End Game (Will Robie #5)(12)

She went through each step, wondering what she could have done differently to change what had ended up being a slaughter.

For both sides.

Sole survivor. She didn’t wear that label well.

She thought of her spotter, a man two months away from being a father for the first time. She thought of Hugh Barkley, married with three children back in Birmingham, England. She thought of all the rest, including the man who had betrayed them.

What could I have done better? How could I have prevented this?

She had no answers to these questions. She would never have answers to these questions for the simple fact that there were none to be had.

Humans were imperfect beings operating in a world over which they had diminishing control.

Particularly in the parts that were at war.

Giving up the possibility of sleep, she opted for a shower instead, letting the hot water pour over her, while her forehead was pressed to the tiles.

She wanted to cleanse Iraq from her being. Reel wanted every molecule of sand lurking on her skin to vanish.

Like finding answers to her questions, it was really an impossible task. The mission that night would be with her always, joining a legion of others where things did not always turn out right.

She dried off, wrapped a towel around her, went to the window, and peered out. It was cloudy in DC. The seasons were in flux, warm giving way to less warm, and then eventually ceding to quite cold.

The knock on the door brought her back.

Her hand automatically pulled the Beretta from her bag. Her finger disengaged the safety without her even having to look because the Beretta was as much a part of Reel as was her hand.

Holding the pistol behind her, she padded to the door and looked through the peephole.

She sucked in a breath and then let it go.

Her nightmare had just ratcheted up a notch.

She opened the door and looked up at him.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Will Robie looked down at her and said, “We need to find Blue Man.”





CHAPTER





7


Tick-tock of the clock.

Robie and Reel sat on opposite sides of the table in the small conference room at Langley. It was a room they had sat in many times before.

Only this time was different. For a variety of reasons, and none of them good.

Robie glanced down at Reel’s oblique. In Mississippi, a bullet had struck her there.

“Healed?” he asked.

“Apparently” was her reply.

She glanced at his right arm, which had been torn apart and then surgically repaired. “How about your arm?”

“Apparently good enough.”

Robie fiddled with something in his pocket. It was the note that he had found on his bed. He wanted to pull it out and ask her what the hell it meant.

Then the door opened and they both sat up straighter.

The woman entering the room was Blue Man’s boss, the director of Central Intelligence. Blue Man’s new boss. The old one had resigned due to stress and an inability to manage it as one professional crisis after another slammed into his Agency.

The new DCI was Rachel Cassidy. She was in her late forties. She’d been an intelligence officer in the Army, then in politics for a short while. She’d worked a few years in the financial world on Wall Street, then returned to her roots where she’d held positions in the Defense Department and the NSC before being named deputy director of the CIA.

Now she held the top spot, and she looked up to the task.

She was petite and wiry with shoulder-length brown hair. She was dressed in a dark pantsuit with a white blouse. She wore no jewelry and only the barest of makeup. Her eyes were wide and hazel and held on you like a laser. By her demeanor the term wasting time did not appear to be in her lexicon.

Cassidy was regarded as a thorough professional who saw no obstacles, only solutions, and whose bullshit meter was among the best in the business. That last attribute was an absolute necessity in this field, mainly because she had to deal with elected officials, who could spew crap like an untended fire hose did water.

She sat down and looked first at Robie and then at Reel.

“You’ve had a preliminary briefing.”

It was not really a question, yet both of them nodded.

Cassidy leaned forward and looked at Robie. “London.”

Robie glanced at her.

“Are you fully recovered?” asked Cassidy.

“Nothing to recover from,” replied Robie.

Cassidy looked at Reel. “And you?”

Now Reel looked directly at Robie. “Same answer, Director.”

“Good. Roger left here six days ago on vacation.”

“I didn’t think Blue Man took vacations,” said Robie.

“Everyone takes vacations, Robie, even Blue Man,” Cassidy said briskly. “He flew to Denver and then drove to his final destination. He did this every year about this time. He was going fly-fishing for a week.”

Both Robie and Reel looked surprised by this. Neither knew much if anything about Blue Man’s personal life. That was just the way their world worked. Need to know extended to all corners, both professional and personal.

“Why there?” asked Reel.

“He was from the area. Born there, raised there. And he went back there pretty much every year.”