Ten
Minutes
by WriteToLive Rating: G
Warnings: Spoiler for the Season 4 finale
Summary: About six years after the end of Day 4,
Jack's doing his last job. Just an idea planted during a
conversation with a friend about what might happen to
Jack - the plot bunnies bit me and I took it a step
further. It's just a random idea I had, nothing special.
Disclaimer: Don't own Jack in any way, shape or
form. He most certainly owns me though and I love it. :)
He checked his PDA. All
clear, just like he’d been told it would be. He
sometimes wondered if he even needed to bother with such
details as checking equipment or even simply opening his
eyes and looking around – the Intel was always
perfect. They wanted him to succeed every time after all,
no shoddy recon work would get in the way of his target.
There wasn’t much he actually had to do himself,
just turn up really.
He scaled the fence easily and dropped silently onto the
lush green grass on the other side, only it was black on
this moonless night. He had ninety seconds to get into
position before the next patrol – piece of cake. His
designated cover was only fifty yards away and no one was
looking this way. He checked around him anyway – but
no, they were right, of course. All clear.
He ducked over and ran, making no sound. It took mere
seconds to reach his destination. He got into position,
set up his one piece of equipment and sat down to wait. A
quick check of the watch – right on schedule. Ten
minutes to go and nothing to do but wait.
So this was it. His last job. Maybe ever, if he believed
what they’d told him. But that was part of the
problem wasn’t it? He wasn’t sure he did
believe them. And no matter what they said, this wasn’t
just another job. This was the biggest assignment of all…and
one he still didn’t know if he could do. He only had
minutes to figure it out but that was alright. He was
confident that the answer would come to him. He wondered
what twist of fate had allowed him this short time –
normally he was in and out within seconds. But not this
time. And he wished that it would be a quick job, but
then, he never got his wishes did he? Otherwise he wouldn’t
be here at all.
Almost five years he’d been doing this. When he’d
first been killed, it had been rough but eventually he’d
started to embrace the notion of a fresh start. His slate
was clean in a way that few other people ever got to
experience and he got used to the idea. Allowed himself
to get as close to happiness as he had tasted in years.
He should have known that that was the point it would all
fall apart.
Nine minutes. It was a hot night. He was glad that he
could get away with a small hat and a blackened face
– a ski mask would be stifling tonight. The trees
rustled around him and he could hear a sentry approaching.
He didn’t move a muscle and the man passed without
incident. He wouldn’t be back for another four
minutes and forty seconds.
It was the job that did it – wasn’t work always
the thing that broke him? He’d drifted for a while,
heading further south, and taken a job in the remotest
part of Venezuela that he could find. Days spent on the
beach, fishing quietly with quiet men and occasionally
taking the odd tourist out. They were always college kids,
looking to experience ‘life’, looking for
something off the beaten track. And it really was, there
were usually only about five a year. He never knew how
they managed to even find the village that was so tiny it
could hardly even be described as that. But a few did and
that was OK, because he was safe there, wasn’t he?
Eight minutes. Two cars rolled up far below him. He
watched as some burly men got out and strode into the
building. One of them spoke to one of the uniformed
guards at the front entrance, then he went inside too.
They were too far away for him to hear their voices but
that was alright. He didn’t need to hear anything.
He’d known it was all over when the blond kid showed
up, almost six years ago now. He’d been friendly and
different to the few other tourists who fought their way
through the jungle to get here. He really was looking for
high jinks. He’d chartered the boat for a week and
they’d talked, all day, all night the kid had talked,
while the boat rocked on gentle seas and breeze ruffled
their hair. He hadn’t really seen the sea since that
summer, but the faintest scent of salt always sent him
back to those nights under the stars, cold beer in his
hand and that kids voice that talked endlessly about the
way he was travelling, the things he was doing while
searching for ‘experience’ before returning to
the States to go to law school. He had privately thought
that he could tell the kid a thing or two about
experience, but he knew better than that. Still, they
chatted, and idled away the time while they fished and he’d
enjoyed it. And so had the kid. He’d given him a
good tip when he’d disembarked and said that he was
going to tell his friends about this place, and about
Rick, the quiet American who’d made his fishing trip
so much fun. He’d tell his father too, because he
had a stressful job and he might find his way down here
one day.
