In the Game of Espionage, Spy Takes Traitor. J.J. McCall takes Over.
The Seven Year Itch – Book 1 by S.D. Skye
FBI Special Agent J.J. McCall and her co-case agent, Tony Donato, are drawn into an unsanctioned mole hunt when a Russian intelligence officer, working for the FBI, is murdered and they suspect a traitor burrowed deep inside the U.S. Intelligence Community is responsible.
“The Seven Year Itch” is a mystery thriller from S. D. Skye … hard to put down for lovers of spy fiction, highly recommended. — Carl Logan, Midwest Book Review (April 2013)
“Thick with layers, THE SEVEN YEAR ITCH is filled with strife, deceit, lust, pain, mystery, and humor.”
–OOSA Online Book Club
Son of a Itch – Book 2 by S.D. Skye
The award-winning follow up to The Seven Year Itch which takes J.J. and her counterintelligence task force on the hunt for Russian moles who breached the nerve center of U.S. national security.
2014 Next Generation Indie Book Award for Multicultural Fiction
” If you like a brilliantly executed, thrilling, and addictive suspense novel, Son of a Itch is for you. S. D. Skye can flat write her butt off, I was sold, and tagged. This is a great series and J.J. is Jack Ryan with a [lady part].” ~ Sebella Blue
A No Good Itch – Book 3 by S.D. Skye
J.J. and Tony’s next mole hunt takes them to the Big Apple where the worlds of Counterintelligence and Organized Crime collide. The investigation to dismantle the financial hub of a Russian sleeper cell is sidetracked when an act of vengeance for Lana Michaels’ murder targets the wrong man and threatens to spark a war between Russian and Italian mafia factions.
Excerpt from A No Good Itch – Book 3 by S.D. Skye
This is the opening scene of the new J.J. McCall novel–still in progress but will be ready for delivery on December 16th as promised. The series of events that follow may or may not be inspired by an actual meeting that I can neither confirm nor deny ever happened…
“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” ~ Sun Tzu
In the convoluted world of intelligence and spies, nothing made more friends of enemies than fear, failure, and the fear of failure. This fact was no doubt why the FBI representatives had been summoned to the Russian Embassy in Washington.
The Minister of Foreign Affairs reeled after a reported “heated discussion” with the U.S. Secretary of State, who promised harsh and swift diplomatic sanctions following the arrest of Secret Service agent Maddix Cooper for spying on behalf of a the Russian Foreign Intelligence–the SVR. Coupled with the identification and death of Svetlana Mikhaylova, a Russian sleeper operative caught operating deep inside the FBI, the arrest of FBI Agent Chris Johnson for serving as Svetlana’s cutout, filling andretrieving all of her dead-drops to keep her identity concealed, and international heat for military incursions into the Ukraine, the tense political situation had outraged their now tight-lipped government contacts in Washington and New York and dried up critical sources of American intel, threatening to paralyze the SVR’s intelligence mission across the United States unless they quelled the fury. Thus, the come-to-Jesus meeting called by the SVR Resident was inevitable and necessary.
FBI Special Agent J.J. McCall marveled at the embassy’s ornate grand lobby. The rich white and dark European marbles accented by cardinal red carpet runners, a stately winding staircase crowned in gold, and paintings of lush landscapes brightening the halls and sitting areas, was among the most beautiful embassies she’d visited. The sight was impressive if also a stark reminder of the country’s willingness to spare no expense when it came to putting up deceiving fronts and paying American traitors.
“We’ll need a dump truck for the bullshit about to be heaped on us today,” J.J. whispered to her co-case agent, Tony Donato. As the lead case agent behind the ruckus, she’d been ordered to listen and not respond.
“Shhh,” Tony whispered in reply. “The walls have ears.”
Resident Andrei Komarov, the Russian equivalent to the CIA Station in Moscow, led J.J., Tony, and the Assistant Director of Counterintelligence John Nixon through the hallowed embassy halls until they reached a well-appointed conference room. It contained a stately mahogany-paneled walks, large open armchairs, and an oversized table large enough to seat Komarov’s ego and attitude, both massive in her past experience.
The group, all dressed in their services’ uniforms–pin-sharp woolen suits in late fall hues concealed under beige all-weather overcoats–was met by the only other declared SVR officer in the Russian Embassy, Security Officer Aleksey Dmitriyev.
Jolted by his appearance, J.J. avoided his gaze, kept their handshake and greeting brief. The last time they met, he was not working for her. Now, he was–and the only other person in the group aware of his status was Tony. Butterflies rolled in her stomach as everyone took their seats and the meeting began. She forced a poker expression and prepared herself for the barrage of lies.
Komarov settled in at the head of the table and prepared to talk, his face reddened and contorted as if every word he was about to speak, no doubt carefully selected by the Foreign Minister, would sear his throat and exit his lips like sharpened razors carving him from the inside.
“We’ve all met before and are quite familiar with one another,” Komarov began, shooting a slicing glare through J.J. Her aggressive targeting of SVR officers for recruitment was legendary…or infamous, depending on which side of the table you were sitting. She sat in awe of him, the Russian James Bond in looks and dress, who was void of any semblance of his accent. “So, I’ll feel free to dispense with the introductions and pleasantries since we all understand why we are here today.”