guess we aren’t privy to your outstanding efforts, Callie,” Jordan said, dripping with more sarcasm than usual.
Callie looked at Barry. She raised her eyebrows anticipating he would speak up on her behalf. No words were forthcoming.
“Seriously?” Callie asked looking at him in response to his ten seconds of silence.
“We’ll move on these today,” Barry said as if Callie was no longer in the conference room. “Whitaker, you take the lead on Alford Chemical and I’ll divvy up what’s left within the hour. Callie, you stay here; the rest of you are free to go.”
Callie leaned back in her chair as she watched the other lawyers shuffle out. After the last attorney exited the boardroom, Barry walked slowly to a seat across from Callie, but stayed on his feet.
“Don’t you ever throw me under the fuckin’ bus again,” Barry said, as he pointed his finger at the only other person in the conference room.
“Me, throw you under the bus? You’re kidding me, right?”
“What do you call it?”
“You asked my opinion and I gave it to you,” Callie said.
Barry leaned across the table and drew his face closer to Callie’s. “I asked your opinion as a courtesy, not to have you piss all over me.”
“Since when do we rubber-stamp shit around here?” Callie asked, glaring right back at her boss.
“Don’t do it again.” Barry pointed at her a second time then turned and started for the door.
Callie picked up her pen and legal pad and prepared to go. “You ever gonna pull your pit-bull off me?”
Barry slowly rotated his body back towards her. “My pit-bull?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Whitaker gets it done,” Barry said, more to piss her off than anything else.
“That’s bullshit, Barry and you know it.” Callie dismissed his last comment with a wave of her hand.
“Don’t do it again, Callie.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Don’t do it again,” he said as he stepped out of the conference room, leaving Callie alone in her thoughts. She thought about Derek and just how different things had become since his departure. The void his absence created changed the fortunes of so many lives, but most notably, her own.
Three
The sound of gunshots hitting their target were usually not distinctive in relation to other shots fired at the Maryland Small Arms Range. However, anyone who was around when Mike Ferguson showed up for target practice would swear that the shots coming from his gun just sounded different. He’d been compared to that one hitter in baseball whose swing makes the ball jump off his bat unlike anyone else’s in the sport. No one knew for sure what it was about his firearm that distinguished his rounds from the rest, but when they witnessed it, there was no doubt who was doing the shooting.
Located just off interstate 95 near Andrews Air Force base, the range was home to the best shooters on the eastern seaboard and Mike Ferguson was, by far, the best of them all. Todd Goodwin, a tall lanky man with a slight limp when he walked, stood uncomfortably behind Mike, watching him unload on the target in front of him.
“You fuckin’ make me sick,” Goodwin said as Mike checked out his handiwork, six shots within three millimeters of each other, all near the heart.
“Stop cryin’ and shoot.”
Todd wandered up to the counter and adjusted his protective glasses before he squeezed off six shots that were near perfect. He pressed the button drawing the target in his direction, eager with anticipation that this time he had maybe beaten his partner. Both men looked closely at the human silhouette laid out on white paper, six bullet holes neatly placed near one another.
“Shit,” Todd said. Five shots near the heart, one to the left of it. Mike stepped back up to the counter and stuck six more shots, one right next to the other, creating a large hole in the forehead of the target.
“I mean, what the fuck? Why do I let you talk me into these stupid ass bets?”
Todd pulled up and ripped six shots into the target’s forehead. Four dead center, one to the right and one missing completely. He grabbed two twenty dollars bills from his wallet and handed them to Mike. “You should fuckin’ name your savings account after me, you piece of shit.”
“Thank you for your weekly deposit,” Mike said. He kissed the twenties and stuffed them into his pants pocket. “We gotta get to Langley by ten, so quit your whining and pack up.”
Todd raised his middle finger at Mike, then turned to grab the gym bag he’d brought with him. “Hey you gonna be around this weekend?”
“Yeah, Why?”
“‘Cuz I wanted you to meet this girl I’m seein’ kinda’ tell me what ya’ think.”
“Should be,” Mike said as he placed his Beretta into the holster strapped to the left side of his belt. “She the one from last month with the Honda Civic?”
“Naw, I’m with this girl a couple weeks. Talks a bit too much, but I got ways to keep her mouth busy.”
Mike shook his head and chuckled, “You like her?”
“I think I do, but she gotta’ pass the friends test, know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean.”
“Yo’ lookie here.” Todd reached into his bag and pulled out a small key that looked like it came from an old bus station locker. “Found it under the couch last night looking for the TV remote. Remember this?”
Mike peeked at Todd and recognized the key instantly. His mind raced back to 1996. Mike, only twenty-one years old, had settled into his second field assignment since leaving ‘The Farm’. He spent a few months in Egypt and Lebanon doing some routine information gathering. Mike hung out each day at some of the local hot spots and cafes and when he tired of that, he walked the streets listening for anything that might be of interest to his country. The life he carved out for himself in the Middle East became rather mundane and unassuming until he happened upon a group of Islamists who were talking a little too much out of turn. Mike made all his superiors aware that something big was going to go down in Saudi Arabia and repeatedly sent messages to his handlers that the Kohbar Towers had been under serious surveillance for several months. His warnings went ignored.
The last message he sent was dated June 24, 1996. He urged the CIA offices in Langley to alert the government of an imminent threat to the buildings housing American military personnel. Less than twenty-four hours later, nineteen Americans were dead and another 372 were injured. Mike was furious. He had reported back to the agency all the information he thought they needed to know in order for them to take the necessary precautions. In his report, Mike made a very specific mention to his handlers in Virginia about the orchestrator of the entire operation, a man they knew of, but had never seen, named Ibrahim Hakef.
The intelligence
