Patriot M.A. Rothman (free ebook reader for iphone .TXT) 📖

offices positioned all around the edges of the room, looking down on the central work area. Through the office windows, Connor could see more people working at computers.

And in the center of the room, four huge display screens, each easily fifty feet across, hung from the ceiling, displaying information, maps, photographs, satellite feeds, and more.

“It’s like something out of a movie,” Connor said.

Thompson stepped around Connor, smiling. “Yeah, I had the same reaction the first time I saw the place. It’s a little overwhelming at first, but you get used to it.”

“Hold on,” Connor said. “What’s the deal with the big eye painted on the ceiling with the Latin?”

Thompson looked up. “Oh, that’s the Eye of Providence. When our little organization was created, this was the logo the founders felt embodied who and what we are. Novus Ordo Seclorum means ‘New Order of the Ages,’ and Annuit Coeptis means ‘providence favors our undertaking.’” He grinned. “You should recognize it. Our logo eventually was used for the Great Seal of our good ole US of A. You’ll see it everywhere in DC if you pay attention. It’s even on our dollar bills.”

Thompson started for the stairs leading to the floor below.

“Wait,” Connor said, grabbing his arm. “Level with me, please. What is this place? Who are you people?”

“We are the Agents of the Revolution,” Thompson said. “Don’t laugh. Nobody calls it that anymore. Nowadays, we just call ourselves ‘the Outfit.’”

“And what the hell do Agents of the Revolution do?”

“Simple,” Richards said. “Everything everyone else can’t.”

“The Outfit was formed during the Revolutionary War,” Thompson explained. “Hence the name. It started with a group of British officers that weren’t, strictly speaking, loyal to the Crown, along with the members of the original Continental Congress. They saw the need for an organization that could do what they needed to do, but couldn’t just come out and do.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. “Like?”

“Like assassinate the king of England.”

“I’m pretty sure the king of England was never assassinated,” Connor said.

Thompson nodded. “Correct. The war ended before they got into position to pull it off. But it was in the works. At the time, it was believed that King George the Third was mentally ill. His son, George the Fourth, was old enough to take the throne, and he was a much gentler soul—a regular patron of the arts. Washington himself signed off on the operation. And that was just the beginning. After we’d won the war, the founding fathers knew they’d need to retain some backdoor abilities to effect these kinds of operations without involving Congress. They’d seen how much arguing went on about even the simplest issues, and they realized that if they ever needed to act quickly, they’d need to be able to get around that bureaucratic nonsense.”

“So even back then, they wanted to get around red tape.”

“Exactly,” Thompson said. “You’ve seen it. You’ve experienced it your entire career. The founders of the Outfit were true patriots. They wanted the best for everyone involved, but often the best is the enemy of the good. And often the good is bogged down by the weight of governing. We needed a way to act for the betterment of all.”

“But this is DC. Everyone wants their hands in everything—they all want their say in decisions. You’re saying the Outfit can skip all that?”

Richards, who’d been leading them around the outside of the cubicles, turned and smiled. “Pretty much. Our number one mandate is: if it’s actionable, we act. It’s as simple as that. We don’t need to build an airtight case for court, and we don’t need to convince politicians somewhere on some golf course that a particular target needs taking out. We just do.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, but that sounds a bit like an anarchist’s wet dream,” Connor said. “What about when one of your people goes on a power trip? Or is just a sadistic bastard?”

Thompson shook his head. “We’ve never had that kind of issue because we’re very particular about who we let in the fold. We know more about the people who step into our inner sanctum than their parents do. The only reason you’re here is because we’re convinced you’d be an asset—that you truly want to do the right thing by your country and its citizens. Our organization is mostly made of up former intel and military operators from both sides of the pond. Luckily for us, you’re both.”

“Wait.” Connor slowed. “Across the pond? The British?”

“Did you miss the whole part about us partnering with them to kill the king? The Outfit’s access to data is unmatched worldwide. There are no barriers, either domestic or international, that we can’t get around.”

“Where do you get the money for all this?”

“The founders were all men of some wealth, and they contributed a portion of their estates to the cause. Millions of dollars in 1770s money.”

“Holy crap,” Connor said. “That’s got to be billions of dollars now.”

Thompson shrugged. “Let’s just say that funding isn’t an issue, and we have absolutely no connection to the federal budget of either country.”

Richards stopped halfway down the row of cubicles and motioned to the display screens hanging from the ceiling. “We have major operations running right now in Berlin, Moscow, Turkey, Iraq, China, you name it. Anywhere a threat to the stability of the world pops up, we go and shut it down.”

“So you’re assassins?”

Thompson winced. “Eh, no, not really. We try to avoid that whenever possible. Sometimes, though…”

“We do what we have to do,” Richards said. “Everything’s black bag, strictly off the books, no records, no intelligence subcommittee meetings, nothing. We take orders directly from the Executive. And by Executive, I mean the President.”

“Nothing’s that secret,” Connor said.

“We are,” Richards said, his face devoid of humor.

“Think about it,” Thompson said. “Have you ever heard of us? Ever heard of anything like this? Other than in a James Bond movie?”

Connor hesitated, then chuckled. He couldn’t picture these men jumping out of airplanes or driving fast