The Detachment - Barry Eisler [109]
And there was that school to think about. How was he going to feel, if he knew about something like that and let it happen anyway? He’d done a lot of dark things in the course of his job, he knew, a lot of ambiguous things. Some of them kept him awake at night. Some made him wonder about punishment and reckonings and even hell. But he could honestly say everything he’d ever done was intended to keep Americans safe. Sometimes he felt like that knowledge was all that kept him sane in the face of what the task sometimes required. So what was he supposed to do now? How would he live with himself if some people blew up a school—a school, for Christ’s sake—and he could have stopped it, but didn’t? Compared to that, the possibility of someone blackmailing him with some bullshit video suddenly seemed unimportant.
He wasn’t sure. He didn’t trust his own motivations much more than he trusted Hort’s. And he didn’t know what the others were going to say. They’d made an agreement, and these weren’t the kind of people who took you to court for a breach of contract.
“Shall I finish this cigar?” Hort said. “Is it my last?”
Treven hoped he wasn’t being played. If he was, he supposed he was a three-time loser. He would deserve whatever he got.
“Just tell me about the goddamn school,” he said.
Waiting for Treven made for a stressful night. Dox brought in pizza; we ate; and then, to pass the time, we watched the news, which was nothing but breathless so-called “terrorism experts” fantasizing about the latest existential threat and how it could best be combated, along with blow-dried talking heads obsessing over the semiotics of Horton’s stunning departure from the Rose Garden earlier that day.
As the evening went on, Larison had gotten paranoid, becoming convinced that Hort had brought a team that had snatched Treven and tortured our location out of him. He’d pointed his Glock at Kei and had sworn if anyone breached the door, she was going to be the first to die. To which Dox had said, with uncharacteristic menace, “Put your gun away. You’re scaring her.”
“She should be scared,” Larison had answered.
“Well, congratulations then, because she is. Now, like I said, put your gun away and stop talking like that. There’s no need for it.”
Larison looked at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Dox pulled his Wilson Combat. “Son, this time I’m not doing Cleavon Little for you. You get in a mess with me, you’re going to have to find your own way out.”
“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” I said, deliberately playing the alpha. If it worked, and they accepted my dominant position, it would give them a reason to listen and a means of saving face. If they didn’t accept my position, things were about to get a whole lot worse.
There was a long and tense silence. Then, reluctantly, Larison slid his Glock back in his waistband. Dox, watching Larison unblinkingly, slowly did the same.
I motioned Larison over to the bathroom. “Give us a minute,” I said to Dox.
We went inside and I closed the door behind us. “Look,” I said quietly. “He’s got a soft spot for girls, and when you scare her like that, it presses his buttons.”
“That’s his problem.”
“All right. But you’re a professional. What’s the upside for you? What are you getting out of it?”
He didn’t answer.
“My point is, it’s not like you. We’ve spent a decent amount of time together at this point—two hits, a cross-country drive, a snatch—and you’re always in control. What’s got you running so hot now?”
He looked away. “I don’t know.”
“You want to talk?”
He laughed. “You trying to be my shrink?”
“I’m trying to be your friend.”
“Well, don’t.”
I looked at him. “How many people do you know who would understand