She and Molly were lying on their backs on the floor in the upstairs room in Emilio’s house, completely cried out.
Max’s voice, coming in clearly over that walkie-talkie had been the sweetest sound Gina had ever heard.
Molly had grabbed it and apologized for threatening to kill him, but had he actually shot Grady out there in the square?
Jones had grabbed the walkie-talkie from Max and reassured her that although, yes, Max had shot him, it was extremely superficial. Max had very good aim. Everything vital was still right where it was supposed to be.
Part A of the plan was a tremendous success. Max and Jones had gotten complete control of the tank. Part B was a little problematic, since it ran on the assumption that there would be a radio in the tank.
There was not.
Nothing more, at least, than the same sort of walkie-talkie they already had.
So now the new plan was to maneuver the tank in front of the house, like a giant guard dog.
Sooner or later, help would come.
And until it did, they’d be in possession of the biggest gun on the island.
However, Max had told Gina that he was betting help would arrive on the sooner side. Especially considering they’d taken the CO and his interpreter hostage.
But now Max wanted Gina to look out the window.
“The cavalry has arrived,” he told her.
Someone was standing directly in front of the tank. Whoever he was—a boy, dressed like a surfer, on crutches—was holding one hand out in front of him like a traffic cop signaling halt.
The tank, of course, had rolled to a stop.
And Gina realized this was no ordinary surfer, this was Jules Cassidy.
Jules was alive!
And here she’d thought she was all cried out.
Max laughed as he peered out through the slit that passed as a windshield for the tank. “He has no idea that we’re in here,” he said.
Damn, Jules looked like he’d been hit by a bus.
“Jesus, he has some balls.” Jones turned to the interpreter, who still didn’t quite believe that they weren’t going to kill him. “Open the hatch.”
“Yes, sir.” He poked his head out.
“Do you speak English?” Max could hear Jules through the opening.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell your commanding officer to back up. In fact, tell him to leave the area. I’m in charge of this situation now. My name is Jules Cassidy and I’m an American, with the FBI. There are Marine gunships on their way, they’ll be here any minute. They have armor-penetrating artillery—they’ll blow you to hell, so back off.”
“Tell him Jones wants to know if the gunships are really coming, or if that’s just something he learned in FBI Bullshitting 101.”
The interpreter passed the message along.
As Max watched, surprise and relief crossed Jules’ face.
“Is Max in there, too?” Jules asked.
“Yes, sir,” the interpreter said.
“Well, shit.” Jules grinned. “I should’ve stayed in the hospital.”
“I hear helicopters!” Gina’s voice came through the walkie-talkie. “I can see them, too! They’re definitely American!”
Max took a deep breath, keyed the talk button. And sang. “Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go . . .”
Jones sat in Emilio’s kitchen with his arms around Molly.
She’d helped him clean out his various injuries, and satisfied herself that he didn’t still have a bullet in his leg from Max’s .22.
“Did you know he was going to do that?” she asked. “Shoot you?”
“No,” he said. “It was inspired, though.”
“I thought he’d really killed you,” Molly told him. “It was the first time in a long time that I’ve been that angry. Angry enough to hurt somebody.”
“Welcome to my world,” he told her. “Must be the hormones.”
Molly laughed, but it sounded a little grim. “That’s the last time you’re going to say that. Ever.” She was looking around. “You know, we’re alone.”
“Yup.” Jones knew where she was going, and he really didn’t want to have this conversation. He tried to steer in a different direction. “Why? You want to give the old kitchen table a go?”
She laughed, but her smile faded to serious far too quickly. “I know you told me before that you made a deal with Max but—”
“Nothing’s changed,” Jones said quietly. “If anything, I owe him even more now.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that he’s purposely off dealing with the Marine captain to give you a chance to slip away?”
“So what if he is?” Jones countered. “I gave him my word. And Mol, we talked a little bit in the tank, about me trying to cut a deal. Info on Heru Nusantara in exchange for a clean slate. A chance to go home. Raise this baby with you.”
“It just seems . . . risky.”
“Any riskier than waiting to start chemo until after the baby is born?”
“Fair enough,” she said.
They sat silently for a moment, then Molly cleared her throat. “Do you maybe want to talk about—”
“Were you watching?” Jones asked. Again he knew exactly what she was thinking. About when he’d killed Ram Subandrio.
“No,” she said. “I mean, I was, but I didn’t see it. It was just . . . one minute he was there, and the next he was on the ground.”
“That’s pretty much how it works.”
“Does it bother you?” Molly asked.
“You mean, do I feel guilty killing him? No. I once watched him murder a two-year-old. I think when Max and I went out there, I was actually kind of hoping it would go down the way it did.”
“Knock-knock.” Gina poked her head in the door.
“Come on in,” Jones said. “We’ve got all our clothes on for a change. Oh, wait, it’s you who gets it on in the—”
“Okay,” Gina said. “Am I ever going to live this down?”
“Eventually,” Molly said. “But Max singing you old Elvis songs over the walkie-talkie? Honey, that’s going to be impossible to kill.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Jones told her.
“The singing or the kitchen tabling?” she asked.
