Page 215 of Whisper
“He’s losing his mind.” Dan tried to smile. Failed. “We’re all terrified, Kris. We don’t know enough about the threat. We don’t have any idea what he’s planning. What his target is.”
“If I knew anything, I’d tell you.”
“I know you would.” Dan reached for him, one hand on his shoulder. It was supposed to be a squeeze, Dan giving him reassurance.
But Kris didn’t want reassurance. Or care. Or comfort. He stayed still, not drawing into Dan’s offer of an embrace.
Dan sighed. “Go to my place. Shower, get something to eat. Try and relax, as much as you can. We’re doing everything we can here, and if we need more from you, I’ll call.”
He nodded. He couldn’t meet Dan’s gaze. “See you later.”
“Kris…” He was at the door when Dan’s voice stopped him. He hesitated, but didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry,” Dan said softly. “I’m sorry Haddad made this choice.”
“Yeah.” Kris ripped the door open, fury igniting a sudden bonfire at the base of his heart. “Me fucking too.”
Dan’s electric Bolt was exactly like he was. Practical, tidy, and clean. There weren’t any straw wrappers on the floorboards or spare change in the drink holders. The satellite radio was tuned to classical music.
Kris turned off the radio with too much force. He’d rather listen to hardcore rap, blare rock at the top of the stereo, scream with the windows down as he raced down the highway.
But the Bolt’s speakers didn’t go that loud, and the top speed of the little electric car was not the least bit satisfactory. He locked his elbows and leaned back against the driver’s seat, breathing hard in the silence.
Not even the engine made noise. He slammed the accelerator out of the Langley gate, listened to the hum of the battery spin up slowly as it chugged along to its top speed. At least the window was down. Wind rustled through his unkempt hair, messy strands going wild after a night on the couch.
Dan’s house was north, off the outer loop in Maryland. He could get there in twenty minutes.
Kris drove right past the exit heading north. Kept driving west. He stared at the horizon, fingers clenching around the steering wheel.
Eventually, he pulled off at a woodsy suburb, winding through the small downtown and through tree-lined streets, the leaves just beginning to turn, to tumble from branches. Autumn dusted the small town, the quaint charm of apple barrels and scarecrows on display in shop windows.
You could have had this. Walking hand in hand downtown, watching the seasons change. Year after year.
He kept driving, into the outskirts. Turned into a neighborhood and wound his way to a house at the end of the development, nestled against the woods.
He parked across the street.
A new family lived in his house now. A minivan was in the driveway, and yard signs in the flowerbeds boasted of a little a girl dancing ballet and a boy playing baseball, little plastic silhouettes of suburban pride.
Dawn’s first glow shimmered over the house, a halo of glitter, diffused golden light that turned the woods, the memories, soft.
I should have told the CIA to go fuck themselves. After Iraq. We should have stayed here. We could have been so happy.
Headlights appeared at the end of the road. Drove slowly toward him. Stopped at the curb, behind the Bolt.
Squinting, he tried to make out the vehicle. The headlights were high, nearly blinding him. A truck, for sure.
The truck’s engine died. The headlights winked off.
JesusfuckingChrist. That was Dawood’s truck.
No one knew he’d kept it. He’d parked it under a tarp in his building’s garage and left it, a mausoleum to memories he couldn’t get rid of.
His heart pounded. He couldn’t move. His fingers stuck to the steering wheel, squeezing. His arms, his body, shook. He stared at the truck through Dan’s rearview mirror.
The door opened. A man slid out.
He’d always know that body, that shape.
Dawood.
