Jack Del Rio: Complete Trilogy: Reservations, Betrayals, Endgames

by Richard Paolinelli

  Not that he could have checked, even if the thought had occurred to him in the condition that he was in, but the thick smoke pouring out of the building had provided perfect cover from any eyes in the nearby buildings, or any electronic eyes that were passing overhead in orbit.

  The ten flights took twice as long as it normally would. Coughing from smoke inhalation and wincing from what could be cracked ribs, he had to stop twice on the way up. Checking the tape across the top of the door frame, he was convinced no one had been inside.

  He slipped into his apartment, locked the door, and went straight to the bathroom, not daring to turn on any lights.

  After splashing his face with cold water and checking his face, Jack grabbed a towel and filled it with several ice cubes from the freezer, holding it to the side of his aching head. Grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge, Jack walked over and all but collapsed into a chair, letting the beer and the ice do their work.

  He knew someone would eventually be dispatched to confirm he was dead, but found he simply no longer cared if they did or didn’t anymore. Only this time, send one man. I can take one man alive and use him to find out who is behind all this. Here, I have the home field advantage.

  So he was content for now to sit back and wait for them to come to him. His chair gave him a perfect view to the east. On a very clear day, he could make out the Atlantic Ocean just on the horizon. Today was just such a day, and he, like Cavanaugh and Collins a few miles away, saw the fireball erupt in the sky, smoking debris and flames tumbling earthward, then fading. Jack leapt out his chair and rushed to the glass.

  After a few moments, he tore his eyes away from the horrible scene and looked at the clock on his desk. Just below the clock was a note from Sara, reminding him of the flight number and time of departure. He looked at the time on the note, looked again at the time on the clock, and did the math in his head.

  Even though everything told him he’d just witnessed the demise of Flight 219, he held out hope that he was wrong. Any number of things could have delayed the takeoff. Any number of other aircraft could have been destroyed in the explosion he’d just witnessed.

  He held on to that hope right until he clicked on his television and turned it to the first news channel he could find. It didn’t take long for the alert to flash that there’d been an incident involving a passenger jet near Washington D.C. It wasn’t much longer until the news anchor relayed the report that the doomed jet had been Flight 219 bound for Las Vegas.

  The bottle in Jack’s hand slipped from his grasp to shatter on the floor, along with the towel and half-melted ice cubes. The horror of what he’d just seen, the final loss that was too much too bear, slammed into Jack with full force. He staggered back towards the chair, crumpling to the floor as he missed sitting in it; his whole body shaking violently. He opened and closed his mouth, but no sound escaped.

  Finally, painfully, something inside him broke and inhuman sounds poured out. A scream so primal, filled with such agony as only those damned to the deepest pits of hell can appreciate, tore itself from his throat.

  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!”

  He sat there on the floor among the beer and shards of glass, now mingling with the blood gushing from his left hand and arm, sliced as he’d landed on the beer bottle, tears streaming down his face. Ignoring it all, he buried his head in his hands and wept.

  ***

  When he’d first entered the apartment, the sun had been visible out of the eastern windows. He was still sitting in the same position, staring out the window, by the time the sun had moved high above the roof, out of sight.

  I lost. Lost the chance to stop this. Lost my brother. Lost, once again, a woman I loved, a woman I’d been ready to give it all up for.

  Jack eventually stirred, using his undamaged right hand to pull himself up off the floor. He held onto the back of the chair for support, taking three deep breaths, letting them out slowly, trying to get himself under control.

  Still wobbly, he staggered back to the bathroom, turned on the cold water, running his hand under it, and found the cuts were not too serious. Moving robotically, he cleaned himself up, tossing the beer-soaked, blood-stained clothes on top of a hamper.

  His eyes were hollow and lifeless, with dark circles forming under both. He walked unsteadily back toward his desk, looking for painkillers to counter the throbbing that seemed to be coming from every part of his abused body, especially his left hand.

  He dry swallowed a pair of pills and wiped his face with a fresh towel, trying to decide if he should bother with cleaning up the stagnant pool of beer, water, and blood on the floor. It was on his third pass across his face with the towel that something caught his attention and stopped him dead in his tracks.

  He was looking at the now empty slot where Sara had placed the flight itinerary for him. He’d taken it back to her when he’d determined that he wasn’t going to make that flight. But during the brief time it had been in his possession that was where it had been…And only one other human being on the planet had seen it here besides me and Sara.

  It wasn’t the completed puzzle, but enough of it had just fallen into place. Almost as quickly as the look of comprehension and triumph erupted on his face it was just as quickly replaced by a look of despair. For the very first time since this business had started, here was a big piece of the puzzle he'd been trying to solve. Only he found that he didn't like what he had discovered.

  He looked down at the floor and closed his eyes, softly swearing.

  “Oh, no,” he whispered, “not him. Why did it have to be him?”

  The human part of Jack Del Rio wanted to weep, even more so at this latest discovery, this betrayal that was beyond enduring. But the FBI Special Agent in him demanding justice fought for dominion now, and found an ally in the primal being demanding revenge. Both found purchase, but the question of which one of the two would ultimately prevail would have to be settled eventually.

