Jami 2014 04 18

Jami L. Rosner – Division Lead, All-Source Intel Analyst, and Occasional

April 18, 2014

Bold. Beautiful. Strong.

Direct Action Operative

2

Chapter One: The Meatpacking District, Early Morning

Chapter Two: Inside PH-D Rooftop Lounge

Jami L. Rosner: The Cocktail Recipe

Table of Contents

Chapter One

3

Meatpacking District, Manhattan

New York, New York

04:25 a.m. EDT.

Jami Rosner.

I repeat my name.

Jami Lynn.

…Rosner.

Out loud, quietly. And wonder what it might

be like to one day say my real name again.

I’ve been undercover for almost 51 months

and I am exactly one week away from moving

on.

Car horns punch the air. And hang on,

blaring. A couple of out-of-towners jump.

But it’s just taxi on taxi hate, moving slow

through a turn on the avenue in front of where

I stand. One driver is in a rush. One driver is

not.

I inhale – there’s one breath left in this

cigarette. It doesn’t suit me and it’s not a

habit. But I’ve been posting up against the

wall at Tao’s southwest corner on 16th Street

and 9th Avenue for as long as it took me to

strike a match and work my way through the

stick up to this point: one breath left.

And I check the time.

My wrist, at my side, barely twists and the

watch around it stays waist level but is

partially cocked forward to better read the

dials. Left foot up against the wall, a few

inches off the ground. The right firmly

planted. And ready. My chin moves less than

the glance down to confirm: time to go.

As 4:26 a.m. becomes now, I ready myself to

move.

Most people who see me assume I’m the mark.

That as an attractive woman I might be just

one ingredient necessary to put the wealth into

the so called target rich environment.

Available and waiting to be impressed. That I

might be standing on the corner, or at a bar, or

on the subway, or in the Starbucks hoping you

would ask me out. Hoping you would offer to

buy my attention. And offered, so often, “to

go on a trip.”

I haven’t had time for that in years. And not

because once or twice the proposition didn’t,

almost, sound good. But because, like now, I

have been working.

With a final glance up – way up – and over my

shoulder to the left, I see the rooftop once

more. And I push off the wall and step.

Legend

• Area of Operations:

• Meatpacking (partial):

Manhattan

Gansevoort Hotel

16th St. and 9th Ave.

Chapter One (continued)

4

The roof, like several other key aspects of the

last several months, was necessary. However,

everything that could go wrong with tonight’s

operation did. But I wouldn’t have the faintest

idea for another three and a half hours.

And I’m walking,

Traveling south on 9th Avenue having just left

PH-D Rooftop Lounge, it’s late and I stand

out. Not because I’m incapable of blending in,

but at this time of night the more people who

notice me the safer I’ll be. Initially.

The thigh-high stockings and leg-friendly light

and airy lounge wear I had on all night

upstairs has been traded in for black leather

leggings and a black three-button collarless

blouse with cropped sleeves.

My stride is easy but I cover a lot of ground

with my 5’11” frame: three-fifths leg, the rest

torso and blonde hair.

I’m dressed dark, but not mysterious in the

streetlamp haze. Late night lighting. A

sound-scape to match. And me, on this block,

at this speed, in the midst of champagned and

coked revelers looking for the after-after-

party.

I contrast.

For starters, the obvious makes that so:

measurements of 35 and 25 inches, in the right

order, right locations. All gliding forward on a

vertical axis. Balanced and coordinated – but

not if you saw me dance – because, known to

male athletes for decades, but I believe, more

recently discovered by females: dexterity and

splendor in action (sport, adventure, combat)

does not necessarily translate to rhythm on the

lounge floor with DJ’s and club-styled top 40

beats. Which is fine. My abilities rely on

muscle memory and preparation. And yoga.

I continue, focused.

And aware of, but not indicating such, the

male follower I picked up at 15th Street and 9th

Avenue. He’s only half a block back, working

with a partner it seems, who’s following from

the front. The second guy is dead ahead at

14th Street and 9th.

Typically there are only two types of people

who follow. The first type are stalkers and

weirdoes jacked up on my looks. Jacked up to

touch a woman. Jacked up on power. But

those guys don’t work in teams with a tail and

a forward observer. So this pair was the other

type: professional.

I’ve faced worse odds. Nevertheless, every

match comes with a little uncertainty.

