Chapter 31

Madison Square Garden had over eighteen thousand seats, each filled by a fan that wanted nothing more than to see their favorite basketball team play in person. There were hundreds of employees, trainers, team staff members and business men and women working at the arena. The Knicks were playing the Celtics. It could have been a damn good game. James would have picked the Celtics had he known they were playing.

The rescue effort began almost immediately. It was impossible to tell quite yet, but a death toll in the thousands was expected by those in charge. It was a catastrophe of epic proportions and nearly every available agent in the city were miles away, scouring every inch of a dummy target. James felt numb.

“You couldn’t know,” Agent Black offered, “you had good intel and you went with it.”

“Jack died for that intel…” James almost mumbled.

“Jack died for you.” Black corrected him. He was right. They rode the rest of the way in silence. Neither of them would be participating in the rescue effort.

Once they’d landed, Agent Black strolled toward one of two parked Town Cars nearby. James was a few steps behind. The older man stopped and turned toward him.

“How hasn’t all of this ruined you?” James asked him, weak and sincere, he didn’t have any bravado left.

“It did,” Black looked at his watch, “it did a long time ago.” With that, he turned back toward his car. “Try to get some sleep. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” James opened the door to the remaining Lincoln and practically fell into the seat. Exhaustion had lulled the pain into a dull roar in his head, but every few seconds he’d get a new twinge of some combination of hate and shame that made him wish he was dead. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat. He could feel the pistol pressed up against his hip bone. It was uncomfortable, but he was too tired to move it. The lump in his other pocket, he realized, was Jack’s notebook. A vision of how Jack died flashed across James’ mind. He pulled the notebook from his pocket, a relic now, the last surviving artifact of a man that was once his friend. He flipped through the pages; license plate numbers, drawings of penises and some games of tic tac toe littered most of them. He thumbed to the last page Jack had written on. In Jack’s sloppy handwriting he read, “Cadillac Reg address came back – 52 Longmeadow Ave Apartment 14.” James’ heart nearly stopped beating. Jack didn’t know the man in the Cadillac had gone after him, he’d simply ran the plates when it went through and noted the address it was registered too. James started the car. He had another stop to make tonight.

He typed the address into the iPhone he’d taken off of Jack’s body. The GPS calculated a route and gave him an estimated time of arrival. Ten minutes. Ten minutes is an eternity inside the head of a man with a broken heart; when sadness gives way to a sickness that engulfs your very being. In a quarter mile, turn left. The GPS ignored his misery and urged him on. If a man could die of lacking a will to live, James would have never made it to that house, but men don’t die of pain, no matter how much they want to.

James took the final turn onto Longmeadow Avenue and slowed his car to a creep, reading for address numbers on the mailboxes. Most didn’t have any visible markings, but as James crept past row after row of duplicate houses, he realized he wouldn’t need it. Just ahead on his left, a white house with black shutters stood out against the darkness like Solomon’s lost city of gold. The moonlight shone down through a break in the dark and bitter December sky, illuminating a silver Cadillac sitting peacefully in the driveway. James’ eye twitched at its audacity, sleeping as though it hadn’t witnessed the day’s carnage. He slowed the car to a stop right in front of the house. His phone vibrated, notifying him of a new text message. The knowledge that it wouldn’t be from Jack made his stomach twist again, but there was nothing left in it to eject. James ignored it a moment and turned the rear view mirror so he could see himself. His eyes were sunken into his head and surrounded by dark circles. Dried blood caked in his nostrils where he’d failed to wipe it away and a purple lump protruded from the bridge of his nose where it had broken. He was aware that he still couldn’t hear through his left ear, but it hadn’t been much of an issue thus far. It wouldn’t be for much longer either, he assumed. He pulled the pistol from his waist band and placed it in his lap. It was a Beretta M9, the same type of pistol he’d carried in the Marines. The shape and weight felt familiar in his hand, comfortable even. He pressed the button on the handle and slid the magazine out. Seven rounds left. He picked the iPhone back up from where he’d left it on the passenger seat.

James studied the screen for a moment, the gears in his brain turning. If not Ramon, then who? It didn’t matter now. He slid the phone back into his pocket and closed his eyes. Eve’s face stared back at him through the darkness, her soft green eyes were as clear as they had been in bed that morning. He longed to be with her, but knew even death couldn’t grant that wish. Men like James didn’t go to heaven. No, there would be no reunion on the other side. He held onto the image of Eve for another second, using his sorrow, letting it give way to rage. He could feel the adrenaline begin to course through him again. He got out of the car and popped the trunk. Inside he found a twelve gauge shotgun just like the one Jack had used, a first aid kit, a bullet proof vest and a survival knife. He picked up the knife and looped his belt through the sheath, hanging it off his right side, then picked up the shotgun and the belt of rounds. He loaded four in quickly, then racked one into the chamber and slid in another. He closed the trunk with the vest still inside.

He strolled up to the door casually. It was late and the moon had granted him reprieve from its glow, hiding behind low hanging dark clouds as they crept in from the West. He stopped at the door and knocked politely, then rang the doorbell and stepped to the side, where the peep hole couldn’t see. He slowed his breathing and waited as he heard a voice inside, then footsteps as they approached the door. Silence, as the man peered through the peep hole and saw nothing, more words – English by the sound, but too muffled to understand, then the click of locks being undone. James tightened his grip on the shotgun and waited for the door handle to turn. Nothing. Each second felt like an hour. More words, there were two male voices. Then the sound of the knob beginning to turn. James span and leveled the shotgun at the door. He fired once, hitting the door and passing through it, throwing the door open and the man behind it to the ground. He quivered, not dead but too injured to control his body. James stepped over him and fired another round at the man on the couch, tearing most of his head from his body and leaving what remained to ruin the light grey fabric.

