Page 3 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
I stand there for a while, breathing hard in the dark.
Then I wipe my hands, put the lion back in his cage, and climb upstairs to deal with mortals who still think this is just a business.
Let them.
It’s safer that way.
2
JENNIFER
It starts the way most victories do: with too many cameras and not enough oxygen.
They shove mics in my face like I’m about to announce the cure for cancer, and I blink into the pop of flashes, already regretting my choice to wear heels. The marble steps outside the courthouse glint beneath me, rain still drying in scattered streaks across the seal-etched stone, while my face is projected on a half-dozen monitors mounted to the security towers above. The big headline in slick gold font reads:
CALLAHAN CRUSHES D.C. DEFENSE CONTRACTOR IN RECORD-BREAKING WIN.
Not exactly subtle. But that’s politics.
I take the steps slowly, not because I want to look dramatic but because I’ve learned there’s power in unhurried movement. People talk when you move too fast. They underestimate you when you stand still. I’ve built a reputation on knowing the difference.
A man in a red tie—press, judging by the frantic glint in his eyes—lunges forward, voice high and desperate.
“Ms. Callahan, what’s your response to critics saying this ruling sends a dangerous message to the defense sector?”
I don’t break stride. I shift the weight of my briefcase, push my sunglasses higher on my nose, and speak just loud enough for the nearby recorders to catch it.
“They’re right. It does. I suggest they read it carefully.”
The crowd parts in a soft rustle of fabric and murmurs. My team’s waiting near the black town car idling at the curb. Marcy holds the door open with one hand and a coffee in the other, her expression split between admiration and mild panic.
“You’ve got twenty-three interview requests, and I think The Post is trying to run a profile on you this weekend,” she says, climbing in after me. “Also, there’s a guy from CNN who keeps saying he’s got a ‘personal connection’ to your father. I told him to go to hell.”
“He wouldn’t be wrong,” I mutter, setting the briefcase down and kicking off the heels. “They all do.”
The car pulls into traffic, the city sliding past in a blur of sirens and scaffolding. Washington always smells like ambition: metallic, electric, and faintly sour, like too many people grinding their teeth behind smiles.
I take the coffee, sip it, grimace.
“Did they burn this on purpose?”
“You’re the one who told me not to bring it from anywhere we don’t own,” Marcy replies. “That narrows the field to like three cafes, and one of them’s closed for tax fraud.”
I let the smile tug at the edge of my mouth without showing teeth. She knows me too well. Knows the exact line between respect and irreverence that I tolerate, and maybe even need.
We take the long way back to the DOJ satellite office I’ve claimed as my own. I have a bigger one in the main building, but I hate the way the hallways echo in that place. Here, I can kickmy shoes off and lock the door without a senator wandering in to ask for a favor.
Inside, I toss the briefcase on the worn leather couch, slip out of the blazer, and sink into the chair behind my desk.
“Give me the file,” I say.
Marcy doesn’t ask which one. She opens her satchel and slides a thin manila folder across the desk. I flip it open and scan the first page, then the second. My eyes slow on the third.
Thorne Strategic.
Malek Thorne.
The name tastes like smoke.
