Officer Jones (7 page)

I looked up. “It’s nice to read something objective on myself. The news coverage has almost made me believe I’m some sort of hero. We both know the real hero is...”

And with that, the eight hundred pound gorilla was out of the cage.

“How is he? They don’t tell me anything.”

“What do you say I take you over and you find out yourself?”

Before I had a chance to filibuster, he picked me out of the bed and slammed me into a nearby wheelchair. It felt like every inch of my body had been set on fire. He then proceeded to wheel me through a maze of corridors.

The hospital staff numbered over a thousand, and it seemed as if each and every one of them greeted Carter. He posed for pictures and signed autographs. Military members were some of the biggest fans of Coldblooded Carter. I, on the other hand, received snide glares.

Byron lay motionless in a bed, surrounded by breathing tubes and beeping monitors. We hadn’t seen each other since that fateful night—the doctors wouldn’t allow it. Byron smiled as wide as he could, but it didn’t lessen my guilt, if that was his intention.

Carter had informed me of the grim diagnosis a few weeks back. The paralysis would likely be permanent. But it didn’t soften the blow when I saw my fallen friend for the first time.

The reason for the quick getaway that night was that our captors had learned that the CIA had discovered their hideaway and were minutes away from taking them down. The three of us instantly went from bargaining chips to dead weight. Our SUV was sent careening into a ravine, and we were all ejected. I still couldn’t get Byron’s screams out of my mind from when he was trapped under the vehicle.

“It’s okay, man, it’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault,” Byron said, reading my bleak stare.

We bumped fists—his arms were the only things that he could move. He wore no shirt, revealing that his upper body, while scarred from the crash, was still in magnificent shape. It was impossible to believe a man in such top condition wouldn’t walk out of Landstuhl under his own power, while carrying a full load of video equipment.

“It was my fault,” I forced out the words, my voice shaking. “I’d lost my edge—I should have never gone on that trip.”

“Get over yourself, JP—it’s not always about you,” Byron scoffed. “I’m the lucky one. Do you know how many people leave this place in a coffin? Don’t you think that Milos would have loved to have another chance like this?”

“I’m so sorry,” I reiterated, almost zombie-like. I pushed out of my wheelchair and wobbled on shaky legs.

Byron looked at me, incredulously. “Listen, man, I got life and life is precious. As long as you’re breathing anything’s possible. You guys saved my life.”

He motioned me to come closer. When I did, Byron grabbed my hospital gown, surprising me with his strength. “Do you understand if you beat yourself up over this I will put you in this hospital … permanently?”

I nodded blankly.

He released his grip. “I’m glad we’re understood.”

“JP is going home today and going to start a farm,” Carter broke the tension with a laugh.

Byron smiled. “You won’t give up the life, JP. It’s not a job with you—it’s who you are.”

“The only way I’ll ever come back is if you’re my cameraman.”

“Deal,” Byron said with a determined stare.

We had learned never to doubt him.

It would still be weeks before he could leave Landstuhl, but preparations had already begun back in South Carolina. Without his knowledge, Carter and I had contracted to have his home in Charleston converted to the top-of-the-line in handicap accessibility. It would be ready upon his return. We figured that the technology lover would be like a kid on Christmas with all his new gadgets.

Byron mentioned that he couldn’t wait to get back home and eat the famous fried chicken from Mama Jasper’s, his mother’s restaurant. He was also looking forward to getting reacquainted with his longtime girlfriend, Tonya. Carter added that it sounded much more appealing than my plan of attending a farming fair.

We continued the visit until Byron’s team of camouflage-attired doctors descended upon his room like the 82nd Airborne, and ushered us out.

“Remember what I said, Warner,” Byron got in the last word.

After a final consultation with my doctor, Major Ellison, I was released from Landstuhl. None of the hospital staff seemed sad to see me go.

The media attacked me the moment I was outside the hospital. Carter played interference as I was escorted in a wheelchair in the soft rain. The media got nothing but ‘no-comments’ from me, and had to settle for a bicep flex from Carter.

We arrived at a C-141 Starlifter that would serve as my ride home. I took one last look at Landstuhl and noted, “What a long strange trip it’s been.”

“The Grateful Dead?” Carter inquired.

I smiled. “No, grateful to be alive.”

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Part Two-

All Isn't “Fair” in Love & War

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Chapter 16

Glendale, Arizona

Labor Day Weekend—two years prior

He stood outside the small home in Glendale and wiped the sweat from his brow. He told himself it was from the oven-like Arizona night, but for the first time in a long time he felt apprehensive. The voice had been loud and clear, telling him to come here and finish the business between them, but now doubt was creeping in.

He hadn’t been back to Arizona since he moved away. And it was even longer since he’d seen Lucy. She was hesitant at first—unsure about meeting her old boyfriend while her husband was away—and she should have listened to that first instinct. If she thought she would just be able to walk away, without him without any repercussions for her for her actions, then she underestimated him once again.

He looked through the window beside the front door, and saw Lucy scurrying around her kitchen, getting ready for their “date.” She appeared much the same with her long dark curls and smooth olive skin. She wore the pink sundress, which had always been Kyle’s favorite—it looked like she was more excited to see her old flame than she’d let on in their correspondence, he thought.

Wearing latex gloves, he reached into the inside pocket of his sweat-stained blazer and pulled out his Glock, before ringing the bell. When she opened the door, he would take in the immense surprise on her face, and an understanding of what was about to happen, and why, all in a split second. Then he would shoot her right in that sharp tongue that she used to belittle him with.

He gripped the gun as the door swung open. But nobody was there. Then a voice rose up from below, “Are you Kyle? My mom said to tell you she’d be with you in just a minute.”

