All Necessary Force

“Holly and I are best friends now. She helped me break in, along with telling me some stories about you that probably should be kept hidden.”

“Really. Breaking the rules. What’s that about?”

She came around the bed and took my hand. “Well, someone told me that the rules only applied if you let them. I thought I’d check out that theory.”

“Sounds like a genius. How’s it working for you?”

She gave me a crooked grin that cut straight to my core. “Pretty good so far. I’ll let you know in a couple of weeks.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m the only one in danger now.” I told her about my conversation with Kurt, then noticed the baseball cap she was wearing. It had Romans 3:8 stitched on the back, the Bible quote we used as an inside joke.

“Where’d you get the hat?”

She turned her head left and right, showing it off. “You like it? Turbo gave it to me.”

“Turbo? Are you kidding me? After all of his crying about Assessment?”

She blushed slightly. “Nope. I went to see how Decoy and Retro were doing, and a bunch of guys were already there. Word’s spread about stopping the attack. You guys suck at keeping secrets, by the way. Anyway, Decoy thanked me for saving his life — which isn’t true, of course, but they all seemed to believe it — and Turbo gave me the hat. Probably just because he was afraid you were going to kick his ass again, but it’s still pretty cool, huh?”

“Very cool. If they gave it to you, they meant it. Don’t blame me for your mistakes. How’s Retro doing anyway?”

“He looks terrible, but they say he’s going to be fine.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, I saw Knuckles! He’s doing much better, and asked about you. Well, about us and our situation with the president. They all think it’s a crock.”

“Glad to hear he’s coming around. Maybe I’ll visit his sorry ass as well.” I paused, then said, “What is our situation? You still planning on leaving? Going back to being a professor of anthro-psychology or whatever the hell it is?”

She cocked her head, apparently considering how to respond. “Let’s not worry about that right now. Let’s figure out if I’m going to be mailing you a file inside your birthday cake in prison.”

She leaned forward and kissed my forehead. “I’ve got to get out of here before Kurt comes back. They said you’re healthy enough to leave here today. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

82

Five days later, I glanced reflexively at the “cleared list” for Delta Airlines. I had a confirmed seat on the same flight tomorrow, but Kurt had called this morning and said the president had decided I was free to go. Not wanting to see if he would change his mind, I’d hauled ass straight to Reagan National Airport to try my hand at a standby flight. Well, hauled ass was a relative term, since I needed to use a cane, and my left arm was strapped to my chest to prevent movement.

I’d left the Taskforce medical facility the same day I talked to Kurt and Jennifer, and had gone to the same hotel as Jennifer. Since then, other than visiting Knuckles, Decoy, and Retro in the hospital, I’d simply sat around, watching breaking news stories, praying some junior Woodward and Bernstein wasn’t looking for a scoop, but so far the Secret Service story, along with the “misfire” at the nuclear plant, seemed to be holding up.

One thing that was definitely working in my favor was that the entire nation was fixated on the attacks. It had, naturally, become the center of attention, and the successful resolution had pretty much guaranteed the president’s reelection. Originally elected on a platform of national security, President Warren had been getting hammered lately because of the economy, and it was looking like a pretty good bet that he’d be a one-term president. Now the campaign had become dominated by national security, with the president looking like a savior, and there was little chance that would change so close to the election, which is what Kurt had meant in my hospital room. Without saying a word, I knew President Warren understood who he had to thank. And it also meant at least another four years of Taskforce operations, if something else didn’t come along to shine a light on the president’s little secret.

For her part, Jennifer had left without giving me an answer to where she stood both with the Taskforce and with our company. I’d broached the subject again as she packed to go back to South Carolina, afraid that she’d already made up her mind and just didn’t want to voice it out loud because it would be a double kick to my balls if I went to jail.

I was certain she was upset at my call to shoot Americans first and ask questions later. Certain she couldn’t see the necessity of the action and was holding it against me, regardless of what she’d told me in the car prior to the killings. I had tried to defend my decisions.

“Jennifer, we didn’t do anything wrong. Everyone we killed deserved it. I don’t want you thinking that you did something immoral. Those men dug their own graves by their actions. There’s no such thing as reading a terrorist his rights when he’s in the middle of an attack, even if it’s inside the United States.”

Jennifer had stopped packing and sat down on the bed, searching my face for something. “What would make you think I was upset about that? I was upset about the damn blood and the fact that Retro was dying, but not what we did. Sorry. I guess I’m not a hardened commando yet.”

I plowed ahead, not even listening to what she had said. “It wasn’t murder. Even if it was in the United States. People don’t follow the rules just because they’re here, and sometimes you have to play on the field that they built. Had we waited, it would have been a larger attack than 9/11. We did the right thing.”

Her eyes flashed anger, and I’d realized I’d overstepped. Misjudged her again.

“I know,” she said. “Jesus, is that what you think of me?”

She saw my embarrassment and said, “That is it, isn’t it? Because I got upset with what you did in Cairo, you think I’m some kind of peace freak, don’t you? That’s why you kept questioning me. Asking if I had it in me to get the job done.”

She stopped, wringing a shirt in her hand as if she were trying to squeeze out poison. “You, of all people, know better than that. I may not like running around shooting everything that moves like you guys, but I understand it’s sometimes necessary. I’ve learned a little bit about real-world justice. I mean, really, I killed a man with a rope.”

She threw the shirt into the suitcase. “I also understand that just because it’s done under the umbrella of the United States, it’s not necessarily right. I can see the difference between right and wrong. I’m not so sure about you.”

The comment hit me like a slap. “Jennifer, we talked about Cairo….”

Her expression told me she’d regretted what had just slipped out of her mouth. “I know, I know. I’m not saying you don’t consciously wish you could take that back, but you’ve got some sort of prehistoric subconscious thing going on that doesn’t care about the distinction between right and wrong. It’s like…”

I waited on her to finish, but she said, “Never mind.”

I said, “‘Never mind’? You can’t leave that out there hanging. What were you going to say?”

She cocked her head, searching my face again.

“You know, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure you out, and I have a theory.”

Oh boy. Psychobabble time.

“Everyone operates on some scale of morality. Most people live on the positive side of things. Some operate way, way above, and can do heroic acts as normal events that others would not attempt. Some people, like Hitler or serial killers, operate way, way down on the scale, probably never reaching the positive side at all. Whatever it is, your range on the scale is pretty much firm. A serial killer will never do anything heroic, and a truly heroic person has some built-in stopgap that keeps him from doing vile things.”

She paused. I saw where this was going. She thinks I’m evil because of Cairo — and it’s permanent. I suddenly felt nauseous. She was going to leave the company. Leave me.