The Safe House
The CIA sent a limousine for her.
She could tell it was the Director’s by the pearlescent gray color, otherwise it looked like all the other limos that clogged the Washington, D.C., streets. But she knew it was different. If an SUV full of terrorists sprayed the body with automatic weapons, the armored sides would shed the bullets like rain. If a gunman hit the wheels, the vehicle could still speed down the streets at 70 miles an hour on its run-flat tires. She knew a cache of tactical weapons filled the trunk and specialized, high-tech communications gear could be rigged up instantaneously in the back seat. The Director expected the best. He even insisted on the finest casket for her husband, Ryan. Made of highly polished mahogany with shiny brass fittings, it was sturdy enough for ten men. Rather odd, she thought, when there was no body.
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