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

by Richard Paolinelli

  “Dear Ms. Sanders. When your friend returns home, please give him this message and have him contact me as soon as possible. Tell him this message comes from a son of two of Karpov’s children. He will understand.”

  Wells re-read the message twice. Then he hit send and the message was on its way, the die cast. He sat back in his chair, staring intently at the screen, wondering how long he would have to wait for a reply and hoping that it would not come too late.

  EIGHTEEN

  A certain section of Tijuana, due to its proximity to the U.S. border and a lower cost of living, had become the destination of choice for many Americans. Some looking to live comfortably on a fixed income, others looking to do business in a less-business restrictive environment from the local government.

  Doctor Ron Sarhad had run a successful practice in Maryland for a few years but tired of government intrusion into his practice, dealing with Medicare and all of its legal pitfalls as well as the insurance companies. So he packed up many years back and moved to Tijuana, set up shop and never looked back.

  Before leaving Maryland though, his wife had been the victim of an attempted kidnapping and a young Deputy had come to her rescue, stopping the plot almost before it had begun. He had told that young man that he would never need to pay for his medical needs ever again, but he’d lost track of the young man and hadn’t heard anything about him since – he wasn’t much at following the news – and never had a chance to make good on that promise.

  Until today.

  Today, a much older-looking version of that young deputy walked into his office even before he could open for business, finally looking to cash in the debt.

  “Deputy Del Rio,” Sarhad exclaimed as he recognized his early visitor. “I assume you’ve been promoted since, I hope.”

  “Promoted, changed jobs a few times along the way,” Del Rio replied with a wan smile. “Let’s just go with Jack for now, okay?”

  “Okay, Jack, what brings you here?”

  “Not entirely sure,” Del Rio admitted. “Something has seemed off and I thought now might be a good time to check and see what it is. Somewhere off the beaten track and off the books.”

  “I seem to get that a lot, for different reasons.”

  “Is that going to be a problem, Doc?”

  “No, not around here. Come on in and tell me what the problem seems to be.”

  A few hours later, as Del Rio finished getting redressed, neither man was in much of a talkative mood.

  “I wish I could do something to fix this, Jack, but it isn’t like that wound on your arm. This just doesn’t heal up.”

  Del Rio paused long enough to glance at the almost healed slash across his right biceps. In all of the shooting and fighting he’d engaged in over in England and Ireland only once had he been struck.

  He’d gotten sloppy in the Swords bicycle shop. He thought there had only been three New IRA members inside the shop when he made his move. But the fourth had come in immediately after and gotten in one good slash in before Del Rio could take the man down. He’d taken the knife from the dead man, bound his wound as best he could and covered his tracks forensically just enough to keep Hunter-Bailey’s people from figuring out he’d been injured.

  The old country doctor he’d visited in Ireland, under an assumed name, had bought his story about not realizing his knife had a sharp edge and accidently cutting himself when he used his sleeve to wipe off the blade. The doctor stitched up the wound and scolded Del Rio about knife safety.

  “No, I suppose not, Doc,” Del Rio said, shaking off the memory, quietly finishing dressing.

  “I’m very sorry, Jack. There simply isn’t anything to do to cure this,” Sarhad said. “At best, we can make you comfortable toward the end, but that is about all.”

  “How long?”

  “A year, eighteen months at the most. Look, go get a second opinion. Check out some alternative therapies. They’re longshots of course but what have you got to lose?”

  “Not much I suppose,” Del Rio admitted as he finished. “Thanks, Doc. What do I owe you?”

  “Not a penny,” Sarhad said. “We’re even for what you did for my family. What will you do now? I know some groups that help patients in your condition.”

  “I think I’ll just go home for now, thanks anyway. But I’ll check into them, I promise.”

  “Jack, the toughest battle against cancer is mental. I’ve seen patients just give up and they deteriorate faster than they should. I’ve seen patients maintain a positive outlook and extend far beyond the original estimate.

  “There’s advances made every day,” Sarhad continued. “The next day could always be the day that the one advance you need is made. Keep that in mind.”

  “I will. Thanks again, Doc,” Del Rio said as he slipped out of the office.

  * * * * *

  The British Ambassador to the United States was back in Arthur’s office, along with America’s Ambassador to the Court of St. James and Doyle sitting in on the meeting. The ambassadors were seated on the couch with Arthur and Doyle seated across from each other in cushioned chairs. Arthur’s Chief of Staff hovered nearby, taking notes of the meeting.

  The subject was the aftermath of Del Rio’s one-man invasion of Great Britain, which every party involved agreed had now likely been concluded, seeing as he’d left no member of either is London ISIS cell or the New IRA alive.

  “It’s been four days since the massacre at Portlaoise and Ballyroan,” Sir Gerald Chesterton said. “and we’ve no sighting of him or any reports of contact by him against any other targets, not that we can see how anyone is left for him to go after.”

  “There is whoever bankrolled the attack in Arizona,” Doyle pointed out. “If it is connected to the folks he locked horns with here four years back, I’m sure he’ll want to have a word with them. But that is most likely going to happen on our side of the pond.”

