nation of his from the treacherous subversives who would see its downfall. And he was proud to be an important cog in that powerful machine. It was the current director, Harrison Greer, who had taken an interest in Enrique’s abilities – and lack of personal connections. Enrique’s background fit the profile that Greer had found produced exceptional field agents, and after contacting Enrique and making his proposal, Greer had arranged for him to be one of the first casualties of the war in Afghanistan. According to the official report, Enrique Ramirez had been blown apart by a land mine – left over from the Soviet occupation of the country in the eighties – while on patrol. He had gone off alone, as he was wont to do, and never came back. An explosion was heard, and somebody s body was found, though it had gotten such a good blast from the land mine – and the second land mine that the torso had conveniently landed on – that identification was all but impossible. Just the way the Division liked it. After months of training, he had undertaken his first assignment, excelled, and the rest was history. Albeit unwritten history.
He turned a corner, walked to the end of the stark, tile-floored, white-painted concrete-walled hallway and stopped. Lingering, he stared at the gray steel door, which displayed a copper nameplate bearing the single word: Director. He had always relished being summoned before the man who held this office. Greer was the father he had never had, the mentor and leader he had always needed, and Ramirez had always been his golden child. But things with Greer lately had been... different somehow. Ramirez took a breath and rapped twice on the door.
“Enter,” came the gruff reply from within. Ramirez did so.
Enrique had heard it said that you could tell a lot about a person by the way they decorated their “space,” be it their home, their office, or even the interior of their car. The centerpiece of the office was a shiny aluminum desk about the size of a pool table; a desktop computer, a legal-sized pad of paper, a black mesh pencil cup, and a Civil War-era cannonball, held in the bowl of a specially constructed display stand, were all that graced its top. Three framed pictures hung behind the desk. In the center was the standard portrait of the current President of the United States. Flanking him were the pictures of the two former directors of the Division: Harrison Greer’s father and grandfather. Nepotism was generally looked down upon these days, especially when it came to public office, but this office was anything but public, and every Greer that had held this position had proven more than competent.
Other than the portraits, the walls were whitewashed and unadorned. No nonsense, no superfluous distractions. Ramirez liked that dedication, that single-mindedness that Greer, as his mentor, had in turn instilled in him. The only features in the room other than the desk were the two filing cabinets located on the left wall opposite the entry door, a closet behind the desk that Ramirez had never seen open, and a three-foot-long bombshell that stood in one corner behind the desk. No one within the Division, save Greer himself, really knew whether it was a real, live bomb or not. When Ramirez had once inquired, Greer had told him that it was a reminder of the explosive nature of the secret they were sitting on. Like the bomb’s unknown danger potential, each subject slated for elimination by the Division, given time and freedom to pursue things further, might never discover enough to really pose a threat to the nation. But, Greer would finish the metaphor, is it really worth the risk to let someone whack the tip with a hammer just to find out?
Harrison Greer was hunched over his desk, flipping through some documents in a manila folder. His piercing gray eyes turned toward the door. His tanned face sat on a muscular neck. His thick head of brown hair belied his forty-eight years of age, the
He turned a corner, walked to the end of the stark, tile-floored, white-painted concrete-walled hallway and stopped. Lingering, he stared at the gray steel door, which displayed a copper nameplate bearing the single word: Director. He had always relished being summoned before the man who held this office. Greer was the father he had never had, the mentor and leader he had always needed, and Ramirez had always been his golden child. But things with Greer lately had been... different somehow. Ramirez took a breath and rapped twice on the door.
“Enter,” came the gruff reply from within. Ramirez did so.
Enrique had heard it said that you could tell a lot about a person by the way they decorated their “space,” be it their home, their office, or even the interior of their car. The centerpiece of the office was a shiny aluminum desk about the size of a pool table; a desktop computer, a legal-sized pad of paper, a black mesh pencil cup, and a Civil War-era cannonball, held in the bowl of a specially constructed display stand, were all that graced its top. Three framed pictures hung behind the desk. In the center was the standard portrait of the current President of the United States. Flanking him were the pictures of the two former directors of the Division: Harrison Greer’s father and grandfather. Nepotism was generally looked down upon these days, especially when it came to public office, but this office was anything but public, and every Greer that had held this position had proven more than competent.
Other than the portraits, the walls were whitewashed and unadorned. No nonsense, no superfluous distractions. Ramirez liked that dedication, that single-mindedness that Greer, as his mentor, had in turn instilled in him. The only features in the room other than the desk were the two filing cabinets located on the left wall opposite the entry door, a closet behind the desk that Ramirez had never seen open, and a three-foot-long bombshell that stood in one corner behind the desk. No one within the Division, save Greer himself, really knew whether it was a real, live bomb or not. When Ramirez had once inquired, Greer had told him that it was a reminder of the explosive nature of the secret they were sitting on. Like the bomb’s unknown danger potential, each subject slated for elimination by the Division, given time and freedom to pursue things further, might never discover enough to really pose a threat to the nation. But, Greer would finish the metaphor, is it really worth the risk to let someone whack the tip with a hammer just to find out?
Harrison Greer was hunched over his desk, flipping through some documents in a manila folder. His piercing gray eyes turned toward the door. His tanned face sat on a muscular neck. His thick head of brown hair belied his forty-eight years of age, the
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