Date: Mon, 20 Jun 2011 02:44:50 -0700 (PDT)
From: Micheal Chukwu <mikeinstudio9344 (at) yahoo (dot) com>
Subject: The Game chapter 13

Surprise, Surprise.

   Jake left in the dead of the night -- 0345.
   McCall had known he would -- he had prepared for it, even knew the
Richards family were on the move with Danny, and their direction -- yet he
felt sucker-punched by Jake's escape. What was it about him that made the
people he connected with on a personal level, the rare ones he cared for,
run in the opposite direction?
   Don't think about it.
   He watched from between the heavy old trees by the quiet bay, away from
town with its bustle and noise of the daily tourist traffic.
   Jake struggled with a stuffed-to-the-grill backpack, a suitcase and
Danny's puppy. Nice of him to bring the dog as a security blanket against
the changes about to rock Danny's world. He walked from his lovely home
without a single glance back, giving up everything he had to save his
child.
   Well, Jake would. He loved Danny.
   Do the job. No mercy this time. No softness. And no faith. Jake's case
like any other. A killer's companion we need for the evidence he's got. And
ten million in traceable dollars.
   They had traced the money back through the Brothers of Retribution, a
group dedicated to continuing war in the Balkans who'd use Falcone's guns
to kill thousands of their greatest political foes and from there to an
English ammunitions factory, and a massive theft seven years back.
   So from now on, that was all Jake was -- a case and his kid to save. And
what was left of the ten million bucks, probably stashed in the backpack.
   Through his night goggles, McCall watched Jake move like wind in the
trees, graceful even in flight, burdened with the backpack, the suitcase
and the puppy. Running from him.
   Damn him. For years he'd sold his soul, bargaining with unknown forces
just to see Jake's face again.
   Well, now he'd seen Jake. Time to get on with the job.
   McCall moved like a shadow in the deep night. The rest of the team had
backed off, waiting at every available exit point. Panther was currently
heading south, following the Richards' car. Everything was in place; cars
in every direction, two planes and a chopper on its way from
Auckland. Every charter-plane company provided records to show that they
hadn't hired a plane or pilot in the past two days to anyone who wasn't a
bona fide tourist.
   Jake headed straight for the Bay, his rubber boots sloshing through the
smelly slush of low tide, toward...
   At the sight awaiting him McCall on the shore, McCall
swore. Hard. Cursing that he'd given Jake fifty leeway, and wouldn't make
it before Jake...
   Jake put the puppy on the floor of the high-powered jet boat, tossed the
backpack and suitcase over then climbed in. Jake shushed the puppy's
excitement yipping in gentle, frantic quiet. Then he took off, making the
craft almost fly over the small, tipping waves of the Bay, heading for the
open sea. Jake had either had intensive lessons for years, or had used
speedboats from his cradle.
   He fired up the Jet Ski awaiting him -- turbo powered, of course -- and
all but flew himself to keep up with Jake. Within moments, the noise of
McCall's engine and the high-powered light he'd rigged on the front told
Jake that he wasn't alone.
   Jake revved the guts out of his engine, sending it skimming over the
waves as they grew stronger outside the Bay. McCall no choice but to push
it until the hard whine of the Jet Boat told him it had reached its limits,
could even blow any minute.
   Jake's frequent glances back told McCall that Jake felt some concern for
his safety, but every time he'd assured himself that McCall was still
alive, Jake opened the throttle further.
   McCall jerked his back hard in efforts to keep up. He had to lash
himself to the handlebars with rope to stay on -- an awkward, one handed
knot that would never hold in this pace, but made him feel a little safer,
and as in flying, confidence was everything in the chase.
   But Jake only sped up more, curving across the waves to avoid rips and
reefs, always angling the boat just at pre-kneeling-over level. Jake drove
the boat like a damn pro racer.
   Where, when did Jake get the prowess? Who taught him?
   Maybe the reason this man is surprising him so often is that he's not
Jake. Nobody knows all that much about Marcus de Souza...
   "No." McCall growled. "It's Jake. Jake is alive."
   Jerk. Lovesick fool. Just as butt-stupid as all the star-struck fans in
Jake's modeling days, certain they were soul mates based on their feelings
when they looked at Jake's airbrushed image.
   But that was what he'd always been, the past ten years. A dumb-ass jerk
in blind infatuation with a dream.
