Chapter 14 #4
James. Cooper. The name he’d buried sixteen years ago in a boat explosion that should have killed him.
“That’s your real name, isn’t it?” President White moved closer. “James Cooper. CIA operative. Presumed dead in an operation gone wrong in Budapest.”
Alan couldn’t speak. Just stared.
“York filled me in. The boat explosion. Your family taken. It doesn’t absolve you, but it does give us some clarity.”
Alan’s jaw tightened. Then, “For what it’s worth,” he whispered, “I thought I was a patriot for a long time. Before I realized I was working for the other side.”
“We all believe things that turn out to be lies.”
Alan said nothing.
President White was quiet for a moment. “You saved my daughter’s life today. Threw yourself out of a plane to keep her alive. That counts for something.”
Alan met York’s eyes.
The president’s voice was firm. “Not enough for a pardon. I’m sorry, James. What you did for my daughter counts for something, but there are consequences. Legal ones. You’ll stand trial. Spend the rest of your life in federal custody.”
Alan nodded. He’d expected nothing less.
“But,” President White continued, “it’s possible we can figure out a way for you to see your family. Occasionally. Under supervision. It’s not freedom. But it’s—”
“Thank you, sir,” Alan whispered.
“BP is seventy-five over forty-five.” The doctor’s voice cut through. “We’re out of time!”
President White looked at York. Some unspoken communication passed between them.
“Three minutes,” York said.
“He doesn’t have three—”
“Get him stable enough for three minutes,” President White said.
The doctor’s mouth tightened. But she turned back to Alan. Adjusted an IV. Called for more fluids. Pressed harder on the shoulder wound.
Alan’s vision grayed at the edges.
President White leaned close. “There are people here for you, James.”
The words didn’t register at first. People. Here.
Then, “Timea?”
“York’s team extracted her and your daughter from Key West three days ago. They’re in protective custody. Safe. Free. And—” President White stepped back. Gestured toward the door. “They’re here.”
The medical-bay door opened.
Secret Service agents came through first. Two of them. Flanking someone.
A woman.
Dark hair streaked with gray. Older than Alan remembered but unmistakable. Wearing jeans and a sweater that looked too big. Her face tear-streaked. Her eyes—those eyes he’d dreamed about for sixteen years—locked on him.
Timea.
Alan couldn’t breathe.
She crossed the room in three strides. Pushed past the doctor. Reached for him.
Her hand touched his face. Warm. Real. Trembling.
“Ethan.” Her voice was thick with accent and tears. “Oh, my Ethan.”
“You’re here.” The words came out choked. “You’re real. You’re—”
“I’m here. I’m real.” She was crying. Smiling. Both at once. “They told me you were dead. For sixteen years they told me—”
“I know. I tried—I tried to get back to you—”
“I know. That’s what they told me. I…I always wondered if…I always wanted to believe that…” Her hand stroked his hair. His face. As if she couldn’t believe he was real either. “My brave, stupid, wonderful husband. What did you do?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—” His chest burned.
“Shh. No. No sorry.” She leaned down. Pressed her forehead to his. Her tears fell on his face. “You came back. You found us. That’s all that matters.”
“I love you.” The words came out broken. Desperate. “I never stopped. Not for one second in sixteen years—”
“I know.” She kissed his forehead, his cheek, her beautiful eyes finding his. “I never stopped loving you.”
“Mama?” Behind her, another figure stepped forward.
A girl.
No—a young woman. Sixteen years old, wearing leggings and a T-shirt. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Green eyes—Alan’s eyes—wide and uncertain.
Fia.
Timea turned. Held out her hand. “Bella. Come. Meet your papa.”
The girl—Fia—didn’t move. Just stared at Alan. At the blood. The medical equipment. The straps holding him to the gurney.
“It’s okay,” Timea said softly. “He won’t hurt you.”
“I know.” Fia’s voice was quiet. Accented like her mother’s. “Mama always said you were brave. That you were a hero.”
Alan’s chest cracked open.
Hero. She thought he was a hero.
