Pre-S3 / Pre-S4: Airborne
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Three weeks had passed since the anniversary, and twenty-four days since he had last seen Audrey in Seattle. She was still on his mind nearly every day, lingering like a faint echo of something he couldn't quite grasp. Even though he had finally bought a phone back in LA, their connection felt different now, fragile. It had frayed after Seattle. He didn't have the secure phone anymore, and while they had talked a few times since, their conversations felt clipped, restrained.
The calls were nice enough—cordial, even—but after five minutes of small talk, they would inevitably drift to something they couldn't discuss. The classified threat hanging over her. The classified things she dealt with every day. Or the illegal things he had confessed to her during those long phone calls before Seattle. Thinking of that still made him shake his head, wonder why, and smile all at the same time. Audrey knew more about him than anyone else ever had. She knew about his first kill, age 12. She knew about the illegal gun he'd owned at 14, hidden away like a dark little secret from a life he barely remembered. He had told her about the environmental crimes he'd committed at 18—a desperate attempt to save the family business that he had regretted right away. She knew that in 1988 it hadn't been just a 'training accident' that nearly broke his family apart for the first time. She knew about the collateral damage, the innocents who had died by his hand or his orders. She even knew more about his drug abuse than anyone else—what he'd used, when he'd used it, and the dark places it had taken him. She even knew about the illegal gun he'd owned just a few months ago, about the speeding ticket he'd earned during their reckless detour in Seattle (one he still hoped she'd paid for), and back in Seattle he'd already shared his plans for this very trip and he'd confessed to her that the trip would require one more illegal step: lying to the FAA.
He'd planned on getting his medical certificate to renew his license—a requirement he couldn't fulfill honestly. From the moment he decided to fly again, he knew he'd have to find a doctor who didn't know him, one who wouldn't be aware of his history of drug abuse. After staying clean for two months, he was confident the doctor wouldn't detect anything recent, either. When Audrey asked what might happen if anyone discovered he'd lied to the FAA, she didn't sound like she was trying to stop him. It was a serious crime, one that could even put him into jail, but she didn't lecture him. She only asked, calmly and pragmatically, what he planned to do not to get detected. That was Audrey: steady, rational, and quietly supportive in her own way. She hadn't tried to stop him; she never would. And he still loved her for exactly that.
He'd laid out his plan for her in detail: he'd see a doctor who didn't know him, visit an airfield outside LA where nobody would know anything about him, undergo the checkride to renew his private pilot license, and silently rent a plane and be gone for a few weeks. Nobody would know he was flying again except for her, Kim and Chase. Kim, after all, had even been proud of him when he came back that day with the medical certificate, another proof that he'd stayed clean for a while, also she'd been less than pleased to learn that she should stay quiet about this and not tell anyone that he was back in the air.
And yet, despite all these shared details, there was a wall between him and Audrey now—a wall built from clearance levels, physical distance, and the sheer impossibility of their lives aligning. But it wasn't the illegal things he did that created the barrier.
No, the wall came from Audrey's side. Her life. Her job. Her problems, locked away behind the impenetrable doors of clearance level 9. For the first time, he felt the roles reverse. He felt for the first time what it was like to be the one shut out, left on the outside of someone else's life—not because they wanted the gap to exist, but because it was unavoidable.
Jack adjusted the artificial horizon, checked the autopilot, and set his heading east. Georgia was his destination for today evening, but he feared he wouldn't make it in one go. Refueling was inevitable, and he had already mapped out a few airfields along the way where he could stop.
This trip had been on his mind for a long time, years even. He'd dreamed of it often: flying to the Florida Keys and back. It wasn't like Alaska—Teri's dream, which had felt more like closure. This was different. This one was for him. Or at least, that's what Audrey had helped him realize. "You don't have to justify this one," she had told him back in Seattle, when the'd met. "It's not about anyone else. It's about you." And she'd been right. Alaska had closed one chapter of his life. Getting back into the air was reopening another.
Flying had always been a part of him, ever since he was fifteen. He could still remember that first flight vividly, the one where Marilyn's father, Ron, had taken him up. His own father and Graem had been there too, but for once, Philip's presence hadn't tainted the memory. It was one of the few pure, untarnished moments from his youth—a diamond in a landfill.
Teri, on the other hand, had hated flying. When they first got together, he couldn't afford to keep up his license anyway and in the beginning he didn't even tell her that he had one. It wasn't until after leaving Special Forces that he'd renewed it. He remembered the one and only time he'd flown with her. Ten minutes in, she'd gotten sick, and he'd had to land. After that, flying had never become a shared passion.
