In the Crosshairs

Epilogue

Swanson and Gibson never met again. Gibson was convicted in a secret trial of the single charge of murdering fellow CIA contract worker Nicky Marks, a cover that kept intelligence issues off the table. He was on a long, slow, never-ending road to nowhere.

The man whose reputation meant everything to him was ruined. Guards were ordered not to speak to him except to give orders. He was allowed one hour a day in an exercise area, alone, then back to his small single cell. His bed was made up at eight o’clock in the morning, and he was not allowed to sit or lie on it until nine that night. There was a single chair and a steel desk bolted to the wall. A steel commode and a small sink was in a corner. His only visitors were occasional federal investigators, never senior in rank or experience, who practiced their interrogation skills on him concerning various things. The information the government had gleaned from the one-time friends of the Prince, who had been tracked down through a drug lord and a careful perusal of his family history, had brought down a dozen major criminal enterprises and rolled up the few rogues inside the CIA, and the investigations were ongoing. The result was that Luke Gibson became a practice dummy for trainees to question; always men, never women. After a few years, even they stopped coming.

A baby snuffled into a cry and was swept up into the protecting arms of its grandmother, Lady Patricia Cornwell. Kyle Swanson and Beth Ledford were married a year after the death of her first husband, with the blessing of Mickey’s mother.

Lady Pat had been planning Kyle’s wedding for years, just waiting for him to settle down enough to pick a bride, and Coastie was a darling. But the plans went for naught when the bride and the groom threatened to run off to Las Vegas and be married by an Elvis impersonator if Lady Pat didn’t calm down. The ceremony was held not in a castle or a cathedral but on a private, rustic estate in Maryland, with a few intimate friends. The ceremony was performed by the president of the United States, Christopher Thompson, who had lent the couple his Camp David retreat for a few days as a token of respect for their unspecified services to the country.

The baby arrived ten months later, and was named Jeffrey Michael Swanson, and soon was given the nickname Rocky, because he often punched out with his rolled fists. Lady Pat couldn’t keep her hands off him. She had thought these precious moments would never come.

“Oh, DO give the lad some breathing space, Patricia,” Sir Jeff said over the rim of a glass gin and tonic. “You don’t need to come running every time he burps.”

The yacht was cruising off the Azores, and the family was enjoying the scenery and the calm waters. A baby who cried now and then was the only emergency, and a full-time British nanny was in attendance.

Coastie kept both of the older women within hailing distance where anything to do with the child was concerned. They could play with him and change his diapers and feed him stewed carrots, but she was his mother, and made certain there was no question about that. She and Lady Pat had gone toe to toe a couple of times before the issue was settled and ended in hugs.

Kyle drank from a bottle of beer, leaning back against the rail on an upper deck, facing Sir Jeff. Coastie, Lady Pat, and Rocky were below decks, and the ship’s crew had everything running like clockwork. There was no emergency in his life. Not a single one. A three-legged German shepherd basked in the bright sun.

“I know that you dislike the idea, dear boy, but Mommy and Daddy simply cannot continue running around being assassins anymore,” Sir Jeff said, continuing an argument that had been ongoing for months. Coastie and Lady Pat agreed with the new grandfather. Kyle was still unsure.

“It’s the only thing I really know,” he said, and it sounded lame even to him.

“Time to get off the helicopter, lad,” Sir Jeff replied. “It comes to us all. Your new job is to get home safe and sound to your family at night.”

“You just want to retire. Lazy old man.”

“You’re dead right about that. A wise fellow once asked me, ‘After your make your first dollar, read your first good book, have your first adventure, and make love to your first woman, what do you do next?’”

“And the mysterious answer is?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet, Kyle. But I’m working on it. We’ve built an empire, you and I, a couple of tired old soldiers who had a bit of luck. Then we both snared a couple of exceptional and beautiful women. We’ve served our nations well, and can continue to do so, just not on the front lines or sneaking around with Excalibur sniper rifles and that sort of thing.”

The plan that had taken form was for Sir Jeff to retire and for Kyle to assume the job of president and chief executive officer for Excalibur Enterprises. Janna would run the North American operations from Washington, and Kyle would live in London and handle the U.K., NATO, and Europe. Money would never be a problem. Not a bad way to handle middle age, Kyle decided.

What disturbed him was the thought that he would be retreating from a world in trouble. Evil was still out there, and always would be, and it needed to be confronted and fought. He was just unsure whether, sitting behind a big desk, he could still get that rush of finding a good hide and bringing a bad guy into the crosshairs. Coastie had already made the transition; the instincts of a killer had been drowned by love for her family. She would never go back.

Coastie came on deck, and the breeze hugged a light sundress to her figure and blew her golden hair over a tanned shoulder. In her arms was Rocky, clucking and flailing, while Grandma Pat, trailing behind, warned that the child would catch its death out there in the breeze.

Kyle knew the argument was over. It made sense to at least give it a try. He gathered his wife and child into his arms. His son punched him softly. “Good left hook, kid. You’re going to be a great marine.”