by Will Jordan
He had lost something out there; something of great value. Franklin could see it in his eyes.
‘Naturally you’re going to be asked to testify in front of Congress,’ he warned. ‘They’re already kicking up a real shit storm about this.’
Much of Mitchell’s evidence had been destroyed in the desperate battle outside Kabul, but what remained had been more than enough to prompt a full Congressional hearing – behind closed doors, of course. Horizon’s activities worldwide had been suspended pending the results of the investigation.
Carpenter himself, however, was unable to appear before Congress. He had been found dead in his office in Kabul, killed by a single gunshot to the chest.
Frost had also been recovered from the building, remaining holed up in the impregnable security room while she waited for an Agency assault team to retrieve her. The building’s formidable security systems had presented no threat after she disabled them, though she had been unable to explain what had happened to Carpenter. All security camera footage of her escape from the holding cells, as well as his death, had been conveniently lost.
‘Better late than never, eh?’ Drake remarked cynically.
‘That’s the way things work on the Hill. Fix the barn door when there are enough people around to see you do it, and let the horses take care of themselves.’ Franklin sighed and rose up from behind his desk, moving stiffly as his injured back protested. ‘You did a hell of a job out there, Ryan. Nobody could have asked more of you.’
Drake said nothing as he stood up. Perhaps nobody could have asked more of him, but Keegan, Crawford and Mitchell were still dead. They might not have asked for it, but they deserved more from him.
Rounding the desk, Franklin laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Keegan. He was a good man.’
Drake looked his friend in the eye. Whatever water had passed under the bridge for both of them, he meant what he said.
‘Yeah. He was,’ Drake agreed.
Franklin glanced away for a moment. ‘Listen, if you need time off, take as long as you want. The same goes for Frost. You both earned it.’
Hearing Frost’s name brought a pang of guilt. The young woman had learned of Keegan’s death only after being retrieved from Horizon’s headquarters building, and he knew it had hit her hard. She had barely spoken to him or anyone else since their return to Washington.
Drake shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I’ve rested enough.’
The prospect of sitting alone in his house with nothing to do but brood on his mistakes didn’t sit well with him. Here at least he could be useful.
Today, however, the paperwork could wait. He had something far more important to attend to.
Keira Frost sighed as she pulled the bike into her driveway and killed the engine. She had been out for most of the day, wandering the streets of DC without really seeing anything, watching the tourists gawking at landmarks, before riding down the I95 to the coast and back.
It was a route she was quite familiar with, and normally enjoyed, but not today. She felt as if all the life and energy had been sucked out of her. Nothing held her interest, nothing gave her enjoyment any longer.
Pulling off her helmet, she frowned, suddenly wary. She could hear the distinctive tap of a hammer against metal. It was coming from her garage.
Opening the storage compartment beneath the seat on her bike, she removed the Smith & Wesson .38 revolver she always kept there. Unlike automatics, revolvers could be kept loaded for long periods without any maintenance, making them ideal as backup weapons.
Checking that all six chambers were loaded, she advanced towards her garage, keeping the weapon low. The banging continued. Someone was definitely in there, and now that she was closer, she could see that the padlock on the door had been unlocked.
If someone was trying to steal her car, they were in for a disappointment. The damn thing hadn’t run since the day she brought it home and dismantled the engine.
Frost backed up against the wall, taking a couple of deep breaths to get more oxygen in her bloodstream. Then, cocking the revolver, she gripped the edge of the door and hauled it open.
‘What the hell?’ she gasped.
Glancing up from the engine bay of her Ford Mustang, Drake held up his oil-covered hands in mock surrender.
‘I know you weren’t happy with your raise this year, but that’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?’
Frost lowered the gun, feeling faintly ridiculous with it in her bike leathers.
‘Ryan, what the fuck are you doing in my garage?’
‘Working.’ Straightening up, Drake gestured to the car’s engine bay. When she’d left this morning it had been a confusing mess of disconnected pipes, valves, wires, radiators, cylinders and countless other components she didn’t understand.
