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She huffs in seeming frustration as she purses her lips. “Fine. But not a word to him.” I hold two fingers in the air with the universal sign of trustworthiness. Unfortunately for her, I was never a Boy Scout, but she doesn’t need to be reminded of that right now. “Ray is mixed up with an illegal underground fighting circuit.”

“Huh?” I tilt my head in complete and utter loss.

“I don’t know all the details, more bits and pieces through my own digging. It’s a gruesome, everything-goes type of fight club. Every time he steps into the makeshift ring, his life is at risk. Blades of any kind are allowed. No gloves, no tape, no padding. Anything goes until one person concedes to defeat or dies. And from my informants, the latter happens often.”

“How does this tell me he’s innocent in all this? Sounds like he has an anger problem and is off his fucking rocker.”

Her thin lips press into a line at my disparaging comment about her son. “They’re everywhere, these circuits. All he has to do is put his name in the pool. And with his record, it wouldn’t surprise me that every time he’s interested, they find a fight for him to enter.”

I stare blankly at the director, needing a bit more than that to piece together whatever web she’s weaving.

“Let me ask you this. After these disappearances, did you notice any signs of injury? A flinch, a bruise, or cuts?” she asks.

I start to shake my head until a flash of memory stops me short. That time in the Oval Office, and a few others he seemed stiff almost like he was sore or healing.

“I’ve never seen him with bruises on his face, anywhere visible,” I muse. Tank paces behind me, no doubt trying to process all this new information on Smith while devising a plan for the next few hours. This isn’t getting us anywhere closer to finding Randi and punishing those responsible.

“That’s because most are unable to land a clean hit. He protects his face before everything else, which leaves other parts of him vulnerable, but from what I’ve gathered, he’s the only undefeated opponent in the circuit.”

There’s no stopping my slack-jawed expression.Well, hell. Now that’s fucking impressive.

“This doesn’t change the fact that I don’t fully trust him, but it does make me question if he’s the one we should be focused on. You say you trust him?” I ask her.

“He has his issues, but yes, I trust him not to betray me or our country.”

“Fine. There is a tip we can follow up on while we wait to hear from Smith,” I state as I shove off the back of the chair. It tips forward before righting itself and slamming back to the floor. “You’ll focus on the beta team and let us know if you find anything suspicious in their backgrounds or whereabouts last night. We’ll circle back when we’re done with this other lead.”

“What’s this lead?” she asks.

“A suggestion from someone we trust.” Tank stalks toward the door. “Let us know immediately if you obtain any new information or leads.” Hand on the door lever, he pauses and shifts to face the director. “I’m not happy that you hid valuable insight from me regarding Agent Smith which put my team in danger.” Her lips part as she readies her defense, but Tank puts his back to her. “We’ll discuss this after the president is found.”

The door hurls open under the force of his yank, slamming against the opposite wall with a loud crack. Bits of drywall sprinkle to the ground from the divot the handle created.

Tank and I stomp down the stairs to follow through on Vlad’s tip about Secretary of State Todd Rosen.

Halfway to the lobby, I realize my earlier doubt and suspicion of Smith has morphed into something resembling respect after the director’s explanation. Respect and excitement. If he was Homeland’s go-to agent for intelligence gathering, there’s a chance he might have some suspicions on who our traitor is.

Now all we have to do is find the bastard.

“We interrogate the secretary of state together,” Tank says as I slide into the passenger seat. He jams a finger against the Start button like it personally offended him.

“Interrogate or question?” I chuckle.

“Question. If anyone outside of this truck asks, that is.”

A ghost of a smile pulls at my lips. “Noted. You know where you’re going?”

He nods and yanks on the wheel, throwing the SUV into the heavy flow of traffic. A weighted silence settles around us as he weaves through the rush hour traffic. If he’s like me, he’s probably lost in his own thoughts, processing what was revealed in that office.

If what she says is true, then Smith truly is the badass fucker some have suspected him to be. I have no qualms with how he goes about managing his anger; it’s his body, his life, his choice. From what little I know, the circuit is all consenting adults. The men—and who knows, maybe a few women—who put their name in the fight selection hat have to understand the rules and risks involved. It’s violent as fuck and not my scene, but we all have to find our own way to process what we’ve done in our job to protect the millions of innocent lives in the US.

Do I judge him for the violence he dispenses to save himself?

Fuck no.

Hell, I might even respect him a little more now.

Not because of the violent way he deals with his anger but the fact that heisdealing with it in some way. The easy way would be to drown your conscience with alcohol and move on to the next soul-darkening operation, letting it all build until you implode. Him choosing another path shows dedication on his part, even if it seems a bit suicidal.