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Ryder could see agreement in the eyes of every man around the table. It was the man in the suit at the far end of the table who stood first, bringing the meeting to a close. "Gentlemen, let's let Webster finish debriefing Agent Helms so he can get some rest." He had walked towards Ryder, stopping short of where he sat before he finished, "Well done, young man. I realize that not everyone around this table would have made the same choices you did in the same situation, but I'm on record that it was a solid operation." He reached into his vest pocket and came out with a business card, placing it in front of Ryder. "I'll be debriefing Director Ryan personally. I want you to call me if anyone gives you shit, AgentHelms."
He barely got out his, "Thank you, sir," before the man was at the door. Only then did he glance down to find out he was Deputy Director, the man second in command of the Central IntelligenceAgency.
Fuck. I'm glad I didn't have a clue who he was before this meetingstarted.
Understanding that the highest ranking man in the room had just dismissed them, the rest of the office's occupants stood, most quietly shuffling out without another word. Several stopped to pat him on the back or shake hishand.
Only when Ryder and his boss were alone did Brandon Webster whistle. "Holy shit, that wasintense."
Ryder finished the last swig of his now cold coffee before answering. "After last Thursday, that was a walk in the park," he countered. He then asked the question he needed an answer to. "How is Hansen doing? Did he makeit?"
"He came through surgery and is still hanging on. The last report I got listed him in critical, but stable,condition."
It was a good sign he'd made it this long. "He's tough. He'll make it." Changing the subject, he asked his next question. "So now what the fuck happens? I get put out topasture?"
Webster took a pack of cigarettes out and lit up. It always cracked Ryder up that the federal ban on smoking inside government buildings was broken often inside the walls of CIA headquarters. Puffing out a line of smoke, he finallyanswered.
"You have some choices. At thirty-eight, you're young enough to start over. With your language skills, we could place you in almost any eastern European country tomorrow. We still need eyes and ears on the ground across the globe, whether you're in deep cover ornot."
Ryder'd suspected that would be the first option offered. Starting over didn't sound like much fun at themoment.
"Next..." heprompted.
"You could retire. You have thirteen active years in. That's more thanmost."
"Retire and do what? I don't golf and don't feel like taking upknitting."
His boss gave him a dirty look as he puffed on his cancer stick. "Smart-ass. There's a lot of work for retired agents in the privatesector."
"Are you trying to get rid ofme?"
"Fuckno."
Ryder was getting impatient. "Then what else isthere?"
"There are plenty of options. Stay in D.C. Become a handler. Work in mission control. Put your language skills to work in interpretation and logistics. Become a trainer. There are dozens of jobs you're overqualifiedfor."
None of those sounded very exciting, but they did sound a bit safer. Still, he'd be bored in a week with a desk job. He knew it in hisheart.
Finally, Webster mentioned something that sounded slightly better. "Hell, we could put you in interrogations with your success rate at breaking people. Don't worry about it for a while. You've earned some time off. Keep your phone on in case I need to get ahold of you, but take a vacation." When Ryder made to argue, he held up his hand. "This is not a request, it's an order. I don't want to see you back here for a few weeks. Get some rest. Eat some food, and for God's sake, take ashower."
Ryder was suddenly very tired. He couldn't wait to follow his boss's directions to the letter. Eat, shower, and sleep–in that order. Pushing to his feet, he reached out to shake Webster's offered hand. "Thanks for having my back with that crowd. I didn't know what toexpect."
Webster chuckled. "Hell, I don't know half the time either. I'll try to keep them off you for a week, but I'd expect a call from Chip Marshall, unless you'd rather I not pass him through to you. He called yesterday looking to thank you personally for rescuing his family. The man actually started crying while talking tome."
Ryder had had time on the plane to research the Marshall family. He hadn't known anything about them during the mission and was glad. He wouldn't have wanted to figure in the fact that they were part of one of the countries ten richest families, making their billions in oil. Marshall had taken his family to Russia on oil business that apparently had been cutting into the Volkov'slivelihood.
"Naw, that's fine. If he wants to talk, I'lllisten."
He was at the door, about to leave when his boss shouted, "I mean it. Get some downtime,Helms."
Ryder didn'tanswer.
* * *
Forty-eight hours later,Ryder finally felt rested, having slept at least half the time he'd been holed up in his apartment. He'd been living off bad Chinese and pizza, relying on delivery, since he didn't have even the basic staples in his kitchen. He wasn't usually home long enough tocook.
He should feel relaxed, but instead, he was on edge. He'd spent the last hour pacing his small apartment located only a few miles south of CIA Headquarters. This was exactly how he'd spent the weeks of his recovery the last time he was back in the States, feeling a bit like a trapped animal. He needed purpose. A goal. Without it, his mind wandered to things he shouldn't think about that only put him more onedge.
