He roared through the gears, quickly gaining on the jet.
Mohammed looked out the pilot’s window. A man was approaching the jet on a motorcycle. He laughed. “Sean O’Brien. You are a boy on a toy.” Mohammed accelerated faster, the jet engines screaming. He watched O’Brien steer with one hand, blood staining his shirt, while pulling a pistol from his belt. “And now you are a boy with a toy gun. We shall meet again, infidel.”
The jet was seconds away from becoming airborne. The motorcycle ten feet from the tip of the left wing on the pilot’s side of the jet.
“Come on, Sean …,” Jason said. “Don’t miss.”
O’Brien was approaching eighty miles an hour. As the jet was lifting off, O’Brien aimed the Luger and fired. The single bullet ripped through the metal surrounding the cockpit burying deep into Mohammed’s chest. Mohammed glanced out the window in horror, fighting to control the jet, the world going dark all around him.
One of the wings clipped the runway causing the jet to flip end-over-end like a metal garbage can caught in a hurricane gust. It exploded in a ball of orange flames. O’Brien could feel the heat on his face, the Learjet disintegrating before his eyes, a plume of black smoke rising high like an oil well fire. O’Brien dropped the Luger and hit the brakes. The motorcycle was moving too fast, right toward the wall of flames. O’Brien laid the motorcycle down, sparks flying as metal tore into the asphalt runway, the motorcycle coming to a stop about fifty feet from the inferno.
“Call the paramedics!” shouted Hunter. “O’Brien’s got to be in bad shape. Call the fire department! Looks like all hell just popped out of the earth.” The men jumped into their vehicles and raced toward the end of the runway.
O’Brien tried to stand, his legs unsteady, heart slamming, blood seeping from the wound on his shoulder, the heat like a blast furnace off his skin. He limped backward, his right ankle broken, ribs shattered. He bent down painfully and picked up the Luger in his bloodied right hand. He turned back to see the jet burn, the acrid smell of melting rubber, fuel, human skin, and black smoke billowing toward the perfect blue sky.
“A black bullet to paradise …,” O’Brien said, his voice a whisper beneath the roar of fire, popping glass and cooking metal.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
The following week a memorial was held for Billy Lawson at his gravesite. Two gray squirrels chased each other around a live oak as the people arrived in the cemetery. Soon, the two rows of folding chairs were filled. Glenda Lawson and Abby sat in the center of the first row. A dozen members of the U.S. Army, including the Secretary of Defense, were in attendance.
O’Brien, foot in a cast, bruised and sore, stood under an oak tree and watched the service. Abby reached for her grandmother’s hand, the dapple sunlight filtering through the live oaks and Spanish moss. A soft wind carried the scent of honeysuckles and oak. A dark blue butterfly alighted on the mound of fresh earth atop Billy’s grave.
Secretary of Defense Lewis Whitney and General William Wilson stood, approached the color guard where PFC John Lewis handed General Wilson a folded American flag. Secretary Whitney and the General stepped in front of Glenda and Abby. General Wilson said, “Mrs. Lawson, this flag is presented to you on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your husband, William Lawson’s, honorable and faithful service to the United States of America. Private First Class, William Lawson, died a war hero.”
Secretary of Defense Whitney said, “Mrs. Lawson, and Abby Lawson … on behalf of the President and the United States’ Congress, it is our honor to bestow a posthumous symbol of our appreciation, the Congressional Medal of Honor, for William James Lawson who displayed immeasurable heroism in the last stages of World War II. Our nation owes him a debt and our gratitude.”
Glenda Lawson and Abby stood, Abby holding her grandmother’s arm. Tears welling in Abby’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks. They accepted the flag and the medal.
“Thank you,” Glenda said. She and Abby stepped to the grave. Glenda gently set the medal on top of Billy’s headstone. The two women held hands. Their thoughts silent, their bond forever. In the distance a cardinal sang as Glenda Lawson told her dead husband how much he was loved.
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
O’Brien walked with Max down to his dock on the St. Johns River. The sun was warm and a dragonfly hovered just above the dark water. A young alligator crawled on a cypress knee. It had been almost a month since the funerals for Billy Lawson, the FBI agents and Lauren Miles all were held. Besides Billy and Lauren’s, O’ Brien couldn’t bring himself to attend any of the other funerals. There were too many. He’d seen enough suffering and pain. He knew that Jason Canfield would suffer post-trauma for years, maybe the rest of his life. He would spend time with the kid and do what he could to help him.
Dave Collins had healed well, a metal screw forever in his right shoulder, a dull pain when he lifted something. Dave rationalized it would give him a legitimate excuse to enjoy a few more dry martinis.
Eric Hunter had testified before the U.S. Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs, Hunter’s identity long since compromised. The Department of Energy had taken the bomb to the Savannah River Nuclear facility and dismantled it. Officials said that physicist Lee Toffler had wired the bomb in a way that would have kept it from detonating.
O’Brien thought about that as he looked toward the front of his home and watched a blue Chevy slow down as the driver approached his driveway. The car turned onto the dirt drive, the sound of popping acorns and cracking oyster shells carrying down to the river.
Max barked and trotted up the dock a few feet. O’Brien stood as the woman walked around the side of his house and down his sloping yard to the dock.
Maggie Canfield wore a wide-brim hat with a yellow ribbon on it, beige shorts, and a white blouse. A gold necklace winked in the golden light. She flashed a smile and carried a wicker picnic basket. O’Brien could tell she looked rested. Max bolted to the front of the dock to greet her.
“Hi, Max,” Maggie said, bending down to pet her. Max sniffed the picnic basket and ran in a tight circle. “What a sweet welcome!”
“She knows you are bearing gifts that she can eat,” O’Brien said.
“This is so beautiful. I love your old home and this property. The river is like a painting. It’s everything you said it was. Am I on time?”
“Perfect timing. The sun makes long, luxurious sunsets here.”
Maggie set the basket on a bench and stood next to O’Brien. He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s good to see you, Maggie.”
“Thank you for inviting me out here. And, I’m amazed I found it without my GPS. I gave it to Jason.”
“How is he?”
“He still has trouble sleeping at night. But he’s looking forward to going back to college. I really appreciated you coming to see him the other day. You’re his hero, you know, you and his dad. Oh, and Wes, too,” Maggie laughed and added, “I guess you know him as Eric.”
“Jason’s a good kid.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Good. We can sit right here on the bench, a great spot for a picnic. I made tiny doggie bites of turkey for Max that I’ve put in a plastic bowl.”
“She’ll love you for life.”
Maggie smiled as she unwrapped a sandwich for O’Brien and took the plastic top off the bowl for Max, setting