“Both,” he said. “Seriously, Gina. He’s all right. I always hated him for making you so unhappy, but . . . he’s a good guy.”
Gina nodded. “He’s really thoughtful, and considerate and . . . Speaking of which. He asked me to give this to you.” She handed Molly a cell phone. “He said to tell you that the Marines set up temporary towers, and that it’s currently seven forty-seven A.M. in Hamburg, and the clinic opens at seven, so . . .” She handed her a piece of paper, too. “The phone number is on there. Ask for Dr. Bloom.”
“They’re not going to give me the biopsy results over the phone,” Molly said. “Are they?”
The test results that would tell them whether or not Molly had cancer—and just how bad it was. Jones was glad he was sitting down.
“We weren’t sure,” Gina said. “Max sent someone from the Hamburg office over to talk to them and explain what’s going on. Dr. Bloom is waiting for your call. He knows you’re out of town in kind of a major way.”
She hugged Molly and started to leave.
But Molly caught her hand. “Stay, okay?”
Jones took the phone and paper from her and dialed.
Marine Captain Ben Webster was pretty laid-back for a guy who looked as if he could bench press the entire Western Hemisphere.
He seemed fine with the fact that although he and his Marines had been sent to Meda Island to kick some terrorist ass, they’d instead been left to clean up after a confusing incident in which a high ranking Indonesian military officer—Colonel Subandrio—was apparently linked to a kidnapping and murder, as well as gunrunners and terrorists.
Max had made sure Emilio’s computer disks were secure. The Marines were settling in to guard the house—at least until a team f
rom the Jakarta CIA office could arrive to search it more thoroughly.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bhagat. I’m sorry to bother you, sir.”
Max looked up from his conversation with Webster to see one of the Marine medics standing nearby. “What’s up, Corporal?” he asked.
“Your associate, Mr. Cassidy, sir? I’ve been recommending that we get him back to the ship’s hospital,” the earnest young man said. “His leg needs to be properly set. Yes, it’s splinted, but it’s got to be killing him. In addition, he’s lost a lot of blood from that gunshot wound, plus he’s had a head injury. They can be real tricky.”
“Good,” Max said. “Get him over there.”
“Yes, sir, that’s the problem. He won’t go. He insists that he’s got to talk to both you and Cap’n Web.”
Speak of the devil. Jules came hobbling over.
He held out his hand. “Captain Webster, once again, it was a pleasure, sir. Your men and women think very highly of you.” The two men shook. “I didn’t want to leave without thanking you,” Jules told him.
“I should probably be thanking you,” Webster said with a smile. “My people are glad to be on shore for awhile. We’ve been ramped up and ready to go ever since the word came down about the dirty bomb plot. We were hoping we’d get ordered back to San Diego, and for a while it looked like that was going to happen. Of course, then when the embassy in Jakarta was hit, we were way the hell over here—too far away to help.”
Jules turned to Max. “I’m not sure if you heard, sir, but there were only a few casualties in that attack.”
“It’s been frustrating,” Webster admitted. “But it’s not every day we get an order direct from the White House.”
A what? Max looked at Jules.
“Yes, well . . .” Jules met his eyes only briefly.
“I’d love to chat more,” Webster continued, “but you know, Barney here, he’s a smart kid. If he says you need to get to the hospital, then you should get going.”
“Thanks again, sir.” Jules shook his hand again.
“You’re welcome again,” the captain said, his smile warm. “I’ll be back aboard the ship myself at around nineteen hundred. If it’s okay with you, I’ll, uh, stop in, see how you’re doing.”
Son of a bitch. Was Jules getting hit on? Max looked at Webster again. He looked like a Marine. Muscles, meticulous uniform, well-groomed hair. That didn’t make him gay. And he’d smiled warmly at Max, too. The man was friendly, personable. And yet . . .
Jules was flustered.
“Thanks,” he said. “That would be . . . That’d be nice. Would you excuse me, though, for a sec? I’ve got to speak to Max, before I, uh . . . But I’ll head over to the ship right away.”
Webster shook Max’s hand. “It was an honor meeting you, sir.” He smiled again at Jules.
Okay, he hadn’t smiled at Max like that.
Max waited until the captain and the medic both were out of earshot. “Is he—”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Jules said. “But, oh my God.”
“He seems nice,” Max said.
“Yes,” Jules said. “Yes, he does.”
“So. The White House?”
“Yeah. About that . . .” Jules took a deep breath. “I need to let you know that you might be getting a call from President Bryant.”
“Might be,” Max repeated.
“Yes,” Jules said. “In a very definite way.” He spoke quickly, trying to run his words together: “I had a very interesting conversation with him in which I kind of let slip that you’d resigned again and he was unhappy about that so I told him I might be able to persuade you to come back to work if he’d order three choppers filled with Marines to Meda Island as soon as possible.”
“You called the President of the United States,” Max said. “During a time of international crisis, and basically blackmailed him into sending Marines.”
Jules thought about that. “Yeah. Yup. Although it was a pretty weird phone call, because I was talking via radio to some grunt in the CIA office. I had him put in the call to the President for me, and we did this kind of relay thing.”
