Failsafe

By Jason Ingersoll

After a supernatural warning leads him to prevent a massacre, Brock Cahill receives a mysterious job offer from the United States government. When he reports to a remote government installation to begin his training, he quickly realizes all is not as it seems. Hidden deep beneath the installation is a covert facility tasked with a vital mission, and Brock soon learns he has been recruited for a clandestine agency formed by executive order of the president.

 

Immediately, he is thrust into a brutal selection process to form a team of operatives that will operate on US soil in total secrecy. After a vicious ambush during his initial assessment, Brock finds himself in a fight that will test his mettle and faith as he struggles to prove he is worthy to be a part of the elite team. Looming in the distance is the veiled mission the team has been tasked to accomplish. A mission that, if discovered, would permanently alter the balance of power in Washington and threaten the security of all Americans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Ingersoll
• Release date: Nov 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223495062

Jason Ingersoll

The author has spent over two decades serving his country in counterterrorism and counterintelligence. He currently serves as a law enforcement instructor specializing in firearms and tactical medicine. He writes stories of intrigue and redemption to inspire others to surrender to God's call of service and adventure on their lives.

Book preview

Chapter 2:

-Undisclosed location; Northern Virginia; eight months later:

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Typical for spooks, Tom Cahill thought to himself.

Tom had been in enough government installations to recognize the compound for what it was: a covert training facility. The intentional cloak-and-dagger absence of details from his son had aroused Tom’s suspicions. Brock, sitting in the passenger seat, certainly wasn’t elaborating now. Tom knew that when all they gave you was a time and place to report, it meant two things: this was a tryout, and they didn’t trust you yet.

Tom slowed as he passed the entrance gate. What he saw told him he was right: two staggered access gates with alternating Jersey barriers in between. Everything about the place screamed US government.

Tom pulled his rental vehicle to the side of the road and waited. If they weren’t on the guest list, they’d have company in a hurry.

The Cahill’s arrival hadn’t been a surprise. Their approach had been closely monitored the moment they’d left the main road. An assault team stood ready, awaiting any surprises.

Management was getting itchy. The facility was over budget and behind schedule. Typical for government work.

Sanitizing and retrofitting the facility had been a nightmare. The facility’s new tasking made it special. That meant they couldn’t use the usual cleared GSA contractors. Everything had to be done by agency personnel. And it had taken forever.

Security had been told to play nice with arriving guests. Still, expecting company put Security on edge. The directive to watch and hold on new arrivals made things dangerous. For months, visitors weren’t a contingency Security had to plan for. Now, the facility was open for business, and things were different. Now they had to wait and watch.

No one had to say the obvious. Bringing the facility up to operational capacity had to go smoothly. There was too much at stake. For the president, and the nation.

Tom noticed the welcome wagon exit the security building. A lone sentry stepped outside the wire, an M4 rifle slung across his chest at low ready. Two decades in USSOCOM told Tom the sentry was a decoy. A distraction from whatever assets would bring the pain if the visitors became a threat.

Tom kept the sentry in sight in his rearview mirror. Civilians had a bad habit of getting squirrely when they got nervous. Tom watched, waiting to see how things would play out.

Satisfied that incoming fire wasn’t a part of their immediate future, Tom let himself relax a little. He looked out the driver’s side window.

The fence was a bit much for whatever they were trying to hide. Twenty-foot-high fences topped with two layers of concertina wire made people curious.

And Tom was more than just morbidly curious. Anything that warranted this level of security was usually bad news. He and his Marine Raiders had breached compounds exactly like this one to grab high-value targets. He wasn’t thrilled about dropping his son off at one.

Think he can drop me before I make it to the fence line? Brock asked, trying to paint a serious look on his face.

Tom’s annoyed glance answered the question. His son was going to have to stow that sarcasm. Running your mouth got you noticed. Regardless of the training environment, you didn’t want to get noticed. You kept your head down and your mouth shut, or you learned the hard way.

Tom resumed his threat assessment. He had to smile at the U.S. Mint Depository sign on the front gate. It was a good way to explain the guy with a select-fire rifle, but it didn’t pass the smell test. This was no Mint facility.

Other than the prison fence, Tom decided the facility’s perimeter did a decent job of not drawing too much undue attention. The sentry’s hardware, not so much. Tom was already up to five grand in his head as he tallied up the cost of the armament and tactical kit he was looking at. A budget like that narrowed down the occupant to agencies of the three-letter variety.

