National security at a school. I need your cooperation, not your questions, Jonathan said. Keep everyone where they are. We'll handle this. As Hayes reluctantly departed, Agent Ramirez received an update through her earpiece.
We've got a problem, she reported. The maintenance worker identified as a foreign operative. He's not in the east wing. According to building services, he should be doing rounds in the west wing right now. Jonathan felt his blood run cold.
The classrooms are in the West Wing, "Including your sons," Ramirez confirmed. "Without another word, they both began running toward Miss Anderson's classroom." As they rounded the corner, Jonathan saw a man in a gray maintenance uniform outside room 112, fiddling with what appeared to be a key card reader next to the door. "FBI! Don't move!"
Ramirez shouted, drawing her weapon. The man's head snapped up. For a split second, his eyes met Jonathan's cold, calculating eyes that Jonathan instantly recognized as those of a trained operative. Then he bolted, running down the hallway away from them. "Stay with the classroom," Jonathan called to Ramirez as he took off after the man.
The chase led through the winding hallways of Jefferson Academy, past startled teachers who had peaked out of their rooms despite the lockdown orders. The operative was fast and clearly knew the building's layout, taking turns and shortcuts that suggested detailed planning. Jonathan followed him down another stairwell into a service corridor that led toward the cafeteria. As they burst into the large empty dining area, the man suddenly whirled around, a knife appearing in his hand. You should have stayed out of this, Carter, he said in heavily accented English.
Who sent you? Jonathan demanded, keeping a safe distance, his body automatically shifting into a defensive stance. The man smirked. You know who? The same people who've been watching your every move for months.
Did you really think your son would be safe here? A cold fury rose in Jonathan's chest. If anything happens to my son, then you should have been more careful about where you sent him to school, the man interrupted. So many important families, so much valuable data. This place is a gold mine of intelligence.
Before Jonathan could respond, the gymnasium doors behind the operative burst open. Two FBI agents rushed in, weapons drawn. The operative, seeing he was cornered, made a desperate lunge toward Jonathan with his knife. Jonathan sidestepped the attack with the practiced ease of someone with extensive combat training. In one fluid motion, he caught the man's arm, twisted it behind his back, and forced him to the ground.
"It's over," he said as the agents moved in to secure the operative. "Tell your handlers they picked the wrong school to target." With the immediate threat neutralized, Jonathan hurried back toward Miss Anderson's classroom, his mind racing. If this operative had been watching the school, what was his ultimate goal? And more importantly, was he working alone?
As he approached room 112, he saw agent Ramirez outside the door speaking urgently into her radio. "We've got another problem," she said as Jonathan reached her. Building security just reported movement in the air ducts near the main office. "And there's an unauthorized voice on the school's radio frequency." Jonathan's expression hardened.
"This was never about data or surveillance. It's a coordinated extraction operation." They're after one of the students or multiple students, Ramirez suggested. Think about it. This school has children of diplomats, government officials, defense contractors, including my son, Jonathan finished grimly.