4. Sam
4
SAM
The story of Noah Forbes’ rescue has faded from the headlines, but a grim killing of a young girl in North Dakota has hurled Mark and me back into the media’s glare. Pundits are slamming the cops for dragging their feet, letting negotiations with the girl’s captor stretch too long until the bastard poisoned her and offed himself. They’re stacking up this incident against Red Mark’s operation, calling ours a ‘model’ of how it’s done.
It churns my gut, how the media have sensationalized the tragedy. Do these vultures even give a damn that there’s a family torn apart, grieving their little girl?
What we did to get Noah out wasn’t by the book, despite the parade and the hero talk. Sure, we were damn good, and the sight of Ivy’s relief at having Noah back in her arms, was worth it. But redemption? Not even close. Noah’s face, every time I see it, drags up the memory of Jack, all sulky as he got turned away from the Thunderbolt.
I blew a fuse on air the other day, and Mark’s had me dodge the spotlight since. He’s in Helena, handling the media frenzy, while I’m in New York, marking another year since I lost my mom.
The cemetery’s shrouded in fog as I approach my mother’s grave, ignoring the stone beside it. I wish it weren’t there, but it is, and as far as I’m concerned, it might as well be invisible.
“It’s me, Mom,” I murmur, laying down white roses, the blooms resting against her name carved in stone.
Samantha Mary Kelleher
Beloved wife and mother
“I saved a kid.” My voice catches, and I stiffen, half-expecting her to tell me to man up. Not that she ever would’ve said those words, but I owe her for my brother, and weakness isn’t an option.
I press my hand to the turf, imagining it right above hers, and whisper, “Wish I could’ve done the same for you.”
The ache in my chest feels like it’s burning a hole straight through. “I’m sorry, Mom. Jack’s still missing.”
I tidy her headstone before leaving, not wanting to stick around for a run-in with my old man.
I spare a glance at the grave I’ve been avoiding.
Jack Redley Kelleher
Beloved son and brother
It’s an empty grave, yet it buries a lifetime of pain, guilt, and disappointment. Its existence is a painful reminder of Dad’s surrender. The police never found Jack’s body, and my brother was presumed dead. For Dad, it was closure. He just swallowed the kidnapping-murder theory after six years. Gave up without a fight.
“You’re out there, Jack,” I vow, looking at his name etched in the stone. “I’m gonna find you.”
Jack’s mock-up as an adult, created by some forensic tech expert I hired, shows just how much he took after Mom. In that drawing, he was portrayed as a twenty-four-year-old man. But until I see him breathe, he remains that same little brother, too short for the Thunderbolt, cheering me on before everything became the real ‘mother of all hell’ for me.
Mark’s on the line as I head to my car.
“How’s New York treating you?”
“New York’s getting by just fine without us,” I reply, remembering our bodyguard days in the city.
Mark had career longevity, and compared to him, I was only a scraper. New York’s high society is filled with some of the most pompous people I know. They usually hire bodyguards who are attached to elite agencies, with formal qualifications and the right looks. I was an independent, and my resume was short—MMA fighter for six years solid, and in the Navy for four years before that. Most employers rejected me because they couldn’t see past my ‘fighter’ label. Worse still, being a young SEAL (I graduated at eighteen) seemed to work against me. My Navy experience was often dismissed, as they argued that too much time had passed since then.
As fate would have it, our last clients—two billionaires who are best friends, practically sisters—had led us west to Montana. They’re a different breed of New York’s elite—they stand on their own two feet, they face danger head-on, and most of all, they value people. And as it turned out, they seem to be at home in ranches and mountains as they are in mansions and skyscrapers. When our services were no longer needed, and after some soul-searching on our part, Mark and I decided to have a fresh start in Big Sky country—and Red Mark was born.
“When you coming back?” he asks.
“Tonight. Why?”
“Got a matter to discuss with you.”
“Nothing to do with a date, I hope.”
“Get over yourself.”
“Just remember I’m in the process of learning to be you,” I quip.
Much as I want to convince Mark to take a shot at romance—at Ivy Forbes—I admire his stoicism. He declares himself ‘happily married to the job,’ and he’s living it. It’s a way of life that takes some getting used to. But I know it’s the only way if I want to stop myself from suffering the unwanted effects of falling in love.
For a while, I was under the illusion that having a relationship was the answer to my lackluster existence. They say it’s against human nature for men to be alone. I believed if I found the right woman, then things would fall into place, and my life would have meaning.
I found her.
Only to realize I was wrong.