We safe to proceed, Gunny?

Tom decided against saying what came to mind. His son was getting impatient, which usually led to him getting mouthy. Another trait that did you no good in the world Brock was about to enter.

Tom exited the driver’s seat and kept his hands where the sentry could see them. That seemed the safest option. The kid with the rifle looked trigger-happy, and Tom wasn’t fond of getting shot.

Brock got out of the vehicle and stretched his tall, muscular frame. His dad approached. He still had Brock by a couple of inches and twenty pounds of solid muscle. A fact that annoyed Brock to no end.

Brock reached into the backseat for his belongings when his father stopped him. Concerned, Brock looked back at the sentry to make sure he hadn’t done something that was about to get them shot.

Brock quickly realized the only danger descending upon him was a tight bear hug from his dad. His face grew flush. His dad knew better. Brock wasn’t getting dropped off for the first day of kindergarten.

He felt his dignity evaporating with every second the embrace persisted. At this point, he might as well just get his blanket and lunch box from the car and have it over with. Brock could feel himself being mocked by those manning any one of the fifteen hi-resolution cameras trained on them.

Dad, we talked about this. Anything longer than a two-count is weird. Brock squirmed, hoping the joke would distract his dad enough for him to escape the hug.

Tom eased from the embrace. His steel gray eyes bored into Brock’s. Instead of releasing his hold, the elder Cahill smiled.

Brock swallowed. When a Marine smiled, bad things usually followed.

He’d been on the receiving end of what followed that smile too many times. It meant a lesson in humility was headed his way. And it would be more of a priority than his pride.  And Brock had let himself get too close to stop whatever was coming.

Without relinquishing his hold, Tom dropped his arms and pinned Brock’s elbows helplessly to his ribs.

His dad had him in the perfect position for a body lock takedown, a jiujitsu move his dad performed with annoying ease any time his son decided to run his mouth.

Tom had decided it was his turn to be clever.

You sure you want to pick right now for a refresher on ‘honoring your parents’? Getting thrown around by your old man in front of your new employer probably isn’t how you want to remember your first day.

Brock sighed. He was painfully aware his dad could still take him. Tom had a lousy sense of humor, and terrible timing. Both of which he used to keep Brock humble.

And Brock’s mouth saw to it he was reminded regularly. Brock also knew he’d survived pushing his dad’s buttons. Most who’d tangled with Gunny Cahill hadn’t been so fortunate.

Marines were a savage lot. Tom was no exception. The Marine Corps Special Operations Command, or MARSOC, had been the last to join SOCOM. They were easily its fiercest component. Having started out as a grunt in a Force Recon Marine Expeditionary Unit, Tom had retired two decades later as an E-9 MARSOC Raider NCO. Formally Critical Skills Operators, Raiders were the Marine Corps Tier-1 component to the US Special Operations Command (USSOCOM). Tom and his fellow Raiders were the only thing on earth deadlier than your average Marine.

That meant his dad, even in his late forties, could still drop Brock like a bad habit. A fact his dad enjoyed proving a little too often. A reality that made Brock wish he’d kept his mouth shut about the hug.

The retired Marine’s physique made it clear he’d finish anything you started. At nearly six-and-a-half feet tall and a solid two hundred and forty pounds, Tom Cahill was a monster. His salt-and-pepper high-and-tight still conformed to Marine specs. Regardless of the occasion, his shirt was always properly bloused, and a razor-sharp crease was pressed and starched into his pants. Sleeves of tattoos worked their way up his massive forearms, chronicling his combat exploits. The colorful artwork made for interesting conversation most Sunday mornings in church.

Never within earshot, however.

Everything about Tom Cahill warned you to tread lightly in his midst.

Brock had been a slow learner in that respect. And now, it was looking like it was going to catch up with him at the worst possible moment.

Tom held on long enough for Brock to get the message. Brock needed to get himself in check. He wasn’t old enough to have the benefit of hindsight yet. Tom had paid dearly for his.

His own baptism into manhood had been swift and severe. The Marine Corps had a ruthless efficiency in removing the illusions that plagued young men. The world Brock was entering was brutal and dangerous. Many never made it back out. Most who did carried scars the rest of their days. Tom had nearly become a casualty himself.