“I’m not—” He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “I’m not a hero, sweetheart. I did terrible things. Things I can never—”
“You saved that woman. The president’s daughter.” Fia took a step closer. “I saw it on the news. They said you jumped out of a plane to save her. That you threw yourself in front of a bullet.”
Oh. “It’s not—”
“It’s exactly like that,” said York. He gave Alan a grim smile.
“You saved her.” Fia reached the gurney.
Looked down at him. “Mama said you were brave and heroic. She told me every night. Even when I didn’t believe her.
Even when I thought—” Her voice caught. “Even when I thought she was making you up. Making you better than you were because you were dead and dead people can’t disappoint you. ”
“Bella—” Timea’s voice was gentle. Warning.
“But you’re not dead.” Fia’s eyes were bright. Not crying. Not quite. “You’re here. And you saved someone. So maybe—maybe Mama was right.”
Alan couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Just stared at this beautiful, fierce girl who had his eyes and Timea’s chin.
“Kislányom, nagyon szeretlek.”
Her eyes filled. “I love you too, Papa.” Her hand found his.
His daughter was holding his hand.
“You look like your mother,” Alan whispered. “You’re so beautiful. So grown up. I missed so much—” He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say all of it. Sixteen years of birthdays and first days of school and scraped knees and bedtime stories and everything, everything, everything.
“Blood pressure is dropping—seventy over forty! Okay, that’s it.” The doctor’s voice cut through. “This family reunion is over.”
The medical team surged forward. Hands reaching for the gurney.
“Wait—” Alan said. “Wait, please—”
“There’s no time!” The doctor was already unhooking monitors. Preparing to move him.
“Go.” Timea squeezed his hand on top of Fia’s. “Go. We’ll be here when you wake up.”
And if he didn’t?
The gurney started moving. Fia’s hand slipped from his.
“I love you!” Alan’s voice cracked. Rose. “I love you both.”
Timea stood there in the medical bay, holding Fia’s hand. “I’ve always known that,” Timea said quietly. Her hand went to her lips. She kissed her fingertips. Blew the kiss toward him.
Then the gurney was through the door. Into the corridor.
York leaned down to him, spoke in his ear. The words barely cut through the clutter of his thoughts, of the voices around him.
“The OR is ready—”
“Prepped for emergency laparotomy—”
“Get him on the table—”
“Move, move, move—”
An orderly hit the plate and the operating-room doors swung open. More lights. Brighter. Surgical lights that washed everything white.
Hands lifted him. Transferred him from the gurney to the operating table. The surface was hard. Cold.
“Patient is James Cooper, late forties—”
“Gunshot wound, lacerated liver, internal bleeding—”
“Let’s get him under—”
A face appeared above him. Masked. Only the eyes visible. “Mr. Cooper. Can you hear me?”
Alan nodded.
“I’m Dr. Richardson. I’m going to put you to sleep now. When you wake up, this will all be over. I need you to count backward from ten. Can you do that?”
The anesthesia mask came down. Cold plastic against his face. Oxygen and something else. Chemical smell. Bitter.
“Start counting.”
“Ten.” Alan’s voice was muffled by the mask.
Timea’s face. Sixteen years younger. Laughing on the boat. “If it’s a girl, we’ll name her Sophie.”
“Nine.”
The explosion. Fire and water and darkness.
“Eight.”
Waking up in the hospital. “Your wife and unborn child are dead.”
“Seven.”
Sixteen years. Killing for Tomas. Believing the lie that one more job would set him free.
“Six.”
Britta’s face when he rescued her from the plane. The terror.
“Five.”
York’s voice. “I have them. They’re safe.”
“Four.”
Fia’s hand in his. “Mama always said you were brave.”
“Three.”
York’s hand on his arm. “Stay with me. Don’t you dare quit now.”
“Two.”
Timea’s blown kiss. “I’ve always known that.”
“One.”
The world went soft. Blurred. The surgical lights became distant stars.
Alan’s eyes closed.
His last thought wasn’t a thought at all. Just a feeling.
Peace.
And somewhere in the darkness behind the anesthesia, James Ethan, Alan Martin, Cooper—terrorist, operative, father, husband—let go.