Tears well as everything comes crashing down at once. Standing there, in the middle of the waiting room, in front of his FBI crew, my airways constrict.
Unable to hold back, I sob. I cry for the woman I was before The Incident. I cry for my brother, my daughter. I cry for the mercenaries who will never see their families again. I cry for a world overtaken by the power of hate and fear.
When I’m finished, I hide my face, racing to the ladies room. While I hiccough and blow my nose, Rhonda slips inside. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s healthy to get it out.”
“Thanks.” I moan at the monster in the mirror. With bruised, wind-burnt cheeks, stringy red hair, and deep circles under her eyes, I don’t even recognize myself.
Ignoring my reflection, I splash water on my face until I feel more human. As I pat dry with a paper towel, Rhonda grabs the door handle. “Wulf’s waiting to debrief you. You ready?”
“No, not really.” Why would I want to discuss the shitty decisions which led to this week? I’d rather have a wisdom tooth pulled, maybe all four.
“You’ll be fine. Beneath his gruff exterior, Axel’s a real softy.” Arm around my waist, she leads me to an admin office, empty except for one fierce-looking G-man.
Room spinning, I sit in a chair facing the desk. “Is Scott awake?”
“Not yet. Did you do the stapling?” His accusatory stare is too much to bear.
Again, I blink away tears. “You don’t understand. We were under fire. I had so little time…”
“The doctor said you saved his life. Thank you.” The man who spent oodles of taxpayer dollars to rescue me is probably trying to soften me up.
I need to set him straight and come clean. “Listen, Special Agent—”
“Call me Wulf.” His smile appears genuine enough, but I’m not buying it.
While I try to make sense of his change in attitude, a young orderly places a tray of questionable food on my lap. My stomach growls. I can’t quite remember the last time I ate.
“You can start whenever you’re ready. I’m recording.” As he clunks his cell phone on the oak table, I gasp.
This is it. My day of reckoning. Where should I begin? “I served one tour. After I came home, I was hired by DHS. At that time, we rotated. One person patrolled the woods almost every night.”
Nerves on edge, I place a straw in my mouth and swallow hard before putting the carton back in the tray. This is going tobe harder than I thought. “My first month on the job, I received a call from a farmer. He was hiding in his basement while armed men invaded his property. Following protocol, I called for backup. With their ETA’s of over thirty minutes, I had to decide. Wait or act?”
“Go on.” The agent’s steely gaze sends a chill down my spine.
You can do this, Private.“I drove to the farm, pulled to the side of the road… and woke up in the hospital. The attendant told me I fought hard. My knuckles were broken, as were my nose and jaw. They did a test because of… of internal bruising.”
My face heats. The therapist said none of this was on me, which, of course, it wasn’t, but it’s still nothing I want to discuss. “I was roofied. I remember nothing of the attack and never will.”
“I’m very sorry that happened to you, Miss O’Malley.” Wulf’s unreadable face twitches.
I want to believe he cares, but I know better. The world is a cold, hard-hearted place. “Thank you, Wulf, but I don’t want, or need, your sympathy. Please just understand my mindset at the time.”
To stop my hands from wringing, I slip them under my butt. “After The Incident—Sorry, I mean the attack, I was transferred to traffic duty. Soon after, Vermont lost funding. Dante said I was only to cover the port. All field calls were forwarded to him. This was the status quo until Jack Gurion showed up, claiming to work for Fish and Wildlife.”
“How does Bourdin fit into the picture?” Respect. The man has done his homework.
“He’s a coyote, a thug, and a bully. He’s even sexually threatened my thirteen-year-old daughter. Everyone knows he brings people from Canada through the woods, but they’re afraid to say anything.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but he escaped.” Maybe it was unintended, but the sucker punch hit below the belt.
Clasping the chair arms, I resist the overwhelming urge to bolt out of this room, pick up Mack, and drive until no one can find us.
No doubt sensing my reaction, Wulf rolls his seat closer. “Start from the beginning. Again.”
Mind numb, I fixate on a stain in the drop ceiling, recounting everything—from the moment Scott arrived to the harrowing helicopter rescue. By the third retelling my voice is hoarse, my foot asleep.
“We done?” Wiggling my toes, I stifle a yawn, barely able to keep my eyes open.
