“Catherine, how long have we known each other?” Bowen said as he stood on the balcony of his terrace watching the sunrise.
“Bo, I’ve not even had my morning coffee,” Attorney General Wilson responded.
“Let me guess. You still drink Peruvian Dark Roast with two tea teaspoons of sugar.”
“Darling,” Catherine said with glee. “You know me too well. You’ve been thinking about me? I’m touched.”
“You know what I’m thinking? How could a woman who’s been the object of my affection for so many years subpoena me to come before the Justice Alliance Command? This is a betrayal of our friendship, Cat.”
“Bo, I didn’t betray you,” Catherine said dismissively which she often did when Graham complained. Her calm demeanor always nettled him. “You’re the one who made those outlandish proclamations in your press conference,” she said. “The RFC wants to serve you up on a silver platter and-
“The Reformation Colony can kiss me where the sun doesn’t shine.”
“Temper, Bo,” the former British duchess chuckled softly. “Have we not learned anything the night we dined at the Clos Maggiore in London?”
“The waiter had it coming. The food was superb, but his attitude was positively dreadful. Speaking of memories, remember wine tasting at the Ridgeview in Sussex, and the romantic getaways at the Rock House in Scotland?”
Catherine cooed; her voice turned warm and nostalgic. “Of course, I do, darling. Those were some of the most endearing times in my life. I still can’t figure out how a man with so little income managed to afford such places.”
“And what was always my answer?”
“Well, first you’d take a sip of wine, then clasp your hands together, arch your eyebrow, and say I have my ways.”
“What can I say? I was always one for pageantry.” He and Catherine shared a laugh.
“Yes, Bo, you were. You and I have had some jolly good times.”
Bowen sobered and a moment of silence passed between them. "Cat; we had more than romance. We shared the same ideas. We'd sit up all night and talk passionately about what we were going to do for this country once the war was over."
"Bo, we were dreamers. We aren't in the UK anymore. We've been called to a country that was once the most revered nation in the world. And now it's been reduced to ashes. People here are terrified and angry. They've lost loved ones and watched the security of their government they once enjoyed burn to the ground."
“So, we comfort people by rebuilding this nation based on deceit? We razed the U.S. to the ground because of the lies. And before we can even get established, the so-called Purists American scum are playing politics already. People need order. They needed to know the truth. Or we doom them to repeat the same mistakes.”
“So, what are you going to do, Bo? Take on the Alliance by yourself? You and that perky blonde hanging all over you like a trained monkey?”
“Leave Alice out of this.”
“Oh, so your pet has a name? And here I thought you were more refined than rolling around in the sack with the first thing that worships you. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s changed.”
“Who got to you, Cat? Was it that imp, Senator Fitzpatrick? What in heaven’s name could he offer you to make you a turncoat?”
Catherine let out a cackle “Something you never could; absolute power. Come before JAC, Bo. Take your beating and apologize. Beg if you must. The Alliance still finds you useful. They just want to make you sweat a little to keep you in line. For what it’s worth, I still care deeply for you. I’d hate to be on opposing sides, as we rewrite history. But I like it here, and I will do whatever it takes to stay on top.”
***
“I told you that Haseeb was a loose cannon!” Margaret heard Dylan say to Angel as she quickly dressed in the other room. “I told you from the get-go that I didn’t trust him. I’m going to strangle him the next time I see him.”
“Dylan, please,” Angel said. “I’m on the phone.”
Margaret grabbed her purse and rushed into the living room. Angel was talking to someone and Dylan was putting on his pants.
“Yeah, look who finally decided to show up?” Dylan said. “Thanks a lot. This is all your fault.”
“My fault?” Margaret said, surprised. “I didn’t call JKF. Haseeb did.”
“Oh yeah?” Dylan replied. “If you hadn’t forced me at gunpoint to let you bring that man to my house, then none of this would’ve happened. Now thanks to you, our cover is about to be blown and our operations compromised. Boys!” he called out to his sons. “Let’s go!”
