by Jon Mills
“Put it down, Chris.”
“And let you take a shot? Fuck no.”
“You have my word.”
“Your words mean little to me.”
Jack tried to coax him down from the edge of what he feared he would do. The steely knife reflected light that shone through a dirty stained-glass window.
“Where are my brothers?”
“Noah is in custody. Willie is dead.”
A look of shock masked his face. He sneered pushing the knife a little harder.
“Who killed him?”
Jack lied. He didn’t see any reason to incite him to anger any more than he had.
“One of the Hispanics.”
His breathing was heavy and labored.
“Toss the weapon or I will jam this into her skull. I swear.”
“Don’t do it, Jack. Take the shot,” Isabel said.
“Shut up, bitch.”
Jack remained stoic. Adjusting his grip, he aimed each time Chris moved. His hands were sweaty and slightly trembling. He wasn’t afraid of killing him but of missing and striking Isabel. The sound of sirens beyond the mansion bellowed.
“It’s over, Chris.”
“No. No it’s not.”
His eyes were wild, and full of malice.
“You can leave right now and no one will know.”
“No. That’s what you want me to believe. If I go down, we all go down.”
“Okay, just release her.”
“Not until you toss the gun.”
“Don’t do it, Jack.”
Chris pulled hard on Isabel’s hair causing her to cry out in pain.
“Okay. Okay,” Jack turned and tossed it a few feet away. A smirk lingered on Chris’s face.
“Now come closer.”
Jack stepped inside.
“Closer. I want you to see this.”
Just as he took another step, Chris jammed the knife up into Isabel’s skull, then yanked it out. Her eyes rolled back and he shoved her forward on top of Jack before attempting to rush by him. Filled with rage, Jack grabbed his leg with one hand while catching Isabel with the other. With Chris in full motion, and Jack gripping his leg, he crashed hard and screamed in agony.
“Isabel.”
She was unresponsive. His eyes flitted over to Chris. Fearful for his life he slashed at Jack’s hand cutting the skin across the back. Jack winced in agony and released his grip. He scrambled to get up but Jack was on him before he could exit the mausoleum. Jack body-slammed him into the edge of the doorway, and a bruised and battered Chris stumbled out into the rain. The rain continued to fall heavily as Jack kicked him in the back sending him forward to the ground. Chris clawed at the wet soil, turned on his back and kept the knife out in front of him.
“Don’t come any closer.”
Slowly but surely Jack emerged from the entrance, water beating against his furrowed brow as he charged over to Chris. He kicked the knife out of his hand.
“Get up. GET UP!” Jack yelled. A bullet through the skull was too good for him. After what he had just done, Jack was going to inflict real pain. Cop cars could be heard now on the other side of the house. He knew he had only minutes before they swarmed the area.
Chris rose to his feet and lunged forward, his arms wrapping around Jack’s waist as he forced him back. Jack lifted him off the ground and body-slammed him down with such fury that he even hurt himself in the process. Chris groaned as he writhed around on the ground. Blood trickled from his lip. He made a weak attempt to get up but collapsed again. Jack retrieved the knife from in the slick grass and strolled back over to where he lay.
He flipped him over, straddled his body, placed one hand on his neck and reared the knife back. Chris went red in the face as he squeezed his throat cutting off access to air. Jack stuck the knife into his stomach, pulled it, jammed it in again, then twisted it. All the while he was choking, trying to breathe. Finally he extracted it and raised it above his head. Chris’s eyes barely registered it as he drove it down through his eye socket embedding it in his skull. A barely audible croak escaped his lips as he breathed his last breath and Jack rolled off.
He inhaled hard staring up at the dark sky as it opened and pounded the earth. He lay there for twenty maybe thirty seconds before rising to his feet and going back into the mausoleum. Jack stood for a second in the shadows of the doorway, a hand against the wet concrete. Out of breath, overwhelmed by emotion he pressed in and dropped to his knees beside Isabel.
As he cupped her lifeless head in his hands, tears welled in his eyes. Droplets fell to her face, a mixture of rain, salt and blood.
“I’m sorry,” he said, repeating it over and over again as the police closed in. Jack rose up holding her limp body and carried her out into the storm. In that moment his world slowed to a crawl. SWAT moved in with rifles raised. Their commands blurred with the noise of rain and the pounding of his heart.
A helicopter circled overhead.
Amid the cluster of law enforcement, Simon Thorpe rushed into view.
Their eyes locked for a brief moment, no words were exchanged.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Agent Daniel Cooper would sit before the review board to go over his reasons for quitting the FBI. Thorpe would be among those in attendance. Concerned about his mental condition after hearing about Baker’s death, Thorpe had pulled him aside to discuss what should or shouldn’t be expressed, just in case he was thinking of disregarding protocol.
