More Than Gold (Capitol Chronicles Book 3)

by Shirley Hailstock

  She dropped her eyes a moment. "I've changed my mind." She looked up, but his expression was closed. "If you hadn't been with me I'd be dead by now. And I wouldn't have known what to do about Jan and Allie."

  Jack swallowed. She noticed it, but that was the only change in him. She wondered if her life mattered to him or if she was only a job. He hadn't said it in words, and his actions in the hotel room resulted from anger and frustration at her withholding information from him. She could be misinterpreting his feelings, making things up in her own mind. Was she making too much of a simple kiss? The problem was, it wasn't simple. It was devastating. She couldn't forget it and at every turn it popped to the front of her mind, derailing her thoughts and making her intensely interested in knowing more about Jack. Maybe she was only a job. If he weren't here with her, he'd be someplace with someone else. The thought made her heart tighten a little and set her teeth on edge.

  "Have you protected a lot of people?" she asked.

  "Some," he said, volunteering nothing.

  "Women?"

  Again he let his gaze travel to her. This time slowly as if he had all the time in the world. Morgan held her breath. She wanted him to deny it, lie to her.

  "Some," he said.

  "Did any of them die," she hesitated, "while. . ."

  "You're not going to die, Morgan. I'll make sure of that."

  "You can't know that. We don't know what those people are thinking, how they found us the last time, how long it will be before they come again."

  "I know my job. I do it well. There's nobody better that can do what I do." His voice had no vanity in it, no brashness or bragging. He spoke as if it were fact.

  "Are you saying you're the best?"

  "I'm alive," he answered.

  Morgan shivered at the coldness in the statement. Jack was a force unto himself. A lone ranger. He worked with no one and relied on no one. He said it in every breath. He didn't need anyone and didn't want anyone. No attachments was his policy. The aura about him spoke it as loudly as cheap perfume.

  ***

  Jack understood why we study history. The past never really goes away. It waits for you, waits until some point in the future when you least expect it to screw up your life. Then, there it is—ready or not. Without warning, it imposes itself, returns, forces you to face it, recognize it, and act, without the power of veto. Jack's past was here. It had to be dealt with. Sitting next to him, as they sped along the dark road in the middle of the night, on their way to a rendezvous point in western Ohio, was Morgan Kirkwood—his past.

  It began on a night not unlike this one. He was driving back to the residence hall after a practice meet. He'd dropped off several team members who'd ridden with him and was alone in his car. He smiled to himself, as he'd done then. The team had won. They were all elated, high on Adrenaline and looking forward to conquering the next meet. Strange, Jack thought, how youth hadn't prepared him for the future. It had just happened. How could he have known, on that other night as he raced through the darkness, that he'd end up here? That the road to here wasn't a straight line. It went up hills and into valleys, around back roads and across superhighways. It took him past farmhouses, grass huts, into bug-infested jungles and through homes that cost more than the entire treasury of some countries.

  What he'd told Morgan was true, although he'd glossed over the worst of it. He had been the bad boy type, but when it came to being bad, he'd done the worst. But not here, he'd done it in the name of the law, under the protection of the United States government, going into places the government couldn't go and doing jobs he couldn't speak of, jobs that had few or no records and dealing with people who had no names or faces. He hung alone, worked alone and all problems were his to identify, postulate and execute. His means were his own concern. He answered to no one.

  And he'd been selected for his career because of a swimming meet. He didn't know who had been at that meet, but someone had seen him and recognized something in him. The man who actually approached came during his time at Olympic training camp. He'd simply given him a card with an address on it. No explanation, just a comment, "Twenty hundred hours, tonight. Speak to no one. Come alone."

  He looked back now, not understanding how he could have been so naive. He thought it was some kind of invitation, that there was an initiation ceremony or even a hazing, like they did in college for fraternity pledges or some ritual for newcomers to the camp. The party he expected to attend turned out to be dinner and a long conversation with a man from the CIA, who offered him a job. The man told him they'd been watching him for some time, that he had all the qualities they looked for in good agents: physical ability, intelligence, aptitude and teamwork. They also needed someone who could swim.

