Breaking Point Read Free Page A

was halfway to his desk before he realized what Shaw had said.
When you make team leader . . .
    When,
not
if.
    Hot damn. Max smiled. He was well on his way.
     
    Four days later, in East Meadow, Long Island—a post–World War II tract-house ’burb of New York City—Gina Vitagliano started the first grade.

C HAPTER O NE
    FBI H EADQUARTERS , W ASHINGTON , D.C.
J UNE 20, 2005
P RESENT D AY
     
    It was a fabulous day. Blue sky. Low humidity. Not a lot of traffic this time of morning. Green lights at every intersection. A parking spot within javelin-throwing distance of the office building.
    The elevator opened at the touch of the button and he rode it, express, all the way up to his floor. The doors opened again, and he got a good look at himself in the foyer mirror.
    Dressed to shine in his favorite black suit, with a new shirt he’d bought himself as a present, Jules Cassidy was not your average, run-of-the-mill FBI agent, that was for sure. He pocketed his sunglasses and adjusted his tie, then headed down the hallway with a spring in his step.
    When you look good, you feel good. No doubt about them apples.
    Laronda’s reception desk sat empty, but Max Bhagat’s office door was tightly closed.
    As early as Jules had come in today, his boss, the legendary FBI team leader known as “the Max” to his younger, more irreverent, and slightly less original junior subordinates—but never, ever called that to his face—had come in even earlier.
    Although, to be honest, it was equally likely that Max had merely stayed extremely late.
    Not that anyone would ever be able to tell the difference. Max didn’t do rumpled, even when staying up for seventy-two hours straight. In fact, he could be sat on by a hippopotamus in a bizarre zookeeping accident and the first thing he would say after regaining consciousness would be, “Somebody get me a clean shirt.”
    The man kept at least two complete changes of clothing in his office, not to mention a series of electric razors in his desk drawer, his briefcase, his car’s glove compartment, and probably one or two places Jules didn’t know about.
    Hey now, ho now! Max wasn’t the only one in early today. That was definitely gourmet coffee that Jules smelled brewing. Max may have been a brilliant negotiator, but the man was severely coffee-making challenged.
    French vanilla. Lordy, lordy, Jules loved the French vanilla. Even though he hadn’t gotten into the office before Max or the mysterious coffee brewer, it remained, indeed, a glorious, promise-filled day.
    Jules stopped at the kitchen cubby and—thank you, baby Jesus!—found his favorite mug already squeaky clean in the drying rack. The container that held the ground coffee beans was empty, but there was enough for one more generous cup in the pot on the warmer.
    The TV was set to CNN Headline News, but the volume was muted. As Jules filled his Mighty Mouse mug with the last of the coffee, the too-handsome anchor smiled sunnily at him, as if to say, “Good morning, sweetie-cakes! Something very good is coming your way today!”
    At which point the station cut to a commercial break.
    An olive-drab and sepia-tinted World War II battle scene—no doubt an ad for the History Channel—filled the screen. But then the fighting dissolved into a full color close-up of a helmeted young man, his perfect cheekbones streaked with dirt.
    Holy GI! Those were Robin Chadwick’s perfect cheekbones. This was no History Channel ad, Batman, it was a movie trailer. Shit, it was
the
movie trailer.
    In his haste to reach the remote control, Jules damn near scalded his hand, and the mug slipped with a crash into the sink. The coffee splashed—no!—right up onto his new shirt.
    He ran his burned fingers under the cool water as he used his other hand to turn up the volume on the TV. He knew he shouldn’t. He absolutely should’ve turned the damn thing off but he couldn’t help himself.
    Thundering choral music played while the picture dissolved