   Jake was edging away, and the Jet Ski was on full throttle. He had no
choice. "Ghost." He yelled into the small machine strapped to the
handlebars, with a magnifying speaker. "Subject's on the move, heading
southeast on the open sea. His jet boat is outrunning me. Estimate he's
heading for the airstrip inland from Waitanamako Bay. Check for hire cars,
taxis, anything that will get them there and tail it."
   "Roger that." Was Anson's instant reply. "Don't let the subject out of
sight, Flipper."
   "No choice in that, sir." McCall snapped, losing control for the first
time in over five years. "Subject has a Super Sport with 240 horsepower,
fuel injection and a V6 engine. I can't gun to that in a damn Jet Ski!"
   "Why the hell didn't we know that he was a pro with a speed boat?"
   "Maybe because he's not who we think he is!"
   "With the primary target's son? Yeah right. Get out of your gonads and
think like an operative. You're too involved."
   McCall swore beneath his breath, knowing that Jake wouldn't forgive him
for this. "Ghost..."
   "Did you think I didn't know about your past with Jacob de Souza? I've
given you leeway considering you had a greater chance of getting him on
board than any of the rest of us, but this beyond your control,
Flipper. We're almost in the area now. There's a chopper waiting for us on
landing/ ETA ten to twelve minutes."
   "No!" McCall yelled. "You get a bird above Jake and searchlights and
he'll panic. This is a dangerous stretch of coast with wild seas. Jake's no
use to us dead!"
   "We'll be discreet. What's your position in ten minutes?"
   "I don't know my position now! I'm just trying to hold on and keep up!"
McCall shot a quick glance around. "Between eight and ten miles south of
the Cape Brett lighthouse, hugging the coast. Jake's about a quarter mile
ahead and is gaining."
   "Roger that. Report if anything changes."
   "Roger and out."
   Jake's boat surged farther ahead. Hugging the coastline, too much. He'd
studied the topography -- any second now, Jake would hit...
   "Jake!" McCall yelled, but it was useless: Jake had hit the enormous
part-hidden rock beneath the ocean and flip -- but with a smooth swerve, a
swing back I the boat averted danger, with barely any decrease in speed.
   So Jake had even rehearsed riding this tidal eddy before.
   The chase continued, both crafts lifting off the water in frantic speed,
their faces slapped seawater and predawn rain stinging their skin, dousing
their clothes. Lashed to the handlebars, McCall felt as if he'd hog-tied a
bronco with a cotton thread. The Jet Ski leaped from the water. He jerked
and flew with it, revving the throttle on contrast max with a big crazy
grin on his face.
   Maybe he was a jerk to feel so exhilarated by the chase, by the
danger... but he couldn't change his nature. He was a boy of the sea, an
adrenaline junkie who'd first cheated death at eight, falling off his dad's
fishing vessel in a storm. He'd pulled on fins and a suit at eleven, became
a navy diver at nineteen, and dived straight off a chopper into turbulent
ocean at twenty-four to save a fellow SEAL. He'd never turned down a
challenge, never thought about death, and never felt fear -- not for
himself.
   And despite being scared to all crap for Jake now, his most dominant
emotion was a well, what do you know admiration for Jake's ballsy attitude
to life, even when Jake was probably more scared than he was. When it came
to Jake, still waters ran deeper than any of them knew.
   Then in the most treacherous stretch of the current-run shore, Jake
swerved right, toward land. "What the...? There're rocks like knives in
that bay! Jake stop!"
   But Jake evaded every rock with smooth, practiced ease and pulled the
boat up to the sandy shore without a problem. Maybe the sun just rising
above the clear horizon helped Jake.
   He wasn't so lucky. By emulating Jake's moves, McCall got around the
biggest rocks, but came to grief on a tiny protrusion. The Jet Ski flipped
over the rock's knife edge into the deep, cold ocean.
   McCall came up sputtering, half-numb from the cold, with a gash on his
upper right arm where the rocks tore through his skin and muscle and a blow
to the back of his head that left him reeling.
   He'd never make it to land before Jake took off. Being the best combat
swimmer on his SEAL team wouldn't help without a wet suit and fins in a
near-freezing ocean against the tide, with half his strength gone from the
deep jagged cut tearing his muscle almost in two.
   McCall tore off his heavy boots, pulled off his socks to make a fast
double-compression bandage, using one hand and teethe to tie it; then he
struck out toward land in an awkward butterfly motion, using only his left
arm. He swam hard and fast, ignoring the pain and light-headedness, as
training dictated,
   Where was the chopper? And why hadn't he used surveillance equipment on
Jake so he'd be a step ahead in the game?
