Darkest Hour Page 4

  “Orange juice. Make it two.”

  He came out with a carafe of orange juice and a look of disgust on his face.

  “Nice choice,” Jasper said.

  “That’s the last time you’re going to tell me what to do.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “You need this, Jackson. It’s killing you.”

  “I need to crawl out from under this fucking rock.”

  “We’ll all do it, together.” Jasper reached for the carafe and poured out two glasses. He slid one to Jackson. “You even said it yourself, that we’ll make it right. Now might be the time.”

  “I still think you’re getting way ahead of yourself.”

  “I know.”

  Jackson held the glass, looking into it with a squint-eyed skepticism. “I’ll have to check her out, though.”

  “That’s all it is. Just talk with her.”

  “Yeah. Just talk.” He took a long sip of orange juice.

  5

  JACKSON

  He’d hacked into her email.

  It happened later that day after two naps and a shower and the realization that he at least needed to try to escape from the heavy cloud of anguish hovering over his house and his backyard’s recently disturbed dirt. The job turned out to be a surprisingly good distraction from his last morning with Charlie, and helpful for his informal investigation into just who the hell this Annica person was.

  His search into her was shameless and indiscriminate, reading through the contents of her inbox from the present date to as far back as three hours of his time would allow. It was only her work email, filled with story pitches, interview requests, banter with the editors, and any other number of work-related minutiae of journalism. The inner workings of a newspaper. And it was hardly anything worth remembering—except for a few vaguely familiar names from the military . . . And then right back to hundreds of informal one-liner emails that could have just as well been texts sent between a married couple. Routine stuff like don’t forget the milk. Johnny has practice until six. In this case, it was about all the little details of how stories at Veteran’s Valor were put together—and nothing about the US military killing its own.

  Even the stories themselves seemed boring. Puff pieces about this or that general and what he’s doing after retirement. Nothing about how four American servicemen were almost snuffed out to cover someone else’s ass, their mission illegal and unconscionable.

  On the flip side, there was also a lack of emails sent from the crooked fringes of the military brass, from men who could convince an up-and-coming journalist like Annica to help her career by getting Jackson to loosen up his lips about Tripoli.

  Jackson only allowed himself to feel a twinge of guilt when delving deeper, when he’d found and accessed her personal email. And the guilt came with hardly any reward, her personal communications appearing—at least to Jackson’s now tired eyes—even more mundane than her work account.

  It all seemed just fine and dandy.

  But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t follow her car around the streets of Virginia Beach.

  Two clean email accounts wouldn’t keep Jackson from driving the four hours from Baltimore to Norfolk, Virginia. It wasn’t enough to stop him from booking a hotel room for four nights under a fake persona, and then dressing up in that persona whenever he’d emerge from the room. It was a chance to try out his new fake mustache he’d ordered from a stage-prop company. A chance, also, to busy himself with something other than crying over Charlie. Drinking, too. He’d done enough of that already back in Baltimore. He’d done enough of a lot of things back in Baltimore.

  Here in Virginia Beach, time was of the essence. Annica’s hacked emails told the story of a naive, inexperienced journalist navigating through her first major story. And today she had set sail for the private residence of David Rhodes, a retired intelligence officer, where she was scheduled to receive a crash course in information security. Although it was doubtful that she would learn anything too useful in a single visit, Jackson was in a race against time to glean as much info as he could on the surprisingly young and unguarded journalist.

  He’d already followed her around, off and on, for half the day, aided by a tracking device he’d slipped onto her car at their first stop at a grocery store. He’d gotten to know her driving habits, her innocuous Thursday morning routine, before things got a little more interesting with a visit to Vice Admiral Danby—whom Jackson vaguely knew, and even more vaguely assumed to be one of the good guys. And now, David Rhodes, at a bunker-like complex on the top of windy, mansion-lined street.

