Jack II Read online

  Jack II

  By Stella Marie Alden

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Christmas Eve

  Copyright (C) 2018 Stella Marie Alden

  Cover by Book Cover Luv

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  [email protected]

  To my fans who loved Jack, this is for you!

  Chapter 1

  Jack Taylor

  For the last couple miles, I’ve had a real bad feeling deep in my gut.

  “Call Patten Securities.” As I wait for my Bluetooth to respond, high beams blind me in both rear view and side mirrors.

  I wasn’t sure if the Ford was tailing me until I upped my speed to about ninety but now it’s sitting on my bumper. My best-case scenario is there’s some lobbyist hoping to catch the senator’s ear. Worst case? Someone wants him dead.

  When shots ricochet off the back window, the answer becomes crystal clear.

  “Buckle up, sir, we’ve got trouble.”

  “Goddamn it, son.” Senator McAlister clicks his seatbelt and I can almost feel his eyes boring a hole into the back of my head.

  I know what he’s thinking. He’s paying top dollar for security. How the hell did someone get close enough to rain bullets on us?

  I’m wondering the same damned thing.

  To be fair, I did request he wait until morning before having me drive him back to Pennsylvania. However, Joe being Joe, insisted on getting home for Thanksgiving the weekend before.

  About now the shooter, probably shooters are rethinking their strategy. They didn’t know about the bullet-proof glass which gives me a small degree of optimism. Someone didn’t do their homework. They can’t be all that swift.

  The truck with high beams drops back a couple car lengths. If I were him, I’d wait for an empty stretch of road. Then, I’d ram my SUV off the road and get the senator to exit. After that? Well, it would depend upon my orders.

  “What do you need, Jack?” I don’t recognize the voice that comes up in my headset but Patten only hires the best.

  I give the guy the lowdown, keeping one eye in the rear view. “I caught a tail. Bullets fired into my back window. Get me backup.”

  Behind me, the Ford truck keeps his distance. “We should be fine if you can find a way off the expressway.”

  “Copy that. Stand by.”

  Suddenly, the lights I’ve been watching for the last few miles approach way too fast for the top speed of the Ford. I underestimated the bastard. He wasn’t dropping back to regroup, he needed distance in order to inject nitro into the line.

  Fuck. I slam my foot on the accelerator and swerve to the curb but it’s too late. A crunching jolt to my right rear sets my SUV into a tailspin. I turn the steering wheel in the opposite direction, we careen against the guardrail, and turn three-hundred-sixty-degrees until we’re facing north again.

  “What the fuck?” Senator McAlister shouts over the roar of me gunning the engine.

  “Call 911, Joe.” I’m sure the Patten guy in my headset has already made the call but McAlister is less likely to panic with something to do. And someone to yell at.

  I quickly veer in front of a tractor trailer whose horn blares out into the night. Sorry dude, life and death here.

  A picture of my beautiful bride flashes across my brain and strengthens my resolve. I hear ya, Blakely. The only funeral this week will be for some dumb assholes trying to kill a United States senator in the middle of the night.

  Behind me, the eighteen-wheeler slows down, putting several tons of vehicle between me and the would-be assassins.

  “Status? Anyone hurt?” The guy in my ear reminds me I have to stay focused.

  “Get me off this road, now. Over.”

  It’s only a matter of time before the assassin guns the engine, passes my guardian tractor-trailer angel and forces us off the road.

  Despite the seriousness of the fucked-up situation, I can’t help but chuckle as Joe reams the 911 operator a new asshole. “It’s Senator McAlister, young woman, and you call the goddamned secret service, the FBI and whoever the fuck else I say. What? Hell, no, I don’t know exactly where we are. We just went over the Potomac. Does that help? What? No! I don’t need a goddamned ambulance but you can send a hearse if someone doesn’t get here soon! And figure on finding a new job, missy.”

  The tractor-trailer’s driver must’ve enlisted one of his buddies for help because another eighteen-wheeler pulls beside me, essentially creating a safe place while I figure out what to do next. Generally, I try to avoid a gunfight but these guys have left me with very few options.

  Fuck it all to hell. In front of me, a black Escalade with rental plates slams on his brakes. I can either hit him, slow down, or pull off the road. I choose door-number-two but in doing so, seal my fate. The trucker behind me has to move to the middle lane or plow into me.

  I figure the assault vehicles will have at least two guys in each car, maybe three. Six against one is not great odds but I’ve had worse.

  My thoughts move to my pregnant wife and for a moment, my mind reaches out to her. I got this, sweetheart. These fucking shitheads are not going to ruin our lives. We’re going to get old together and our baby girl is growing up with her dad.

  The goddamn Ford is back in my rear view, his high beams lighting up the whole interior of my front seat.

  “Jack. What the fuck’s the problem? Why aren’t we going faster?” The senator has hung up the phone and focused all his pent-up aggression on me.

  “Sorry, sir. We got metal pressing into the tire, slowing us down.”

  “Unacceptable.”

  Thank God for all my years in the service because I’m able to bite my tongue and drive. Whoever is after Joe chose the perfect hour because if there was more traffic, I could dart in and out until the cops arrive.

