49
“This is new, Clarissa,” CIA Director Clark Winston grinned down at her.
“Go to hell, Clark.” The US Army 75th Rangers had been kind, courteous, and handled her with steel-strong hands as if she was a Taliban terrorist.
A pair of utterly imposing Rangers fully dressed in battle gear had marched her into the CIA lobby with her wrists zip-tied together—perhaps she shouldn’t have tried to scratch out the master sergeant’s eyes. They refused to release her without a hand-written receipt from the director.
He wasn’t laughing anymore, “Who do I make the receipt out to?”
“I’ve been instructed to request the receipt be made to the name of General Fitzgerald Patrick,” the sergeant stated.
“Fitz?” Clark sounded surprised.
“That’s what I was told to ask for, sir,” that perfectly polite Rang
