The Asset Read Free Page A

himself into some semblance of a normal life. Richard’s death killed that for good. Work became the false idol he worshipped nearly every waking moment. It was the only thing that made him feel safe from the constant betrayals of people and the outside world. He stopped calling friends and broke off a six-month relationship with a young woman he’d met and fallen for at Lockheed. It was impossible for him to imagine connecting with anyonebeyond the superficialities of the job. For Kennedy, it all came down to a choice. He could allow his pain to swallow him up into the same dark mire he’d been in with Belle—and run the risk of suffocating to death—or harden his heart and channel his rage into his work. He never looked back. Now, at age thirty-­three, he was making a very high six-figure salary, consulting with every major airport in the United States and many in Europe and Asia, and living in the hermetically sealed, disposable world of the frequent flier.
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    â€œGood morning,” he said to Lizzy, the young Starbucks barista who knew him by name and his order by heart.
    Despite the line of caffeine junkies snaking all the way around the kiosk, she waved him over to the pickup counter to get the latte that was already waiting for him.
    â€œDamn, you look tired,” she said.
    â€œYou forgot old.”
    â€œShut up”—she laughed—“or I’ll call out your embarrassing order in front of all these people.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t dare.”
    â€œDouble tall coconut half caff cinnamon dolce latte, extra whip!”
    Teenage girls pointed and laughed.
    â€œThanks, Lizzy, you’re a mensch,” he said, handing her a twenty.
    â€œAnytime,” she said. “But when are you going to really show your gratitude and take me out on the town?”
    â€œWhen I’m not old enough to be your . . . cool uncle,” Kennedy said.
    â€œEleven years is not that far apart.”
    â€œMaybe not in Utah.”
    She laughed again, and Kennedy was eager to change the subject.
    â€œSeen any of my sworn enemies?”
    â€œYou mean like that massive toolshed from Homeland Security?”
    â€œThat’s Mr. Massive Toolshed to you, young lady.”
    â€œHaven’t seen him. And my boss isn’t here either, so you can kiss me now.”
    â€œMaybe I should go to Peet’s,” he said, blowing her a kiss as he walked away.
    â€œI better not catch you cheating on me!” she yelled across the concourse.
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    As he walked to the TSA office, dreading another training session full of recently unemployed 7-Eleven clerks, his mood took a nosedive. In the past few months, he had begun to hate his job, something he had never dreamed possible. His career had always given him purpose where he had none, and it was one of the few things in his life he genuinely felt proud of. That was back when he thought he could make a difference. But that buoyant illusion sank like a stone when he saw the recent TSA “progress” reports all over the national news saying the agency was failing on an epic scale.
    As much as he wanted to nail himself to the cross, he knew the situation was completely beyond his control. Equipment suppliers who skipped testing and oversight because they had half The Hill in their back pockets, bureaucratic interference, and an overworked, underpaid officer workforce that was never given enough time to train and mentor in real-world situations—these were enough to destroy the TSA long before Kennedy arrived on the scene. Put simply, Washington and its parasitic fauna sucked the life out of a program that, in the beginning, had great promise and was formed for all the right reasons.
    The end result for Kennedy was a monkey on his back telling him that his life’s work was a complete waste of time and taxpayer money. His passion for traveler safety had increased over the years, but his sense of purpose was