by Jeremy Pack
"Drop your piece, Kingsley," Watson said.
Jason moved to comply. Slowly, carefully, he placed his gun on the floor and shoved it away, out of his reach.
Watson came fully around the desk then, his weapon kept carefully trained between Jason's eyes. "How does that old saying go?" he asked in a gravelly voice, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor--- obviously the aftermath of his struggle with Brunner. "An eye for an eye, isn't it?" Watson motioned for Jason to stand.
Jason swallowed hard and rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving his adversary.
"We're going to do this nice... and slow," Watson promised, reaching down and unsheathing the hunting knife at his waist. He brandished the weapon expertly, slicing through the air with graceful ease as he placed the gun on the surface of the desk.
No longer under imminent threat from a bullet between the eyes, Jason adjusted his stance, preparing for hand-to-hand combat. He didn't have a knife, true, but he had years of expert training that made him just as deadly. Though Watson outsized him by a good fifty pounds, he had fought with this man before and had some sense of his style. It would be a difficult but fair fight.
Watson came for him, leading with the blade. They circled and he sliced out, catching Jason in the chest, giving him a taste of the razor-sharp steel. The blade cleaved through fabric and flesh. Blood pooled and overflowed. Though the injury burned like a firebrand, Jason's concentration did not waver. When the next swipe of the knife came, he danced out of its path, and it missed him by a hairsbreadth.
He feinted left, jabbing out and connecting solidly with the tender spot beneath Watson's ribs. He knew it to be vulnerable thanks to the softening-up he had given it scant days ago. The man grunted in pain.
His face contorted, and he countered with the knife, this time drawing a red weal across Jason's arm.
As Watson lunged again, Jason landed a kick to his midsection and sent him careening into the wall. Watson roared and came back spitting.
As he charged forward, Jason dove out of the way, driving his fist into the vulnerability once again and ducking under the knife as he went.
Enraged, Watson spun, tracking Jason with the blade, cutting out in desperation. His once-graceful strokes were now clumsy, made sloppy by frustration.
Jason ducked the knife again and, with a hard punch, knocked it out of Watson's hand. Now unarmed, the brutish man had only his bulk to rely upon, and he used it to great effect. Before Jason could recover from the punch he'd delivered, Watson lowered his head and charged, pummeling into him like a linebacker. They went flying backward, Jason's lower back cracking painfully into the sharp edge of the desk.
Watson's fists flew, landing blow after blow. Jason held up his arms to defend himself, but the man was a force of nature.
Spots swam before his eyes, and a red stain appeared at the edges of his vision as fists slammed into his face, his upper body, his head.
Sensing that he was about to lose this fight, Jason dropped to his knees and delivered a swift punch to Watson's groin. Hit ' em where it hurts. Watson's mouth formed an "o" of shocked surprise, and he doubled over in agony. Moaning, he staggered backward.
As Watson careened away, Jason dove for the knife. He felt strong hands wrap around his ankle. He flailed as he was hauled backward, but he could not shake the grip.
His fingers scrabbled against the hardwood. He stretched out his arm as far as it would go. In the barest instant before he was pulled out of reach, he grabbed onto the hilt of the knife. As Watson yanked him across the floor, he rolled, kicked out with his free leg, and flipped upright, the weapon held before him like a spear. He thrust it forward and drove the blade home.
Watson gagged and shrieked, blood pouring out of his mouth as he fell backward. He clutched futilely at the hilt protruding from his chest, but it was no use. The knife had found its mark. Watson was dead before he hit the floor.
Jason dragged himself over to Frank, every muscle protesting as he forced his body to comply. He fumbled for a pulse and sighed in relief when he found it. It was thready and weak, but Frank was still alive. In the stillness, he could hear the faint, distant sound of sirens from outside the house.
Finally. Finally.
CHRIS met George's hateful glare as he climbed into the boat. The man he had once regarded as a father was virtually unrecognizable. His features were contorted into a mask of evil hatred. Chris raised his chin defiantly, prepared to defend himself and his daughter by any means necessary. This man was not the man he loved. He had become a monster.
