Special Agent Marcus had initially tried to treat the gunshot wound to Special Agent Champion’s upper leg with pressure, hoping the wound might clot on its own until actual medical personnel arrived. After her attempts to stem the flow of blood had failed, she’d secured the operator’s black web belt around his upper leg. The bleeding had stopped, and then the world had been torn in half.
The tremendous explosion had shaken the power plant so violently that she’d been sure the tourniquet wasn’t necessary—they were both going to die. Pieces of heavy machinery had broken loose from the floor, and one of the immense stacks that soared through the ceiling into the air outside had cracked in a diagonal spiral that ran down to the ground.
But they hadn’t been killed, which meant that Deputy Director Benson had succeeded in getting the truck to the quarry, sheltering them from the brunt of the blast.
Once she was sure the building wasn’t going to fall down around them, she left Special Agent Champion. He was still conscious and in communication with his boss, who’d informed him that that second truck had been secured.
It’s a win-win, she thought as she exited the building, hoping Deputy Director Benson had somehow survived.
The air was still thick with swirling dust, and an acrid smell she didn’t recognize filled her nose. She knew the general direction of the quarry and set off into the shifting landscape between the power plant and the giant pit.
The sandy air cleared more and more by the minute as the winds dissipated the heavy cloud of grit, expanding her field of view. After a few more feet, she could see the edge of the pit, as well as the sitting figure of Mike Benson, his back facing her.
Hope accelerated her pulse, and she covered the remaining distance in a sprint, thinking, He’s alive. Thank God, he’s alive!
“Sir, that was an—” was all she uttered as she stopped next to him, realizing her words had fallen on permanently deaf ears. He was gone.
The deputy director of the FBI was in a sitting position, his legs splayed out flat in front of him. His head was bent forward, chin resting on his chest. Sightless brown eyes stared at the chasm of the quarry. A cell phone was gripped in his right hand, which rested on his thigh.
As she studied him, she realized that he must have leapt out of the vehicle, miraculously survived, and amid the chaos of the blast, had the tenacity to make a phone call. Special Agent Marcus choked back a sob.
She looked at the phone and realized the call timer was still ticking upward. Oh my God. It’s still connected.
She reached down, carefully pried the phone out of his fingers, and looked at the name on the display. She didn’t recognize it immediately, but then it came to her, recalling a conversation she’d overheard in Special Agent Hunt’s office earlier in the day.
Out of respect for the personal, private nature of his final act, she hit the end button, disconnecting the call. She placed the phone in her pocket, bent over, and closed his eyes. Not knowing what else to do next—the remaining bomb was secure, the bad guys were dead, and Special Agent Champion was stabilized—she sat down next to him and quietly cried for the loss of a man who’d critically impacted her life in a very brief period.
No matter what else transpired, his sacrifice—saving her life and giving his own—would guide her actions for the rest of her days. It would be a tax on her soul that she’d earnestly pay, in both words and deeds.