FBI

“What about Major Mun?” I asked. “What if she’s not a bad guy but more like Burke? Under coercion?”

“We already thought of that,” said Church. “A team has been sent to take her family into protective custody.” I turned to Wilson.

“How about Burke? He said he was afraid for his family. If they were intimidated, they might have seen Eve or the guy.” Wilson nodded.

“Actually, an FBI hostage rescue team is heading there right now.”

...

The house was a white two-story with an attached garage. The siding looked old, but it was clean, and the live oak on the front lawn was tall and sturdy. There was a tire swing swaying in the breeze and a couple of bicycles on their sides in the driveway. Grackles chattered in the trees and the sky above was clear.

A white Ford Edge rolled along the street, reached the end of the cul-de-sac, turned and drove out again. Beyond that everything was still.

Until it wasn’t.

The quiet of Leacroft Court was suddenly shattered by the roar of engines and then the sharp squeal of tires on asphalt as six vehicles rushed toward the white house. They screeched to a stop, doors opened, men and women in body armor, ballistic helmets, and assault weapons swarmed the house. The letters FBI were stenciled on chests and backs.

“Go, go, go,” yelled a stern-faced woman in her mid-forties. Special Agent in Charge Connie Malgar ran toward the front door, her Glock in her hands, as other agents surrounded the house. They did not wait to announce their presence. The orders were to go in hard and fast and secure the entire Burke family.

Burly agents with breaching tools smashed in the front and back doors; another pair of agents with long crowbars forced the garage door open. More than two dozen agents rushed inside, all of them now yelling. So much yelling.

And then none at all.

Malgar had gotten as far as the end of the entrance hall and then stopped. Still as a statue. Dead still.

Because dead was the defining word.

She stood there, her gun pointing down at the floor. Eyes wide. Mouth slack.

Everywhere she looked she saw red. She saw horror.

She was so dazed and horrified that she almost did not notice the tiny sting on the back of her hand. Someone made a gagging sound and she turned to see one of the younger agents turn away, a hand to his mouth. He lumbered toward the door.

“No,” said Malgar.

She thought she said it quietly, but like a muffled echo her word came back to her so much louder. Bigger. Raw and filled with emotion.

“Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry.” The younger agent turned in shock and surprise, because those words had been shouted, too.

Special Agent in Charge Connie Malgar shot him in the face.

...

We stood there in the ORB, watching a horror movie.

Except it was in real time and in the real world.

The feeds from the FBI bodycams were projected in high definition and vivid color onto a screen. Standing in a home filled with some of the most appalling horrors I’d ever seen—a family cut to pieces and hung like decorations for some insane holiday—a dozen agents were slaughtering each other. With guns and fists. With teeth.

The SAC, Connie Malgar—a woman I’d worked with in the past—stood in the middle of the room shooting anything that moved. Her mouth was moving but her words were drowned out by the gunfire and screams. I could read her lips.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” That’s what she kept saying.

As she murdered her colleagues and friends.

It was what she was saying just as a bullet took her in the forehead.

Malgar went down like a broken toy and lay amid the carnage she had helped to create.

No one said anything. No one asked a stupid question like “Why?”

We all knew.

It was Rage.

That was how Santoro kept control. It was the surest punishment for any of his victims of coercion who broke faith. It was how he cleaned up. No risk to any of his people.

-Rage pg. 360-362, Kindle Edition.