The Goliath Protocol
Chapter Forty-One:
Silver Lake
Silver Lake - Montana
He rolled through the landing in his graveyard. It's what he called his training ground. Thirteen acres of open ground with hollowed-out cars and half-collapsed buildings. His feet launched him up, and his gloved hand gripped the edge of one of those low-lying walls to surge over and come down on the other side.
The bandana wrapped around his forehead absorbed the sweat as he landed, put his hands on his knees, and leaned over to breathe.
He'd been training since dawn in a good attempt to purge the alcohol from his system. Even standing there, smelling of sweat and battle, he could still scent the booze like a fine layer of grease in a kitchen left too long unscrubbed. It came out of his pores like a foul odor of failure.
He'd gotten so drunk the night before that his housekeeper had poured him into bed at the witching hour with a bit of a sound of concern. He couldn't get up the stairs in his massive estate. He could hardly get up from the table.
He lifted a hand in the early dawn light and watched it tremble - one part withdrawal, one part reaction to poisoning his body to the brink of death. He wasn't a man who ever supported suicide. It was cowardly. It was something selfish assholes did to avoid facing their demons.
He'd always faced his head-on.
No, his mind taunted, you run from them, but you never fight them.
This was true. He fought other people's demons just fine.
His own still watched him from the shadows like stalkers waiting to strike.
He was trying like hell to find his way back from a cliff with no easy escape.
Claire had called the previous morning to talk about Eva. It seemed they had a family, finally, and she needed to know what he wanted her to do. They were good. They were kind. They were survivors of Tall Oaks and had lost a daughter there. They lived in Kansas. They had chickens. The wife was a stay-at-home former schoolteacher—the husband a Reverend at the local church.
Good people.
Kind. Loving. Gentle. And understanding what it would mean to raise a girl who might be different.
He'd held on too long. He'd pretended too hard that there was a future for him with a little girl that wasn't his. He should have agreed to place Eva months ago. Why was he fighting it? Why was he denying that girl a good family and a happy life?
Because he was selfish, in all his life, he'd never done something just because he was selfish. Never. Not once. Every move he'd made, decision he'd lived with, and outcome he'd chosen was made for others.
He went out of his way to protect those around him. If he could take the blow, he took it and never regretted it.
So, when Claire had sat looking at him so calmly on Facetime with her smile in place and her eyes soft and understanding, he'd wanted to hang up and avoid it. If he could just avoid it. Just avoid it a little longer.
Then what?
He'd become a different man? Would he be able to have a kid, turn into a full-time rancher, and retire? What?
So, he'd agreed. He'd said yes. Let that little girl be happy, his mouth had said, even while his lips had gone numb with it. He'd winked. He'd forced a smile. Claire had looked at him with such blatant pity he wanted to punch her in the face.
No, his mind corrected; you would never hurt Claire.
He knew that. He knew that. But he wanted to blame someone for what he'd become. Why not Claire?
Look what you did to me, Claire! You left me all those years ago. You left me no choice.
But he was too logical a man to know it hadn't been her fault. It had never been her fault. He'd had the choice, hadn't he? They'd offered him one. He'd taken it. After Spain, Graham had offered him another - reassignment to anywhere he wanted. He could have chosen anything else, anything that would have given him a real life.
He'd stood there with that chip in his hand and could have given it to Claire. He could have exposed the White House for the mockery it was building on the backs of those who'd died to make freedom for a people it was trying to enslave. But he'd believed he could stop it. He could change it.
Adam had died on the altar of that dream. And even then...even then...he couldn't stop fighting.
He'd wanted the war. He'd wanted to make a goddamn difference. He'd wanted to protect and save and fight. He'd craved the war like he craved the booze. It was his drug. His addiction. His only purpose.
Even now, he simulated that fight to avoid his own demons. He hungered for something to kill—anything to take the edge off.
The edge of what?
Grief. Misery. Regret.
His hands shook as he lit a cigarette. He snapped the new lighter closed and hated it. He hated the lighter. It worked like a charm. But it wasn't right.
Nothing in his life was right.
The sun crept over the horizon, and he watched it, smoke curling around his mouth and nose. When it hit the world with a burst of red and gold, he shouted, "How did I get here!?"
It echoed down the canyon. It shivered up the mountains. It trumpeted down the lake like the voice of God.
He put his face in his hands and breathed.
He didn't linger. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and turned.
And he went back toward the house while his demons danced around that graveyard and ensured he was never alone.
Montana didn't care about the coming summer. Each dawn was as cold as the winter it was still trying to leave behind. Frost on the grass meant it wasn't quite yet time for planting and plowing. He'd never get the tomatoes in if this wintry snap didn't finish its bitching and go back to Canada.
