Darkest Hour Page 2

  “Good thing I called,” Tansy said.

  “He’s gonna drop further down from this. I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to bring up anything about this reporter.”

  “I mean, I’m just glad I know.”

  “You should call him. Actually, this Annica thing might be a good distraction for him. Especially if he’s . . . you know . . .”

  “He’s struggling.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  But struggling was putting it mildly. Tansy knew that. He knew about the drinking and the risk-taking, Jackson sabotaging himself with gambling and with women. Jackson’s honorable discharge was crushing enough, as was the betrayal to all four of them involved with the Tripoli fiasco. But perhaps it was the secret itself that was killing him.

  “I know we all agreed to keep silent,” Tansy said. “But were we wrong? This could be his chance, something he needs to do, for himself and for everyone. I know I’m ready for the truth to be told.”

  “Not all of us are.”

  “You’re talking about yourself, Jasper.”

  “Maybe. Maybe Jackson, too. And Matthias.”

  “Matthias doesn’t give a fuck. That I know.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about you?” Tansy asked. “What do you have to lose?”

  “My career.” Jasper said it with a touch of disdain flowing through his voice, as if Tansy had just insulted him. “I’m still working. I’m shipping out to Kandahar in three months.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “We haven’t all gone rogue like you and Jackson,” Jasper said. “It’s not as easy for us. Matthias is still working, too. You expect him to come out and start badmouthing his superiors?”

  “Well, he’s still pissed.” Tansy said. “I know he is. And it’s not all of his superiors. Just a few bad apples that maybe need to be singled out. And they deserve it. We can get things started and then let the justice system take care of the rest.”

  “I’m not sure you know what you’d be going up against.”

  “I know.”

  “They might try to cut you off, literally.”

  “I know.”

  Another sigh from Jasper.

  “Hey, come on,” Tansy said. “Think about it. They could do this again, to some other guys. They could do it again to you. Who knows what kind of shit they want covered up over there in Kandahar. All those poppy fields over there. They might off you and then stuff your corpse full of heroin for the flight back.”

  Jasper laughed.

  “Don’t laugh. It’s true. I know for a fact that it’s happened.”

  “Nah, they won’t off me. They’ve invested too much money in my training.”

  “More than your body weight in heroin?”

  “But someone like you or Matthias, on the other hand . . .”

  “Or your brother.”

  It was a low blow. Tansy knew that, but it needed to be said. Jasper’s brother had been sent out to fight under the same leadership that presided over their little trip through Libya. That same rotten core . . .

  “Don’t talk about my brother,” Jasper said in a flat, cold voice.

  “That’s fair.”

  “Tansy, are you sure you didn’t reach out to this journalist? I’m getting the feeling that you’re orchestrating this whole thing.”

  “She came to me.”

  “The thing with my brother,” Jasper said. “I don’t want him deployed for other reasons.”

  “But this doesn’t help either. Right?”

  There was a long pause. And then Jasper spoke. “This girl, Annica. Do you trust her?”

  Tansy thought for a minute as he turned the car down a residential street.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. I do. More than I trust them, anyway.”

  3

  JACKSON

  He woke up with grass in his face, the sharp, freshly cut tips stabbing jagged pieces into him like tiny little daggers. On his lips were the faint taste of dirt and about half a bottle of dark spiced rum. His hair and clothes were damp from the late-night dew and the sweating out of booze.

  It had happened again.

  And what really disturbed him was how unsurprising it all was. He almost expected to meet his sunrises that way, waking up in some random corner of his backyard. Waking up in a tired heap of numb limbs and fuzzy memories.

  He could remember the start. He’d ended his day with another binge session, and then wandered outside from some fresh air, to look at the stars, to lie against the ground. Where it was safe. That was his anchor, his rock. The cold earth that he’d clung to during firefights, or hunkered down into for a few hours of sleep in the midst of some campaign. It was a place to hide. To reset. And it provided a comfort that beds rarely touched. Lately, the only comfort he got from a bed was when it was shared with another one of his new lady friends. And even that comfort had begun to wear off, until it had become as empty a comfort as the cracked seal of another fifth of rum.

  The two comforts usually came together, a pair of bad choices that left him waking up with strangers in strange places. Who was it that night? What new friend had he made who was only interested in his body and the expensive clothing, cologne, and cars that it hid behind? Was it anyone he knew?

  No. Not that night.

  He remembered that night.

  He’d settled for just one comfort, a most miserable solitary of comforts. His head certainly felt that way, its dull ache pinning him to the ground. He knew it would hurt to move, that even the slightest of head movements would trigger the beginnings of a debilitating migraine. Even just the simple turn of his head to see where he lay in position to his house, turning slowly and evenly, would trigger it. He decided to listen, instead, with his good ear pointed toward the street, toward familiar sounds. He could geolocate himself by his proximity to the droning sound of the pool filter and the whooshing sound of his house’s air-conditioning unit.