George kept his eyes on Chris. He crouched down and withdrew a club from the storage compartment near one of the passenger seats. He brandished it before himself and stood to his full height.
"You have what you want," Chris said through gritted teeth, eyeing the club George held. "Let us go."
George drew the club through his hand and said, "I don't think so. I have the diamond, true, but there's the matter of the authorities." George glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the house. "You and Brianna will make a fine pair of hostages if they try to stop me."
Chris's throat constricted. His heart ached. The change that had come over George was horrifying. "Why, George?" he pleaded. "Why?"
"You brought this on yourself, Christian," George said coldly.
"You with your foolish hope. I told you many times to give it up, but you just wouldn't listen."
"I would have given the diamond to you," Chris said. "All you had to do was ask."
The sincerity, the unrestrained honesty in Chris's pronouncement seemed to puzzle George. Something like regret flashed in his eyes. For a moment, it seemed he might falter. As quickly as it appeared, though, he snuffed it out.
"You're just like your father with this sickening idealism," George said. "It's easy to say now, when your life is in jeopardy, but under difference circumstances, you'd have been as consumed by avarice as any man." Clearly, George didn't understand that there were things in life more valuable than material possessions. He didn't know what true love was. He'd never had a child of his own. How Chris had misjudged this man. How his admiration had been misplaced.
"I would have given it to you," Chris said, a single tear rolling down his cheek.
George wavered again. As if to put down the uncertainty, he cried out and leapt for Chris, swinging the club before him.
Chris ducked out of the way and dropped to the deck. Brianna wailed from beneath the seat, and he shouted, "Run, baby!"
George made a grab for him and managed to catch his leg as Chris scrambled to get to his daughter. As he was hauled backward, he could see confusion and terror in the little girl's round eyes. "Run," he pleaded with her.
George hauled him to his feet and backhanded him. He saw stars as white-hot pain exploded across his cheek. George raised the club to swing.
They struggled with the weapon, and it fell from George's hand.
Enraged, George growled and flung Chris backward. He flew into the glass partition that separated the main deck from the open bow. His skull impacted forcefully with the metal frame, and blackness rushed up to swallow him.
JASON dropped his head onto Frank's gently rising and falling chest and allowed himself a moment of respite. As he crouched there, breathing heavily, overcome with weariness, he heard another sound that made his blood run cold. Somewhere outside, the unmistakable sputtering of an outboard motor trying to start could be heard.
He leapt to his feet and hit the ground at a dead run. MacQuery was getting away.
Once he was outside, his eyes swept left and right and found the boathouse, just visible through a break in the trees at the edge of the property. He sprinted toward it, his wounds and exhaustion forgotten. In his haste, he had neglected to grab his weapon, but there was no time to go back for it.
Seconds later, he crashed through the trees and shoved his way through the heavy swinging doors into the interior of the small wooden structure. His clinical cool was nearly und
one at the sight that greeted him. On the boat, Chris was unconscious, draped across the seats in the open bow. He could not see Brianna, but he could hear her screaming.
George cast an anxious glance over his shoulder and cranked the motor again. This time it roared to life.
The bow of the vessel rose out of the water as it sped away. Jason gave chase. He raced along the dock and leapt into the air, catching the side of the boat. He held on for dear life. George gunned it and steered directly into the chop, trying to throw him off.
As they plied the erratic waves and headed for the open sound, Jason held on for all he was worth. Muscles straining, he fought against the bucking vessel. The water dragged at his feet in a desperate attempt to claim him. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he hooked one leg over the side and used it to lever himself up and into the boat.
As Jason dropped onto the deck, George rose from his seat behind the wheel and came around toward him.
The boat continued ahead on its current course, completely unmanned. Pointed directly into the swells, it was launched into the air with each crest it encountered. The deck lurched violently. In spite of the treacherous footing, George managed to stay upright as he made his way toward Jason. Jason scrambled to his knees and, throwing himself at George, pulled him down onto the deck. They struggled, but the older man was no match for him---even wounded and weakened as he was.