  “Agreed,” William Conorley, the American Ambassador, said. “I suspect he will be on our radar here and we can at least be grateful that he won’t be bothering you any longer Sir Gerald.”

  “Be that as it may,” Chesterton replied. “Her Majesty’s government wants Sir John to be dealt with in the most extreme fashion. We are formally requesting he be officially listed as a terrorist and that every measure be taken by your government to terminate him.”

  “You put us in a difficult position, Mr. Ambassador,” Arthur said quietly. “He is an American citizen with certain rights, no matter what he has done, which includes a trial. However, the criminal activity of his targets aside, I cannot deny the fact that he has committed murder on a vast scale.”

  “He hasn’t taken out any innocent victims,” Doyle pointed out. “And his daughter was murdered by these people, along with some of ours and yours as well Sir Gerald. That has to count for something.”

  “But does it cancel out over one hundred dead by his hand?” Arthur countered. “Both of our governments owe him our very continued existence, after a fashion. There is that to consider as well.”

  “Her Majesty shares your views on the matter,” Chesterton said. “But the sheer amount of bloodshed alone demands response.”

  Arthur opened his mouth the respond but was stopped by the ringing of his phone. The Chief of Staff picked up the line.

  “Yes? Who is here? I see, one moment,” he placed a hand over the receiver and addressed Arthur. “The President of the Navajo Nation is outside. He says he has urgent information regarding Del Rio to share with you and Sir Gerald.”

  “How the hell does he even know about this meeting?” Doyle demanded.

  “Well,” Arthur said, rising out of his chair to greet his new visitor. “At this point it doesn’t matter I suppose. Send him in.”

  Before the phone could be hung up, the door opened and President Ben Yazzie, another leader who owed Del Rio his life, walked in with Archer in tow.

  “Agent Archer,” Arthur asked in surprise. “I believe…”

  “My
apologies, Mr. President,” Yazzie interrupted. “But I asked your man to accompany me here. I hope you will indulge me and overlook this?”

  “Of course,” Arthur said, clearly not happy. “You said you were here about Del Rio?”

  “Yes, and my message is for you and for the Ambassador to take back to his government.”

  “Oh? And this message is?” Chesterton asked.

  “Jack Del Rio has been acting as an official agent of the sovereign Navajo Nation,” Yazzie said. “The Dine were violated by an act of terror, committed in part Mr. Ambassador, by citizens of your country. Del Rio has been given full authority to hunt down and terminate any and all persons responsible for the attack, which left two officers of the Navajo Nation Police dead.

  “As citizens of both Great Britain and the United States were also murdered in the attack on our sovereign lands,” Yazzie continued. “I would expect you would be fully supportive of our move to bring these terrorists to justice.”

  “Mr. President,” Arthur began slowly. “I’m sure you would agree sending an agent of your government onto foreign soil, even for such a cause, is unacceptable to that nation’s sovereignty.”

  “Yet both of your governments have done exactly the same thing in other countries in the past,” Yazzie countered. “Our sovereign nation reserves the same right to aggressively defend its borders and its people just as your governments do. We would consider any overt action taken against Del Rio as a violation of our sovereignty and an act of war.”

  Deadly silence dropped over those in the room. Yazzie’s stand left little room for discussion or debate. What had been a thorny issue and just become a full-blown international incident. No U.S. President ever wanted to turn on the TV news and see U.S. troops invading lands considered Native American territory.

  “Sir, if I can make a suggestion?” Archer slipped into the discussion.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m very certain Jack will return to his home soon. Perhaps a form of house arrest can be arranged? Or in this case a Reservation arrest?”

  Arthur contemplated Archer’s proposal, quickly picking up on the full idea being proposed.

  “Gentlemen,” he began finally. “I am going to send Archer back to Arizona with these orders to relay to Mr. Del Rio, assuming he does return to his home. He will be allowed to stay on the Reservation, free from fear of any retaliation from either Her Majesty’s government or the Government of the United States.

  “He is not ever to step one foot beyond the borders of that Reservation and into American soil again,” Arthur continued. “If he does, he will be shot and killed on sight. I want you to make that perfectly clear to him Agent Archer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, your government may feel free to lodge a formal protest but these are the terms both side will live with. I suggest you explain the deaths in your country as an internal war between factions of the New IRA after one discovered the other was working with ISIS.”

  “I’m not sure Her Majesty will be pleased with this,” Chesterton said.

  “But it is a solution that deescalates this situation,” Arthur said. “Unless you can show me one innocent person among Del Rio’s targets, I see no reason to make matters worse.”

  “Very well then.”

  “Mr. President,” Arthur addressed Yazzie. “I also trust this will be the last time our respective governments will find themselves in this position? In the future your government will reach out to mine before going after any targets outside your border. This is agreed.”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” Yazzie agreed amicably, having gotten what he wanted.

  “Then I suppose I should head back to brief my government on this turn of events,” Chesterton said, rising from couch with Conorley following suit. But the American ambassador somehow managed to make contact with the table, sending the nearly full pot of coffee tumbling onto the couch. Black coffee poured out over the white material.