He wasn’t wrong.
In many ways Cooper felt responsible for how things had played out. He’d been forthright about the fact that there had been a moment when he could have walked away and Thorpe would have been none the wiser about Isabel’s relationship with Jack but instead, he did his job and set in motion what became a tragic incident.
No matter what Thorpe said to console him, it wouldn’t change it.
Cooper had made up his mind.
In the end it was Cooper that Jack would have to thank for his release. Thorpe still had in his mind other uses for Jack but that would have to wait for another day. In one final attempt to do right by Isabel, Cooper made it clear in no uncertain terms that unless Jack Winchester was released from all further obligations to the FBI, and cleared of any wrongdoing, he would inform the powers that be as well as the media that certain members of the FBI had circumvented justice for their own gains. That being, the use of a known criminal to do the work that the FBI didn’t or couldn’t do, in light of the fact that he was wanted and had escaped custody. All of which remained unknown to the public. He knew all too well that the FBI played to the media. It gave out statements, statistics and data that were false or skewed in order to prevent public scrutiny. Such revelations wouldn’t just be damaging to the bureau’s public image, but would destroy careers — specifically Thorpe’s.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Thorpe muttered from behind his desk.
“Try me,” Cooper replied.
“We will disavow all knowledge of your role and action within the FBI. You will be no better than Agent Baker.”
He smirked, staring at him through narrowed eyes. “I thought you would say that.” He shook his head. “God, Isabel was right. I should have listened to her. That’s why I already put into place a specific package containing photos, emails and signed-off paperwork that will go out to a reputable, trustworthy media platform in the event that the FBI attempts to fuck me over.” He showed some teeth. “I guess all those months behind a desk did pay off in the end.”
With a smug look on his face he rose from his chair and exited, leaving the door swinging gently as Thorpe crumpled a piece of paperwork in front of him.
Later that morning, after giving a lengthy, and at times tearful recount of his working relationship with Agent Baker, and the reasons why he was quitting, Cooper relinquished his firearm, and badge. He set them down before the review board of three FBI officials who had been called in to investigate how a first-class agent had died when no official
record existed of the operation in Chokoloskee.
All they would learn that day was what was agreed upon.
The FBI’s reputation would stay intact as long as it ended here.
At no point was Jack Winchester’s name mentioned.
Thorpe sat quietly; mindful of the fact that shit rolled downhill and his position within the bureau was on shaky ground. He was living on borrowed time. The FBI may have been able to save its image but it wouldn’t save his. News of what Cooper required had rattled the group that he was accountable to. An anonymous group higher up in the FBI who used their power in order to maintain what had been established long before them. It was a lineage of liars, backbiters and dangerous individuals who wouldn’t think twice about rubbing out the existence of one of their own.
Simon Thorpe watched him return to his seat before they dismissed him.
Their eyes locked on to each other for a few seconds as the meeting was brought to a close. Cooper would go on his way. Jack was already released and all record of wrongdoing purged. Thorpe however would return to his meaningless existence. An existence that at one time seemed to make sense when good people, such as Baker, were around.
But the bureau had changed. Including him.
It wasn’t what it used to be. It resembled a very different beast to the one he once knew.
Perhaps it was time he took a leave of absence, a vacation with a one-way ticket.
Epilogue
Ten days later, Jack visited Isabel’s grave at the South Florida National Cemetery. He never got to attend the funeral, though he watched from afar. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have shown up and paid his respects, as Cooper had made arrangements with Isabel’s sister. Jack hadn’t been in the right frame of mind.
He’d been suffering from withdrawal, so after being released by the FBI he locked himself inside his cabin on the island and rode it out. It was a hellish seven days full of cold sweats, frequent visits to the bathroom and nightmares, but he made it. A week later he was beginning to feel more like himself. He vowed he would never go near drugs again, no matter what.
He’d spent the first day in custody rehashing what had taken place in Chokoloskee, how things had taken a turn for the worst and then he was held for an additional day until Thorpe released him. When asked why he was being released, Thorpe never gave him a direct answer and quite frankly, Jack didn’t want one.
Now as he wandered the endless rows of gravestones and plaques, a warm breeze blew against his skin and he could sense she was with him. It didn’t take him long to find her grave. Numerous cards, flowers and notes had been left for her by others at the bureau.
Jack stood there for a second holding white lilies, and sighed. They were her favorite. He was wearing dark jeans, a leather jacket and had one hand tucked into his pocket. He put them down and cleared away some debris that had blown across the grave. He sucked in his lips trying to not choke up as he tried to find the words.
“Well Isabel,” he sniffed and rubbed his eyes. No words he could summon seemed to suffice. The loss weighed heavy on his chest, making even the simplest act of breathing hard.