He had kept at it, though sporadically. Some years, he only managed a handful of flights. Some other years, his missions with the CIA had taken him overseas for months at a time, leaving no room for the hobby. His mind flickered back to that day, almost three years ago, when he'd piloted that Cessna Caravan into the desert, ready to die. That tainted the memory somehow. Even more the memory of Mexico. Even during that dark chapter of his life with the Salazars, he'd flown Ramon's small aircraft every now and then. How he'd managed to get those planes and helicopters up and down while high out of his mind was still a mystery. The Salazars had used aircraft for all kinds of things, and Jack had been a willing participant. Thinking about it now made him shudder. He pushed those memories aside, focusing instead on the charts in front of him.
As he checked the instruments again, his thoughts drifted to why flying had always called to him. It stripped life down to its essentials. Up here, at 10,000 feet, the world seemed simpler. He loved how the country changed when seen from above. Flying had always felt like freedom in its purest form—a chance to leave everything behind. Up here, there were no questions to answer, no expectations to meet. At least when flying alone. The solitude of the cockpit was a sanctuary, the only interruptions a crackling radio call sometimes and the steady hum of the engine.
Mississippi. That's where he'd land to refuel. Somewhere small, quiet.
Jack adjusted the autopilot again, and he settled back in the seat. The radio was quiet, the hum of the engine the only constant. It gave him time to watch, time to think. As beautiful as it was, that was also the trouble with flying—unlike riding the bike, there wasn't enough to do to occupy his hands or his mind fully. At 10,000 feet, the world felt far away, and nothing stopped the memories from creeping in whenever they wanted.
He gritted his teeth, shaking his head as if he could dispel the thoughts, but they came anyway. Memories of Mexico, of the flights he couldn't forget, no matter how much he tried.
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6 months ago, Mexico
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His hands were slightly shaking, gripping the yoke so tightly his fingers ached. It was too hot in here. Or at least, that was how he felt. The dark cockpit felt suffocating. He swallowed hard, his stomach churning with nausea that wasn't just from withdrawal. His muscles ached, his body screaming for relief that wouldn't come. The Salazars had ensured that. He had tried to refuse the flight, but they'd cut him off, leaving him to decide if he wanted to endure the clawing agony of yet another withdrawal – making the flight even worse, if he did it later – or just get it over with. He knew the game. They didn't have to threaten him—he understood the stakes.
It was a small plane, and he always wondered how Ramon got a hold of them. He'd barely ever seen any plane twice. The one now was a Beech Bonanza. He hadn't flown one like those in years but these small planes all flew the same. It felt a bit like a Mooney, just a little slower and heavier with two seats more.
During the past two months he'd tried to make at least a list of the callsigns. Mainly November registrations, which would draw the least attention if the planes ever flew back into the states. He guessed Ramon used them once or twice to smuggle drugs, then pack them up and send them over the border with some pilot who'd never been seen again.
All the exterior lights were off now.
Behind him, four women sat in eerie silence, their faces pale and devoid of emotion. Next to him, in the copilot's seat was another one. He didn't know all of them. One or two he'd seen around Ramon. Another one, he believed to have seen at some party at the Ranch, a few weeks ago. There had been so much alcohol and drugs that he couldn't even remember clearly. Maybe he'd even slept with one of them. Who know. They got tossed around in places like that, and everyone'd lose track of everything.
They weren't crying. Though they should have been. Any normal human being would be. But instead, they sat there, resigned to their fate, their eyes fixed on nothing. He knew why: they were used to this. They had given up. They knew they were caught in a game that they couldn't get out of. Or they were drugged into compliance as well, just like he was from time to time.
The women had been herded into the plane without ceremony, Ramon's men treating them like cattle. He hadn't looked at them at first. He hadn't dared. Now, mid-flight, he couldn't stop. Their silence was worse than any scream he'd ever heard. They didn't even fidget. Didn't even seem human anymore.
The first hour of the flight passed in a haze of pain and cravings. His stomach churned, the nausea creeping up his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, swallowing hard. The tremors came next, subtle at first, then violent enough to make him wonder if he could hold the yoke steady. He stared at the artificial horizon, willing himself to focus, but his mind kept circling back to drugs, and to their destination.
He had seen the destination before. An unofficial air strip on the outskirts of a cartel-controlled town, the kind of place no one asked questions. The women would be divided up, sold, used until there was nothing left of them. He hated that he knew this, hated that he had become complicit in it, had even participated in it. But he had no choice. At least, that's what he told himself.
