Realizing what a waste of frozen breath this was, I stumbled my way back up the hill. I got in the Jeep and cranked the heat, trying to ease my shivering. I stared out into the darkness, as the monotonous drones of sports talk radio played in the background. The next thing I knew I was woken by a knocking on my window.
Disorientated, I viewed the clock to see that it was quarter to four—I had fallen asleep. Rockfield’s police chief, Rich Tolland was tapping on my window, and holding two cups of coffee. I unlatched the door and the large block of a man who we used to call The Toll Booth during our high school football days, climbed in and handed me a hot Styrofoam cup.
“If you’re here to arrest me, this coffee is grounds for entrapment.”
“The thought crossed my mind, but I couldn’t decide whether to charge you with loitering, or almost starting a riot at an elementary school basketball game.”
“Shouldn’t the chief get to work better hours than this?” I asked
“We’re a little short staffed, since you ran off my overnight guy.”
This brought a complicated smile to my face. That officer was currently spending his nights in a federal supermax prison in Freemont County, Colorado.
Rich looked out at the bridge, probably regretting that he brought up the subject. “Noah would be really proud of how you had his back. Everyone, me included, took the easy way out and concluded it was suicide.”
“Your job is to follow the evidence, and that’s where it led.”
He nodded, but didn’t appear convinced.
“You were right, and I was wrong,” I said.
He checked the digital clock on the dashboard. “For the historical record, at 3:52 on what is now Saturday morning, JP Warner has admitted he was wrong about something. And what would that be?”
“You realized what Rockfield was, and never left. I sought something more, not recognizing that I already had everything. It’s like that fable about Icarus—the boy who flew too high.”
Rich laughed. “I must have slept through that one in class. But I’m here for the same reason you are … a girl. If it wasn’t for her, I’d probably be off in Afghanistan or some place like that.”
I looked up from my coffee, confused.
“If you remember, I got a partial football scholarship to play at Bryant College,” he explained. I did, but that’s where the story stopped for me. “Anyway, I hurt my shoulder the first practice of college ball, and my football career was essentially over. I never liked school, and I was close to signing my papers to head off to the army, when I met Cassie.
“She showed me that school could be fun, which it wasn’t, but I really liked studying with her. And she convinced me that a degree in criminal justice would help me pursue my dream of getting into the FBI.”
“I thought this was your dream job—I remember you talking about it all the way back in school.”
“It was … when I was in the seventh grade, and I didn’t know anything else. Then we went on that school trip to Washington DC, sophomore year. When we took the tour through the FBI building everything changed for me.
“After graduating, my focus had changed from the FBI to becoming a big city cop, mainly because that way I could remain closer to Cassie. I made final cuts in Boston and Providence, but it seemed as if I was always a bridesmaid. Time went on, and Cassie and I had gotten married, and were living with her parents in Narragansett. She was working toward her teaching degree and I was tending bar, trying to make ends meet.
“Then one day, your dad ran into my dad here in town, and when the subject of me came up, your dad mentioned an opening on Rockfield PD. Thirteen years and three kids later, here I am.”
“So I was wrong about being wrong—you did want to leave town.”
“I was restless my first couple years back, thinking I’d given up on my dream. But I realized that my real dream was to have a family with Cassie, and this job allowed me to do that.”
“You ever get the urge to chase those old dreams?”
He shook his head. “After dealing with our friend Agent Hawkins on the Jones case, I lost any interest in the FBI. And besides, we’ve made a home here. I guess it comes down to what we can live with, and what we can’t live without.”
He looked to me. “How about you? I’ll bet it wasn’t easy to leave the life of adventure behind.”
I was momentarily surprised—I was used to asking the questions, not answering them. “It’s just that … I don’t know … sometimes I have voices pulling me in different directions.”
He looked bemused. “You’re hearing voices? Well, I guess that explains a lot.”
I wished it did. “Was I always this big of a mess?”
“I hate to break it to ya, JP, but you’re not as different from everyone else as you like to think. Hell, I got a whole team of people in my mind pushing and pulling. Sometimes I’m Rich the husband, sometimes Chief Tolland, and some days when I’m feeling like The Toll Booth, I’ll park over by the high school and watch practice, while making it look like I’m doing some police work. If you want my advice, listen to the loudest one—it will take you where you need to go.”
“And which one is that for you?”
He smiled wide. “Daddy.”
I now understood where I needed to go. I knew who I couldn’t live without, but the question was—could I live with myself? “Thanks—I think you really helped me find some clarity.”
He nodded, and began to step out of the Jeep. “Glad I could be of service. Now I better get back to work before I have to fire myself.”
“I need to get going too. I’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”
He looked surprised. “Oh yeah? Where are you off to?”
“To take care of some unfinished business.”
Chapter 11
Teterboro, New Jersey
Teterboro is a small airport located in New Jersey, twelve miles from Manhattan. It is popular with private aircraft—read: rich dudes with really cool jets—and would be where we would take off from this morning.