He stood in the curling cold - smoking. The inky smoke swirled up in a tail of oily fog.
His greatest vice. His damn Achilles heel. How did he finally put it down, leave it, and never pick it up again?
As if he knew the answer to how to let go of something bad for him.
One of the horses neighed, stamping in her stall. He glanced at her, smiling a little, "Restless?"
She was. She was high-strung on a good day. She loved nothing more than the ride. The freedom and the wind and the open sky. He understood it. He felt the same. He was seldom in one place for too long.
As she emerged into the barn, Jill thought she'd never seen anything quite as cute as Leon Kennedy - usually tits to toes in something painfully expensive and fine - in an old flannel and faded jeans. The scuffed boots beneath the heavy jeans poked out as he shifted, flecked with mud.
How could he fit here as well as he did in a ballroom, boardroom, or war room? He was just that guy. He fit anywhere he stood. A warrior, a rookie, a rancher...he was all things it seemed. He had a little blue sock hat tugged down on his head, hiding that perfect hair. The twirl of cigarette smoke highlighted his profile as he shifted his head to speak to the beautiful chestnut mare eagerly flirting for his attention.
His hand shifted to stroke her muzzle. He spoke low, soothing her and smiling. The mare pranced, whinnying and rubbing her muzzle in his hand. Jill couldn't blame her. He was worth the flirting.
She poked her hands in her pockets on her heavy leather coat, rocking her heels slightly. The little blue scarf she wore was carelessly tucked into the coat, keeping her face warm. A matching slouch hat was cutely plopped on her head, looking more adorable than functional. It reminded her of her long-lost beret, so she kept it when she should have traded it for something less useless.
She'd used Quint to her advantage again. She'd tracked him down.
She might not have. She might have left it alone - a good ending after their fight regarding her battle with Ada...but for Eva. Eva, it seemed, was getting a new home. Logan had chattered endlessly about it. He'd seemed somehow sad. Mama, he'd said, didn't they know Eva already had a home?
Did she?
Jill glanced around the property when she'd arrived. He'd been right, she thought randomly; there was nothing quite like it. The moment she set a boot down on the packed Earth, she understood why he kept it. Why he loved it, it was the only place in the world where he was just Leon. The workers loved him. They praised and cooed and happily helped her bring her bag into the house. They made her tea. They told her about the history of the place.
Once owned by a big family, the death of the patriarch had left it without much hope of revival. Until a fractured man with too much money and too little love in his life had bought it and breathed life back into it. He kept on all the old staff. He ensured everything ran efficiently, perfectly, and with an iron fist. He could run the world if someone ever gave him the reins; she did not doubt that.
Jill spoke into the cool air, hearing the echo of her voice in the cold barn, "You weren't lying."
He turned, watching her like she might be a snake about to strike, and offered her the smoke in his hand. "Jill Valentine...you found me. What wasn't a lie, I wonder?"
Amused, she moved forward and took the smoke. She put it to her lips, inhaling sharply. The acrid gust felt good. It felt bad for her but good. Sort of like Leon Kennedy. Bad for her, but good.
Jill responded softly, "You said it was gorgeous here."
"I did."
"You weren't lying. What I'm lookin at? Gorgeous."
A curious thing, he mused as she was looking at him.
He took the cigarette butt, finished it, and flicked it out into the cold grass.
They remained for a moment enjoying the chill and the quiet. They stood side by side, looking out over the horizon. When it seemed he wouldn't break that silence first, she did, "I heard about Eva."
His jaw tensed. He closed his eyes for a moment. She had no doubt that he'd had something to grab; he'd have bared down on it to gather strength. Instead, he answered, "She'll have a good life. She'll be happy."
To this, Jill remarked, "It's not a done deal, Leon. You can still take her on. Go get her."
He shook his head, denying that. "And what? What? Raise a little girl on this ranch?"
She tilted her head, "Why not?"
And now he laughed with scorn, "As what, Jill? A damn mountain-man? A rancher? A cattleman? Just turn in my walking papers and start pulling calves full time?"
She responded without anything but calm tones, "Again, I ask you - why not? What's stopping you?"
Goddamn, he'd always appreciated her straightforward way of speaking. No bullshit. She just shot you in the chest and watched you bleed out. He shook his head and avoided the question anyway.
That was fine, Jill mused; there was time to get to its heart. She was a patient woman. Cold, they'd often called her, but she wasn't cold. She was determined. She was a woman with nerves of steel. She could sit on a suspect for days in a stakeout. She could wait out Leon Kennedy.
He was good, he was, but he wasn't that good. In this instance, she was better.
Finally, he said, "What are you doing here, Jill?"
Her eyes turned up to his face. She asked quietly, "You ever had another woman out here?"
Again, he thought, no judgment—just curiosity.
