J Saint - Collateral Damage

Jack tried to call Beck first, to see what he thought. He and Beck went back farther than either of them would like to remember, back to boot camp where as greenhorns they'd made a pact to always watch each other's back no matter what. Jack had always known that if he went MIA Beck would be the man to bring him home and Beck would come running now if Jack needed him. All he had to do was press a few buttons and Beck would be here.

Or was that even true anymore? Something heavy was up with Beck, and Jack found himself a little torqued. Jack was the one hospital bound and Beck's ass should be the one here worrying about him. The man could sell ice to an Eskimo, and Jack could sure use him at the moment. Beck didn't answer and Jack left another message, one that left a questioning knot in his gut and had him wondering what was wrong.

The man had been to the hospital only once, just after Jack had awakened from the coma he'd been in. Beck was likely as damaged by the Lebanon blast as the rest of the team, but on a psychological level. Survivor's guilt. But hell enough was enough. "Hey, bro, it's DT. You need to stop by so I can beat your ass on the treadmill. Bring us both a beer and some poker cards too. Maybe they'll kick my ass out of here early then."

Jack hung up the phone and dialed his commander with reservation. Weston was a top of his class West Pointer who played every hand straight and narrow.

"Weston here." The man sounded as crisp and clear as an ice covered mountain. Weston had apparently regained the equilibrium after the fissure of emotion he'd shown last night and was back to his usual self.

"You've seen the news?" Jack said.

"Been up most of the night watching. It's bad. I spoke with Anderson earlier."

Considering it was just five, Jack imagined the president had been up all night as well. "What's the take on the attacks?"

"Though Israel is denying it as vehemently as we are, some are wondering if they're behind the attacks. And before you ask, yes, I tried reaching Meir again. He didn't answer and he hasn't returned the calls. None of our contacts in Mossad are responding. So getting an unofficial inside scoop of the situation is dead in the water right now. Anderson did say he was meeting with Prime Minister Shalev this morning. We're at DEFCON 2 with DEFCON 1 a breath away."

Jack grunted as his mind raced. DEFCON 2 with a strong possibility that Israel's gone rogue. Shit. He hoped to God it wasn't true and Meir would get in touch with them. Though any intel gleaned from other government operatives was in no way remotely official, it often proved to be an accurate barometer of that government's collective state of mind.

"You want my take on it?" Weston asked, surprising Jack. The commander didn't often toss out an opinion aside from what came down the brass pipeline.

"Yeah."

"I think somebody is using the US as a scapegoat for their own agenda. By making this attack on the heels of al-Qaeda's destruction to the US oil industry last week, they've got the perfect cover. It could be one of our allies looking to strike a heavy blow against Saudi Arabia, but it could also be one of Saudi Arabia's allies wanting to knock the king off the OPEC Mountain, so there're more riches for them."

"Venezuela?"

"Iran. Any of the other countries or a combination of them, really. Sounds unbelievable, but it's a possibility considering how torqued Iran is at Saudi's cooperation with the US in the fight against radical terrorism."

"I'd believe it," Jack said. "But I've something you're not going to believe. I found the blond SOB I shot in Lebanon."

"What do you mean you found him?"

"His name is Bill Collins, a businessman from Atlanta. His mug's being plastered on Fox News as a possible victim of attacks on Westerners. Report says he was murdered in Sao Paulo last night, but I'm sure I shot him two weeks ago."

"Come on, Jack. This is stretching too far. The guy must be a look alike."

"Yeah, if they're identical twins even to a mole on the left temple."

"Someone is beeping in, I've gotta go. I'll check out this Bill Collins and get back to you, but I think you're grasping at straws."

Jack hung up the phone and started pacing, running a number of scenarios through his mind about what he'd do when Weston called back. The more Jack thought about it, the more he concluded that he'd likely have to piece together the Bill Collins puzzle on his own.

He owed it to Neil, to Pecos, to Rico, to Beck. And to himself.

A couple of hours later, he found out that debt might cost him his career. Weston's sit down and shut up, let the blond terrorist thing go call back about Bill Collins left Jack no choice. He had to go find out what Collins's widow knew about his activities.

Both Weston and US officials insisted Jack had to be mistaken. The Brazilian authorities swore Bill Collins had been murdered in Sao Paulo. Witnesses claimed they'd heard gunshots during the night and Bill's body had been found a short time later. And even though the report of multiple gunshot wounds to the chest matched how Jack had killed the terrorist in Lebanon, Weston insisted he needed something more than Jack's sketchy memory before taking this to the brass and arguing with the Brazilian authorities. Jack didn't have more, and one way around that problem would be if Collins's spouse asked for an investigation into her husband's death. He planned to get Lauren Collins to do that if she wasn't neck deep in her husband's shit. If she was then he'd deal with the pile when he came to it.

He left Walter Reed AMA to go AWOL.

Atlanta, Georgia

1400 hours

"You still can't locate my husband's body?" Lauren asked incredulously, her voice rising as she barely restrained herself from banging her head against the steering wheel. First thing this morning she'd called the American Consulate in Sao Paulo and ascertained that Eduardo Alverez, the man who called her in the middle of the night, did indeed work there and the local police had notified them of the death of Bill Collins. But when she asked how Bill had died, they didn't have that information and had to contact the police. Their return call fifteen minutes later bordered on the Twilight Zone of bizarre. She now knew Bill had been shot, but the morgue had misplaced Bill's body.

"No, Senora. We have not. We are checking with all of the funerarias and cemiterios now, seeing if there has been a mistake. I am sorry, but I promise to call as soon as there is news, si?"

"Yes, thank you." Lauren disconnected, accepting that any frustrated ranting on her part wouldn't produce Bill's body. God. How did she even know it was Bill who was dead? With each passing moment the nightmare surrounding her grew.

That they were now searching funeral homes and crematories added another whole element to that nightmare. What if Bill had already been cremated by mistake? How could she ever know for sure if he was dead? And though she didn't want to think something so vile about Bill, what if he'd faked his own death? What if his strange activities over the past two years had finally caught up with him and he'd bailed?

What other ugly surprises would come her way? More like last night's break-in?

She shivered as she drove down her neighborhood street, alienated from the normalcy surrounding her and her life before last night.

Bill had supposedly died from multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and his body had been found in Paradise Resort's lake just outside of Sao Paulo. His wallet, passport and his jewelry had still been on him, so robbery had been ruled out. That mainly left the option of Bill having been an innocent victim of a random crime. Maybe even a victim of a hate crime. Worldwide anger against Americans was rising and psychos were taking advantage of it.