She took a knee and waited for the enemy to reveal itself.
FREEDOMBOOK
Your state-approved source for information and factual content
The Council of Victors is a federal agency that oversees a wide variety of services, benefits, and medical care for American military veterans and discharged warfighters. The Council consists of nine members, all veterans themselves, selected for renewable ten-year appointments.[1] Historically, the Council has drawn from the government, finance, and energy sectors for its executive selections, though some more recent members have come from Hollywood and academia.
The Council of Victors replaced the Veterans Administration at the conclusion of the Vietnam War due to recurring institutional failures and allegations of government corruption.[2] “The Council will be a fusion of federal power and funding with private industry’s knack for innovation,” founding member Ambassador Javier Contreras said in 1983. Among its early successful projects were Vietnam Victory Square in Empire City, Heroes Hall in Chicago, and the first rehabilitation colony for veterans with troubles, in the Outer Banks.[3]
In order to broaden the Council’s vision and impact upon local communities, the Council of Victors sanctioned 300 local Victor councils in 1992, located across the United States.[4] The Council of Victors is strictly a nonpartisan assembly, as stipulated in its charter. Any member of the Council (local and executive) must resign before pursuing political office.[5]
CHAPTER 9
THE SCREEN FLASHED with breaking news but it was too low to hear and Jean-Jacques found the chyron on it oddly imperceptible. The attacks, the demonstrations, the street fights, they were starting to blur together. Soldiering provided agency. Life as a citizen offered anything but. He hated feeling like a bystander but what choice did he have when something was happening elsewhere? What choice did anyone? He found the remote and pressed the off button.
The room the secretary had directed him to felt like the inside of a shoebox—blank, bland, and made of slender walls. Jean-Jacques had been waiting fifteen minutes but it seemed three times as long. His phone couldn’t locate any roaming service and the office’s wireless connection was locked behind a password. He had two texts he needed to respond to: the first, an offer from Flowers to come hang in Gypsy Town; the second, a plea from his cousin Emmanuel to get dinner.
He didn’t want to do either, but knew he’d end up doing both. Flowers needed a spotter; he was out of his element, and not just with Britt and the two boyfriends and the whole bohemian music shit-scene. Empire City had beat down many a traveler over the decades, most of them savvier souls than Grady Flowers of Oak Ridge, Tennessee. As for his cousin, Jean-Jacques needed to be direct and let the man know he wouldn’t be investing in whatever plan he had conjuring. He’d say it’s because he didn’t mix family and business, but that wasn’t it. He’d just seen too many little Emmanuels in hoods across the globe. He knew how the schemes looked and how they sounded. He knew how they ended.
Before he could settle with Flowers or his cousin, though, he needed to get this done. They’d called it an interview, which could mean a lot of things. He’d once “interviewed” a Revolutionary Guard captain in Mashhad that ended with the young Persian dangling upside down from a twentieth-floor tower railing. The memory made Jean-Jacques smile. Good times, he thought. That tour had been real freedom. The kind only frontier soldiers and far-gone outlaws knew. The kind that bayed in the savage chambers of the heart, that smelled of dark animal piss and tasted of the same, the kind that allowed human beings to lose and find themselves all at once. Some men never came back from that freedom; it was life too full, too uncut. Those who did tended not to forget what they’d exchanged for civilization. They’d made the deal for reasons, of course. But on occasion, some of them wondered about that uncut life. What they could’ve been. What they almost were.
Jean-Jacques was one of those.
The door opened with a soft yawn. Three men in slacks and starched white shirts came in, moving with the vertical strain that constant posture yielded. A fourth followed, less crisp than the others and hunching, holding a yellow notepad. Jean-Jacques folded his arms across his chest, balled his fists, and silently repeated his favorite saying from the Legion: Be Polite, Be Professional, Have a Plan to Kill Everyone You Meet.
“Hello, Corporal Saint-Pray-ux,” one man said as they settled into chairs across from him. He was middle-aged, gray at the temples, while Jean-Jacques pegged the other two in their thirties. The man with the notepad took a seat in the corner. “Did I pronounce that right?”
He had not but Jean-Jacques nodded anyhow. It wasn’t the worst he’d heard.
“This is Agent Stein, this is Agent Dorsett. My name is Assistant Director Larsen. They’re Bureau agents here in the city, and I’m part of a counterterrorism task force based out of Federal City.” He pointed to the corner. “This is Mr. Burke, a legal representative from the War Department, here on your behalf. Appreciate you coming on such short notice.”
“All good. We’re on the same team.” Jean-Jacques said it as deadpan as possible. Starched shirts and neckties didn’t change that these guys were cops. The lawyer kept his head down, writing into his notepad.
“Can we get you a coffee?”
“I’d take a beer.” Not unreasonable. It was 7 p.m.
The black agent looked at Larsen, shrugged, then left the room. Thirty seconds later, he returned with a bottle of light pilsner.
“Mesi,” Jean-Jacques said, twisting off the cap and taking a drink. “So. The bomber. What you looking to know.”
They’d called that morning, refusing to say why they wanted to speak. Just that they needed to. Good with Special Operations Command? But of course. Where at? They had offices all over the districts of Empire City, name one. (Little Haiti? Eh, name another one.) Would tonight work? Sure, if nothing sooner didn’t.
Jean-Jacques considered the possibilities over the day, zeroing in on army veteran Jonah Gray. Nothing else made sense, even if he didn’t understand what it had to do with him, or why they asked he come by himself. Regardless, the Bureau men’s faces stayed still as stone at Jean-Jacques’s prodding. Good training, he thought.
“You know him? Let’s start there,” the older agent said.
Jean-Jacques shook his head.
“You’ve seen his photograph?”
“Couldn’t miss that caveman stare if I wanted to. It’s everywhere.”
“And you’re sure you’ve never met?”
“Sure we never talked.”
“Some tips we’ve received claim he worked with the Volunteers,” the agent who’d gotten the beer said. He had an accent like Flowers, subtler though, more creamy. Whatever the language—and Jean-Jacques knew four fluently and could converse in a handful more—mountain people sounded mountain and coastal people sounded coast. This guy was coast.
“Which missions.”
“The Abu Abdallah raid, for one.”
“Brother.” Jean-Jacques laughed. “We had about one hundred in auxiliary. Every branch had boots there. Demanded it. SEALs. Force Recon. 82nd. Some ground zoomies. Even those crazy-ass Agency door kickers. Now every vet on the planet can say they was on that island, helping get the bad man. Use it to get laid.”