Page 33 of Troubled Water
My fingers clench against the chair. That’s when Deere reprimands me, “Director Thornton, please relax. Your heartbeat is accelerating.”
I snap, “You try to live through a day like yesterday and not have your goddamn heartbeat accelerate, Deere.”
Surprisingly, Fox crouches in front of me. Her eyes met mine head on. “There isn’t a single man or woman in this building today who doesn’t have your back, sir. And if they don’t, they’ll be incarcerated. You’ll see to it. You know we’re here to do a job you trained us to do. We’re almost done.”
Jaw clenched, I nod. Instead of berating me for not audibly responding, Fox pushes to her feet before offering me a quick drink of water. Then, she repeats her question. “At what point did you realize your wife’s life was in danger?”
I get my shit together so I can reply. “When the agents burst in and held the people who were questioning me—like you are right now—at gunpoint.”
She swallows. “Right.”
“So, if we could wrap this up, I have more important places to be.” Like at my wife’s hospital bedside.
29
YESTERDAY
The outfit I’ve been ordered to put on after the agents escort me five floors below the Agency’s marble logo instead of to my spacious office demands a return of the cold persona I wear every day when I step inside this building. If people thought I was a dick as a SEAL team leader, that doesn’t have anything on me as the director of the Agency.
With over twenty thousand people relying upon the decisions I make on a daily basis, I believe wholeheartedly in our unofficial credo. “And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.”
Even as the elevator descends, I recall the events leading up to Bethany leaving our bedroom disappointed this morning. Instead of waking her up by making slow, sweet love, we wereboth woken by a ringtone we both know all too well—the internal security division. Even I groaned as I flipped the phone open to answer.
“Thornton,” I said, my voice gruff with sleep and the warm body next to mine. Bethany, meanwhile, was skimming her hand down over the plane of my stomach, doing her damnedest to distract me.
“Director Thornton, we need you to come in for your polygraph.”
My heart stopped for a beat. A polygraph? I hadn’t predicted that after I met with the president in the Oval last week. As the head of the Agency, I should’ve been informed of this ahead of time or at least been given a heads-up. Something. Not an impromptu call while I was ready to sink into my wife on our wedding anniversary
“Authorization codes,” I snapped, trying my level best to do my damn job.
“Alpha Bravo Foxtrot. One, Two, Six, Niner. Charlie. Quebec. Eight, Seven. Zulu.”
Shit.This week’s presidential authorization. Trying to keep my tone neutral, I asked, “What’s this about?”
The voice on the other end remained clinical. “Standard protocol, sir. Routine clearance revalidation.”
Routine, my ass. Nothing about this call was routine, but I knew better than to push back—at least not until I was sitting in the room.
“Fine,” I said. “When do you need me?”
“Now, sir. We’re ready for you.”
I glanced at the clock. It was barely dawn, and I had plans—plans I’d been looking forward to for weeks. An anniversary party with Bethany. I was looking forward to it, especially the afterparty, after we’d had a little wine and I’d presented her with her favorite roses—the chocolate kind. Now someone—andI knew for certain it wasn’t the president—called me in for a damned polygraph.
“Understood,” I replied, forcing calm into my voice. “I’ll be there shortly.”
An hour later,I found myself sitting in a windowless room with beige walls and sterile lighting. The polygraph examiner sat across from me, a no-nonsense woman with graying hair pulled into a tight bun. She looks like the kind of person who has no time for small talk—and I respect that.
Except I know for a damn fact she has no right to be questioning someone of my clearance level.
This setup is for someone with a much lower clearance level than I hold.
Everything about this stinks to high heaven. I only hope the coded message I managed to type out on my flip phone from the back of the limo made it through to the Sit Room before I had to shut it off once we reached the Agency radius space.
I adjust myself in the uncomfortable chair. As usual, there are wires from the machine strapped across my chest and arms. I’ve been through this more times than I can count, but it never gets easier. It isn’t the questions themselves—it is what they represent. The constant reminder that in this world, trust was a luxury.
The examiner looks at me over the top of his clipboard. “Ready, Director Thornton?”
