CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

September 28, 11:50 A.M.

Langley, Virginia

OWEN WASHBURN SAT in his car in the parking lot of the CIA headquarters with his phone on the seat next to him, logged onto the secure wireless network and downloading his email. He had taken an early lunch in order to find a quiet place to think through his optionsnone good. Time was running out, and he had to act. How many lives was he willing to risk…this go round?

“Tick-tock, it’s almost twelve o’clock.” The text message on his phone read, reinforcing his dire predicament.

In defeat, Owen’s forehead fell forward, resting on the steering wheel as he fought the urge to cry. He knew what had to be done, but that didn’t make the decision any easier. He popped the glove box open and retrieved the small bottle of whiskey he kept stashed for such an occasion. He unscrewed the cap and downed a long swig of the fiery liquid. When his throat quit burning, he took a second drink, and then another, until less than an inch remained in the pint, and his limbs began to numb.

Owen picked up his phone, hands shaking on the tiny keyboard, and drafted a brief message to Elizabeth Ryan, the Director of the CIA. Once completed, he stared at the screen, regretting all the mistakes he had made in his life.

He laughed. Nothing was funny, but he didn’t know what else to do as he contemplated the message he keyed in, and how the words would destroy his reputation and career. He only hoped his proactive approach might spare the ones he loved from the disappointment the truth would bring if publically revealed.

He placed the phone on the seat and drank the last sip of whiskey. Hurling the bottle at the back window of his car, sending shards of glass over the plush leather of the interior, did nothing to relieve the tension. He forced his focus back to the task at hand and, for a moment, he stared at the contents of the open glove box, before his hand slowly reached for his service weapon. He hadn’t shot it in several years, except to qualify for work, but the butt of the pistol still felt familiar in his hand. Checking the load, he set the gun on his thigh and rubbed a shaky hand over his face.

Owen looked at the digital clock on the dash. The time had come. The illuminated numbers read 11:58 A.M. He couldn’t delay any longerZara would be waiting and not patiently. He stared at the small screen, hoping for last minute inspiration or an alternative solution to his dilemma, but nothing came. Fingers hovering over the send icon, he took a deep breath and tapped down. The message disappeared, and there was no turning back.

As he contemplated what he had just done and planned to do next, a feeling of peace sifted through his mind. He hated to leave his wife and children, but he had to do this for them, as much as for his colleagues and his country. They would survive and be better off without him, even if they didn’t recognize the fact. His death would make his beautiful wife a wealthy woman, so he doubted she would be lonely for long.

His family and the community would be given an honorable explanation about how he had died in the line of duty. The CIA never admitted to having any knowledge of the Hong Kong fireworks factory explosion, and an agent’s suicide reflected poorly on the organization. He had lived with the secrets, occasional guilt, and fear that his past would catch up to him for far too long. Now it was over.

His fingers closed over the grip of his pistol. He calmly raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.