James walked past them into the kitchen. The table was covered in wires, technical drawings, and a single brick of C4. His phone vibrated in his pocket again. Hushed voices, panicked and muffled, wafted through a door on his left. James approached the door, shotgun in hand but before he could reach it a sharp bang pierced the air, like a spoon hitting a metal pot. A burning sensation ripped through James’ arm and threw the shotgun from his hands. He knelt and drew his pistol, firing two rounds back through the door only inches from the hole he’d been hit through. He heard a gasp and the sound of weight hitting the floor. He closed the gap between him and the door quickly, hoping to get through it before whoever was inside had a chance to regroup. He thrust his foot into the door with all his might and it splintered, giving way at the latch and the top hinge. The door swung open awkwardly on its remaining hinge, revealing a man slumped on the floor holding his stomach. He looked up at James, but didn’t speak. James kept his pistol pointed at him, knowing he had heard another voice, he walked into the room slowly and span to the left, aiming his pistol at the source of the second voice.

There, lying in bed and wearing only a blanket, was Eve.

James closed his eyes, the injuries he’d sustained over the past few weeks all rushed in on him at once, bearing down on him. His head was spinning. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t form any words. He lowered his pistol and fell to his knees, looking up at her like an abused child that just couldn’t understand. Eve looked down at him and the fear in her eyes gave way to something closer to pity than love. James tried to speak again, but only managed to utter a whispered, why? Eve stood up from the bed, allowing the sheet to fall away from her naked body and she walked over to the broken man. She ran her fingers into his hair and pressed his face into her stomach. James let her, not knowing what any of it meant, but knowing touching her felt too good to pass up. He dropped his pistol and put his hands on her hips, tears butting against the flood gates of his eyes and begging to be released. He stood up slowly, running his hands along her soft body as he did then embracing her.

“I’m sorry James…” She whispered, tears now streaming down her face, “I didn’t have any other choice.” James’ phone vibrated in his pocket again, his shirt now soaked in blood from his arm.

“How could you?” James asked the air, the night sky, the world, God and the woman he loved all at once.

“I… I love him.” Her eyes pleaded with his to understand. James’ hands fell back to his sides.

“And me?” His voice grew steadier.

“I didn’t mean to love you, James… I didn’t mean to…” Her crying began the transition to a light sob.

“But you did love me.” James didn’t ask, he knew it was true. She pressed her head into his chest and James looked over at the man leaned on the wall. He was conscious and silent, his pistol still in his hand. He just watched the two embrace with an indifference only a mass murderer could muster. James wrapped his left hand around Eve and pulled her close to him, his lips touched hers softly. She pressed against him as her lips parted, releasing a shallow gasp. James’ right hand twisted slightly, the blade of the survival knife driven up into her chest from just below her sternum. He left it there as he laid her back onto the bed, the tears now free to rain down from his cheeks. Her green eyes clung to his, as though their contact was all that was keeping her there. Her breathing slowed.

“I didn’t mean to love you either,” he whispered, his lips only inches from hers, “and I’m sorry.”

“Everyone has to die…” she paused to take another shallow breath, “At least I earned it.” A final tear escaped from the corner of her eye and ran down her temple, pooling where her short brown hair met her ear. James kissed her lips gently and stood back up. The man on the floor had a slight smile on his face, but still didn’t seem interested in continuing the gun fight.

“I was an interpreter for the US in Iraq,” he spoke unprompted, “when your troops pulled out, you left me and my family unprotected. America denied my Visa requests. They were all killed.” He didn’t speak from empathy, his words were laced with hate.

“I don’t give a shit.” James picked his pistol back up from the ground and pointed it at the man.

“Your country murdered my entire family!” He shouted, spit flew from his mouth, enraged James didn’t want to hear his motives. James sat on the bed next to the lifeless feet of the woman he loved and took the cell phone from his pocket with his free hand. The text had been from Agent Black, asking where he had gone. He knew they’d have tracked him. He held the gun up again, pointing it at the bleeding and enraged murderer as he sat on the ground like a child in timeout and typed with his left:

Found the leak. A girl I met in Honduras. Lead me to Alaal.

He put the phone down and laid his free hand on Eve’s foot, the gears in his mind turning, putting together the pieces. She had accessed his laptop and framed Ramon. She had told Alaal where to find him at the Motel. She had placed the explosives on his car and escaped in the carnage. His phone vibrated, its light blinding in the dimly lit bedroom.

“I need an ambulance and I demand a lawyer.” The man spat blood and words in James’ direction.

SitRep on Alaal?

A military abbreviation for Situation Report. James raised the pistol a bit higher and pulled the trigger, splattering the back of Alaal’s skull onto the drywall behind him.

Neutralized.

He put the phone down and pulled the magazine from the pistol. Four rounds left. He slid it back into its housing and gripped its handle. The tears had stopped. The pain had stopped. His phone vibrated again, lighting the room as the clouds shifted outside and the moon revealed itself again.

The leak?

James’ rested his elbows on his knees, one hand with a cell phone, the other with a warm pistol hanging limp between his legs. He looked over at Eve, her nude body pooled with blood. The blanket she had been covered in when he arrived was on the floor in a pile. He picked it up and laid it over her body.

The bitch is dead.