It had been a long time since Jonathan had played medic, but he proved to be pretty adept at it. It helped that Harvey had gotten the kids stabilized on the ground before they took off, but for the duration of the flight, vitals all stayed stable. He worried a lot about the kid with the chest wound. Twice during the flight Jonathan had had to lift the occlusive dressing to allow his lung to reinflate. The good news was that even though the boy remained unconscious, his vitals all stayed good, and his pupils remained equal and reactive to light.
Like any flight in any aircraft, this one had certain rhythms associated with it, such that Jonathan knew without being told that they had begun their approach to the little-used general aviation airport on the distant outskirts of Santa Marta. Using Jonathan’s money, Jammin’ Josie had arranged for Gulfstream transport back to the States for the tail end of the mission, using a plane that belonged to a former Nicaraguan Contra who’d done very well for himself. As it turned out, flying out of Colombia was no problem at all as far as the government was concerned.
“Hey, Boss,” Boxers said over the intercom. “I think you want to take a look at this.”
Jonathan stepped around one of the wounded kids and over Evan and his friend to rest his hand on the back of the pilot’s seat. Boxers pointed to the airport runway up ahead, where a cluster of ambulances stood at the ready, awaiting their arrival. “What can I say?” Jonathan quipped. “Venice’s true to her promises.”
“I’m not talking about the meat wagons,” Boxers grumped. “Look at the line of soldiers.”
Several dozen had clustered around one of the jets on the tarmac, and Jonathan could only guess that it would prove to be the tail number they were looking for. “Well, shit,” Jonathan cursed into the microphone.
“What do you want me to do?”
Jonathan ran the options and couldn’t come up with any. Clearly, they’d been made. Jonathan had known all along that it was a possibility given Josie’s betrayal, but he’d been hoping for a break. If they aborted this landing and headed for another airport, they’d just prolong the inevitable, and they certainly couldn’t fly all the way to the States in a helicopter.
“Go ahead and land,” Jonathan stated.
“What’s Plan B?”
“I don’t have one,” Jonathan admitted.
“Maybe Panama will take us.”
“Look at your gas gauge,” Jonathan said, pointing. “Even if they’d take us, we don’t have enough fuel to get there.”
“Well, we can’t fight that many.”
“True enough.”
“And I ain’t rotting in some jungle jail cell.”
“One crisis at a time, Box,” Jonathan cautioned. “Put us on the ground and I’ll give diplomacy a shot.”
“I’ve still got about a hundred rounds of five-five-six diplomacy there on the floor,” Boxers quipped, eyeing his cache of weapons on the seat next to his.
“There are more lives than ours in play, Big Guy. Just get us on the ground.”
Boxers sighed loudly enough to be heard over the ambient noise. He shook his head in disgust and squared up the aircraft for a landing. “This shit grows old, Digger,” he said. “This shit grows very, very old.”
Jonathan pulled his. 45 from its holster and placed it on top of the other weapons. Depending on the mood of the soldiers, he’d get to say a lot more without a gun on his hip than he would with one.
He turned to his passengers. In Spanish, he instructed them to stay where they were after they landed, to wait for the ambulance people to come and get them. Then he told Evan in English, but with the addition, “You don’t leave with anybody but Big Guy or me, okay?”
“You mean die on the street before getting into the car?” Evan asked.
The familiarity of the phrase startled him, and it must have shown in his face.
“You told us that at an assembly,” Evan clarified.
That earned him a wink. “I remember that. One way or the other, we’re getting you home today.”
Jonathan positioned himself in the doorway to the cargo bay as they made their final flare to land, standing there like a human X, his hands and feet braced in the opening. As the wheels touched and Boxers killed the engine, the soldiers moved forward, even as the rotors were still turning.
“I have wounded children in here,” he called out in Spanish. “I’m bringing them in for medical care. Please don’t harm them any more than they’ve already been harmed.”
