The Peacemaker

by Schuyler Thorpe

  I started hollering for help a moment later.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

  Recovery Room 4-F.

  8:23 PM.

  The crime scene was still five hours old when I got my second visit from the NSA again—four hours after my uncle got out of surgery and was wheeled into his own private room for the night.

  I had joined him—out of deep concern for his safety. As a personal bonus, Shelly was able to transfer Bart from his room to this one—so that I could keep an eye on him as well.

  I thought—then—I was going to die from contentment and happiness; having the two most important people in the world here with me.

  It certainly took a lot from my mind—in terms of stress and constant worry. There was no way Conrad Jones was going to be able to strike twice in one day.

  I sat in between both beds so that I could keep watch on the two, while perusing a classic Season 5 episode of Smallville on the CW.

  But my attention was torn away—in that instant—when I saw the door open and a petite, blond came walking in—taking stock of the scene in front of her and then spotted me.

  “Hello,” the 30-ish woman said in pleasant voice. “My name is Jennifer Coolly—NSA agent out of Springfield, Massachusetts. Are you Ms. Kina Anderson?”

  “Yes.” I said—rising up from my seat to shake hands with her. “I am she. What can I do for you?”

  “Taking over the crime scene—for one.” The woman stated unerringly. “I would like to ask you and your uncle a few questions—if I may?”

  I looked over at Uncle Gary and found that he was still pretty much passed out from the drugs and pain-killers.

  “I’m sorry, Jennifer. But my uncle’s going to be a casualty in this little Question and Answers game of yours. Shelly says that he won’t regain consciousness until possibly early morning or later.” I said.

  Jennifer’s expectant look completely collapsed into disappointment upon hearing this bit of unfortunate news.

  “That’s most distressing. Because according to our preliminary results, Major Richards was the one whom set a trap for a wanted businessman with possible terrorist connections—am I right?”

  “Jones may be a fruitcake with dashing good looks,” I said. “But he isn’t a terrorist as far as I could determine.”

  “So you did have some business dealings of sorts with him, then?” Jennifer queried—tapping in some information on what looked like an IBM Mini. (A fourth-generation portable notepad stylus with internet capabilities and other nifty functions. I always wanted to get one of those, but I was forbidden to because of heightened security concerns.)

  “I did in the beginning.” I admitted openly.

  “What kind?” Jennifer asked.

  “He wanted me to ferry the Prince of Hampton Courts down to Augusta for a golf tourney.”

  “The Prince of Hampton Courts…?” Jennifer asked. “You mean the prince of—?”

  I nodded. “The one and the same.” I said. “Why? Do you have designs on him too?”

  The woman blushed beet red for a second and then stammered, “N-no. Nothing like that. I’m just surprised that you have him here and there’s no one around to protect him.”

  I reached over and picked up my washi from its resting place on the portable nightstand connected to my uncle’s bed.

  “Not to worry. I have everything well in hand—if anyone should try to cross my path stupidly.”

  Jennifer looked at the sheath of the weapon and shrugged. “A little archaic.” She commented. “Most people I know would be packing a little heat in cases such as this.”

  “Not a good idea in my profession.” I said.

  Jennifer looked at me and nodded. “That’s right. You’re the pilot of PROJECT PEACEMAKER—aren’t you?”

  “That’s me.” I offered with a small bow forward. “Ace pilot extraordinaire.”

  “We heard that you had sustained at least two attacks in the last 48 hours—correct?”

  “One came from the HMS Essex and the other—I think—came from the USS Goliath. But neither my uncle nor I are 100% certain.”

  Jennifer appeared troubled by my testimony.

  “Why would either ship attack you? The jet represents the latest in stealth technology. You shouldn’t be showing up on anyone’s radar—let alone be an enemy target.”

  “All I keep thinking is that someone has better tracking abilities than the Peacemaker has presently and they decided to test out some of their new fancy toys on my butt. And it put Bart here—” I pointed out, “—in somewhat dire straits.”

  “Will he make it?” Jennifer inquired.

  “He should be fine in a few weeks.” I said with a look of despair mixed with desire.

  Jennifer added that to her IBM Mini and said, “that’s good to hear. The last thing we need is an international incident between Great Britain and the US.”

  “I think that’s what Conrad was trying to create. But he keeps running into problems. Namely…? Me.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would this man be so interested in starting a war between both super powers?”

  “He didn’t say—when we first met in the prince’s recovery room—but he seemed to be very adamant on killing Bart. Like he needed him out of the way for some strange reason.”

  “Most people whom kill others, usually have personal motives.”

  “But this man was Bart’s personal bodyguard! And before that…he was an MI6 agent—straight of a James Bond movie! Shouldn‘t that be an indicator of some sort?”

  “It may come as no surprise, Ms. Anderson, but not everything is laid out in the wide open for all to see. Human beings are the most craftiest lot when it comes to hidden plans, plots, or ideas. Law enforcement and government agencies don’t have all the answers or even clues when it comes to bringing down an operation such as this—so it takes us time to bring all the pieces together.”

