One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [175]
Can you bring back the dead? “I’m all right. Sorry for the trouble.”
She landed at Dulles International Airport completely spent. She had no idea what she was going to do next. She had a connecting flight to Charleston but didn’t feel like getting on it. She felt like curling up in a ball and forgetting everyone and everything. She instinctively thought she should be crying or grieving over the loss of Pike, but all she felt was hollowness inside.
She joined the immigration line, moving forward like sheep to a trough. She saw CNN on a TV across the immigration area. She caught the flash of Bosnia-Herzegovina and focused on the story. She couldn’t hear what was being said but saw a video of the market, men and women wandering in a daze, police waving the cameras back, firemen running holding bleeding bodies, and an incongruous single individual in a space-age bio-suit. The screen cut to a photo, the name Harold Standish beneath it. She had no idea what that was about and didn’t have the energy to care. She waited to see something about the president admitting the Taskforce’s existence or some other catastrophic news conference, but the story ended.
She handed her passport to the man behind the counter. He scanned it and stiffened. She felt a stab of adrenaline, remembering what had happened in Atlanta, followed immediately by resignation. She had no strength to fight the bogus terrorist charge. At least it solves my problem of what to do next. Before the man could say anything, she said, “I’ll come with you. Just take me wherever you need to.”
He looked at her suspiciously, saying, “Follow me.”
He led her down a hallway to a small room that contained two folding chairs and a table. He told her to wait, then left, locking the door behind him.
She sat for a half hour, mostly in a daze. She tried to remember her time with Pike, but her subconscious refused to engage. She was having a hard time seeing his face. She remembered the last thing he had said to her, and didn’t believe it. It wasn’t worth it. We should have let him get away. She laid her head on the table and began to cry. Sobs racked her body in convulsions. They slowly faded away, leaving her with the same drained, hollow feeling. She heard the door open and looked up, eyes red. She saw a man enter and smile.
“Jennifer Cahill?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Mike. I’m from the Taskforce. You’re not in any trouble. I was waiting on you to land. Kurt Hale wanted to see you as soon as you hit U.S. soil. I’m supposed to take you to him.”
She showed no emotion. “Okay. How’d you know I’d be coming here?”
“We didn’t. We have folks at every major embarkation point in the U.S. We left the terrorist alert in place. Sorry.”
She waved it away and stood up. “I could really give a shit about that. Let’s go get this over with.”
As they left the immigration area he asked about her luggage. She shrugged. “It’s in Bosnia. I don’t have any.”
They walked in silence for the rest of the way, exiting the airport. Getting to the car, he tried one more time to draw her into a conversation.
“I understand you ended up finding and stopping the terrorist.”
She looked at him like he was an idiot. “I guess so, if you believe forcing him to blow everyone up early is stopping him.”
He put the car in drive and didn’t say another word. The rest of the trip was spent in silence. As they got onto the toll road, the weather turned sour, with rain beating the metal of the car. The only sound was the windshield wipers flipping back and forth.
Jennifer gazed out the window, ignoring the drive. Eventually, the car pulled into a checkpoint. She registered that the car had stopped, then realized where they were.
“Why are we here?”
“This is where Kurt is at the moment. I was told to bring you straight to him.”
The guard waved them through to the West Wing parking area of the White House.
After a short walk, Jennifer stood outside the White House situation room, waiting to be asked to enter. The door opened and she saw a long table surrounded by wood-paneled