Dan’s lap as they played a board game on a stormy afternoon in their summer cabin north of San Francisco.
She longed to be home, for them all to be safe and happy as they were only two years ago.
The kneading in her brain intensified, and Sunny realized she’d had this same sensation several times before — the strongest episode earlier while seated in the DPV waiting for Jax’s briefing. The odd feeling was not painful, but neither was it soothing. It interrupted her thoughts, pleasant memories of the past — stole away her reminiscence of a happier time. The stirring inside her skull was an invasion, the feeling as if someone — some sort of burglar of thoughts — had entered the most secret places of her personal domain, was sifting through the private recesses of her mind, her soul.
But she could not stop this intruder. There were no alarms, no thought cops to come to her rescue. Her mind opened submissively, as if laid bare with legs splayed, completely at the mercy of this mysterious entity.
Sitting with her hands pressed against her head, within a few seconds, she felt overwhelmed, knew she was going to faint. Finally, she fell back, sprawled out onto the dry evergreen needles — and then she felt Dan’s presence, saw him before her like a misty apparition.
She opened her mouth. “Danny!” she said, her lips unmoving, her jaw locked as if it was paralyzed. The REM started again, her eyes racing in their sockets. Unable to stop the probing digits earlier — now, with Dan’s face before her, she no longer wished to stop them.
Within a few seconds, control slipped from her grasp, and she succumbed to the invisible thief groping inside her head.
With a final conscious breath, she whispered, “Dan-nee — ”
Chapter 8
“Carl,” President Mason said, “glad you could make it so quickly from Miami.”
CIA Director Winston didn’t look up at his boss. The compact, sinewy man seemed out of breath. “Sorry if I’ve delayed things, Mr. President. The balmy Florida weather was tough to leave.” His apology was flat and insincere as he passed a file folder to each of the other men, Commander-in-Chief first. “We have updates on our intel,” Director Winston continued as the others studied the folders they had been given. “We received the fax on top only minutes ago from one of our field ops in Paris. It seems it went the long way around to get to us.”
President Mason opened the file before him. The top sheet had come across at least two facsimile machines and only God knew how many copiers to get to his desk. In the upper left-hand corner of the fax was a small picture, a mere ghostlike draft of a man captioned Robert Weller . The poor quality made the photo unidentifiable — the subject could have been twenty years old or sixty, had brown hair or blond. Mason shook his head and scoffed. “Paris? I should guess so — it came a very long way around!”
Still winded, Winston spoke rapid fire, “Regardless, sir, the information is crucial. It seems we have an asset on site, an informant working undercover. We don’t know who it is.”
Chief of Staff Thurman closed the file folder on his lap. His voice was stern and direct. “I have no trust in this.”
“Please,” Winston said, “we must at least give it due consideration.”
“Who is this Robert Weller?” Secretary of State Coates asked. “And what does he have to do with anything?”
“Seems this man is somehow a key to these maniacs’ plan,” Winston said. “A note was included in the fax saying we ‘must rescue Weller immediately.’ He appears to be an innocent man being groomed as some kind of assassin.”
Thurman’s emotionless tone and face didn’t indicate the incredible skepticism of his words. “Oh, brother.”
“What do we know of him?” President Mason asked.
“Absolutely nothing, sir,” Winston said. Still short of breath, he continued, “There are dozens of Robert Wellers in this
She longed to be home, for them all to be safe and happy as they were only two years ago.
The kneading in her brain intensified, and Sunny realized she’d had this same sensation several times before — the strongest episode earlier while seated in the DPV waiting for Jax’s briefing. The odd feeling was not painful, but neither was it soothing. It interrupted her thoughts, pleasant memories of the past — stole away her reminiscence of a happier time. The stirring inside her skull was an invasion, the feeling as if someone — some sort of burglar of thoughts — had entered the most secret places of her personal domain, was sifting through the private recesses of her mind, her soul.
But she could not stop this intruder. There were no alarms, no thought cops to come to her rescue. Her mind opened submissively, as if laid bare with legs splayed, completely at the mercy of this mysterious entity.
Sitting with her hands pressed against her head, within a few seconds, she felt overwhelmed, knew she was going to faint. Finally, she fell back, sprawled out onto the dry evergreen needles — and then she felt Dan’s presence, saw him before her like a misty apparition.
She opened her mouth. “Danny!” she said, her lips unmoving, her jaw locked as if it was paralyzed. The REM started again, her eyes racing in their sockets. Unable to stop the probing digits earlier — now, with Dan’s face before her, she no longer wished to stop them.
Within a few seconds, control slipped from her grasp, and she succumbed to the invisible thief groping inside her head.
With a final conscious breath, she whispered, “Dan-nee — ”
Chapter 8
“Carl,” President Mason said, “glad you could make it so quickly from Miami.”
CIA Director Winston didn’t look up at his boss. The compact, sinewy man seemed out of breath. “Sorry if I’ve delayed things, Mr. President. The balmy Florida weather was tough to leave.” His apology was flat and insincere as he passed a file folder to each of the other men, Commander-in-Chief first. “We have updates on our intel,” Director Winston continued as the others studied the folders they had been given. “We received the fax on top only minutes ago from one of our field ops in Paris. It seems it went the long way around to get to us.”
President Mason opened the file before him. The top sheet had come across at least two facsimile machines and only God knew how many copiers to get to his desk. In the upper left-hand corner of the fax was a small picture, a mere ghostlike draft of a man captioned Robert Weller . The poor quality made the photo unidentifiable — the subject could have been twenty years old or sixty, had brown hair or blond. Mason shook his head and scoffed. “Paris? I should guess so — it came a very long way around!”
Still winded, Winston spoke rapid fire, “Regardless, sir, the information is crucial. It seems we have an asset on site, an informant working undercover. We don’t know who it is.”
Chief of Staff Thurman closed the file folder on his lap. His voice was stern and direct. “I have no trust in this.”
“Please,” Winston said, “we must at least give it due consideration.”
“Who is this Robert Weller?” Secretary of State Coates asked. “And what does he have to do with anything?”
“Seems this man is somehow a key to these maniacs’ plan,” Winston said. “A note was included in the fax saying we ‘must rescue Weller immediately.’ He appears to be an innocent man being groomed as some kind of assassin.”
Thurman’s emotionless tone and face didn’t indicate the incredible skepticism of his words. “Oh, brother.”
“What do we know of him?” President Mason asked.
“Absolutely nothing, sir,” Winston said. Still short of breath, he continued, “There are dozens of Robert Wellers in this
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