Angel shushed him and asked whoever it was on the phone to repeat what they said. “I’m telling you we’ve been compromised," she said. "We need all hands on deck… What does that have to do with anything? This doctor I work with blew the whistle… Yeah, I have his location. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him… Of course, I know what this means. It’s been an honor, sir… You as well.” She hung up just as her sons were coming into the living room.
“Alright, Jet?” she said to her elder son. “You and Justin help your father bring Bill. Margaret, help me get the machines.”
“Hold on a second,” Dylan said. “We’re bringing the old man? Are you crazy?”
“I leave no man behind, Dylan. You know this.”
“The man is unconscious; probably brain dead for all we know.”
“And what if he isn’t? What if he wakes up? What do you think happens when he’s in JKF custody? You know he’ll-
“Mom, Dad,” Jet said. “I hear sirens.”
The boy was right. Multiple sirens sounded in the distance and were getting closer.
“Oh my God,” Margaret mumbled. “They’re here. JKF is here. Oh my God, they’re-
“Marge!” Angel barked. “Get it together.” She called to her sons and Margaret noticed that her eyes began to water and her voice was shaky with emotion. “Jet, Jamie, you boys know that your father and I love you with all our hearts and would do anything to protect you, right?”
“Yes ma’am," the boys said in unison. Dylan joined her and caressed the younger son’s head.
Angel wiped tears from her eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re going to go with this nice lady, ok? Follow her and don’t look back, no matter what you hear, ok?”
“But, Mom,” her younger son protested.
“No buts, Justin. Hug me. I love you both so much.”
“You’re the man now, Jet,” Dylan said. “Make me proud. Protect your brother. I’ll be watching over you, you here?”
Jet choked up and nodded. The boys hugged him and he kissed their foreheads. Angel grabbed some keys from her bag and handed it to Margaret. Dylan ran to the window and peeked through the blinds. “I see lights,” he called out and grabbed a shotgun from behind the door. “Margaret, take the kids and get out of here! Hurry before they surround us.”
“Where do I go?” Margaret protested, tears streaming down her cheeks. “And what about Bill?”
“I’m sorry,” Angel said. "We’ll do what we can to help him, but unless my friends get here first, it won’t matter. Take the Subaru out back. It’s got a full tank of gas. Get out of the trees and head west on Dry Run.”
“Angel, this is just too much. I don’t-
“Just listen!” Angel said, grabbing her sleeve. “Take the 39/3 to the 39 and hang a left on Wilson St. As soon as you make that left, you’ll see an abandoned police car pound. Look for a 2007 Silver Ford Taurus. These keys will open the door, but the ignition key is under the floorboard. Everything you need is in the trunk. Activate the cell and send an SOS to the number on the bag. Then destroy them both.”
“And what do we do until your friends find us?”
“There are enough rations for several days.”
“Several days? Margaret squealed. “This is crazy.”
“Marge! Angel yelled. “You owe me. Your life and my kids depend upon it. Can I count on you?”
Margaret hesitated but nodded. Angel hugged her and shoved her toward the back. “Get out of here, now.” She pulled out her V9 and positioned herself behind the couch. Margaret took one last look at Dylan who stood behind the door with his shotgun to his chest and left with Jet and Justin in tow.
***
Claire had lost all sense of time. The blacked-out windows made it impossible to know if it were day or night. She didn’t know how much longer she would have to be in this hellhole, or what the Horsemen were forcing her father to do that it took this long. She found herself beginning to unravel. The humid moist air had become unbearable. She knew that pacing would make it worse, but the tint of the light bulbs which hung from the chandeliers was driving her stark-raven-mad.
Added to her misery, she discovered dried blood spattered in certain areas of the meatpacking plant and was uncertain if it belonged to an animal or human. As a doctor, she was used to seeing blood, but the idea that someone could have been tortured in this very room drove her to near insanity. Worst of all having to listen to Miles scream to the top of his lungs in agony filled her with a dread she couldn’t describe.
She knew why HOJ was torturing him. The GRA super soldier was a dream catch; a treasure trove of info they could break him. But would they do the same thing to her? The roller-coaster relationship she had with her father and her fascination with health and medicine made her a survivor. But she was no spy. She knew she would not hold up under torture or threat of it.