Surprised, he glanced down at her face. They held blue gazes for a long moment. And then?
He said, "No. Ever. Claire sometimes when the weather is nice."
Jill shifted where she stood, "Are you involved with Claire?"
An interesting line of questioning.
He considered her. And went with honesty.
"No. Not ever. She laid a few kisses on me over the years. Never turned into anything more than that. Why?"
Jill shrugged a little, watching the shadow and sunlight on his face. His eyes were so pale sometimes. Husky blue. Startling. And beautiful.
Curious, he leaned a little on the barn door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. "You thinking she's my Chris?"
Sometimes, it seemed, he was also pretty damn clever.
"I'm making sure she's not your anything. I'm making sure she's not your girl. Or your woman. Or your one that got away. I'm making sure I'm the only woman you've ever had out here."
He eyed her, interested in the rage of emotion on her. He liked it. It was unlike her to be so unsteady. What had rocked her world here? Was it Redfield? Was it the same failures that haunted him?
Or was it him?
"She's my friend. She's not my woman. She's not my lover. And hasn't ever been. You wanna tell me what you're doing here?"
Jill turned a little, studying him. The flannel, red and blue, was perfect somehow. It made her want to touch it and see if it was itchy or soft. She answered blandly, "Nothing. Just stopping in to see a friend. We're friends, right?"
Their eyes flicked over each other, volleying around on features looking for hidden clues or answers or lies. Something. Anything.
She was tired of playing games here.
She said, "Ask me to stay."
He held her look. She tilted her head. She repeated it, "Ask me to stay, Kennedy. And feed me breakfast. I'm starving."
His mouth twitched. Her head tilted like a curious dog. And he answered, "Why don't you stay, Jill, and have breakfast. Will you?"
"Yes. I brought you something." She turned back toward the house, "You coming?"
He heard her boots retreating. He let out a laugh. He should kick her out. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to send her packing. Whatever else was true, she centered him. That calm, unflagging look on her face. It left no room for breakdowns.
Not today, her face said; get it together, Kennedy.
He got it together.
He followed her back toward the enormous house that waited. When he reached her side, he inquired, "You get a good lead?"
She shook her head, "Nope."
"You bring intel?"
"...nope." She repeated it and had his eyes narrowing at her. With a shrug, she gestured. The front door of the estate flew open, and Logan and Eva exploded out of the house like a shotgun blast. They whooped. They hollered.
Eva shoved Logan over in the grass and came barreling toward him.
She lifted that doll; she cocked that arm like a major league pitcher; he felt his eyes fill and cursed lightly, and with a little laugh, "...you bitch." No rancor. Just a pain that she was starting to understand was simply one piece of the whole that was him.
She simply shrugged and returned, "They call me the Surgeon..."
"...because you're good at cutting out hearts."
She smiled lightly, "...and giving them back."
She was right about that.
The doll flew, hit him in the chest, and Leon collapsed to his back with his arms spread wide in defeat as that little girl roared, "BOOM!"
Boom.
Just like that, there was no more room for regret.
He knew his land. There was no getting around that. He knew the land like the back of his hand or a Glock or a Ganado. He talked and walked the fields, streams, and canyons like a man who'd done it a hundred times before.
The time she would have spent hunting, she spent watching Kennedy ranch.
He was incredible. Like a selkie from the sea, he slipped the skin of secret agent, right hand to the president, mysterious midnight lover...and slid on that of a fantastic rancher.
He wasn't just good at running the land - he was born for it. He had a natural affinity for caring for animals and self-sufficiency.
The house was massive. It was a monster of an estate that should have been a hotel or something.
But he walked it like a lord of the manor at the exact moment that he did it, filthy and covered in blood from helping to birth calves.
Interestingly, he was as comfortable here as he was in the middle of wielding a chainsaw to decapitate an enemy. He was both things - a rancher and a fighter. He was so many things. Never the same twice.
And happy.
Here with Eva and Logan firing questions at him like overly verbose machineguns?
He was HAPPY.
The broody darkness that plagued him was missing. He was either the world's greatest liar, or he knew when to let go of what weighed him down to just live in the moment. She was betting it was a bit of both.
Here, he was just a man content with his place in the world.
He made her laugh. She'd caught pieces of that legendary humor she'd heard so much about. She'd been on the backend of a good joke more than once. But here? He stopped being witty and wordy to impress and became a man with a ridiculous sense of humor.
He was so easygoing about it. He was dropping puns and making jokes and silly. They spent two hours in the dark playing hide and seek. They spent another hour playing flashlight tag. When one of the kids found him, he'd scream like a girl, sending them scurrying away, howling with giggles.