A young officer-a lieutenant-peered beyond Jonathan, and his face showed deep alarm. He saw the rivulets of blood on the floor and the clusters of small people who created them. “My God, what happened?”
“Slave drivers up in the mountains shot them. The drug manufacturers. They shot these boys just as they shot their fathers before them. My friend and I rescued them and brought them here for medical assistance.”
Confusion invaded the officer’s look of horror. “That’s not what we were told.”
“Well, it’s the truth. In any case, can you please let the medicos through so that they can get to doctors?”
The soldier hesitated.
“They’re just children, Lieutenant,” Jonathan said softly. “Let’s give them a chance to be adults.”
The lieutenant nodded and gave the appropriate orders. Thirty seconds later, soldiers and ambulance personnel alike were lifting children out of the helicopter and placing them on stretchers.
“Not the one with the blond hair, or the boy next to him,” Jonathan said twice. “They’re with me. I’ll take them to the doctor myself.” It was a long shot, but if he presumed that he’d be allowed to go free, maybe it would come to pass.
Boxers remained still and quiet in the pilot’s seat. They’d had a tacit understanding for years that Boxers would never allow himself to be taken prisoner, and Jonathan had no reason to suspect that anything had changed. If it came to that, there’d be violence of a very high order.
As the last of the children were being carried away from the helicopter, two soldiers with little to do suddenly looked startled and snapped to attention. Stiff hands shot smartly to their brows as they saluted in unison.
Jonathan followed their gaze and saw an older man approaching. He acknowledged the salutes, but he did not encourage them to stand at ease. Jonathan knew from his gait alone that he was a general officer, and when he stepped more squarely into the light, the three starbursts on his epaulettes confirmed it.
Etiquette and years of indoctrination made Jonathan stand straighter in his presence. Even if you didn’t respect the man, you respected the rank. For all Jonathan knew, he might end up respecting both.
“So you are the invading American army I heard about?” the general asked in impeccable English as he approached.
Jonathan scowled. “Excuse me?”
“I recognize this helicopter,” the general said. “It belongs to a friend of mine.”
“If that’s the case, sir, then with all due respect, you need better friends. The owner of this helicopter was a murderer and a kidnapper.”
The general’s eyes narrowed. “ Was? ” Clearly, he’d heard the use of the past tense.
“Yes, sir. We killed him.”
The general looked shocked. “You admit this?”
“I celebrate it,” Jonathan clarified. “He was a rapist and a murderer. He tortured people. I presume we’re both talking about the same man? Mitchell Ponder?”
The general peered past Jonathan into the bloody interior of the helicopter. As he got closer, Jonathan saw from his name tag that the general was named Ruiz. “This blood,” he said, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “This is all from the children?”
Jonathan nodded. “Yes, sir. Ponder’s blood is all in the cockpit. Would you like to see it?”
The general gave him an odd smile. “No, thank you. How sure are you that he is dead?”
“Extremely.”
“I see.” The general reached into the pocket of his tunic and pro
duced a pack of Marlboros. He shook one out, placed it between his lips, and then returned the pack and produced a lighter from the same pocket. He lit up, took a deep drag, then picked something off of the end of his tongue.
“It occurs to me that you have some very interesting skills,” the general said. “Is it safe for me to assume that you have visited my country before?”
Jonathan forced his face to reveal nothing. “It’s safer to say that if I had been here, it probably would have been under circumstances that I could never discuss.”
General Ruiz arched his eyebrows and aimed two fingers at Jonathan to acknowledge that he’d made a good point. “I’ve never thought much of the drug trade,” he said. “But soldiers like me are merely servants of our governments. Mine has a weakness for the revenue that the drug trade creates. Where there’s revenue, there’s power. And a politician can never have enough power.”
A long pause followed, during which Jonathan was unsure what to do. He remained silent and still.
