Chapter 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 were both 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—and I 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?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, my tone icy.
He starts with the baseline questions, the ones meant to set the tone, to establish my physical responses. “Is your name Parker Thornton?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the director of the Agency?”
Geez, didn’t I teach these people anything? Lead into the fun questions. Still, I answer, “Yes.”
“Are you currently under duress?”
How do you want me to answer this? I’m raging mad over some kind of bullshit happening in my house, but duress? “No.”
His voice remains steady as he advances through polygraphy 101 routine questions.
It isn’t until he attempts to shift toward more sensitive inquiries that the tension in the room starts to shift.
“Did you inform the president of a classified data breach involving any US federal government contractors in the past twelve months?”
I pause before answering because the truth is, “No.”
He persists, “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve heard you’ve been taking meetings in the Oval.”
I counter, “Who’s we?”
I get a snooty counter, “We’re the ones asking the questions.”
Oh, I’m going to enjoy eating you for lunch when this is done. Trying to divert me, he asks, “Have you been approached by a foreign intelligence service in the past year?”
“No.”
“Have you intentionally withheld information from your superiors?”
I pause, just for a fraction of a second, before answering. “No, since I have no superior other than the president.”
His eyes flick up, narrowing, but he doesn’t comment.
We continue like that for what feels like an eternity.
Question after question, each one probing deeper into my life, my decisions, my loyalties.
I answer them all honestly—of course I do.
But still, the process feels like it is circling me around a single-issue drain—the secret investigation the president ordered me to conduct with the head of the Department of Justice about our overseas contractors.
What I want to know is how Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb know about it.
Precious minutes tick away as I endure their fumbling attempt at getting me to trip up.
Would it be too obvious if I yawn in their face to get them to speed up?
I’m the head of the agency, for fuck’s sake.
I want to shout at them to come at me and ask me if you have the fucking balls to.
Instead, to play the part and not tip my hand, I am strapped to a machine, answering questions about my integrity like the agency head is some kind of cash-for-hire political appointee.
Amid all of this is my worry about Bethany. All my senses are screaming at me at the wrongness of this happening today.
Just when I’m about to leap out of my skin, the door is kicked open.
In a split second, I recognize two members of the Presidential Protective Detail, who have guns drawn.
Fortunately for my trussed-up ass, they’re after Dumb and Dumber fuck.
I’m quickly unstrapped as the room is swarmed. “What is the situation?” I demand.
“Sir, the president wants you to contact him on a secure line. Stat.”
I bolt from the room. Slapping my palm against a wall, a hidden elevator opens that will take me out of the basement and to the main Agency floor. From there, I don’t wait. I sprint past the meandering employees waiting for the lifts to carry them to their floors for the night shift.
I race up the stairs.
Hitting my level, I burst through the doors and race down the corridor to my office.
Within moments, I’ve turned my office into a secured space—I offer up a thanks to my wife for that brilliant feature—and I’m on a video conference with the White House Situation Room. “Sir? What the hell is going on?”
“Thorn, those contractors you were tracking overseas—”
“Yes, sir.”
“The DOJ uncovered the link between them this morning.”
“And that is?”
“They’re all family businesses owned by members of the McConaghie family.”
My mind is whirling pulling pieces together. Finally, I croak out, “No.”
He’s dead.
The look on my face must speak a thousand words because the president admits, “It’s his son. He’s out for vengeance.”
Leaning forward, I order, “I want my wife taken into custody. Right now.”
“Thorn, I—”
“What, sir?”
“He’s taken the entire top floor of McCallister Construction hostage. Including your wife.”
My heart stops beating. No, it’s not possible. I’d know if the other half of my soul was gone. I’m sure the pressure in my chest is an indicator I’m about to have a heart attack. I know it. Then, certainty flows through me. I’m not going to stand here and wait. I’m going to go and save my wife.
“Sir, I’m going to need immunity.”
His face turns cautionary. “For what?”
“To murder the bastards who are holding my wife.” Without another word, I disconnect the call and disengage the security so I can leave the office. Even as I race through the building, I’m punching Cal’s number since I’ve missed at least two dozen calls from him and Sam.
“Thorn, where the fuck have you been?” he screams in my ear
“They had me in the basement using a presidential authorization code that checked out,” I snarl. “The PPD just rescued me a few minutes ago. Where the fuck am I going?”
Cal’s silent for a moment, obviously trying to regain control of his emotions. “What are you planning?”
“After I’m done killing everyone who stops me from getting to my wife?”
“Thorn,” Cal begins. Then his next words freeze my forward momentum. My body wants to move, but my legs stop working.
Tears blur my eyes, but I manage to say, “I’ll clear you through the gate. Come and get me.”
“I’m on my way.”