Second Chances

Second Chances

Pt. 01

by G. Lawrence

An accused assassin is free

This is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: In an alternate timeline from our own, Jack Lawrence was accused of shooting President Edward Blair, though he had no memory of it. Jack was a decorated combat medic, but he had also participated in classified missions behind enemy lines, so his war record was kept secret. Suffering from PTSD and blackouts, Jack feared conspiracy theories would tear the country apart, so he accepted blame and went to prison. But many, especially in the FBI and Secret Service, didn't believe he was guilty. The Blair family in particular came to doubt the official version, with former First Lady Patricia Blair and her children Bob and Jenny becoming advocates for Jack's release. Now, after seven years, Jack has been freed from Federal custody.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Pat,

We have reviewed the manuscript of the late John Lawrence and are submitting contracts for your review. We understand that Jack left you full rights. Please have your attorney contact us at the earliest opportunity. Sincerely yours, Daniel Palmer

* * * * * *

Chapter One

MOCKING DEATH

I was tied hand and foot, a black hood pulled over my head. Beneath me, the bed of the truck bounced on rough dirt roads, moving quickly but not in panic. My head hurt from a brief struggle. I had no clue where we were going, or what my captors' intentions were. They had staged a mock execution. The next time, the bullets might be real.

The truck came to a halt. Hands grabbed my jacket, hauling me out. The binding was cut off my ankles. The hood removed.

"Welcome to Iraq, John Henry Lawrence," a tall lean gangster said in Arabic.

We stood on a desolate desert road, hazy gray mountains in the distance. The spring afternoon was cool. My kidnappers wore long white cloaks and were armed with AK-47s. I was in the khaki army uniform worn by U.N. peace keeping forces in Syria.

"I have not been to Iraq before," I replied, stretching my legs.

"Not even during the war?" the kidnapper asked.

"I spent those years in Afghanistan," I said.

"And Pakistan. Turkmenistan. Uzbekistan. Rakmanistan. Your 104th Rangers showed no respect for borders."

"They weren't my 104th Rangers. I was just a sergeant. But we went where the enemy could be found. Like you have done in Syria," I said.

"We are fighting for Islam," he insisted.

"I've heard that too many times," I responded. "At least Frac Khanani was honest. He admitted his plan to destroy Boston was about power, not the Prophet."

"And then you killed him," my enemy said.

"I did not shoot Khanani. He shot me. But I would have shot him. We were opponents in a great struggle. No apologies were needed."

"Do not think to avoid your fate," he threatened.

"And what fate is that? You already filmed me before your firing squad. Will you now put a bullet in my head without cameras to record the deed?"

"You know I cannot. Kassan Abari has plans for you. Maybe he will put a bullet in your head," the renegade replied.

After fifteen minutes on the bleak roadside, I was back in the canvas covered truck with two silent watchdogs. They no longer needed the hood, for there was nothing of interest to see. I thought back to Al-Mayadin, where a bomb had injured scores in the marketplace. My friend Ali had warned me to stay in the hotel, but too many needed help. I had been a medic in Afghanistan. A first responder back in the States. I could not let innocent victims lie in the street and do nothing. Tashad operatives were waiting for me.

We reached a village in Iraq's eastern foothills. I assumed we were near the Tigris River, but it was only a guess. The buildings were made of stone and brick, the streets unpaved.

"Sāmarrā," one of my guards said.

The truck had stopped on the outskirts of the city, allowing me a quick glance before the hood went back on. A few minutes later, I was led down stone stairs, through a creaking door, and set on a dirt floor. They tied my ankles and departed, leaving me to sit alone in the darkness.

Seventeen Months Before

"Come on, Jack. You owe me another dance," Jenny Blair said, pulling me from the table.

About to turn twenty-two, bright and sassy, with long red hair and sparkling blue eyes, Jenny had been teasing me all night. I glanced back at her mother, making sure it was okay. Mrs. Blair had forgiven me for her husband's murder, and I loved her for such a kindness. I did not want Patricia to think I was seducing her daughter.

The ballroom of the Mayflower Hotel in downtown Washington was busy with seventy guests celebrating my release from Federal custody. Among them were Secret Service Agent Alexandra McGuire and FBI Agent Alberto Ruiz, the heroes of Thanksgiving Eve where Frac Khanani's terrorist plot to detonate an atomic bomb in Boston had been frustrated. Deputy Director Harold Rasmussen of the FBI was my sponsor. General Collin Fowler was there. He had threatened to borrow me for another covert mission. The press had not been allowed in.