Carter didn’t reveal where our “unfinished business” would take place, although, I was confident it wouldn’t be in Charleston, as he’d told Gwen. This was no different from my days at GNZ, when he would never reveal the location of an assignment until the last moment. He claimed it was to maintain secrecy, since many of our competitors were always tracking our movements. But I got the idea that he enjoyed the spy novel of it.
Waiting for us was a Bombardier Challenger 600-Series jet, price tag twenty-five million. It was owned by an oil sheik, who happened to also be a big wrestling/Coldblooded Carter fan.
The morning was England-gray with an occasional flurry. I stood by my lonesome on the cold runway, as Carter said a long kissy-faced goodbye to his girlfriend. She had shed the leather, and was dressed as plain-old Kate this morning.
I watched as a yellow cab pulled up to the runway, and the third member of our traveling party stepped out. Christina was unaware that I was along for the ride, and I was interested in her reaction.
When she noticed my presence, I didn’t receive the same “happy reunion” vibe from last night. She looked to Carter. “What’s he doing here?”
He shrugged. “We needed someone with a hard head to test the parachutes in case the engines fail on the plane.”
Christina’s eyes searched the tarmac. “And where is Flash?”
“This assignment will not require a cameraman,” Carter said. “So Flash is on hiatus. JP is taking his place.”
Christina’s frustration grew. “I’m a television reporter, how can you do a story without video?”
Carter turned to me with a shake of the head. “Kids today.”
I smiled. “Tell me about it. If a tree falls in the forest and it’s not on YouTube, did the tree really fall?”
“If it fell on your heads, then maybe it would knock some sense into you,” Christina was not pleased with the turn of events.
And while part of her
did seem a “kid,” especially her dress of cammo pants, flip-flops, and a maroon FU sweatshirt—short for Fordham University, the college she attended, and not the sentiment that she had toward Carter and me at the moment. But the seriousness in her eyes, and her new TV hairdo, forced me to think of her as an adult for the first time since she’d barreled her way into my life. It was like she was trapped at sea, somewhere in between child and adult. I would advise her to swim back toward the youth as fast as she could, but she never has listened to me, so there was no point.
I wore a cable-knit sweater and jeans, with my shearling-lamb suede poncho tied around my waist—the same one I’d been wearing when Al Muttahedah captured us last summer. I would be picking things up right where we left off.
As a young reporter, I was nicknamed J-News, because it was said it looked like I’d popped out of the J-Crew catalog, in a time when the industry was conservatively buttoned-up. As time went on, the name became more about the persona I’d become than the clothes I wore—the battle of JP versus J-News symbolized the war that still raged inside me.
Carter wore his standard uniform, whether we were traveling to the stifling jungles of South America or the ice caps of Antarctica—motorcycle boots, jeans, and a sleeveless denim jacket, showing off arms that he claimed were in violation of New Jersey state gun laws. And of course, he had on his wraparound sunglasses, even though I’d yet to see a hint of the sun breaking through the overcast skies.
He informed her, “Here’s the deal—you’re going to get a story that most reporters would cut off their left nut for. And while you’re doing that, JP and I are going to take care of some business. Kill two birds with one leap off the top rope.”
She didn’t fight back with her normal vigor. It seemed that she’d come to the same realization that I had when I first began working with Carter—that this was his show, and we were just along for the ride.
The flight was delayed over an hour as we waited for the sheik’s two twenty-something sons to arrive, which they eventually did in expensive black Mercedes with bulletproof glass. The sons looked like Arabic Justin Biebers, and had with them a group of giggly Lauren Bowdenish-looking women in tight mini dresses. It’s good to be born with an oil well in your sandbox, I thought.
But I wasn’t complaining, remembering my days at GNZ when we flew commercial. Unless we were trying to remain stealth, and in that case we’d charter a flight with our own personal funds. Christina didn’t know how good she had it.
There were parts of the job I’d always miss, but long plane flights were not one of them. As the others congregated in the back of the plane following takeoff, I found a seat near the front where I would attempt to get some rest. But I didn’t even get through the first stages of the sleep cycle, before Carter woke me. “We got a card game going in the back if you want in,” he said.
I glanced back at the festive group. “I think I’ll pass—I’m on a retirement income these days, and oil sheik money might be a little out of my league.”
Carter smiled. “Are you sure? If I win the next hand, I get ownership of their father’s soccer team in London.”
“What if you lose?”
“What does Gwen think about arranged marriages?”
This time he brought a smile to my face. But it quickly disappeared when he informed me of our destination. It didn’t surprise me to learn where Al Muttahedah was hiding. Chaos was their oxygen, and where was it more chaotic than in the middle of a country fighting a war? They were originally formed in Iraq during the most recent conflict there, and this was the logical next move for them.
When Carter returned to the back of the plane, I attempted sleep once more, but if Gwen wasn’t enough on my mind, knowledge that I was traveling into the bloodiest place on the planet wasn’t the best recipe for rest either.