Claire decided that she needed to take her life into her own hands and escape if she could. Getting caught couldn’t be any worse than what she was experiencing. She frantically began searching for something to cut her hands free of the zip-tie that bound her. The flickering bulbs gave her just enough light to locate a damaged wood pallet in the corner of the room. She rushed over and picked up a broken piece of the wood and stuck the sharp edge between her wrists and the plastic band.
Careful not to cut herself, she began vigorously rubbing the sharp wood edge against the plastic band. But the flimsy piece broke and a piece of it got stuck in her palm. Claire swore and surveyed the splinter. Just then, the door unlocked and flew open.
“You know the drill sweetie,” Chase, the man that attacked her earlier said. “Turn around and get up against the wall. Do it now!”
“Hey, knock it off will ya?” said a Caucasian man with a hillbilly accent. “That girl ain’t hardly a threat.” He pulled down his sunglasses and looked her up and down. “Baby, they sure don’t make em’ like you anymore. You into bad boys?”
Claire said nothing. The Caucasian man gawked at her, his head tilted and chewing gum like a cow.
“If I happened to mention that I'm a pilot, would that get yo’ britches jumpin?”
Claire stared at in disbelief. Was he for real? Sporting a comb-over haircut, a thick mustache, sunglasses indoors, a beige beach shirt, white linen pants, and flip-flops, he appeared as if he had just stepped out of a cheaply made bad cop flick. The other men began to snicker and cleared their throats.
“Smooth, Ray,” one of them said. "I don’t think she’s into it.”
“Are you kidding me?” Chase said. “I’m mean look at this guy. What woman in their right mind could resist a 70’s porn star reject?”
“Hey, up yours, Chase,” Ray said. He hocked a loogie on the floor and took another look at Claire. “Oh well, your loss, sugar. I know this one brewery up the hill where we can get lit up. I mean they have Daiquiris the size of-
“Hey, Ray,” Chase interrupted. “If you’re done with this week's episode of the love connection, would you go ahead and call it in already? I have to get home to my ovulating wife.”
“You and that train wreck of a woman still tryna' reproduce?” Ray said. “Lord help us all.” The other two men laughed aloud.
“At least I have a woman,” Chase retorted as Ray dialed the number.
“Yeah," Ray said when someone answered. “It’s me. Put em’ on the phone… Hey. I got a location. Austin, Texas… Yep… Of course, I’m sure… What do you mean is that it? Well, you only gave me a small window… With all due respect, ma'am, whoever this man is a trained operative with a high threshold for pain. It's gon' take more than three hours to get a name… Alright then. See ya.”
Ray hung up the phone just as two more men brought Miles in, limping and bleeding. They laid him on the ground and Ray squatted over him. “You did good, son,” he whispered in a kiddy voice. “We had lots of fun. Rest up now. Tomorrow we have a special treat for you. Guess what? We have a car engine. And when it gets really hot it... Oops. I almost spoiled the surprise. See you, tomorrow buddy.”
One of the men handed Ray some scissors and he cut the zip-tie from Claire’s wrist. He winked at her and tossed her a Ziplock bag filled with gauze, bandages, and ointments.
“Wait, Claire said. “What am I supposed to do with this?"
“Oh, so you’re not deaf or mute after all," Ray said as he backed toward the door. "I offered you a ride in my Cessna TTx two-seater. You chose to stay here so, patch him up, Doc.”
“Wait,” Claire said as he closed the door and locked it. She banged on the door and cried for them to let her out, but no one responded. After two more failed attempts, she stood over Miles and surveyed his wounds. His face was bruised and blood trickled from his head. He also jerked and twitched. Claire guessed that they had used electric shock methods to extract information from him.
“So, are you just going to stand there and let me bleed to death?” Miles said, coughing.
“I might,” Claire replied. “What did they do to you?”
“What they could. They think I'll break, but I won't.”