  But there was something else. Something new. He was trained to notice these things, the changes, slight deviations from the norm that meant the presence of an unfriendly. Tonight it came in the form of an odd-sounding thud. The sound of boots—and the weight of a man inside of them—falling onto the narrow strip of concrete between the side of his garage and privacy fence. He knew just where. He could see it in his mind.

  That specific type of thud, the sound of someone scaling and jumping down from a fence, had a distinct sound signature. Jackson knew that thud, and how to mask it. But the person who’d just jumped onto his property likely didn’t have his Navy SEAL training. It was a relief. He’d much rather deal with a petty thief than an expert. If it was someone good enough, someone who’d been sent to assassinate him, he wouldn’t have heard a thing.

  Jackson silently lifted himself off the ground, ignoring the headache completely. It was as if he was sober now, fully alert and healthy, the adrenaline and endorphins beginning to rush through his body. He mobilized toward the threat, his brain going still and quiet in a tight, focused concentration; his body creeping silently across the yard like a lion approaching its prey. He turned his good ear toward the garage, listening to another familiar sound: a screen being peeled off a window frame, then falling to the ground in bouncing clatter.

  It was amateur hour.

  And he was slightly relieved. He wasn’t armed in any way except for his close-quarters combat skills. And as long as the intruder didn’t have a gun, the take-down would be easy. He’d done many of those in the past, just never protecting his own house.

  When he opened the gate to the walkway between the garage and fence, he saw the screen frame lying bent on the ground, and above that, the almost comical sight of two legs sticking out horizontally from the garage window. The legs were kicking slightly, as if their body had been squirming its way inside. Jackson figured he would beat him to it, waving a remote sensor on his keychain to unlock the side door, and then, ever so carefully, creeping into the darkness of the garage.


  Inside, he had a split second to decide which, if any, tools he’d like to use from the tool bench. Ball peen hammer? Big, heavy file? A bungee cord that could be wrapped around the guy’s neck until he went to sleep? There were more effective tools, too, like knives. But there was no need to be overly effective, especially if it was just some kid, a crack addict looking for change in the car’s cup holders. All that would require was a little scare. A reminder not to come back.

  The intruder, who looked to be medium build, if not skinny, dropped through the darkness from the window down to the floor of the garage, and straight into Jackson’s arms. It would’ve been funny had it not been a home invasion, the kid screaming in fear as Jackson tightened the bungee cord around his throat, holding the intruder’s back up against Jackson’s chest, lifting him kicking and squirming off the ground so that the cord caught his full weight. His hands went immediately to the cord, clawing uselessly, and then to Jackson’s hands, his face, all while the garage filled with the gagging, choking sounds of the young man’s struggle for air.

  “Do I know you?” Jackson asked as he twisted him to the ground, pinning him with his knee. “Do I know you!?”

  “No,” he rasped.

  Jackson dropped the bungee cord, holding the other man to the ground. “You came to the wrong house. Didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” he said, an arc of moonlight spilling in through the window and gleaming the whites of his eyes. He was young. He was scared.

  “What do you want?” Jackson asked.

  The kid tried to lurch out of his grasp, but Jackson just pinned him down harder with his knee, more of his weight now on an almost concave chest.

  “Trying to rob me? What do you want? Money? What?”

  The kid struggled to say something, and then struggled harder to break free again, but it was totally useless. He had the strength of a child. But this child kept on reaching for something in his waistband and suddenly a twinge of danger raced up Jackson’s spine. His blood rushed and thumped in his ears, his movements quicker and harder now, slapping away the kid’s hand and holding it hard against the ground, by the wrist, crushing it. The kid yelped, but it was overshadowed by the sound of metal skittering across the concrete floor of the garage, just out of the kid’s reach.

  It was a fucking gun, knocked loose by the struggle and his attempt to reach for it. Jackson didn’t feel quite as sorry for the little punk now. He slammed the crown of his head hard against the kid’s face in the struggle. There was a sickening popping sound, and then the flowing of a warm wetness around Jackson’s hands as he held his face down.

  “You little shit . . .”

  Jackson retrieved the gun, a Glock, the feeling of the grip sending him into another fit of rage. He held it, the barrel pointed at the kid. “I told you, you picked the wrong house, you little fuck.”

  Under his body he felt the kid’s chest rise and fall in quick panting, the only sign that he was still alive. Everything else, his will to fight and to struggle, had melted away into a sad little puddle of human underneath Jackson’s weight. And then he finally said it, the weak words coming out half-whispered and scared, “I’m sorry . . .”

  “You’re sorry?”

  “. . .I’m sorry . . .”

  “Because I caught you and beat your ass?” Jackson stuck the muzzle of the gun up against his forehead. “You’re lucky I don’t empty this clip in your head right now.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

  Jackson laughed. He wouldn’t make it that easy.

  He pushed the gun barrel to the punk’s head, squeezing him against the concrete until he heard another yelp. And then he let go, rising to his feet and backing away several steps, the gun still firmly aimed at the dark shape of intruder.

  “Get up,” Jackson said. “Now.”

  The shape didn’t move.