  Jack remembered returning to his room that night. No thought of practicing or where he was entered his mind. He only thought how weird the night had turned out and how strange everything had sounded, yet he had no doubt that the man he'd had dinner with was serious. He reviewed his own situation, his sisters, his parents, the loving home in which he'd grown up, how his parents struggled to give their children anything they needed, but not everything they wanted.

  Jack thought eventually to follow in his father's footsteps and become a pharmacist. Today, after all he'd been through, all he'd done and seen, he couldn't imagine himself in a white coat filling prescriptions or even going so high as to becoming a doctor. What he looked forward to now, before he'd become immersed in Morgan Kirkwood's life, was going to Montana, fixing up his home, putting down roots. He might even get married and have children. His parents would like that.

  Glancing at Morgan, he wondered what she wanted to do.

  "When we get out of this. . ." he started, deliberately saying when and not if, ". . . what do you plan to do?"

  "I don't know. Some part of me never thought it would come to this. The other part never thought about anything after getting to Washington."

  "You'll be all right when we get there. Jacob is a good man. He'll protect you."

  "You and he are good friends."

  "We've spent some time together. I was best man at his wedding five years ago. He's got a kid now."

  "Boy or girl?"

  "Girl. Krysta. I've never seen her."

  "Have you ever been married, Jack?"

  He shook his head. He'd never even come close. His work didn't allow for relationships. Jack had met many women, most of whom had been hiding something or were part of some plot that involved the United States and its allies. He'd known they were agents. Morgan was the only one who touched him with her innocence. When she carried Hart Lewiston out of that prison and within the hour stood in front of the world, albeit with tears streaming over her face, as if she was strong enough to withstand the demons from hell, Jack had been more than over the edge. She was the only woman he'd ever come close to falling in love with and since then he'd hardened his heart to anything and anyone else.

  Only when he'd seen Morgan and held her in his arms did all that hardness break as surely as a quarry stone is reduced to gravel.

  "I've never been married either. Marriage was one of those things that wasn't one of my goals."

  "I thought it was a goal of all American women."

  "Only those that live the American dream."

  Jack understood the way she said it that she felt the dream wasn't within her grasp.

  "One more point," she went on. She turned in her seat to look at him. "Just for your information, I've also never had an abortion or been pregnant."

  "I apologize for that." He'd been so angry when he found her trying to run away. He wanted to know who she was trying to protect. He still thought there was something or someone. "Your actions are the same as a person trying to protect someone. I thought I could get you to tell me who, and that would make my job easier."

  He remembered his method. It probably wasn't the best, but he'd had little control when her saw her. Her skin, dark and slick with water, the smell of the soap and th
e way her face looked all clean and fresh and softened in the mist of the small room. Her hair was off her face and her eyes were huge and melting. He'd have to be a dead man not to respond to having her so close and wanting for twelve years to fulfill his fantasies. "The only person I'm trying to protect is myself," she paused. Then in a lower voice, she said, "I wouldn't want you to get hurt either."

  "Thank you," Jack said. "We're going to make it." She reached over and placed her hand over his. Jack grabbed it and squeezed. For a moment they sat like that, the car silent except for the noise of the road and the wind and the singing of his heart.

  ***

  Morgan heard it first. The sun had risen an hour ago, bringing the day into full light. Traffic hadn't picked up much. Three miles back the road split into two ribbons with a dense crop of trees separating them. Along the opposite side was a long-running bank of trees. They tunneled through them. Trapped. The place was perfect for an ambush and it seemed Jack had driven them straight into it. If someone wanted to lead them in only one direction or to kill them, this was a perfect setting.

  "It's back."

  "Yep," Jack agreed. "And we're sitting ducks."