“You gave them a location. I think I heard the one they call Ray say Austin, Texas.”
Miles looked up at her. “Which one is he?”
“The douchebag that looks like a porn-star.”
“Yeah, he’s a piece of work. So, come on now. You heard the man. Patch me up.”
“Some questions first. How do you know my family?”
Miles remained silent.
“If you want my help, then you answer my questions. How do you know Sasha Hemingway? Are you a family member? A friend? An ex-lover? Why have I never heard of you? Why does my father never mention you?”
Again, Miles said nothing.
“Tell me!” Claire shouted.
Miles rolled over on his back and looked her in the eye. He opened his mouth to say something, but then turned his head to the side/
Claire dropped the Ziplock and grabbed the sharp piece of wood she tried to use to free her hands. She bent down over him and stuck it to his throat. “Tell me what I want to know, or I will slice you open.”
Miles took her arm and guided the stake to his heart. “Do it,” he grimaced.
Claire’s hands trembled and her face was contorted with hatred.
“Do it, CW. It would be an act of mercy.”
Claire wrenched free of him and dropped the stake. She backed away and sat against the wall. “You don’t deserve mercy from me."
***
John found himself spellbound by the sight of HOJ’s underground HQ. He had expected to see a few computers and make-shift offices set up in the middle of the floor, surrounded by rocky walls and ceiling. But what he saw wasn’t a bunker. It was a city beneath the surface of the earth. LED lights lined the ceiling and a long corridor with tiled floors stretched north and south. A short passage leading west took them to a parallel corridor.
As John followed Mathis, he saw immense size rooms on both sides with sliding glass doors requiring keycards or badges to enter. The names of the distinct branches within the FBI including National Security, Science and Technology, Criminal, Cyber, Response and Services Branch, and I.T. were displayed on the doors, in big bold black letters. Two bodyguards in black suits stood on either side of the doors armed with full-auto HK MP8 submachine guns and Sig Sauer P226 sidearms.
Mathis scanned his keycard and led John into the CCRSB office. Just as was in the other rooms, the gigantic office had the latest in futuristic technology. 8K resolution monitors lined the walls. A hologram screen stood in the center of the room and a holographic portal with a walkway in front of the board. Voice-activated touchscreen computers with transparent screens sat atop glass desks.
The Navy Seal vet whistled aloud. "They must be paying you well if they can afford all this,” he remarked.
Mathis grunted in agreement. " Big Dog's got to eat.”
"Lassie didn't live this good," John retorted. "Meanwhile I can’t even afford a can of Pedigree.”
“And whose fault is that? I have to grab a file from my office. Stay hear.” Mathis headed off, but stopped and turned around. “Oh, and John, just… no sudden movements, okay? Don’t touch anything; don’t even look anyone in the eye. You're red hot enough.”
John smirked and caught glares from busy agents passing by. He watched a woman touch her computer screen and pinch a map file. She swiped it and the map connected right to her phone. She then made her way to where several others hovered around one of the monitors. Tapping one of the men on the shoulder, she made a gesture with her hand and a large hologram of the map popped up from the phone. The man pointed to various locations and wrote it down.
“Impressive, huh?” Mathis said, returning with a clipboard.
“There’s no way you guys had enough resources or time to build all this during the war,” John said as they left the room and continued down the hall.
“And you are correct, soldier. These projects began during Jimmy Carter’s Era. The Cold War had our boys on edge because of the threats on American soil. So, we started building in the late ’70s. It wasn’t until the Bush administration in 89’ that we got funding approved to become operational. Things really took off when the World Trade Center was bombed in 93.”
“So, this whole wing belongs to the FBI?”
“Yep. DOD, the Justice Dept, and HAVOC are further down.”
“HAVOC?”
“Yep. Special forces teams of all our branches. CIRG, SWAT, QRT all rolled into one bad news Justice League. We have secret training facilities all over the world and soldiers ready to deploy at the press of a button, should things get harry in one of our ops.”
“You mean like with Angel Guard and Red Horse? The guys that took me from the cabin? Or are they just ticket scalpers who owe you a favor?”
