Page 96 of PSYCHOlogical

“Nature of your business, Sir?” the guard on the right asked.

“Vincent Allen Briggs to see the Director of Nation Intelligence.”

With his face expressing zero emotion and his eyes fixed beyond me, the guard on the left barked out a one-word question. “Codename?”

Saying it wasn’t an easy task. I’d spent three long years devoted to the mission, all the while denying the very existence of who I was hiding behind.

I cleared my throat. “R.P. McMurphy.”

“Three geese in a flock,” the guard on the right said, his voice monotone.

“One flew east, one flew west, and one flew over the cuckoo’s nest,” I deadpanned, reciting the remainder of the children’s poem.

The guard on the left did an about face, unlocked the door, and held it open. As I passed through the threshold, I felt as if I was washed of my sins. An inaudible sigh escaped me.

My mission was nearly over.

Ten minutes later, I was seated in an ornate conference room. Hand-carved wood trim as old as the nation itself was a humble reminder of the many men before me that had been seated in the very same room for one reason or another.

The door opened. Although not necessary, I stood at attention. Director Sharp and Deputy Director Kerns stepped into the room.

“Have a seat, Mister Briggs,” Sharp said.

I did as he asked.

Kerns, in his late forties, was a young man in comparison to the seventy-five-year-old director. Both military veterans, they understood the sacrifices men and women made to secure the nation’s freedom were often done for the greater good.

The two men sat across from me, side by side. Kerns placed a stack of files on the edge of the table when he took a seat.

Sharp laced his fingers together. “I know how difficult this assignment must have been for you,” he said. “Before we get down to the brass tacks of this operation’s inner workings, I’d like to express my sincere gratitude for your unwavering devotion to our nation’s freedom.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Kerns lifted a file from the top of the pile, opened it, and removed a few sheets of paper. “We’ve reviewed your detailed report.” He looked at Sharp, and then at me. “Lt. Colonel Martin was, in fact, the FBI’s Intelligence Branch mole, codenamed Benjamin. Your report makes clear that your suspicions pointed in that direction. Be advised that in a thorough search of his residence, a flash drive containing electronic copies of every New Dawn mission from inception to Ortiz was recovered.”

“Lt. Colonel Martin was the FBI’s mole?” I coughed into my clenched fist. “Good to know, Sir.”

“In the absence of Benjamin,” Kerns said, “this operation would have lasted much longer.”

“Benjamin’s existence is a reminder that trust begins and ends with the truth,” I said. “When a man lies for long enough, the lies he’s telling become the truth. It was time for the operation to end.”

“I don’t follow,” Kerns said.

“I do.” Sharp said. “An operation such as New Dawn is taxing to a man’s being. Asking a man of morals to live a life of deceit—and having that man comply—in essence, makes a moral man immoral. We’d like to think that in the end it’s morality that always wins, but it’s not a given.”

I gave a nod. “Correct.”

Kerns set the file aside and lifted another. He opened it. “Valerie Rhoades. The doctor.”

I reached into my right pocket. “She’s harmless to the security of the operation. The operator you secretly sent to investigate her obviously had the wrong idea of who Benjamin was. Living next door to her for three years clouded his judgement.”

Kerns glanced at Sharp and then met my gaze. “Our instructions in shutting down New Dawn were clear. Benjamin or not, she was to be eliminated.”

I narrowed my gaze. “She’s harmless to the security of the operation.”

Sharp cleared his throat. “Mister Briggs. We’re aware—”

I removed the flash drive from my pocket and tossed it onto the table between them. “You’ll find details of every mission…” I paused and locked eyes with Kerns. “From inception to Ortiz,” I said mockingly. “On that flash drive.”

I shifted my eyes to Sharp. A look of confusion washed over him as he reached for the flash drive.

“If anything happens to her,” I warned. “Anything. Traffic accident, overdose, robbery attempt, heart attack—anything but dying from old age—a copy of each of those documents will be provided to Fox News, CNN, the Washington Post, the New York Times, and anyone else who cares to make the information public.”

“Mister Briggs,” Sharp said, his tone attempting to suggest his senior status. “Our instructions—and our agreement—were clear. Upon completion of the last mission—”

I alternated glances between them. “This is not negotiable.”

“Mister Briggs,” Sharp said. “I’m sure if we put our collective heads together, we’ll agree that Miss Rhoades’ continued existence, although convenient, poses a certain degree of threat—”

“My statement a moment ago was not an idle threat. It was a promise.” I stood, gave a sharp nod, and bid my farewell. “With all due respect, gentlemen, this mission is over.”