by Lowe, Tom
The jet’s engines started, the whine deafening in the hangar. The Learjet began taxing, easily pushing through a flimsy bay door.
Eric Hunter and the men scattered off the runway as the Learjet plowed through the hangar door. One man aimed toward the front section of the jet. “Hold fire!” Hunter ordered. “We don’t know if O’Brien’s in there.”
As the Learjet taxied farther down the tarmac, O’Brien straddled the motorcycle, bringing the engine to life. He roared through the gears, quickly gaining on the jet.
***
MOHAMMED LOOKED OUT THE pilot’s window. A man was approaching the jet on a motorcycle. He laughed. “Sean O’Brien. You are a boy on a toy.” Mohammed accelerated faster, the jet engines screaming. He watched O’Brien steer with one hand, blood staining his shirt, while pulling a pistol from his belt. “And now you are a boy with a toy gun. We shall meet again, infidel.”
The jet was seconds away from becoming airborne. The motorcycle ten feet from the tip of the left wing on the pilot’s side of the jet.
“Come on, Sean … ,” Jason said. “Don’t miss.”
O’Brien was approaching eighty miles an hour. As the jet was lifting off, O’Brien aimed the Luger and fired. The single bullet ripped through the metal surrounding the cockpit burying deep into Mohammed’s chest. Mohammed glanced out the window in horror, fighting to control the jet, the world going dark all around him.
One of the wings clipped the runway causing the jet to flip end-over-end like a metal garbage can caught in a hurricane gust. It exploded in a ball of orange flames. O’Brien could feel the heat on his face, the Learjet disintegrating before his eyes, a plume of black smoke rising high like an oil well fire. O’Brien dropped the Luger and hit the brakes. The motorcycle was moving too fast, right toward the wall of flames. O’Brien laid the motorcycle down, sparks flying as metal tore into the asphalt runway, the motorcycle coming to a stop about fifty feet from the inferno.
“Call the paramedics!” shouted Hunter. “O’Brien’s got to be in bad shape. Call the fire department! Looks like all hell just popped out of the earth.” The men jumped into their vehicles and raced toward the end of the runway.
O’Brien tried to stand, his legs unsteady, heart slamming, blood seeping from the wound on his shoulder, the heat like a blast furnace off his skin. He limped backward, his right ankle broken, ribs shattered. He bent down painfully and picked up the Luger in his bloodied right hand. He turned back to see the jet burn, the acrid smell of melting rubber, fuel, human skin, and black smoke billowing toward the perfect blue sky.
“A black bullet to paradise … ,” O’Brien said, his voice a whisper beneath the roar of fire, popping glass and cooking metal.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
The following week a memorial was held for Billy Lawson at his gravesite. Two gray squirrels chased each other around a live oak as the people arrived in the cemetery. Soon, the two rows of folding chairs were filled. Glenda Lawson and Abby sat in the center of the first row. A dozen members of the U.S. Army, including the Secretary of Defense, were in attendance.
O’Brien, foot in a cast, bruised and sore, stood under an oak tree and watched the service. Abby reached for her grandmother’s hand, the dapple sunlight filtering through the live oaks and Spanish moss. A soft wind carried the scent of honeysuckles and oak. A dark blue butterfly alighted on the mound of fresh earth atop Billy’s grave.
Secretary of Defense Lewis Whitney and General William Wilson stood, approached the color guard where PFC John Lewis handed General Wilson a folded American flag. Secretary Whitney and the General stepped in front of Glenda and Abby. General Wilson said, “Mrs. Lawson, this flag is presented to you on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your husband, William Lawson’s, honorable and faithful service to the United States of America. Private First Class, William Lawson, died a war hero.”
Secretary of Defense Whitney said, “Mrs. Lawson, and Abby Lawson … on behalf of the President and the United States’ Congress, it is our honor to bestow a posthumous symbol of our appreciation, the Congressional Medal of Honor, for William James Lawson who displayed immeasurable heroism in the last stages of World War II. Our nation owes him a debt and our gratitude.”
