Search and Destroy by JT Sawyer (top non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📗

tanked a little while ago and then he flatlined. Possibly an aneurysm from his head injury.” She stepped to the window, peering at the parking lot. “The staff here also said that there was a guy in the room earlier. Left out the rear stairwell, which is a little odd, since that only leads to the dumpsters around back. The hospital security guard said the guy took off on a motorcycle.”

“Where were you prior to this?” said Tremblay, glancing at the helmet in Cal’s hand.

“Not here.” He glared at the agent. Cal’s head was swirling. He knew Reggie’s death wasn’t a coincidence.

But why would someone eliminate him? Reggie wasn’t privy to Perseus’ inner workings. Did he witness something at the house, or was he in on the whole thing?

“Did you know that Mr. Sinclair recently received a payment of $10,000 into his bank account?” said Carter.

Cal’s eyes darted along the ground. “What? No…from who?”

“We’re working on that,” said Tremblay. “It was wired from an account in Switzerland.”

“Does that sound like something Burke would have done?” said Carter. “I’ve heard he was pretty fond of giving generous bonuses to his staff, but 10K seems a little excessive, wouldn’t you say?”

Tremblay glanced down at Cal’s wrist. “I couldn’t help but notice you wearing a Rolex the other day when we were at your place… Burke must have been paying you pretty well.”

“Is that your attempt at a question?” said Cal, staring the man down.

“Just trying to get a pulse on all of this, Mr. Shepard,” said Carter. “We were at the Burke estate recently going over forensics—saw that most of the other employees who perished there were driving high-end sports cars in the six-figure realm. Now, we find that Sinclair has a hefty amount of newly acquired funds in his bank account.”

“Burke’s senior staff were some of the most brilliant minds in the tech industry, so I’m not surprised that they were driving the cars they were. As for the Rolex, that was a parting gift from Burke for my service to his company.”

“You know that’s a $20K watch?” said Tremblay. He shrugged. “I’m kind of an aficionado on Rolexes and looked up the one you had. That’s a helluva gift. Must have been a welcome sight for a security consultant like yourself.”

Cal straightened up. He wanted to drive an uppercut into the chin of the pasty agent but knew the man was just playing the bad cop role while Carter stood back and watched Cal’s reaction, just as they had done at his house.

He had been through rigorous conduct-after-capture training and endured all manner of mental and physical punishment during his indoctrination phase with the agency, and he didn’t have the time or inclination to stand here and put up with Tremblay’s juvenile attempts at manipulative questioning.

Clearly they are struggling to find answers on who orchestrated the attack at Burke’s.

“I came here to visit a friend, not to go through a cross-examination, especially one as poorly hatched as this.” He clutched his helmet. “Maybe you guys should spend more time on the street, gathering actual information instead of treating this like a game of Clue, haphazardly trying to connect imaginary dots.”

He headed to the door, pausing to glance at Carter. “And since you seem like the brains of the operation, maybe you can educate your boy. Persuasive questioning requires that you establish a command presence beforehand to elicit a response, rather than seeming like a tethered circus monkey performing for his boss.”

Cal moved past the two guards, who stepped aside, then headed down the hallway to the elevator, wondering who the mystery man was that visited Reggie.

How was Reggie involved in all of this? Did he give someone access to the security codes at Burke’s place…and the company? It had to be him. But who was he working for?

Cal knew where to begin his search. But there were things to be done before he could try to launch his own investigation into that horrific day.

He stepped back into the elevator, feeling like the floor was going to open and plunge him into a dark abyss as he thought of tomorrow’s funeral service for Cassie.

16

After Tim Rourke left his office at the NSA, he stopped by Mickey’s Bar & Grille to throw down a few beers and a double cheeseburger, sitting alone at a booth in the corner while he pondered his future and how twelve years of sobriety had suddenly been swept away in the past few days.

We must all pay the devil his dues.

With the horizon of fifty years approaching, he had hoped to have climbed further up in the government. He felt like he had stepped into the assistant director position in the NSA electronic surveillance division at the dawn of computers, when in fact it had only been six years.

I’m just a glorified gopher for the director, attending meetings he should be at but without the power to make any actual critical decisions on budgeting or dissemination of intel.

After his third beer, he paid the bill and headed home, grateful it was only two miles.

Entering his house, he smelled the lingering odor of another of his wife’s semi-burnt dinners before heading up the dark stairwell to their bedroom.

“You’re home late again—another inter-agency meeting?” Alicia Rourke said, not looking up from the TV on the dresser as she lay on the bed in a long teal-colored nightgown.

“Something like that,” he said. He dropped his laptop bag and cellphone on the armoire in the corner then kicked off his shoes. Rourke sat down on the bed, fumbling with his tie and button-down shirt as he stared at images of paramilitary forces in Afghanistan, followed by commentary from the Director of National Intelligence, Jason Begley.

Another fucking stooge who never served. I saw action in the army years ago when our base got shelled.

As if sensing his frustration, his wife slid forward on the bed. “You should have been made Director of Intelligence, not Begley. Maybe things will turn in your