‘Is he a lawyer then, your father? Are you following
in his footsteps?’ He’d laughed as he asked and
the kid had laughed back.
‘Well kinda. He trained as a lawyer. But he’s
in politics now – he’s the Secretary of Defence
in fact. Took over from that guy Heller when President
Logan didn’t reinstate him. They had a disagreement
about something personal, I’m not sure what. But I
guess you don’t keep up with news from home much
down here.’
And his blood had run cold in his veins, even as he’d
teased the kid about having a father who would do
something as bloodthirsty as being a politician. He’d
stood on the weather-beaten deck of his small boat and
watched the kid head into the jungle, where he knew he
was making his way back home, full of stories about his
year of roughing it – plans already turning over in
his head of which way to run. But he’d known even
then that the game was up.
Seven minutes. There was activity in the house as guests
mingled. He could see them through the brightly lit
windows of the ballroom, drinking and chatting, awaiting
the guest of honour. Just as he was.
He hadn’t been surprised that night in Uruguay. He’d
felt uneasy when he’d gone to bed in that stinking
apartment but knew there was nothing he could do, he was
in their sights. And he was tired of running anyway. He
wanted to be back on his beach, at least he’d had
peace there. He knew he had to try though, so he’d
left the boat behind. He could still remember the way his
door crashed open and woken him with a jolt, his eyes
still hurt at the memory of the flash grenade that had
disorientated him long enough for them to hustle him out
of the door and into the back of the van that waited
downstairs. He’d let them take him without a fight,
it would be pointless to struggle wouldn’t it?
And in the end, it hadn’t been so bad. They didn’t
even have to torture him to get him to agree. They’d
pulled him into a building, sat him in a cold metal chair
and cut off the plastic ties around his bleeding wrists
and he’d been ready to say no to them. But then he’d
heard his name and he’d remembered who he was and
that was pretty much all it took.
‘Come and work for us Jack. Serve your country Bauer.
We need you.’
And he’d said yes. He wouldn’t have to run
anymore. They’d protect him and it was only two jobs
a year. He could spend the rest of the time doing
whatever he wanted. He could go back to his beach if he
wanted to.
But he didn’t. His agreement tainted him and he knew
he’d find no peace there anymore. A government paid
assassin had no business pretending he was a fisherman
after all. So he’d taken the security and felt
better, knowing that he was at least doing what Bauer had
always done. He’d serve and protect. And the targets
were always people who deserved it, people who threatened
the country he loved. And one day, they said, one day he’d
be able to go home. They wouldn’t use him forever.
He’d be able to see Kimberly again.
‘Just do this for us Jack, and one day you’ll
get it all back.’
Their whispers were laced with honey as they assaulted
his tired ears and he’d let himself succumb. Deep in
his soul, he knew they were lying – but the lie was
so much sweeter than the reality he was living. But hadn’t
he always been an assassin anyway? This was no different.
Five and a half minutes. There were a few more cars, they
pulled up right on schedule. He counted the people
through his night vision scope, everyone he was expected
to see was there and he knew everything was running like
clockwork. Except it wasn’t, because he still didn’t
know what he was going to do. But he had five minutes
left to figure it out. He counted to twenty and made sure
he was relaxed against the large tree trunk. The sentry
passed by behind him, a mere twenty yards away, oblivious
to the ghost that lay waiting in the blackness.
It had been working out fine. The job was what it was,
the way it always had been. For eleven months of the year,
he put it out of his head. Not that his life was normal,
because he never allowed himself what other people had.
No long-term commitments, no family. Any time he felt
that something was getting serious, he broke it off. He
never tried to kid himself that he would ever have what
he had once had, and no one ever got close enough to
scale the walls he built around himself. He couldn’t
allow himself to make the mistakes he’d made with
Teri, no one else would suffer for what he had to do. So
he’d had to break hearts and had his broken twice
since then. Both times he couldn’t offer an
explanation and had ended up just disappearing into the
night, a small note left behind on a kitchen table to
explain that he wasn’t what they thought he was and
he had to leave before he hurt them any more. One was in
Brazil, the other in Rome – because he was a free
man now and was allowed to travel. His handlers even
provided the transport because they didn’t want his
face on camera in a commercial airport. Unfailingly
generous, his handlers. He wanted for nothing. Except…he
wanted for everything. But they would never understand
that.
Three and a half minutes. The advance team was arriving.
