Dear Readers, I would like to be honest with you: this is the first time I used AI to help write a story. it will be a one shot I guess... but I had that idea in my mind and it was the quickest way how to get it done.
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The rain had been falling lightly since dawn, a soft drizzle that was as persistent as it was unremarkable. James Heller stood at the edge of the airstrip, his once firm gaze now softened by the weight of the years, the burdens of the office, and the creeping shadows of his deteriorating mind. The cameras flashed, capturing the stoic expression on his face as he waited. This was one of his last acts as President of the United States, a carefully planned event to ensure a smooth handover, a final gesture of goodwill to the American people.
The plane touched down with a gentle thud, rolling to a stop in front of the small crowd gathered for the occasion. Heller had been planning this exchange for weeks, working tirelessly to orchestrate a deal with the Russians. This was a media event, yes, but it was also personal. It was a chance to show the world, and himself, that he could still do some good before stepping down.
The plane door opened, and one by one, the prisoners stepped out onto American soil. First came the baseball player, whose foolish mistake with a few grams of marijuana had turned into an international incident. He was greeted by his tearful family, their reunion captured by every camera lens. Then the journalists, who had dared to ask too many questions, followed by the human rights activists, their defiant spirits barely dulled by their time in captivity. These were the faces the cameras focused on, the ones that would make the evening news.
And then came the others. Embassy employees — officially, at least. But everyone knew better. These were the agents who had been caught, the ones who had risked everything for their country and now returned in silence, without fanfare. Some were greeted by their families, others whisked away to recover in anonymity. A few disappeared as soon as they stepped off the plane, their roles in this delicate dance already forgotten by the public.
But there was one more.
He emerged from the plane, a shadow of a man, pushed out along with the crowd. His steps were unsteady, his body weakened from months of captivity, but the Russian handlers had been careful. They had hidden the worst of it, dressing him in clothes that covered the scars and bruises, ensuring that, on the surface, he appeared just another man being released. No friends or family waited for him. No one cheered or called his name. No one even knew he still existed, not many other than Heller knew he'd be on that plane at all. He was a ghost, standing there in the rain, lost in the midst of the joyous reunions around him.
He stood alone, almost catatonic, his eyes vacant as he watched the others disappear into the arms of their loved ones or the waiting cars. After a while, the rain soaked through his clothes, chilling him to the bone, but he didn't move. He didn't know what to expect, what new horror might await him. His mind, dulled by pain and exhaustion, couldn't muster the energy to care. For so long, he had anticipated the worst, and now, even standing on home soil, he was still waiting for the blow to fall.
No one noticed him. The press was too busy capturing the smiles and tears of the more fortunate. The crowd was too wrapped up in their own reunions. And so he stood there, in the rain, his body slightly trembling in the cold, but his eyes blank, lost in the deluge of faces and voices that meant nothing to him.
James Heller finished the last of the handshakes, his smile forced but practiced. The press was beginning to pack up, the rain driving them back to their vans. It was done. Another successful media event. But as he turned to leave, something made him pause. He hadn't seen him yet. The one man why all of this was taking place.
His heart pounded as he scanned the crowd, searching for a face he hadn't seen in months. And then he spotted him, standing alone in the rain, forgotten by everyone. The sight sent a jolt of panic through Heller's chest. The man was barely recognizable, his once powerful frame reduced to a frail shadow. Heller's mind raced, imagining the horrors that could have befallen him in those months of captivity.
He wanted to go to him, grab his shoulders firmly and tell him it was over, that he was safe now. But he couldn't. Not with the few remaining photographers still lurking. Instead, he stood frozen, torn between his duty and the overwhelming guilt that gnawed at his insides.
Had he done this out of egoism? Was it really for the good of the country, or was it just for himself? For Audrey? The questions swirled in his mind, each one more painful than the last. The truth was, he had given up a lot for this exchange. Valuable prisoners, resources, political leverage— all for one man who no longer had any worth to the country. A man who, by all accounts, should have been left to rot in that Russian prison.