  However, there’s not even a sliver of a moon to light up the empty road.

  “Hang on, sir.”

  I slam on my breaks, skid, and crank the wheel until I’m headed down the highway in the wrong direction. Staying to the left, I pray no one left a disabled car because if they did, it won’t be pretty. Still, this is better than being forced off the road in the middle of bumfuck Maryland.

  It doesn’t take long for the truck that was following us to reappear in my rear view mirror.

  At the same moment, Slate’s calm voice sounds in my headset. “I can’t take a piss without you getting into trouble. You go across the meridian?”

  “Nope. Going south on the northbound curb.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Nope, He’s not here, either. Neither are the cops. Where the fuck are they?”

  “Still a couple miles out.”

  “’Copter?”

  “Five, maybe ten minutes.”

  When the back-tire thump-thumps, I grip the wheel tighter. “I’m about to be driving on a rim. Give me an exit, preferably with cover.”

  Behind me, two pair
s of lights get closer.

  Slate responds two seconds later. “Turn left, now. There’s a Seven-Eleven.”

  “Copy that.” With blind faith, I roll down an embankment, bump over a grassy field, and stop in front of gas pumps.

  “Behind the store, Go. Go. Go.” Running on pure adrenaline, I grab McAlister as he exits.

  His pace is pretty impressive for a guy almost sixty which is good because both the Ford and the Escalade are flying down the entrance ramp in the wrong direction. The truck slams into our parked SUV, sending it flying into a pole, and a corner of the metal roof collapses.

  The taller, heavier of the two men, opens the back door of my SUV then curses up a storm. “They’re gone.”

  “What do you mean gone?” A shorter guy joins him, straining his inked neck as he turns in circles.

  “You deaf? You let them get away. You should’ve let me drive.”

  They’re still arguing when the other vehicle arrives and two more men join them. The second set are Asian, wearing expensive suits, with headsets in their ears.

  Professionals.

  Shorter suit waves his hands around. “Search for them. They can’t be far.”

  Finally, I hear the whine of sirens, barely audible over the senator catching his breath.

  “Stay back.” I peek around the corner, reach for my gun, and take aim, hoping I won’t need to shoot.

  If I do, it’ll be a fucking shit show in court. Sure, they ran us off the road but try to explain life and death to a bunch of civilians in a jury box.

  The four of them fan out. The two from the Ford head toward the back of the building with pistols drawn.

  The sirens get louder.

  C’mon, c’mon, c’mon… Mentally, I will them forward into the well-lit parking lot of the Seven-Eleven.

  When footsteps crunch on the gravel I’m in the zone and everything happens in slow motion. A hand holding a pistol pokes around the corner and I kick with my boot, breaking bones. Simultaneously, the second guy fires, his bullet whizzing over my right ear, my flesh stinging like a mother-fucker.

  I shoot, he goes down, and liquid flows over my right eye as I point my pistol at the guy with the broken fingers

  “Drop it.” He drops the gun, now in his left hand as I prepare for the other two. Sure as hell, they heard the shot.

  I glance at the guy on the ground. “Joe, grab his gun and shoot to kill if he even blinks.”

  The two from the Escalade, fire rounds at us, chipping away at the cement blocks. I just have to keep them occupied long enough for the police to arrive.

  Apparently, they hear the noise too and one of the guys makes a mad dash for a dumpster. If he gets there, me and Joe are toast. I take aim, fire, and he goes down.

  My head doesn’t hurt all that bad but by the pool of red at my feet, I’m pretty sure it’s a nasty wound. I pull my jacket off and press the fabric tightly above my ear.

  I’m thinking the hole is pretty impressive as I let Slate in on the scorecard. “Three down, one to go. The senator is secure.”

  “Are the cops there yet?”

  “Coming into the parking lot now. You probably should send a few ambulances. Tell Blakely I love her.”

  “Jack, you okay?” Slate sounds concerned.

  “Police! Put down your weapon!” Shots are fired at the front of the building.

  When they stop, I yell out, “I’m Jack Taylor. I have Senator McAlister with me. Are you clear?”

  “Clear.”

  “We’re coming out.” I place my gun into my holster, raise my one hand not holding in my brains, and walk with Joe to the front of the convenience store.

  “What the hell took you so long?” McAlister checks his watch, his face red, gray brows furrowed.

  Here it comes… Wait for it…

  “I called over fifteen minutes ago. What’re your badge numbers? You idiots almost got me killed.”

  I almost feel sorry for the college age cop who stands there, stunned.

  “Officers? Meet Senator Joe McAlister. I’m his driver and bodyguard, Jack Taylor. You might want to call me an ambulance.” I fall back onto my ass and stare up at the sky as the cop rushes over and applies pressure to my head.

  Not a bad idea.

  “What happened here, Senator?” An older cop with a buzz cut, probably in his mid-forties, takes out a small pad and braves the senator’s temper.

  “Happened? Nothing happened, son. Someone tried to kill us. You blind or just plain stupid?”

