“What’s that?”

“You’re myopic.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I’m not sure you really understand the type of person we’re looking for.”

Hurley scoffed as if the idea was preposterous.

“That’s right, and you’re too stubborn to see it.”

“I suppose you think the Special Operations Group just showed up one day. Who do you think trained all those guys? Who do you think selected them? Who do you think turned them into the efficient, badass killing machines that they are?”

“You did, and you know that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about our third objective.”

Hurley frowned. She knew right where to hit him. He quietly wondered if Stansfield had put her up to this and said, “You think this shit’s easy? You want to take over running this little operation?”

Kennedy shook her head and smiled in amazement. “You know, for a tough guy, you’re awfully thin-skinned. You sound like one of those damn desk jockeys back at Langley who run their section as if they were some Third World dictator.”

She might as well have hit him in the gut with a two-by-four. Hurley stood there speechless.

“You’ve created a cult of personality,” Kennedy continued. “Every single recruit is you twenty to thirty years ago.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, if you’re talking about our first two objectives.” Kennedy held up one finger. “Training operatives with the skills to get down and dirty if they have to and,” she held up a second finger, “creating a highly mobile tactical assault team, but when it comes to the third,” she shook her head, “we’re still at the starting gate.”

Hurley didn’t like hearing this, but he was not some unaware idiot.