The yellow footprints at Marine Corps Recruiting Depot, San Diego, had been the starting point of a long and painful journey. He’d been a cocky kid once too. It had taken twenty-five-year’s enrollment in the Marine’s school of hard knocks to beat the swagger out of him.

Tom saw a lot of that cocky kid in his son. Too much, if he was being honest. Tom wanted better for Brock. Fewer wasted years, less fallout on those he loved. If that was going to happen, Brock needed to understand something. Something most men learn far too late.

Sooner or later, a man must go to war with himself. And it was always a fight to the end.

That was the only way out of the death spiral too many men’s lives became.

Kill the darkness inside or be overtaken by it. If not, anything that survived would drag a man down until he became the worst version of himself. Nothing the world could throw at you held a candle to the devastation you could exact upon yourself.

The remedy was simple. It just cost you everything.

Kill the traitor. Purge your seditious nature.

Only then were valor and honor possible. That was the only path to a life that echoed into eternity. Tom prayed Brock would negotiate that path better than he had.

Brock could see his dad’s wheels turning but knew better than to fight back against whatever he was planning. Hopefully, the sentry’s presence would be enough to get him a reprieve for pushing his dad’s buttons. The fact his dad wasn’t letting go told Brock his chances were slim. There were about a hundred different ways his dad could end this. None of them good for Brock. He braced for the inevitable. Instead, his dad did something Brock wasn’t ready for.

Tom’s arms softened. He pulled Brock close one final time.

I love you, Brock, and I’m proud of the man you’re becoming.

Tom released Brock reluctantly.

Brock could see his dad’s eyes begin to tear up. Brock wasn’t ready for that. Nobody got to see this side of Tom Cahill. Few even knew it existed.

Neither spoke. The gravity of the moment began to sink in for Brock.

Thanks, Dad, he finally managed.

Affection wasn’t something Brock got a lot of growing up, especially when he’d needed it. It felt foreign now. But not unwelcome.

When a man who could literally tear you in two made himself vulnerable instead, you took notice. Whatever came next would be important.

Tom looked at Brock. A mixture of pride and sheer terror fought for dominance inside him.

Brock, this will be the most important season of your life.

Brock looked down. He knew his dad was trying to help, but Brock didn’t need the reminder. He was painfully aware how much was riding on this. Living up to his dad’s example would be next to impossible.

I know, Dad. I won’t mess this up, Brock assured him.

Tom winced, feeling like he’d been gut-kicked. Not at all what he was getting at.

The weight of Brock’s expectations on himself were painfully evident. Tom knew that burden all too well. All men do.

The passage into manhood was treacherous, one most men began without a map and shackled by a weight none were able to bear. Trying to live up to your father’s expectations was more than any man could endure.

Tom stepped close and placed his hand on Brock’s shoulder. This ended now. There would be no more walking wounded in their family.

Before Tom could speak, Brock turned and opened the car door. He retrieved his duffel bag from the back seat and closed the door.

Brock turned around and looked at his dad. He immediately felt stupid. His dad knew what Brock was up to and what the interruption was.

The conversation was getting uncomfortable fast. Brock was trying to bail before they got into territory neither of them were ready for. His dad always had him figured out. One of the many downsides of having a trained Special Forces interrogator as a father.

You don’t have anything to prove to me, Brock. Only to yourself.

Brock looked at his dad. He wanted to believe that. He needed the truth in those words. But that wasn’t how it worked. Especially when you had grown up in Tom Cahill’s shadow.

Don’t give anyone or anything that power over you, son, his father continued.

I sense a cautionary tale, Brock mumbled sarcastically.

Tom smiled. Brock, I wasted most of my life chasing things that couldn’t fulfill me. What I did became who I was, and it nearly killed me.

Tom paused, seemingly fighting off the memories of what his mistakes had done to his family. You know what the worst part was? When I finally achieved everything I’d nearly destroyed myself for, it wasn’t enough. I was still empty.

Tom turned around and pointed at the facility.

You need to understand something, Brock. Whatever this is, it won’t be enough. Only God is. I had to learn that the hard way.

Brock knew the cost of that lesson. Their family had been on the receiving end of most of it. Brock also knew his dad hated himself for it. Brock could still see it in his father’s eyes, disgust and contempt for what he’d let himself become. But also hope. That hope told Brock there was a chance for him to do better for his family someday.