But what I didn’t know – what I could not

have known at that exact moment – is who

these guys were connected to. So I continued

on the assumption that they’re tied into the

operation my team was running upstairs in the

lounge all night. But more on the situation at

PH-D later.

I maintain a constant pace, measuring their

footfalls and tempo. Listening.

One block turns into the

next. Still moving south.

Leaving the primarily

Chelsea neighborhood

zip code and stepping

full-on into 10014

territory I can see –


5

I can see how these two shadows are going to

go down. These maggots.

I’m on foot. It’s a cool night in mid-spring,

Tuesday, and 99 seconds from now – at

exactly 4:28 a.m. – five things will have

happened in perfect sequence:

One, I will continue beyond my normal left-

hand turn at 14th Street and move on past Dos

Caminos and into the longer shadows cast

from The Gansevoort Hotel. Once they see

me leave the light, my two tails, the followers,

will close the distance.

Maggots.

Two, just before veering left and away from

the hotel, I will pause to dig inside my purse.

But it’s an act.

Three, I will push further on into the dark.

Walking in the center of the sidewalk.

Limiting an approach from my left because of

the buildings, while keeping just enough space

between my body and the walls to avoid being

smashed against the railings and brick and

granite if they charge.

Four, I’ll slow to make a phone call, drawing

them in.

And five. They attack.

So we proceed.

And after a short interval of normalcy, it

begins:

One.

The light fades.

Two.

Where is that phone of mine?

Three.

The wall is one and a half meters out; the

street is on my right.

Four.

I go through the motions of beginning a phone

call.


6

“Excuse me!”, he said.

With charm, not interruption.

But check the time and place. There are no

casual encounters at 4:30 in the morning in the

Meatpacking District.

“Yes. What can I do for you, and you?”, I say.

They’ve converged on me, to within two

meters of my front and rear, about 30 degrees

out from the line that tracks my shoulders and

the sidewalk.

“There is taxi stand up ahead, yes?” A

sentence assembled somewhere in the Baltics

or anything east of Germany really. But the

accent was perfect, his training well-rounded.

He’s calm. Wants me to doubt what I suspect.

To believe.

And I do, in a lot of things. Or rather, the big

ones. Some of the really big ideas. A god. A

reason to fight. Our country. My family.

And this life.

But I do not believe in chance.

They trained us not to. That’s one thing. But

it goes farther back than that. And I’ll tell you

about it once we clear this situation.

I went into go-mode:

Adrenaline flushing through my limbs. My

stomach and chest. And the necessary uptick

in heart rate.

I watched their eyes.

The one on my left: eyes, good. The whole

face actually, good. But to my right, that guy

was already shifting his weight. From heel to

toe.

I, on the other hand, rocked back, feigning

indifference. And my hands? They got thrust

into the pockets. Stayed there. But I had to

pick at my thumbnail with my index and

middle finger to keep the façade going. To

hold everything else still. Deep inside my

pockets. Just playing it cool.

I needed to give them every reason to show

themselves. I had to be certain if I was going

to put them down hard. So I waited.

“Yes?”, he said. The short form of his foreign

mark. Said through the teeth of David or Tom

or Jim or Steve or Mike or any other white and

safe neighbor you have ever had. But not

here. He didn’t belong.

And Five.

The action starts on my left.

Out of the corner of my eye:

his weight drops and he

leans back. At the same

moment his right leg rises.

Kicking out, jabbing for my

solar plexus.

Taekwondo. A snapping frontal kick. My

brain comes up with that, as well as a

response: intercept and redirect the force of

his attack. And I do.

His leg connects, but I’m able to shift away

and pivot on my left foot while my forearms

trap his ankle. I continue the pivot, forcing

him to hop forward as I extend his leg further

and higher.


7

Right before he attempts to punch the back of

my head, my right hand, locked on his ankle,

darts up, fully extended. And I attack his neck

with my left hand. My palm is big enough to

clamp across the front of his throat. I squeeze.

Hard. With just a little anger. But I’m still in

control. And then I slam him backwards and

down. With only one leg for balance, he went

airborne, hitting the concrete hard. One

shoulder absorbs a portion of the fall. But the

back of his skull takes the rest of his weight,

crashing into the sidewalk.

And the second man comes at me.

Wild. And with fury. Perhaps less trained

than I thought, this original maggot-follower-

from-behind. His stomach and chest flex and

twist. And the punches fly.

