Special Agent Rick Cannon is a patriot serving his nation during a time when CIA came under increasing scrutiny. Law enforcement wasn’t his first choice. He loved finance. Numbers and spreadsheets were as fun for him as strategic board games. He had his sights on being the Chief Financial Officer of a reputable firm one day. But at a job fair just before completing his masters in forensic accounting, a recruiter from the FBI bent his ear and changed his heart.
Now, a wife and kids and half a career later, he’s on his toughest assignment yet, spearheading an investigation for the United States Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. It was all dollars and numbers until is became deadly serious.
Washington, D.C. – September 6, 1988
Rick Cannon sprang out of his seat and stood in front of the secretary’s desk, his throbbing fingers a reminder of the urgency of his errand. “How much longer?”
She peered at him over the computer monitor, her fingers clicking away on the keyboard. “Have a seat, Agent Cannon. Be patient. He’s a busy man.” Her head bent down. The clicking accelerated.
He stepped back, his heart mercilessly hammering pain through his broken fingers. Gasoline and bile painted the back of his throat like malevolent ghosts. Holy Moses! Two weeks! He invades my home, terrorizes my wife, threatens my children, and I’m supposed to sit?
He stared at the secretary—her gaze fixed on the document hanging beside her monitor, her fingers playing the keyboard in staccato bursts. He was invisible, the same non-entity she turned him into the minute after his arrival. Anger boiled up from his gut, balling his hands into fists.
“Son of a bishop!”
The clicking stopped. “Agent Cannon?”
He relaxed his hand. His fingers throbbed. He sucked air through clenched teeth and exhaled against pursed lips. Gasoline hung in his nostrils like bad cologne.
“Agent Cannon, are you okay?”
He blinked. “To heck with it.” Charging past her desk, he barged through his boss’s door.