He glanced at the girl in the co-pilot's seat, her profile barely visible in the dim light of the instruments. She seemed to be afraid of him, but her gaze also said something else. That she was afraid of how he was. She had seen men like him before, had learned the hard way that they were all the same. She didn't need to ask what he was going through—his trembling hands, the sheen of sweat on his face, the way his eyes darted constantly, looking for something to focus on. She just knew the game. She knew exactly that he was at the beginning of a withdrawal. And probably she asked herself the same question he did: if he'd still be in any shape in half an hour to land the plane.
All he could think of was the destination. The plane would be unloaded, and instead of the girls some unknown man would threw packs with a few hundred pounds of drugs onto the back seats and he'd take off again, back to the airstrip just outside the ranch.
But the thought of being alone in the plane then, with a few hundred pounds of drugs was tempting. He craved already to slice one of the bags open, hoping for it to be the right kind of stuff. But actually, he didn't care too much. Anything would make the kind of suffering better that he was going through right now.
Ramon would be furious. He'd have every right to. The packs were probably sealed air-tight, not to get the plane contaminated with any remainders of drugs. Not to give it a 'history', if it was ever sold to some regular guy again.
He couldn't slice a pack open. Ramon'd kill him.
But right now there was nothing else he could think about. He craved for it, even wanted the plane to fly faster, to get there, finally, get his hands on that stuff.
And he didn't allow himself to think about the way back. That he'd have to sit here, for two or more hours, his stomach cramping, while a few hundred pounds of that stuff were right behind him.
His hands trembled even more now.
And suddenly, the woman in the co-pilot's seat moved. She held out her hand to him, offering a small white pill. She held it out to him without a word. He hadn't really noticed her in the past hour, his mind occupied deeply with his own problems. But here she was, handing him a pill out of a box that she held in her other hand. He didn't ask what it was. He didn't care. He snatched it from her and swallowed it dry, assuming it was some methadone or even the drug itself.
The effects weren't immediate, but within minutes, the tremors eased. The nausea dulled to a manageable ache. It wasn't relief—not the kind he craved—but it was enough to keep him functional. He didn't thank her. He couldn't bring himself to speak. Well, they were all on the same boat. Or on the same plane. And she surely hadn't given it to him out of generosity, but probably out of her sheer own will to survive—watching his state deteriorate and not wanting the only pilot to become a wreckage of withdrawal symptoms. At least not as long as they were still in the air.
But the flight wasn't over, and the way back loomed ahead of him like a wall to big to climb. The thought of enduring the return leg without anything to dull the sharp claws of withdrawal was unbearable. He'd drop Ramon's present off, get the airplane filled up with drugs and fly back. But touching Ramon's newly bought packages was off limits. He glanced at the girl in the co-pilot seat, his mind racing. He needed more. There had to be more in her pocket.
He turned to her, his voice low but rough. "Give me the rest," he demanded, his eyes narrowing. She didn't respond, her face a mask of indifference.
"I'm not asking," he growled, his patience fraying. When she still didn't move, he reached over, grabbing her arm roughly. "The box. Now."
She flinched, her eyes widening slightly, but she didn't comply. That flicker of defiance pushed him over the edge. His hand shot out, gripping her throat with a harsh, desperate force. The cockpit seemed to shrink around them, the tension tighter with every second. His grip tightened just enough to make her gasp, her hands instinctively clawing at his wrist. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, there was something like an understanding between them—a shared, bitter knowledge of their roles in this hell. She knew he was the only one who could get them to land safely, just as he knew she couldn't afford to fight him.
Her gaze flicked to the pocket where kept her pills. Slowly, she reached into it, pulling out a small, metal box and holding it out to him with trembling hands. He snatched it from her, releasing his grip on her throat. She coughed quietly, her breath coming in shallow gasps, but she didn't look away from him.
He shoved the box into his jacket, his heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and shame he had mastered hiding. He didn't look at her again, focusing instead on the instruments in front of him.
The plane droned on through the night. At least he was good now for the way back.
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Jack exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the yoke, though the autopilot was on. The hum of the engine was steady, soothing, but his mind raced like a storm, the memories refusing to stay buried. He focused on the GPS, the altimeter, the artificial horizon—anything to bring himself back to the present. The route was straightforward. His next stop in Mississippi wasn't far now.
The craving was still there. It wasn't as sharp as it had been, but it was still there. He knew better. The drugs weren't a solution; they were the problem itself, an illusion of relief that would only drag him deeper into the abyss, making him able to do things he'd never do sober. He had sworn never to touch it again. And he would stick to it.
