was already hot and oppressively humid, the aging 4Runner’s air-conditioning struggling to cool the SUV’s interior. As they made the scenic drive along the Potomac River, Reece couldn’t help but think about the last time they’d been on this road together, going to say good-bye to his parents at Arlington. It looked different now, the deep snow having transformed into lush green grass. They drove by the airport on the right and then the Pentagon on the left and eventually passed Arlington National Cemetery. Sweat-soaked joggers and cyclists were out in force on the sidewalks that flanked the river, many of them crossing the Memorial Bridge into D.C. proper.
Katie took the exit that led directly to the north security gate and rolled down her window as they approached a team of guards wearing body armor and BDU-style uniforms. Reece leaned over the console and held out his green contractor badge for the officer to inspect.
“She’s just dropping me off. I’ve got a meeting at six thirty.”
“No problem, sir, but you’re going to have to get out here. We can give you a ride up to the building.”
“Thanks.” He turned to Katie. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”
“You be safe, James Reece.”
“Semper,” he said with a wink.
The security officer directed Katie to where she could make a U-turn and another waved Reece toward a Chevy Equinox with a light bar on the roof for the short drive to the headquarters building. Reece had been to CIA headquarters on a few occasions in the past but had never asked about a large black aircraft that towered above the road on a pedestal.
“Is that an SR-71?”
“Everyone thinks that but it’s actually an A-12 Oxcart, the Agency’s version. It was a tad faster than the Blackbird and it only had one crew member.”
“Guess you’ve answered that question before.”
“Every day, man, every damn day. Here we are,” the officer said as he pulled the small SUV to the curb outside the “new” and “old” headquarters buildings.
“Thanks for the ride.”
He had scrounged up a collared shirt but even if he’d worn a suit, there was nothing about James Reece that blended in at Langley.
He entered the hallowed ground of the old building, stepping across the mosaic Central Intelligence Agency seal. As was his custom, he walked to the Wall of Honor on the north side of the lobby, where black stars representing the fallen were chiseled into the white marble. Flanked by the flag of the nation and the flag of the Agency, the stars were a daily reminder to those who crossed the threshold that they were the country’s first line of defense. Above the 133 stars were the words:
IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THE COUNTRY
Reece looked down at the glass case protruding from the wall that held the Book of Honor under lock and key. A black Moroccan goatskin logbook lay in wait for its inch-thick glass to be opened yet again; for another date to be inscribed and sometimes a name to correspond with a new star on the wall above. Reece slowly scanned the names visible through the glass in silent respect, hovering over those he knew. He was in the company of warriors. The page had already been turned on the seventy-ninth star representing Johnny “Mike” Spann from one of the first battles in the War on Terror. It had also been turned on the page with Chris Mueller and “Chief,” whose actions under fire in Afghanistan defined heroism. The current pages displayed under protective glass were almost at capacity and soon the page would be turned yet again. Reece’s eyes hovered over the names of [Redacted], Glen Doherty, Ty Woods, and [Redacted]. Nineteen other stars stood out on the page, names withheld. Reece knew more than a few, their names and the circumstances of their deaths locked away on secure hard drives and in the memories of those who were there.
Reece ran his fingers over the newest star, the one that represented his friend Freddy Strain. Reece had been there for the ceremony, as had the president. Memories of his old teammate flashed through his mind: sniper school, their first post-9/11 deployment, Mozambique, Odessa, the funeral, Freddy’s family. Reece closed his eyes, Freddy’s face coming to him from beyond the grave.
“I’m sorry, brother,” Reece whispered, knowing that if it were not for him, Freddy’s kids would still have a father. He closed his eyes tighter. I’d trade