End Game by John Gilstrap Page B

bad guys, and of course the reverse was equally true. The animosity came from different views of how the world operated, and what right and wrong looked like. Common to both agencies, however, was hatred of the State Department. All State wanted to do was surrender. Philip thought of it as serving the French model.
    “I need to make a couple of phone calls,” Philip said. “Private ones. I’m going to wander a few yards toward Maryland, but don’t go anywhere. If you need to make some phone calls yourself to get your team back together, now would be a good time.”

C HAPTER S EVEN
    J olaine put her Glock in the top drawer of the thin-walled faux-mahogany dresser.
    The officer rapped again. “Ms. Bernard! Please!” His tone was harsher this time.
    Jolaine looked at herself in the mirror. She saw nothing in the image that telegraphed the nightmare of the past few hours. All she saw was a young woman—an attractive one, she liked to think—who looked a little tired, but there was no tattoo on her forehead announcing that she’d killed people. Jolaine opened the door just as the cop was preparing to knock again. “Good lord, what is it?” she demanded as she pulled it open.
    Outside, the officer who was doing the knocking stood off to the side. Another, with his hand resting casually on his sidearm, stood at a distance in the parking lot. Clearly, the agenda here was serious.
    “Are you Marcia Bernard?” the cop asked.
    With that question, she knew that the call had been placed by Hi-my-name-is-Carl, the only person in the world other that herself to know that she had an alias, let alone what it was.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked.
    “May we come in?” the cop asked as his partner moved closer. The partner’s hand never moved from his gun.
    “I don’t understand,” Jolaine said. “Is there a problem?”
    “I’d really prefer to talk inside,” the cop said. “No sense waking the entire complex.”
    Jolaine’s heart and head raced together to figure out a plan. She stepped back from the door and ushered them inside.
    “I’m Officer Bonds,” the first cop said. “This is Officer Medina. Is everything okay here?”
    “Of course,” Jolaine said. “Why wouldn’t it be?” She played it as absurd, and hoped she hadn’t oversold it.
    “Are you here alone?” Bonds asked.
    “No,” she said. “I’m here with my little brother.”
    “And where is he?”
    “In the bathroom. Excuse me, Officer, but I’m not comfortable—”
    The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam, and revealing Graham with wild wet hair and a white towel wrapped around his waist. “Hey Jolaine, did we bring—” He saw the cops. “Holy shit.”
    “This is my brother, Tommy,” Jolaine said, suddenly aware that she hadn’t yet told Graham that he had an alias.
    Graham said nothing, but his expression was an open confession to the Lincoln assassination.
    “Who’s Jolaine?” Officer Medina asked. He stood in the doorway to the parking lot, blocking the only route of escape. He asked the question to Graham, and the boy still couldn’t find any words.
    The cops’ eyes shifted in unison to Jolaine. “I am,” she said. She was winging it now.
    Medina stayed focused on Graham. “And who are you? I mean really? ”
    “He’s Tommy Bernard,” Jolaine said. Her words clearly pissed off the cop, who was trying to get a rise out of the boy, but she had to get it out there if the kid was going to have a chance.
    “I’m Tommy Bernard,” Graham said.
    “Uh-huh,” Bonds said. “What’s going on here?”
    “My brother and I are on a trip,” Jolaine said.
    “Where to?” Medina asked.
    “I don’t see where that’s any of your business,” Jolaine said. They’d crossed the line where she felt her best defense—maybe her only defense—would be a little offense.
    “Why did you lie about your name?” Bonds said.
    “Is that a crime?”
    “It could be. Let me see some identification.”
    As Jolaine fished