Читать книгу Outcast - Joan Johnston - Страница 15

“Damn it, Benedict! Did you have to shoot at the kid?” Tony Pellicano, the special agent in charge of the D.C. ICE office, gripped the top of the swivel chair behind his cluttered desk with white-knuckled hands and glared at Ben. “That was the mayor on the phone. He’s not happy. I had to explain to him why one of my agents was firing bullets at a fourteen-year-old. What were you thinking?”

Ben stared at his boss with disbelief. “I watched that kid cut another kid’s throat. And I shot once—over his head. Sir.”

Ben’s boss smacked his black leather chair as though it was the back of Ben’s head, then stalked back and forth behind his desk, waving his hands and ranting. Ben followed his tall, rail-thin boss’s constant, agitated movement with his eyes, while his hands gripped the arms of the maroon leather studded chair in which he sat.

“This isn’t a war zone,” Tony ranted. “We don’t shoot first and ask questions later.”

Ben felt his heart thudding in his chest, licked at the sweat beaded above his lip, and said, “You don’t have to tell me this isn’t—”

“You returning vets have the wrong—”

Ben came out of his chair as though he’d been catapulted from it. “The last thing on earth I want to do is kill some kid. I shot over his head to slow him down. I wanted to catch a killer. What’s wrong with that?”

Tony stared at him stony-faced and said, “I want you to see a doctor, a psychiatrist who specializes in cases like this.”

Ben stood stunned. “What?” If Tony only knew how hard it had been for him to fire his weapon at all, he would realize Ben wasn’t going to be a threat to the peace and harmony of D.C. streets. “There’s nothing wrong with me, sir,” Ben managed to say.

“You shoot, you talk. Those are my rules,” Tony said implacably.

“I’m not talking to any shrink.”

“Then pass me your credentials and your weapon,” Tony said, holding out his hand. “Your choice.”

Ben’s stomach rolled. He swallowed down bile. If there was one thing he didn’t want to do, it was talk to some doctor about killing kids. Especially after what had happened in Afghanistan. But his boss wasn’t giving him any choice. He lowered his gaze and said, “Who do I have to see?”

“We’ve 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.”