"The FBI has just lost two of its finest agents. Over the past few years, Maggie Bell and Omar Zidan have been respected and honorable members of our family. Their loss is a devastating blow to us and to every citizen they served."
"Until those responsible are brought to justice, all agents in our New York office will have their vacations canceled."
Standing before a wall of microphones and cameras, Dana Mozé spoke solemnly to the gathered media, delivering a ten-minute briefing with a heavy tone.
She recounted yesterday afternoon's tragic bombing, expressing condolences for the deceased and sympathy for their families. She also gave a brief overview of the two agents' lives, lost in the line of duty while protecting civilians.
"Do you have any suspects at this time?" a female reporter asked, raising her hand.
"Yes, we do. To discuss the case details, I'll hand this over to the lead investigator, Senior Agent Jack Tavor." Dana Mozé stepped aside and gestured for Jack, who had been standing behind her, to take the podium.
Though this was only a brief, improvised press conference, the setup was minimal—no tables, no chairs—and in the small room, everyone stood. More than twenty journalists from various media outlets crowded around a small podium, tightly packed together.
Though Jack had lived two lifetimes, this was his first official encounter with the media. He couldn't deny his nerves, and under the constant flashing lights and the intense gaze of dozens of eyes, even the calmest person would feel the pressure.
Clutching the thin file in his hand, he couldn't help but feel amused. The public affairs office had prepared a list of potential questions, with 99% of the responses being variations of "no comment" or "irrelevant to the case."
Jack's appearance caused a stir among the journalists, who seemed genuinely surprised. They had been speculating about the identity of this extraordinarily young-looking man. Most assumed he was a rookie agent from the public affairs office, likely the new spokesperson for the New York FBI office.
A few younger female reporters had even discreetly touched up their makeup, hoping to leave a good impression on this handsome newcomer. If they could develop a connection, it might lead to an exclusive story or even something more.
However, some male reporters weren't as impressed. Sure, he was good-looking, but he also had a scruffy beard, and although his suit and shirt seemed expensive, they were wrinkled and a bit dirty, giving him a somewhat unprofessional appearance.
But when Dana Mozé introduced him as a senior agent and the lead investigator of this high-profile case, everyone became excited. The murmurs grew louder as reporters competed to ask their questions.
One attractive female reporter managed to push her way to the front and, before speaking, adjusted her high-end professional outfit to make her neckline more noticeable. "May I ask, Senior Agent Jack Tavor, how old are you? You look very young."
The crowd of reporters chuckled softly, and Jack felt a wave of awkwardness. Why was the first question something that wasn't on the list? The sheet had covered so many questions, but not this one.
Drawing on memories of press conferences he'd seen from foreign diplomacy experts, Jack cleared his throat and replied, "I'm 25. I'd like everyone to focus their questions on the subject of today's conference. I won't answer any further unrelated questions."
The journalists' eyes brightened. A 25-year-old senior FBI agent was rare, if not unprecedented. Everyone scribbled down the name "Jack Tavor" in their notebooks, planning to dig into his background once they got back.
The next question went to a male reporter, who was more professional and didn't waste his opportunity. "Were the two FBI agents killed in the bombing incidentally present, or did they have prior information about the threat?"
"From the current evidence, we haven't found any indication of a targeted attack on FBI agents. The two heroic agents happened to be nearby on another assignment," Jack explained. "After receiving the emergency call, they arrived at the scene as quickly as possible and began assisting with the evacuation of residents. I was there and saw it firsthand. No one anticipated a second explosion. They faithfully upheld the oath they took when joining the FBI."
Rather than answering directly, Jack described the facts to prevent any misinterpretation, a tactic he'd learned from watching press briefings.
His response contained significant information, prompting someone else to ask, "So you were there, too?"
Jack hesitated for a moment, then nodded, sparking another round of murmurs.
One well-informed journalist quickly followed up, "Agent Tavor, I spoke with Captain Owen Strand from Fire Station 26 this morning. He mentioned an FBI agent rescued him and another civilian before the building collapsed. Was that agent you?"
This question veered far from the public affairs office's prepared answers, and Jack instinctively glanced at Dana Mozé beside him. She gave a subtle nod.
"Yes, Captain Owen Strand is a hero. He and his team were dedicated to saving lives throughout the ordeal. I just happened to be there."
Jack paused, realizing the questions were straying further from the intended focus he and Dana had discussed. He quickly reiterated, "Please keep your questions relevant to this press conference's subject, or I will refuse to answer any more unrelated questions."
Finally, a reporter addressed a key issue. "Last night, there was another car bomb outside the Mexie Club and an unexploded device found this morning at the Clinton Community Sports Center. Were these incidents linked to the same group?"
Jack felt a wave of relief. "Yes, we have substantial evidence. It's only a matter of time before we capture all suspects."
Before he finished, Dana Mozé stepped forward and cut off further questions. "That's all the information we can share at this time. Thank you."
——
"See? I told you it wasn't that hard. You did great." In the office, Dana Mozé smiled at Jack, who was disheveled and in the process of removing his tie.
Despite his calm and confident appearance at the press conference, he was visibly flustered now, like a turkey fresh out of the oven.
"Apologies. I don't think I'm cut out for these situations. This was more nerve-wracking than a shootout with an armed gang."
Jack gulped down the water Dana had handed him, recalling with dread that he might have to attend such events more frequently in the future.
"Young man, you'll get used to it after a few rounds," came a familiar voice from the doorway. To Jack's surprise, it was Ray King, the IRS supervisor he hadn't seen in a while.
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