  So the swift kick in the ribs was not only necessary but effective, starting the slow process of the intruder rolling over onto his knees, his hands feeling at his face, his groaning music to Jackson’s ears.

  “Get up!”

  He was finally standing, a little wobbly but upright and ready to follow Jackson’s commands.

  “Stay right there.”

  When he clicked on the light, he was surprised at the blood. And how young the kid appeared to be.

  He almost felt badly about the whole bungee cord business.

  But then he remembered the gun, and how things could have easily been the other way around—how it could have been his own blood spilled onto the floor, his life draining away as some punk ran away with a just few hundred dollars to show for it.

  “You fucking asshole,” Jackson muttered. “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” he said, wiping the blood away from his mouth.

  “Fucking nineteen . . .” Without looking, Jackson reached a hand behind him to the workbench table, sliding it into a canvas shopping bag. “That’s old enough to do time. Big-boy time.”

  He spat blood, the gob landing with a wet, smacking sound. He spat right in Jackson’s fucking garage.

  “Do that again and I’ll break your jaw. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jackson pulled out another useful tool from his bag, a gun much different than the one he’d just snatched from the intruder. He held it behind his back and said, “Alright, now come with me out back. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Jackson walked him out of the garage at gunpoint, carefully watching for any sudden movements, any desperate attempts to do anything stupid. But now that he had his gun—the real one—the Glock was more of a prop now. He wouldn’t shoot if his captive tried running away. Maybe not even if he’d actually come after Jackson. There was such a difference in size and strength—let alone skill—that made the gun more than a little unnecessary. Especially with how badly the kid had already been busted up. There couldn’t have been much fight left. But Jackson knew enough about wounded bears than to get lackadaisical.

  He marched him out through the door and then past the gate until they were both in the backyard.

  “What do you want?” he asked Jackson without turning around.

  “Just keep your hands on your head.” Jackson said, walking backward toward the house. “And keep your eyes off me.”

  The shovel head, when he pulled it out of a wheelbarrow of crushed stone, made a metal scraping sound that carried through the clean night and echoed off his wooden fences. It also made the kid turn around.

  “Hey.”

  His face—where it wasn’t smeared in blood—was white with fear. Eyes wide and staring at the shovel.

  “I said keep your eyes off me.”

  He turned away from Jackson, holding his head down, and then shaking his head, muttering something. “I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry . . .”

  “I know,” said Jackson. “Of course you’re sorry. That’s not what I’m confused about.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well, kid, it’s pretty simple.” He walked up to him, dragging the shovel head along the damp grass. “I want you to cooperate.”

  “I am.”

  “And I want to know something.”

  “What?!”

  “Who sent you?”

  The kid started speaking but then stammered over his words. He shook his head again, giving up with the effort.

  “Who sent you? I know it’s not your idea. You’ve got nothing to do with this. You’re just a little fish. You’re expendable.”

  “No one sent me.”

  It was an idea that had been gnawing away at Jackson more and more every day: that he was being watched, being followed. Whether it was an alcohol-fueled paranoia or just the reality of what black ops soldiers lived through after their return to “normal” life, the feeling was real. And the anxiety was real.

  And this fucking kid was real. Him and his gun.

  In Jackson’s time with the SEALs, he’d made a lot of po
werful enemies. And while most of them were foreign, like Nicaraguan drug kingpins or Middle-Eastern warlords, there was still an element of mistrust he’d felt even from high up on his own chain of command. His own leadership. It was like the snake eating its own tail, what happened when someone like him was no longer useful. Especially after an injury like his. God damn it. He felt like a broken-legged racehorse just waiting around for the bullet.

  It was a sad and horrifying truth that no new recruit would ever believe. Even in the thick of it, while still performing his deadly secret missions, he’d felt so valuable. So integral to the entire system.

  But it was a beast system. A quasi-legal and sometimes definitely unethical one. And sometimes the ends justified the means.

  He’d heard the stories of other veterans reaching some mysterious, gory end, long after they’d returned safely home. Improbable suicides. Cars with brake trouble. He’d always tried keeping it in the back of his mind. But when something like this comes up, like when he’d catch someone following him or staking out his house, or fucking breaking in his garage in the middle of the night, then things like assassination suddenly become very, and sadly, believable.

  Of course, the alcohol didn’t help. He’d been going steady for almost a month, his brain rewiring itself to believe with more and more certainty in these dark conspiracies, the dread of being gunned down by his own people.

  How far he’d fallen . . .

  Fuck, he needed help.

  Jackson dropped the shovel and picked up the half bottle of rum that was waiting for him on the grass, the latest friend he’d spent the night with. The escape and cause of these mounting problems, physical and psychological. The shaky hands in the morning. The clouded judgment. The paranoia.

  Fuck it.

  He took a swig.

  And the warm medicine steadied him, helped him refocus on the task at hand.

  “Listen kid . . . I believe you.”

  “No one sent me. I’m just . . . I’m . . .”

  “I know,” said Jackson, taking another swig and then capping and tossing down the bottle.

  “I’m just a fuck-up. I swear.”

  “I know.”