Collateral (Tier One #6)
: Epilogue

St. Pete Beach

St. Petersburg, Florida

October 9

2045 Local Time

Dempsey stood with his hands balled into fists and stuffed in the pockets of his cargo pants while he stared out at the dark ocean. The water lapping against his shins was much cooler than the last time he’d been here—more than two years and a metaphorical lifetime ago. But just like that long-ago evening in May, the gentle rhythm of the surging and receding surf calmed his heart. Calmed his soul. He inhaled the salt air and the quiet . . . Kate’s eventide, he remembered naming it. And just like that night—when Jarvis had told him not to come here, that it was a place for Jack Kemper, not John Dempsey, and that the memories of this place no longer belonged to him—he let his mind chase ghosts in all directions on the dark, empty beach. On that fateful night, Jarvis had worried Dempsey might be recognized. He no longer worried about being recognized. As the months had become years, the memories of Jack Kemper had slowly dissolved from this place, and now that concern had been turned on its head—with him fretting instead that there was no one left who cared to remember the SEAL Senior Chief he’d once been.

And anyway, this time, Jarvis had told him to come.

He glanced over his shoulder, counted up five floors on the pink stucco condo complex, and found the windows dark. He knew Kate—and her new husband—still owned the condo, because he had seen pictures of them and Jake together on her Facebook page. Dempsey smiled, pleased to find that such thoughts no longer burned with the ache of regret and loss. Instead, they filled him only with peace and contentment at the thought that the woman he’d once loved—would always love—had found the happiness that she deserved. It wasn’t that he had finally said goodbye to her in his heart—he would never be able to bring himself to that point—but he accepted the loss and felt gratitude that God, or the universe, had seen fit to give her the life she’d wanted but that he’d never been able to provide.

He let out a long, shaking breath and felt a slight chill. Perhaps it was the cool water licking at his legs, but more likely it was something else that ushered his thoughts to Jake. His only son—still just a boy in his mind’s eye and his heart, despite the heroism Jake had shown in stopping the terrorist at the Atlanta Aquarium all those months ago. He imagined Jake in the cold Pacific Ocean, sand in places he’d not known he had places, arms linked to his BUD/S teammates. Chunk had checked on Jake at Dempsey’s request, and Dempsey felt no surprise at all to find that Jake had not yet rung the bell, hadn’t yet given up his quest to fill his father’s boots.

Nor would he.

And that must be such a heavy burden for Kate’s heart.

But Jake had the hot warrior blood of his dead SEAL father coursing through his veins, didn’t he? And what if he found out that his dad was not really beneath the marble in Arlington, but had instead chosen the illusion of death? That he had chosen to leave forever to continue his fight with evil . . .

Would my son forgive me?

He shook the thought away—too difficult an idea to contemplate—and stared at the distant horizon. He waited, half expecting Shane Smith to step from shadows and wade in to join him, boots and khakis still on, just as he’d done that long-ago May evening. But Shane didn’t, of course. And never would.

Dempsey looked up and down the beach and felt a horrible heavy loneliness settle on him like a cold, wet tarp. Kate . . . Jake . . . Shane . . . all gone. As were the brothers he’d come here that evening to mourn, the SEAL brothers he’d lost during Operation Crusader in Yemen. The death of Jack Kemper and the birth of John Dempsey had all occurred here—right fucking here—that night in May.

The men responsible for the deaths of the Tier One SEALs—including that traitor Kittinger—were all dead by his hand. Now the network of Russian Zeta operators responsible for the deaths of Shane and the other Ember team members were also dead by his hand. And, he supposed, Jack Kemper—buried in the empty coffin in Arlington—was also dead, also by his hand.

What was left to be done, now that Arkady Zhukov had escaped and disappeared, likely forever?

“Lots of memories, I’m sure,” a voice said behind him.

He turned to look at the Vice President of the United States walking toward him on the dark, quiet beach.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Jarvis said.

“Something only you could manage. I’m surprised you made it here alone,” Dempsey said, taken aback by his own casual, informal tone. He noted that his mentor was barefoot and dressed in grey cargo pants and a black T-shirt, a black Punisher ball cap, created as a fundraiser by some Team guys honoring other Team guys lost to the endless wars. The VP had his hands in his pockets as he entered the surf.

“Once a SEAL, always a SEAL,” Jarvis said, his voice thick with nostalgia. “When I can’t slip the leashes of my security detail, I’ll know I’m finally old.” He smiled, then chuckled and said, “Although, truth is, they’re actually up in the vehicles at the street behind us, so . . .”

“Right,” Dempsey said with a laugh. “Different world now for you.”

“Different world,” Jarvis agreed. “For both of us.”

Dempsey looked back out at the dark ocean and let the words hang there. That black ocean, hiding creatures and currents, and a myriad of other terrifying things, was still a siren’s call to comfort and escape for him. A part of him imagined wading in, without a word or backward glance, then lunging forward, pulling stroke after stroke after stroke farther and farther into the heart of that ocean.

Into the heart of the ocean that had saved him more times than he could count.

Into the heart of the ocean that he loved.

Instead, he turned to the Vice President of the United States. “What’s next, sir?” he asked, his right index finger subconsciously finding and tracing the faded serpentine scar wrapping his left forearm.

Jarvis blew air through his lips while his eyes chased the dark water to its invisible horizon. Dempsey wondered if Jarvis was thinking the same thoughts he had been. If anyone would, it would be this man.

“What do you want, John?” he asked, gaze still on the sea.

“Sir?”

“Both of us, I suspect, have been asked—by people we love, by people who care about us—when will we have given enough.” Jarvis turned to him now, eyes peering into his soul. “Our answer has always been ‘If not me, then who?’ But there does come a time, John, when men like us can simply accept the deep, heartfelt thanks of a grateful nation and move on . . . and find another kind of peace.”

Dempsey didn’t answer the implicit question, and instead boldly asked, “Are you at that point, sir?”

A long silence passed before Jarvis turned to him with the most doleful smile Dempsey had ever seen. “No.” he said softly. “Almost . . . but not quite yet.”

Dempsey nodded. He wanted to tell Jarvis the truth—confess that he didn’t have another life to run to, that for someone like him, another kind of peace didn’t exist—but those words were too difficult to say.

Jarvis didn’t let him off the hook, however. “What about you?”

“If not me, then who?” Dempsey said with a sarcastic grin, deflecting the one question he was afraid to answer.

Jarvis chuckled. “Right.” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

They stood together and stared out at the sea for a long, but strangely comfortable, silent moment. In the end, Jarvis broke first.

“In that case, Mr. Dempsey,” the Vice President said, his eyes once again burning with that old, familiar bright fire, “your nation has another mission for you.”

“Anything, sir,” he said, and meant it. “Especially if it involves Arkady Zhukov.”

“It does . . . but with conditions that I’m afraid you may find difficult.”

Dempsey turned and looked at his boss, head swimming with questions, but ready to learn what awaited him behind yet another curtain.

“Walk with me,” Jarvis said, turning to lead the way.

Dempsey followed.

“What I’m about to tell you is for your ears only . . .” Jarvis began, and then he patiently and methodically described where the operator’s journey Dempsey had begun decades ago would take him next.

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