Survival

Chapter Three

He'd been driving for about an hour and a half. He glanced at the dashboard clock. It was 12:30 pm. He hadn't anticipated the traffic on the way. It wasn't even rush hour, and yet cars were filling the streets. At least he was close to the office now.

He turned left on Elm Street. The surrounding skyscrapers cast enormous shadows on the road. He pulled up to the towering building, 450 Golden Gate Avenue inscribed on the wall next to the entrance.

He drove in and parked, thinking all the while about the urgency in Sullivan's voice. It wasn't normal for him to be called in on a Saturday. Walking into the lobby, he was greeted by the receptionist, Grace Grennan.

"Good afternoon, Connor," she said with a warm smile, her hazel eyes glowing as she brushed away her curly grey hair. "I wasn't expecting to see you today."

"Nor I, you, but I got called up by Sullivan," he said. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts but he plastered a smile onto his face.

"Oh. I'll let you get to it then," she said waving him along as he walked to the elevator.

The actual FBI San Francisco office was on the 13th floor, and accessible only by key card. He swiped his over the sensor and the number 13 lit up. As he ascended, he retreated into the recesses of his mind. He thought about what Sullivan could be calling him up for.

FBI Special Agent in Charge David Sullivan had headed this field office for about three years running. He'd been transferred from 26 Federal Plaza, the FBI field office in New York, and he seemed to gel with the people here. There was a strength to him. He was stern but didn't exactly rule with an iron fist. He did, however, familiarize himself with the people he liked. Connor being one of them.

The elevator dinged and he got out. The cube farm was relatively empty. There were a few agents around, but there didn't seem to be any in a supervisory role. These agents' jobs were to retrieve information and report back. Most of them didn't even have arrest authority.

"Connor," He heard someone from behind him call out. He knew that voice. He turned to see one of his good friends, Special Agent Abraham Castillo.

"Hey, Abe," he said.

"What're you doing here. Aren't you taking the weekend off?" Abe said

"I got called in by Sullivan. What're you doing here?"

"I'm about to make an arrest. We finally got Vasquez. An anonymous tip came in this morning and it seems to check out." They both worked in counterintelligence. Connor had been assigned to the counterespionage section focusing on Russian Intelligence. Abe had been assigned to a task-force whose aim was catching one of the most notorious freelancers in intelligence work. Julio Vasquez.

A lot of different intel said a lot of different things about who he was, however, most would agree on the fact that he started in Cuban intelligence and worked his way into the Russian FSB, rubbing shoulders with people like Medvedev and Putin. He then left the FSB to become a freelancer. The last anyone heard from him was a year ago when he stole some sensitive files from Homeland Security.

"Watch your back with him, Abe," Connor said.

"Same goes for you with Sullivan," he said with a smirk, and with a quick nod, he retreated to the elevator doors.

Connor then made his way to the SAC's office. Time to find out what this was about.

......

It was a corner office. Sullivan knew how to make himself at home. It was well decorated with a couch and a few chairs around a table. The walls along one side were lined with bookshelves probably housing every law book in the Department of Justice. Then there was his 'throne', as some of the other agents liked to joke, which had two seats opposite his own.