He looked down to see a little girl—a miniature version of Lucy with the same dark curls. He hadn’t counted on this. An image of his parents flashed in his mind, followed by the same pain he felt when he lost them. He now understood the source of his apprehension. He misread the voice. He couldn’t allow this girl to grow up with that pain.

“I’m sorry, I have the wrong house,” he replied in a low voice, and ran as fast as he could up the street, until he reached his rental car.

He drove directly to the airport and boarded the next flight home. He had no fear of being traced—he was using the identity of Grady Benson, who had been Kyle Jones’ old Air Force wingman.

He picked up an extra shift on Saturday night. His presence was welcome, due to so many officers being assigned to work the Rockfield Fair during the Labor Day weekend. While on patrol, he tried to make sense of his failed journey. His missions had always been so clear, and brought such a feeling of peace, that this was uncharted territory for him. But he still felt a strong call-to-action hanging over him. Completing his business with Lucy on this anniversary had made sense, but now for the first time since his journey began, he felt unsure.

But later that night, he received a radio message about an accident on the Samerauk Bridge. When he arrived at the scene, he found that it was no accident. And later, in the hospital, as he comforted the mother of the murdered girl, his mission again became clear.

Chapter 17

Norfolk, Virginia

September 1—present

The military plane scraped its wheels on the runway, landing me on home soil. A short time later, I stepped onto the tarmac, breathing in the crisp dawn air. I thought of performing the freed-hostage ritual of kissing the ground upon my return, but while that would be right up the attention-grabbing alley of J-News, it was JP who was the one who’d just returned from the European vacation from hell.

I struggled to walk with my cane, which besides a few cuts and bruises was the only visible evidence that I was any the worse for wear. I was met with a relieved smile and hug from my father, Peter Warner. He was thinner than the last time I’d seen him, but still had the same stocky frame and roundish face. It was a look passed on to my brother Ethan, the opposite of the lanky, long-jawed look that my brother Noah and I inherited from my mother’s side.

While I can often be a polarizing repellent, my father’s natural instinct had always been to pull people together, and he thrived on being the leader. I thought of this as I watched him shake hands with all the military personnel like he was running for office. He did hold political office for twenty-five years as Rockfield’s First Selectman. He knew everybody in the town, and everyone knew Peter Warner. He stepped down two years ago when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, which so far he’d treated like his political opponents—he’s winning in a landslide.

My mother, Sandra Warner, also met me at the airport, but not with the same enthusiasm. She gave me the brief hug of a stranger, followed by deafening silence. Her passive-aggressive protest wasn’t very subtle. For years she’s questioned why they paid for my Columbia education, only for me to repay them by making a foolish and dangerous career choices. The silent-treatment was a new weapon in this ongoing battle. She was mysteriously absent whenever my father called me at Landstuhl, either babysitting Ethan’s kids, or at an event at her historical society—excuses that even Lauren Bowden could have seen through. I understood the grief I’d caused her, but that being said, I really could have used a hug from Mom.

After deplaning, Carter and I bid each other adieu—no hugs, just a manly handshake. I attempted to thank him for all the years by my side in the face of danger, but he mocked my retirement plans with a laugh. “Just get better quick, so we can blow open this Kingsbury case. Go to this Rock place and get that broad from high school out of your head, then you’ll be the old JP again.”

The “old JP” had a nice ring to it, even if it wasn’t what Carter had in mind.

We left Norfolk in a convoy, bypassing the horde of media, and headed northbound on I-95. As the morning sun began to appear in the east, we barreled up the coast, and out of habit I checked my phone messages. A mistake. There were angry ones from Lauren—something about being contractually obligated to be interviewed by her—ass kissing tangents from Sutcliffe, and one from Christina that breezed over the whole “glad you’re not dead” thing, before complaining about the wall of media camped outside the brownstone, trapping her inside. She actually had the nerve to describe it as a “hostage situation.” I erased them all in the spirit of a new beginning.

That spirit turned to reality when I saw the wooden sign that read:
Rockfield Connecticut: Incorporated 1756.
With a father who was the town’s biggest promoter, and a mother who headed the historical society, I knew all there was to know about Rockfield, both past and present. But I felt like I was seeing it for the first time.

We arrived at a familiar crossroads. Continuing straight on Main Street would take us to the Warner family home. It was the longer route, but also safer. The faster option was the curvy, mountainous drive of Zycko Hill Road, nicknamed Psycho Hill. It was convenient that it rhymed with Zycko, but the name really derived from the infamy associated with the many drivers it had felled over the years, including Noah Warner.

The convoy chose the conservative route. After a few slow miles of country driving, we took a right off Main onto Skyview Drive. The gradual rise of the road provided a breathtaking view of the countryside, which was dotted with farms and church steeples. I observed the children playing along the road, and for a brief moment I felt as if I’d traveled back in time. I could picture playing wiffle ball or kick-the-can with my brother Ethan and our friends, or riding bikes with Gwen. And I could still smell the summer barbecues.

When we arrived at the steep driveway that led to the house my parents had lived in for the past forty years, I was slapped back to reality. The bottom entrance was being guarded by a crowd of media, armed with a small battalion of news vans and satellite trucks. It gave me a flashback to when I returned home after Noah’s accident. At that time, I wasn’t sure that this place would ever feel the same again. Admitting that I’m wrong had never been my strength, but in this case I’m glad that I was.

The military escort showed no intention of stopping, and the media gave way. I smiled—it was good to be on the other side for once.

“Hey, Warner, suddenly you’re camera shy?” shouted a reporter as we sped by. My inner J-News wanted to get out and introduce him to my cane, but JP just kept smiling as the vehicles came to a stop in front of the house.

I took a long look at the cozy A-frame that I grew up in, and then glanced back at the pack of media. I could feel the “JP versus J-News” battle raging inside me, but for the first time I felt that JP might have a chance to win the war.