figured that the picture was of the head agent
in charge of the FBI.
But
when he read the story after returning to the cab, he found out the picture was
of the man who had killed his wife. The newspaper said the FBI agent pictured
had been suspended and that an investigation was underway since Anne was
unarmed when he killed her. Furthermore, the agent had been caught trying to
plant a pistol in her hands.
Nick
lost his bearing at that point. In the back of the cab, he crumpled the paper
and began slamming his head on the back of the headrest in front of him. The
cabbie had said, “Hey, man. Stop. Calm down. You alright?”
Nick
wasn’t. All he said was, “Those bastards,” as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Back
at the motel and back under control, he had straightened out the paper and
finished the article. His anger was still fire hot.
An
FBI agent, who had spent months and months learning how to defend himself, had
killed an unarmed woman. And then, he had tried to cover it up.
In
Nick’s eyes, it was unforgivable. The man had been trained by some of the best
trainers law enforcement had.
The
man had known about the raid and should have been mentally prepared. He would
have known about everyone’s assignments and would have had the opportunity to
ask questions before it began.
He
should have been role-playing all of the what-ifs as he waited behind the
house. And finally, his eyes would have been adjusted to the darkness, while
Anne would have been running blind into the night. Not to mention, the man
would have been wearing a bulletproof vest.
None
of these advantages had been on Anne’s side.
She
would have been surprised, outnumbered, and scared. For Christ’s sake, she was
a woman. Barely 120 pounds.
The
reporter from the Knoxville News Sentinel had dug up more facts on the
agent in the three days since the shooting. The agent had missed the last three
monthly required range days. And before those, he had missed the two prior to
it, as well.
One
out of six required days on the range in a two-year period. It was this fact
that really wore on Nick. He had always hated hunters who didn’t respect the
game they hunted. Who didn’t have properly sighted rifles. Who took careless
shots at running deer and didn’t fret about wounding animals.
This
was the exact same situation, except it involved an FBI agent. The man hadn’t
trained hard enough, so that had probably amplified his fear. Might have even
been the sole reason he had fired, in fact.
But
Nick’s mind drifted back to the female angle. In the South, and probably the
rest of the country, too, a man didn’t lay his hands on a woman. Period. Ever.
For any reason. Even if she hit you or tried to kick you, you walked off.
There
was never an acceptable exception to this rule. Certainly not in the South. And
certainly not if you were a real man.
Nick
recalled all the times he’d seen the news show some local piece of trash who
had beat up his woman. Nothing made Nick angrier than when this happened. Nick
would give anything to stomp the piss out of every wife beater in the country.
Not
that any of them would have the guts to fight back. Men like that were cowards.
So,
too, was this man. He probably couldn’t shoot well, so he worried about going
to the range because he might get picked on or laughed at by other agents.
Instead of improving and facing his fears, he had run and hidden like a coward.
Hopefully,
the FBI would fire him and put him in jail. Because if they didn’t, Nick wasn’t
sure he’d be able to control himself.
Chapter
24
Whitaker
walked into a crowded room. It was a rented conference area at the Marriott
Hotel in Knoxville, and his troops were assembled. Tank -- his big-ass
right-hand man -- was with him, as he always was.
Whitaker
wasn’t in a good mood. Senator Ray Gooden had called less than an hour earlier,
questioning and threatening Whitaker for nearly twenty minutes. This was an
incredible amount of
in charge of the FBI.
But
when he read the story after returning to the cab, he found out the picture was
of the man who had killed his wife. The newspaper said the FBI agent pictured
had been suspended and that an investigation was underway since Anne was
unarmed when he killed her. Furthermore, the agent had been caught trying to
plant a pistol in her hands.
Nick
lost his bearing at that point. In the back of the cab, he crumpled the paper
and began slamming his head on the back of the headrest in front of him. The
cabbie had said, “Hey, man. Stop. Calm down. You alright?”
Nick
wasn’t. All he said was, “Those bastards,” as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Back
at the motel and back under control, he had straightened out the paper and
finished the article. His anger was still fire hot.
An
FBI agent, who had spent months and months learning how to defend himself, had
killed an unarmed woman. And then, he had tried to cover it up.
In
Nick’s eyes, it was unforgivable. The man had been trained by some of the best
trainers law enforcement had.
The
man had known about the raid and should have been mentally prepared. He would
have known about everyone’s assignments and would have had the opportunity to
ask questions before it began.
He
should have been role-playing all of the what-ifs as he waited behind the
house. And finally, his eyes would have been adjusted to the darkness, while
Anne would have been running blind into the night. Not to mention, the man
would have been wearing a bulletproof vest.
None
of these advantages had been on Anne’s side.
She
would have been surprised, outnumbered, and scared. For Christ’s sake, she was
a woman. Barely 120 pounds.
The
reporter from the Knoxville News Sentinel had dug up more facts on the
agent in the three days since the shooting. The agent had missed the last three
monthly required range days. And before those, he had missed the two prior to
it, as well.
One
out of six required days on the range in a two-year period. It was this fact
that really wore on Nick. He had always hated hunters who didn’t respect the
game they hunted. Who didn’t have properly sighted rifles. Who took careless
shots at running deer and didn’t fret about wounding animals.
This
was the exact same situation, except it involved an FBI agent. The man hadn’t
trained hard enough, so that had probably amplified his fear. Might have even
been the sole reason he had fired, in fact.
But
Nick’s mind drifted back to the female angle. In the South, and probably the
rest of the country, too, a man didn’t lay his hands on a woman. Period. Ever.
For any reason. Even if she hit you or tried to kick you, you walked off.
There
was never an acceptable exception to this rule. Certainly not in the South. And
certainly not if you were a real man.
Nick
recalled all the times he’d seen the news show some local piece of trash who
had beat up his woman. Nothing made Nick angrier than when this happened. Nick
would give anything to stomp the piss out of every wife beater in the country.
Not
that any of them would have the guts to fight back. Men like that were cowards.
So,
too, was this man. He probably couldn’t shoot well, so he worried about going
to the range because he might get picked on or laughed at by other agents.
Instead of improving and facing his fears, he had run and hidden like a coward.
Hopefully,
the FBI would fire him and put him in jail. Because if they didn’t, Nick wasn’t
sure he’d be able to control himself.
Chapter
24
Whitaker
walked into a crowded room. It was a rented conference area at the Marriott
Hotel in Knoxville, and his troops were assembled. Tank -- his big-ass
right-hand man -- was with him, as he always was.
Whitaker
wasn’t in a good mood. Senator Ray Gooden had called less than an hour earlier,
questioning and threatening Whitaker for nearly twenty minutes. This was an
incredible amount of
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