Page 33 of PSYCHOlogical

“What if the other party decides to tell the truth?” I asked. “To say what really happened?”

“If they’re involved in something questionable, they’re as culpable as I am. They’ll stick to the story to save their own ass. So, to answer your question, if the mission is potentially a dirty one, I want someone else involved. If two people are wearing the mission’s dirt, they’re each only half as dirty as if one of them had acted alone.”

I couldn’t believe I was standing in my kitchen talking about the benefits of adding a partner to a potentially “dirty” mission. Until recently, I wasn’t convinced the program was a necessary part in securing the Nation’s freedom. Nevertheless, I accepted a high-level position within one of the US Government’s many clandestine hit squads.

I, no differently than Vincent, simply followed orders. In doing so, I attempted to make killers feel that they’d done nothing wrong after they’d committed the most unspeakable of acts. Then, one assignment changed my system of beliefs, entirely. After it, I embraced the program—and everything that came with it—wholeheartedly.

“Before that mission in Chicago, I wasn’t convinced this program was valuable,” I said. “I was in this job for other reasons. Now, I think killing—in certain circumstances—is necessary for the safety of the Nation’s citizens.”

“You believe there are circumstances that truly warrant murder?”

I seemed crazy to admit it, but in all honesty, I did. “Absolutely.”

“Chicago changed your mind?” He asked. “That crazy prick with all the bombs?”

“That’s the one.”

He shook his head. “Shutting down that guy’s bomb factory made me believe in this program. I can’t imagine what would have happened if we hadn’t completed that mission.”

The man in question was manufacturing bombs and providing them to anyone willing to take a stand against a cause he believed in. At the time the assignment was issued, it was believed that his bombs had been used in a federal building that was bombed, killing over a hundred innocent people and wounding hundreds; a marathon in New York City that killed dozens and injured hundreds; and a Jewish synagogue that killed a hundred and fifty and wounded everyone in attendance at the religious service.

ATF investigators found that the three bombs had a unique handmade detonation device. Even though investigators believed the target was the man behind the bombings, they couldn’t link him to the warehouse believed to be used in the manufacturing of them. Without that critical element, they couldn’t obtain a search warrant.

As the ATF strengthened their case, a white supremacist detonated a series of bombs in a predominantly black middle school, killing two hundred children. The detonation devices, like an electronic fingerprint of sorts, linked each of the bombs to the other three.

There was no doubt the devices were made by the same man. It was the last straw. Still unable to get a search warrant or an indictment, but certain of the target’s ties to the manufacture of the bombs, the Director of National Intelligence called for the assistance of New Dawn’s men.

Vincent was selected for the assignment due to his specialized training in language, negotiations, and reconnaissance. In an undercover mission that wasn’t limited by the same rules of entrapment as a law enforcement unit, Vincent posed as a Persian-speaking American with ties to ISIS.

While drinking beers and planning another church bombing, Vincent secretly slipped the man enough crushed oxycodone to place him in a reduced state of awareness. Then, he gave him more—enough to cause him to overdose. Afterward, Vincent planted enough evidence to lead investigators to the warehouse in question.

An anonymous “concerned citizen” led local law enforcement to the man’s home, where they found that he’d fallen victim to an overdose of oxycodone. While removing the body from the home, an alert detective recognized components commonly used to manufacture bombs in the same room where the man accidentally overdosed.

A scrap of paper with the address of the warehouse written on it was found near the materials. No one was the wiser that it was scribed in Vincent’s handwriting. The note allowed a search warrant to be issued for the warehouse. A subsequent search produced dozens of pre-made bombs, each of which could kill hundreds, if not thousands.

Up until that time, I felt breaking the law to deter the further manufacture of crime was nothing short of criminal, but I chose to look the other way. That one assignment changed my belief on everything. Using a clandestine force to step in when laws prevented police and federal agents from acting finally made sense.

“Before that assignment, I was nothing more than a therapist drawing a paycheck for services rendered,” I admitted. “After those bombs were found, I embraced the program, the men in it, and the reason behind it.”

“So, you weren’t completely on board before that mission?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

He gave me a quick once-over, grinned, and then took a drink of his beer.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He took another drink. “What do you mean?”

“You keep looking at me funny,” I said. “You’ve been doing it since you got here.”

He gestured toward me with the neck of his beer bottle. “Your hair’s down, and I’m not used to seeing you in jeans.”

“Do I look bad?”

He finished his beer, eyeing me as he drank it. He set the bottle aside. “No, Ma’am.”

“I don’t look bad?”