"Probably the domestic group referenced by our intelligence source," the CIA director interrupted.
"Let's figure that out. I can't imagine this domestic group got every canister. We need to approach this from both angles," the president said.
"General Gordon, I am invoking my authority under the Insurrection Act to deploy active military units in support of domestic law enforcement agencies. My own counsel and the attorney general agree that this level of coordinated terrorist activity on U.S. soil warrants my authority in this case."
"What did you have in mind, Mr. President?"
"Special Forces. Tier One units and all other direct action capable Special Forces teams. Full helicopter support. I want our best teams available to support Task Force Scorpion."
"Sir, we have the same capabilities within the FBI. Coupled with local SWAT assets, this should be more than enough to cover any possible contingencies," Director Shelby said.
"I'm not casting any doubt on your agency's capabilities. I want to plan for the worst-case scenario. We get all of our best operators into the game. I will only authorize the use of U.S. Special Forces as a last option."
"I'll get the units ready and coordinate with Task Force Scorpion regarding geographic deployment. If you don't mind, Director Shelby, I'd like to assign a liaison to your task force," Lieutenant General Gordon said.
"The more the merrier," Shelby said, not really meaning what he said.
"We have a long day ahead of us. I don't want to hold any of you up any longer. Make sure you coordinate your agency's press releases with my office. We need to be on the same page when communicating to the press and the public. Any last concerns?
"Good. Get to it," the president said.
He immediately left the room with his entourage, which included the chief of staff, his secret service detail, a few aides and the director of the CIA. Major General Bob Kearney and Rear Admiral DeSantos vanished just as quickly out of a door on the other side of the conference room. The noise level instantly rose to a level making it nearly impossible to carry on a conversation.
Shelby yelled across to Marianne Templeton. "Are you scheduled to meet with the president after this?"
"No. I need to get out of here and get this nightmare rolling. I still think we should wait for further confirmation. You won't be able to buy groceries tonight on your way home after this news hits," Templeton said.
"Or bottled water. I wouldn't worry about heading home tonight. Nobody's leaving his or her office in the foreseeable future. I'll catch up with you later," he said, moving swiftly toward the door.
He reached the conference room exit and stepped outside, searching for any signs of the president's entourage. He spotted General Kearney and Admiral DeSantos headed in the direction of the president's private office on the other side of the watch floor. Tracking their progress, he pushed through an endless gaggle of seemingly inconsequential aides and government staffers waiting to rendezvous with someone important in the conference room he just departed. He watched as Secret Service agents stationed outside of the office admitted the two flag-ranked officers and pulled the office door shut.
Through the two windows, he could see the president seated behind a desk and Director Copley sitting directly across from him. The president motioned with his hand, and the two officers sat down on chairs squeezed into the office next to the CIA director. The president reached behind him, and the windows suddenly fogged, obscuring Shelby's view inside the office.
He knew this had something to do with Sanderson. The president was taking an extreme risk sanctioning the use of these assets. Less than twenty-eight hours ago, Sanderson's organizations had been classified as a terrorist organization. He couldn't afford a screw-up that would draw the public's attention to that fact. The president was probably spelling out exactly what he expected in terms of Sanderson's continued involvement on foreign soil. Shelby didn't like guessing. Sanderson's operatives had been assigned to Task Force Scorpion, and he still didn't have a good handle on their rules of engagement or the scope of their authority. He was told to wait on this, until a DIA liaison was assigned to the NCTC.
As director of the FBI, in charge of the nation's premiere law enforcement and domestic surveillance apparatus, the term "need to know basis" didn't apply to him. He needed to know everything. His only consolation in this case was the fact that he had a man on the inside, talking with the president while he was jostled around by this endless tide of servants waiting eagerly to serve their masters.
Chapter 3
Jessica leaned into the vanity mirror and gently applied the concealer stick to the remaining dark purple areas under her left eye. She held the stick between her index finger and thumb, patting the application lightly with her pinky finger to blend it into the foundation. She had spent the better half of an hour applying makeup to her bruised and battered face. The process was taking her twice as long without the use of her left hand, which sat uselessly in a tight gauze wrap on the brown-speckled granite countertop.
Concealing signs of physical abuse surfaced deep, distant emotions that Jessica had spent the last ten years pushing further and further into her subconscious. She was no stranger to "making herself look pretty again" after silently enduring repeated beatings at the hand of Srecko Hadzic's associates in Serbia.
The physical abuse hadn't been the worst part. In fact, it had barely bothered her at all. She had a built-in tolerance for physical pain. One of the many "gifts" she had acquired living under the constant threat of her father's wildly unpredictable, alcohol-fueled rampages. Taking a closed fist high on the cheekbone or a backhand to the mouth was something she had learned to live with.
She had thought all of that would change when she reported to Langley. Ironically, she couldn't have been further mistaken. Instead, they would turn her into one of the most lethal operatives in recent CIA history and put her into a situation where she was forbidden to use those skills to defend herself. She had developed dozens of coping mechanisms as a helpless child, none of which could help her deal with the fact that she had become a predator, but she would still be abused nonetheless. This burden had slowly unraveled her in Belgrade, nearly killing her.
Finding Daniel in that hellhole had certainly saved her from herself. Daniel insisted that they had saved each other, but she knew better. That was something he said to ease her emotional pain. She had no doubt that Daniel would have survived his "tour of duty" in Serbia. He was one of life's guaranteed survivors, and staying close to him would always be her best chance to survive too.
She touched up the last remaining evidence of the desperate struggle that had almost ended her life and leaned back to take in her handiwork. She had to give them credit; even Daniel might not recognize her at first glance. Thanks to a discreet team of beauty consultants, who specialized in hiding wealthy victims of abuse within plain sight, she could effortlessly walk into Ministro Pistarini International Airport and board a plane headed anywhere in the world.
Her long, lustrous jet-black hair had been replaced by a dark brown, short pixie-cropped style that accentuated the strong, angular contours of her face and freshly lifted eyebrows. She had changed her eye color from dark brown to deep blue, with the help of custom vanity contact lenses that also hid the temporary damage to the blood vessels in her left eye. Balanced collagen injections helped her lips appear normal against the persistent swelling on the left side of her face. She had changed her appearance as much as possible without plastic surgery or Hollywood-level special effects makeup. Only a close examination by a seasoned social services caseworker could detect her secret. Even her bandaged hand would be disguised in a sleek, medical grade plastic hand splint that would require little more than a quick explanation about a recent "tennis" accident.