It fanned out below him like a well co-ordinated dance
troupe, every person secure in their routine. Almost
pretty to watch. He ran a hand over the one piece of
equipment he had and idly wondered once again. What to do?
He had time. Couldn’t escape, but there was always
time to dream of it.
He hadn’t expected what had happened six months ago.
Maybe he’d got too used to his life. He travelled
the world, but for obvious reasons, he stayed away from
Asia. Australia was the closest he got and even then he
felt he was too close. Quite a large Chinese presence in
Australia. It had been fine though, but he still wished
he gone with his instinct and changed his itinerary at
the last minute. He’d had a sudden urge to see Paris,
it had been a while since he’d been. Not for three
years, since he’d stabbed the leader of a Second
Wave cell in the back of the head in a hotel room one
night. Business trip, obviously. But he’d ignored
the desire to get a coffee and eat a croissant on the
Champs-Elysées and given London as his destination
instead. The car was waiting for him at the airfield, as
it usually was – only this time, the driver ignored
his instructions to take him to Trafalgar Square and
leave him off so he could disappear into the crowds. No,
this time he was driven to a warehouse down by the Thames
and the driver was unmoved to his desperate shouts,
sitting behind bullet-proof, sound-proof glass, stoic and
uncaring.
They’d drugged him to calm him down. Noticed that
there were faint needle marks on his arms and correctly
surmised that desperation had led him down a familiar
route. They’d grilled him about it, when he was
still confused and disorientated and it hadn’t taken
long for him to admit that he only did it because it was
something that he could connect with Bauer. He wasn’t
as bad as he had once been – but he needed the
familiarity. He could remember the way the man in front
of him had smiled at an unseen colleague. They knew they
had him.
He cringed at the memory of that painful forty-eight
hours. He hadn’t been badly addicted but it still
hurt to come off it. And all the time, he hadn’t
known who these people were or what they wanted with him.
They weren’t like the others, the ones who’d
called him Jack and had only asked him to carry on his
life’s work. No – these ones were different.
But they wouldn’t talk to him until he was ‘in
his right mind,’ as they put it – so he was
locked in a cell. A doctor checked on him and made him
comfortable, but it had still hurt. Especially as he
couldn’t see any reason to be clean again. He was
never clean was he? Even without drugs, his soul was
dirty.
Two minutes. Security was in place. They’d all
arrived and were just waiting. Just like he was. He could
see the assorted guests, they weren’t mingling so
freely now. Their attention was focused on the main
entrance, awaiting the announcement. He could feel the
tension that knotted in the pit of his stomach and
threatened to seep into his muscles, he fought it. Had to
stay relaxed. His mind drifted from the task at hand.
They hadn’t been rough. They’d been almost
reasonable. Pointed out to him that he was obviously
desperate to go home, otherwise why bother doing anything
that connected him to the person he’d once been.
Especially something like drugs. They said it showed that
he didn’t feel his life had meaning, that he didn’t
care if he died or not. They were right too and they knew
it. He didn’t have to say it to them and they didn’t
make him. So when he was tired and his body was spent,
they’d brought him into a small room that had a bare
table. And they’d showed him photographs. Kim crying
at his funeral, huddled into Chase’s body. The
camera had nicely picked out the wetness on his son-in-laws
face as the tears shone in the sunshine. Kim breaking
down as the military bugler sounded the Last Post by his
graveside. The flag being handed to Chase because she
couldn’t bear to take it. Palmer resting a hand on
her shoulder and offering empty condolences as she cried.
Kim moving house. Kim crying at the kitchen table. Kim
pregnant. Kim and her son, who was called Jack. Kim
rocking him to sleep. Pregnant again. A daughter this
time. He wasn’t surprised that she had named her
Teresa – the person placing the photos on the table
wasn’t either.
‘She isn’t moving on, you can see that can’t
you? She’s stuck in the past. She needs you back.’
He had cried and it had hurt worse than any physical
torture they could inflict. He screamed at them –
why are you doing this? What am I supposed to do about it?
They’d let him scream, continued to torture him
until they felt he could take no more, telling him of
every detail he’d missed out on, all the happiness
his friends had, how life was going on without him –
except for Kim’s because she was dying in a prison
he had made for her. They didn’t use his name –
he was still Rick to them. And he’d asked, weakly…what
am I supposed to do?
