LITMIR.BIZ

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got a psych trauma team on the payroll,” Tony said.

      “I’ll make an appointment.”

      “I had them called when I heard you’d fired your weapon. They sent over a therapist—Dr. Schuster. She’s waiting for you in the conference room.”

      “Waverly’s wedding rehearsal is tonight, and I have paperwork to finish. I don’t have time—”

      “You don’t leave this office until you talk with a doctor. That’s an order.”

      “Fine,” Ben said between tight jaws. “Are we done here?”

      Tony sighed. “Until today, I’ve been happy with the way you’ve been doing your job, Ben. The gang kids like you. You write great reports. You can type. Even better, you can spell. You’re responsible. You’re respectful. You’re reliable. I just can’t have a gunslinger working for me.”

      “I’m not a—”

      “Go see Dr. Schuster,” Tony interrupted brusquely. “Do it now.”

      9

      Dr. Annagreit Schuster recognized the ICE agent standing in the doorway. He’d yelled at her yesterday morning at the vet’s office. He’d ignored her at the urgent care clinic. He’d fallen apart in her arms last night, then walked out of her apartment leaving her unsatisfied.

      She noted the wary look in his cold blue eyes as he leaned against the doorway to the conference room. She saw the tension in his bunched shoulders and the anger in his tight jaws and balled fists. She looked for a bandage on his left forearm, but he was wearing a long-sleeved Georgetown University T-shirt that covered it.

      He spoke without saying a word: I don’t want to be here. There’s nothing you can say or do to help me. I’m fine.

      “Have a seat, Agent Benedict,” Anna said, gesturing to one of the comfortable swivel chairs across from her at the center of the oval-shaped, highly polished conference table.

      Anna had read in Ben’s personnel file that his job was to make friends of the kids in local gangs, in conjunction with similar MPD efforts, in order to direct them away from unlawful activities. He was also tasked with locating and arresting gang members with a possible terrorist agenda—and, of course, deporting illegal aliens who infiltrated the gangs.

      It was work with an indisputable humanitarian goal. And numerous possibilities for violence.

      “How long is this going to take?” he demanded from the doorway.

      “As long as it takes,” she replied in an even voice. As with all Federal government clients involved in a shooting, she needed to evaluate how the subject was coping with the traumatic incident and to make a judgment whether he needed immediate or follow-up counseling. Sometimes that took five minutes, sometimes it took much longer.

      Anna had firsthand information about this man that didn’t come out of his file. She’d seen what she believed was evidence of post-traumatic stress last night. But she wasn’t sure she could—or should—use that information against him in this evaluation.

      For the first time since he’d left her townhome, Anna was glad their encounter had ended so abruptly. If their relationship had become physical, she could not ethically have treated him. Perhaps it was shaving hairs to say she was emotionally uninvolved, but she very much wanted to help this man.

      Anna didn’t repeat her request for Benedict to sit. She waited, letting him approach on his own. She shouldn’t have been surprised by his caution, considering what she’d learned about Benjamin Preston Benedict from the personnel file she’d been presented with when she’d arrived at the ICE office a half hour ago.

      She’d taken one look at Ben Benedict’s picture and actually felt a little thrill at the thought of seeing him again. Which she’d immediately quelled. If she wanted to treat Agent Benedict, their relationship had to remain professional.

      According to his file, Ben Benedict was a former army major, the veteran of several military campaigns. He’d been trained as a sniper, and he’d employed those skills in Afghanistan and Iraq. He’d apparently been a good soldier. Heroic, in fact. He’d been decorated for his valor with the Distinguished Service Cross, two silver stars and a Purple Heart.

      She had her own evidence of his good character. Not many men would have tried to approach an injured rottweiler, let alone succeed in rescuing it. He was obviously a man who’d learned how to survive in life-threatening situations. Part of which was reconnoitering the terrain before venturing into hazardous territory.

      Anna observed Ben Benedict, looking for signs of trauma. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and his darkly stubbled jawline made his cheekbones even more prominent. She’d known he was tall. His record said he was 6’3”. The sweatshirt emphasized his broad shoulders but hid his impressive biceps.

      His body was coiled, like a cornered animal facing a threatening foe. But after that first, revealingly apprehensive glance, his blue eyes had become shuttered. As the door slid silently closed behind him, Agent Benedict snagged a chair directly across from her and slumped into it. “You don’t look like a doctor.”

      “No?”

      “You look like a model.”

      Anna managed not to sigh with frustration. She had, in fact, modeled as a young woman. And yes, she was blond and blue-eyed, long-legged, and reputed to be beautiful, if the European magazine covers she’d graced as a teen were any measure. But at twenty-nine, she’d long since put all that behind her.

      When she’d first started her practice, she’d briefly explained her modeling past to each inquiring patient. She’d also revealed, to those who’d asked, the nature of the life-altering event that had taken her from modeling to trauma therapy.

      But Anna had since learned not to reveal even that much about herself to patients. So she merely said, “Tell me about the shooting.”

      “I already told my boss. I didn’t shoot at the kid. I shot over his head.”

      “Why was that?”

      “What?”

      “Why didn’t you shoot him?” Anna watched the frown of confusion form on Agent Benedict’s very attractive face.

      “Why didn’t I kill him, you mean?”

      Anna heard the edge of rancor in his voice and said, “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

      “I’m not a killer.”

      “But you wanted to kill him.” She made it a statement, to see if he would deny it.

      To her surprise he said, “Hell, yes! I watched him kill a kid I’ve spent the past five months getting to know and like. I wanted to murder the sonofabitch.”

      “Then why didn’t you?”

      He huffed out a breath and leaned his broad shoulders across the conference table, moving aggressively into her space. “Look, Miss—whatever your name is—I was a soldier. I’ve killed men. And women. And—” He cut himself off. “I’ve killed enough people that I’ve lost count of—Haven’t wanted to count them,” he corrected. “I’ve killed often enough to know what it means to end a life. I don’t take that power lightly.

      “So I didn’t kill the bastard. I caught him, and he’ll spend a few years in juvie and be out on the streets to kill again someday.”

      “You sound angry.”

      He lurched to his feet. “You’re damned right, I’m angry! This is bullshit. Are we done?”

      “Yes, we’re done.”

      He shot her the same wary look she’d seen on his face in the doorway. “What happens now?”

      “I’ll make my report to your boss.”

      He perched

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