Deedee rose to her feet. “Stop saying that. You’re not a monster, you’re my brother. And—” She paused to wipe away the tears welling up in her eyes. “And I love you. I’ll always love you, even if you make a million mistakes.”
Jarrod stood and circled the table. He paused next to his sister and put a hand on her shoulder. She brushed it away then wrapped him in a hug. She wept softly into his chest, and he whispered apologies into her ear.
Ward tapped a button, and the screen went blank. He hit another button, and the audio feed cut out. Choking back his emotion, he said, “They deserve a little privacy. Thank you for helping me arrange this, Eric.”
Eric’s voice was thick with emotion. “Sure. I’ll, uh, make sure she gets home safely.”
The high-pitched keening in the cameras suddenly stopped. Moments later, the microphones hidden throughout the room let out a barely audible pop as they, too, shut down.
Jarrod pulled away from his sister. “Deedee, I want you to know that I meant everything that I said. I am so sorry for the things that I’ve done, and knowing that you still love me is the greatest treasure I could ever have. But I have a question for you—one I couldn’t ask while anyone else was listening.”
She rubbed her bloodshot eyes and nodded. “Okay.”
Jarrod cleared his throat. “What would you do if you knew about a man who was trying to kill an evil woman, but the woman was pregnant?”
She frowned. “That’s two questions, Jarrod.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your first question is: what would I do if I knew about a man who was trying to kill an evil woman? And I’m not sure what I would do. Your second question is: what would I do if I knew about a man who was trying to kill a baby? And I know exactly what I would do. I would stop him. I would protect the baby.”
Jarrod smiled. “That makes sense. Thank you.”
Deedee nodded. She glanced at her watch. “I have to get going. I don’t want my friends to worry about me.”
There were several long moments of silence, then Deedee added, “She’s real, isn’t she? The evil woman you were asking me about?”
Jarrod gave a single nod. “Yes.”
“Are you going to leave, to protect her baby?”
A brief hesitation. “Yes.”
She bit her lower lip. “Well, be safe. I hope I can see you again soon. And if not…” She swallowed. “Then don’t forget who you are.”
Jarrod glanced down at his hands—hands that had taken thousands of lives. “Who am I, Deedee?”
“A guardian. A protector. But most of all, my brother.”
Jarrod brought his arms to his sides and stared into her eyes. “That, I will always remember.”
43
October 18th
Saginaw, Michigan
Laughter filled the room. Janson put on a broad smile but couldn’t bring herself to giggle with the rest of the women. It didn’t seem right.
It was movie night, and Liana had chosen an over-the-top romantic comedy. Everything about the movie, from the dramatization of everyday life to the sexual tension between the characters, grated against her like sandpaper. It was all so…hollow.
Ten minutes into the movie, the leading actress went out shopping with her friends, trying to move past the memory of a bad breakup. She was walking triumphantly from store to store, her hands laden with paper and plastic bags of thirty-percent-off merchandise when the heel on her shoe broke. Then, as she limped along, she bumped into a handsome man and fell to the floor, chipping her nails in the process.
The scene brought back a powerful memory. Suddenly, Janson was in an outlet mall parking lot, engaged in a firefight with three Katharos agents. One of the terrorists jumped to his feet and sprayed automatic gunfire in her direction. None of the rounds hit her—she was sheltered behind an armored SUV. But a thin, middle-aged woman in high-heels had been caught in the crossfire. She stumbled and fell, bleeding from a gaping wound in her skull, landing face-first against the pavement. She had been dead before she hit the ground, but her lifeless eyes were wide open, staring at Janson.
Janson shook her head, forcing herself back to the present. She watched as the Hollywood actor with perfect teeth and manicured nails extended a hand, trying to help the woman up.
The embarrassed leading lady grimaced—embarrassed to have fallen in the presence of such a gorgeous man. “Stay calm,” she whispered to herself and the camera. “He isn’t even that hot.” After a brief pause, she added, “Who am I kidding, he’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen.”
Putting on a winning smile, the woman turned, ready to greet the stranger. But she hadn’t realized he was reaching out to her, and she bumped her left eye into the man’s fingers.
Janson gripped the sofa cushion beneath her. The memory of Jarrod gouging out her eyes came flooding back. She sucked a sharp breath through her teeth and squeezed the cushion tighter.
Tiff chuckled and patted her on the knee. “Eyes aren’t your thing, huh? For me, it’s teeth. I can’t stand it when someone in a movie gets knocked in the teeth. Doesn’t matter that it’s all staged, I still hate it.”
“Yeah,” Janson said softly. “I guess I’m just…sensitive.”
She leaned back and softened her gaze, focusing on a point far behind the television. She tuned out the voices and music by listening to the sounds of cars passing on the street, and she forced herself to laugh when her roommates did.
Two grueling, torturous hours passed, and the final scene arrived. The woman who had broken the heel of her shoe was embracing the handsome stranger—whose name turned out to be John—and she closed her eyes before pressing her lips against his. Miraculously, the couple had overcome every obstacle set against them, including the woman’s allergy to cats and the man’s dark secret—he had once been in a relationship with the woman’s high-school nemesis, Jessica.
Janson swallowed, trying not to think about Siberia, the gunshots, the explosions, and the forest fire. She tried not to think about Clint and the time they had shared together.
“What did you think?” Liana asked as the credits began to roll.
“It was great,” Janson replied. “Best movie I’ve seen in a long time. Excuse me; I need to use the bathroom.” She rose up and strode to the cramped bathroom, locking the door behind her.
Leaning over the sink, she splashed water against her face. She took several deep breaths, cupped the water in her hands, and poured it over her scalp. When she finally stood, the thick makeup on her face was patchy and smeared, exposing the gray skin beneath. She took a moment to dry herself with a hand towel then reached into her pocket and grasped a tube of concealer.
