Chapter 7
(Washington, D.C., Thursday, September 25, 2013)
FBI AGENT STAN WARREN opened the door to the conference room warily. Odd how his gut reacted to closed doors within the FBI building almost the same way it would when he was going out on a bust. Gun at ready might be too much here, but it would probably make him feel better, he thought.
Stan Warren looked like the FBI agent he was proud to be. Tall and fit, he wore a dark suit and white shirt that stood out against his black skin. At 47, he was a respected agent. And last year’s role in taking down a corrupt NSA nominee hadn’t hurt, he thought. So why did he still feel the enemy lurked in conference rooms?
“Agent Warren, come in, sit down,” said the man at the head of the table.
Stan Warren took the empty chair at the table. F
