As Commander Pierce entered, Monk gave Gray a brief hug and clap on his back. The other returned it with the same affection. They shared a bond deeper than mere brotherhood. It was forged of bloodshed, tragedy, and sacrifice.
Outwardly, though, the two could not be more different.
Monk was a former Green Beret and still looked it, from his stocky bulk to his shaven scalp. The crown of his head barely reached Gray’s chin. He wore a loose windbreaker over a tight-fitted T-shirt with a growling bulldog, a countenance not all that dissimilar to the man’s own face. But that tough exterior hid a mind as sharp and quick as any chess champion.
Gray, on the other hand, stood six-foot-two, with a lean musculature that masked the lethality of his quick reflexes. His ruddy complexion marked his former Texas roots, as if the Lone Star sun had permanently branded him. But his Welsh blood showed in his strong jaw, intense blue eyes, and dark hair, which he kept lanky on top and shaved close on the sides.
Painter waved to the chairs. “We should get started.”
Gray took his seat, but he kept his leather jacket on, as if he did not intend to stay long. Seichan dropped next to him, looking equally impatient.
Painter recognized the tension they were under and their worry for Jack. The pair’s son shared the same safehouse at the edge of Rock Creek Park with Monk’s daughters. The two families had been sheltering this storm together.
The last member of the meeting strode into the room. Kathryn Bryant had been shuffling throughout the day between Painter’s office and Sigma’s intelligence nest, which was her fiefdom and domain.
She touched Seichan on the shoulder as she crossed to Painter’s desk. This gesture—from one worried mother to another—was a warm one.Still, Kat’s manner was otherwise stiff, angry. She carried herself as if she were about to go to war—which might very well be the case.
Like all Sigma members, Kat had a military background. In her case, it was in naval intelligence, but no one would mistake her for a pencil pusher. Like her husband, she had not shed the taut mannerisms drilled into her by the armed forces. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was combed and braided in the back, as conservative as her attire: navy blue suit, crisp white blouse, black leather pumps.
“Now that we’re all here,” Painter started.
“This is everyone?” Gray sat straighter, glancing around. “I thought this was an all-hands-on-deck briefing. In fact, why aren’t we heading off to the conference room?”
“This is aneed-to-knowsort of meeting,” Painter corrected. “I’ve not even shared this intel with General Metcalf, or anyone at DARPA. In fact, there’s much I haven’t shared with any of you.”
Seichan frowned. “What do you mean by—”
Painter held up a hand. “First, let me say we may have caught a break on the bomber. Unfortunately, what we’ve learned in the last eight hours does not necessarily equate to certain guilt. As you know, every military and government office tied to national security, counterterrorism, and intelligence operations has been hunting for the bomber—or for any organization, domestic or foreign, who might want to target the Mall. But most of those hunters have one hand tied behind their backs.”
“Because they don’t know about us,” Gray answered.
Painter shrugged. “Some do, some don’t, some suspect. Still, failing to know the intended target is a huge handicap. Metcalf has advocated for pulling us out of the shadows, to expose our organization.”
Monk groaned. “Which would cripple our effectiveness.”
“If not destroy us,” Gray added.
“I’ve managed to hold him off for now, mostly because there haven’t been any further attacks. But if that should change...?”
Painter let that question hang in the room for a breath.
Gray finally shrugged out of his jacket and settled deeper in his chair. “What have you learned?”
Painter turned to his second-in-command. “Kat, can you bring up the video from ADX Florence?”
“Give me a moment to transfer the footage.” Kat slid around the desk to access Painter’s terminal.
He moved aside to allow her room, which wasn’t hard. His office could be considered spartan at best. Beyond his mahogany desk, the only nod to luxury was a Remington bronze seated on a pedestal in the corner. It featured an exhausted Native American warrior slumped atop a horse. It had been a gift from his former mentor, Sean McKnight, who had founded Sigma and died to protect this bunker years ago.
And now I may lose it all.
Guilt tightened his jaw as he found himself staring at the bronze.
Sean’s gift was meant to honor Painter’s heritage. When Painter was younger, few people recognized his mixed Native American status, but as he approached fifty, his skin had grown ruddier, his cheekbones more prominent. And while his hair remained dark, a single lock of white now crested over one ear, looking like an eagle feather.
For Painter, though, the statue no longer represented his heritage. It had come to embody his burden as Sigma’s director. The mounted warrior’s face hung low, etched with exhaustion and grief. To Painter, it reminded him of the cost of battle for any soldier.
And maybe that was Sean’s intent in this gift, too.
