Page 8 of Montana's Bravest

I look at the police officer. They’d better! If no one finds Jack, I will!

4

SAM

The story of Noah Forbes’ rescue has faded from the headlines, but a grim killing of a young girl in North Dakota has hurled Mark and me back into the media’s glare. Pundits are slamming the cops for dragging their feet, letting negotiations with the girl’s captor stretch too long until the bastard poisoned her and offed himself. They’re stacking up this incident against Red Mark’s operation, calling ours a ‘model’ of how it’s done.

It churns my gut, how the media have sensationalized the tragedy. Do these vultures even give a damn that there’s a family torn apart, grieving their little girl?

What we did to get Noah out wasn’t by the book, despite the parade and the hero talk. Sure, we were damn good, and the sight of Ivy’s relief at having Noah back in her arms, was worth it. But redemption? Not even close. Noah’s face, every time I see it, drags up the memory of Jack, all sulky as he got turned away from the Thunderbolt.

I blew a fuse on air the other day, and Mark’s had me dodge the spotlight since. He’s in Helena, handling the media frenzy, while I’m in New York, marking another year since I lost my mom.

The cemetery’s shrouded in fog as I approach my mother’s grave, ignoring the stone beside it. I wish it weren’t there, but it is, and as far as I’m concerned, it might as well be invisible.

“It’s me, Mom,” I murmur, laying down white roses, the blooms resting against her name carved in stone.

Samantha Mary Kelleher

Beloved wife and mother

“I saved a kid.” My voice catches, and I stiffen, half-expecting her to tell me to man up. Not that she ever would’ve said those words, but I owe her for my brother, and weakness isn’t an option.

I press my hand to the turf, imagining it right above hers, and whisper, “Wish I could’ve done the same for you.”

The ache in my chest feels like it’s burning a hole straight through. “I’m sorry, Mom. Jack’s still missing.”

I tidy her headstone before leaving, not wanting to stick around for a run-in with my old man.

I spare a glance at the grave I’ve been avoiding.

Jack Redley Kelleher

Beloved son and brother

It’s an empty grave, yet it buries a lifetime of pain, guilt, and disappointment. Its existence is a painful reminder of Dad’s surrender. The police never found Jack’s body, and my brother was presumed dead. For Dad, it was closure. He just swallowed the kidnapping-murder theory after six years. Gave up without a fight.

“You’re out there, Jack,” I vow, looking at his name etched in the stone. “I’m gonna find you.”

Jack’s mock-up as an adult, created by some forensic tech expert I hired, shows just how much he took after Mom. In that drawing, he was portrayed as a twenty-four-year-old man. But until I see him breathe, he remains that same little brother,too short for the Thunderbolt, cheering me on before everything became the real ‘mother of all hell’ for me.

Mark’s on the line as I head to my car.

“How’s New York treating you?”

“New York’s getting by just fine without us,” I reply, remembering our bodyguard days in the city.

Mark had career longevity, and compared to him, I was only a scraper. New York’s high society is filled with some of the most pompous people I know. They usually hire bodyguards who are attached to elite agencies, with formal qualifications and the right looks. I was an independent, and my resume was short—MMA fighter for six years solid, and in the Navy for four years before that. Most employers rejected me because they couldn’t see past my ‘fighter’ label. Worse still, being a young SEAL (I graduated at eighteen) seemed to work against me. My Navy experience was often dismissed, as they argued that too much time had passed since then.

As fate would have it, our last clients—two billionaires who are best friends, practically sisters—had led us west to Montana. They’re a different breed of New York’s elite—they stand on their own two feet, they face danger head-on, and most of all, they value people. And as it turned out, they seem to be at home in ranches and mountains as they are in mansions and skyscrapers. When our services were no longer needed, and after some soul-searching on our part, Mark and I decided to have a fresh start in Big Sky country—and Red Mark was born.

“When you coming back?” he asks.

“Tonight. Why?”

“Got a matter to discuss with you.”

“Nothing to do with a date, I hope.”

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