The loud hijinks coming from the back of the plane, and constant stream of cigar smoke, added to the challenge, so I eventually gave up. Hearing Carter’s booming laughter, I couldn’t help but think of all the times the three of us would laugh like that on trips like this. It was the only way we stayed sane … if we did. I could almost see Byron struggling down the aisle of the plane, carrying his heavy camera equipment, as he and Carter traded barbs.
For a moment it felt as if we’d gotten the band back together. But if we were a band, our drummer was left paralyzed, and the bass player we hired for our last tour, a baby-faced guide named Milos, was dead. It was a cruel reminder of why I was risking everything to be on this plane.
Chapter 12
It was morning when we arrived in one of my favorite cities in the world—Istanbul.
The bond I’d formed with the city was likely due to our similarities when it came to internal tugging and complexities. Istanbul was built on seven hills, and straddled two continents—the Bosphorus River split the European and Asian sides. And besides the cultural pull of the two continents, underlying forces competed between the old world and modern realities.
The sheik’s car service dropped us at a five-star hotel. I knew it would be the last comfortable accommodations for the remainder of the trip, so I took advantage to finally get that rest, sleeping the day away. The time where I could fly across the world and be up for 72-straight hours, working only on coffee and Snickers bars, was long gone.
When I woke, I stepped out onto the balcony and viewed the minaret-dotted skyline with the sun setting behind it. It was stunning, and I imagined coming here with Gwen one day. The temperature had dropped about ten degrees into the low 50s, but it was still preferable to the frigid February I’d left in Connecticut.
I returned to my room, grabbed a small bag of essentials, and headed out to meet my traveling partners in the lobby. To no surprise, Carter was being mobbed by tourists and hotel staff, asking for his autograph and taking photos. I’d yet to find the spot on the planet where there were no Coldblooded Carter fans. It was always great theater, but created a challenge when it came to remaining incognito.
We headed out to Leb-i Derya, a restaurant and club in the Beyoglu section of the city. The rooftop terrace, which it was known for, was closed for the winter, but a sea breeze still made its way inside. And it didn’t dampen the view of the many ancient monuments and imperial mosques, which sparkled at night.
The city dated back well before it was ruled by the Ottoman Empire, and prior to the Silk Road that brought great riches, but the crowd in Leb-i Derya was young, reminding me of the trendy urban crowds you might find in a club in the Meatpacking District in Manhattan. There were also a lot of foreigners, which besides giving it a cosmopolitan feel, helped us foreigners not stand out like sore thumbs.
We were approached by two attractive, college-age girls. By their accents, I could tell that they were local. Most of the coverage of women in the Middle East, and rightfully so, focused on the places where they’re forced to hide themselves behind burkas and such, but these two were decked out in short mini dresses, much like the rest of the crowd. More clashing between the old and modern worlds in Istanbul.
They introduced themselves as Adalet and Muaj, and asked us to dance. We followed them to the crowded dance floor, where we pushed our way to the center. My bad leg was still stiff from the transcontinental flight, and the last thing it needed was a night of dancing. But soon as the next song began, we used the mob of gyrating youth as cover as we slipped out the other side, and continued right out of the club.
They guided us onto the historic red tram at Taksim Square, which we rode along İstiklâl Caddesi, a mile-long street made up of shops, cafes, and pubs. Then without warning, the girls got off the tram and began walking, using the populated streets to meld in. We slipped down a dark side street, and continued until we reached an alleyway where a car was parked. It was a similar Hyundai with two-toned paint job that Milos drove that fateful night in Serbia, adding to the eeriness.
Carter sat in the front seat, as Muaj drove. Adalet was wedged in between Christina and me in the back. We continued ou
t of the city, and the terrain changed to rural landscapes, lit only by the thick moon.
The drop-off point was pretty much what I expected—you can always recognize a border town, whether you’re in Texas or Turkey. The girls whisked us into a small cinder-block home, which smelled like animal droppings. We didn’t end up spending the night with the attractive women we’d met in the club—they returned to Istanbul, or wherever they were from. We spent it with a trio of heavily-bearded smugglers, who were going to broker a deal to get us into Syria.
Chapter 13
For two days we were told, “today will be the day,” only to be informed that we’d have to wait another day. All foreign journalists had been banned from entering since the civil war broke out, so we were at their mercy to get us inside.
Carter and I spoke very little Arabic, but Christina had minored in it in college, thinking it would be helpful for a journalist in a post-9/11 world. She became our lead translator.
Besides the frustrations from the delays, and my dislike for hummus, which is all we ate for two days, the time did give me a chance to think things over. And I concluded that the decision that took me from a charity dinner in New York to the Turkish border in just over a day was fueled on emotion, not logic. And the more time I had to analyze it, the more it became clear—this was a bad idea! What would we do if we actually caught these guys? The element of surprise might be on our side, but they would surely be more skilled in weaponry than a couple of journalists and a former wrestler. When I broached the subject with Carter, he informed me that all he planned to do was deliver a message from his friend the sheik—to turn themselves in to authorities or face the consequences. It seemed that the sheik didn’t like the bad name that Al Muttahedah was giving Muslims, and especially how this bad reputation was starting to hit him where it hurt—in his offshore bank accounts.
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