“I, on the other hand, have a weakness for justice and the health of small children. Something tells me that you’ve helped to make the world a better place by killing Mr. Ponder. You’ve done my country a favor, even if the leadership won’t agree.” He considered his next step for a long moment before he punctuated his decision with a nod. “I will consider it a personal favor if you make this your last trip to my country.” He dropped his cigarette onto the tarmac and crushed it with his toe. “You are free to go.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Jonathan stood in the background as Alvin Stewart spent a moment with each of the children, flashing his famous smile and offering up candy treats from the paper bag he held on his lap. Mama Alexander piloted the wheelchair for him, and the room vibrated with the kind of happiness that only comes from learning that a dear friend is going to be okay after all. Jonathan knew that it would be a few months before Mr. Stewart fully recovered, but the doctors said that full recovery was assured.
A shadow fell to his left, and Jonathan turned to see Gail sidling in next to him. “Want to walk me home?” she asked.
It was exactly what he wanted to do. They left the mansion’s great room quietly and headed down the wide front hall for the front door. Outside, the evening air had cooled from its blistering afternoon peak, but humidity still hung like a wet towel. Gail moved gently and slowly, leaning heavily on the railing as she favored her wounded leg.
“Can I help?” Jonathan asked. He stood ready to catch her if she fell.
“Nope, I’ve got it,” Gail grunted. “Stairs are still hard,” she said. She paused and straightened when she stepped onto the walkway. “You’re a piece of work, Digger Grave. I spend the better part of my life in law enforcement, crashing doors and arresting people without a scratch. I’ve got to join the private sector to get shot for the first time.”
Jonathan smiled and shrugged. “Technically, you still haven’t been shot. You’ve been fragged.”
“I stand corrected,” she chuckled.
Halfway down the walkway, JoeDog found them and ran a couple of circles to get attention for the stick she had in her mouth. The bouncy black Lab was as close to a town dog as you could have, but she’d adopted Jonathan as her occasional master. Jonathan didn’t accept the invitation for a game of catch, but the beast’s hopes never dimmed as they continued to walk.
“How are you doing?” Gail asked, giving Jonathan’s shoulder a gentle bump with her own.
Jonathan scowled. “Me? I’m great. The good guys won another one. Did you see Secretary Leger’s perp walk on the news last night?” Irene Rivers had always had a flair for the dramatic, so she’d made sure that ample media were around when she personally arrested the secretary of defense on charges of murder and conspiracy.
Gail shot him a look. “Did I see it? I live on Planet Earth, don’t I? He does remorse pretty well, I thought. And your friend Wolverine is second to none at damage control. Nothing at all about our involvement.”
“Do I hear bitterness?” They were on Church Street now, heading downhill toward the water, taking in one of Jonathan’s favorite vistas. The low-hanging sun behind them bathed the marina in liquid gold.
“You mean about not getting credit?” Gail shook her head. “Not at all. In fact, I think I’m grateful. She was particularly gracious in praising Doug Kramer for saving Jeremy Schuler’s life by hiding him. She’s quite a lady.”
Jonathan gave a wry chuckle. “Maybe Doug will come to agree one day. He’s not keen on accepting credit for something he didn’t do.”
“It’s better than taking blame for something he didn’t do.”
Jonathan nodded. “He gets that. He’s just pissed that I put him in that position. As he has every right to be.”
As they neared the water, JoeDog got a new idea. She ran ahead of them, placed her stick in their path, and then poised herself downrange for the throw, her tail wagging hard enough to unbalance her hindquarters.
“Look at that face,” Gail said.
“She can be hard to ignore,” Jonathan confessed. He stooped and picked up the stick, then carried it for a while. “This makes her crazy,” he said. JoeDog nearly vibrated with anticipation, walking backward and then running forward for the pitch. When they finally reached the bottom of the hill, they turned right. Jonathan checked for cars, just in case, then heaved the sick as far as he could down the sidewalk. The dog became a black streak.
Gail turned her head and watched Jonathan as they walked.
“What?” he said. “Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m waiting for you to answer my question.”
