6
JACKSON
Following her car was more of a formality. He’d already memorized where she lived and the directions to it. He assumed that at some point later in the day, he would be tracking her back there. But he never imagined himself to be doing it with her knowledge and approval. Even her handling of the gun situation. She’d been calm—mostly—and even a little appreciative of his efforts, in the end. Perhaps she was more desperate to talk to him than he’d thought. More desperate, even, than the nine unanswered phone calls she’d placed, including several voice mails that he’d saved for whatever reason.
And for whatever reason, also, he had listened to them multiple times over, allowing himself to study and familiarize the voice. To internalize it. At times, it was all he’d had, the sound of her honeyed voice wafting through his dark and quiet house.
But that voice, when shouting from her car to his as they both idled in front of her house, sounded a little shriller than what he was used to. “Go ahead. Park in the garage and come out.”
Jackson, not knowing what to expect from the rest of the day, took along his computer bag and left the car in the safe darkness of her garage. He met her outside, slipping into her passenger seat.
“You got everything you need?” she said, clicking the garage door remote and then watching carefully as it closed.
“I don’t know. What are we doing?”
“I’m going to interview you.” She looked at Jackson, but he had nothing to offer her. He hadn’t thought through this scenario and it felt odd to be so unprepared. And so vulnerable.
But he had to wise up. And toughen up. He’d dealt with much worse than a fucking journalist.
“Well, what?” she said. “Isn’t that the whole point? An interview?”
“I was actually hoping we could take things slow.”
She laughed. “Well, it’s a little too late for that.”
“Where are we headed?”
The car was still idling along the curb. Annica looked down the road, and then said quietly, “I don’t really know.”
Jackson chuckled. “Let’s slow down a bit, then.”
“Okay.”
He reached over to offer a handshake. “Hi.”
She smiled. “Hi.”
“I’m a little crazy, apparently.”
“Glad to meet you, A Little Crazy.” She shook his hand firmly. Her handshake felt good with his. She was more attractive than he’d been warned about.
“But you can just call me Jackson.”
“Okay, Jackson. You can call me anytime. You don’t have to drive all the way from Baltimore to scare the crap out of me in person.”
“You’re right,” he said, kicking aside a few empty water bottles in her cluttered foot well. “I’ll have to think of that next time.”
“Yeah, you should.” Annica turned the car off.
“Sorry again.”
She stared at him for a moment. “I’m more freaked out about you stalking me. That thing with the car, and with Craig . . . That’s just you doing your hero thing. I get that.”
“Yeah . . .”
“But what the fuck? Following me around like that?”
“That’s me doing my Navy SEAL thing.”
“I didn’t know SEALs could be so creepy.” She laughed and started packing up her purse. “You’re lucky you’re handsome, or else I’d . . . I mean, not to sound shallow, but I’m just keeping it real.”
“Yeah, keep it real.”
“Wanna go inside?”
“Yeah.”
They met outside the car on the street, Jackson admiring the shapely outline of her tight blue-jeaned hips, and admiring, too, what was underneath that as she led him up the driveway, her strong legs working up the incline in high heels, their bold click-clacking echoing off the otherwise quiet neighborhood.
“Sooo,” she said, holding the front door open for him as they entered the squat three-story bungalow. “Can you explain a bit more why you were following me around? I know you said it was reconnaissance, but, I really have no idea what you’re trying to say.”
“Me neither, I guess.”
“What?”
Jackson laughed. “It’s complicated.”
“Well, that’s why I invited you in,” she said, kicking off her heels and sliding her feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers.
Jackson could have sworn that she’d just said something about him being handsome, a part of him hoping that maybe that was the real reason for the invite. It would’ve been so much simpler, and perhaps fun that way.
But he could already feel that old self creeping back. The undisciplined horndog who’d already dug himself into so much trouble in the past. It was that personality, the hedonist, who’d all too happily filled the gap of discipline since being discharged from the military. And that personality would be tested mightily, there inside Annica’s sparse living room, spread out on a leather sofa. A cold bottle of beer floating across the room to him. And snacks. Corn chips and homemade salsa. Jackson tried hard to not be distracted by another set of treats hidden just slightly under a low-cut V-neck sweater as Annica spun around in search of a record from the shelf.
“Do you mind?” she said, flashing the cover of a Beatles album. Revolver.
The needle dropped midway through Eleanor Rigby. She set the volume nice and low and then lazily shuffled her slippers across the hardwood.
“That’s a nice album,” Jackson said, looking around. “Nice place, too.”
“Thanks.”
“Yours?”
“Renting.”
“All of it?”
She sat across from him in an old, yet comfortable-looking rocking chair. She smiled, rocked forward, and grabbed her beer off the treasure chest coffee table. “Are you asking if I have a boyfriend?”
“Or girlfriend. Or husband. How old are you?”
“Too young to be doing this,” she said. “Right?”
She’d caught him off guard, the casual friendliness and then the loaded question, and so he smiled while he figured out what the fuck she meant. “What makes you say that?”