Tom got close enough for Brock to understand he needed to listen.

God has a good plan for you, son, but it will require your complete surrender and an unwavering trust in His goodness.

Spiritual matters were usually where Brock checked out mentally. It almost always signaled the opening salvo in a lecture. Brock sensed things were different this time. There was something in his father’s face that warned Brock he couldn’t afford to miss this.

Something had his father shook up, and nothing spooked his dad. Ever.

God loves you, Brock, enough to do whatever it takes to bring you to the end of yourself.

That phrase commanded Brock’s undivided attention for one very important reason: Brock had only heard his father say it once before.

His dad hadn’t been an easy man to have as a father. A lifetime of running from God had left him empty. Twenty years of combat trauma had left him broken. It had taken all of that to bring Tom Cahill to the end of himself.

Now God could use him.

I’ve come to the end of myself. Those were his father’s exact words, and they explained what happened next. No more deployments. No more Marine Corps. No more rage and desperation. They would finally get to be a family.

The foul-mouthed, hard-drinking Marine Brock knew had become a different man. The fierce Raider ethos had been channeled and refocused. A new warrior had emerged, called to a higher warfare. And all because of a praying wife.

Brock’s mother Deb had become a believer during one of his dad’s early deployments. Her faith had barely kept the family intact. She’d cried herself to sleep praying for his dad more times than Brock could count. She’d been relentless, refusing to give up on his father.

God had responded and done the impossible.

Tom Cahill was under new orders now.

Tier-1 operator to pastor had to be the biggest one-eighty in the history of USSOCOM. His dad had used the GI Bill to pay for Bible college. After graduating, Reverend Tom Cahill accepted a pastorate in a quiet town in the Sierra Nevada. The Cahill family had finally been able to enjoy some semblance of normalcy.

Remembering his dad’s transformation made Brock realize something. His dad was different today. It had been a few years, but Brock noticed the shift. The MARSOC Raider was back, and on full alert.

It went without saying, his dad knew the world Brock was about to enter, and it was clear he was warning Brock about something. Combat was something his father excelled at. A discipline you only got good at it if you survived. One you only survived by learning to recognize when you were about to be attacked. Brock got the distinct impression that was what his father was getting at.

When a man that dangerous was this concerned, it was time for Brock to listen up.

You remember that line about who the most dangerous man in the world is? Tom looked at Brock and waited.

Brock remembered. It came from a book his dad had given him on a surprise graduation trip to Alaska. A trip that had singlehandedly saved their relationship. Brock had read Wild at Heart dozens of times since. The book was almost the only good thing he’d ever gotten from his dad.

The man who’s reconciled his own death, Brock responded.

Brock knew his dad had lived that credo as a Marine Raider. Brock also knew what his dad was getting at.

It was Brock’s turn, and you only got one shot.

Church, Eagle Scout, black belt, hockey standout; they had all been preparing him for this moment. His dad didn’t have to say it. Brock already knew.

This was where you decided whether it was real or not. Brock could tell it wasn’t a lecture this time, more of a heads-up. The test was about to begin.

It was in his dad’s tone. It was different this time. Brock was used to hearing the base of a Marine drill instructor coupled with the frustration of a disappointed parent. Both were gone now. In their place Brock sensed pride, with enough tension for him to understand what was at stake. It was on Brock to determine the man he’d become.

The world needs dangerous men, Brock. Men that aren’t afraid to die for others, or to themselves. We’re in short supply of men like that these days. We’ve fooled ourselves into believing that ‘safe’ men are the only kind we can allow in a civilized society.

Brock knew the sentiment made his father sick and saw the proof in his eyes as he turned to face Brock.

Jesus wasn’t safe. Neither was King David before Him. The men that formed this nation and all those who’ve died since to preserve our freedom weren’t concerned with their safety. They were driven by an unrelenting need to do what was right, regardless the cost.

Tom handed Brock a small rectangular box. He looked at Brock and smiled.

Be that kind of man, Brock.

Brock barely noticed his father get in his vehicle and drive away. He was too distracted by the emblem on the box his dad had given him. It bore the silhouette of a butterfly, the Benchmade logo.

