When the Wind Blows by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

wound up working for Peter. And last week, Peter had threatened to can him if
     he didn’t make his job priorities the same as the ones the Bureau had for him. And Peter had put the warning
on paper.
    Even before the official threat there had been signs. He’d been passed over for promotion after the accident in ’94—though
     God only knows if that was the reason. More likely, it was his stubbornness and insubordination that had stalled out his career
     in the FBI. Also, his obsessiveness with cases that fascinated or scared the living shit out of him. Like this case that had
     brought him out to Colorado. He could see potential leads, looming problems, possible solutions where others didn’t.
    He had always been an “unusual” FBI agent. Hell, that was why they
said
they had recruited him out of NYU Law. During his interviews he’d been told that the Bureau wanted him
because
they were too straitlaced and traditional, and therefore too predictable. He was supposed to represent a new, evolved kind
     of agent. And he sure had! For a while, anyway.
    They had sold hard on the idea of breaking out of the envelope, working outside the box; but once he was inside the organization,
     he discovered that the FBI really didn’t want to change very much. Actually, the Bureau had tried to change him. And when
     he wouldn’t budge, they resented the hell out of it. One of his superiors said, “We didn’t join you, Tom. You joined us. So
     why don’t you cut the prima donna horseshit and get with the program like the rest of us?”
    Because he was different. He was
supposed
to be different. That was the deal—and a deal was a deal.
    Except that the Bureau wasn’t keeping their end.
    They resented the corduroy sports jackets, unlogoed ball caps, the jeans, the dock shoes he insisted on wearing to work, and
     not just on Fridays. And that he read “serious” novels like
Underworld
and
Mason & Dixon
and anything Toni Morrison wrote. And that some days he rode his Cannondale racing bike to and from the office in Boston.
    They were bugged by his longish hair and his every-other-day shaving habits and his slight swagger, which didn’t represent
     cockiness, just the fact that he liked to walk around with music playing in his head.
    Most of all, though, the Bureau was incensed by his casual approach to discipline. Right from the start, he was called a loose
     cannon.
    Worse, he probably
was
a loose cannon. He’d been one as a gritty middleweight in the Boston Golden Gloves, and as an outspoken, and pretty unconventional
     undergraduate at Holy Cross, and even at NYU Law. Hell, he was a bus driver’s son, one of five sons. He had no business being
     at NYU Law, or maybe even at Cross. Why shouldn’t he speak his mind?
    He’d gotten away with it in school, but not at the Federal Bureau. No loose cannons were permitted in the FBI. Not even ones
     who had solved at least two “unsolvable” murder cases during the past five years.
    Awhh, stop the horseshit, he finally told himself. He was in trouble because he’d been pursuing the “human experiments” case
     for the past year and a half. Against orders. He had repeatedly disobeyed orders that went high up the chain of command. He
     was
still
disobeying orders, and much worse than that.
    “This is Tom Brennan for Agent Stricker,” he said when Stricker’s overly pleasant, overly efficient assistant came on the
     line. “How are you, Cindy? Is Peter there for me?”
    “Oh, it’s so nice to hear from you, Tom. One moment please.” Cindy was overly polite as ever. “I have to check and see if
     he’s at his desk. Be right back to you.”
    Surprisingly, Stricker picked up immediately. He spoke in a whisper—
always.
Made you pay attention. The trademark Stricker sibilance.
    “Tom Terrific. How is paradise? How is Nantucket? You’re supposed to be sailing, riding the surf. Hanging out at the beach.
     Get the hell off the telephone.”
    “I’m calling from the