"Just because I'm free doesn't mean you own me," I said to Jenny as we danced.

"I'm the one who got you free, or have you already forgotten?" she answered.

That was partially true. She had organized a web of friends to move public opinion on my behalf. Her brother had written a best-selling book on my service in the Second Afghan War. A service that had been kept secret for eight years due to national security.

"Miss Blair, you're sweet, but I'm ten years older than you. I'm poor. And as of this morning, I'm an ex-convict. You need to chase someone more appropriate."

"I haven't decided if you're my property or not, Mr. Lawrence," Jenny said, delicious in her lowcut black cocktail dress. "But if I decide you are mine, then you are."

Thankfully, Alex chose that moment to cut in. Just a year younger than I, petite, with long brown hair and vivid brown eyes, Alex had believed in me when no one else did, risking her Secret Service career. That belief had saved half a million lives in Boston.

"Jenny backing you into a corner?" Alex asked, smiling as we danced.

Instead of the charcoal gray business suits she preferred on duty, Alex was wearing a frilly yellow party gown and high heels. I was wearing the second-hand brown wool suit I'd worn at my review hearing that morning.

"I thought you were going to find me a woman," I said.

"I think a woman has found you," she replied.

"She's a kid."

"Jenny was a president's daughter," Alex reminded me. "She was twelve years old when she moved into the White House. Fodder for the tabloids as a teenager. She has studied international relations with Professor Lofoya in Utah. Jennifer Blair is no kid."

"What would the tabloids say if Jenny started dating her father's killer?" I asked.

"Are you so sure you shot him? After what General Fowler said about you being framed?"

"Fowler could have been making that up."

"Or maybe he wasn't. Do you even know what really happened in the park that day?" Alex asked.

"I took responsibility."

"That's not an answer."

"Whether I shot the President or not, most people think I did."

"Since when do you care what anyone else thinks?"

"I care what her mother thinks," I answered, glancing over.

Patricia Blair was fifty-three now, her auburn hair tingeing gray. She had been married to Edward Blair for nineteen years before he was assassinated in Jackson Park. An event I had no memory of. She was deep in conversation with Harold Rasmussen.

"Plotting my future?" I asked, joining their table with a whisky sour in hand. Waiters were still clearing dishes from dinner and getting ready to serve dessert.

"And if we are?" Patricia asked, an eyebrow going up.

"I'm sure it's better than the one I was planning," I said, checking to make sure we weren't being overheard.

"Did I ruin your martyrdom?" Harold gruffly asked.

Rasmussen was approaching sixty, stout, with broad thick shoulders, thinning gray hair, and a wide face. In the seven years since we had foiled Frac Khanani's plot, he had watched over me like the father I never had.

"It was a short sentence for such a serious crime," I said. And not for the first time.

"You never should have been convicted in the first place," Harold grouched. "If your dainty conscience hadn't insisted on prison time, you would have been released years ago."

"Or I might have spent the rest of my life in a psych ward surrounded by rubber walls," I replied, looking to see if Dr. Livingston was nearby.

"I negotiated your sentence. I'm not going to apologize for it," Harold insisted.

"I must side with Harold on this," Patricia said, her New England accent clipped. "You struggled for years to keep your PTSD a secret to avoid embarrassing the army, which is commendable, but justice must have its day, too."

"At least it allowed me to meet your family without wearing a straitjacket," I said.

We were soon interrupted by General Collin Fowler, fifty-two years old, six feet tall, straight and lean, with a soldier's hawk nose and close-cropped hair. I had met Fowler in Afghanistan twelve years before, after the Battle of Lavanna Valley, where he stole me from the 144th Infantry.

"Ain't this the goddamn show?" Fowler said, sipping my whisky sour without permission. "Who'd have thought you goddamn FBI butt-knobs would get Jack out of purgatory before I did?"

"Please, sir. There's a lady present," I objected.

"Apologies, ma'am," Fowler said, giving Patricia a nod.

"No eyepatch?" I asked, for he had worn one before the review board. Even though there was nothing wrong with his eyesight.

"Scared the shit out of those sheep-humpers, didn't I?" Fowler said with a grin.

"Sir!" I protested.

