Read Jack Ryan 12 - The Teeth of the Tiger for Free Online Page B

the only thing the jury sees are the pictures, and maybe not even them if the defense counsel can persuade the judge that they're overly inflammatory. So, you know what happened? I got to be the law. Not to enforce the law, or write the law, or explain the law. That one day, twenty-two years ago, I got to be the law. God's Own Avenging Sword. And you know, it felt good.”
    “How did you know . . . ?”
    “How did I know for sure that he was our boy? He kept souvenirs. Heads. There were eight of them there in his house trailer. So, no, there wasn't any doubt at all in my mind. There was a knife nearby, and I told him to pick it up, and he did, and I put four rounds in his chest from a range of ten feet, and I've never had a moment's regret.” Werner paused. “Not many people know that story. Not even my wife. So, don't tell me you tripped over a table, drew your Smith, and printed three rounds inside the subject's ventricle standing on one foot, okay?”
    “Yes, sir.” Caruso responded ambiguously. “Mr. Werner—”
    “Name's Gus,” the Assistant Director corrected.
    “Sir,” Caruso persisted. Senior people who used first names tended to make him nervous. “Sir, were I to say something like that, I'd be confessing to the next thing to murder, in an official government document. He did pick up that knife, he was getting up to face me, he was just ten or twelve feet away, and at
    
    
     Quantico
    
    
     they taught us to regard that as an immediate and lethal threat. So, yes, I took the shot, and it was righteous, in accordance with FBI policy on the use of lethal force.”
    Werner nodded. “You have your law degree, don't you?”
    “Yes, sir. I'm admitted to the bar in Virginia and D.C. both. I haven't taken the
    
    
     Alabama
    
    
     bar exam yet.”
    “Well, stop being a lawyer for a minute,” Werner advised. “This was a righteous shooting. I still have the revolver I whacked that bastard with. Smith Model 66 four-inch. I even wear it to work sometimes. Dominic, you got to do what every agent would like to do just once in his career. You got to deliver justice all by yourself. Don't feel bad about it.”
    “I don't, sir,” Caruso assured him. “That little girl, Penelope—I couldn't save her, but at least that bastard won't ever do it again.” He looked Werner right in the eye. “You know what it feels like.”
    “Yeah.” He looked closely at Caruso. “And you're sure you have no regrets?”
    “I caught an hour's nap on the flight up, sir.” He delivered the statement without a visible smile.
    But it generated one on Werner's face. He nodded. “Well, you'll be getting an official attaboy from the office of the Director. No OPR.”
    OPR was the FBI's own “Internal Affairs” office, and while respected by rank-and-file FBI agents, was not beloved of them. There was a saying, “If he tortures small animals and wets his bed, he's either a serial killer or he works for the Office of Professional Responsibility.” Werner lifted Caruso's folder. “Says here you're pretty smart . . . good language skills, too . . . Interested in coming to
    
    
     Washington
    
    
    ? I'm looking for people who know how to think on their feet, to work in my shop.”
    Another move,
    
    was what Special Agent Dominic Caruso heard.
     
     
    GERRY HENDLEY
    
    
    
    was not an overly formal man. He wore jacket and tie to work, but the jacket ended up on a clothes tree in his office within fifteen seconds of arrival. He had a fine executive secretary—like himself, a native of
    
    
     South Carolina
    
    
    —named Helen Connolly, and after running through his day's schedule with her, he picked up his Wall Street Journal and checked the front page. He'd already devoured the day's New York Times and Washington Post to get his political fix for the day, grumbling as always how they never quite got it right. The digital clock on his desk told him that he had twenty minutes before his first meeting, and he lit up his computer to