lower-middle-class American neighborhood transitioning from older families and long-standing homes to younger, more aggressive colonists, newcomers with more of a need to make a statement and more appetite for the housing debt such statements required.
Wheeler lived in one of the older, smaller homes, a one-level, yellow rectangle that looked like it contained one or at most two bedrooms and that badly needed a fresh coat of paint. Ben parked at the end of the street, far enough to keep Wheeler from seeing the license plate on his rented car, near enough to watch the house. Hort had told him Wheeler had a son, and it was almost time for school.
He watched and waited, hoping he was doing the right thing. He knew he couldn’t trust Hort the way he once had, not after what had happened with Alex and Sarah. But at the same time, when the op was blown, Hort had immediately stood down. He could have killed all three of them—should have, in fact, from a strictly operational perspective—but instead, he had let them walk away. Why leave all those loose ends? Ben could only surmise it had been personal, that Hort had almost been looking for a reason not follow his orders. But was that enough reason to trust the man now?
On the other hand, what were the alternatives? Leave the unit and join a private outfit? He could, he supposed. With the government stretched so thin, men with his credentials were making a mint as contractors. Even elite groups were having to offer retention bonuses, bonuses that more often than not didn’t work.
Yeah, he should do it. Three years as a contractor in some place like Somalia and he could practically retire.
Ah, bullshit. The truth was, he liked being in the unit. Partly it was the training. He shot with Delta, jumped with the Smokejumpers, and learned his tradecraft from grizzled CIA survivors of Denied Area operations. He enjoyed the pride, the quiet swagger that came with being ISA. There were maybe three hundred men, not just in America, but in the world, who could legitimately claim to be his peers. That was saying something.
But it was more than that. He liked being on the inside. He liked knowing the secrets, the way things really worked, the real world beneath the surface everyone else inhabited. Contractors had the salary, and maybe they still had the swagger, but they didn’t have the inside position. And he didn’t want to give that up.
And why should he? What else did he have? A daughter who thought he was dead, an ex-wife who wished it were so… crap, it hurt, but when he was alone with his thoughts like this, he had to admit his life was a mess. He was glad he and Alex had managed to mend some badly broken fences recently, that was something. But what had it really changed? They weren’t attached by much more than blood before, and it wouldn’t be all that different now.
And Sarah? Their chemistry was pretty unbelievable, it was true. They couldn’t have been more different, and at first he thought she hated him. Which maybe on some level she did, but then they’d wound up in bed anyway. He’d initially tried to pass it off as the effects of shared danger and a combat hard-on, but the truth was, it felt like more than that.
Even so, the only reason she’d let herself get close was because she didn’t really understand what he did. How could she understand? They were from totally different worlds. And let’s face it, she was the kind of person who was more comfortable pretending his world didn’t even exist. Which was ironic, because as far as he was concerned, it was her world—a world where violence never solved anything and where no one was evil, just misunderstood, and all people were fundamentally rational and could be reasoned with—that was the illusion, the pretty veneer. He knew the truth. He knew what things looked like from the inside. And he liked the view.
He thought about how he’d handle Wheeler. He knew subtlety wasn’t his forte—never had
Wheeler lived in one of the older, smaller homes, a one-level, yellow rectangle that looked like it contained one or at most two bedrooms and that badly needed a fresh coat of paint. Ben parked at the end of the street, far enough to keep Wheeler from seeing the license plate on his rented car, near enough to watch the house. Hort had told him Wheeler had a son, and it was almost time for school.
He watched and waited, hoping he was doing the right thing. He knew he couldn’t trust Hort the way he once had, not after what had happened with Alex and Sarah. But at the same time, when the op was blown, Hort had immediately stood down. He could have killed all three of them—should have, in fact, from a strictly operational perspective—but instead, he had let them walk away. Why leave all those loose ends? Ben could only surmise it had been personal, that Hort had almost been looking for a reason not follow his orders. But was that enough reason to trust the man now?
On the other hand, what were the alternatives? Leave the unit and join a private outfit? He could, he supposed. With the government stretched so thin, men with his credentials were making a mint as contractors. Even elite groups were having to offer retention bonuses, bonuses that more often than not didn’t work.
Yeah, he should do it. Three years as a contractor in some place like Somalia and he could practically retire.
Ah, bullshit. The truth was, he liked being in the unit. Partly it was the training. He shot with Delta, jumped with the Smokejumpers, and learned his tradecraft from grizzled CIA survivors of Denied Area operations. He enjoyed the pride, the quiet swagger that came with being ISA. There were maybe three hundred men, not just in America, but in the world, who could legitimately claim to be his peers. That was saying something.
But it was more than that. He liked being on the inside. He liked knowing the secrets, the way things really worked, the real world beneath the surface everyone else inhabited. Contractors had the salary, and maybe they still had the swagger, but they didn’t have the inside position. And he didn’t want to give that up.
And why should he? What else did he have? A daughter who thought he was dead, an ex-wife who wished it were so… crap, it hurt, but when he was alone with his thoughts like this, he had to admit his life was a mess. He was glad he and Alex had managed to mend some badly broken fences recently, that was something. But what had it really changed? They weren’t attached by much more than blood before, and it wouldn’t be all that different now.
And Sarah? Their chemistry was pretty unbelievable, it was true. They couldn’t have been more different, and at first he thought she hated him. Which maybe on some level she did, but then they’d wound up in bed anyway. He’d initially tried to pass it off as the effects of shared danger and a combat hard-on, but the truth was, it felt like more than that.
Even so, the only reason she’d let herself get close was because she didn’t really understand what he did. How could she understand? They were from totally different worlds. And let’s face it, she was the kind of person who was more comfortable pretending his world didn’t even exist. Which was ironic, because as far as he was concerned, it was her world—a world where violence never solved anything and where no one was evil, just misunderstood, and all people were fundamentally rational and could be reasoned with—that was the illusion, the pretty veneer. He knew the truth. He knew what things looked like from the inside. And he liked the view.
He thought about how he’d handle Wheeler. He knew subtlety wasn’t his forte—never had
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