Bronson’s expression skewed. “Was it really that bad?”
The blonde nodded her certainty, inhaled and flexed her chest. “It was far from bein’ pretty.” She repositioned the manila folder from her lap to the desk, opened it and spread a pile of printed photographs from within into a collage.
Doug studied the photos with drawn-in brows, soon placing an index finger onto one catching his eye. “Am I to presume this twosome are the would-be perpetrators?”
Beatrice nodded affirmation.
“Those uniforms look government issued,” Bronson said, looking perplexed. “Or well-tailored lookalikes.”
“Their attire is likely legit,” said Beatrice, a vile stare falling upon the brunette female caught in the photo. “Both subjects presented valid, unexpired DSS credentials to accompany their outfits.”
“Diplomatic Security?”
Beatrice nodded.
Bronson countered with a harrumph, denoting his displeasure.
“I’ll personally be investigating all angles and avenues as time allows. I do have to say, though, that I’m not the least bit delighted with the performance of our perimeter security teams, allowing those two to just waltz on in here like they did. I’ll be calling on Sergeant Adams at some point today to discuss his spell of gross negligence.”
“Adams?” Bronson prompted. “You mean Mitch Adams? FPS?”
Beatrice shrugged. “The sergeant’s surname eludes me. Whatever idgit you had runnin’ the northern checkpoint.”
“Had?”
“Um-hmm. I’ve taken the liberty of having him…reassigned for the interim,” Beatrice said, obscuring her judgments. Permanently relieved of duty, more accurately.
Sighing frustration, Bronson forced himself to deviate. “Fine. Have you identified the transport? Doesn’t look anything like one of ours.”
“It isn’t. It’s not even native. That’s a Marauder. A burly, diesel-guzzlin’ armored personnel carrier manufactured by Paramount Group out of South Africa. Not the most popular find.”
“Is that a Browning machine gun in the turret?” Doug peered closer. “What’s the device it’s mounted to? A camera or some type of targeting system? I don’t recognize it.”
“And you’re probably not alone,” said Beatrice. “That’s a Mini Samson RCWS, a remote-controlled weapon station. It’s Israeli-made, Rafael Defense Systems out of Haifa.”
Bronson rotated his head side to side, both his interest and suspicion redlining. “A fifty-caliber machine gun, an Israeli remote weapon system and South African military armor. Considerable hardware, none of which, failing the M2, has ever seen common use by any domestic-based federal agency, particularly DoS. Any notion as to what business the State Department could possibly have in this region?”
“Sure.” Beatrice chuckled. “None at all. Bupkis. Jack squat. Our dynamic duo might’ve been DSS agents at one time, but I contend they’re both AWOL now…operating off the reservation, parading around embezzled hardware.” A pause. “Of course, none of that really makes a difference one way or the other. We know what came about and what we’re up against. But most importantly, we know where they went.” She skimmed through the pile of photos, exposing a set of aerial shots. “I had the RPA boys do a low-altitude reconnaissance run from the incident scene westward. That’s why it took me so long getting here. That APC is an ogre, leaves behind a distinctive footprint. The snow even lent a hand. Made it easy as dickens to track.”
Doug raised a brow. “So where did they go?”
Beatrice provided an answer by pointing to a location on the photographs.
His interest now fully woke, Bronson acquired and studied them. Moments after, his face knotted into a grimace. “I’ll be damned. I’ll be fucking damned.”
“You might, if you’re lucky,” Beatrice droned. “Awful ironic that of all the places in the world, they chose to vamoose directly into an area of unique interest. You took aim on that valley months ago, didn’t you? And for some arcane reason, those folks have met every enmity you’ve sent their way with substantial resistance.”
Glowering, Bronson gulped his brandy down and sent a hard stare to his monitor, his right palm slapping down atop his computer mouse.
“Doug?”
Bronson didn’t answer.
“Doug?”
“Leave me to this, Beatrice,” he demanded.
“Hey now,” she pled. “You’re winding up tighter than a clock, and there’s no sense in that. Hear me out a minute before you go gettin’ riled up.” She leaned forward, sliding a gentle hand over his rigid one. “I know what you’re thinking. And believe me when I say that I also know how you feel.”
“Oh? You do, do you? Well, enlighten me. How do I feel? And while you’re at it, kindly divulge the number of agents killed in the line of duty this morning, all of whom are now in need of funeral arrangements, notification letters sent to next of kin, and God knows what else.”
“Doug…”
“How many bodies comprise a QRF these days, Beatrice?” he barked. “A dozen? A fucking baker’s dozen?”
“All right, Doug! That is enough!” Beatrice shrieked, clamping down on his hand.
Bronson tried pulling away but was unable to break the tensile strength of her grasp.
“Listen here,” she began sternly and unsmiling, soon finding a softer tone. “You requested that I work alongside you, and I accepted that request. I am here now to advise you as needed, administer your orders, and help you make sense of all this. And as you must know, I also care very deeply for you, and I simply cannot bear to see you this way. You believe that, don’t you?”
Bronson hesitated. “I…suppose.”
“I know what you’re lookin’ for, and it’s completely natural. You’re craving a speedy doling out of severe retribution. And that craving is tuggin’ on you now like a tow truck doin’ a repo. But you must hear me out, we mustn’t react—not now, and not in this manner. Doing so isn’t the suitable way to go about it.”
“How can you say that? And why isn’t it?” Doug yelped. “Are you seriously endeavoring to convey to me that the only acceptable response in this case on our end is dismissal? Full-on, flagrant nonreaction? Because if so, I fiercely and vehemently beg to fucking differ.” Detecting his cohort’s loosened grip, he yanked