  Morgan craned her neck, looking out the front windshield, then the side windows trying to see the helicopter she could hear. "I don't see it"

  "It's directly over us."

  "What do we do?"

  Jack didn't get to answer. A shell exploded in front of the Jeep. A flash of red fire and black smoke cut their ability to see. Morgan grabbed the chair arms and gulped air as the force of the blast pushed her against the upholstery. Jack fought the four-wheel drive vehicle, trying to keep control, maneuver around the pothole created by the explosion, and stay on the road. The Jeep fishtailed wildly as if it wanted to follow the laws of physics while its driver tried valiantly to break them. Gravel and twigs spit out from under the tires like shrapnel as they crunched onto the shoulder. Jack cut the steering wheel sharply and re-established the Jeep on the road.

  "Why aren't there any other cars?" Morgan finally whispered. "Someone had to hear that explosion."

  Jack accelerated. "It's my guess that somewhere ahead and behind us are road closed signs. It's a classic ambush technique. They let us pass through, then close the road at two ends."

  Morgan narrowed her eyes, looking through the side window on Jack's side of the Jeep. The crop of trees was dense, but there were places she could see through to the other road. It was clear of cars and a cornfield ran along the road. It was only late May and the corn wasn't very high. It looked more like pineapple plants than com stalks.

  Another explosion hit the ground. Jack swerved, guessing right as a chunk of the ground scooped out like a moon cleaving from the ground and hurled leftward.

  Bullets rat-tatted against the ground around them. One hit the side of the Jeep and shattered a back window. Morgan screamed as she grabbed her head and leaned forward. Glass exploded inward.

  "We're going to have to get out of the car." The odds of a bullet or something worse hitting a major system and the Jeep turning into a giant toaster were escalating. "When I stop, get out as fast as you can and go into the woods."

  Morgan grabbed her backpack and slipped it on. She rolled the window down as Jack swerved right and left. Another shell exploded. Jack plowed into the trees and came to a stop. Morgan forced the door open and rolled out, Jack right behind her. She started running.

  Low-hanging branches slapped him in the face. Morgan didn't stop going even though the branches must be hitting her too. Jack couldn't tell how far it was to the other end, but if the people chasing them were smart, and he knew they were, the other side was no sanctuary.

  "Morgan, stop," he shouted. She slowed and turned. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to the ground. Together they listened for the helicopter.

  Morgan looked up. "Do you think they can see us?"

  "No, but I don't think it's safe—" He stopped, listening. The bird was overhead. He followed the sound with his eyes. It was flying away from them back toward the road.

  Jack thought about their options. They could go back to the road and get the Jeep, but they would only have the road to drive on and he wasn't sure they could make it. Even the four wheel drive couldn't get through trees this dense. If they kept going forward, there was no telling what was ahead of them. He could almost guarantee they'd find men with guns trained on them. If they went sideways, the same fate awaited them.

  Suddenly a powerful explosion shattered the air. Jack instinctively covered Morgan, pushing her to the ground. A second thunderous blast convulsed the air.

  "The Jeep is no longer a means of escape," he explained when she looked at him.

  Morgan's hand squeezed his arm. She faced the opposite direction, away from the road. "I hear voices."

  Jack heard them too. "We have to go or they'll find us."

  Pulling Morgan behind him, he ran straight ahead, parallel to the road. He wanted to come out ahead of the Jeep. About fifty yards later, he turned and headed toward the road. They had one chance. They'd have to get back to the road, cross it and hide in the trees on the divider median. If no cars were coming along the other side of the road, the median was their only refuge since the cornfield hadn't grown tall enough to hide them. It might not save them, but it would buy them some time.

  He stopped suddenly. Morgan ran into him, but he kept them balanced. He placed his finger to his lips to keep her quiet. Then he listened again for voices. He could hear tree branches and leaves being beaten aside. They were gaining on them. He wondered what happened to the helicopter. He no longer heard the sound of the rotor blades. It could have left, but he doubted it. Jack hated being blind to all the possibilities of failure. And he didn't like surprises. But they had no choice but to keep going forward.

