The Strategist Read Free Page A

anyone she actually knew. She wondered when she would ever feel it again.
    There was a rumble beneath the plane, followed by the pull of air brakes. The landing gear had been deployed. After a sharp turn to the right, the gray cityscape came into view. She could see the grids that outlined the city; the roads filled with tiny moving dots that were getting larger by the second. People were busy going about their everyday lives, none of them aware of her arrival. Camille may have hit the pause button on her life, but the rest of the world kept right on going, and would continue to do so whether she wanted to join in or not.
    The plane touched down with a gentle thump and slowed to a crawl as it approached the gate.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, let me be the first to welcome you to beautiful Denver, Colorado,” the captain’s voice offered. “The time is 9:06, mountain standard time. I’m happy to say that we’ve arrived a few minutes ahead of schedule, so there’s no need to make a mad dash for the exits. In other words, please keep your seatbelts fastened until the aircraft comes to a complete stop. And as always, on behalf of myself and the crew, thank you for allowing American Airlines to get you here safely.”
    But it was Camille who wanted to thank him, not only for getting her here safely, but for helping her achieve something that the FBI shrinks, the prescription sleeping meds, and the empty reassurances from her former colleagues couldn’t: a moment to rest.
    What she didn’t realize as she unbuckled her seat belt and collected her duffle bag, was that it would be the last restful moment she would have for a long, long time.

 
    CHAPTER 4
     
     
    E ven though the walk through the jet bridge was a relatively short one, Camille was nearly out of breath by the time she reached the concourse. She may have spent the first twenty-two years of her life here, but she had spent the last twelve at sea level, which meant that the thin Colorado air had the same debilitating effect on her that it had on anyone else who wasn’t used to it. She was light-headed, her legs felt unsteady, her stomach was queasy. Classic signs of altitude sickness. She sat down in a chair near the gate in hopes that the feeling would subside. It didn’t. The more she tried to focus her eyes, the cloudier her vision became. Each swallow of air brought on a wave of nausea that nearly overwhelmed her. Camille hadn’t been here ten minutes and she was already going to be sick.
    It was a feeling she had grown accustomed to since that otherwise beautiful July morning in Lancaster, Pennsylvania when her life took the sharpest left turn imaginable. Once mundane tasks that required minimal physical exertion now left her drained. During her last counseling session, the FBI head-shrinker suggested this to be a symptom of acute emotional trauma. He even threw around the words ‘post-traumatic stress’ and ‘mild depression’. Camille laughed at the suggestion and promptly walked out of his office. In retrospect, she realized there was nothing funny about the diagnosis. Ending the session so abruptly had been nothing more than a defense mechanism against yet another truth she was not equipped to face.
    What Camille felt right now may have truly been nothing more than altitude sickness; an ailment easily cured with a couple of Dramamine and a ginger ale. But part of her wondered if this wasn’t something more elemental to who she now was; the new normal. Perhaps if she hadn’t stormed out of the shrink’s office, she would have had a chance of finding out. Perhaps the answer would still reveal itself in time. Or more likely, she was simply over-thinking the whole damn thing.
    Whatever the case, she did n’t have time to worry about it. Her ride was due to meet her at 9:30 sharp, which meant that she only had a few minutes to get her luggage. After taking in the deepest breath she could muster, Camille stood up. She immediately felt the urge to sit