The first. It glances my scapula. My pivot

away and forward at the waist is quick.

On the second swing, he brushes my head,

almost taking my ear off with the side of his

fist. He’s forced to angle the punch down and

it’s clumsy.

I come back up, from the waist.

His third haymaker is all air. Aimed for my

jaw.

Less experienced, I’m thinking.

It carries him. And he misses completely a

second time. So he’s winded. And this gives

me a chance to keep him spinning by pushing

hard on the backside of the punch he just

threw.

It’s my momentum attaching to his

momentum. And he’s off-balance.

My forearms trap his head, tightening around

his neck. From behind, I’ve got him. So I

hold. Steady. Securing and adjusting. I

torque and tighten. Then I jerk the lock and

smash him backwards into the sidewalk as

well. My whole body does it. And the move

is a lot like slamming medicine balls into the

floor at the cross-fit gym.

However, I hear the unmistakably sickening

crack.

His skull opens in the back along a seam three

inches long. It separates just enough. A little

of the stuff oozes out.

For a moment, nothing is audible over the

heartbeat in my eardrums.

And the clock is ticking. I don’t have much

time.

I calculate. Less than three minutes to clear

the scene. Less than five minutes after that to

vanish into the City, for at least 24 hours. And

after that the only thing that can trip me up is a

positive ID by one of several street cameras

that might have picked us up on the walk

down 9th Avenue.

I maneuver out towards the street-

side of the path, creating space

between myself and the initial

downed attacker.

And opportunity knocks: he

throws one last wide and

heavy blow with his whole

right arm, wielding the fist

like a club.


8

So there’s that. And there is also the question

of who these guys were working for.

I speed up.

Crouching, touching down with one knee. I

hit the coat pockets from top to bottom. Pat-

pat, slide, with the palms. Then the

waistband. Pinch-press, slide, with the

fingertips. Then the pants. Front pockets.

Clear. Then I roll him to the side and do it

with one hand while I hold him there. Pat-pat,

slide.

And that’s where I find it.

It’s not much, just a simple card, but I

recognize it before the letters even turn to

words: Argyle.

I stand up. Glance beyond and back. Taking

in a periphery check. Nothing I can see. The

two on the ground are still. And will be until

the NYPD arrive and the coroner does his

thing.

There’s a moment of silence. And although

it’s quiet and I’m contemplating four specific

choices, only two seconds have passed since I

made the connection. Now three. Seconds

slipping away forever. And I feel the card fold

in my balling fist.

I squeeze it. And without searching the

second man, I go east. Clutching the card.

Pumping my arms and using every extra inch

of reach and kick afforded by long legs.

Running as if my life depended on it.

And it did. Argyle is a ruthless organization.

Their only problem: they don’t know what I

am capable of. But given the chain of events I

just set off, they were going to find out.

Chapter Two

9

Same Night, Four Hours Earlier

Inside PH-D Rooftop Lounge

12:30 a.m. EDT.

Note: Chapter Two release pending

authorization from JLR’s Division Chief,

Washington D.C.

…continue to the next section: Jami L. Rosner, The Cocktail Recipe

Jami L. Rosner

10

The Cocktail Recipe – Official Beverage of the Birthday Girl Operation –

Ingredients Entail:

• 1 sugar cube

• Angostura bitters

• Champagne

• Lemon or orange twist, for garnish

• ½ pour of Lillet

Preparation:

Soak the sugar cube in Angostura bitters and drop into a

champagne flute. Before adding champagne, add about an

inch of Lillet (a French apertif wine) to the glass and then

fill with luxury champagne. Garnish with twist.

Cocktail Name: ??????

• The Rosnoir

• The Dirty James

• J.L. Rosner Affair

• Jamison

• Rosner Crush

• The Indiana James

• Three-Fifths Leg

• The Jami, Bro

• The Jami Lynn Delta

• The Rosner Getaway

11

“Long before morning I knew that what I was

seeking to discover was a thing I’d always known.

That all courage was a form of constancy. That it is

always himself that the coward abandoned first.

After this all other betrayals come easily.”

– Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses

Jami! I hope you are smiling and warm and with a

fourth jewel in your crown of bold, beauty, and

strength: love.

Happy Birthday Dear!

You inspire me and motivate me daily.

Love.

– Brieh Guevara

Jami 2014 04 18

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