Brock dropped his duffel bag to the ground and opened the box. Inside, he discovered what he hoped would be there: an Infidel out-the-front knife.

Brock smiled as he fought back tears of his own. It was exactly like the one his father carried with him everywhere he went. The same knife his father would never, ever let him touch as a boy.

Brock shifted the knife in his hand to get a comfortable grip, admiring the quality and workmanship as his fingers closed around its machined edges. Pushing the charging button toward the hilt produced a blackened blade bearing the Benchmark insignia.

As it opened, Brock noticed a laser-engraved inscription. Psalm 144:1-2.

Brock smiled. It was his dad’s favorite scripture.

Blessed be the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle; My lovingkindness and my fortress, my high tower and my deliverer, my shield and the One in whom I take refuge.

That verse had seen his father through his final deployment. His dad had shared how he’d prayed it over himself and his men before every mission. He’d had it inscribed on the knife as a reminder of everything God had seen him through. Brock sensed he would soon need that same supernatural protection.

The knife was a fitting gift to pass on the mantle of protector. That initiation was now over. The elder Cahill had done his part. He’d instilled caution and confidence, two things all young men needed.

Caution against a man’s proclivity for self-destruction, and a father’s confidence in their son’s ability to overcome it. Now it was Brock’s turn to do his part.

Brock pulled the charging lever of the knife rearward. The blade retracted with a metallic click. He slid the knife into his pocket as he looked at the facility.

Time to find out what he’d gotten himself into.

Chapter 3:

He was being watched.

Brock couldn’t see the eyes following him, but he could feel them clinging to him like an invisible weight as he approached.

An eerie stillness hung over the facility. The silence became more unnatural the closer he got.

Brock approached the sentry, trying to think of something that wouldn’t make him sound stupid—or get him shot. He opened his mouth, hoping the words would materialize, only to be cut off.

Report to the security gate with photo ID in hand.

Brock replied with a courteous, Yes, sir, and walked towards the darkly tinted entrance to the facility.

As he approached, the entrance to the security office unlocked with a metallic buzz. Brock pulled on the handle and stepped inside. The weight of the heavily reinforced door shook the floor as it slammed shut behind him. The sound of the door locking confirmed what was already painfully apparent: it was too late for second thoughts.

Name?

The question was barked through a cylindrical microphone cut into a four-inch partition of ballistic glass. It separated Brock from a security officer wearing an identical tactical kit to the sentry. The gruff welcome suggested that the surly demeanor he’d encountered from both officers was standard issue as well.

Brock replied with his full given name, prompting the officer to look down at his computer screen to confirm Brock’s identity.

Another curt order followed.

Photo ID.

Brock produced his driver’s license and placed it into a silver metallic drawer that opened in the counter. The counter’s aesthetics betrayed its strength. Fashioned from reinforced concrete, it had been finished to look like high-end marble. The counting room at the Brinks distribution center Brock had worked out of as an armed courier had one nearly identical to it. Brock had a feeling this model was slightly more robust.

The security officer took Brock’s ID and inserted it into a card reader. The device retrieved Brock’s personal information and subjected the ID to several tests to authenticate it.

A green light flashed on the officer’s screen. The security officer placed Brock’s ID back in the drawer. As it opened, Brock received his final instructions.

Proceed down the hall to the screening room.

Brock nodded and walked toward the end of the corridor. He felt his heartrate ramp up as he neared the door.

Brock resisted the urge to look around. It was a little late for situational awareness. If things went south, he had zero chance of stopping anything bad headed his way. Seeing it coming would just make it hurt more.

Brock reached the end of the security corridor and heard a faint metallic click. Several large, automated deadbolts retracted into the wall, allowing the massive vault door to open slowly. It revealed a small room with another hardened steel door at the far end.

Brock stepped inside and sensed something beside him. He turned slowly; painfully aware it was too late to protect himself.

Brock’s eyes were instantly drawn upward. Towering over him was the largest human being he’d ever seen.

Pushing seven feet and three hundred pounds, the giant looking down at him had a neck nearly as big as Brock’s waist. Sporting a thick red flat-top and beard, the gargantuan security officer motioned for Brock to place his duffel bag on the conveyor belt of an x-ray machine.

After complying, Brock was directed to step through a magnetometer. He did so, causing a high-pitched alarm to go off. Brock swallowed hard as the security officer lumbered menacingly towards him.