Yet, the guilt was harder to shake. It clung to him like an invisible weight, pressing on his chest with every breath. Why had he gotten out of this hell when so many hadn't? The question haunted him, twisting in his mind like a blade. Those five women on the plane, hadn't been the only ones. Their vacant stares, their silence more damning than any scream. What had become of them after he'd delivered them to that lonely airstrip? He knew the answer, of course. Even if he never saw them again, he knew.
He tightened his jaw, forcing the thoughts away. His stomach churned at the memory of what he had done—or worse, what he hadn't done. He hadn't just flown the plane; he had played the game. He was expected to deliver, have the plane loaded with two hundred kilos of drugs and head back. He had participated in the sick, twisted economy that treated people as goods, passed from one cartel to another like livestock. And Ramon, always the showman, had been a master of that game. The women were prizes, tokens to be shared or given away. Compared to the drugs he'd flown back, the women's worth was nothing. They were probably just a giveaway – to some other clan, to some supplier. Because Ramon had gotten tired of their faces.
His fingers flexed against the yoke, and he couldn't but think back to that night. He had played his role. Numbed his conscience until the lines blurred, until he could look into their eyes and ignore the silent fear and contempt staring back at him. But he hadn't been able to look away. Not completely. He could still see them, their faces a constant reminder of what he had become in those months. A man they despised, a man he despised.
Jack adjusted the throttle and disengaged the autopilot, the plane responding instantly to his command. Focus. He needed to focus. This wasn't Mexico. This wasn't the Salazar Ranch. This was him, now, in a cockpit, doing something that had once brought him joy and that he was about to reclaim. Before the drugs, before the darkness, before everything. Flying had been a passion. It had been one of the few things in his life that felt like freedom. And he wasn't going to let those memories take that away from him. Going back to flying was reclaiming the present.
Mexico was over. Every one of those missions was over. CTU was over. CIA. Special Forces. Everything. And though he remembered how lost he'd felt once, long ago, when he had left Special Forces to join a regular, normal life, he now knew better. Leaving all that behind didn't mean he was abandoning his brothers in arms or those people he hadn't been able to save from the Salazars' claws. It didn't mean he was running from the weight of responsibility. He had to accept that his choices back then—terrible as they were—had been dictated by survival. His cover had been his life. To break it, to try and save anyone else, would have meant the end.
But this, flying, now, leaving it all behind? This was for himself. And though it felt like pure egoism, he knew it was the right choice. Reclaiming his life was the only way forward because continuing the past wasn't an option. His body had already reached its limit. The scars from entry and exit wounds were just too many. He'd stopped counting the bullets long ago. The aches, the phantom pains—they were constant reminders of all the battles. He was too old for the physical strain of these missions. He couldn't imagine going undercover again, forcing himself to live a life so far removed of himself. He just wanted to arrive at a place that he'd call home again. Ever since he'd given the SIG Sauer back to the pawn shop in Seattle, he hadn't even touched another gun. And he was ready to leave all the battles behind.
The past weeks had shown him that. He deserved this. He deserved to let go of that relentless need to put his own life on the line, to be the one who took all the weight. He'd always chased that sense of purpose, that fleeting high that came from saving someone else or getting a mission done, but he had rarely looked at the cost it came with.
Talking to Audrey had helped. Something about the way she listened, without judgment or pity, had disarmed him. He had never been able to talk about those years—not really—but the memories had surfaced anyway, unbidden, and he'd told her about them. The helplessness against the threat, the drive he'd always felt to do something against it, no matter the cost. It was almost like being small and powerless against a giant. Like in the early days, when he'd been up against his father's rage. Maybe it had shaped him more than he realized. Why else would he spend his life trying to fix what couldn't be fixed? Trying to save everyone else, as if it could make up for what he couldn't do back then? He hadn't been able to make any difference back then. And so, he'd spent his whole life trying to make up for it, over and over again, no matter the cost to himself and the people around him.
Audrey hadn't pushed him toward that conclusion. She didn't even have to. Just talking to her had made it clear in a way no therapist, no debriefing, no self-reflection ever had. Maybe it was because he had been honest with her in a way he'd never been with anyone else. Or maybe it was just her—the way she listened, the way she understood without judgment. Either way, the thought of her voice still brought a faint smile to his lips.
The memory of her voice pulled his attention back to the present. He glanced at the radio and checked the frequency for the airfield. There was nothing. Not surprising, really. It was a small airfield in the middle of nowhere, and it was midweek, barely noon. A quiet time for a quiet place, so he made a blind transmission on the frequency and started his descent.
