No Fucking Way

 
CHAPTER EIGHT

228.

The final tally, as reported by the local media, was five captured and five killed. The captured will be tried as domestic terrorists after extensive interrogation by the FBI and our counterparts at Homeland Security. There is no mention of anyone other than the ten accounted for in the raid, making our operation to capture The Queen without media attention appear to be a total success. Merle was thanked for his integral part of the operation and left to report on the subsequent local fallout. By dinner time we are back in DC, prepping for individual debriefs with Harlan and Julie. Outside of shrapnel lightly ripping through the back Drysdale's left hand, we emerged from the fire-fight unscathed and undeterred. My initial report to Julie was centered around the heroic performances of the team, Merle, Mustang and Drysdale, who all acted with calm and professional courageousness under the extreme conditions.

The Queen has been taken to our private clinic for medial and physiological observation and testing. In my initial scan, she slept the entire flight back so we did not talk, she appeared gaunt, weak and slightly disoriented, all conditions perfectly understandable for a prisoner surviving solitary confinement for eight months and suddenly released back into our exclusively trenchant sector of society.

Julie, Harlan, Drysdale, his hand bandaged with white gauze, and I are exchanging field notes when a call from Hartaugh comes into the office router. Julie looks at us asking for forgiveness in her acceptance of the inbound call and walks out of the conference room and into the foyer, cell in hand. The three of us continue our casual analysis of the day's events, Mina contributing a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of chocolate-almond croissants to the conversation. Julie returns to the room and absent-mindedly pours herself a cup of the steaming blend while reaching for a French confection.

The room falls silent waiting for her to claim sweet refreshment and fill us with the details of her phonecon with the decidedly sour Senator.

Noticing this she takes the initiative, "His sources are reporting that one of the terrorists was working undercover."

If the room was silent prior to the release of this news it is now complete. I hear a snowflake of powered sugar drop from toasted dough to silver platter, a fall from grace that perfectly mirrors and sums my current feeling of dread.  

The lingering dread of silence is rudely shattered by Drysdale's cry, "No fucking way."