  “Oh hell,” Conorley exclaimed. “I am so sorry about this. What a klutz.”

  “I’m sure it’s not the greatest disaster my administration has dealt with, Will,” Arthur assured as his Chief of Staff summoned staff to come clean up the accident.

  “But this couch is ruined,” Conorley noted. “Let me replace it, I insist. I can have a new couch in here tomorrow and no charge to the taxpayer.”

  Arthur almost declined the offer, but the look on his ambassador’s face swayed his decision.

  “Alright, Will, go ahead. Make it something other than white though and we’ll call it good.”

  “You got it, sir, thank you.”

  If anything, the kerfuffle helped bring the contentious meeting to a lighter close. Arthur was grateful for that much. He could use a few weeks of peace and quiet around here.

  * * * * *

  Sanders rolled over, uncertain what it was that had awoken her. She lay still in the bed, listening for any sound in the darkness. Only it wasn’t completely dark, she suddenly realized, Faint orange-yellow light flickered from beyond the doorway. It had to be coming from the large fireplace, only she hadn’t had a fire the night before.

  Throwing on a robe as she got up Sanders made her way to the main room where the fireplace was. A small fire burned there and someone, she could not make out who it was with their back to her, sat before it. She looked around quickly for something to defend herself but was stopped by her visitor.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you, but it seemed chilly in here.”

  “Jack!” she exclaimed, recognizing Del Rio’s voice and went quickly to his side. “How long have you been here? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “Got in a couple of hours ago,” he explained. “You were sound asleep and I figured I’d let you get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Well I think that’s out of the picture now,” she said, sitting on the arm of the chair and taking his hand in hers. “I’ve been worried about you, especially since you seemed to have just dropped off the face of the Earth after…”

  She paused, uncertain how to proceed.

  “After my little tour of the U.K. ended?”

  “Jack, what happened over there? The news reports were all over the place with what was going on and who was responsible. As of yesterday, they’re officially blaming it on in-fighting between terrorist factions.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful they are,” Del Rio said, staring into the flames. “Although I have no idea why? It was me, Hannah, all of it no matter what official story they cook up. Every single one of them died by my hand.

  “I thought I could find some justice,” he continued bitterly. “Some kind of peace, enough to stop seeing Jackie die over and over again every time I close my eyes. I killed one hundred and fourteen people and when there was no one left to pay for my daughter’s murder I still hadn’t found justice, no peace and I still hear her call for me before she vanishes in flames.”

  “At least it’s over now,” Hannah said, feeling tears trickling down her cheek at the pain in his voice. “Maybe with some time…”

  “Time is something I don’t have a lot of,” he said. “Seems karma has decided to do what others won’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m dying, Hannah. Went to a doctor I know and he said I’ve got a year or so left. No treatment or cure. Maybe that’s justice at work. All the killers are killed off and everyone else lives happily ever after.”

  “Jack…”

  “I’m tired, tired of fighting against people who hide in the shadows. I don’t care if I ever find out who they are. I’ve accounted for those that carried out the attack and that’s good enough. I’m tired of all the killing. Tired of fighting the good fight no matter how much it costs. I just want to stay here and be left alone by the outside world. Let me try to find some small measure of peace if there is any of it for me to find.”

  “You can, Jack. You will. And I’ll stay here with you and help you find it, if you’ll le
t me.”

  “Even after all I’ve done?”

  “Even after all that,” she said, laying her head against his shoulder. “All the way to the end.”

  * * * * *

  “Hello, Kingston,” Del Rio greeted the horse his late daughter had named. He’d awoken with the sunrise as usual, moving carefully out of the bed so as not to awaken Sanders. “Looks like Hannah’s done a good job keeping care of you guys while I was away.”

  The horse gently nickered at its owner, as if it could sense the torment and pain its owner was feeling. Del Rio held out a chunk of carrot which the horse eagerly accepted. Seeing food was being passed out, the other three horses immediately worked their way over and Del Rio tended to his small equine herd.

  “They missed you,” Sanders said, walking up from behind as he finished his chores.

  “Feels good to get back to this,” he said. “Maybe we can take a ride after breakfast, try to get back to some resemblance of order.”

  But before they could head back to the house a single, standard-issue government black SUV rolled into the yard. Archer, alone in the vehicle, stepped out and quickly spotted the couple.

  “Jack,” Archer greeted.

  “Dave,” Del Rio responded. “I’m guessing since you’re here alone, you’re not here to take me in?”

  “No, Jack, I’m not. But the old man sent me out to deliver an official message.”

  “And that is?”

  “It’s over, Jack. You’ve paid them back and then some and I’m sure you’ve heard the official explanation for the deaths over there by now. So no more hunting. You’ll be allowed to stay here in your home, and you can travel anywhere within the boundaries of the Navajo and Hopi Reservations. But you’re persona non grata outside those borders, Jack, with orders to shoot to kill if you are ever spotted beyond them.”

  “I guess that’s about the best I could hope for.”

  “Yes, and you can thank your friends here for it. Yazzie himself went to D.C. and told the old man he’d declare war on the U.S. if they came for you.”