Sensing he could not overpower Jason, George wriggled out of his grasp and skittered backward.
He flipped over and dove into the open bow. As Jason crawled toward him, George glanced over his shoulder. With an evil sneer, he heaved Chris over the side. Jason watched in horror as Chris plunged into the water with a splash. As the boat raced away, leaving him behind, Jason saw his head bob once, twice in the wake, then sink beneath the greasy waves.
George laughed. "Fight me or save him," he said, obviously congratulating himself for the clever dilemma he had just created. "He won't last long in this water." He obviously expected Jason to leap to Chris's rescue. His look of surprise was almost comical when, in a flurry of action, Jason launched himself across the deck and caught him by the throat.
"I think I'll do both," Jason said. He wound up and coldcocked him.
George's eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped into a heap.
As George dropped, Jason threw himself back over the windscreen, latched onto the wheel, and pulled hard on the throttle. Engine roaring, the boat swung around under his control. He scanned the rippling surface of the sound, back along the wake of the boat, searching desperately for some sign of where Chris had gone over. There was no hint, and Jason's heart sank. He was going to have to guess.
When the boat reached the spot he thought was right, he jammed the throttle into reverse to stop the watercraft's forward momentum and dove over the side. The water was icy cold as he plunged in headfirst and kicked rapidly downward. He could see no sign of Chris in the murky depths. Down and down he swam until he thought his lungs would burst.
There. Just ahead. He could vaguely make out Chris's limp form through the gloom. He reached out, kicking hard to propel himself forward, and clutched a handful of Chris's hair. Dizziness threatened, and his lungs screamed for oxygen. He rolled and climbed for the surface.
His head broke through the choppy waves, and he gulped greedily at the air. Huffing, spitting, he pulled Chris's head above the water and swam hard for the boat.
Once he arrived, he held tightly to the swim step and hauled himself up. Reaching down and hooking his hands beneath Chris's arms, he dragged his slack form onboard. Chris's face was ashen, and he was not breathing.
"No," Jason cried, tears springing to his eyes. "He looks dead."
Brianna scrambled out from beneath the seat, wailing and calling, "Daddy! Daddy!" as she crawled toward them.
Jason pinched Chris's nose closed and clamped his lips over his mouth. With force, he blew air into his lungs several times. Clasping his hands together, he shifted position and began chest compressions. He alternated between breathing and chest compressions. Back and forth, back and forth. His distress increased with each passing second that Chris remained unresponsive. Despite his own exhaustion, he did not relent, fighting desperately for Chris's life. "Come on, Chris, breathe. Please, breathe," he begged.
The sound of Chris sputtering as he drew in his first tentative breath was the most beautiful thing Jason had ever heard. Weakly, Chris choked out a frothy gout of seawater onto the deck.
Sobbing in relief, Jason pulled him to his chest and held him tightly.
"That's it, Chris. Just like that. Keep breathing," he urged, rocking him gently in his arms. "I've got you. Stay with me." He reached out and drew Brianna into the embrace. As he held them both, his tears and Brianna's mingled upon the cheeks of the man they both desperately loved. Jason clung fiercely to them, holding on as if his very life depended upon it. "I've got you," he whispered fiercely. "I've got you."
CHRIS sat on a stretcher, cradling his daughter and holding tightly to the warm blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Jason had briefly described what had transpired since they'd been separated, and his head was still reeling from everything that had happened. Off to the side, he could see him conversing with the team of FBI agents.
He turned his gaze to a pair of EMTs wheeling Jason's semiconscious partner, Frank Marcus, toward the waiting ambulance. As they drew close, the wounded man motioned for them to stop. Feebly, he beckoned Chris over. Chris eased himself off his perch, shifted Brianna to his hip, and moved to the side of the litter. He placed his hand upon Frank's and squeezed gently.
