When Griffin and his team had returned from Malta, Brandon had personally and individually debriefed each one of them. Once he’d been sure that he’d had all the information available and an accurate picture of what had transpired, he’d met with Director Hartnett for two hours in the director’s office. While Brandon cared about both the operation and the internal team dynamics that had nearly ended in blue-on-blue fratricide, Director Hartnett had viewed it through the additional lens of politics. And as with all things political, the facts had morphed into an alternate reality, one that was briefed to the president, the DOJ, and the rest of the IC. Because of the presence of civilians, the mission had changed from kill to capture, which had been true. The why and the how were the key elements of the story that were conveniently left out of the official version.

But it was his meeting with Zack that he regretted most of all, for it would become the exchange that he replayed over and over in his head in his moments of retirement solitude. He’d thought he’d been doing the right thing, toeing the company line, protecting the image of the agency. But over the months and years that followed, the flicker of doubt had intensified into a full-blown conflagration of shame. What exacerbated the guilt was that he’d never had the chance to come clean and ask Zack for forgiveness, and with the way things were going, he realized regretfully that the chance would likely never come. He would go to his grave without making amends to the only person who’d done the right thing during the entire operation, a man who’d been sacrificed at the altar of politics for it.

As he crossed through Founder’s Circle to the grass, the sounds of the terrified residents grew louder, but it was the sweet, pungent smell of gasoline that chilled him more than the gusts of wind. Jesus Christ, he’s going to do it. You know he will, especially once he knows you’re bluffing. He’ll kill you, and then he’ll kill them as punishment.

Brandon gripped the M4 tighter as he marched toward Griffin, who waved to him as if he were an old friend joining him for a midnight stroll. With every step closer, he felt the tension increase exponentially. The wind, the vans, the hostages, the gunmen, and the gasoline all combined to create an invisible level of electricity that threatened to explode at any moment. If that happened, only one thing was certain—there would be blood, and a lot of it. But he had no choice, and he kept walking, his Nike running shoes gathering dew like absorbent sponges.