In many ways, she operated much like the terrorist cells she dismantled. These cells generally had a single objective, remaining unaware of how their plans impacted the overall mission. The cells remained ignorant and independent of one another. If one became compromised, the collective goal remained intact.
Some cells’ only objective was to exist, thereby diverting limited investigative resources from others of more importance. These “dummy” cells were unwitting bait; believing they’d played a larger role than that of a clay pigeon.
If Ambretta were to be uncovered by the evil she battled, torture, rape and death were sure to follow. If she were exposed by American watchdogs and picked up for questioning, at least she’d be in the soft, manicured hands of the FBI. The Federal Bureau of Investigations didn’t resort to such “distasteful” interrogation techniques. Somehow she found their hands-off approach both disturbing and reassuring: disturbing because they afforded the enemy the same protections; reassuring because they wouldn’t break her. The only threat they could muster would be the loss of her freedom, and her freedom she’d willingly give. So many others have given so much more.
If she were imprisoned and did feel compelled to talk for consideration of a lesser sentence, she knew the next disappearing act would be her own. No one could protect her. No facility would be safe.
It didn’t matter. For now, Ambretta wasn’t permitted to have a broader view of the game in which she played. More often than not, she channeled information up through her handler with little filtering back down. Though accustomed to operating in the dark, recent events had proven highly unusual.
Why had she been sent to Tulsa? What exactly had been her mission? And what in the hell were they doing at this graveyard?
Directed by her handler to her current location—a private drive in a sprawling cemetery—he’d looked at her through those creepy mirrored sunglasses of his, told her to wait in the car, and then shuffled off to a gravesite fifty yards distant.
Just six days ago, Ambretta had been on assignment in Atlanta, Georgia. She’d been working a case there for a month when her handler instructed her to pack up and head to Tulsa. She detected a bit of urgency in the old man’s usually cool and indifferent manner.
Her handler was nearly as much a mystery today as when they’d first met. He’d promised a rewarding career, but more importantly he appealed to Ambretta’s fervor to strike back at those who’d cut down her father. It was her handler who’d chosen the name she currently used. She’d always thought Ambretta an odd choice, given most in the business assumed unremarkable aliases.
She’d learned only a few things about the old man’s past. He’d been doing “this” for decades. Before, he’d been a commando in the military. She also knew he’d spent considerable time in a foreign prison where he’d suffered brutal torture sessions that had left him scarred and disfigured. He didn’t complain about the abuse, and only mentioned it to stress that she should always exercise caution.
Otherwise, she knew little about the man. Meeting him here in Tulsa certainly hadn’t changed matters. In fact, she’d found the information pipeline clogged more than ever. Besides FBI credentials and authority over her “fellow” agents, he’d barely given her enough information to complete her assignment.
Her handler told her that the NSA had intercepted a phone call, indicating multiple threats against a company asset, one Jonathan Thorpe. Her handler had subsequently interrogated the source (a man named Kaleb Moment) and obtained from him a list of potential triggermen. Then the old man had provided her the same information that the FBI was set to act upon.
Her task: babysit Sergeant Thorpe while her handler dealt with threats.
Even though Thorpe was supposedly a “company asset,” she was not to break from the cover she’d been given. As the assignment progressed, she began to feel like one of those “dummy” cells. By delving into Thorpe’s background, reading his file, and through her own personal experiences, she doubted the man was connected to “the company” in any capacity. Still, she trusted her handler and dutifully carried on with her mission. After all, she’d become accustomed to things not being what they appeared.
Why then, did John surprise her so? Her attraction had been immediate. She felt his strength upon their first meeting but also sensed a deep affliction—his torment radiating from the depths of those bright green eyes.
He’d tragically lost his family thirteen months prior, and she empathized with the empty shell before her. She’d wallowed in the same despair, and if not for her work, would have drowned in it. John was smart, funny and considerate. His attributes might be the building blocks of her attraction to him, but their shared loss was the mortar.
Knowing full well the assignment was a temporary one, she’d had no intentions of developing feelings for the man. But not everything can be overridden with reason.
Then on Sunday night, the old man informed her that multiple tangos were preparing an ambush in Thorpe’s home. She was to keep John from returning at any cost. Instead she’d upset him to such a degree he’d fled the hotel. His departure stirred within her a mild panic—not because she’d failed her assignment—but because she feared for the wellbeing of a man with whom she’d fallen in love.
Armed with rohypnol, she’d fetched John from the bar and could easily have slipped him the heavy sedative. Despite reason, despite logic, she’d led him to her room where they made love. The night proved not only a physical release, but an emotional one as well. She hoped Thorpe realized the lovemaking had been genuine, that she hadn’t seduced him as part of a job assignment.
Her job assignment—she still didn’t know what it’d been all about. And why was her handler standing over a headstone when they should be en route back to Atlanta?
Because an unexpected meeting with Thorpe would be “messy,” as the old man had put it, Thorpe’s personal truck was still outfitted with a GPS tracker, which they continued to monitor. Someone else would remove the device later. As with many of Ambretta’s assignments, this someone would have no clue why the tracker had been installed; they’d have a simple task to perform, no questions asked.
As Ambretta sat pondering the last six days she heard a ping emanate from her smart phone. She retrieved the do-everything gadget and noted a blip headed their direction. Ambretta stepped out of the SUV; the movement attracted the attention of her handler. She gestured to the old man that they needed to leave immediately.
The old man.
The same mumbling old man who’d stumbled into the open door of a seedy motel room and asked Andrew Phipps for some crack. The same man who’d been spotted leaving Phipps’ back door before jumping his fence. The same shadowy figure who’d glided out of Thorpe’s woods in a ghillie suit.
Now the old man strode briskly toward the waiting Toyota, mirrored sunglasses shielding his eyes from the bright February sun.
Parked on the north end of a long loop, Ambretta realized they wouldn’t make the exit before Thorpe pulled into the private drive. The old man entered the deeply tinted Sequoia, and Ambretta reversed deeper into the cemetery. A few seconds later, Thorpe’s pickup entered the property and parked near the spot they’d just vacated.
“Ben, what in the hell is going on?”
The old man removed his sunglasses. He watched intently as John walked to the same gravesite Ben himself had just visited. Ambretta had never seen much in the way of emotion from her handler before, and was surprised now to see a single tear wind down his wrinkled and scarred left cheek. When Ben turned and told her to drive, she saw the suffering in his old green eyes—those familiar green eyes—and she knew.