Need me to take my shoes off? Brock hoped the joke might delay whatever the behemoth had planned to mitigate the infraction.

Unamused by the attempt at levity, the security officer matter-of-factly voiced his command. Place your feet shoulder width apart and raise your arms straight out at your sides.

Brock quickly obliged. He had a feeling this guy had methods significantly less pleasant than the TSA to get compliance.

The officer began screening Brock with a small wand. Brock assumed that the various metal objects in his pockets had set off the metal detector. Instead, the wand was screening for devices that sent outgoing transmissions, like cellular, Bluetooth, and RFID communications. That was the real purpose of the room, screening entrants for surreptitious communication devices.

The room Brock found himself in was an elaborate subterfuge, serving mainly as a final chokepoint for any intruder lucky enough to have breached the first layer of security. Brock’s belongings had already been inspected before even entering the screening room.

The assault team Brock hadn’t seen behind the walls of the security corridor had analyzed everything on his person and in his duffel bag, searching for any problematic items an entrant might try to bring into the facility. The fact Brock wasn’t on his face with a knee in his neck meant he was clear of any prohibited items.

As the officer finished, he handed Brock a thick plastic evidence bag.

No phones in the SCIF. Put yours in this.

Brock knew the drill from his internship with DHS. An SCIF was a Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility, a tightly secured area where no outside communication devices were permitted due to the highly sensitive information contained inside.

Brock quickly realized the SCIF he was entering was an order of magnitude greater in both size and scope. The DHS headquarters SCIF had been limited to an office suite on one floor, not the entire building. Maintaining such tight electronic security was difficult and expensive to accomplish. Trying to imagine the web of electronic countermeasures needed to make an entire facility an SCIF made his head hurt.

As Brock reached into his pocket and placed his phone in the bag, a disheartening question occurred to him.

Do you need my knife too?

The officer didn’t bother to look up at Brock as he sealed the bag. I’m not worried about your knife.

Sizing up the musculature that covered every visible inch of the officer’s body, Brock caught his meaning and chuckled under his breath. This guy made the Hulk look like one of the Backstreet Boys. Coming at him with a knife would be short-lived and self-correcting.

Brock let himself exhale in relief. Thankfully, he wouldn’t be required to surrender his father’s parting gift.

Your phone will be returned to you upon exiting the facility. Proceed through the far door and use this to gain access to the facility.

The officer handed Brock a smartwatch with an octagon face and cobalt blue display on it. Brock looked at the officer.

The why-are-you-still-here? look on the giant’s face made it clear Brock wouldn’t need an escort. Brock decided the possibility of getting his head twisted off wasn’t worth risking a stupid question and did what he was told.

Brock placed the smartwatch on his wrist and stepped through the door at the far end of the screening room. As he walked down a dark hallway towards the exit, he looked down at the device. The screen on the watch displayed his vitals and GPS coordinates. He noticed the watchband’s clasp was a more robust version of the kind you got at the hospital. Once it was on, you had to cut it off.

The watch guaranteed Brock’s whereabouts could be accounted for at all times. He had a feeling trying to remove the watch without permission would not only be difficult, but painful as well; it was clear from the band’s electronic locking mechanism and the rows of circuitry embedded in the band that tampering with it would end badly. 

As Brock approached the exit door of the security building, a panel in the wall opened abruptly. Each half of the door retracted to the side, revealing a second door that bisected vertically.

Brock stopped and stole a glance back down the hallway. Nothing but darkness behind him. No giant hall monitor making sure he got to class. Which meant this was probably a test.

He turned back. The set of glass doors at the far end of the hallway let out onto the grounds of the depository facility.

Definitely a test, he decided. He just couldn’t tell which kind. The kind where you were rewarded for being a risk taker, or the kind where you died screaming for choosing poorly? It was like a twisted choose your own adventure, only with permanent consequences.

He couldn’t make himself move. Not knowing what to do wasn’t an impression he could afford to make, but there was too much on the line to get this wrong. Phoning a friend wasn’t an option in secret government installations, and he had a feeling going back to ask the Hulk for directions wouldn’t end well.

He looked down the dimly lit, hidden corridor. He thought he could make out a set of doors at the end, probably an elevator. He looked back at the door to the screening room.

He was still alone. And still standing in the hallway for some reason.

Coward,