Chapter 4
After only a three-hour debrief (six times the length of the actual operation from attack to bug out), they’d finally let her shower and sleep. Clean, in borrowed Navy camos and t-shirt, and well fed, she felt only slightly more human than crawling off the helicopter after nearly forty-eight hours awake.
Fred Smith—the CIA guy who insisted that was his real name so many times that Sofia would have believed him if he wasn’t CIA—sat at the head of the steel conference table dressed in khakis and a plain white dress shirt.
“We’ve already done all of the Agent Smith-The Matrix jokes,” Duane had told her right in front of Smith. “You think up any new ones, bring them on.”
“I’ve heard them all,” though Smith looked cheerfully resigned to it despite his complaint.
“Doesn’t mean we