   Because you're just as big a dumb-ass jerk over Jake now as you were ten
years ago.
   And now, just like then, McCall was paying the price for his naïve half
hope that this beautiful enigma would turn on him. Trust him in the most
primal, elemental way a woman can, with his heart, and his secrets. Giving
up that deep, untouched ocean of secrets beneath the tidal cobalt of his
eyes.
   The whirring of props, the spinning of water flying out from behind
moving floats, told him how stupid he'd been to hope for anything from
Jake. Trust and Jacob de Souza were a dichotomy.
   Alpha 849Y8 Delta... red, white, blue seaplane...
   But as he floundered, lightheaded with blood loss from the weak,
left-handed compression bandage, he heard the whirring sound come closer,
right up to him, leaving him thrashing in the sudden waves the seaplane
created. The passenger door opened and Jake leaned over, his eyes
blazing. "Get in."
   With the last of his strength, McCall swam to the seaplane and used the
float to push himself up. "Thanks."
   Jake pushed a huge beach towel at him. "I wouldn't leave a bleeding dog
in that freezing water to die. Shut the door. I don't have much time before
reinforcements arrive, do I?"
   McCall pushed dripping hair out of his face with the towel before he
looked at Jake. "No."
   Jake nodded, and with a ruthless efficiency he was coming to expect from
him, Jake swerved the seaplane around the final rocks, headed for the open
sea and reached the required level of knots before he took off. "Thermal
blankets beneath your seat. Warm up. I have enough on my conscience without
adding your death to the list. Did you notify your boss about the
seaplane?"
   "I flipped before I could."
   Jake's mouth twisted. "Uh-huh. So when do I expect the cavalry to
arrive, courtesy of a chopper?"
   Man, Jake was quick. "Any minute. I expected it by now."
   "Right." Jake pulled on the throttle. "There's a medical kit in the
armrest compartment between us. You need a better compression bandage than
that or you'll bleed all over the plane, and this one isn't mine."
   McCall kept rubbing himself down. "The dog's awfully quiet." In fact, he
was asleep, belted awkwardly into a passenger seat.
   "I gave him a light sedative." Jake replied curtly. "It probably started
taking effect about fifteen minutes ago."
   "Nice of you to take him. Danny will need the comfort when he finds out
he's not only not going camping, but leaving home for good." He flicked a
glance at Jake. Jake's mouth tightened; his face, already pale by early
morning light, grew even whiter, but he didn't answer. He probably didn't
know what to say. He moved on, knowing he'd have to pry answers from
Jake. "So where did you get the plane? When did you learn to fly and drive
like that boat?"
   Jake's mouth curled up again; he gave a cynical laugh, daring him. "How
long have you lived in Australia? How many names have you used in the past
few years?"
   "Jake..."
   Jake glanced at McCall, eyebrows raised. "Oh, so you don't want to
answer that?"
   McCall got out the medical kit, no longer up to the war of words, "You
could have left me in the water. I couldn't have stopped you from getting
away."
   Jake shrugged. "You wouldn't have left me in the water, if only because
your boss wants me alive and whole, either to own mw or get me to hand over
whatever it is he thinks I have if you'd been out to kill me, I'd have left
you there to die."
   The probable truth of that felt like a sharp knife slitting his
skin. McCall put the antibiotic cream over his wound before binding it. He
wouldn't take anything for the pain until the Nighthawks were in sight --
anything might out him to sleep in this condition, and if he awoke too
groggy to fight Jake, he might dump him somewhere. When finished with the
wound, McCall finally answered Jake. "I'm starting to believe I would."
   A flash of pain crossed Jake's face for a moment, the shadows chasing
each other cross his skin. Tiredness, angst, fear, uncertainty. And McCall
wished he could take his words back. "I'm sorry." He said, loud enough to
be heard over the noise of the engine. "I won't hurt you Jake."
   "You bet you won't. Because you won't get close enough to." Jake turned
the plane toward the southwest.
   Exhausted, wound throbbing and frustrated by Jake's constant deflections
of anything he said -- perhaps because it reminded him too forcefully of
himself since he'd become a Nighthawk, or maybe years before -- he snapped,
"You're too cynical."
   Another shrug. "Cynicism is a safe bolt-hole when you're too scared to
take risks. Naiveté -- or trust -- can get you killed when you have a man
like Danny's father on your trail."
   McCall had to shatter the cynical defenses Jake used somehow, or he'd
keep bashing his head against the fortress of Jake's secrets. "Say his
name, Jake. We both know what it is."
