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.