But Audrey would have wanted this. She would have wanted him home, no matter the cost. Heller could almost feel her presence, her disapproval at his hesitation. She would have run to him, ignoring the cameras, the political implications, everything. She would have been there for him, no matter what had been done to him. That thought cut deeper than any criticism ever could.
Heller sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to echo in the empty space inside him. He couldn't let those thoughts linger. Not now. Not when he had to finish this. He owed it to the country, to the press, to the party, to his vice-president, to do this right, make a good impression today.
He signaled to a Secret Service agent, his voice low and steady. "Get that man to one of the ambulances. Make sure he's taken care of."
The agent nodded, moving quickly towards the man in the rain. Heller watched as they guided him away, towards help, towards some semblance of safety. But he couldn't follow. He couldn't be seen with him, not here, not now. So he turned back to the family of the baseball player, mustering a final smile for the cameras.
The rain was coming down harder now, the crowd beginning to disperse. The photographers were packing up, the event drawing to a close. But even as Heller posed for one last photo, his mind was elsewhere, on the man who had once saved so many, now reduced to a shadow.
And as the cameras clicked, capturing the final image of the day, Heller couldn't shake the feeling that he had given up too much, that he had failed in more ways than one, while the thirty Russians, their former prisoners – without much media coverage – climbed into the plane that had just brought their people home.
But maybe, just maybe, it was worth it. Audrey would have thought so.
As Heller turned away, his mind churned with a storm of conflicting thoughts, each more unsettling than the last. The smile on his face felt like a mask, a thin veneer over the turmoil inside. Audrey's memory loomed large in his thoughts, her voice echoing in his mind. Could she hear him now? Could all the dead hear his thoughts? The idea gnawed at him, filling him with a deep sense of shame. What would she think if she knew that he was questioning the cost of bringing Jack home? The very thought made his chest tighten with guilt.
Audrey would have been furious. He could almost see her, her eyes blazing with that fiery determination she had when she believed in something—or someone. She would have slapped him for even considering that Jack's life might not have been worth the price. In her eyes, there was no cost too high, no sacrifice too great, to save the man who had meant so much to her. She would furiously remind him of all the times Jack had put everything on the line to save their lives. And now, Heller was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he had hesitated.
For a moment, he let himself imagine how different things could have been if he had made the right choices years ago. If he had brought Jack home from that Chinese prison a decade earlier, maybe everything would have turned out differently. Maybe Audrey would still be alive. Maybe she would have married Jack instead of Mark Boudreau. How different their lives might have been if Jack had been by his side, not just as his daughter's husband, but as his most trusted ally.
Jack would have made a formidable Chief of Staff. He had the skills, the intelligence, the loyalty. But Heller knew, deep down, that Jack would have been more than just a Chief of Staff. He could have made him director of one of the three-letter agencies—CIA, NSA, maybe even Homeland Security.
But instead, Jack had been left to fend for himself, battling enemies on all fronts while Heller stood by, bound by political constraints and the opinions of those who didn't understand. And now, here he was, barely recognizable, a shell of the man he once was. Heller's heart ached as he watched Jack being led away to the ambulance, the man who should have been by his side all these years now broken and alone.
Heller's gaze shifted to the current Director of the CIA, standing nearby, oblivious to the thoughts racing through the President's mind. How differently things could have turned out, he thought again, if Jack had been in that position instead.
He felt the weight of his regrets pressing down on him, but he pushed them aside, knowing they would do no good now. As the ambulance doors closed, taking Jack away, Heller whispered a silent apology to Audrey. He was sorry for hesitating, sorry for doubting, sorry for not doing more when he had the chance. He should have known better. He should have brought Jack home when it mattered most.
But all he could do now was hope that, wherever Audrey was, she could forgive him. Heller glanced one last time at the departing ambulance. Then, with a heavy heart, he turned back to the rest of the crowd, forcing a smile that hid the turmoil within, determined not to let anyone see what was truly on his mind.