Mathis smiled, shook his head, and pointed to the pathway they just came from. "That corridor leads back out into the main hall. DEF CON, Homeland, and CIA are on the opposite side.” Mathis chuckled and shook his head. “We’re even getting NORAD back up and-
“Wait,” John interrupted. “You guys employed DEF CON? I recall you once referring to them as-and I quote-a bunch of lazy entitled brats who sell weapons to terrorists on the black web.”
“Yesterday’s enemies are today’s heroes. How do you think we got all this?"
John sobered and stopped. "I want to see Claire. Now. I need to know she’s in one peace.”
Mathis stopped and studied his prize protege. “I thought I made myself clear on the terms of our arrangement.”
“Yeah, well that was before you told me she was here. You just said that the Central Intelligence Agency is on the other side."
Mathis walked back to where John stood. “Yes, I did; CIA HQ. This isn’t a black site, John. You won’t find Claire or any other prisoner here for that matter. But she will be fine. As long as you do your job, they won’t harm a hair on her head. Trust me."
John chortled. "That’s rich coming from you. Trust you?"
"You know what? Trust me; don’t trust me. I don’t care. Just remember that your neck isn’t the only one on the line here. So, you’re going to go into this briefing and play ball, you got that?"
“I’m not signing off on anything until I talk to my daughter."
"And I told you it's not up to me."
"Then it sounds like you have a problem," John said walking away.
"Hey!" Mathis yelled. "You have a death wish, boy? You won’t make it up the second floor."
"Well at least I’ll have some company on my trip to hell," John said. “Mathis, if you were in my position, you'd do the same thing. I need her to hear my voice.”
Mathis rubbed his jaw and scanned John's face. “I knew my training you would come back to bite me. Alright. We’re headed to DoD now. The director can be a bit of a diva so just let me do all the talking. No snarky comments or quips, alright? Let’s go."
The gargantuan size of the Department of Defense wing took John’s breath away. Substantially roomier than the FBI wing, it was almost impossible to believe that they were underground, or that anyone could hide a place this size from the GRA. John found more of the same here; 8K monitors futuristic communications and computers that can fly and cook your pizza, or at least that’s how he referred to it. Military personal in full uniform moved about the hall, preoccupied with work. Marines stood guard at every door armed with M28 Infantry Automatic Rifles, an upgraded version of the M27.
Mathis took John to a door that simply read ‘Command’ and spoke to the two guards at the door.
“Gentlemen, my name is Gordon Mathis with the FBI. This is VIP-
“Sir?” one of the guards said, cutting him off. “That’s beyond my clearance.” He pressed the clip on his earpiece. “Sir, the CCRSB is here with the VIP… Yes sir.”
The guards opened the black double doors and ushered them in. “After you, Gordon,” John smiled.
“Shove it,” Mathis replied. They stopped at a metal detector and Mathis was asked to surrender his sidearm.
"Very nice piece,” one of the guards said examining the weapon. “Is this the rare new addition Rex Zero 3 Tactical Compact?”
“Yep,” Mathis said nonchalantly.
“With a biometer, tracer rounds, and microdots?"
"Yep."
“Awesome; custom made?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Mathis replied. “You’d have to ask the guys we stole it from.” The guard laughed as if he thought Mathis was joking. When Mathis didn’t respond, the guard narrowed his eyes at him and let him through.
“In all fairness, they were GRA agents,” John told the guard when they searched him.
“Oh, ok,” the guard said. “That makes sense.”
“Yo, let’s move this along!” Mathis said. “We’re late.”
“Well he must be a barrel of laughs,” the guard said.
“You have no idea,” John replied.
Mathis hurried to the back of the room where two more guards stood at a door.
“The tide is turning,” one of them challenged as he approached.
“Here comes the dawn,” Mathis responded.
“Upstairs to the right,” the guard said and opened the door.
Mathis led John up a winding staircase and an older heavyset man waited at a check-in counter.
“Al,” Mathis said with a broad smile. "How’s the coolest guy in the world?”
