Commitment (47 page)

Christopher O’Brien paced through the large farm house, sputtering off a long list of complaints to himself. “She thinks I’m her pet hamster,” he muttered. Claire Brackett
had been gone for several days and O’Brien felt the suffocation of boredom pressing in on him. He made his way into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of whiskey. The smell and stench of the alcohol made him wince. He hated whiskey, but it seemed his best companion these days. O’Brien swirled the yellow liquid in his glass, watching it ripple in small waves. He sipped it slowly, wrinkling his nose as the size of each swig increased. Never stopping his love-hate relationship with the drink in his hands, he made his way to the bathroom. One final gulp and he set the empty glass on the sink. The congressman looked up into the mirror and groaned in disgust. “You look like shit, O’Brien,” he told his reflection.

Several days of neglect had quickly transformed the congressman’s usual clean-cut appearance. He stroked the growth on his cheek and smiled. “I don’t even recognize me,” he said. His declaration sparked an idea. He offered himself a sly smile, winked at his reflection, and headed back towards the kitchen. “Yes, yes….there you are,” he said. He looked across the room and sighed with satisfaction before pouring himself another drink. He downed the glass quickly and retrieved the set of keys that hung by the door on a small hook. O’Brien donned his jacket, opened the back door, and made his way to the barn that served as a garage.

“Well, Claire…she certainly had good taste,” O’Brien beamed in delight at the three cars in front of him. He was tempted to slip into the sleek red Porsche. “Too conspicuous,” he admitted in disappointment. “No matter,” he said as he slid into the silver Jeep. “Time to take a spin,” he gloated.

“You son of a bitch,” Fallon’s loathing of the man before him was transparent.

“That’s no way to speak to your superior,” Michael Taylor smirked. “So, who’d you call, Agent Fallon? Was that Alex? No? Tate perhaps?”

“Fuck you,” Fallon shot.

“You know, that is insubordination,” Taylor shook his head. “You couldn’t be content to be the inconspicuous FBI agent, huh? Had to get involved. You should have listened to Alex.”

“So, this is all about drugs?” Fallon asked, referencing the open carton now on the floor.

“Hardly,” Taylor laughed. “Gave you more credit than that,” he said.

“Why don’t you enlighten me?” Fallon told the NSA Director.

Taylor laughed. “I’m afraid our time is too limited to give you all those details,” he offered his insincere apology.

Fallon was unwavering. He faced the gun that was pointed directly at him as if it was a simple toy. “She saved your life. How could you?” Fallon asked. He found the presence of the man before him revolting.

“Alex, you mean?” Taylor shook his head. “I suppose she did. Although, if she’d been paying more attention to what was going on around her instead of pining after that Iraqi girl….well, maybe we wouldn’t be here now,” Taylor admitted. He sighed and shook his head. “Alex could never leave well enough alone. And now, look at all the people she’s dragged down with her.”

Fallon scowled at Taylor and chuckled. “You are disgusting,” Fallon said.

“I have a job to do,” Taylor said.

“Yeah? Murdering people? Selling arms to terrorists? Running drugs? Quite the resume,” Fallon responded.

“Oh, you are just like her. Pious. Give me a break, Agent Fallon. What did you think you were getting into?” Taylor said. “For whatever it is worth, I am sorry it has come to this. I can’t have anyone knowing I was here. And, I have things I need to
take care of. With the congressman away….well, you understand,” Taylor explained.

Fallon took a deep breath and nodded. He felt his heart skip several beats as Taylor moved around him and placed the gun at the back of his head. He scoured his thoughts for a way to disarm the NSA Director, but he knew he would never be able to react quickly enough. Fallon closed his eyes and thought of his wife and children, silently begging forgiveness of all the people he felt he had failed.

“It’ll be quick,” Taylor promised. “You’ll appear a hero. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Just do it,” Fallon demanded. There was no sound. Fallon felt something hot running down the back of his neck. It took several seconds for him to realize that he was still standing.

“Don’t move, Agent Fallon,” a voice instructed from behind him. Fallon held his breath again. “You walk straight out of here. Don’t turn around. Don’t breathe. Just walk out the way you came in, slowly.”

“I don’t understand,” Fallon stuttered.

“Trust me, agent….you do not want to be here with a dead NSA Director. I have work to do. Just get out of here….”

“Who….”

“You just tell Toles that there are people looking out for her interests. Pick up your phone and get out of here. Now,” the voice ordered.

Fallon’s nod was almost imperceptible. He took a deep breath and made his way deliberately for the front door and exited the congressman’s townhouse. Stepping into the cold January air, he reached for the back of his head and felt the blood that soaked his short hair, grateful it was not his own. The falling snow had kept the streets clear, and Fallon said a silent prayer of thanks as he slid into his car and lifted his phone.