"Sorry, ma'am," Fowler said. "But ever since Wagner's son of a bitch attorney general sent Jack to Northfield to be murdered, I've been boiling to get him away from these ungrateful civilian a-holes."

I took my drink back from Fowler and started to leave the table. Patricia stopped me.

"Jack, it's all right," Patricia graciously said. "The general may be rude and inappropriate, but he's been your champion."

"I was never a fan of your husband, ma'am," Fowler responded. "But you are one hell of a lady, and you've got the greatest kids I've ever met."

"Thank you so much," Patricia said. "What was that you were saying at the hearing?"

"About the frame-up?" Fowler replied. "Can't say for sure who did it, but it's got all the marks of a clandestine operation. And Lawrence was the perfect patsy. Even now, he's got no clue what really happened. Isn't that right, kid?"

"I don't subscribe to far-fetched conspiracy theories, and no one else should, either," I protested.

"See what I mean?" Fowler said, stealing my drink back.

"And what new surprises do you have for Jack?" Patricia asked.

"Got Captain Lawrence--" Fowler started.

"Sergeant Lawrence," I corrected. "Captain was a temporary rank for the Tabrit mission."

"You're the only one who thinks that," Fowler answered. "Thought you'd like this. Sort of a get out of jail present."

Fowler handed me an envelope with a document inside. There was a gold foil seal at the bottom and lots of fancy lettering. A waiter brought Fowler a tequila sunrise, which I stole from him. Jenny joined us, sipping white wine.

"A high school diploma?" Jenny asked, reading my name on it.

"From Farragut High in Philadelphia," Fowler explained. "Jack was only a few weeks from graduation when he dropped out to join the Army. We needed young medics desperately. It's taken fourteen years, but we're finally making it up to him."

"Thank you, sir. This should help my résumé with Skylla College," I said, letting Jenny hold it.

"Skylla College? That horse ranch?" Fowler replied. "What are they going to let you do? Shovel shit out of the stalls?"

"Jack is going to be an English teacher," Jenny proudly said.

"To hell with that. It's still shovel work. Kid, come back in the Army," Fowler urged. "I can get you a plum assignment. With your language skills and background in intelligence, you'll have my job someday."

"Sir, I'm a convicted felon. The Army isn't going to make me a general," I answered.

"Don't be so sure," Fowler said.

"Jack will be a wonderful professor," Patricia insisted. "And he'll only be a few hours by train from New Haven. We're looking forward to his visits."

"I want more dancing," Jenny said, pulling me out of the chair. "As for you, General Fowler, you have no claims on Jack until I'm done with him."

The banquet didn't break up until midnight. I played my Sam Wood guitar, sang ballads with my old war buddies, and had too much to drink. I was relieved to wake up alone the next morning.

My apartment at the Polk Arms on 2nd Street was paid for by the FBI. Since being stabbed at Northfield Prison nine months before, Rasmussen had kept me in FBI custody. Without much supervision, which I thought inappropriate. Was I going to escape? No, but that wasn't the point. When I complained, Rasmussen said it wasn't my place to question his decisions.

Now I needed to give up the apartment as I wouldn't be consulting for the FBI anymore.

"Starting to pack already?" Alberto asked, waking up on my couch.

"Time to move on, Dragon," I said. "Skylla College wants me there by Monday, even if I am unqualified."

"Don't pretend you're dumb," Alberto said, making coffee. "You've read more than I have. You organized GED courses in prison. You edited articles for Bobby Blair and Rafael Martín and they both went on to write best-selling books. Hell, you might be smarter than me."

"At least I've finally graduated from high school," I said, glancing again at my new diploma. "It only took a decade and a half."

"Next time, don't drop out of school just because America is losing a war," Alberto said.

"Good advice," I agreed, sitting at the kitchen table to eat some week-old biscuits.

In his early thirties, a touch over six feet tall, and hailing from Chicago, thwarting Khanani's attack on Boston had made Dragon the country's most famous FBI agent. He had also become a good friend, not that we started out that way.

Alberto turned on a morning cable news show, which I never watched when by myself. I was still the hot topic of the week, much to my regret. Growing up on the streets, I'd done everything I could to stay invisible. With National First Responders, I had avoided the limelight. As a medic in the Army, it was unbecoming to seek special notice. Now I was a subject of controversy that could not be escaped.

"You must be accustomed to the spotlight by now," I said.

"Alex and I get lots of attention, but we weren't the ones who hacked open an active nuclear bomb with a fire ax."