“Yeah, whatever,” the Caucasian man said, furrowing his brow. “You’re late and the brass is rocking off its hinges.”
“Things took a bit longer than I anticipated.”
“Well while you were dragging your feet, I was stuck here, getting an earful from your boys,” the older man said.
“Huh? What boys? I'm the only one from the bureau that was read in on this.”
Al glanced around and beckoned Mathis to come closer. “The big wicks don’t feel the same. They called in Dom from Intelligence and the weird looking bag of bones that looks like the Keebler elf? What’s his name?”
“You’re talking about Rich from NSA?”
Al snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that’s him. I hate that guy.”
“Dang it,” Mathis said to John. "They’re trying to squeeze me out. Raul wasn’t joking about last chances.”
“Raul?” Al said. “The deputy director didn’t make this call. He’s been temporarily resigned to ready the UAM for deployment.”
“The United American Military Forces are in on this too?” John laughed in disbelief. "What kind of mission is this?”
Al gawked at John with a blank expression on his face; mouth open. “Who’s this chucklehead?” he said to Mathis.
“Never mind him,” Mathis said. “So, if Raul isn’t in charge then who’s running this op?”
“I don’t know. But it must be serious. OSD is here.”
Mathis dropped his head. “Is she here?”
“Yep and she’s in a mood."
“Wait a minute,” John said, smiling to keep from getting angry. “I’m sorry for interrupting this sacred watercolor moment. But chucklehead has one more question and somebody better tell me what is going on here. Did you just say OSD? As in-
“Mathis!” John heard the voice of a woman call out. “Over here. My grandmother moves faster than you and she’s dead. Let’s go!”
John located a short attractive Caucasian woman in her fifties with brunette hair and designer glasses at the entrance of a short hallway. She sported an olive color pinstripe suit and her hair was neatly tucked in a bun.
“Mother Mary and Joseph,” Mathis groaned. “Madam Secretary!” he said, turning on the charm again. "Is it me or does an angel get its wings every time I see your smile?"
“Can it, old man,” the woman said. “I was seconds from sending HAVOC after you.” She turned and reached out her hand to John. “You must be the VIP; Madam Secretary Madison Walsh.”
“I’m sorry,” John said. “Did you say Madam Secretary; as in the Secretary of Defense of the United States?”
“Bowen Graham might think that we don’t exist. But we were sworn in just hours after the Jetson administration was assassinated.”
"Madam Secretary,” Mathis said. “This is John-
“Hemingway, I know,” Madam Secretary Walsh said. “You’ve been making a lot of trouble for us lately. The boy wonder here says you’re worth it. We’ll see about that. It’s kind of hard to take someone dressed like a Beastie Boys super fan seriously."
Mathis laughed and slapped John on the back. “Don’t worry, Madam Secretary. I’ll get him suited up, before orientation.”
"Speaking of the Beastie Boys, my daughter is a fan,” John said to her. “She’s young, but she always had an old soul.”
“Hey, what are you doing?” Mathis said to him.
“She’s a lot like her old man,” John continued. “Intelligent, incredibly witty, thinks on her feet.”
“Alright, John,” Mathis said, pushing him forward. “Enough.”
But John pushed his hand away. “Madam Secretary, my daughter is being held hostage by this ingrate. I agreed to do this. But only if I know she’s safe.”
Madam Secretary Walsh appeared to suppress a grin. “Well, aren’t you just adorable; trying to pull a trump card. But Mathis didn’t take Claire Hemingway hostage. I did.”
John’s head began to spin. “This was all you? Wait a minute. I recognize your voice. You’re Redhorse.”
Walsh removed her glasses, cocked her head at Mathis, and burst into laughter. “Maybe you weren’t too far off about this one, Mathis,” she said. "He’s intuitive, a charmer and handsome. Oh, and I love the part, Mr. Hemingway where you try to humanize Claire to connect with me on an emotional level. What? Because I’m a woman, you thought my maternal instincts would kick in? No sell.”
“Oh, come on,” John grinned. "I saw that twinkle in your eye. I got to you.”
