Jonathan wakes up from a dream, heart racing, muscles tense, panting. It was the kind of dream that leaves you with a weirdly vague feeling, like a shadow of an intense emotion you've just shaken right before waking up. He doesn't really remember the dream, but if he had to guess it was probably Iraq.
I've seen things in Iraq that didn't line up with my idea of being a soldier.
When he delivered that line in a nice little restaurant in Switzerland he was barely able to keep the memory in check. The disgust that had made him feel like throwing up. In Zermatt—and years before that, at a military base in the desert, three klicks from a refugee camp…
Jonathan throws his blanket aside, trying to get some air into his lungs. After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling he gets up, knowing all too well that he won't be able to go back to sleep, and takes a shower. While the water washes over him and helps to calm his nerves a little, his mind wanders back to Jed. It still hurts that she's gone, that she took Billy with her, that their safe little Andalusian haven wasn't interesting enough for her to stay—he stops himself in time. He knows he'd been lying to himself. They'd both been lying to themselves, and to each other, playing pretend, playing house, when in fact they had nothing in common. He realises, not for the first time, that he actually misses the kid more than Jed. Wonderful. He's gone straight from nightmare induced panic to self-pity. Turning off the shower he comes to a decision he should have made right after Jed packed her bags: he needs to leave as well.
Jonathan Pine relocates to Bangkok and finds himself a new job. Nothing posh like in his hotelier days. Just an underpaid security gig that barely puts bread on the table. Doesn't put anything on the table on the days when he spends too much time at that shabby little bar. If necessary, he wins his drinks at pool. Always drinks alone. Shoots up from time to time if he can afford it. Spends as little time as possible "at home." He can't think of the place any other way than in quotation marks.
He's still a handsome guy although he's slightly out of shape, his curls—ginger by nature but bleached by the Spanish sun—tied at the nape. He's grown a beard after Jed left. She never liked a beard on him. He doesn't particularly like it himself, but it's just easier that way. And it's a good cover. His eyes are still extraordinary—bright and beautiful—but they're hard and empty these days, broadcasting only one message: 'You'd rather be somewhere else.'
One night a local woman decides to ignore that message and sits down at his table. She doesn't say anything for a long moment, and then she cocks her head a little with a small smile.
"When was the last time someone took care of you?"
He stares at her. Pushes his chair back and stands.
"You're not a loner by nature. Just by choice," she states, calmly, as if reading it off his forehead. Or out of his palm, whatever. He turns and leaves the bar, but finds it unnervingly hard to get her out of his mind. He avoids the place for a month. The first night he goes back she's there. At the bar, looking straight at him when he enters. He's never been able to hide in an Asian crowd.
They end up in a cheap hotel around the corner from the bar, and he enjoys being with her. He likes her. Her name is Sanika, and he's very close to telling her his real name, but doesn't. He goes with James, and she knows it's fake but doesn't say anything.
"When was the last time someone took care of you?" she asks him again, in the dim light of dawn, "Made you feel safe?"
He closes his eyes and says nothing.
"I'm pretty good at taking care of myself," he says eventually. It's more gentle than dismissive.
He can afford to be like that with her. Gentle. Like some of his hardened armour starts falling away. Melts and mellows. They keep meeting at the bar, at irregular intervals, but more and more frequently. Finally, maybe half a year, maybe nine months after that night she sat down at his table for the first time, Sanika takes him to her tiny apartment. It's a different world. Outside that apartment he keeps his guard up, even when meeting some of Sanika's friends, but when they're alone he allows himself to relax. He's not sure if he's in love with her, but he trusts her, and that means so much more in his world. Jonathan feels like his life is slowly getting brighter, less hostile, thanks to her. She even gets him a better job, pretty much the same as before but for less shady people with more money. He starts to breathe more easily. Smiles more. His eyes aren't quite as hard as they have been for—since before Sophie died.
Sanika notices it of course. One night after a friend's birthday party she stops on their way home and wraps her arms around his waist. They're both a little drunk.
"What?" he asks, a smile in his voice.
"You've changed."
"Is that a bad thing?"
Sanika chuckles.
"No. It's an entirely good thing. Is it because of me?"
Jonathan leans in and kisses her.
"Yes. It is. I'm not sure I've ever thanked you for it."
"I don't think you have," she says with a smug little grin, "but there might be an opportunity soon."
Laughing to himself he pulls her close, hands wandering, cupping her butt.
"Here?" she teases, and he takes her hand, still quietly laughing, and makes sure they get back to her place as fast as possible.