Frank coughed and winced. "You gonna be okay?" he asked.
Chris shook his head, and a small incredulous laugh escaped him.
"I'm not the one with a hole in my chest," he responded.
"Just a scratch," Frank said, grimacing.
Chris struggled to find words. "What you did for me... what you both did for me," he whispered, not sure he could control the powerful emotions welling up inside of him. His voice broke, and tears threatened.
"I...."
"Just doing my job," Frank said modestly. He glanced over at Jason.
"Jason, though... he would have moved heaven and earth to get to you. He's damn lucky I didn't tell the agent in charge how this whole thing really went down." Frank's mouth formed an angry scowl. He turned his eyes back to Chris and the scowl faded away. "He's in love with you, you know."
Chris closed his eyes as the tears escaped his control. He couldn't speak, so he just nodded.
"Imagine you need some time to sort this all out," Frank said. Chris looked at him sadly. He was still unable to find his voice. "He's a good man. The best. Remember that, won't you? When the dust settles."
Chris wasn't sure the dust would ever settle, but he couldn't say that to Frank. Instead, he met the older man's serious gaze and held it. "I won't forget," Chris promised him.
Frank reached out and tweaked Brianna's cheek. "And how are you, little red?" he asked.
"Hungry," she answered honestly.
They both laughed, and a pained expression came over Frank's face. "Load 'er up, boys." Frank pointed toward the ambulance. "Best part of being shot," he called out as he was wheeled away. "Good drugs."
Jason concluded his conversation and came up to Chris. He stood at his side as Frank was loaded into the back of the ambulance.
Chris smiled. "He's quite a character," he said.
"Quite," Jason agreed with a twinkle in his eye.
They were silent as the ambulance doors were closed and it rolled away. Finally, Jason spoke. "They're just about ready to take your statement. MacQuery and Brunner will be questioned once their wounds have been treated and they're stabilized. I'd imagine it's going to be a long couple of weeks for you."
Chris took a deep breath. It felt like it had been a long couple of weeks already, though only a handful of days had actually passed. His heart still ached from the terrible betrayal. It w
as still hard to believe that George had been trying to kill him all this time. As long as he lived, he didn't think he would get over it completely.
Jason took his hand and pressed the velvet pouch, heavy with the raw diamond, into his palm. "Here," he said, closing Chris's fingers over it. "You've earned this."
Chris clenched his fists around the stone, and his jaw tightened.
This diamond had been bought with precious blood. In truth, he hated it passionately.
"What are you going to do with it?" Jason asked. "I hear it's pretty valuable."
Chris forced a halfhearted laugh and stared at the pouch in his hand.
"I told George I was going to throw it in the river. Maybe that's what I'll do." He looked from the diamond to Jason. "I never want to see it again."
Jason pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I wouldn't blame you." He met Chris's gaze. "Maybe you should think on it first, though. Some things... they're just too precious to throw away." His stare was meaningful, filled with an unasked question and all the hopes he still secretly harbored in his heart.
Chris returned the stare frankly, knowing what was being asked but unwilling, unable to respond. He could not bring himself to say the words in his heart, to bid this man goodbye, but he had to. He owed him as much. "I... I...."
Jason placed a finger to his lips and smiled softly, sadly. Chris didn't need to say anything more. "I know," he said. "I know." His voice was husky with strong emotion. "I understand."
Ashamed, Chris looked away. It nearly tore his heart out to see the anguish and loss on Jason's face. It echoed the heartache and regret that stabbed painfully into his own soul. Problem was... he just didn't have anything left to give.
"Ahem...." A uniformed officer came up behind them, and the intrusion broke through the awkward moment. "Mr. James?" he asked hesitantly. "We're ready to take your statement."
Chris was still for a few seconds, gathering his strength. Then he turned and nodded. "Of course," he said.
As he walked away, he stole one last look over his shoulder. Jason waved sadly, but it wasn't the gesture of farewell that took his breath away.