But now, to her disbelief, it appeared whole and complete. The engine block had been reassembled, the cylinders all put in place, the spark plugs all connected. All the replacement parts she had bought months earlier and almost given up on ever being used were now installed, gleaming in the overhead light.
‘You can’t be serious,’ she said, her mouth almost hanging open in shock.
He must have been working at it all day long. She’d had no idea he even knew about engines.
‘My dad was mad about cars. Every weekend he’d be out in the garage taking engines apart, and making me help.’ He shrugged, wiping his hands on his already filthy T-shirt. ‘Believe it or not, I learned a thing or two.’
‘Does it work?’
Smiling, Drake reached into his pocket and tossed her a set of keys. ‘Only one way to find out, Keira.’
Hardly daring to hope, she opened the door, settled herself in the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. The interior smelled just the same as the day she’d bought it; that curious combination of old leather, oil, dust and machinery.
Closing her eyes for a moment, she turned the key.
The starter motor whined, the engine turned over once, twice, caught and faltered for a moment, then suddenly burst into life with a deep, throaty roar that shook the entire vehicle.
‘Give it some power,’ Drake advised.
Hardly able to believe it, Frost pressed her foot down. The big V8 engine growled with increased power, rough and unsteady for several seconds, then gradually settling down to a smoother, more controlled roar.
When at last she shut it down and stepped out, her ears were ringing and she was beaming in delight.
‘It’ll probably sound like a dog for the first hundred miles or so,’ he warned, arms folded. ‘The engine will need some time to run in, but—’
He was interrupted when the young woman suddenly threw her arms around him and pulled him close in a fierce, heartfelt embrace. Drake fell silent and just held her. For the first time in a long time, he felt as though he had done something good.
When at last she pulled away, she wiped her eyes as if the engine smoke had irritated them. ‘I know why you did this, Ryan,’ she said, running her hand along the car chassis. ‘Thank you.’
‘It was long overdue,’ he said, then gestured to the waiting car. ‘So, she’s all ready to drive. Where do you want to go?’
The young woman looked up at him. ‘Same place you do.’
Located on the north wall of the CIA’s Original Headquarters Building, the Memorial Wall was a simple but poignant tribute to Agency employees who had died in the line of service, each one represented by a simple star carved into the stone.
A few weeks ago there had been eighty-five stars. Now, three new ones had been added. And beneath the carved monument, framed by stainless steel and set within inch-thick glass protection, was the Book of Honour, containing as many of the names of the fallen as were allowed. Some would for ever remain unknown.
Leaning a little closer, Drake could make out the three new entries.
2008 – Harrison T. Mitchell
2008 – David S. Crawford
&nbs
p; 2008 – John J. Keegan
‘It’s funny,’ Frost remarked, her voice hushed and soft. ‘All the time I worked with him, I never even knew he had a middle name.’
That was too much for her. Drake heard a muffled sob, and turned to see her with one hand covering her mouth, her eyes red and streaming.
She had to let it out.
He could feel his own eyes stinging as he pulled her close, holding her in silence while she gave in to it at last.
Epilogue
It was a warm, balmy evening not unlike the one when this had all started. Drake was sitting on his back doorstep with a glass of whisky in his hand, staring up at the sunset-tinged clouds without really seeing anything. The sounds of car engines, television sets, stereos and children playing were a familiar, comforting background drone.
The sounds of normal, everyday life going on around him. Around him, but not with him.
He wasn’t sure whether he should have felt grief, sadness, anger or something else, but no emotions stirred in him. After everything that had happened, he just felt drained and empty.
He took another sip of whisky. He might have steered away from it lately, but today was an exception.
He almost didn’t bother to look when his cellphone started ringing, but habit eventually won out. It wasn’t in his nature to leave a ringing phone unanswered.
The call was from a withheld number.
Frowning, he answered it, bracing himself for a telemarketing call.
‘Yeah?’
‘Ryan.’
With that single word, everything changed. Laying down his drink, he sat up straighter, feeling his heart beating fast and urgent.
‘Anya.’
‘I can’t stay on the line for long. They’ll try to trace it.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To say thank you, for everything you did,’ she said. ‘And to say that I am sorry for what happened to your friends. It’s hard to lose people you care about.’