Glenda Lawson and Abby stood, Abby holding her grandmother’s arm. Tears welling in Abby’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks. They accepted the flag and the medal.
“Thank you,” Glenda said. She and Abby stepped to the grave. Glenda gently set the medal on top of Billy’s headstone. The two women held hands. Their thoughts silent, their bond forever. In the distance a cardinal sang as Glenda Lawson told her dead husband how much he was loved.
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
O’Brien walked with Max down to his dock on the St. Johns River. The sun was warm and a dragonfly hovered just above the dark water. A young alligator crawled on a cypress knee. It had been almost a month since the funerals for Billy Lawson, the FBI agents and Lauren Miles all were held. Besides Billy and Lauren’s, O’ Brien couldn’t bring himself to attend any of the other funerals. There were too many. He’d seen enough suffering and pain. He knew that Jason Canfield would suffer post-trauma for years, maybe the rest of his life. He would spend time with the kid and do what he could to help him.
Dave Collins had healed well, a metal screw forever in his right shoulder, a dull pain when he lifted something. Dave rationalized it would give him a legitimate excuse to enjoy a few more dry martinis.
Eric Hunter had testified before the U.S. Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs, Hunter’s identity long since compromised. The Department of Energy had taken the bomb to the Savannah River Nuclear facility and dismantled it. Officials said that physicist Lee Toffler had wired the bomb in a way that would have kept it from detonating.
O’Brien thought about that as he looked toward the front of his home and watched a blue Chevy slow down as the driver approached his driveway. The car turned onto the dirt drive, the sound of popping acorns and cracking oyster shells carrying down to the river.
Max barked and trotted up the dock a few feet. O’Brien stood as the woman walked around the side of his house and down his sloping yard to the dock.
Maggie Canfield wore a wide-brim hat with a yellow ribbon on it, beige shorts, and a white blouse. A gold necklace winked in the golden light. She flashed a smile and carried a wicker picnic basket. O’Brien could tell she looked rested. Max bolted to the front of the dock to greet her.
“Hi, Max,” Maggie said, bending down to pet her. Max sniffed the picnic basket and ran in a tight circle. “What a sweet welcome!”
“She knows you are bearing gifts that she can eat,” O’Brien said.
“This is so beautiful. I love your old home and this property. The river is like a painting. It’s everything you said it was. Am I on time?”
“Perfect timing. The sun makes long, luxurious sunsets here.”
Maggie set the basket on a bench and stood next to O’Brien. He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s good to see you, Maggie.”
“Thank you for inviting me out here. And, I’m amazed I found it without my GPS. I gave it to Jason.”
“How is he?”
“He still has trouble sleeping at night. But he’s looking forward to going back to college. I really appreciated you coming to see him the other day. You’re his hero, you know, you and his dad. Oh, and Wes, too,” Maggie laughed and added, “I guess you know him as Eric.”
“Jason’s a good kid.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Good. We can sit right here on the bench, a great spot for a picnic. I made tiny doggie bites of turkey for Max that I’ve put in a plastic bowl.”
“She’ll love you for life.”
Maggie smiled as she unwrapped a sandwich for O’Brien and took the plastic top off the bowl for Max, setting it on the dock. She said, “I have potato salad, two kinds of san
dwiches, havarti cheese, some fruit and a bottle of chardonnay that’s still cold, and brownies. All are homemade, except the wine, of course. Would you do the honors?” She handed O’Brien the wine bottle and a corkscrew. He removed the cork and poured wine into two glasses that Maggie took out of the basket.
“Let’s toast to life and a beautiful sunset,” Maggie said, raising her glass to O’Brien. They touched glasses and began eating. Max finished her food and waited patiently for a tidbit more to make its way to the weathered dock.
“I can see how you love this place,” Maggie said, her eyes moving from the fiery clouds to the deep cherry red reflecting off the surface of the river. “It’s so quiet, so beautiful, and even primordial. Look! There’s an eagle.” A bald eagle dropped out of the sky and snatched a fish from the burgundy surface. The bird flapped its powerful wings and flew to the top of a dead cypress tree to eat.