  Jack pulled himself together just as he heard a small, scratching sound coming from his main entryway door. Jack reacted quickly, gathering his weapon and silently moving across the room to position himself next to the doorway.

  The lock was supposed to be proof against a lock pick. If he survived the next week, he would have to see the manufacturer about a refund. He heard the lock click and the door slowly opened. A lone man, gun in hand, in a dark suit cautiously entered the apartment. His eyes swept back and forth, taking in everything and looking both for a target to shoot and a potential threat to eliminate.

  He never located Jack, who used the shadow of darkness in a small corner where a wall unit met the doorway to hide from view. As the man moved further into the apartment Jack moved up from behind the intruder and clubbed the man across the back of his head.

  The intruder crumpled to the floor unconscious but alive. Jack stood over him, casting a look over at the television, which was still reporting on the airplane disaster, before gazing long and hard at the intruder.

  He had automatically levelled his weapon at the man’s head, guided by training more than any conscious thought. He stood there silently considering his options. It was a much closer call than he’d like to admit, but the Voice won this round only because the primal being knew its target was not this man.

  Holstering his weapon, Jack bent down to handcuff the intruder before painfully heaving the man over his shoulder, left the apartment and dumped his prisoner onto the elevator floor.

  Seconds later, Jack's phone began to ring. It rang several times, stopped, and rang again. It continued to ring for several minutes and was never answered. On the way down to the ground floor, Jack fished the intruder’s cell phone out of his pocket, pulled the card and battery from the back and tossed them into the lobby’s lone trash receptacle as he half carried, half dragged the unconscious man on the way out.

  The fire in the garage was still burning, having spread to other cars. No one paid any attention to the apartment building, even if they had, the
y would have merely assumed that it was one man helping an injured man and returned their attention to the fire above, as Jack stepped outside and thumbed the clicker on the man’s keychain. He followed the answering chirp to the dark sedan parked nearby, popped the truck open long enough to deposit the man inside, slammed it closed and then got into the car and drove off.

  SEVENTEEN

  As the sun rose over Washington D.C. on Inauguration Day, there had been some thought given to delaying the ceremony twenty-four hours, out of respect for the families of those lost on the doomed flight, the submarine, and Vice-President-elect and his detail, but the decision was made to carry on as planned.

  Memorial services for those that had perished, who had lived in the D.C. and Baltimore areas, had been held the day before. Those few that were from other areas of the country would have their services held the following day.

  They had played the big game as scheduled out west and Georgetown had rallied late for an emotional win. The team had immediately dedicated the victory to the large number of its fans that had perished in the disaster.

  Sara had been one of the few non-Hoyas fans from the D.C. area to die on the plane. Her traveling companion, who had been later identified as Derrick Holmes, had become the father of an eight-pound, six-ounce boy seven hours after the destruction of the plane. Derrick’s wife had been told of his death only after naming the boy Derrick, Jr.

  Sara’s parents had lost their only child and had decided to hold a small, simple service for her in D.C., on the very same day as the inauguration. They had originally planned on attending the inauguration, but departed town as soon as Sara’s service had concluded.

  Soors, to no one’s surprise, had been visibly delighted when Cavanaugh and Collins had filled her in on the details of the eventual demise of the last living member of the Del Rio family.

  Neither man had shared with her the one loose thread that remained from that day. While there was still no final report on how many bodies had been recovered from the burned out sedan, the assumption had become official regarding the identity of the body in Del Rio’s Mustang. With the body so badly damaged, no DNA could be extracted to confirm it was him. But the investigators had pieced together what they had thought had happened and in the name of expediency had decided that was good enough. Due to an error in entering data into the system, the number of bodies recovered from the wreckage had been increased to five and no one ever discovered the mistake. The conspirators took the official, though incorrect, number of deaths as confirmation that Del Rio had died in the garage.

  But Cavanaugh and Collins knew that one of their men had disappeared. He’d been sent to Del Rio’s apartment and never reported back in. They had briefly considered, then discounted as unlikely, given the official body count from the garage, that somehow Del Rio had survived and dispatched their missing man.

  But like the investigators, they, too, chose to accept the assumption as actual fact. And with no sign of Del Rio after three days, it seemed the assumption had been correct. So they kept Soors and Wells in the dark on that point.

  While Collins was still somewhat disturbed by what had turned out to be the unnecessary destruction of Flight 219, he suspected Wells might feel the same way, although the man never let on. Cavanaugh, on the other hand, seemed indifferent.

  Soors seemed not only comfortable with the unjustified deaths, but almost giddy. Her reaction was slightly explained by an offhand comment Wells lobbed at Soors.

  “You might at least have the decency to feel a little bit bad that so many people had to die to kill off a cousin of yours,” Wells said quietly.

  “Mary Del Rio was a traitor to our cause,” Soors said coldly, “and a traitor to her sister as well. My mother never forgave her for turning her back on us, nor did I.”