  I let Joe finish his explanation because I’m busy watching the stars twinkle and thinking of Blakely, tucked safely into her apartment in New York. I know she’ll hear about this on the morning news and I should send her a text.

  Unfortunately, I can’t seem to move my hands.

  Suddenly, I’m back in Afghanistan on that fucked-up day in July. I’m pretty sure I already lived through this because I know how it ends. And yet, the smell of burning rubber is so real it turns my stomach.

  I stay flat when the pop-pop of gunfire halts. Blood drips down my face as I grab my weapon and crawl over the hot sand to my dead buddies. Hell, Cicero was about to be married. His girl is going to be devastated.

  Like Scrooge and the ghost of Christmas-past, I flash-forward to a bar in Brooklyn and the famous face of CJ Quinn, New York City’s most famous quarterback. Those deep-blue eyes melt the panties right off women. Tonight, he’s gone too far and four guys have ganged up on him. Apparently, CJ thought he could leave with a blonde belonging to a biker. CJ punches two and even drunk, we kick their asses.

  The bouncer nods his approval and calls the cops while me and CJ grab another drink or two. After, he offers me a job.

  The ghost isn’t done because the scene at the bar morphs to about five years later.

  I’m sitting in the same bar, this time out back on the terrace, and staring into the eyes of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Tongue-tied, I figure I’ve blown it with her even though the sexual vibe is off the charts. Then, she hands me her business card and my whole damn life changes.

  Some part of my brain registers how much I got to live for and I open one eye. I guess the ghost has left me back in the present because this scenario seems pretty real.

  A paramedic leans over me in the back cab of an ambulance and says, “Hang in there, Jack. You know where you are?”

  “Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore." I grin and the guy smiles back.

  “Close enough.”

  Chapter 2

  Blake Taylor

  The phone rings and as I swipe a finger across the screen, I notice the time. At two in the morning, even most bars are closed. Nothing good happens at this hour.

  My hand shakes as I bring the plastic to my ear. “H-Hello?”

  “Blakely? It’s Slate. Jack is fine but there was an accident.”

  My heart races as I jump out of bed and throw on a pair of yoga pants. “How bad?”

  “A head wound and a few bruises but he didn’t want you to hear it on the news. He was driving the senator back to Pennsylvania.”

  “Where is he now? Can I talk to him?” I put my phone on speaker and throw it on the bed so I can hear while I put a sweatshirt on. I don’t even bother to tie my sneakers as I rush into the bathroom and pee.

  “They’re getting him stitched up and will probably keep him overnight. He told me to tell you to stay put.”

  “Uh-uh. What hospital is he in?” I grab my purse and car keys simultaneously opening Google maps on my phone. At this hour, I can be there when he wakes up.

  Slate sighs heavily. “I’ll pick you up in about twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll be waiting out front.”

  As I pace the lobby of my apartment building, I try not to worry but I know most of the guys at Patten Securities. Ex-military, they got a different mentality about wives and girlfriends than most people. They’d tell me everything was fine even if Jack was on his last breath. Dammit. I need to see for my
self.

  For about the zillionth time, I curse the stupid fight we had after he rescued me last summer. If he’d answered just one of my calls, none of this would’ve happened. He’d have a job in New York and I wouldn’t be on my way to DC, wondering if he’ll still be breathing when I get there.

  I put my hand on my baby bump. Don’t worry hun, Daddy’s going to be just fine.

  When a SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the curb, I wave at Pat, the security guard, and he buzzes me out the door. “Take care.”

  Slate hops out of the vehicle, comes around front, and gives me a hug. “Get in. He really is fine… Shit. Jack is going to kill me.”

  “If you rather, I can drive myself. It’s only a couple hours.” I settle down in the passenger seat and buckle up while he scoots behind the wheel.

  “It’s more like four, six if you hit rush hour.” He eases onto Fifty Seventh, heading for the FDR drive. “Grayson’s coming, too. We’re taking his jet.”

  So, I was right. Jack may not make it through the night. My whole world starts to crumble, tears sting my eyes, and I stare out the side window so Slate won’t see.

  “Hey, hey, It’s not like that. I swear, Jack’s fine. It’s this thing with McAlister. It’s high profile and Grayson’s taking a personal interest.” Slate drives silently for a while, his body language giving nothing away.

  My husband is one of the best in the business. I can’t imagine anyone catching him off guard. “What the hell happened, Slate?”

  After turning north onto the FDR, he glances over, face grim. “Someone tried to run him and the senator off the road. Jack’s vehicle hit the guard rail, it damaged the back tire, and he had to pull off the highway. There were shots fired. Jack killed three of the guys but during the gunfight, a bullet grazed his head.”

  The oxygen inside the car gets thin and I roll down the window with a shaky hand. The thought of losing Jack before we even get our life started knocks the wind out of me. What if I never again feel his lips on mine, see his gentle smile, or feel the strength of his embrace?

  Slate gives me a worried look, the kind men do around pregnant women. “What’s this? No tears. Jack wouldn’t even need the hospital but head wounds tend to be ah… messy. He’ll be fine once they get some fluids in him.”