“You called the President,” Max repeated. “And you got through . . . ?”
“Yeah, see, I had your cell phone. I’d accidentally switched them, and . . . The President’s direct line was in your address book, so . . .”
Max nodded. “Okay,” he said.
“That’s it?” Jules said. “Just, okay, you’ll come back? Can I call Alan to tell him? We’re on a first-name basis now, me and the Pres.”
“No,” Max said. “There’s more. When you call your pal Alan, tell him I’m interested, but I’m looking to make a deal for a former Special Forces NCO.”
“Grady Morant,” Jules said.
“He’s got info on Heru Nusantara that the president will find interesting. In return, we want a full pardon and a new identity.”
Jules nodded. “I think I could set that up.” He started for the helicopter, but then turned back. “What’s Webster’s first name? Do you know?”
“Ben,” Max told him. “Have a nice vacation.”
“Recovering from a gunshot wound is not a vacation. You need to write that, like, on your hand or something. Jeez.”
Max laughed. “Hey, Jules?”
He turned back again. “Yes, sir?”
“Thanks for being such a good friend.”
Jules’s smile was beautiful. “You’re welcome, Max.” But that smile faded far too quickly. “Uh-oh, heads up—crying girlfriend on your six.”
Ah, God, no . . . Max turned to see Gina, running toward him.
Please God, let those be tears of joy.
“What’s the verdict?” he asked her.
Gina said the word he’d been praying for. “Benign.”
Max took her in his arms, this woman who was the love of his life, and kissed her.
Right in front of the Marines.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
JUNE 29, 2005
As the plane touched down at LAX, Molly held Jones’s hand.
“You okay?” she asked.
He’d been glued to the window, watching Los Angeles grow larger and larger as they’d approached the runway, but now he looked up. “I think I’m still waiting for the squads of MPs to surround me, locked and loaded, and order me face down onto the ground.”
“That’s not going to happen,” she told him.
Jones nodded. He even managed to smile at her.
But he didn’t believe it.
And sure enough, as the announcement came to stay seated until the plane reached the gate, one of the flight attendants approached.
“Sir, we just received a message from airport security, asking you to remain on board until the rest of the passengers have deplaned,” she said.
Jones glanced at Molly. Here we go. “Thanks,” he told the woman.
But Molly leaned forward. “Excuse me,” she said. “Is there a problem?”
The attendant’s smile was sunny. “Not at all. Apparently the gentleman who’s meeting you wants to make sure he doesn’t lose you in the crowd.”
“See,” Molly told him. “It’s nothing.”
But he didn’t believe it.
“Whatever happens,” Jones told his wife, “you get on that flight to Iowa tomorrow, okay?” He’d wanted her to visit her mother first thing—as well as her mother’s doctor.
“Okay,” she said, clearly humoring him.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” She kissed him. “Hey, Byron’s awake.”
Byron?
“No?” she asked, obviously teasing him.
Jones shook his head. But he clung to the last shreds of his patience while the plane slowly emptied out by pressing his hand against Molly’s stomach, trying to feel their baby dancing.
“Excuse me—Mr. and Mrs. Jones?” The man coming down the aisle was an FBI agent. Had to be. Dark suit, con
servative tie—he wore the clothes and walked the walk. “My name’s George Faulkner. I work with Max Bhagat. He’s sorry he couldn’t be here himself. He wanted to make sure everything was going smoothly, and that you have everything that you needed.”
“Thank you,” Molly said for him, because even though Jones shook the man’s hand, he still didn’t believe it. “We do.”
There was no way that he was going to walk off of this plane unchallenged.
But Faulkner was carrying a briefcase and he opened it now, taking out what looked like all kinds of documents. “These are for the two of you.” He handed them over.
Passports. Drivers licenses. Birth certificates. Social Security cards. Military documentation giving an honorable discharge dated today, for a Sergeant . . .
His new name, which was on all of the other documents as well, was William Davis Jones.
Faulkner was saying something that Jones didn’t hear, but Molly was nodding, apparently paying attention.
“Back pay,” she told him, as he looked questioningly at the envelope Faulkner was handing him.
Jones opened it and . . . Shit. He wasn’t expecting this.
He was expecting his cheek ground into the pavement. Hands cuffed behind him as he was wrestled into a waiting cop car.
He looked at the rather large number on that check again and . . .
He still didn’t believe it.
Molly had gathered up her bags and books, and Faulkner took their luggage down from the overhead rack. Jones followed them out of the airplane as the flight attendants smiled and said good-bye.
The walkway to the gate was like something out of a science fiction movie—it had been a long time since he’d been at LAX. The gate itself was blocked off from the rest of the terminal, with temporary walls leading down to the luggage area—like something that might be set up to lead cattle to slaughter.
Faulkner was talking about a car that was waiting for them, chatting with Molly about her due date and recommending restaurants near their hotel.
Molly took Jones’s hand. “You okay?” she asked again.
He nodded, but he was lying and she knew it. She didn’t let go of him.
“We don’t have any checked luggage,” she told Faulkner.
“I know,” he said, “but I need you both to come over here and . . .”
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