  “The recently departed Del Rio,” Wells explained, seeing the look of confusion on Collins’ face, “was a descendant of some of the original families that came here from Russia after the war. His grandmother and Georgina were sisters.”

  The revelation explained why Collins’ attempt to bring Jack into the fold had been rebuffed at every turn.

  “Did Jack know?” Collins asked.

  “No one knows for certain,” Cavanaugh chimed in. “I believe his parents never told him the truth about his genealogy. If they had, I suspect his reactions against us these last few days would have been quite different.”

  “All of this is meaningless babbling,” Soors pronounced, getting up to leave. “He’s dead and we are all well-rid of that entire family. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m expected at the inauguration as are you two. Are you coming along, Charles?”

  “I think I will take it in from the comfort of my study,” Wells said, turning back to Collins for one last question. “I wonder, Baker, given you were close to him, if he had discovered your involvement, what your response would have been? Would you have been able to kill him yourself to preserve the plan and to conceal your part in it as well?”

  Collins considered the question as both Soors and Cavanaugh left the room. He had wanted to bring Jack in on their side. But knowing what he did now, he realized Jack would never have agreed to it, would have done exactly what he had done—tried to stop it and them.

  Even though he had loved the man as his own son, he realized that if it had come right down to it, he would have killed Jack without hesitation. He would have mourned him, as he did now, but he would have indeed pulled the trigger and killed his friend.

  ***

  In front of the U.S. Capitol Building, a massive crowd had gathered. The outgoing administration, which had promised so much, had been a terribly divisive one. Now, there was hope of a new day in America with a new administration.

  Even despite the tragic loss of Cashman in the plane crash, William Arthur was looked upon as a man to fix all that ailed D.C. and the country, while Paxton was seen as a young man who would spend the next two administrations, assuming an Arthur re-election in four years, preparing himself to pick up where Arthur left off.

  For the first time in eight years there was a real feeling of optimism again across the country, and hundreds of thousands had poured into the D.C. area so they could say that they had been there when it had all begun.

  The dignitaries had all taken their places on the enormous podium, both Soors and Cavanaugh had drawn choice seating with a clear view of the impending ceremony. Collins was down below, where a department director of the FBI would be expected to be seated.

  He looked around and spotted the numerous Secret Service agents and police officers stationed throughout the area, all on high alert. Seeing them reminded Collins Jack’s funeral was scheduled for the next morning. And since Jack had no surviving family, he had seen to the arrangements himself. After gaining the approval of her family, Collins had managed to arrange Jack’s coffin to be laid to rest next to Sara’s, even though both were simply plain boxes, empty save some charred remains of ‘Jack’s’. Nothing of Sara had been found and was likely never going to be.

  He felt a slight twinge of regret at the thought of Jack and Sara’s deaths. But after hearing about Jack’s familial connection to the people he’d been thrown in with, he understood there had been no other choice. Sharon had been broken-hearted, so Collins decided he would fill her in once everything had settled down. He glanced at his watch, noting that the inauguration was set to begin in just a few minutes.

  Wells, true to his word, had declined to show up in person, opting to take up station in his study in his Arlington estate. Wells was an enigma to Collins. It seemed that Wells didn’t fully agree with his two compatriots actions, but seemed to be content to follow their lead anyway.

  Wells’ actions, on top of the recent revelation about Jack’s family, had left Collins with the uneasy feeling that he did not know nearly as much about the people he was associating with as he should. He would rectify that oversight as soon as this day was done and their objective achieved.

  The crowd sudde
nly stirred as the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court stepped out onto the platform, carrying the Bible he would use for swearing in the country’s two new leaders. He’d been a young looking man when confirmed as Chief Justice a decade before, and still looked younger than his age, although the last ten years were starting to take their toll.

  A slight breeze ruffled his black robe as he took his position on the podium. After a few moments, Arthur stepped out with Paxton right behind. Their wives walked by the sides of both of their husbands, stepping out onto the podium, trusting the bullet-proof glass partitions to keep them safe.

  Paxton and his wife stepped up first. Paxton gently placed his left hand palm down on the Bible the Chief Justice held out in front of him and raised his right hand.

  There were only a couple of Secret Service men. Doyle was at his command post a block away and would join the Presidential party when they started their traditional walk down Pennsylvania Avenue.

  ***

  A hearse slowly led the small funeral procession of dark cars into the Winter Gardens Cemetery. The unseasonably warm winter, along with the attentive care of the caretakers, had left the cemetery grounds as green as if it were mid-spring instead of mid-January.

  It slowly worked its way through the grounds before pulling up to a stop a few yards away from an open grave. Two piles of freshly dug up dirt sat off to the side. The pile closest to the grave was actually sitting on top of a wooden platform, covering the open grave that waited for the coffin carrying the body of Jack Del Rio that would arrive the following day.

  Six pall bearers somberly withdrew Sara’s casket from the back of the Hearse and walked it to her waiting grave. They gently laid the casket down on the platform placed over the grave, doing so with such care that they hadn’t disturbed a single flower that had been laid on her casket before they had loaded into the hearse at the mortuary.