“Now you’re just embarrassing yourself,” Mathis told him.
“Oh, leave him be,” Walsh said. “He’s fun. Bad, but fun.”
“Oh,” John said, raising his hand. “I will be a good boy. I promise; hand to God.”
The short thin woman tossed her hair and put her hand on her chest as if flirting with John. “Well, I tell you what,” she whispered. “If I thought that you were sincere in the least, I’d break in a heartbeat. I mean, those eyes. Mm."
John had done this dance a thousand times before. Whether it was trying to get a location out of an asset, being taken hostage, or playing catch me if you can by phone with a nut-job wanting to exchange information for immunity, this was all part of the game. John would put on the biggest smile he could, bedazzle with outlandish humor, and hint at the possibility of entertaining whatever it was that tickled his targets' fancy.
Then once he had them in the palm of his hands, he got his way. The object of the game was to charm his way to achieving his objective, while hopefully leaving enough of an impression that his vengeful adversary, wanting to shoot him in the head or set a bomb underneath his car might give pause.
But he also understood when the games he played on others were being played on him, and Walsh was playing him like a fiddle. He was in no mood after everything he had been through.
“I didn’t want to have to do this,” he said with a disparaging smile. “But you can’t do this mission without me. Otherwise, I’d be dead by now. You want my help, you put Claire on the phone with me, and I mean right now.”
“Enough, John!” Mathis said.
Walsh’s smile faded. “Where the hell do you get off talking to me like that? Do you think I’d give you anything after that stunt you pulled in Charleston? You cost me a lot of time and money. Not-to-mention, it nearly exposed us to JKF. This is what happens when you interfere in my business. You poked the bear and Mama has claws. Now stand down."
She and John stared each other down for about 30 seconds and then she let out a sigh. "Screw this,” she finally said. She whistled for one of the guards to come over. Everyone in the room stopped and stared.
“Yes, Madam Secretary,” the young Marine said.
“Son, what is your name and rank?”
“Madam Secretary, my name is Melvin Gibbs and I am a Lance Corporal with the United States Marines.”
“And Lance Corporal, if I were to ask you to shoot former Navy Seal, John Hemingway, right here, no questions asked, would you do it?”
“In a heartbeat, ma’am. I would consider it an honor to do so.”
“Whoa,” Mathis said. “Everyone just calm down. There’s no need for violence.”
“Then you better talk some sense into your boy. Or Lance Corporal Gibbs is going to have the very distinct honor of taking out the most hated man in the HOJ. And then Mr. Hemingway, I’ll kill your daughter; just for kicks; oh, and much more slowly, of course.”
John wanted to lunge at the woman and rip her throat out. He had felt even more helpless than when Sasha was sick. And now Claire was being held in a CIA black site and possibly being tortured for info. It seemed that no matter what he did, he was unable to protect the women in his life. At that moment he realized that Sasha’s death had all but taken the fire out of his eyes. He had lost the will to live and was on auto-pilot.
At that moment, he realized that he needed the old John back; the John that did whatever it took to get the job done; the John that was effervescent, confident and ingenious; qualities that made his opponents warm and fuzzy enough to let down their guard. Because this trademark charm also made him cold and calculating; a nightmare that his opponents never saw coming. He was the one operative willing to go far enough to burn his enemy’s world to the ground without them knowing that he was the one who poured the gasoline.
“John, come on,” Mathis said. “You have my word that I will do all I can to protect Claire. But who’s going to protect her if you and I both end up dead?"
“You can save your speech, Mathis,” John said. He turned to Walsh. “You win. I’m sorry I underestimated you. I’m really not that guy. I’m your guy. The Horsemen have been good to me. I made some mistakes and some good men paid for those mistakes. I know there’s nothing I can do to change that, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to mend some fences. Madam Secretary, you have my word that I will comply with your orders.”
Walsh motioned for Lance Corporal Gibbs to lower his weapon and return to his post. “What’s everybody staring at? Get back to work. As for you, John, very stirring speech. But I got my eye on you. Now go clean yourself up. You look a mess.”
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