“I didn’t know there was a question on the table.”
“I asked you how you were doing.”
“I answered that one. I said I was fine.”
Gail scowled. “ Fine is not an answer. That’s a dodge.”
“Oh, Lord,” he groaned. “Better people than you have tried to climb into my head, Gail. Do yourself a favor and don’t even try. Really, I’m fine. And I’m really fine because I’m really shallow.”
“So you would have us believe.”
Jonathan felt the leading edge of anger. Sometimes fine was all you had. Bad things happen; you live through them, and you adapt. Dwelling on them was as useless as trying to change the past.
“I was watching you while you were watching Jeremy Schuler’s reunion with his father.”
“Gail, don’t.” JoeDog returned with her stick, but sensed something on the first sniff. Instead of begging for another throw, she just carried it and fell in step on Jonathan’s other side.
“It wasn’t what you were hoping for it to be, was it?”
Jonathan wanted to show annoyance at the question, but Gail was right. Father Dom and Mama Alexander had been the front-row players for that drama, and Jonathan could feel the same pain radiating from them. On the strength of the evidence gathered with Gail’s help, Frank Schuler had been released from death row, and he’d made a beeline to Resurrection House to reunite with his son. All Frank wanted was to give his son a hug, and all Jeremy wanted was to hide. He hung on to Mama Alexander and begged to stay. Where everyone had been hoping for elation, it was a terribly sad reunion.
Jonathan explained his take: “You spend nine of your thirteen years thinking that your father killed your mother, and you’re waiting for the state to kill your father because of it. That’s a high hurdle to jump. In retrospect, I think we should have expected it. Dom’ll stay on top of it.”
He cleared his throat. “On a happier note, I hear that Evan Guinn’s reunion with his father went really well.”
“Witness protection is a hard life,” Gail said.
“No harder than the one he’s lived so far.”
Gail wasn’t so convinced. “Under these circumstances, it’s going to be a particular challenge. The marshals will make it easier for the first couple of years, but then there’s forever to follow.”
Jonathan shrugged. “I do wo
rry about the other kid, Evan’s friend Charlie. Guinn agreed to let him join their family, but there’s a kid who’s got to have issues. I wish he could have come to RezHouse instead. Dom would have been good for him.”
“And what about all the fatalities?” Gail asked. “How are you with those?” It was the point she’d been aiming for from the beginning, and to Jonathan it felt like a cheap shot.
“Let it go, Gail.”
“I know that they wear on you, Dig. They have to.”
He glared. He was not going there.
“I’m not trying to tread where I’m not welcome, Dig. I care for you. Deeply. You can’t just swallow all of that. I know. Trust me, I know. I killed my share in this thing, too. But I didn’t have to deal with dead children.”
They’d arrived at the short flight of stairs that led to the walk to Gail’s house. “You can make it from here to your front door?” Jonathan asked.
Her shoulders sagged. “Dig, please don’t shut me out.”
Jonathan gathered her into his arms. She felt strong yet fragile in his embrace. She smelled of soft soap and fragrant shampoo. She was gentle and kind and tough as nails. Sometimes he thought he loved her. He’d come close to telling her so, but had never wanted to screw things up that way. God knew he loved their time together.
“I’m not shutting you out of anyplace where I haven’t shut out myself,” he whispered. “Those doors are locked on purpose.” He released her and kissed her. From inches away, he said, “Care for me enough not to push too hard.”
With that, he turned and started back toward the firehouse. “Good night,” he said.
As JoeDog walked beside him, a breeze off the river lifted his hair from his forehead and brought the smell of sea salt and fish. It was the aroma of home, the fragrance of a town that had always been a place of contentment. Never his own, of course, but others’. He’d long ago accepted that for some men, contentment would forever be elusive. Some men were born to do the dirty work that allowed society to live with a sense of peace that itself had probably never been more than an illusion.
Hostage Zero Page 40
