Page 7 of Eight Years Gone

New York, New York

Eight years later

Jagger headed down JFK International’s terminal four with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and his phone at his ear.

After thirty-six hours in and out of the sky, it felt good to be stateside. It had been years since he’d walked on American soil, and his current conversation with his newly former boss was ruining the moment.

“They asked specifically for you and whatever team you want to put together. Top dollar.”

“Forget it.”

“We’re talking twenty thousand a day. I can probably get you more.”

Jagger didn’t give a damn about the money. He’d made plenty of that over the past couple of years.

When he retired from “The Unit,” he was immediately hired as a personal security expert for the ultra-elite Gray Corp.

He’d quickly learned that the higher the payout on a private contracting job, the more dangerous the assignment. The fresh wound where a bullet had grazed his left tricep still stung after the latest shit show he’d barely escaped in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

“I’m not interested. My last client was a pain in the ass, and nothing about that copper mine was on the up and up.”

He glanced around at the numerous people walking past him, saying nothing more because it was never wise to talk about the work they did in the field. In fact, it was prohibited.

“It’s not our job to worry about what’s on the up and up. He paid, and you guys got him out of there alive.”

In a hail of bullets and return gunfire. Jagger shook his head. “I’m done.”

“Guys like you are never done. When you get bored being an average Joe, give me a call.”

“Don’t count on it.” Ready to be finished with Jason Gray and private contracting in general, he cut their conversation short as he stepped outside into the chaos of the airport’s pickup lane.

He stared at dozens of yellow cabs and Uber vehicles in line, picking up or dropping off their fares, and immediately realized he’d long forgotten how to be an average Joe.

For the first time in eight years, he had no plan, no mission, no objective to relentlessly keep him busy. When he’d decided to come home, he’d taken the first available flight—Anywhere, USA.

He raised his hand, then got in one of the cabs. Instantly, he grew weary—exhausted as he let it sink in that he was here to stay. “Take me to a hotel.”

The cabbie eyed him with hostile disgust in the rearview mirror. “Which one?”

He shrugged. “A nice one. You pick.”

The cabbie shrugged this time. “You got it, buddy.”

Jagger stared out at the skyscrapers and endless sea of cars as the cab made its way downtown, knowing he needed to sleep. After that, he had no idea what he’d do with himself. But a comfy bed and a decent nap were a good place to start.

Three

Grace wandered around Central Park, forever searching for her next perfect shot. She grinned when she found it—a sweet toddler playing with his puppy in one of the green spaces just off the path.

“Oh, my goodness, they’re adorable. Do you mind if I take their picture?” she asked the woman who sat on a blanket close by.

“No, go ahead.”

Grace crouched in her fitted red tank and jeans shorts combination as she adjusted the focus on her lens, then pressed the shutter button several times, making certain she stayed far enough away so as not to distract the little boy and his dog while they played with their blue-striped ball.

The candid shot was the magic shot—the only kind she liked to take. “How do you handle all of this sweetness?”

The woman chuckled. “I spoil them rotten.”

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