David F. Capps
Solar Weapon
CHAPTER 1
“I can’t shake the feeling that I’m destined to die in the line of duty,” FBI Special Agent Jake Hunter said. He shifted in his chair but maintained his scrutiny of Dr. Rosen. She had a calmness and confidence about her that inspired trust. He just wasn’t sure he was ready to give her that completely. Her office was small and spartanly furnished, as was common among professional consultants hired by the FBI.
“Like your father?” Dr. Rosen asked.
Jake’s mind strayed to the portrait of his father, placed in a position of honor on the wall off the main lobby of the J. Edgar Hoover building, five floors below. “Yeah…like my father.”
“How long has it been since he died?”
Jake grimaced slightly and leaned forward in his chair. “He was killed thirteen years ago.”
“And where are you emotionally regarding his death?”
Jake closed his eyes. He felt pain envelop his heart again, making it difficult for him to breathe. “I still feel resentful. He had so much experience and wisdom he could have shared with me. I missed that. He was a good father. I admire him for being there for me. I depended on him to guide me while I grew up, attended college and went through the academy at Quantico. Then, suddenly, he was gone. I feel like I had to step into his role as a parent figure before I was ready.”
“You aren’t responsible for the lives of other agents, you know.”
He stiffened and sat up straighter. “I am. I’m responsible for them until they mature and come into their own.”
“Like your partner?”
Jake broke eye contact with her and looked out the window.
“Tell me about Agent Haden,” she said.
Jake paused. “I feel like he never really became an FBI Agent. He was with me for six years. During that time he did okay. He was well trained, generally competent, but it was like he was working at a job. You know what I mean? Technically, you become an FBI Agent when they present you with your badge and credentials. But for me, you become an agent when you own the position. When being an FBI Agent stops defining you, and you start defining what it means to be an agent by how you think and how you do the job. Haden never got to that point.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Yes. It does bother me. It’s like he died before he discovered who he really was, and that, to me, is a terrible loss.”
It was strange that with all the supposed glory of being in the FBI, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of his work was the tedious, meticulous tracking down of mundane information. It was only the adrenaline-pumping, one-tenth-percent of FBI work that resulted in armed confrontations — the latest episode of which had brought him to mandatory counseling for an hour a week. He found it hard enough to talk about how he felt after losing his partner, and the forced time off just made him feel more useless and depressed.
Jake felt truly alive only when he was putting clues together, building evidence and tracking down criminals.
“I admire your passion for being an FBI agent,” Dr. Rosen said. “Passionate people often make great contributions to the world. What I want you to work on is recognizing that many people aren’t as passionate about their line of work as you are. While they may have strong feelings about family, hobbies or sports teams, it’s perfectly normal for them to view their career as just a job. They still contribute and are productive members of society.” She closed her notebook and slid it to the side of her desk. “See what you can do with that. We’ll meet again the same time and day next week.”
Jake left Dr. Rosen’s office and walked toward the elevators. The hall was long, gray and slightly musty. The gray carpeting, flecked with tiny black threads, should have been replaced years ago, but instead it, along with a hundred other things, had lapsed into various stages of disrepair.
He took the elevator down to the ground level and stopped momentarily in front of the portrait of his father, legendary Special Agent Jarrod Hunter. He reached up and touched the frame, wondering what his father might have thought or said about his own struggles in the Bureau.
Fourth generation FBI, That’s quite a legacy to live up to.
He exited the southeast entrance that faces the corner of 9th and Pennsylvania. The warm, moist air of June in Washington, D.C. engulfed him as he pushed through the glass doors and out into the paved area around the main entrance to the building.
I’ve had enough of partners, he thought. The first one hadn’t died; but he had been placed on permanent disability due to injuries sustained in yet another gun battle. And now with Haden, enough was enough. He couldn’t take losing a third one.
The FBI is just going to have to find a way to allow me to work without a partner.
He walked between the large, round, concrete barriers that protected the main entrance from vehicles, potentially filled with explosives, from crashing in through the doors and taking the entire building down. His thoughts drifted to what he was going to tell his boss.
The racing sound of a car rapidly accelerating jolted him back to reality. As he looked up a speeding black vehicle struck a pedestrian crossing toward the FBI building. The collision propelled the man’s body into the intersection. The car swerved right onto Pennsylvania.
Typical black SUV found all over Washington, Jake thought, but without any plates. Movement of the man’s arm drew Jake’s attention back to the victim. He’s still alive. Jake raced into the intersection, waving his arms to stop the onslaught of traffic. Cars screeched to a halt as Jake knelt down to examine the injured man.
Bright red blood spread rapidly across the man’s right chest. It oozed through the otherwise crisp white shirt. Right ribs are broken. Jake checked for a pulse. Weak and rapid. He’s in shock. Scrapes and blood covered half of the man’s face. His right arm lay twisted and bent unnaturally. Broken, Jake concluded. Both legs, too. This is bad.
Two Metro Police officers ran into the street from the southeast corner. One cop held back traffic. The other approached Jake and the injured man. Jake pulled his credentials and shield from his inside jacket pocket and held them up for the officer to see.
“I’m Special Agent Jake Hunter, FBI,” Jake said. “He needs an ambulance, now!”
The Metro cop grabbed his radio and called it in.
“F…B…I?” the man said slowly, looking up into Jake’s eyes.
“Yes,” Jake said. “Just hold on, help is on the way.” The man coughed. Blood sprayed from his mouth forming small bright red droplets on the left jacket sleeve of Jake’s suit.
The man held up his left arm. “Take…watch.”
“You’re going to make it. Just hold on.” Jake closed his eyes momentarily and then looked away. He hated lying to people who were dying, but this was what he had been taught to do−give them some hope−some reason to cling to life.
“No,” the man said. He coughed again. Pink foam appeared in his mouth, a clear sign of massive lung damage. “You have…”
Jake had seen too many people die not to recognize a last request. He knows he’s not going to make it.
“You have…to…stop…them.”
“Stop who?”
“Take…watch.”
Jake looked at the watch. Both the minute and hour hands had a small skull on them. He was surprised by the sweep of the second hand. The watch was running backwards: counter-clockwise.
“What is this watch?” Jake demanded.
“Time…left.”