The doorbell rang. Two seconds passed, and it rang again.
Janson frowned. Visitors to the shelter were rare, and since she had arrived, no visitors had arrived after dark. She twisted off the cap on the liquid makeup and applied a healthy portion to her cheekbones.
There was the sound of a man mumbling, then Olivia’s voice rising above his.
“You aren’t supposed to be here, Brody.”
“C’mon, Liv. What’s the big deal? You’re my wife. You’re entitled to a conjugal visit once in a while.”
Two other men began to laugh, and Olivia continued, “This isn’t prison, and you’re not my husband. How the hell did you find me?”
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is, we’re together again.”
“Stop it, Brody. Let go of me!”
Janson rubbed the concealer furiously and checked her reflection. Her contacts were slightly askew and the makeup was lumpy and mottled in places, but it would have to do. Turning around, she twisted the doorknob and pushed. She had forgotten to undo the barrel and bolt lock, and it tore away from the doorframe, showering her with splinters.
She grimaced then hurried toward the front door. All of her roommates, except for Olivia, were huddled by the window, peering through the curtain.
“What the hell is goin
g on out there?” Janson said.
Tiff spoke in a harsh whisper. “It’s Brody—Olivia’s ex-husband. He found her and dragged her outside.”
“Then why aren’t you outside?” Janson snapped. She didn’t wait for a reply. Pulling the front door open, she stormed out and took up a fighter’s stance on the cracked sidewalk.
“Hey, Asshole. Let her go.”
Brody, Olivia, and Brody’s two friends glanced up at her.
“Elizabeth, go back inside,” Olivia said. Her voice was desperate, pleading. “I’ll—I’ll be alright.”
Brody glared at Janson. “She’ll be more than alright. I’m gonna give her the night of her life.” He gripped Olivia’s jaw and squeezed tight. “Isn’t that right, baby.”
Olivia pinched her eyes shut and nodded.
Janson started forward, mumbling under her breath, “You picked the wrong house.”
“What was that?” Brody asked, snarling and tilting his head back. “You got something to say?”
Janson reached past Olivia and seized Brody’s face, grasping his jaw with her left hand. The man immediately released his grip on Olivia and cried out in pain.
“I said…” Janson leaned in closer, breathing into his ear. “You picked the wrong house.”
Brody thrashed in her grip and tried to push her away, but he couldn’t free himself. “Don’t just stand there, get this bitch off me!”
One of Brody’s friends grabbed Janson by the arm and pulled, but she didn’t budge. It was as if she was bolted to the ground. “Holy shit,” he grunted. “This bitch is heavy.”
Brody’s second friend stepped forward and cracked his knuckles. “Alright, lady, you asked for this.” He dug his toes in, pivoted at his hips, and threw a right cross that crashed into the side of her face.
There was a loud crack, and the man recoiled, clutching his right hand with his left.
Brody’s eyes widened. The blow hadn’t been enough to free him, but it had removed some of the makeup on Janson’s face and knocked out one of her contacts. He stared into the oily black eye and stammered, “Wh—what the hell are you?”
She smiled at him, laughed softly, and squeezed her left hand shut.
THE END
From the Author
Thanks for reading! Jarrod’s story continues in book seven of the Dark Vigilante series, Heed the Nightmare. You can find it by searching on Amazon for “J. J. Carlson” or by clicking this link: https://amzn.to/2kz5AxI
If not carefully guarded, our thoughts can become obsessions. Obsessions can lead to actions and actions to habits. Before long, our habits can become so ingrained in our daily lives that they become part of who we are—our identity. The man or woman we see in the mirror may not resemble the person we used to be.
At times, I have been in such a position. I long to reclaim a version of my former self, but I am confronted with an inexorable truth: he is gone forever. Though I still live and breathe, he is nothing but a memory.
Our loathsome qualities, just like our admirable qualities, are forged in the fire of repetition. Hatred, like love, does not come with an “On” and “Off” switch. It grows and festers commensurate with the rate it is fed. And the seeds of hate are often indistinguishable from those of justice and righteous anger, so we must be mindful of the thoughts we cultivate before they grow into actions, habit, and character.
I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I received an off-duty phone call from my Team Sergeant. His voice was uncertain; he said a name and asked me if I knew the man.
I smiled, completely oblivious to what was coming. Maybe my old friend was being considered for an important assignment and needed my recommendation. Maybe he was flying in for temporary duty and needed someone to pick him up at the airport. I told him, yes. I knew him, we trained together for more than six months.
My Team Sergeant took a deep breath and told me that my friend had been killed in combat. And in that moment, I planted a seed of hatred in my heart.
For months, my thoughts constantly returned to my friend. My desires were whittled away until there was nothing left but a thirst for revenge. I became colder, more efficient, more methodical. Mechanical. When I returned to the battlefield, I was a different person. The tragedies of war that had bothered me in the past had no effect on me. I had willfully made my heart callous, which is arguably a good thing when you’re halfway around the planet in a combat zone.
My world became a spotlight in darkness. War, vengeance, and survival were in the center, bathed in blinding light. My friends, family, and mental health were somewhere in the darkness. But by the time I realized what I had done, it was too late. The damage had been done to my psyche and to the people around me. I would love to flip a switch or turn a dial and erase the time I spent savoring the taste of hate, but it isn’t that simple. I had given up parts of myself to make room for vengeance.
Maybe you can relate to my story and maybe you can’t. But please, learn from my mistakes. Focus on the beautiful things in your life, and cultivate the good habits and character attributes that your future self will thank you for.
-JJ
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