Andrew Britton - The American

As the police officers secured the building, several returned from the back room with pale faces and immediately looked in Kealey’s direction. Confusion seemed to rule the day, but it wasn’t long before a consensus was reached, and a nervous officer put handcuffs on Ryan Kealey at the behest of the person now in charge, Captain Gina Nolan of the Norfolk Police Department.

NORFOLK

“What the hell were you thinking, Ryan?”

Kealey and Harper were seated in the sterile interrogation room at Norfolk Police Headquarters. The irony was not lost on Ryan as the DDO questioned him from across the cold metal table. “I had to pull a lot of strings to get you out of this. I thought I told you to use kid gloves. Does that phrase mean anything to you?”

Kealey’s gaze drifted across the bare walls as the other man glared in his direction. “I realize it didn’t turn out the way we-”

“Ryan,” Harper’s voice lowered, even though the door was closed and there was no one else in the room. “Elgin had a lot to say about you. If he starts talking to the press, even the director won’t be able to contain the shit storm. Rightfully, this operation should have landed on the DEA’s doorstep. You went too far with him.”

Kealey looked to the upper corner of the room and saw that the camera used to monitor interrogations was disconnected, the wires hanging loose against the wall. He wondered why he had checked. “You said that the president cleared this, John. I did what was necessary.”

“Bullshit!” Harper tossed several photographs onto the table. “Pictures don’t lie. The Bureau can’t pressure Elgin because we have this hanging over our heads. In other words, we can’t force his hand because you took away our only leverage.”

“John-”

Harper held up his hand to silence the younger man. He stared at Ryan intently for a moment before quickly looking away. “Ryan, you went too far,” he repeated. The anger was gone from his voice, replaced by a weary resignation. “The director wants you out, and he’s going to get his wish if Elgin doesn’t open up. The State Department sent some people over to talk to the little bastard, but so far they’re coming up empty. I need you to give me some good news, because I’ve called in all my debts.”

“The boat that the explosives came in on is called Natalia; it’s a 25,000-ton container ship registered in South Africa. It has a regular route, making stops in Marseille and Rosslare in the south of Ireland before heading over to our East Coast.” Ryan looked up to catch Harper’s incredulous expression. “Jesus Christ, John, I didn’t go in there to make idle threats. This is what we needed, and now we have it. We don’t have time to waste with gentle persuasion, you said so yourself.”

“Well, why the hell did you keep me hanging on? This might be enough to save you — did he identify March?”

Kealey sighed and shook his head wearily. “I knew he wasn’t going to be able to. If Shakib had told March about the situation, then Elgin would be in a dirt-covered hole somewhere and we wouldn’t have gotten this far. I told you before, March is not given to making mistakes. He doesn’t believe in loose ends.”

The irony of this statement was immediately apparent to Jonathan Harper. Clearly, Jason March’s biggest mistake to date was not killing Ryan Kealey on that Syrian hilltop seven years earlier. But that thought had come unannounced, and it was incredibly disloyal. He felt ashamed that he had identified with a killer, even if only for a moment. It went against everything that he valued.

Ryan watched a myriad of emotions cross the other man’s face and wondered what he was thinking.

With Kealey’s contribution, the tension was gone from both men. It was still an interrogation room, though; the cold gray walls felt closer by the second, the scarred metal desk screamed confessions, and the disconnected camera seemed to watch over everything with an unwavering eye. Ryan was tired of it. He thought of Katie and for a moment felt better, lighter.

“I think I’ve done enough for today, John. Can you get me out of here, or did you just come down for the conversation?”

A sly grin eased itself across the older man’s face. “Who do you think you’re talking to, Junior?”

They departed the Norfolk Police Department less than a half hour later, both men down low in the backseat of a Chevy Suburban almost identical in appearance to Adam North’s. The heavily tinted windows shielded the occupants from the view of the few reporters savvy enough to stake out the department motor pool.

“I should have asked before, but how’s Naomi doing?”

“She’ll be fine,” Harper said. “North ran her over to the De Paul Medical Center. They stitched her up okay and gave her something for the pain. She’s checked into the Marriott Waterside. That’s where I’m taking you.”

“John-” Kealey started to protest, but was cut off just as fast.

“Ryan, you got what we needed. I want you to get some rest, because you’ll probably be moving out again tomorrow, depending on what we dig up. Everything else that needs to get done today is on my side of the fence, and if I show up at the DEA division office with you in tow, it’s going to cause more problems than it will solve. They aren’t too happy with you right now.” Kealey nodded his head in reluctant agreement as the vehicle turned onto Waterside Avenue.

“I’ll call for you tomorrow morning,” Harper said as the vehicle slowed to a halt next to the hotel. Ryan moved to climb out, but the other man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “You got what we needed, Ryan, and all three of you walked out. That’s the important thing. Go talk to Kharmai; North said she looked pretty down when he left her.”

“What happened today wasn’t her fault, John. It was mine. I told her she could trust me, and then that bastard got to her with a knife… She has a right to be upset.”

“Hey, she’s only alive because of what you did for her in Washington, okay? Keep that in mind. She should be grateful to have you around. Go get some sleep.”

Ryan gave a mock salute and Harper couldn’t help but smile as the Suburban pulled away from the curb. As he went through the process of checking in, Ryan began to realize how tired he actually was. It was hard to believe he had woken up with Katie just twelve hours earlier.

The elevator stopped on the third floor and he got out, looking down at the scrap of paper that Jonathan had pressed into his hand. Room 305. There. He looked down at the dirt on his ragged jeans from where he had hit the floor in the bar, and realized that he probably looked like hell. Oh well, he thought, at least I have a decent excuse.

Naomi Kharmai was curled into a tight ball on the bed, a white cotton bathrobe loose against her bare skin. The room was completely dark, but her eyes were wide open, staring fixedly into the empty space. After North had taken her back to the hotel, she had showered once, then again, and then a third time, the hot water beating down as it burned over the closed wound on her left thigh. Now, with nothing left to distract her, the scene played over and over in her mind. She was moving toward the bar, confidence in her stride, the Glock steady in her hand. She could see her own face from a distance, the fierce determination, the set of her jaw. Then she was facing Ryan, the sharp blade biting into her throat as Elgin whispered filth into her ear: I’m gonna cut you and fuck you, bitch.

Cut you and fuck you… She sobbed once, a loud, dry sob that vanished into the empty room. There was a knock at the door.

“Naomi, it’s Ryan.” She didn’t answer. “Naomi, just let me talk to you for a minute.”