  “And in the meantime…? A war gets started over lost chances and more people will end up dying as a result.”

  There was quiet silence between us—even as the TV played on.

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t go off on some half-baked mission of vengeance,” Jennifer scolded clearly—a few seconds later.

  “I’m not planning on it.” I countered easily. “But I have been toying with another idea though.”

  “Which is?”

  “To pay a visit to the Essex. I want to talk with the ship’s captain.”

  That surprised the woman.

  “W-why?”

  “I need to find out why Captain Mariah Mitchell gave a fighter wing of hers permission to fire on us.”

  “What do you hope to accomplish by that?”

  “Answers.” I said. “Plain and simple.”

  Jennifer leaned back in her chair to consider my proposition.

  “I can’t speak for everyone, but as senior agent on site, I would advise caution.”

  “Not to worry. After the last couple of days, I’m going to be a little more wary of cute guys crossing my path.”

  “Cute…guys?”

  I nodded. “That’s how all this crap got started. I fell for it because the bad guy was a dish and the prince was even better. And the money being offered was something even I couldn‘t resist.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that. How much did he pay you for this job?”

  “Almost a million-five.”

  Jennifer’s eyebrows bunched up—followed by the frown traveling across her face.

  “That seems a tad too high. Even if it is for one person.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone like Conrad Jones who comes along to dump a huge wad of money on you has more than just an ulterior motive to kill a member of the royal family.”

  “Money? Profit? Greed?” I ticked right off the bat. Then I shuddered. “Can’t be sex. There’s no way I would want to jump him, or have him touch me.”

  Jennifer suppressed a giggle.

  “You may never know these days. Ba
d guys always find the object of their affections the most attractive and go out of their ways to obtain what they desire.”

  I shuddered again. “I hope not. The last thing I need to go through is another scene from Goldfinger—where one of the Bond girls ends up dead and is found painted in gold.”

  “I doubt that will happen with you, Ms. Anderson.” Jennifer reassured me with a grin. “Not many guys I know could afford to have that done to their girlfriends.”

  I wore a less than convincing look on my face.

  “These days…? You can never tell with absolute certainty.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY.

  5:30 AM

  Morning came with a vengeance for me as the alarm—which I stole from my apartment—kicked in with some soft rock music from U2.

  “—I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…” came the classic line and it made my ears turn a bit pink.

  Either it was from guilt from my ongoing attempts to find some bit of romance with Bart, or it was the fact that I let a former MI6 agent get the best of me yesterday.

  My favorite conspiracy theory—currently—was that someone out there was gunning for me and I had to stay one step ahead of the bad guys; lest I punched my own ticket prematurely.

  I reached over to turn off the alarm clock, but decided instead to tweak the volume up just a tad—letting the strains of U2 filter through the recovery room, before the next classic song—something from Whitney Houston—started on its own accord.

  I frowned at that—thinking that my uncle didn’t need to hear that mushy love song from “The Bodyguard”. (And for that matter—? Neither did I.)

  After turning off the radio, my mind retroed back to the previous night—as me and Jennifer continued to talk, share information, and converse on some other things. Our discussion went well into the night and didn’t end for another two hours.

  By this time, a few nurses had come and gone—checking up on both my uncle and Bart—then leaving for the evening; promising to return sometime after the second shift had completed its rounds.

  Jennifer bid herself goodbye at this point and I was left with a personal dilemma: Stay here or go home.

  I stayed—only because I knew that I wouldn’t get much sleep (if any) back at my place—and grabbed a small cot, blankets, sheets, and a couple of nice, fat, pillows to rest my head on.

  I picked a corner spot across from Bart’s bed and then laid the washi up against the wall while I set things up. It didn’t take me long to settle into bed and fall asleep rather quick.

  I didn’t dream last night—that was for sure. I just felt nice and safe where I was—encompassing the whole room in my heart and soul and projecting nice and happy thoughts to both Bart and my uncle; while praying that they both recovered quickly.

  I took my time in folding up the blankets and tearing off the sheets—balling them all into a large ball. I folded the bed and leaned it against the wall—then bent down to retrieve my sword.

  A look out the window revealed only darkness with the hint of morning light coming in over the horizon—from across the field.

  Everything closer to me looked normal and I wasn’t expecting anything then.

  I walked over to Bart’s bed—checking on him, making sure everything was still in place—only to stare into his beautiful face.

  I sighed, thinking of so many things I would like to do to him and for him, but finding myself a bit overwhelmed by my own feelings of desire and lust for the hot 18-year-old.

  It made me feel like I was twenty or twenty-five again—so full of sexual energy and nowhere to release it.

  Even my scumbag ex-boyfriend couldn’t light the fire that I felt now.

  So I resigned myself to being the prince’s personal guardian angel while he was out cold—instead of the passionate, nurturing lover that I wanted to be.

  I laughed silently—thinking of the days ahead when I would surprise him—dressed provocatively as possible—and he wouldn’t know what to do about it.

  Bending down, I delivered a small kiss to his forehead.