  The intelligence officer, beyond his title and his brief email exchanges with Annica, was a complete stranger to Jackson, who, for better or worse, knew a shit-ton of people in this part of the country. Virginia. CIA country, though he couldn’t confirm David Rhodes was part of that crowd. He seemed more of a Navy man. And one who knew enough about keeping secrets to train Annica. But what was his connection to her? He must have known someone at Veteran’s Valor. Their internet exchanges seemed too professional and stilted for them to be friends. This was even more evident in the way they greeted each other in person, halfway up a cobblestone driveway, a fumbled handshake spotted from Jackson’s vantage point in his car forty yards away. Jackson watched an exchange of awkward smiles before Rhodes led her up the driveway and out of sight.

  He’d come out there on a whim, to Virginia Beach and now to Rhodes’ house. He’d only mentioned the former to Jasper, in passing, hoping to not stir up too much excitement from his own men. But now, watching the two subjects disappear behind a wall of cypress trees, a barrier between his own under-manned and under-tooled surveillance mission and Annica’s entry into the secret world of Naval intelligence, he’d begun to realize that he’d absolutely have to make a few calls. The first to Tansy, who had always been the most proficient with this sort of thing. And then perhaps everyone on down the line, Jasper and Matthias, and whoever else he assumed would eventually become involved in what could likely become the second biggest shit storm of their lives.

  They could all meet in Jackson’s hotel room after having swept it clean of bugs—both the bed and tracking varieties, and piece together a bio for Annica, then a list of possible motivations for her getting involved. They could implant listening devices in her meeting places. In her car, especially. They’d learn every angle of why their story was being unearthed. Only then would Jackson contact her, innocently, casually, dumbly, and agree to at least some sort of interview through which they could put the final pieces together.

  Jackson continued formulating his plan as he stepped out of his car. He stood there in the cool and fresh sea-salt breeze, imagining what it would be like to once again be surrounded by friends, real friends. The men, even now, whom he could live and fight and maybe die with.

  When he shut the car door, he made no effort to dampen the sound. He belonged there. A friend of someone’s neighbor. Just some regular six-foot hulk of a guy, coming back from the gym and not some botched oversees mission leading a Libyan paramilitary group to their deaths.

  Jackson strode casually to the sidewalk, enjoying the sunshine and that breeze, on a walk toward the house of David Rhodes. His actual plan was similarly as unsophisticated. He just wanted to get a closer look at her car, check what was lying on the passenger seat after her visit with the general. Check out Mr. Rhodes’ house, which looked more and more like a compound as he approached. Quiet. Stone. It looked lifeless, a military compound disguised as a work of cold, modernist architecture. He passed the house and continued walking by a few other small mansions, to a bank of mailboxes. He stopped, pulled out a lock pick, and gave one last look down the street from whence he came.

  And it was a no-go.

  Some random pedestrian had appeared on the otherwise quiet street. A youngish man in gray sweats, with gleaming white running shoes. His head turned to Annica’s car as he walked past. And then his arm stretched out to the
passenger-side door handle, flipping it, checking it. And then he continued on walking.

  Strange . . .

  Jackson, no longer the only would-be thief on the block, turned back to Mr. Rhodes’ mailbox and slid the pick into the keyhole. He jiggled it exactly how he’d been taught in training, gently, almost like plucking a guitar string, while still debating in his head the benefits of such a venture. Rhodes probably had nothing of importance delivered to his public mailbox. It was probably full of pizza coupons and alarm-company flyers, the stuff he’d let collect in there for months while the real goods were delivered to a more intimate, secure location. The lock jiggled slightly, the first tumbler giving way. How full of junk mail it would be, would it land at his feet in a splat when he pulled it open? He never had a chance to find out. With a quick glance back down the road, he spotted the jogger, this time walking back by Annica’s car. His pace was quick, his gaze on the car, his focus tight. Jackson could tell in the way he moved his body, the purposefulness of it all. It was so obvious he gave up with the mailbox and returned the pick to his pocket. And the jogger was so brazen that he’d tried the door again, this time opening it completely in a slick orchestration of muscle movements that ended with him sliding into the car’s passenger seat with the graceful stealth of a cat.

