6:05 p.m.; Washington, D.C.
"Slow down, Charity, and tell me what happened." FBI Director Phillip Jameson leaned forward in his chair. Charity was scared and talking fast, taking deep breaths of air in mid-sentence. Even though he had heard enough, he let her continue. Her voice told him she was getting tired. That would calm her nerves.
"Where are you, Charity?" He picked up a pen and slid a pad of paper across his desk. He scribbled. "Listen to me and do exactly what I tell you." He paused, waiting for an acknowledgment. "Stay where you are. Do not leave the restaurant. Don’t even go to the bathroom. Stay where you can be seen at all times. Do you understand me? Good. I’m sending an agent to pick you up. You will be out of there and safe within the hour. Remember to stay visible, Charity. You’re going to be all right." Once Jameson had confirmed she knew what to do, he set the phone's handset back in the cradle. Removing his eyeglasses, he tossed them onto the desk. With his elbows on the desk, he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. His eight-hour workday had just gotten longer.
Jameson had always worked hard. When he was ten, working as a newspaper carrier, he made a decision to give more to his employer than he received. That work ethic carried over to every job he worked, including his current position. He never expected more than his paycheck at the end of the week. As a result, his superiors had taken special notice and promoted him as soon as the opportunity had arisen. Two years ago, when James Conklin became the President of the United States, he had a short list of names, actually one name, for the position of FBI Director—Phillip Jameson.
During his career with the FBI, Jameson had cultivated a no-nonsense attitude. He was a man who brought to bear rock-steady leadership and decision-making skills and always backed up his agents. The fifty-year-old was physically fit, regularly lifting weights and jogging. He was five-feet, eleven inches tall and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames.
Jameson sat straight, reached into the pocket of his suit coat and plucked his cell phone. In the upper-right corner of the screen, the time was displayed—6:09. He typed a short text message, pressed the ‘send’ button and put down the phone. Picking up his desk phone, he dialed the cell number of one of his best agents, Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz.