Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye, nor do I own any brand names or the such that may appear in this story.
Rating: An M, to be safe, for violence, language, and brief sexual content.
Summary: "When suddenly the sky is clear, only then can we stop. The sky will never be clear, Leese, and there will always be that one bit of unfinished business." What would happen if Henrietta Reisert never died? Would things have turned out as fortunately for Lisa as they did?
It was sunny again.
Meteorologists had been calling the past month one of the most beautiful in Miami's existence—a statement that Jackson Rippner found extremely asinine. It was a well-known fact that there were sporadic periods in the history of the city where, for some reason, no weather had been recorded whatsoever.
It didn't matter, however, what had happened during that specific time frame, because it was still brighter and hotter than Hades. The fact that Jackson was currently stretched out naked in bed in an expensively air-conditioned house did nothing to change his formidable disposition.
He rolled over on his back, wiping a sticky sheen of perspiration from his forehead. He really only had himself to blame for his current mood, so he couldn't curse the heat for its bad timing. After all, there were only so many times that he could do that before it grew to be pathetic, and he was already precariously toeing the boundary line.
Jackson feebly attempted to sit, gritting his teeth at the crawling pain in his gut. Again, another nuance that only he could claim responsibility for.
At that moment, as he roared from the fire ants inhabiting his abdomen, there was nothing more that he wanted in the world than to return to his comfortable facedown position on his bare mattress. But, to his displeasure, his diligent managerial persona was overcoming the lazy half of him that wanted to go back to sleep.
It was way too late in the afternoon for this type of fatigue and lethargy. He chose to blame that on the heat this time. Grunting, he managed to struggle to his feet, the first time he'd stood upright since he'd collapsed in bed two days ago. It was a miracle he was still alive, let alone walking and planning on attending work in an hour and a half.
The idea of Jackson's personal failure had been consistently drilled into him for the past fifteen years by his boss, and even before that, by his father. Of course, his father had always tossed in a 'little shithead' and walked away while his boss preferred to watch Jackson get the crap beaten out of him by two Turkish hit men and say not a word except that key one: failure.
Jackson had failed at his job before, naturally, small little obstructions that typically resulted in a pay cut and harsh reprisal. Of course, this time it was a big, inexcusable fuck-up that Jackson forced himself to take full responsibility for. Apparently, his boss was insistent that he do just that as well.
The murder this time had been one, ironically, that Jackson supported. He typically chose not to get involved in the political debates by which decided whom he would get to disembowel, but for some reason, he had been extremely passionate in the ultimate success of this job. It was a hit scheduled to take place in Bosnia-Herzegovina, on a spit of land where the rich grew richer and the poor were murdered. Jackson had been assigned to murder a man named Ratko Mladic, a military figure whose assistance indirectly led to the mass genocide of other two hundred thousand civilians. It would have been fantastic retribution for those slaughtered if Jackson hadn't trusted in a man named Jedrus Dabrowski.
Jedrus was a retired employee of the union that had acted as a go-between for over a decade. Strictly speaking, withdrawn assassins weren't supposed to associate with current members for confidentiality purposes. However, since Jackson had known Jedrus for nearly twelve years, he'd assumed the man could be trusted. For years after Jedrus's retirement, he'd been Jackson's sole source of weaponry. Typically, Jackson would confide in its' ultimate purpose to Jedrus so that the man could demonstrate its better usage and neat little tricks. As always, Jackson had spilled the beans of the job to Jedrus, but this time, Jedrus had decided to get cute and run to the police. He was obviously dead now, and the Bosnian police had given up on their search for the man under the alias of Horace Szechry, but the mission of course had to be aborted. Jackson was severely punished.
As he limped stiffly to the kitchen, Jackson's eyes drifted outside to the patio where an unused deck chair and a long, high bar war the only adornment. Jackson sighed wistfully, wanting nothing more than a hard shot of gin. The likelihood of alcohol residing in the outdoor bar of his newly-purchased home was slim, but he gave it a shot. After all, what harm could it do? Sure, he'd moved in less than four days ago for the meeting with his boss and to receive his new assignment, but maybe the former owners of this house had been a bit loopy and left a little something behind anyway.
Jackson began to figure out the use of his legs again as he pulled open the sliding door adjacent to the patio. He stretched his arms out there, his icy blue eyes briefly scanning the lush landscape dotted with palm trees and persimmon, drifting finally to the rundown but nevertheless large swimming pool. It certainly was a beautiful area and a lovely house, but he hadn't really had the opportunity to enjoy either of them yet. And he probably never would, if he got the assignment he was hoping for. If all went well, he'd be cooling his heels in Moscow noon tomorrow.
The heat heightened his thirst and reminded him of his original quest. He veered right to the bar and stepped up to peer in the shelving behind it. To his surprise, not only were a few cracked shot glasses still shoved hastily into the corner of the cupboard, but also a tiny but brimming bottle of Plymouth as well. He hungrily yanked it out, using his bruised thumb to scrape the thick coat of dust from the surface. Not bothering with the glasses at all, Jackson anxiously ripped the cap from the bottle and downed half of it in one gulp.
It burned as it rattled down his dry throat, making Jackson question the wisdom of drinking half a bottle of gin after spending the last two days vomiting blood into a bucket by his bed. A mild state of calm rushed his brain suddenly, and Jackson grinned. Even if he did get sick again, at least he wouldn't feel it this time. He pulled the deck chair in front of the pool and sat on the edge of it, carefully dipping his toes into the warm water as he sipped what remained of his find more sparingly.
Even if Moscow didn't work out, Jackson decided with a smirk as he downed the rest of the gin, this kind of lifestyle wouldn't be hard to get used to.
It wouldn't be hard to get used to at all.
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Author's Note: Thanks for reading, because obviously if you're reading this little section right here, you managed to stay awake for that whole expository snapshot of Jackson Rippner's life. Please review, because you have to have an opinion by now.
My second order of business is to find a beta. I am in desperate need and if any readers are interested, please let me know via PM or review. Thank you so much in advance!