“I heard enough of it from Stanton. And he’s even younger than you, so . . .”
“Age doesn’t matter,” he said, lying to himself.
“Well, you just asked me my age.” She took a sip and started rocking. “I already know yours. And that you’re unmarried, and that your father is pretty much a sacred cow in the military. And rightfully so.”
“Ah,” he said. “So I’m not the only one doing research.”
She shrugged. “I’m a journalist. I sorta have to.”
“Of course.”
“You live in a relatively upscale Baltimore suburb. With your dog.”
Jackson felt a pang of sadness, but let it pass. Similarly, he felt no need to correct her. He took another long sip of beer and let her continue on.
“And you don’t have a mustache,” she said with a smile.
“Wow. That’s some pretty deep intel.”
“No, I just guessed at that last one.” She was pointing to her lip, scratching at it. “It’s pretty obvious.”
Jackson felt his upper lip, the prop mustache, and how it had been hanging crooked. “Oh,” he said, peeling it off while trying not to wince from the glue. “Good to know. It’s my first time trying it out.”
Annica smiled. “You’re pretty funny. And pretty weird. I didn’t expect that.”
He shrugged, not sure what to say. He hadn’t ever received many compliments about being funny. Any, actually.
“Unintentionally funny,” she said. “Does that explain it better?”
“Not at all.”
“Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t,” she said. Her hand had been playing with her knee, fingers crawling over it in a type of way that made Jackson wish it was his hand that had been doing the crawling.
The song ended and the silence in between was suddenly deafening.
“Well, alright,” Jackson said
, trying to sit up a little, trying not to feel so comfortable on her sofa, in her house. “So how do you want to start this?”
“Thank you. Um . . . Yes. Why don’t I get my tape recorder and we’ll just—”
“No,” Jackson said. “No tape recorder.”
She chuckled and said, “Can I take notes?”
Jackson nodded. “I’ll have to ask you some questions, too, though. I’m really curious about how you got started on this story.”
“Fine. I’ll explain it.”
“And it would really help me if I could trust you. I mean, it should be pretty obvious that I’m more than a little suspicious here.”
She smiled. “I know, but you’re being so nice about it.”
“I’m a nice guy. But . . . I’m also . . .”
“Suspicious,” she said.
“Yes. As you would be if you were in my shoes.”
She was holding a pen and notepad. “Can you put me in your shoes? I’d love to start there.”
“No,” he said. “Let’s interview you first.”
Annica tossed down the notepad and reached for her beer. She started rocking again.
Jackson asked, “Who put you up to this?”
“You mean, who assigned me the story? It was an editor, Jackson. Just totally normal stuff for a newspaper. An assignment.”
“They called Libya an assignment, too.”
“And were you assigned it? Or did someone ‘put you up to it’?” She seemed to smirk a little.
But Jackson couldn’t hide the disdain from his face, his teeth almost clenched. “They put me up to it.”
“Up to what?”
He took a deep breath. His hands were at his knees, not caressing, but gripping tightly.
“We’ll get back to that,” Annica said.
“Thanks.”
She got up out of her rocking chair and then asked, “Want another beer? That was fast.”
“No thanks.”
Annica scuffed across the tiles again, heading lazily toward the kitchen. “Well, that’s all there is to tell. My editor put me on a story and so here I am.”
“Do you know how he heard about it?”
“The same way everyone did.”
“Rumors?”
She was in the kitchen, making some noise with the cupboards. Her voice grew louder. “It’s all over the internet. YouTube, people making videos. I don’t think it’s as secret as you think.”
“I try to stay away from it all.”
She came back into view, in an expanded archway, her hair looking slightly messed up. It was a sexy look.
“I’ve actually tried forgetting about the whole thing,” Jackson said.
“Your friends tell me you’ve been sorta . . . secluded? Is that fair to say?”
“I guess.” Jackson shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling a slight warmth across his face. He didn’t want her to know too much about his life in Baltimore. And he suddenly felt distinctly interviewed. “So what friends of mine have you been talking to, exactly?
“Just Stanton and Matthias.”
Jackson was a little shocked to hear the second name. He hadn’t heard from Matthias for at least six months. It seemed he was doing the same thing Jackson was—perhaps to a lesser extent. If not seclusion, definitely not interviews with the press. It was a surprise.
“Neither of them went into much detail,” Annica said, leaning against the archway. “I think they’re waiting for you, like I was.”
“It’s all on me, huh?”
“You’re the leader.”
“Yeah. Ain’t that a son of a bitch . . .”
“Listen,” she said, twirling a few strands of her hair through her knuckles. “I understand why you’re nervous. I get that. And I understand that it was traumatic.”
Jackson just nodded.
“And I’m really glad you came. And, I mean, and aside from everything else, it’s an honor just to meet you.”
“Oh, come on.”
She smiled and said, “I’ll get you another beer.” She leaned off the archway and took a few steps toward the fridge. “I mean, I need to loosen you up.”
“Oh, yeah?” He stood, following her into the kitchen.
