With a Pull of a Trigger

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Avaritia et Ambrosia

Greg looked over at the photos with unseeing eyes, his breathing uneven, and his jaw slacked, like he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen said photos before. Suddenly, the room was much colder than what he had known it to be, and the seemingly sudden drop in temperature made goosebumps rise on his arms, even while he was wearing his suit jacket.

Hundreds of photos were in the folder, some from when the bomb was still exploding, some from after the crime had been committed, and all that remained was a big, bloody mess. Smoke was everywhere, and even though Greg hadn’t been there that day, it was as if he could smell the suffocating odor of smoke going into his nostrils, prohibiting him from breathing deeply.

Photos of the actual explosion happening were obviously taken from the nearest security camera, and the photos after were a mix of ones from the security camera and from the forensic scientists who had been on the scene. Blood was splattered all over the pavement, and the car was nothing but a black mess, a past-tense of what it used to be.

Photos of the crowd looking at the crime scene were in that folder as well, and Greg found himself looking through all of them, trying to memorize faces, and trying to match them to the list of names the forensic scientists had sent them.

After minutes filled with heavy breathing and trying to suck cold air into his lungs, Greg slammed his laptop close, closed his eyes, and buried his face in his hands. Angry tears welled up in his eyes, and he rubbed furiously on his eyelids, trying to chase away the desire to just fall apart, seated at that desk.

He was so sick and tired of the cat and mouse game, so sick of having to chase if he didn’t want to be the one chased, and so tired of the fact that in this situation, there was nothing he could do to be the chaser.

Behind closed eyelids, vivid images of blood on the pavements, of smoking cars covered entirely in soot, of explosions happening on a work day played themselves like a bloody horror slideshow.

A sigh.

It seemed that even while working within law enforcement, trying to preserve justice, they couldn’t get justice themselves.

A woman walked with her head held high, wearing a blood red blouse beneath a black form-fitting suit jacket and a matte black a-line skirt. A pair of gorgeous red five inch pumps adorned her feet, and her hair was fixed into a neat ponytail. The CIA logo was underneath her feet, quick, easy strides bringing her to the kind receptionist near the glass doors.

“May I help you?”

The woman smiled. “I heard about how the CIA accepts interns, and I am interested in the position.”

The kind receptionist looked at her up and down and frowned, tilting her head to the side. “What age are you, madam?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Normally, we only accept interns aged 18-20, so we can train them a bit earlier. However, don’t lose hope. I’ll just ask my superiors if they’re willing to take you in, and if they are, then the rest should be a bit easier.”

Catherine smiled. “Thank you.”

The receptionist smiled at her before picking up a phone and dialing a number. “Hello? Mister Hamilton? We have an applicant for the internship, but she’s aged twenty-two. Are you still willing to take her in?”

Catherine stood there with her heart hammering in her chest, waiting for the answer she hoped would come.

“Of course,” the receptionist finally said, and then the phone was back in its cradle, and the receptionist was looking at Catherine with a nice smile. “He’s open to giving you a try. I’ll give you papers to fill up, and we’ll look into scheduling a meeting between you two. If you please just give me your number, I’ll call you when Mister Hamilton is free.”