One minute to go. The driveway up to the house was long,
and he could see the cars leave the road two miles away
and start up it. They’d travel the mile at high
speed, because it was exposed and would arrive in just
under a minute. It would take ten seconds until the guy
was where he wanted him. There could be no mistake with
the timing.
They’d told him what he was supposed to do. He was
supposed to go back to his life. It wouldn’t be the
same obviously, but he’d be in America and he’d
have his name back. Kim would be told and he could see
her whenever he wanted. Just retire, that’s all you
have to do when you get home. No more work – enjoy
your family. You’ll be Jack again. You just have to
do this one thing for us…
Another photograph had been placed on the table. He
stared at it for a long minute before closing his eyes.
He could remember the weight of his eyelids and the way
fat tears had forced their way out from under them, thick
and salty as they made their slow way down his hollowed
cheeks.
‘And if I don’t?’
The voice had been soft, but so firm. They weren’t
lying. ‘We’ll release her from her prison. She
might even welcome death, Rick. She’s killing
herself inside at the moment anyway – the same way
you are.’
‘Why don’t you just kill me?’
‘Because we need you to do this. And you know you’re
going to say yes. You’ll get everything back if you
do. And if you don’t, you lose the one thing you
care about. For good. She’ll be dead and you’ll
be rotting in a Chinese prison by the end of the week.’
The thought was unbearable. He couldn’t let them do
it to her. He’d just started thinking about the
other alternative when it was taken away.
‘And don’t even think about falling on your own
sword. Because if you do, we’ll kill her anyway.’
He’d stared up at cold green eyes.
‘You know we’ll kill her anyway…’
Thirty seconds. The leading cars had pulled past the
entrance and were slowing to a stop, the rest catching up.
Right on schedule. He readied himself, still not knowing
if he could go through with this. The voice of that
unknown man, floating in his ear, telling him that Kim
was going to die if he said no. Knowing that even now,
there were people outside her house, waiting to move in
if the shot didn’t ring out on time. He felt the
nausea in his stomach and fought it down, concentrated on
his breathing. And it was so dark, so dark…he felt
like he was floating in a black void and nothing made
sense and there was no escape.
He’d asked why. Why do this? The answer was obvious
of course – they wanted to decide who would be in
charge. It was all politics. They’d almost made a
fatal mistake. They tried to tell him that he should be
pleased to have this opportunity, seeing as the man had
created his situation in the first place. They didn’t
understand when he went beserk and tried to attack the
cold man that stood over him, the one with the green eyes
and menacing voice. They’d sedated him and puzzled
over his response. And a day later, when he’d woken
up and was restrained on his narrow bed, they asked him
what the problem was. What had they said wrong? And he’d
had to explain to them, in an icy tone, that after a
lifetime of protecting his country, they couldn’t
ask him to be happy about doing this. No matter what he
thought of the man personally, the office was sacred and
he didn’t think he could…
They’d frowned and looked at each other, then left
him. And when they came back, they still didn’t
understand. But they didn’t have to – because
the bottom line was, if he didn’t, Kim was dead. If
he killed himself, Kim was dead. And they knew he didn’t
care about this bit but incidentally, he’d be
tortured to death in a Chinese prison.
He’d stared at the ceiling. And the man had crouched
next to him and whispered,
‘We call you Rick because that’s your name. But
do this, and you’ll be Jack again.’
He’d been left alone to think it over. He didn’t
try to explain to them that if he did this, he’d
never be able to be Jack again. No matter how long he
lived.
But they had Kim in the palm of their hand. And he couldn’t,
couldn’t let them crush her.
Ten seconds. The doors were opening. He closed his eyes
while counting the seconds down. His hands were ready. He
had been right – the decision was made for him. She
filled his head and the thought of losing her made him
the world spin. So…yes, he would do this. Because
Bauer had been dead for a long time anyway. It wouldn’t
matter that now, he could never come back.
Five seconds. The head was in the sights. He noted with
dispassion that the man looked older, was greyer than he
had been last time they met in Washington D.C, when he
still worked for Heller.
Four seconds. He was shaking hands with the Ambassador
and smiling that loose smile.
Three seconds. His wife was behind him. She looked very
pretty and he tried not to think of the blood that would
spray onto her face.
Two seconds. President Charles Logan…
…
…
I’m sorry.
End
|