  Jackson had already started jogging toward him, and Annica’s car, and ran faster now, not caring now how loud his footsteps were when he passed by Rhodes’ house. Not caring that he was quickly spotted by the thief, a set of nervous twitchy eyes burning at him through the windshield. He’d been in the car for just a few seconds, searching through the glove box, hands moving quickly, eyes flashing back to Jackson. Jackson could even see those eyes widen after he’d pulled out his gun.

  “Step out of the car.”

  The thief froze up.

  “Get out, and with your hands up.”

  Fucking déjà vu . . . Jackson couldn’t believe he’d been forced to apprehend two robbers in just three days. First his garage, and now Annica’s car. And just like the last time, given the location and victim, it might have been more than just a simple robbery.

  “What’s up?” said Jackson, approaching closer. “What’s going on?”

  The guy inside finally made a face, a disgusted little scowl, and said, “What are you doing?!”

  “What’s up? Forget your keys?”

  “Put the fucking gun down, asshole.”

  “Step out of the car.”

  “No.”

  “And keep your hands off yourself.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  The robber—or possibly actual jogger, now he thought about it—seemed extraordinarily put out by Jackson’s approach. Not startled or caught, but just irked by the whole thing. It wasn’t the reaction Jackson expected—or, at that point, hoped for.

  “Are you a cop, bro?” He’d shuffled over and was sitting in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel.

  Jackson watched him closely. “Are you the owner of that car?”

  “So you’re a vigilante,” he said. “A good Samaritan.”

  “Is this your car?”

  “A fuckin’ idiot with a gun. A psycho.”

  “It’s not your car,” Jackson said, trying to keep his voice even and strong. “I saw you.”

  “You’re nuts, bro.”

  “I saw you check the door, like a thief.”

  “You’re nuts, man. You’ll be sorry for this. I swear you will.”

  “Fine. Let’s get the cops down here, then.”

  “Just drop the gun, bro. For real, this is ridiculous.”

  Jackson heard a woman’s scream from behind him. It seemed to carry down the driveway of Mr. Rhodes’ house.

  “Drop the gun!” the jogger yelled, still inside the car.

  “What the fuck!” cried the woman from behind.

  The jogger was looking past Jackson now, over his shoulder, up at the house. “Annica!”

  Jackson froze, gun still steadily pointed, the feeling that he’d just royally fucked up burning through him like acid.

  “Annica,” the jogger cried. “This guy’s crazy. Go back inside and call the cops.”

  Jackson was staring right at her, at the fear twitching across her face. It looked horrendous and it made his knees weak. “Annica?” he asked as he lowered the gun.

  But she was still stiff with panic.

  “Alright, alright,” Jackson said as he slowly and deliberately holstered the gun. “It’s okay. Look. No more gun.”

  From inside the car, Jackson heard the jogger say, “I’m calling the cops, bro.”

  “It’s okay,” Jackson said to her again, trying to smile at the frightened, yet pretty young lady. “This is just a huge misunderstanding. I thought he was trying to break into your car.”

  “He’s crazy, Annica. Be careful.”

  “I’m not crazy.” He tried smiling again, with a little success this time. She was gorgeous. “I was just . . . trying to help.” Jackson pulled his gaze from her and turned back to the car. “Hey, it’s okay. You can come out.”

  Jogger Bro pulled the phone away from his face and said, “Are you serious, bro?” He still had that shitty look on his face, like it had been stamped on.

  “Sorry,” Jackson said.

  “Fucking right you’re sorry.” And then he got right back into his conversation with who Jackson hoped were not the police. He’d already fucked up enough. He’d totally blown his cover. And ruled out any chance of having an upper hand in negotiations with Annica. Immediately, he started reconsidering the phone calls to the rest of the guys, immediately rethinking his plan and stripping everything down. Everything right back down to square one.