  He signaled Morgan to follow him. They made it to the edge of the trees. They were ahead of the Jeep. The chopper sat on the blacktop, facing the burning hunk of metal, big and imposing and as nonchalant as if it knew there was nothing to worry about. Jack smiled. This was at least a bit of luck.

  "Stay here," Jack told Morgan.

  She grabbed his arm. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to get us a ride."

  Morgan looked back toward the charred Jeep they'd traveled in and then at the helicopter sitting as new and polished as the day it left the hangar. "How?"

  "I'm going to steal it."

  "Jack, there's someone in that helicopter."

  "I know." He patted her arm. "Trust me."

  He left her, crouching close to the ground and moving like a sand crab. The pilot in the helicopter wasn't looking his way. He was facing the opposite direction, and unlike road vehicles, helicopters had no need for outside mirrors. Unless the pilot turned around, he'd never see Jack.

  And Jack was counting on that.

  ***

  Morgan watched with her heart in her mouth. The voices behind her were getting closer. She hid behind a tree, but kept Jack in sight. She was going to have to move soon or die right here. Jack was still hugging the ground and the man in the helicopter cabin glanced every so often toward the trees. Morgan's heart thumped in her chest. She prayed to herself, asking God, once her only friend, to please keep him safe and let his plan work.

  Jack scuttled along until he would be in the line of the pilot's vision should the man turn his head. Jack waited. Morgan calculated the rhythm of the pilot's movements. It was basic human nature. People moved repetitiously, especially when they were waiting. Unconsciously they created a method of doing something. In this case, for the pilot, it was glancing at the crop of trees. He did it in forty-second intervals. Just sitting made active people bored. She thought the pilot was either bored or keyed up. He'd been throwing bombs, shooting at the Jeep and hanging over the field trying to do aerial reconnaissance. She was sure it took Adrenaline to kill people. He was probably on his way down now. She hoped Jack knew that and that Jack was also reading his rhythms.

  The
pilot glanced at the trees, then turned back. He looked down and bit a fingernail. Jack moved then, skirting behind the helicopter and stopping on the balls of his feet. He waited a while, longer than Morgan thought she could stand. Her heart was in her mouth and the sounds behind her, sounds that meant instant death, were closer. She froze, her heart thumping in her throat. She wasn't even sure she could move when it was time. Then Jack disappeared. She could only see his feet.

  Morgan prayed again. The sound behind her grew louder. They were close, too close. In a moment they would be on her. She had to move. She looked back. Jack's feet had disappeared. Her glance flew to the pilot. He was gone too. Then a body fell onto the ground. It was on the opposite side of the helicopter. She couldn't see who it was and she couldn't wait any longer. Jumping up, she rushed for the helicopter, going toward the side where the pilot had been. Whatever was about to happen would be done now. Maybe if he had knocked Jack down, she could surprise him and give Jack enough time to recover. Before she reached the door, Jack jumped in the pilot's seat. Morgan's heart burst and her step faltered. A second later a man broke through the perimeter of the trees. Morgan felt him more than saw him. He shouted for her to stop. Her feet took off and she ran for the cabin door. He shot at her. The bullet came close. Too close. The sound took her back to the prison, and the fear of being killed welled up inside her like a monstrous weight that slowed her ability to lift her feet and run. She trained her gaze on the helicopter, making it her goal, and continued as fast as the nightmare would allow her. Another bullet came close enough to her feet to spike the ground, shattering the blacktop into pieces of tar as dangerous as an exploding grenade. A clump of pavement hit her leg. She stumbled at the impact, fighting to maintain balance. She kept going, her eyes still trained on the helicopter. She couldn't stop. She was too afraid. She felt the burning gravel raining against her pants legs.