They went riding and had a picnic. They went hiking most mornings and ran together in the evening. Active - he kept pace with her without sweating from it. On the one hand, they fit together better than anyone she'd ever met.
Because they had similar interests, they enjoyed the same shows, made the same kind of jokes, and enjoyed cooking and cleaning up.
He took them out to dinner when it suited and cooked when it didn't. He never objected to her paying. He didn't get his panties in a twist over splitting the check or letting her pay it all.
They worked in the evenings together, tracking, planning, and plotting. He was wicked smart and saw those connections she missed.
He was laid back, easygoing, and content.
The happy part enthralled her.
She'd seen him in many ways: engaging, authoritative, influential, sexual, strong, broken. Never happy.
Only here. Only where he could just be Leon and not have to worry about being Leon S. Kennedy - the senator's grandson. The President's right hand. The D.S.O's leading operative.
Here he was just a guy that loved the land and enjoyed his life.
She loved him. It breathed in her belly and bones as she watched him wash and dry dishes. She loved him.
That part she'd known. She'd become enraptured with the idea of him. But this was real. It was based on a mind that revolved around work and home and weaved it all together to protect it. It was in the way he spoke of Gia and her family. In the way he spoke of his mother and his past. In the way, he spoke to horses like children and staff like family. He was a man who was just...good. Just good. He didn't want anyone to hurt around him. He shielded and covered you until you had the strength to get back up, and then he fought your battle while he crouched over your wounded soul.
But mixed up in love was liking.
She hadn't liked many men in her life. Chris, of course, and a few here and there. But most of the time, her bed had been shared by men who weren't good for much besides sex.
He was good for more than sex.
Although that part was good too.
But it wasn't even the best part. The best part was that softness she'd told Mira about. That gentle nature under an armor so thick you could shoot him in the back with a shotgun, and he'd just keep going. He'd have been a guy with tater tots and tenderness in another life. The guy who carried his pregnant wife to the hospital so she wouldn't have to walk.
He was careful. Even so happy here, he was cautious. He didn't let her too close. She slept in the spare room, and the kids shared another down the hall. They got along famously, like friends having a holiday.
He made damn sure he didn't touch her.
Why?
Because here, in this place, if he touched her, it would matter. And he didn't want her to become something he relied on.
So, because of that, she listened as he talked. The kids were sleeping. The day was done. He was talking about work. He was talking blood and bullets and bioterror. He did so casually as he washed dishes in the sink. He just talked.
She wondered if she was the only person in the world he really talked to. Claire is my friend, he'd said. But what did that mean? Claire didn't know him. Not really. He kept that artificial distance, even there, to avoid intimacy.
He was saying, "I think if we just push a little more on Sanders, I can get him to come across with the names."
He'd been interrogating the money men behind Wesker. He was a dedicated bloodhound. He'd get the answers. She did not doubt that either. She was the master of unlocking. He was the master of interrogating and lying, and running. They did it well together, she thought absently; they ran together. They were two people who'd spent a lifetime running.
But that wasn't all he was.
And she was tired of running.
She slid up beside him and leaned on the counter. The thin gray t-shirt he wore was soft as she laid her cheek on his biceps. He set down the bowl he was washing. His arms were braced on the sink.
He didn't turn. He didn't touch her. He went stiff at the simple touch. That's ok; she soothed in her head; keep running. I'm faster, you slippery son of a bitch, and I've got nothing but time. He was so still. So careful.
Her hand slid up his chest and pressed. His heartbeat was fast and sharp behind it. He seemed so cool and calm and collected. And his heart? It said he was afraid.
Because his heart made a liar out of him.
Jill said, cheek on his biceps, "I'm gonna go to bed."
An invitation? He was trained to listen, see, and hear things that others missed. And he still wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything when she was around. Boom, he thought, as she let go and slid away from him. Grenade.
He stood there until he heard her footsteps fade away. His hands slid into the hot water to finish the dishes.
When he finished, he dried his hands and put on his flannel shirt to ward off the chill. He went out; he had a cigarette; he stood in the cool air and watched the moon flirt behind the darkening clouds.
They'd have rain tomorrow; he was nearly positive of that. He'd learned to read the weather almost as well as he read his enemies.
And women? He'd always read women like a book. Each page built toward a conclusion that he understood. Each one was a paragraph in a chapter he could control. He could edit it and make it flow together like water.
Jill Valentine was bad fiction in a way he didn't understand. She took the narrative and flipped it on him until he didn't know where the story went anymore. What did they call that when someone wrote a tale based on another's universe?
Fanfiction. She was fanfiction. She didn't fit, not precisely, without gross manipulation of the world around her. She didn't belong with him. He hadn't even known her less than a year ago. His story shouldn't have Jill Valentine.
And somewhere along the way, she'd become the first chapter in his life worth reading twice.