Less than a minute later, he walked his final steps and stood before Griffin, waiting for the psychotic former operator to take control of the conversation, the way Brandon knew he wanted to, needed to. If that bought Brandon extra time, he’d gladly let Griffin have his way. A leaner, younger, shorter man stood next to the former SAD team chief, carefully scrutinizing Brandon with a mixture of hostility and mistrust. You’re smart not to trust me, young man.

“Let’s go, Brandon,” Griffin said, as if it had been days and not four years since they’d last spoken. “You look good. Different but good. I guess retired life suits you.”

“I was enjoying it, at least until you decided it would be a good idea to stage an assault on my quiet community and take the entire neighborhood hostage,” Brandon said politely.

“It was unavoidable. But more importantly, it’s the job, and you know how I am about seeing a mission through to the end, even when the means are less than desirable. Now please, hand my assistant your M4 and the Glock in your waistband before we get to the formal portion of tonight’s ceremonies.”

Brandon did as he was ordered and stood still, forcing the buzzing voices of his neighbors out of his head. The conversation he was about to have required every iota of concentration he could muster.

“Next, open that Kevlar vest and show me what’s underneath.”

Brandon pulled the Velcro flaps near his left side apart and opened the Kevlar vest like a perverted flasher, turning for Griffin to see his exposed stomach and sides.

“Are you satisfied? Can we talk now, like two former agency men who once swore an oath to protect this country and innocent people like the ones you’ve taken hostage, like the one your men killed? I know you feel betrayed, but this? Is this what you want to be known for?” Brandon pleaded.

Griffin smiled and shook his head slightly. “You just don’t get it. You never will. I’m going to explain this one time, and one time only, and then we’re going to have a serious chat about the laptop that I don’t see in your hands or under the vest. But out of respect for who you once were, I’ll grant you this wasted breath, as it may be your last.”

The swirl of commotion and chaos had created a small vortex in which the two men spoke, oblivious to the world just feet away. Brandon readjusted the Kevlar vest so that the opening under his left side was only a few inches all the way down, a narrow strip of vulnerability if—no, when—Griffin decided to shoot him.