O’Brien saw the sunset in Maggie’s caramel eyes, her face full of life and awe as she watched the colors change across the sky and water. She smiled with her eyes. That’s what he remembered most about the times they’d spent together long ago. It was her passion and appreciation for the simple, natural things in life. And this was what he had loved so much about his wife, Sherri, before her death. O’Brien glanced at the sunset and back at Maggie. He thought her profile was as beautiful today as it was the time he first saw it more than twenty years ago. Her chestnut hair was thick and soft and seemed to trap the golden light. She turned and met his eyes. “Maggie … I don’t know if … .”
“Shhh, Sean. We don’t need to say anything right now. Let’s give nature a chance to do the talking. No words can describe this beauty.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
After dinner, Maggie closed the picnic basket, and O’Brien refilled the glasses. Max jumped up on the bench and lay down next to O’Brien while the sun melted into molten gold and merlot colors across the surface of the river. The sky was painted in wide brushstrokes of scarlet and deep purple. A white pelican sailed across the river.
Maggie said, “I know it’s been more than twenty years, but I’m comfortable here with you. It’s as if time has been some invisible milepost, a vapor that’s gone out of a bottle, and here we are today. I hope that didn’t sound presumptuous. If it did, I apologize.”
“No reason for you to apologize.”
Maggie laughed. “Sean, do you remember that time we first walked on the beach? You reached out and held my hand. It caught me by surprise for a moment, and then it felt very much a part of that moment in time.”
“I remember.”
“Would you hold my hand again? Maybe for old times’ sake, I’d like to remember this beautiful moment in time, too.”
O’Brien reached over and held Maggie’s hand. They sat there in silence, the three of them. A breeze blew up river causing the surface to ripple in a tapestry of indigo and mauve. Max rested her chin on O’Brien’s thigh, the moving colors of sky and water dancing in her half closed eyes.
Across the river, O’Brien heard a nightingale begin to sing, its first song sweet as the smell of honeysuckles in the evening air.
The End
We hope you enjoyed
The Black Bullet.
The following is an advance preview from the fifth novel in the Sean O’Brien series,
Blood of Cain
Prologue
County Kerry, Ireland - 1970
Kate Flanagan was glad that the confessional booth would keep her from looking the priest in the eye. Father Thomas Garvey’s sapphire blue eyes had a strange power, she thought. It was a power not of this world. But he was a priest, someone who walked a straighter path under God’s direction. He was a man of God.
Then why was she so physically attracted to him?
It had begun six months ago when Father Garvey first moved to the parish and started delivering mass at St. Vincent’s Church. Kate had sat in the pew with her husband and listened to Father Garvey speaking in a soft, yet deep voice when he led the service. His angular face was movie star handsome. He had thick, dark eyebrows and combed his black hair straight back. Although the priest would be scanning the congregation as he spoke, she felt that his eyes sought hers, connecting, even if only for a few seconds at a time. He was somehow linking with her deepest most personal thoughts, her soul. She could feel it. Kate would catch herself fantasizing about him, her face flushing, the damp warmth smoldering under her Sunday dress. Then she would silently pray to God to forgive her for sinful thinking, and of all places, our Lord’s house.
She tried to put that out of her thoughts as she entered the confessional booth. Before she left her home, she had spent extra time fixing her dark, shoulder-length hair, and applying blush and lipstick to her oval face and full lips. Now, she waited. How long had it been since her last confession? Was she the first to speak or was it supposed to be the priest? Think. She waited a half a minute. She could hear a farmer’s tractor, the diesel straining, pulling a load up the road outside the rural church. She looked at her watch. Too early for her husband Peter to be picking her up. She heard a sheep cry, its bleating coming from a field behind the church. Then there was the long, confident stride of someone approaching. Kate felt her breathing quicken. She heard Father Garvey take his seat. She could feel his physical presence just beyond the thin wall. She looked at the lattice grid and cleared her throat. Her heart beat faster, and she dropped down on her knees, making the sign of the cross. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
Father Garvey said nothing.
