  Two

  Today wasn’t going well. I sucked at interviews, and after spilling coffee on my blouse and having to find something else to wear, I was in a wrinkled, white button-up shirt with a black skirt, chunk heels, and my long, brown hair was tied back in a braid. My blazer must have been forgotten or lost somewhere between Quantico and my hotel room because I couldn’t find it, so there was no way to hide the wrinkles on the white linen. An assistant provided a temporary security I.D. and escorted me to the OIO floor. It was daunting. The expansive room was full of desks, offices, and people knowing exactly what they were doing and why they were doing it.

  Waiting outside an office, I could hear annoyed words being exchanged inside. Obviously, bad days were contagious. Eavesdropping was neither polite nor a great way to make a first impression, but from the bits and pieces of the conversation I couldn’t help but overhear, I felt certain I was the topic being discussed.

  “Her scores were off the charts, expert marksmanship, superb physical ability, and near-perfect recall and deductive skills.” The rest of the words were drowned out by a nearby ringing telephone.

  Another voice replied, “No one performs at these levels and doesn’t crash and burn. I don’t want to waste my time.”

  “Do I have to make this an order?” the first voice threatened.

  “No, sir.”

  A man, who strongly resembled Director Kendall, strode out of the office. He nodded in my general direction but didn’t make eye contact.

  “Parker,” the same voice from inside the room barked, “get your ass in here.”

  “Sir?” I practically jumped out of the seat. It already felt like I had a lot to prove, especially since my training officer didn’t want to train me. I stood up straight in front of his desk, waiting for something. The voice in my head mocked my militaristic posture and commented that being at Quantico surrounded by jarheads potentially ruined my devil-may-care attitude.

  Mark Jablonsky glanced up from perusing my file. He had light brown hair and was in his mid-forties. Although he was dressed in a suit, it appeared he might have slept in it. At least my own disheveled appearance wouldn’t be a point of contention for my new supervisor. “Sit down.”

  “Yes, sir.” I sat primly as he rifled through his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a stack of stapled papers. He passed them across the desk, along with a pen.

  “First, drop the yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir. I can’t stand that. In the office, it’s Jablonsky. Second, fill these out.”

  “Okay.” It was nice that he wasn’t quite so buttoned-up. He continued to skim through my records as I attempted to answer the basic questions on the page. The problem was, although basic, things like permanent address were beyond my current capabilities. It was obvious Jablonsky already regretted being stuck with me, and not being able to do as he asked would just make the situation that much worse. I filled out what I could and turned the papers to face him.

  We remained in the silence as he finished reading my file and then picked up the new forms, checking that everything was properly filled out. “Address?”

  “I’m living out of a suitcase right now.” He nodded and continued scanning the pages.

  “You left off your emergency contact.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  He let out what might have been a low growl, or maybe he was trying to clear his throat. “Most of the time it’s a spouse, parent, sibling. Come on, Parker. Give me a name. Any name will do.”

  “I can’t.” He stared at me, not bothering to hide the annoyance or frustration. “I’m not married. I don’t have any family to speak of since the people w
ho adopted me washed their hands the moment I turned eighteen.”

  “Boyfriend? Girlfriend?” He softened slightly by my tale of woe which was irritating. I wondered which of us would be more aggravated by the time five o’clock rolled around.

  “Not that it matters, but I’m straight and single.”

  He let out a sigh and frowned. Snatching a pen from the cup on his desk, he scribbled something into the blank spaces. “Don’t get yourself shot. I’ll be your emergency contact, but under no circumstances are you to need an emergency contact. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  He leaned back in the chair and let out a slight chuckle. “Welcome to the OIO, Parker.”

  * * *

  My first six months at the OIO had flown by. I had found a one bedroom apartment on the sixth floor of a decent enough building. It was a bit old and slightly rundown, but it was in a safe neighborhood and within forty-five minutes of work. Jablonsky had warmed to my presence since our initial meeting, and although I had done little except shadow him and fulfill the other duties required of probationary agents, we were starting to find our rhythm.

  “Parker,” he barked, and I stood up from my desk and went into his office.

  “Sir?” I knew it irritated him when I said it, which was often why I did.

  “Cut the crap,” he shook his head, “and tell me everything you know about Victor Spilano.”

  “Spilano owns and operates the winery and restaurant, Specialty Vineyard. He’s a wine collector and restaurateur. He’s been suspected of importing and exporting black market weapons, namely military-grade assault rifles, small incendiary devices, and chemical components which could be used in the manufacturing of larger explosives. Customs has flagged his shipments, but they have not discovered any contraband during their numerous checks. Although private charter flights are often paid for by his business, none of those have been stopped by U.S. Customs or TSA because he fails to file proper flight plans.”