The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) by Jay Deb

O’Brien,
approaching. O’Brien reported directly to the FBI director.
    O’Brien
stopped in front of Miller’s cubicle.
    Miller
turned his black revolving chair to face his boss. “So far, we don’t have a solid
lead.”
    “We
are becoming the butt of a joke,” O’Brien said, not even trying to hide his
frustration. “The Internet is abuzz with messages like ‘cops do more when a
homeless guy dies in another city.’”
    “We’re
doing everything we can. So far, we’ve gathered only minor details. No suspect
yet.”
    O’Brien
took a step forward and looked straight into Miller’s eyes. “Let me hear the
minor details.”
    “We
interviewed some people – shopkeepers, guards in the nearby residential
buildings. One man reported he saw a tall man rush out of the building
immediately after the shooting. He carried a large carry-on suitcase. A guard in
another building said he saw two men enter the building. One carried a duffel
bag. The guard never saw the two men leave. He didn’t get a good look at them
either.”
    O’Brien
shook his head and tapped his knuckles on the table; light reflected off his
shiny bald head. “We gotta do something. The press is baying for blood. They’re
saying terrorists are here, killing anyone they want.”
    “Terrorist
or not,” Miller said, “the shooter was a darn good one. He put a bullet right
in the middle of the DEA administrator’s head and didn’t need to take a second
shot. He must have had real good training – Marines, Navy or Army. I don’t
think this is a terrorist job.”
     
     
    IT
WAS OCTOBER, and the colors of fall were arriving in Virginia. Doerr drove his
rented crimson-color Chevy Impala on Route 270 toward Langley, and the traffic
was getting thicker. The memory of the mammoth white CIA buildings was fresh in
his mind. After he had been rebuffed by the office at Thirty-Third Street, he
was desperate to talk to someone he knew.
    He
had phoned Lazarus, who had been his boss when he had quit the agency three
years ago. The call had gone to voicemail, and he left three messages, but
there was no callback. Doerr was headed for the CIA Headquarters, not to see Lazarus,
but his old buddy Andrew, who worked in the Science and Technology division.
Andrew had held a desk job at Langley for almost fifteen years, and Doerr knew
his area of expertise was cell phones and other wireless devices.
    When
Doerr reached the parking lot, it was already ten a.m. He hurried through the
lot to the concrete walkway. An elderly man held the glass door open for him.
Thanking him, Doerr went straight to the reception desk.
    “I’m
Dawn,” the receptionist greeted him. “How can I help you?”
    “I’m
here to meet Andrew,” Doerr said. “Andrew Johnson.”
    The
heavyset lady looked at him over her rimless glasses and asked, “Your name?”
    “Max
Doerr.”
    “ID,
please.”
    Doerr
opened his wallet and handed over his New York driver’s license. He watched the
lady put the license inside a slot, and the black machine made a cracking
noise. After a few more seconds, the license came out. The lady gave him a visitor
tag, and Doerr affixed it to his shirt.
    The
receptionist pointed to the waiting area in the corner and lifted the black
handset of the phone, indicating he should go and wait while she called Andrew.
Doerr proceeded to the designated area, which was empty but for a black leather
cushiony sofa.
    Not
much has changed here in three years , he thought.
    Doerr
decided not to sit; he stood in the middle of the room and waited.
    Five
minutes later, Andrew was standing in front of him. “It’s been a long time,” he
said, grinning. “How you doing, buddy?”
    “Great.”
Doerr took a step closer to Andrew and said, “How is it going?”
    “Good.
Now come on,” Andrew said and then walked to the elevator, scanned his ID card
and pressed the elevator button. Doerr followed him.
    Once
they were inside the elevator, Doerr asked, “What kind of work are you