"Don't go anywhere," Sanika says with a little purr and a soft kiss, gets up from her bed and leaves the room. Jonathan lays back and closes his eyes, smiling to himself. When he hears the door open he looks up, that same lazy smile still on his face—and then he freezes. Standing there in the doorway of Sanika's bedroom is a ghost. The ghost of a dead man, the worst man in the world, and he's pointing a gun at Jonathan.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" says the man who didn't die in Cairo. "To have the woman you love betray you?"
Jonathan clenches his fists, mind racing. He didn't hear a single thing, no evidence of a fight, nothing.
"What did you do to her?!"
Roper smiles. It's the familiar merciless smile of a man whose plans have worked out.
"Do? You mean besides hand her the sum we agreed on 15 months ago?"
Roper is still smiling. There was no fight. Just money changing hands. Jonathan takes a breath and tries to come up with a way to save himself, but there is none. Just a desperate try. He jumps Roper. The gun goes off. The bullet slams into Jonathan's right shoulder, throwing him into the bedside table. Something cracks, probably a rib. He can't breathe. Roper is on him in a heart beat, closing his fist around Jonathan's throat.
"This time there's no need to spare the pretty face," Roper hisses and deals him a brutal blow to the side of his head, gun still in hand. Jonathan's head rings and his vision goes blurry. Roper very calmly positions the gun against Jonathan's left shoulder and pulls the trigger again. The pain shoots through Jonathan's whole body and makes his ribs and his other shoulder scream in agony.
Think, Jonathan. The soldier in him knows how little time he has left before he'll lose consciousness. He closes his eyes for a moment and slams his knee into Roper's groin. The worst man falls to the floor with a muffled scream of pain and curls up on his side. Jonathan allows himself one single deep breath and takes aim, and then he stomps on Roper's throat. A horrible, crushing sound, a weird wheezing, a few spasms, and then it's over. Richard Roper is dead.
Jonathan drops onto the bed, his whole body shaking now that the adrenaline starts wearing off. He needs to get out of here. There is no one he can trust. The few people he knows in the city are all connected to Sanika. He closes his eyes and tries to relax, tries to think. When was the last time someone took care of you? He turns his head to look for his phone. It was on the bedside table, so it's probably on the floor now. Did he turn it off earlier? How hard did it hit the floor? He takes a breath.
"Siri?"
"Yes?"
Thank God.
"Call Angela."
It takes forever for the call to connect. He can't get his brain to calculate the time in London. And then she's there.
"Burr?"
"The worst man didn't die in Cairo. But it's done now. And I need help. Quick."
There's a brief silence.
"Oh my God. Andrew."
Smart woman.
"Yes, it's me. Can you locate this phone?"
"On it."
Jonathan wakes up in a hospital bed. A man in a black suit is sitting next to the bed, and Jonathan can tell there's at least one more outside his room.
"Who are you?"
The man drops the newspaper he's been reading.
"I'm a friend of Angela's. She's on her way."
Interesting. No last names, no ranks or positions, although the man screams 'Intelligence.'
"The doctors say you'll need surgery on both shoulders. Ribs should heel on their own. Concussion and a cracked skull. Our friend would like it to be dealt with at home."
Home. He knows the agent is talking about flying him to the UK, but it doesn't feel like home to him.
A few days later, another continent, another hospital bed. Angela Burr is smiling down on her boy, and he returns the smile.
"I owe you my life," he says simply, and with a nod he thanks her.
"The man I set you up against, the man my intelligence said was dead, threatened your life, again. I'd say it was my bloody job to get you out of there. You're my responsibility, Jonathan."
When was the last time someone took care of you? He swallows.
"Well, thank you anyway."
"When you're better, I'd like to talk to you."
Jonathan raises an eyebrow.
"Might have a job for a man with your qualities and expertise."
His heart misses a beat.
"No," he says. It's barely a whisper, and that has nothing to do with broken ribs or how well his lungs are working. "Please, Angela, don't do that to me. I can't. I'm tired. I can't do this again."
"You haven't even heard—"
"No. I don't want to hear."
"What if I told you you could do the right thing this time—a chance to correct what went wrong in Iraq?"
"I never told you what—"
Angela smiles at him in that special way of hers that always reminds him of a lioness ready to attack.
"I have my sources."
He's very still now, eyes closed, taking shallow breaths that still don't have anything to do with his ribs and everything with his racing thoughts and conflicting emotions.
"I tried to do the right thing back then. It almost made me a victim of friendly fire," he says under his breath, images flooding his thoughts, heart racing, cold sweat on his forehead and down his back. Angela reaches out and puts a gentle hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry, Jonathan. I shouldn't have—you need to rest. I'm sorry. Please take a breath."
He does, and the images start to fade.
"I'm sorry," Angela says once more. "That wasn't fair. You've done enough. More than enough actually."
He believes her, and still she's planted a seed. Damn the woman. She knows exactly what buttons to push.