Live to Kill Page 15
She rushed out to join Dane and Lukavina as they loaded Royce onto a stretcher and a medic started patching him up, plugging an IV drip into his left arm, and then they loaded him aboard the chopper. The rotor wash stirred up a fierce wind that whipped Nina’s hair to and fro and the grass, too. She kept her head down as she followed Dane, Lukavina and Royce into the chopper’s cabin, where the medic set Royce’s stretcher in a corner.
Two more choppers came around a hillside as the first one lifted off.
Dane pulled Nina close and hugged her tightly.
“It’s over,” she said.
“A lot of things are over,” he said. She felt his body deflate as he let out a sigh.
WHEN ROYCE opened his eyes, he found Dane sitting beside the stretcher, staring at him. The cabin was dark except for blue work lights, and they cast an odd glow over everything. Dane couldn’t see Royce’s face as clearly as he might have liked, but he could see it.
Royce tried to move his arms, but they were strapped to the stretcher. He lifted his head to look at his bandages, the IV drip. His head fell back and he sucked a lungful of air. He moved his lips, croaking out words as he made eye contact with Dane. “Where am I?”
“Chopper,” Dane said. “We’re taking you back to the U.S.”
“A trial?”
Dane shook his head. He didn’t fight his smile. “Into a hole.”
“Why didn’t you kill me?”
The smile dropped from Dane’s face.
“Tell me. You had every reason to kill me.”
“Maybe I found a reason not to.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Royce closed his eyes.
Dane scooted over to where Nina and Lukavina sat against the bulkhead. He put an arm around Nina and pulled her close. Lukavina said it wouldn’t be much farther to the airport where the jet waited. Then they’d head straight for home.
Home. Dane liked the sound of that word.
22
The Ghosts of Battles Past
THE NIGHT’S chill sent a shiver up Dane’s spine.
He stood before John F. Kennedy’s grave at Arlington, the eternal flame flicking in the semi-darkness. There was enough lighting around the memorial to give the area a soft glow. Dane turned as headlamps flashed behind him, stretching his shadow across the concrete. The black presidential limousine completed the turn in the circular driveway in front of the memorial and stopped. Dane approached the car, opened the back door and climbed inside.
The back cabin featured bench seats that faced each other, with space in the middle taken up by a small table on Dane’s left. The man on the seat across from him sat with crossed legs and his hands in his lap, his blue suit still perfectly pressed.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” Dane said.
“I see the candles worked,” said Peter Cross.
“Did you light two?”
“Try three or four.”
Dane chuckled. It felt good to laugh. The barriers he’d placed around himself were finally falling. Worse, he hadn’t known they had been there or how they’d held him back. Shame had brought the barriers; shame about his father, because what if Dane had been wrong? Shame about running away instead of staying to fight. Maybe Cross had been right. All of his years on the run had brought him to this point; he was ready to finally grow up.
The limousine started moving, slowly, through the winding path around the cemetery. They’d decided it was the best place for their meeting. Quiet. Out of the way.
“You finally have a sense of peace about you, Steve.”
“I feel it, sir.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It’s time for the next chapter. Whatever that may be.”
“I had hoped you might come back to us.”
“Sir, I hope, in my own way, I’ve proven that I never really left.”
Cross nodded. “I suppose you can make the case for that.”
“It might be nice to have somebody you can call on when things really get bad.”
“I like that idea very much. Of course it won’t be me on the phone.”
Dane smiled. “Of course not.”
“There has to be something I can do for you and Nina.”
“She’d probably be happy with a case of booze, but I have a different favor to ask.”
“Anything.”
“I’d like to move my father’s body here, to Arlington.”
“Done.”
Dane started to say something but paused, watching the man before him.
“You don’t need to say anything more, son.”
“Thank you, sir. I do need to say that. Thank you for everything.”
“I hope you understand what I had to do.”
“I do now,” Dane said.
The limousine completed its circle and stopped once again at the eternal flame. Dane reached for the door handle.
“Until next time,” he said, pushing the door open. Cool air flowed in.
The president nodded and Dane exited the car, pushing the door closed. He watched the limo until it turned a corner and left the cemetery property. Putting hands in pockets, Dane turned and started to walk. Nowhere in particular, just forward, along the path taking him through the burial ground, where he could commune with the ghosts of battles past.
About the Author
Brian Drake has been a writer of mystery, crime and adventure fiction since his first publication at age 25. He is lifelong resident of California, and lives with his wife and two cats. In his spare time, Drake can be found racing through the San Francisco Bay Area in one of several bright red sports cars. More Drake titles may be found on his Amazon page.
Contact him via email at briandrake88@yahoo.com.
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