Playing Jacks

xiii. Life is Pain, Princess

xiii. Life is Pain, Princess.  (Anyone that tells you different is selling something.)

Time and memory is distorted.  Jacks groans into the asphalt and pebbles, forcing the flat of his palm onto the unforgiving surface to push himself up.  Spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground beside him as he slowly regains his feet, he stares into the aisles of cars outside Hartsfield airport.  He’s forced to lean heavily against a nearby truck, his hand covering his bloody ribs.  The slug is probably embedded somewhere important- like his lungs. 

Not the way he intended this story to end.

An hour ago- sixty jerky moves of the minute hand and approximately four thousand seven hundred and eighty two heartbeats ago- he had sat in that FBI office searching for one last glimpse of her. 

“Jackson Mancuso,” Cougar grunted, sauntering across the room to them.  His belly invaded Jacks’ personal space, where he sat in a wooden chair next to Callan’s desk. “What are you doing here?”

Jacks stared spitefully over the bulbous belly at the man.

“He’s leaving,” Callan replied for him, sounding bored.

Cougar eyed both men warily. “The country?”

“The country,” Callan confirmed.

For the space of a few precious minutes, the man, Cougar, looked ready to argue.  The challenge was nothing.  Obscuring all possible view of his buxom beauty was unforgivable.  But then he said, “Good,” and turned to leave, once again giving Jacks full view of the room and alleviating any reason for bodily harm.  “In the meantime, put on a shirt, man,” Cougar added, “The women are drooling.”

Irritation flashed across Jacks’ stern countenance and was gone in the next, rapid heartbeat because Sophie had appeared, escorted through the maze of desks.  Her eyes jumped to his; but, unable to hold his penetrating stare, they jumped away just as quickly.  His gut clenched.

“If you’re going to make a move, I suggest you do it soon,” Callan muttered. “They’re leaving for the airport ahead of us.”

Jacks head fell into his hands. “I can’t offer her anything.  I can’t even tell her I love her!”

Callan reached across the desk and slapped the back of the boy’s head. Jacks’ head falls from its perch with the force and he looked up at the older man, befuddled. “You’re willing to give her that bike- the most precious thing in the goddamn world to you- and you don’t see that you love her?”

Jacks blinked, his expression twisting into a corkscrew of confused thought.  “I love her?”

Callan reached across that desk to side-swipe Jacks’ head, only missing because Jacks dodged the hit. Propelled to his feet by unknown forces, Jacks stared into the air Sophie once warmed.

“Shirt,” Callan ordered, throwing a black tee into Jacks’ chest.

Jacks pulled it over his head absently, his eyes locked ahead and his mind churning with half-baked plans before making it to the door.

“No surrender!” Callan called after him.

“No retreat!” Jacks answered back, picking up his pace to a jog.

There was a time Jacks would have killed for that man.  Ah, hell, Jacks had killed for that man- though Callan hadn’t asked for that favor.  If Jacks hadn’t pushed Callan into that warehouse, Callan would have been firing off his weapon, too. 

At least then he could have shared the blame. 

As it was, Jacks had thrown Callan clear and done the killing himself.  It was eerie how naturally it had come.  All the practice at the shooting range, all the gun ‘safety’ courses, maybe even the stupid video games he once played, all of it came together that night.  He had walked towards the threat, instead of finding cover.  Guess the younger Jacks thought he was invincible.  Certainly had never felt the burn of a slug lodged in his body.