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jami rosner - all-source intel analyst and occasional direct action operative
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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 –
Chapter One (continued)
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.
Chapter One (continued)
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.
Chapter One (continued)
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.
Chapter One (continued)
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