Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

He was walking through the smoldering forest amid the embers of the fire. Trees had been incinerated, leaving only blackened stumps here and there. The mountainside was a shattered mess of boulders and rocks, and the earth itself had been scorched by the powerful explosion. The scent of rocket fuel lingered in the air, mingling with the stench of ash, burned flesh and metal. The three men he’d lost were simply gone. There were no bodies to bring home. Kolokov shook his head at the scene of devastation.

“Come on,” he commanded. “Gather the wounded. We’re moving out.”

Nestor, his second-in-command, started barking orders. His men abandoned the search for survivors and started moving toward the two flying tanks, helping the wounded as they went.

Kolokov kicked aside a smoldering chunk of charcoal. Part of a tree? Or a person? He couldn’t tell and didn’t care. He wanted to get as far away from the scene of failure as possible. He hurried toward the Mil Mi-24 helicopters and tried to avoid making eye contact with the pilot of the aircraft on the left. If he spent too long looking at the sheepish man who’d fired the missiles that had killed their target he might feel impelled to execute him instantly, and that would not be wise considering the pilot was needed to get them out of this godforsaken place.

Kolokov chose to ride in the other aircraft and consoled himself with the knowledge that the man would be properly dealt with when they returned to Moscow.

Justine was on her own, sitting on the couch in Jessie’s office. She’d needed some time by herself. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how she’d move on from this, but she had to find a way to function at the very least. She was no use to anyone in this state. She felt exhausted. Her eyes burned with the salt of so many tears, and her mind was numb.

She checked her watch, it was 11:05 a.m., and got to her feet. She left the room, stepping into an open-plan office that was largely empty. The nearest desks were vacant, but a couple of investigators were working at the back of the room. Justine avoided meeting their eyes.

She hurried to the meeting room on the corner of the thirty-sixth floor, knocked, and entered to find it empty. She saw the phone receiver she had dropped on the floor had been replaced. She walked over to it, and shivered as she touched it. She looked around the room where her life had changed forever, suddenly struck by the intense desire not to be there. Not just in the room, but in the office, maybe not in Private at all. Without Jack there was nothing for her here, and the thought of spending each and every day working at an organization where she would constantly be reminded of him filled her with dread.

She left the room and almost walked into Jessie who was coming along the corridor outside. She looked pale and her eyes were puffy with grief.

“Mo-bot is in the computer room, working. She’s pretty cut up, but losing herself in the machines is her way of dealing with it.”

Hearing Jessie talk about the grief of others made Justine choke up. Jack had meant so much to so many people, she felt selfish only to have thought of how his death had impacted her. Fresh tears ran down her cheeks. She wiped them away.

“I just don’t know what to do,” she said. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

Jessie put a consoling hand on Justine’s arm. “Me neither.”

The warmth of human touch caused Justine to break down again, and she shuddered as she sobbed.

“Come on,” Jessie said. “We should get you out of here. I’m supposed to relieve Alvarez and Taft in a couple hours. Let’s go now. Beth and the children will give us something to focus on. They need us.”

Justine nodded and allowed herself to be steered through the office to the elevators. The receptionists looked at her with sadness and sympathy but said nothing as they stepped into the car that would take them down to the parking garage. Minutes later, they were on the road to the safe house in Rye.

The gray winter light robbed everything of color and much of the world was shrouded in thick snow, creating a canvas of grief onto which Justine projected memories of her time with Jack. She’d loved him from the moment they’d met. Others knew him as a tough man of action, but she’d seen a different side. He’d had a generous spirit and felt deep compassion toward anyone who experienced suffering. And then there was his sense of humor. Not a day had passed when he hadn’t managed to make her smile. As the drab landscape sped by, she wondered whether she would ever laugh again. They’d had their ups and downs, but after the Moscow investigation Justine had felt things might be getting serious. She winced at the thought of all the moments they would never have together. Wherever she looked, she saw images of an unlived future. A wedding. Children. A life together growing old. All gone. Taken by violence. She wept, but kept looking out of the window because these shades of what she’d lost were all she had left of Jack.

Jessie didn’t say anything, and when Justine glanced at her she saw a grim-faced woman who was trying to weather her own storm of grief. They travelled without speaking, with nothing more than the rhythm of the wheels rolling over the highway joins to break the silence.

Sixty minutes after leaving the office, they rolled into the driveway of the shorefront house on Pine Island. There was a blue Chevy Suburban parked near the front door.

“It’s not easy, is it?” Jessie remarked.

Justine shook her head and wiped her eyes. Jessie reached over the armrest and embraced her, an act of kindness that prompted more tears. When they let go, the two women stepped into the bitter cold and headed for the house.

Justine hadn’t yet met Elizabeth Singer, but she recognized her from the photographs she’d seen. She had long dark hair and was about five feet six, with an athletic physique. She sat at the kitchen counter, eating lunch with her children. Roni Alvarez and Jim Taft sat on couches by the television. They were on their phones and had CNN on low. They stood the moment Jessie and Justine entered, and Taft, a gruff former Secret Service agent, spoke first.

“I’m sorry, boss,” he said to Jessie. “We heard.”

He indicated his phone. Justine shouldn’t have been surprised. Very little stayed secret in the days of instant communication.

“My condolences,” Roni said. She was a former FBI agent, who had seen her fair share of action, but the tears welling in her eyes told Justine that Jack’s death had affected her deeply.

“Thanks,” Justine replied.

“Condolences?” Beth Singer asked. “What for? What’s going on?”

Justine felt a wave of nausea. They hadn’t told her what had happened. Maybe they hadn’t known Floyd and Jack had been together.

“Roni, could you take Danny and Maria next door?” Jessie said. Beth’s expression immediately hardened from puzzlement to concern.

“What’s going on?” she asked fearfully.

Jessie didn’t answer. Roni mustered the children and led them into a living room that lay off the main family room. They looked confused and frightened.

“Don’t worry, kids,” Roni assured them. “Ms. Fleming just wants to talk to your mom.”

“It’s OK, guys,” Beth said.

Roni shut the door and Jessie and Justine approached the breakfast bar. Justine felt immensely sorry for Beth because she knew the crushing blow that was coming her way.

Beth must have read the news in the other women’s expressions because she clutched the countertop, saying: “No.”

“I’m afraid we have reason to believe your husband was killed today,” Jessie said.