“Um. I got off the drugs.” He nodded, then shook his head feeling like an idiot. What was he saying? “I mean, I got cleaned up. Not that it matters but I think you would have wanted that. Oh, and… I’m planning on selling the property on the island, moving on. You know… finding somewhere else to put down roots. You were always big on that.” He paused again. “I couldn’t possibly stay here now. Not after what’s happened.” His words were slow and purposeful. He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Everything reminds me of you.” He let out a weak chuckle. “Did you know you left your toothbrush at my place?” His lip curled a little. The weak smile faded fast. “Anyway, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if you can hear me. I just miss you.”
A hard breeze blew in sending dead flower petals across the ground.
“Well. I guess this is it. I love you.”
Jack turned to leave when he heard a voice.
“Jack!”
He cast a glance over his shoulder to find Daniel Cooper a short distance away. He was dressed in a tan coat; he wore sunglasses and a shirt and tie.
“I thought I would find you here. You’re a hard man to track down.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m not here to bust you, Jack. I just wanted a moment of your time.”
Jack stared back at him as he got closer. He hadn’t seen Cooper since he was released and even then they hadn’t said anything to each other.
Cooper got close and handed him a newspaper. It was turned to a page with a headline that read:
FBI OFFICIAL SUSPECTED IN BURYING INFORMATION FOUND DEAD
Police believe an FBI assistant director involved in the apprehension of some of America’s Most Wanted killed himself after setting fire to his house.
Tampa, Florida — An FBI agent believed to be responsible for preventing disclosure of operations involving known fugitives was found dead in an apparent suicide early Saturday morning, according to police. Investigators believe FBI agent Simon Thorpe, 42, set ablaze his home, then locked himself in his car and died of smoke inhalation. An investigation by FBI internal affairs is speculating that critical information regarding the bureau’s involvement in multiple black operations using dangerous fugitives wanted on charges of murder, theft and extortion was lost in the blaze. Thorpe was an 11-year veteran of the Tampa Police Department before spending the last eight years with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Jack scoffed and handed back the paper to Cooper.
Cooper rolled it up tightly “You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
Cooper scrutinized him.
“It doesn’t matter. I quit the FBI.”
Jack raised an eyebrow and shifted his weight.
“Were you involved in my release?”
He nodded. “You can be assured. No one is coming for you.”
Jack snorted. “I wish that was true. I’ve made a lot of enemies in my time and one thing I’ve learned over the years, people will go to great lengths to seek revenge, even at the cost of their career, families and life.”
Cooper nodded while looking at Isabel’s grave. “Well I hope for her sake, you get to live out a long one. I think she would have wanted that.”
No handshakes occurred. No pat on the back. Just a nod and Jack started to return to his vehicle.
“Jack!”
He turned back briefly.
“Where are you heading?”
That was the question. Where was his life heading?
He breathed in deep the humid air and cast a glance around the empty cemetery. After all he’d been through he couldn’t fathom how he had managed to survive this long. In reality he should have been dead and buried a long time ago in New York, alongside those who had lived their lives on the razor’s edge. Perhaps it was luck, or maybe it was fate.
All he knew for sure was that as long as he was breathing, he would never stop trying to help the oppressed and befriend the forgotten.
He didn’t answer Cooper, just smiled and walked off, another ghost among many.
THANKS FOR READING
Debt Collector Book #7 Please can you leave a review.
Book 8: Hard Time - Debt Collector 8 is now available.
A Plea
Thank you for reading Debt Collector 7: NARC. If you enjoyed the book, I would really appreciate it if you would consider leaving a review. I can’t stress how helpful this is in helping other readers decide if they should give it a shot. Reviews from readers like you are the best recommendation a book can have. Without reviews, an author’s books are virtually invisible on the retail sites. It also lets me know what you liked. You can leave a review by visiting the book’s page. I would greatly appreciate it. It only takes a couple of seconds.
Thank you — Jon Mills
Newslett
er
Thank you for buying Debt Collector 7: NARC
Building a relationship with readers is one of the best things about writing. I occasionally send out a newsletter with details on new releases and subscriber only special offers. For instance, with each new release of a book, you will be alerted to it at a subscriber only discounted rate.
Click here to receive special offers, bonus content, and news about Jon’s new books, sign up for the newsletter.
About the Author
Jon Mills is originally from England. He currently lives in Canada. He is the author of The Debt Collector series, Dark Tide, The Promise, the Undisclosed Trilogy and many other books under pen names. To get more information about upcoming books or if you wish to get in touch with Jon, you can do so using the following contact information:
@Jon_Mills
authorjonmills
www.jonmills.com
[email protected]