Audrey's name lingered in his mind, as persistent as the engine's hum. She had been the voice that helped him stay clean even when his thoughts threatened to spiral. But right now, with the distance between them—both physical and emotional—he wasn't sure where they still stood. Their connection felt strained, fragile, like a thread stretched too thin. It wasn't the same as it had been when they'd had the secure phone, when their conversations had been easy and they didn't have to worry about what they could talk about and what not. Everything in life has it's time. Probably it was time to let the thoughts of her go.
He shook his head, clearing the thought. Now wasn't the time to dwell on it. He checked the GPS and his charts again, letting the routine settle his mind. Flying was way to regain control, to simplify the chaos of the world below. That was what he wanted now. To reclaim the peace he had once felt in the air.
Jack adjusted the throttle as the airfield came into view, his focus narrowing with practiced precision. He was the only one in the pattern, the approach uneventful, the runway long and forgiving—four times the length of the crude strips he'd sometimes navigated to in Mexico. Yet the routine of final approach required his full focus, shutting out every other thought. His mind was set on the essentials now: speed, flaps, gear, easing back the throttle to flare just before the wheels touched the ground.
He taxied to the fuel station, shut down the engine, and climbed out, the warmth of the southern air wrapping around him. Hanging the nozzle into the left wing tank, he let his thoughts drift as the fuel flowed. His hand instinctively reached for his bag. The phone. He pulled it out, not really expecting anything, but he checked it anyway. The screen lit up, and his face lighted up as he saw her name.
Audrey. She had called, just an hour ago. Likely while he'd been high above, out of any reception.
He pressed the call button without hesitation, the fuel nozzle still in place as the line connected. Her voice came through almost immediately.
"Jack." Her hurried, hushed tone stopped him cold. No warm greeting, no quiet smile he could usually hear in her voice. Something was wrong.
"Hey, Audrey." He forced his voice to remain steady as he opened the fuel cap on the opposite wing and moved the nozzle across. "Everything alright?"
Audrey took a deep breath. "It's…" She paused, searching for words, and his gut twisted. It had been two days since they'd last spoken, and the tone in her voice was already enough to tighten the knot in his stomach. The way she hesitated now made it worse. He already knew this wasn't casual.
"It's a work-related problem I have.", she said.
Work-related. Jack understood immediately that she was choosing her words carefully. He guessed it was about the looming threat over her—it was the elephant in the room, the unspoken shadow that hung over their calls. They couldn't discuss it, not on an unsecured line.
His worry deepened, but he kept his voice even. "What is it?" He doubted she'd be able to tell him outright, and the thought that he might be powerless anyway to help gnawed at him.
"I just wanted to talk to you about something," she said, her tone guarded but laced with urgency.
"How?" he asked, because he already suspected she'd need more than a phone call over a regular line. This sounded serious, and whatever he could offer here and now, it wouldn't be enough.
"Where are you right now?" Her hesitation was palpable, her voice soft but deliberate. She was calculating something. Jack could hear it in the slight pause between her words.
"Mississippi. Bay Springs. Just refueling," he answered, setting the nozzle into the tank on the right side. As he spoke, he could hear her typing—quick, purposeful keystrokes.
Audrey stared at the map on her screen, her mind racing. She had debated this call for more than a day, weighing the risks and the consequences. But in the end, she needed someone she could trust, someone who wouldn't question her motives or ask too many details. There was no one else.
"Is Meridian somewhere near you?" she asked carefully.
"Quite near," he replied. "I'm just outside their control zone."
"I don't mean the civil airport. There's a Navy airfield, too."
Jack frowned slightly, shifting his weight as he pulled the nozzle out of the tank and placed it back on the pump. "Can't be that far, either. Let me check." He grabbed the charts from the cockpit, flipping through them quickly. "Yeah, that's close too. Why?"
Audrey hesitated for a moment before answering. "Can you go there?" Her voice was quiet, almost pleading.
Jack didn't hesitate. "Give me half an hour," he said firmly, already mentally plotting his route. There was no need to ask for details now. They wouldn't say more over a normal phone line. He knew what she wanted him to do. There'd be a secure line they could use.
"I'll arrange landing clearance," she said quickly. "What's your call sign?"
"N547TB," he replied, almost automatically.
And just like that, the same familiar sense of purpose surged through him. Audrey needed something. All the resolutions he'd made—leaving the chaos, leaving every agency behind, letting go of the relentless drive to change the world—slipped quietly to the side. He didn't even notice it. All he knew was that she had asked, and he would answer, because he owed her. The clarity of being able to be there for her, to repay her a little for all the things she'd done for him, filled him with a quiet, undeniable satisfaction. Whatever it was, whatever she needed, he was already on his way to Meridian Air Base.
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