“Yeah.” She opened the door. “Very much so.” She bent over for him, taking her time looking through the fridge.
“So, Annica . . .”
“Yeah?” Her head popped out of the fridge and she walked back with two more bottles. He followed again.
“What have they already told you? How much do you know?”
“We got as far as Tripoli. The morning of, before it all went down.”
He was a little annoyed at how she said it, how she presumed anything had gone down. “What’s ‘it’?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“You said, ‘it’ all went down. How do you even know there was an it?”
“The internet.” She sat back in her rocking chair, brushing the hair off her face.
“Conspiracy theories on the internet,” Jackson said with a sigh. “That’s the reason for all this, huh?”
“The reason for the interview, and for the story, is to give you a chance to either dispel or prove these rumors.”
He thought for a minute. “So where did they leave off in Tripoli? What part of the morning? It was a pretty long fucking morning.”
“Can we start at the monitoring post? After the generators?”
“The consulate generators?”
“Yes,” she said. “After you took care of them.”
“You mean, destroyed them.”
“Yes.”
He reached for the beer she’d just brought. He took a big breath.
It was all too easy for Jackson to go back there, after prepping the consulate building for their Libyan assault team and then hiding out at the monitoring post. It was an old, bombed-out bank. Someone had gone before and equipped a power line and a communication link, a little room with computer monitors, a top floor with some excellent sight lines to the consulate. Shooting windows lined with sandbags. Food and water. If everything went to shit, they could at least hold their own and defend the post long enough until a rescue squad could arrive. It would take an hour of defending light munitions. If it came to that, if everything had gone to shit, it wouldn’t be so bad.
But when everything did go to shit, the building had nothing to do with it. They had already watched the mission unfold successfully through their monitors and through a sniper scope, the camera-embedded Libyan team infiltrating the compound and taking out what appeared to be their targets, and then all of them scrambling away in separate directions. Jackson’s men had already packed up and left the monitoring post without incident. They even got the go-ahead to board their escape van and begin the journey back to Al-Kasarat.
He still remembered the faces of his men as they hopped into the van, their tight expressions having eased into smiles of relief. Their banter picking up. A little music on the radio. Although the mission wasn’t technically over—as with any mission that didn’t end back on US soil—there seemed to be a shared complacent feeling of success. It was a dangerous feeling that would continue eroding at their precautions as the van bounced over the potholed streets on its way to the outer highways. But at that point, with everyone loaded into the van and with it speeding away and out of the city, no amount of precaution would have helped.
“Do you have any recollection of it?” she asked.
“No,” Jackson said. It was the truth. He’d remembered nothing of the event itself, of the very moment that would change his life forever.
“What’s the first thing you remember after?”
“The smell of it,” Jackson said, his eyes still closed. “The smoke. I could taste it.”
“How long were you knocked out?”
“I don’t know. I woke up on all these rocks in a dried-out ditch. The first thing I did was try to crawl out, but I couldn’t. Some locals rushed in to help, but I pulled my gun
on them. Scared them half to shit.”
“Why did you . . .? You were just panicked?”
“I don’t know. Nothing made sense. Turns out, I was actually concussed.”
“When did you see any of your men?”
“That’s who I was worried about the most,” Jackson said. “That’s why I wanted to crawl out, so I could see what happened to them. But they came to me instead. Stanton at first, and then Jasper with some medical supplies. I have no idea how he’d gotten them out of there. It was half destroyed and on fire.”
“The van was?”
Jackson nodded. “I saw pictures after. Just a blackened frame atop a big scorch mark.”
“But somehow, everyone survived,” Annica said. “How is that possible?”
“I kept up with the investigation after. It was joke, but, anyway . . . they somehow concluded that only a quarter of the explosives had detonated. So it really wasn’t that big of a blast.”
She looked at him softly and with sympathy. “But it knocked you out and destroyed the van.”
“And my career.”
Annica nodded solemnly.
“I had no idea at the time,” Jackson said. “I thought I could hear just fine. In fact, my hearing isn’t so bad, even now. It’s just the balance thing.”
“But you seem to get around just fine, and everything else. You seem in great shape.” Her eyes moved up and down his body. “Really great shape.”
“I’m in great shape for the average Joe. But the SEALS expect a little more.”
Annica hadn’t touched her notepad once during the story. Instead she held onto her beer, clutching it with both hands, one foot crossed up and tucked under her body, her chair not rocking but still, as still and focused as her attention on him. She seemed so young, like a kid listening to a ghost story by a campfire, or a sorority girl chatting about the thrills and chills of her latest date. Jackson suddenly imagined her with her girlfriends, imagining her in silk night shorts and braless under a thin t-shirt. Crap. He really had to stop doing that. He forced himself to stop doing that.
“And so that was it?” Annica said. “You were done right then and there?”
“Uh, yes. Eventually, yes. When I got checked out by the docs. And they were really nice about it. But, yeah, that was it for my career. You can’t have any type of inner-ear injury and be a SEAL.”
Darkest Hour Page 5