Kate folded her hands in prayer, waiting. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
“When was your last confession?”
“I can't remember, Father.”
“Our Lord, Jesus, remembers.”
“Yes, Father. I'm sorry.”
“What is it you wish to confess?”
Kate paused a moment, her hand rubbing the rosary beads she carried. “Father, I confess that I haven't been completely honest with my husband.”
“You have lied?”
“Yes, I haven’t been completely truthful with Peter.”
“In what way?”
“We have been married for three years. The last two years I have been trying to become pregnant. The Lord hasn’t blessed us with a child yet, and I believe it is my fault.”
“Why do you feel this way?”
“I think God is punishing me because I have unclean thoughts, thoughts of others.”
“Other men?”
“Yes, Father. I am so ashamed. I love my husband. I really do, but there is something happening to me that I don't understand, these feelings inside me. He can tell that all is not right. He asks, but I lie to him and pretend all is fine. Over and over I lie. He is a good man. I seek absolution…penance, Father.”
“That's why our Lord brought you here, Kate.”
She held her fingers to her lips. “How do you know who I...”
“Our Lord knows all.”
“But you're not...”
“Not what? You haven't been chaste in thought and word, have you, Kate?”
“No, Father.
“You haven't used sex for its sole purpose of procreation. It has been self-gratification, hasn't it?”
“Yes.”
“That violates the Word.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And you seek absolution? Yes? You desire to be fruitful under God’s command?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry for being deceptive to Peter. Am I forgiven, Father? What is my penance?” She closed her eyes and stroked the rosary beads.
The door to the confessional flew open. Kate, still on her knees, looked up at Father Garvey in the open doorway. He said, “I am your penance. God, has sent you to me.”
“What?”
“Stand up.”
Kate slowly stood. He entered the booth and stepped next to her. He smelled of testosterone and lilac soap. His dark blue eyes fiery. Intense. His lips were
moist. Square jaw-line as hard as granite. He placed his big hand on her shoulder, his fingers massaging her, working his way down to the small of her back.
“Please, Father…”
He leaned closer and whispered. “Sex is for procreation. God has delivered you here for a reason, Kate. Sometimes we fail to understand His plan. You cannot deny divine providence.” He stroked her face gently, tips of his long fingers moving over her cheek, lips, and down to her breasts. He leaned in to kiss her, slowly, his lips soft, his mouth warm and hungry for her.
She broke away for air. “I can't!”
“You can! And you will because God has a greater plan for you, Kate. You can atone. Impure thoughts can be absolved.” Father Garvey skillfully forced his right hand up her dress. His hand was wide and strong, fingers firm as he stroked her inner thighs. He kissed her again. This time Kate felt her lips part, his tongue touching hers, his fingers arousing heat and wetness inside her. She wanted him, wanted him to take her. Suddenly, he lifted her out of the confessional, carrying her like a child in his powerful arms. She felt fragile and yet sheltered.
He walked by the front pews, through the open door in his office, and set her down on a large wooden desk, spilling papers onto the floor. He cupped her face in both of his large hands as he kissed her. She moaned, her tongue meeting his. His hand was under her dress, fingers entering her. She gasped, leaning her head back, eyes closed, her heart racing.
Dear God! she thought, glancing out the window as a car pulled into the parking lot. It's Peter. Kate made a move to get off the table.
“No!” shouted Father Garvey.
“My husband's outside. I must go to him.”
“And you will, Kate. This won't take long. God works miracles. Your husband didn’t get out of his car. He’s being delayed for a reason. Don’t you see then bigger picture, Kate?” He pushed her back down, one strong arm holding her shoulders, the other ripping off her panties. His finger moving inside her wetness.
Kate looked over her shoulder and could see her husband patiently waiting for her, the car window up, Peter listening to music. She was frightened, a dark sadness filling her pores, her eyes burning. “Please let me up. My husband’s here.”
