57. The Truth, Only Sanitized
the truth, only sanitized
Mirren
I was in a concrete room with a metal table and metal chair for hours.
Brody knew the moment I enabled the glasses that something was going down. He lost visual when they flew off my face during the blast wave but still had a live signal. Geolocation showed I was outside Austin, Texas. To his credit, he began working on getting here immediately.
That took hours but at least the local sheriff and Texas Bureau of Investigation took me at my word when I asked for two thick Ace bandages and ice for my knee. They agreed to cut my jeans off at mid thigh and allow me to dress the wound.
It’s not as bad as it could be. The original surgery was state-of-the-art, the kind used on professional athletes to avoid reinjury. But they don’t test those out on the violent, unpredictability of bomb detonations, so I’m a pioneer in that respect.
The detectives locally and with TBI were skeptical.
I offered my key and my hotel room number, explained everything they would find, down to the tablet and the messages on the dark web hidden by the game logo.
I explained my op, and what I knew of Sal’s op, though he could get out of his own mess.
I only wanted them to see my transparency and willingness to participate where and how I could.
Brody and the agency swept in and commandeered my equipment, even if it wasn’t theirs to begin with, and found a way to get me sprung. It didn’t go over well that I wouldn’t leave my family.
It also didn’t go over well that I had info that I didn’t have a source for. But Young and Ranger had done me a solid, and I wouldn’t drag them in to anything where I could avoid it.
So I’m in the waiting room of the local sheriff’s department, Brody looming overhead, tempting me away with promises of a hospital visit if I’ll just leave.
Nope. And he should know me better than that by now.
Sal walks through the door, looking pulpy and swollen. He stares down at me with loathing and malice. I can see it in his face. He would come after me—woman or not—if he didn’t have witnesses.
“Ice your face. Get home to your kids and have a good Christmas. Impressive lack of digital footprint, by the way.”
He stutters out some random sounds before shaking his head and leaving with what appears to be his handler.
“He has two strikes, you know. This is not a good look for him.” Brody says as if I’m supposed to get some hidden meaning.
“Is this a strike against me too?” I lift my chin and hold his gaze.
“I don’t know yet. Off the books is frowned upon. Pulling me away from home on the night of our neighborhood holiday party is fifty-fifty. My wife is pissed, but I’m relieved. Catching the bad guys is a win. Even if you only found one.”
“That’s the worst part of all of this. A fried substation.
A suicide bomber. An aircraft full of people whose families have funerals instead of parties.
And the guy left standing is a dumbass who gives no fucks.
In the meantime, my cover is blown, my knee is wrecked, and we probably stopped nothing, because our grid security is weak at best, unsecured at worst.”
“You summed up everything about government service in one fell swoop. We try. Things get lost. People get hurt. And things don’t always get better.
But everyone who has heat when the temps drop tonight, and everyone who flips on a light switch or can cook a meal is indebted to the actions of a woman who wouldn’t allow tragedy to happen on her watch.
Proud of you, Jones. Unofficially, of course. ”
I pretend there aren’t tears wanting to spill over my lashes. “Of course.”
Mom walks out at that point and takes the seat next to me. “How’s your knee, Scooter?”
Not Scooter in front of my handler.
“Mrs. Jones.” Brody dips his head.
“Brody, dear. How are you?”
Maybe Scooter isn’t so bad when she calls my boss “dear.”
Strider
In the movies and on television, there’s always the pounding on the desk and the good-cop, bad-cop routine. In real life, this shit is boring. Mind-numbingly boring.
I don’t think I was actually arrested. They didn’t take my fingerprints. There was no mugshot. I didn’t even get my Mirandas… Not that I want my face with a number held under my chin making its way around the internet, but it’s a bit of a bummer. Sort of.
I’ve sat in an office, restrained in some way, or a cell or a holding room, for most of the afternoon and into what I assume is the evening.
They ask me the same question over and over again, and I answer the same way each time.
“Mr. Anderson, were you part of a plot to take down our power grid?”
“No, Sir. My fiancée, Mirren, is an operative of a federal agency and has been working to take down those plotting.”
Sometimes I say insurgents, sometimes terrorists, sometimes plotters. It doesn’t matter. It’s as if they want to find me lying.
And I don’t lie. Not to mention I don’t know shit. Truly.
“I own an electrical contracting firm in Peoria, Illinois. One of the men out there is my employee. He will be fired—” I look around the room for a clock but find none. The fluorescent lights are fake and bright and don’t help at all with gauging the time. “What time is it?”
The man across from me looks to his watch. His speech conveys his boredom. “Eight fifteen.”
Eesh. It’s been a long day.
“Tomorrow morning, assuming I’m free to call my human resources department and begin the paperwork. The rest are family. Ish.”
“Ish?” His brow rises as if I piqued his interest.
“My fiancée, her mom, and her brother.”
“And Sal Smith?”
Well, how do I explain this shit? I already know too much, and he knows I know too much, but having Freckles on the bad side of federal agencies, especially those with the power hers has, is not what I want. “He was employed by me, under an alias. I fired him the day before Thanksgiving.”
“So you employed two people with terrorist behaviors? Why shouldn’t we assume this is accepted or encouraged by your company?”
“I’d assume a man in your position doesn’t work off of assumptions, but on facts. That’s what I’m providing you.”
“And how did you end up outside of Bastrop for this mission?” He barely lifts his hands when he makes air quotes with his fat fingers.
“I received a phone call from June, asking me to come.” There it is—the truth, only sanitized.
“And you just jumped on a plane to do her bidding?”
“Not trying to get on the wrong side of my soon-to-be mother-in-law. I’m not crazy.”
He lifts his brows. “Yeah. She’s something else.”
That’s one way to put it.
“So what role did you play in trying to take down our power grid?”
“None. My only role was getting Mirren off the ground and away from the blast radius. You can ask me again until you’re blue in the face. My answer won’t change.”
“Maybe if you wait a bit longer, your memory will become clearer.”
“Maybe if you hold me longer, I’ll have a civil case for illegally detaining me.” My reply is saccharine sweet but is said firmly. “The truth doesn’t change.”
Thirty minutes later I’m released on my own recognizance but asked to make myself available for additional questions if need be.
I agree and make my way to the lobby to find Mirren with only one pant leg, her other leg bandaged, frantically texting with her thumbs, and June pacing while doing leg lifts or calf raises or some such shit.
They both turn my way when I make it through the door.
Freckles tries to stand, but I make it to her first, scooping her up and taking the seat she’s already warmed. She holds my gaze as if asking me telepathically if I’m okay.
“I’m fine, Freckles. How’s your knee? Are you okay? Did they hurt you? I—”
She interrupts me with a kiss. “We’ll talk after we get out of here.” The words are whispered against my lips.
“Then let’s go.” I’m halfway to standing when June pipes in.
“Not without Jamie.”