   "Have you got a tape recorder or sound device in a safety-seal bag
somewhere to catch it for posterity or your boss?" Jake retorted without
skipping a beat.
   McCall pulled off his coat, jacket and shirt, awkward and
one-handed. "Can I ask you where we are going, at least?"
   Jake flashed a look at him. His gaze caressed his half-naked body before
he turned his head, and shook it in negation. "I don't know what kind of
surveillance equipment you have on you."
   "I could have a tracking device on me. I could already have notified my
people of your whereabouts." McCall pointed out, almost kicking himself for
not wanting to do that, "My boss is already hot on your tail."
   Jake's mouth twisted. "I realize that. But I still haven't figured out
which side you're on." Jake flung up a hand as McCall opened his mouth. "I
know -- you're a knight on a white Jet Ski, and your team is out to save me
and my son from ourselves, right? Sorry, if I don't quite put faith in that
yet, McCall." His name was tossed at him like a casual insult.
   Brendan, he wanted to yell. My name's Brendan. You know my name... you
called me Brendan when you smiled at me, held my hand, kissed me and
touched my body all those years ago. You called me Brendan last night when
you touched and kissed me. I'm on the side of the good guys, a Nighthawk
sent to save your handsome neck, and your son's, from that slime bag
Falcone!
   What was the point? Jake wouldn't believe him. And Anson's instructions
were set in stone. A silent sentinel he was, and had to remain so, even in
his own mind, until the tape proving Falcone's guilt was in Nighthawks
hands and Jake was in safe custody. Anything else out them both, and Danny
in danger.
   "You're bleeding through the bandage."
   With an effort, McCall turned his head, but it felt too heavy to go the
whole way. "Can't -- awkward, one-handed..."
   Through the fog in his mind, McCall heard Jake make a savage
sound. "Right." Jake put the seaplane on autopilot and turned to him. With
deft motions, Jake unwound the lopsided cross-over bandage. "You're dizzy,
aren't you? You've gone pale."
   His head fell back against his seat. McCall hated falling asleep at any
time -- it indicated a lack of control he refused to show, a deep, dark
loneliness he couldn't stand -- but he knew that this time his body was
going to force the issue. "Hit... my head on a rock." Let Jake do what the
heck he wanted with that information.
   Jake inspected the head wound, then the wound on his arm, and made that
harsh sound again. "No wonder you're losing blood -- you need at least
seven stitches in that. I've got ten minutes before I need to change
course, so I'll do what I can."
   McCall frowned and blinked, trying to make sense of Jake's words. "You
can... do that?" He could -- it was part of his medic's and combat/rescue
training -- but a model?
   An odd laugh, almost derisive -- or self-mocking -- burst from Jake's
lips. "Yes, I can, McCall. I did an advanced first-aid course more than
once. A man and child without legal ID -- or on the run from someone who
has resources to check computer databases -- learn how to fend for
themselves."
   McCall gave up on the battle with his eyes and closed them. "And you..."
   "I wouldn't dump you in an isolated spot and escape while you're injured
and have a possible concussion, McCall." Jake sounded wounded by the
implication he'd been about to make. "I do have more morals than
that... and I know how much I owe you."
   Jake's gentle touch on his wounds, cleaning the salt from it, preceded
the quick jab of needle. "Local anesthetic. I'll give you antibiotics when
I'm done."
   McCall was sliding into sleep. "Where...?"
   "Your curiosity will be the last thing to leave you, McCall." Jake's
voice now sounded gentle with laughter. "I didn't steal them. There are
places you can get these things, no questions asked."
   Yes... he knew most of them. He'd -- he'd have to... Anson...yeah... the
pull and thug of the needle going in and out of his skin was strangely
rhythmic, soothing. McCall felt himself sliding into the first deep sleep
he'd had in over a week, trusting that Jake would take care of
him. Trusting that he'd still be there when he opened his eyes. "Jake...?"
he mumbled.
   Jake couldn't have heard over the engine but he answered. Maybe he was
watching his lips. "What?"
   He sighed. "Thank you."
   "You're welcome." Jake said. "But damn you of making me want to care." A
light hand touched his bandage. "You probably have a concussion. I'll wake
you every half hour."
   "Thank you."
   "You're welcome."
   The last thing McCall felt was a flutter, as of butterfly wings, across
his mouth, so light and fleeting. It felt like a part of the dream already
forming in his mind.
   But he knew. He knew that Jake had really kissed him. Jake kissed him of
his own free will.