Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,74

a calming breath. There were armed men guarding every entrance here. They'd been unprepared before. The Panthers wouldn't get the drop on them again. And besides, Jackson couldn’t leave. He had a personal responsibility to stay here in the middle of this, one that no one knew about. He owed it to those who had already been killed by the soldiers. If they came for him, they came for him, and the chips would fall where they may.

The thought of the group of men who wanted to end his life made him feel slightly sick. He looked down at the cup of coffee, two sugars, loaded with caffeine. That definitely wasn't helping keep his nerves steady. As he tossed the still-full cup of liquid into the trash beside him, he saw the dark-haired, attractive girl who ran the tech team enter. Nikki, he remembered. For a nasty moment he thought she was moving to the board to draw another X over Fletcher, but instead she walked towards him standing by the drinks stand.

'Good news,' she said.

'What's that?'

'Our team just captured one of the Panthers, the man who killed McCarthy. He was trying to escape from them through a shopping centre. They cut him off and got him in handcuffs.'

'That's great.'

'They’re on their way back with him. Maybe we’ll get some answers.'

Jackson nodded as Nikki grabbed a foam cup and helped herself to a small cup of coffee from the stand, more of a shot than anything, some caffeine to spike her blood sugar and keep her alert. They stood there in silence for a moment, then she nodded to him and turned, moving back to her desk next door with the cup in her hand. He watched her leave, then turned and walked over to the window, looking out over late-afternoon London, bathed in sunshine.

In the commotion and panic of the day's events, neither Cobb nor any of his officers had taken a moment to think about Jackson's initial involvement in the case all those years ago. He had been just as young as Cobb, only twenty six, a junior agent fresh from his training. It should have been obvious. His role to ensure Blackout ran smoothly should have been delegated to someone with far more authority and experience, especially considering the importance and secrecy surrounding the operation.

But none of them had stopped to question why it had been him.

He thought back all those years, back to when he was called into a Senior Agent's office only weeks after he had moved to London in March 1999.

Hearing what had happened in that small town in Kosovo.

What his cousin, Jason Carver, had done.

How he had butchered all those women and children. How the Brits would be organising the rescue, but that Deputy Director Carver had insisted his nephew Ryan oversee the operation as both an American and family presence, making sure it ran to plan, making sure they got the stupid boy out of there alive. It was shameful. His uncle was panicking, partly about his son, but mostly about the potential damage to his own career.

Still stunned after hearing the news and sickened by the massacre, Jackson had been passed a phone inside the senior agent’s office. His uncle was on the other line from his desk in Virginia.

Get him out of there alive and I'll see to it that your career takes off.

That was all he’d said.

To this day, Jackson's subsequent actions caused him shame. He’d hidden his revulsion at his cousin's actions, even though he was well aware that if the operation was a success Jason would probably never be punished for what he had done. Out of some stupid misguided thought of family and national loyalty that he had regretted every day since, Jackson had agreed to do what he was ordered. Blackout had gone ahead under his and Cobb’s supervision and it had been a perfect success. A month later they had a damn ceremony for Ryan in DC, where Deputy Director Carver pinned the medal on him in front of a national audience and the cameras, shaking his hand like he’d done something heroic and patriotic. In hindsight, given the guilt he now carried with him, Jackson knew he should have just said no and walked away. Every promotion he’d ever landed in his career since took him back to that first compromise. No advancement or pay rise had ever been worth it. They should have left the three murderers to die. The men who