Carefully lowering himself into the recliner in the living room, Blunt got comfortable before picking up his mug. He blew across the top of it in hopes of cooling down the herbal drink enough so that he could enjoy it.
Blunt savored the moment, one quiet enough to contemplate his next move. Truth be told, he was enjoying his time in Portree, the largest village on the breathtaking Isle of Skye. But Blunt didn’t want to stay here forever. He still had work to do—terrorists to root out, conspiring cabals to topple, a world to make safe.
A large bang against the backdoor startled Blunt so much that he spilled a small portion of his drink on his lap. He lumbered toward the kitchen to grab a towel to dry himself off when he heard what sounded like someone rapping on the front door.
Blunt set the towel down and fished his gun out of the kitchen drawer. He skulked around the corner in an effort to catch a glimpse at who might be knocking at this time of night. The sound of glass breaking in the kitchen arrested Blunt’s attention. With his back to the wall, he edged toward the noise, only to be jarred again when he heard the sound of his front door being kicked in.
Blunt decided he’d be better off shooting first and asking questions later. He spun and charged back toward the front door, his gun pointed out directly in front of him. As Blunt came around the corner, he was ambushed. A man in a suit shoved Blunt against the wall, disorienting him. Blunt made a half-hearted attempt to punch the man, but Blunt’s wild swing was greeted by a vicious fist to the face, knocking him out.
When Blunt regained consciousness, he was reclining on the couch. He looked up at a half dozen men who stood over him.
“As I live and breathe,” the man said. “It’s J.D. Blunt.”
Still out of sorts, Blunt squinted and shook his head. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I think you know who we are,” the man said, displaying his CIA credentials in one hand. “And what we want is for you to join us on a little plane ride.”
“Where are we going?” Blunt mumbled.
“It’s not about where we’re going, but what we’re going to do,” the man said. “And, Mr. Senator, we’re going to get justice.”
CHAPTER 33
ANGELA BRENTWOOD WELCOMED Harry Bozeman into one of The Washington Post’s conference rooms designed for studio-style interviews. Printed words were important, but so were videos. The Post editors placed heavy burdens on their reporters when it came to social media, and they realized creating such spaces for important interviews were not only helpful but also necessary.
Bozeman finger combed his hair and settled into the chair opposite of the camera. He interlocked his fingers and fidgeted in his seat.
“Can I get you something? A bottle of water, perhaps?” Brentwood asked with a smile. As in any interview, she aimed to set the subject at ease. However, Bozeman appeared distant and nervous—and none of Brentwood’s efforts calmed him.
Brentwood stepped from behind the camera. “You’re okay with me recording this, right?”
“You have my full permission,” Bozeman said.
“Excellent,” she said as she settled into her chair across from him. “Let’s begin.”
Bozeman slowly wiped his hands on the side of his pants and smiled, one Brentwood thought looked forced. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Now, I’m assuming you know what this story is about.”
He nodded. “I’ve been briefed.”
“Great. I just wanted to get your story out, the real story about what happened to you while you were missing in Rome, like who took you and why and how you escaped. We’ve heard pieces of your story, but not all of it straight from your mouth. And that’s what I’d like to capture today for our readers and viewers.”
“That all sounds fine with me. I’ll be happy to tell you what you want to know.”
Brentwood took a deep breath and stared at the papers in her hands. “Before we jump with those questions, I do have a few other questions for you about another topic right now related to your role at the White House.”
“Okay. If it’s something I’m authorized to talk about, I’ll do my best to answer.”
“As you know, President Michaels has some near historic-low approval ratings as he gears up to seek re-election next year. To what extent do you blame these numbers on the increased terror attacks on U.S. soil over the past year?”
Bozeman shifted in his seat and propped his elbows on the chair’s arms. “There’s no denying that terrorist groups such as Al Hasib are becoming more aggressive and even brazen in their attacks, so I’m not surprised that people feel unsafe. But as I’ve directly spoken with the president about these issues and advised him on how to address them, the bottom line remains that we’ve stopped these attacks from killing innocent people. Meanwhile, we’re aggressively pursuing them through intelligence measures in the Middle East.”
Brentwood resisted the urge to smile as she knew her hook was firmly set. “Now that’s interesting that you say that, Mr. Bozeman, because I got access to something that I want to play for you and get your comment on.”
She opened her laptop and tapped on the keyboard until the audio file began playing. The voices of Bozeman and President Michaels came through the speakers as the two of them engaged in a conversation about the best method to jolt Michaels’s approval ratings upward.
Bozeman: If you want to see spikes in recent presidencies, just look at what happened when Saddam Hussein was caught or Osama Bin Laden. Huge waves of favorable ratings.
Michaels: This is an idea I can get behind. How do you propose going about and making this happen?
Bozeman: Glad you asked.
