Terminal Rage by A.M. Khalifa Read Free Book Online Page B

younger agent called Liam Nishimura, Monica Vlasic ’ s second-in-command, had toured him around the setup. Multiple adjacent rooms had been transformed into a living organism to serve as the operation ’ s critical communication and intelligence hub.
    The negotiating station they had set up for him consisted of a space-age Embody chair facing a large oak table. And strung on the wall in front of him at eye level, a series of razor-thin monitors played live streams from the key sites. Such as the rooftop of the target building, where the Hostage Rescue Team ’ s blue squad, flown in from Quantico, was positioned. And the windows of the Exertify conference room on the thirty-ninth floor of the old Pan Am building where the hostages were held.
    On his ample work surface, a Nespresso coffee machine and a micro chiller stocked with Red Bulls, foretold the grueling, sleepless hours ahead.
    A wireless headset made by a small German company called Clupster had also been prepared for him. He didn ’ t trust any other brand. The last time he ’ d used one of these was four years ago—not to speak to a hostage-taker, but to counsel traumatized victims. Three teenage girls holed up inside their house in Hermosa Beach in Southern California. Their attacker had rigged their bodies with sophisticated bombs and fled the scene.
    Blackwell knew he had to snap out of it quick. There was no possible benefit descending into a vicious cycle of guilt-ridden memories. These kinds of thoughts only led to the darkest places.
    He turned his attention to the framed photo of Milo and Calista they ’ d placed on the desk. It was a tradition Blackwell had started when Milo was born, and someone at the Rapid Deployment Logistics Unit — the entity responsible for managing the practical and technical activities necessary to set up an FBI command center — had remembered. This photo was about five years old, and they ’ d taken the liberty to crop his ex-wife Melanie out of it.
    After he left to Anguilla, Melanie hadn ’ t wasted any time filing for divorce. Their shaky marriage had begun to unravel well before his meltdown. Knowing he was in no position to look after them, Blackwell had surrendered custody of Milo and Calista and left Maryland to disappear in the Caribbean. Toxic is what he felt like. And he needed to get as far away as possible from his kids, for their own good.
    For his first two years in hiding, Blackwell was a silent hermit roaming every inch of the island on foot. A curious sight, even for the easygoing and tolerant locals. With his Labrador Jacky by his side, he tried to make sense of it all to find a reason to keep going.
    In the end, it was what had pushed him away in the first place that kept him alive. His children. The thought of how Milo and Calista would turn out without a father pulled him from the abyss and gave him a new purpose in life—to get well enough to be their father again.
    Launching the charter business was a gentle way for Blackwell to interact with people he ’ d never see again or be tied to emotionally. And it seemed to have worked. Coming out of his shell was transformational. Six months after he started the island-hopping cruises, he felt stable enough to see his kids again.
    When he first reached out to Melanie, she turned him down. He had to be dreaming after what he ’ d done to them. From where she saw it, he ’ d been a selfish, self-absorbed bastard who ’ d put his own state of mind ahead of his children ’ s well-being.
    But in the end it wasn ’ t Blackwell ’ s pleading that convinced her. Milo ’ s violent tantrums and Calista ’ s ever-increasing phobias had become unbearable. A therapist told her what she ’ d probably known all along. The kids had never come to terms with Blackwell ’ s departure and needed a father.
    She came around and allowed Blackwell to see them in Bethesda. These early encounters were painful for everyone but had recently started to improve. The road