"I couldn't find the instruction manual. How come they don't teach that stuff in high school?"

"They will from now on," Alex assured me.

Two popular broadcasters appeared in their New York studio with the Palmer Media logo in the background.

"Maybe we should watch another channel?" Alberto said, reaching for the remote control.

"No, this should be fine," I replied, not knowing one station from another.

"Your funeral," Alberto mysteriously said.

"Good morning America from the Palmer News Family," Casey Turner announced, leaning toward the camera. "And though we would like to say good news, it isn't."

Turner was barely twenty-five years old, pale, with stringy blonde hair and a tight skirt well above her knees. I wondered if I'd met her once in a Fort Benning saloon.

"Indeed, the news isn't good," Grant Panabaker agreed.

The handsome middle-aged black man sitting at Turner's side looked like a straight arrow Harvard type, which didn't win any points from me.

"Eight years ago, our beloved President was gunned down by an angry loner seeking to block America's commitment to Afghan freedom," Panabaker declared. "And yesterday, November 7th, will be known as the day this infamous assassin was set free to kill again."

"Are you going to kill again?" Alberto asked.

"I wasn't planning on it, until now," I replied.

"Though there has been no official comment from the White House, it's suspected that President Leonard Wagner is complicit in this shameful plot," Panabaker continued. "All true patriots are outraged by this travesty of justice."

"The Palmer News Family is following every development. Stay tuned for updates," Turner urged.

"They aren't my biggest fans, are they?" I said, turning the program off.

"Tried to warn you," Alberto replied.

"I can't get excited. Not so long ago, I would have agreed with them."

"Not seriously?"

"Letting me out so soon does set a bad precedent," I insisted.

"According to Jeff MacArthur's new book, you didn't do it. And I haven't heard you say he's wrong."

"I haven't read it."

"You never read anything about the assassination. Why is that?"

"It's in the past. Nothing good can come from stirring up a hornet's nest."

"We'll need to disagree on that," Alberto said. "Need a ride to Skylla Falls? I don't need to be back in Denver until Tuesday."

"Taking the train, but thanks," I replied.

"Going to buy a car when you get there? You should be fine driving now."

"Once I know if the medication will control my blackouts, I'll consider driving again."

"It's been years since your last episode."

"It won't hurt to wait a few more," I replied. "Ready to help clean out my office?"

There was a horde of reporters waiting in front of my apartment building shouting rude questions. I kept my head down as we worked our way to Alberto's car, going to the O'Neil Building on 1st Street.

"Going to miss you, Sarge," Johnny Bridger said, using the nickname that Bobby Blair had made famous in his book. That I still hadn't read.

"Time to move on," I said, making sure to pack my running shoes.

Ronald Michaelson, Larissa Black, and Patrick Clayton all made a point of hanging out with me and my office mate, Ashok Modi. We had made a good team tracking suspicious financial transactions that might be funding terrorist organizations. As I had not served as a confidential informant, no one could accuse me of being a rat.

"Sure you need to go?" Larissa asked.

Larissa and I had been particularly close. She had been my primary babysitter since a helicopter flew me out of Northfield with a knife stuck in my chest.

"Need to earn a living," I said. "FBI Protective Custody isn't paying my room and board anymore."

"Let's put you on salary," Michaelson suggested.

"My value has been using the Black Web for warrantless searches, sir. I can't do that as a Federal employee," I reminded him.

"We can hire you as a coach for the gym," Clayton joked.

"The next time I step into a boxing ring, it will be for money," I said, for I'd learned how to defend myself on the mean streets. Those were days I was hoping to leave behind.

The office threw a going away lunch for me, which was nice of them, seeing as how I was a famous criminal and not a fellow agent. There were a few tears as I left, which surprised me. I had been troubled, cranky and angry during my first weeks as an advisor, but tried to do better. Maybe I had. Michaelson had been reading my thoughts.

"Remember to take your medication," he said.

"I'll be consulting with Dr. Haggen," I promised. "I'm tired of people saying I'm crazy."

"You will always be crazy. Just make sure you don't go nuts again," he said.

I gave my keys back to the landlord of the Polk Arms on Saturday morning, boarding a train for New Hampshire. There wasn't much to carry, just a duffle bag and my guitar. I had a little money, about thirteen hundred dollars won in a poker game, but no credit cards, so I would need to be careful.