Free Brute Force by Marc Cameron

division to become the lead officer on the Fable detail, the code name given to Virginia Ross, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Some said he’d peaked early at only thirty-seven, but he’d been at the top of his game, doing what he loved for someone he genuinely admired. And then the director had been arrested on trumped-up charges by members of the Internal Defense Task Force—the administration’s newly formed goon squad.
    From the moment Knight had watched his boss—a woman he regarded as he would a favorite aunt—carted off like some sort of axe murderer, he’d heard nothing but rumors. She’d been taken to an undisclosed black site, he figured that, but he could find nothing concrete about what had happened to her. Some self-proclaimed “patriot” sites on the Internet said she’d been rescued after enduring terrible torture at the hands of the IDTF. According to them, she was now in hiding. If she was, she was doing it right, cutting off all contact with anyone in her former life. Knight hoped that was the case. Other sites reported that she was still locked away somewhere or even dead. He’d sworn to protect her with his life—and she had vanished under his watch. If half the stories floating around about the IDTF were true, she was as good as dead.
    Every day another politician, reporter, or military officer who opposed the new administration in even the most trivial matters found themselves harassed or taken into custody by the Task Force. The assassinations of both the President and Vice President on the heels of so many recent terrorist attacks had many in the country swallowing whatever the government told them if they thought it might offer them a shred more safety.
    Seething inside, Knight kept quiet and unnoticed in an agency that already prided itself on anonymity. He kept up the pretense of nose-to-the-grindstone devotion in his work and then assaulted his liver each night sharing drinks with acquaintances from every alphabet-soup agency he could think of. He kept the conversations light, noting every word but refusing to join in even the most innocuous criticisms of the present administration. After each meeting, he’d return to his apartment and write a detailed description of any new intelligence he’d gained. He spent hours on the Internet, browsing through a proxy server to find any trends that might shed more light on what was going on in the country. He was single, so no one was around to chide him for living on seven Red Bulls and two hours of sleep a day—or to witness his death spiral.
    A law-and-order man to the core, it took Knight very little time at all to realize Vice President McKeon was the man behind the curtain—but two full weeks to get his head wrapped around the fact that someone had to kill him. It wasn’t much of a leap for the protective agent to realize that he was one of the handful of people who had the access, opportunity, and skill set to get that job done. Once he’d made the decision to go ahead, implementation was fairly straightforward.
    Knight parked off G Street in a lot next to the World Bank building, passing through security first at the OEOB—the Old Executive Office Building—where the Vice President had ceremonial offices and staff. Knight knew McKeon would not be there. President Drake was a buffoon who couldn’t keep his pants zipped. Someone had to run the country and it was common knowledge that that someone was the crazy-eyed Skeletor Vice President.
    Knight put on a fake smile as he swiped his White House Visitor ID badge. He said hello to the uniformed Secret Service officer at the entry point, a young redhead named Miller.
    “You got a detail coming in?” the officer asked, reviewing his clipboard. The beautiful thing about being with CIA protective division was that people rarely questioned specifics, assuming most everything Knight did was above their clearance level.
    “No,” Knight said. “It’s just me.” He