  “Sleep well and get better, my prince.” I told him quietly. Then I went back to my uncle and gave him a kiss on the forehead as well.

  “I’ll be back.” I told him quietly. “Maybe with some proof this time. I don’t know. Thing could get dicey.”

  I was sure he was going to wake up any minute and scold me for going out on my own—without any Pentagon support or approval. But I knew some of his friends still worked there and maybe I could get them to sanction this little unscheduled visit of mine without sounding too put off in the process.

  My uncle continued to sleep away—unaware of anything around him.

  One of the day shift nurses came in and I immediately jumped her with a request.

  “Do you think that you can tell my uncle of my absence, Natalia?”

  “Sure, Kee.” The brunette answered.

  “Make sure you tell him that I’m taking the Peacemaker on a recon mission to New York. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  “New York?” The young woman asked curiously.

  I nodded. “It’s something that I have to do.”

  The nurse took a moment to write down what I asked her and then placed it on the nightstand next to my uncle’s bed.

  “The note will be right here,” she said—pointing it out to me.

  I thanked her before taking one last look at both patients in bed.

  “What time do you think my uncle will wake up?” I asked Natalia.

  “Hopefully, around eight or so.”

  An idea suddenly lit up inside my head.

  “Perfect.” I said with some breathless excitement in my voice.

  “What? Why?”

  “What’s the phone number for this room?”

  “802-767-2355.”

  I wrote it down quickly and gave Natalia an affectionate bear hug.

  “Thanks!”

  “Y-your welcome…” the nurse said—in a bid to compose herself just a little.

  I was gone in a flash after that—a plan forming in my mind.

  ***

  6:21 AM

  Refueling/Maintenance Hanger 1-B.

  Keith helped me get into one of my spare uniforms in a hurry, before ducking out for a second to get the helmet.

  “Here.” He said—handing it to me. I quickly put it on and asked, “Is she ready?”

  “Refueling took about two hours and we did some maintenance on top of that.” The native South-Carolinian informed me—his black skin shining in the overhead lights.

  The Peacemaker had been turned to face towards—after I took a second to make a call to the guys at the nurse’s station on my way out.

  “But otherwise—? She’s ready to go.”

  “You guys are a godsend. Even poor Tobias.”

  “Yeah…” the other man said sheepishly. “He’s a pain sometimes, but he does excellent work.”

  “How soon is he able to get back on his feet?”

  “4-6 weeks.” Keith told me. “And that’s just being conservative.”

  “No doubt,” I said, making sure that everything was locked down and locked tight.

  I didn’t need a stupid accident based on the fact that I had forgotten to check things to the hilt and make sure that nothing was out of place.

  Or out of order.

  “I heard what happened to your uncle and the prince.” Keith was telling me—as we walked towards my jet.

  I stopped for a second—surprised that he actually knew.

  “Uh…yeah. How did you find out?”

  “News around here travels fast. But the official media reports point to a riding accident—just like your uncle planned.”

  “And what about my uncle?”

  “The Pentagon issued a statement saying that your uncle was injured in a shooting accident while hunting with a couple of close friends.”

  “It’s April here, Keith,” I said dryly. “I doubt that there are any leftover Thanks
giving turkeys out here to shoot.”

  “Not to worry.” Keith grinned. “They said it involved either quail or pheasant.”

  I laughed—despite the grave situation. “That would be like my uncle all right. Or my father. Remember the time when his rifle backfired accidentally and he got a ricochet right in the back of the leg? ”

  Keith nodded. “How could I forget? He was hobbling around like crazy for awhile—still shouting orders at the rest of us with two crutches.”

  “So long ago…” I mused sadly.

  “15 years isn’t that long.” Keith tried to deflect.

  “Yeah…but I was young once and so full of energy and drive—wanting to do everything, but my dad somehow managed to keep the reigns on me just before he died.”

  “Your dad was only looking out for your best interests, Kee. We all were.”

  I glanced over at Keith’s white hair and smiled. “So you were, old man.”

  “You got that right. I’m old enough to be your second father. So don’t you go and forget that.”

  I saluted jauntily and laughed. “Yes…sir.”

  Keith chuckled and then went ahead to pull down the pilot’s ladder for me.

  “Be careful, Kee.” He offered up in all seriousness. “You may not know who’s out to get you these days.”

  My expression suddenly turned to stone and I said, “Yes, I do. And that SOB is going to get it in spades—one way or another. For what he did to my uncle, and what he did to Bart. Neither deserved it.”

  “That may be so…” Keith replied, before dropping back behind me. “But revenge is something that can’t be doled out because you want to see the other person hurt worse than they hurt you.”

  “Don’t worry, Keith. I don’t plan on getting even with Mr. Jones just yet. I want to play his game for a little bit before going in for the kill.”

  As I climbed up and into the pilot’s seat, I heard him reply with:

  “Some games are more deadlier than you can imagine, Kee. If you intend on following Mr. Jones—or pacing him—be sure that you got all your ducks in a row before you act.”