“Jesus, Fallon! Where did you go?” Tate blared.

“Director Taylor is dead,” Fallon told his boss.

“You killed Michael Taylor? Shit….where are you now?” Tate asked.

“I didn’t,” Fallon said.

“I don’t understand,” Tate replied. “Who…”

“I don’t know. Sir, there is enough cocaine and heroin in that townhouse to keep all of Washington D.C. high for a month,” Fallon said.

“Listen to me Fallon; get in the car and drive to the lot where I had you take Cheryl,” Joshua Tate instructed Fallon.”

“Sir, I am a mess….literally,” Fallon answered.

“Fallon, trust me….just do it. Get out of there right now,” Tate ordered.

“What about calling in….”

“Fallon, by the time anyone gets there it will be too late. Just go,” Joshua Tate repeated the order to Fallon. He disconnected the call only to place another one immediately. “It’s Tate. No….It’s Agent Fallon…..No…..There’s been an unexpected development……Fine…..No, I understand. You make that call…all right. Where? Are you certain? We’ll be there.”

“Where the hell are you?” Claire Brackett’s voice blared through the phone.

Christopher O’Brien fumbled with the device in his hands. The snow was beginning to fall more steadily, and the fog of whiskey seemed to make the road in front of him fuzzy. He was preoccupied with the hand that was insistently massaging his inner thigh, and Claire’s interruption did nothing except irritate him. “What do you want?” he slurred.

“Where are you?” she repeated.

“Got lonely,” he whined. “Not lonely anymore.”

“Are you a fucking idiot? What the hell is wrong with you?” she screamed. “Get back to the house. Now!”

“Exactly what I am doing,” he assured her.

“Are you alone?” she asked.

“Mm…no….” his reply came as a slight moan of pleasure.

“You are the stupidest person I know. You’re going to get us both killed before this over. Who is she?”

“Shanna? Shana?” he glanced to the seat beside him. “Whoaaaa…” he chuckled.

“Get back to the house,” Brackett repeated.

“On my way,” he chuckled again. “That’s……..hey…oh…”

“O’Brien?” Claire heard what sounded like a scream in the background.

“Shit……..” Christopher O’Brien’s voice trailed off with a sudden bang.

“O’Brien! Shit….”

“Jonathan?” Eleana’s voice came through the phone.

“Eleana, I didn’t expect to hear from you until later this week,” Jonathan Krause answered.

“Where are you?” Eleana asked.

“Just heading to my hotel in Boston,” he answered.

“Good, you aren’t that far. I need you to meet me,” she said urgently.

“Now? Why? Eleana….”

Eleana Baros looked at the tire tracks that were fading quickly in the falling snow. “I think I know where Claire took the congressman,” she said.

Nothing more needed to be said. Jonathan Krause’s reply was simple. “Send it over now. I’m on my way.”

Brian Fallon paid little attention to the direction in which Joshua Tate was driving. He had been surprised that the assistant FBI director had remained silent. Fallon was thankful for what he
knew was sure to be only a brief respite. It allowed him to close his eyes and order the images that were scattered throughout his brain. Fallon was sure that he would be called upon to recall every sound, sight, scent, and even taste that he had experienced while in Christopher O’Brien’s townhouse. He felt the car gradually reduced speed and opened his eyes. He watched as Joshua Tate pulled the vehicle into an underground parking garage.

“Where are we?” Fallon asked. Joshua Tate’s only response was a reassuring smile.

Fallon followed Tate to an elevator only a few steps away. Normally, the FBI agent would have been full of questions and assumptions. Fallon felt confident that wherever they were headed, he would both be safe and expected to produce information. The elevator doors opened to reveal the corridor of what looked to be an office building. Fallon studied the building curiously. “No security?” Fallon asked; his question more of an observation.

Tate kept moving forward. “They see us,” he assured Fallon. Tate led the way to another elevator. Fallon watched at the older man pressed several buttons. Within seconds, the small box carried them away again. When the door opened, Fallon nearly stopped breathing at the face that greeted them.

“Agent Fallon.”

“Mrs. Merrow?” Fallon responded weakly.

Jane Merrow winked at Joshua Tate and took Brian Fallon’s hand. “You look like you could use a drink, Agent Fallon,” she observed. Fallon numbly followed her lead. He had played through many scenarios in his mind about who might be greeting him. The former first lady was nowhere on that list. “Go get yourself cleaned up,” Jane said. “You’ll find everything you need down the hall.”

Fallon stood shell shocked for a moment. “I just…I don’t understand….”

Tate removed his jacket and made his way to a chair in the corner of the large penthouse. “That’s the most he’s said in an hour,” Tate said lightly.