Drake closed his eyes at the sudden pang of sadness and longing her words evoked. ‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed. ‘I heard about Carpenter. I suppose I have you to thank for that?’
‘He got what he deserved,’ she confirmed. She said nothing for the next few seconds, and he began to wonder if she was still there. ‘Ryan, I …’
She trailed off, either unwilling or unable to go on.
Drake held the phone a little closer. ‘What is it?’
He heard a sigh, faint but audible nonetheless. The sigh of someone facing up to a truth they have tried not to acknowledge. ‘It is hard to lose people we care about,’ she repeated. ‘I … I am glad I didn’t lose you.’
Drake exhaled, raising his eyes towards the sky again. He wondered where she was at that moment, whether she was watching that same sunset.
‘Will I ever see you again?’
Silence greeted him. Strained, anxious, desperate. A silence aching to be filled. An admission desperate to be made.
‘Goodbye, Ryan,’ she said at last.
She hadn’t said it because she couldn’t.
She didn’t have to.
‘Oh, and one more thing,’ she added. ‘You have a visitor.’
With that, the line went dead. And sure enough, moments later he heard a knock at the front door.
‘I don’t believe it.’
She had to be close. Setting his glass down, he stood up and looked around, thinking for one wild moment that he could catch up to her before she left the area, find her somehow and say the things she hadn’t been able to.
And then, as soon as it came, the thought vanished. Anya wouldn’t be found unless she wanted to be. That was the way it had always been with her, and always would be. And for today at least, it was enough.
He smiled a little as he looked up at the sunset-tinged clouds. He didn’t know what the future held for either of them, but he sensed, somehow, that he hadn’t seen the last of her.
The knocking was repeated, a little louder now. Someone was waiting for him.
Hurrying through his disorganised house, he unlatched the front door, gripped the handle and pulled it open.
It was no random visitor who had stopped by tonight.
Standing on his doorstep was Samantha McKnight.
Like him, she had been through the mill during their time in Afghanistan. The final desperate stand in that ruined compound had left her with several fractured bones and various other injuries. However, a couple of weeks of rest and recuperation had done a lot to restore her health.
She looked now much the same as when they had first met. Bright, confident and, much as it hadn’t escaped his notice first time around, attractive.
They had parted company several days after the mission’s end, when Drake was well enough to fly back to Langley for debriefing. Not being a member of his team, she had remained behind, though they had both agreed to look each other up the next time they were in their respective countries.
It had seemed like an empty promise at the time, but even then he had caught himself hoping it wasn’t. And now here she was, standing mere feet from him.
‘You’re a long way from Kabul,’ he observed.
‘I guess I was ready for a change of scenery.’ McKnight smiled – that same smile which had so caught his attention the first time they met – then glanced over his shoulder. ‘Well, aren’t you going to invite me in, Ryan?’
Drake smiled. There was no need to ask – they both knew the answer.
Acknowledgements
Writing ‘that difficult second book’ is something a lot of authors seem to approach with thinly veiled trepidation, and so it was for me when I first sat down to tackle Sacrifice. It took about two chapters before I realised my fears were unfounded, and I can honestly say that this novel has been an absolute joy to work on, due in large part to the people I’ve been lucky enough to have around me.
My thanks as always go to my editors Kate Burke and Georgina Hawtrey-Woore at Century for their help in shaping this book (and for keeping it to a tolerable length!), my copy-editor Mary Chamberlain for her tireless work in stopping me from contradicting myself, and my agent Diane Banks, who has been my guide through the complex but ever-fascinating world of publishing.
I’d also like to thank my good friend William Wilson for his insights into the murky and often baffling world of military terminology, and for recounting his experiences while on deployment in Afghanistan. His stories of the problems, challenges and humour encountered by soldiers in the field were invaluable as I tried to do justice to that troubled but starkly beautiful country, and the brave men and women serving there.
Lastly, I will always be grateful to my wife Susan, and to all my friends and family for their tremendous support and encouragement. It means more than most of them will ever know.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
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Published by Century 2013
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Copyright © 2013 by Will Jordan
Will Jordan has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Century
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781780890401
