CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Sergeant Whitaker looked around the room with distaste. “What exactly are we doing here, sir?”
“And we need to stay in a fleabag motel to run it?”
Chastain chuckled. “Well, you need to stay in a fleabag motel. I’ll be returning home.”
Whitaker glared at her commanding officer. She admired the man more than anyone she’d ever met, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a real prick sometimes. “Do we have a target, sir?”
“I’m sure you’ll find one,” Chastain replied. “Someone who doesn’t matter. They should have a name and an address on file. A few people should recognize them, preferably from a distance. Not a nonentity, just a meaningless one.”
Whitaker frowned around the room. Something skittered across the floor and hid under the bed. So I won’t be sleeping tonight.
She looked at Asset Sierra-9. The dog stood patiently next to her, waiting for her next command.
Her eyes had that stupid vacant look they always had after a session.
They really needed to find a way to snap the dogs out of it once the commands were transmitted.
That was what had tipped off the FBI vet to the situation to begin with.
Why the hell had they even gone to him? They could have found a civilian vet.
It would have meant filing a couple pieces of paperwork, but it wasn’t like the Corps even checked those damned things.
Some bored sergeant would stamp it without looking and hand it to a bored private first class who would look at the color of the stamp and place it in the appropriate cabinet in a giant warehouse floor of cabinets.
Both would privately wonder why the hell the Corps still used actual paper when computers were a thing. Then they’d forget all about it.
“Whitaker? You’re wallowing again.”
Whitaker took a breath so she didn’t snap at her colonel. “I apologize, sir. I’ll carry out my task.”
“I know you will. If I had any doubts about your performance, you wouldn’t be part of this unit. I just wish you wouldn’t fixate so much on minutiae. You’re only going to be here for one night, maybe two. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It’s not the room sir,” she half-lied. “It’s that doctor. We’re being too soft with him. He’s not going to give up. He made that clear when he took pictures of us.”
Irritation flickered across Chastain’s face. “We can’t just kill him, Whitaker. That comes with consequences.”
“We killed Martin Ramsey. We’re about to kill someone else.”
"Ramsey was a lunatic who, by all appearances, had a heart attack after overdosing on cocaine. The person Asset Sierra-9 will target will be one of millions of insignificant ants crawling through the streets of our nation's capital. Dr. David Friedman is a highly valued contractor for the premier criminal investigations agency of the United States. He's married to the most celebrated field agent of all time. If we kill him, that field agent will dedicate her life to finding out who killed him and bringing all of them to justice. All of us to justice. If we must kill him, we’ll do what is necessary, but I would very much like to avoid that if it’s at all possible.”
Whitaker sighed. She sincerely doubted it was possible, but Colonel Chastain wasn’t ready to hear it, so she let the subject drop. “Of course, sir. I’ll carry out my mission.”
“I have absolute faith that you will carry it out to perfection.”
Whitaker saluted him. He chuckled and returned the salute, then clapped her on the shoulder and left her in the hotel room.
Her skin crawled a little where his hand touched her, but he had never shown any sexual interest in her—or anyone else for that matter—and she could deal with the occasional friendly squeeze.
She didn’t feel like telling him that she didn’t like to be touched. It seemed like a weak thing to say.
She looked at Asset Sierra-9 and frowned at the stupid, cow-eyed stare. “Asset!” she snapped.
Asset Sierra-9 flinched and looked at her, still cow-eyed but more alert than before.
“Bed.”
Asset Sierra-9 marched to the opposite wall and lay down facing the door.
She closed her eyes and was asleep within seconds.
Whitaker marched dubiously to the bed and reached for the cover.
A cockroach skittered across her hand, and she gasped and flung it onto the wall.
The insect impacted with a hard splat, fell to the floor, and scuttled away like nothing had happened.
“Fuck,” Whitaker hissed. “God damn it.”
She sighed heavily and grabbed the rickety wooden chair from the room’s table. She set it in front of the TV and switched the set on. The image flickered and appeared to be missing one of its colors. Everything had a sickly greenish tinge.
She put on reruns of a sitcom that was popular when her parents were younger than she was and reminded herself that it would all be worth it in the end. They were saving American lives.
Thus mollified, she settled in for a long, boring night.