  Fuck . . . He’d have to start over. And he’d have to do it all with her. Alone.

  “Annica, I’m really sorry.”

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “Uh . . .” He didn’t know how to describe it. “Uh, no.”

  Her expression had gone from fear to annoyance, so much so that she now matched the irk of the jogger. Neither of them seemed impressed by Jackson’s heroics. “How do you know my name?” she asked.

  “I’m Jackson.”

  Her head twitched very slightly, as if her brain fired a few synapses in its struggle to comprehend and to recall that name. Jackson. And then she said it. “Jackson . . .” It came out awkwardly. A foreign name.

  “You talked to Stanton,” Jackson said. “And he talked to me and said that you wanted to meet.” He knew it sounded a bit ridiculous. But it was the best he could muster, an awkwardly condensed summary of events leading up to Jackson pulling a gun on her friend.

  “Jackson,” she said again, this time with a little more certainty.

  “Yeah, you wanted to meet. So . . .” He chuckled and shrugged and felt more embarrassed than he had in years.

  “So here you are,” she said, a subtle smile creeping across her face. Jackson was so thankful for it.

  “You know this asshole?” came the disgruntled voice from the car. And then the slamming of a door, and then the quiet, muted footsteps of running shoes.

  Jackson turned to him, careful to keep his holster side furthest away.

  “How did you get here?” Annica asked.

  Jackson motioned down the street to his car.

  Her smile lingered, but it was a suspicious one. “I mean . . . were you following me?”

  “Hey asshole, that’s your car down there?”

  Jogger Bro clearly wasn’t going to give up in a hurry.

  “Well,” Jackson said, ignoring him while his eyes trained on Annica’s soft features. “I was just doing a little research.”

  “Research.”

  “I like to call it reconnaissance.”

  “I call it stalking.”

  “How about we agree on ‘following’?”

  Annica turned away from Jackson and said, “Hey, Craig, forget about it.”

  “Forget about it?” He was still on the phone. />
  “Yeah, it’s okay,” she said. “You can hang up.”

  “Nah.” And then he went back to his conversation, muttering something about the address.

  “Bro,” Jackson said, turning to him. “I said I was sorry. I just thought you were trying to steal her car. I don’t know why you have to call the cops.”

  Craig pulled the phone away. “You were brandishing a firearm. Brandishing.”

  Jackson looked back to Annica. “I really am sorry.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” she said.

  “I was following—”

  “Stalking—”

  “. . .you all morning, and so when I saw this guy in your car acting suspiciously—”

  “She asked me to grab her coffee!” Craig shouted. “I was just grabbing her fucking coffee and then there’s a fucking gun in my face!”

  “Okay,” Jackson said calmly. “I should probably go.”

  “Hey, I get it,” Annica said. “You were trying to do the right thing. But I’m so, so confused right now. I mean, I come outside and, like . . .”“I came here to talk to you.”

  “You could have just picked up the phone when I called.”

  “Can we still talk?”

  Annica laughed. “Well, not here.”

  “Are you busy?”

  She looked back at the house and said, “Kinda.”

  Jackson could overhear Craig giving a description of Jackson to the police. Time was running short.

  “Thanks, though,” she said, looking back with a hint of sadness on her face. “Thanks for trying to do the right thing, or whatever.”

  Craig was on to a description of Jackson’s car now.

  “You should probably get out of here,” Annica said.

  “Yeah . . .”

  Annica stuck her hand in her purse and jingled out a set of car keys. “Follow me to my house.”

  “What?”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard. You’ve been doing it all morning.”

  “To your house?”

  “Yeah,” she said, walking to her car. “We’ve gotta ditch that car of yours.”

  With Craig still talking to police, Jackson didn’t wait around for a further explanation. He sprung into a jog toward his car.