Page 32 of High Velocity

“Uncomplicate it for me.”

She turns around slowly and looks right at me, hesitation in her eyes. I lift my hand and brush away a strand that is stuck to her eyelashes.

“Please?”

Stephanie

There’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to spill everything to this man.

However, that would require making myself vulnerable. Not something I’m accustomed to or particularly comfortable with. The image I try to portray of a strong, capable, even-keeled person is one I honed for most of my life. First at home, my father and brother would never tolerate weakness after Mom died, and all the years I’ve worked for the Bureau since have made me a master at keeping up that unbreakable shield.

Oh, who am I kidding? Clearly, the shield has already crumbled, or I wouldn’t be here in Libby licking my wounds. I may be concerned with maintaining as much of my reputation as I can, but I have a feeling Jackson doesn’t care much about reputation or expect any kind of perfection.

“I was put on leave.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.”

There’s an obvious bite to his voice suggesting he’s upset about that on my behalf. It’s weirdly complimentary and makes me feel a little better. Still, I have to swallow hard to clear my throat before I can continue.

“The official word is for health reasons. As I mentioned, my suspected heart attack was really high blood pressure coupled with an anxiety attack, which was embarrassing enough, but it wasn’t all.” I glance up and the equal mix of concern and curiosity I read in his eyes prompts me to go on. “It wasn’t the main reason why I was sidelined.”

This next part is hard, and I need some space to get through it without a meltdown. Turning my back on Jackson, I walk over to the sliding glass doors and fix my eyes on the view of the creek and the mountains beyond, as I try to find the right words.

“The last week of November last year, I shot and killed a sixteen-year-old in front of his parents.”

Just saying the words out loud has the bile rise up from my stomach. The silence behind me is thick, but I push on.

“It was a domestic terrorism case. We were following up on a credible lead to a ranch property just outside Thompson Falls. A family of preppers, pretty isolated, minimal contact with the outside world. The information we received suggested they were possibly manufacturing bombs on the property. Because of the potential danger, we went in armed.”

I shake my head, vividly remembering the sequence of events, the images flooding back faster than I can blink them away.

“They sent the kids out first. Five of them, the youngest couldn’t have been more than three, just a toddler. It threw us off long enough for the oldest two kids to produce automatic weapons and open fire on us. Two of the children and the father were injured, but my bullet hit the oldest boy in the head and he died instantly.”

I’ll never forget the look of shock on his siblings’ faces when they realized this wasn’t some survival game their parents had trained them for, but real life, with real bullets, and real consequences. Even their mother seemed stunned this could be the outcome; one child dead and two more plus her husband gravely injured.

I hear soft footfalls behind me and quickly rush to finish my story.

“Anyway, we had helicopters with cameras overhead that captured the whole thing, so it was quickly deemed we did everything by the book and we received our absolution and congratulations on a job well done.”

My last words sound bitter, even to my own ears. That’s the part I’ve struggled with; yes, we foiled what turned out to have been an elaborate plan of coordinated attacks on a number of federal buildings in five different states. We found enough evidence to pick up an additional seven individuals who were all part of the conspiracy. We managed to save what could have potentially been in the hundreds or even thousands of lives lost.

I know all that, but a sixteen-year-old boy still lost his life at my hand.

“Did you talk to anyone?”

Jackson’s voice is so close, it startles me. His strong hand settles on my shoulder, and when I glance up at the reflection in the window, I see him standing right behind me, his eyes aimed at the mountains as well.

Despite his physical proximity, by not looking at me, he’s still giving me space, which I appreciate.

“My boss made me attend a few sessions. I didn’t find them helpful. I guess I was numb. I tried to take a little time off, but I didn’t last long, I did better back at work. Or at least I thought so. It wasn’t until earlier this year I realized it was starting to have an effect on how I functioned. I felt a hesitancy every time I had to draw my weapon, my instincts weren’t as sharp as before, and my confidence started slipping. Apparently, I didn’t hide it well enough.” I bark out a bitter laugh. “The anxiety attack was confirmation and my boss used the blood pressure issue as an excuse to sideline me until—and these were his words—I got my shit sorted out.”

Jackson removes his hand and crosses it in front of me to reach my other shoulder, his forearm braced against my upper chest. It forces me to take a step back, right into his strong body.

“You lived for your job. No wonder you’ve looked so lost. I get it.”

I’ve been able to hold my shit together until now, and I don’t even bother holding back the sob that gets the waterworks going.

Right now, in this moment, in this man’s hold, I’m not an agent, not a collection of skills or a sum of accomplishments, but a flesh-and-blood human being.

---