Tysons Corner, Virginia
Walters flung his crystal decanter against the window. Splinters of lead glass spewed across the room; a spider-web crack slowly spread across the window.
He turned back to the polycom conference phone and spoke. “You – are – a – complete – fuckup!” He punched every syllable.
Rogers groaned, “Boss, I'm really hurting here. That old man shot me!” His voice sounded pitiful. Walters could hear him start to cry.
What to do? What to do?
“Rogers, can you continue to drive or have you lost too much blood?”
“I think I can drive, Boss.” Rogers sniveled.
“I'll have a private doctor call you, just …” the second phone line flashed. Walters checked the caller ID screen. “Rogers, pull over until the doc calls.” He hung up before Rogers could respond.
Hell.
The flashing light on his phone signaled FBI Quantico calling. He stood perfectly still and thought. Then he straightened his tie and lifted the receiver.
“Walters.”
“Director Walters – we have a developing situation involving your agency in Portland, Maine. We have a special agent coming over for your statement and wanted to be sure you would still be there.”
“I’d be perfectly happy to …” But he spoke only to himself. Walters realized the line was already dead.
He stared at the spider web in the window.
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