One day I returned early from a mission in Venezuela, body and mind drained from an incident that almost cost Mark’s life. I couldn’t wait to be back in my girlfriend’s arms, to be comforted and loved. Instead, I caught her with another man, tearing each other’s clothes off in my fucking bed. He was apparently a lawyer who commanded five hundred dollars an hour, and she fell head over heels.
That was the last time I was betrayed, but not the first—as if I had it written on my forehead: Cheat on me .
The only way to recover from that kind of setback, and to avoid falling into the same trap, is to be like Mark—heart locked, head buried in work. These days, the person I go home to is a German shepherd named Maximus, a veteran dog who tries to give me domestic bliss mainly by tiring me out with his antics.
“It’s got nothing to do with a girl,” Mark affirms with a tone that tells me our imminent discussion is about business.
“See you tomorrow, then,” I end the call.
The sun has burned off the fog when I hit Manhattan—my old stomping ground. It hasn’t changed. People pass me by—tired faces, happy faces, and those in between. A group of men in suits rush into their Mercs and BMWs. They’re probably lawyers, like the man my ex-girlfriend favored over me.
No doubt a lot of people see their jobs as a means to an end. I saw my professions that way too. Don’t get me wrong. It was an honor for me to serve my country as a SEAL. And my stint as a fighter—legal and illegal—had made me a man. I’m also humbled by the trust my clients have given me as their guardian. But at the end of the day, what I’m doing is a job that pays the bills.
But…
My perspective has changed since the moment Noah Forbes came into the picture. The boy wasn’t my job—he was my duty.
Mark isn’t the only one who has something on his mind; I do too. I’ve been thinking about how we can make Red Mark a company that makes a real difference—beyond our responsibilities and job satisfaction.
I land in Helena at night. I drive an eighty-mile route from the airport to home, dreading the silence. The thought of making supper for one and lying in my cold bed doesn’t help either. Maximus is my clown, and I’m excited to see him again, but sometimes his presence highlights how lonely life can be without another human to go home to.
I shoo away my self-pity as I arrive home to a strange-looking Maximus.
A neighbor has been looking after him, and the dog should be happy to see me, but his greeting is anything but. We’ve been together for a month, and admittedly our bonding still needs work—at times we both try to be the alpha of the house. Mark often calls Maximus my ‘heartbreak hound,’ because I adopted him not long after the debacle with my ex, but my dog has proven himself a man’s best friend—he’s always there when I need him.
“Hey, Tri-pawed,” I call him, trying to get a reaction.
Maximus lost one of his front paws in battle, hence I call him Tri-pawed from time to time. The dog usually growls hearing it—I don’t think he’s smart enough to know the meaning, but he definitely knows I’m teasing him for something.
Maximus stays listless, lying on his side with his legs extended.
“What’s up, buddy?” I pat my furry companion. Charles Schultz famously said that happiness is a warm puppy, but this big pup whining under my touch is more than warm. His eyes look heavy, and even the slightest move he makes looks laborious.
My heart rate kicks up. I can’t handle another loss, even a dog.
I gather him up in a blanket. “Hang in there, buddy. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
After an overnight stay, Maximus just got sprung from the vet’s, now riding shotgun in my truck, giving me that ‘traitor’ look dogs are so good at.
“Quit the sad eyes, Max,” I tell him, answering another call. “Yeah?”
“Where the hell have you been?” Mark’s voice has that edge of concern.
“Sorry, man, my battery died. I just left the hospital.”
There’s a pause. “Hospital? You good?”
“Relax, it’s the vet. Max had a fever.” A glance at my four-legged pal confirms he’s not over the betrayal. “He’s not my biggest fan right now.”
“What happened?”
“He had a thermometer stuffed up his ass. Multiple times, I must say.”
Mark laughs. “Is he okay now?”
“He’s solid,” I assure him, scratching Maximus behind the ears. He gives me this look, probably thinking I’m mocking his ordeal.
“You still good for that talk?” Mark asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“How about Helena?”
That’s not where our usual haunts are, since our office is in Townsend, some forty minutes southeast of the capital.
Mark explains, “A change. We can chat over drinks. My treat.”
It’s too far for me to drive home to drop off Maximus, and I don’t want to say no to my partner, as I’m pretty sure the location is going to mean something for our conversation.
“Do you think I can take Maximus? I can’t afford to betray him twice.”
“Bring him. We’ll stroll by the Capitol, then find a dog-friendly spot.”
I look at Maximus, use our ‘walkie’ code. His tail thumps.
“He’s game,” I tell Mark.
“See you there.”
Downtown Helena? I hope he’s not hinting that our next client is yet another politician.