Ford
Let’s get one thing straight right here, right now: I would take a fucking bullet to the brain for Adelaide Johansen.
Before this day’s through, I won’t be surprised if I do exactly that.
“Fuck,” I swear as the puddle jumper’s left engine sputters to death. We’re coasting on fumes and dreams now—and my pilot knows it.
I swear again as I check for parachutes—the jackass only stocked one, and judging by the fear in his eyes as his gaze meets mine, he knows that, too.
I shake my head and toss it to him. At least he’s got the good sense to look grateful as I pull him out of the pilot’s seat.
“There’s a town about three clicks east of here,” I grunt, taking the wheel for myself. I ease the nose up a little, catching the air stream we’re currently riding so I can maintain enough altitude for the pilot to parachute to safety. “Stay low, stay quiet—and no matter what happens, if anyone stops you, don’t let them know you’re an American.”
Funny thing about these war torn countries, really. You’re better off being from fucking Mars as far as these bastards are concerned. Doesn’t matter if you’re in the middle of the Middle East or out here in Africa where we’re now.
As the pilot takes his jump—damn near pissing himself in the process, from the looks of him—all I can hope is that he’s got a good fucking Steve Irwin impression up his sleeve. Because when the fuckers who shot out our left engine see a chute fly…
Well, I suppose the least I can do is buy him some time.
Maybe it’s my CIA training, or maybe I just never put a whole hell of a lot of importance on my own life—but playing the hero is the only thing that’s ever made sense to me. It’s not complex, and it doesn’t keep me up at night—because frankly, I never fucking fail.
As I veer the plane west, risking some of my precious altitude in the process, it hits me that this is just how I fucking operate.
You keep kids safe. You respect women. You put your brother before yourself, and you don’t fucking bitch about it.
Their lives before mine. Always. Forever.
I mean, ideally, you pack more than one fucking parachute while you’re at it, but that’s neither here nor there at this point. I may not be the man who stocked this plane, but I’m the man who’s going to land it safely.
Until, that is, the fuckers who shot out our left engine make a point of shooting out the right as well.
At that point, a crash landing isn’t so much an option as it’s an inevitability. And a Podunk little plane like this…
It’ll crumple on impact like a piece of tin foil balled up in a fucking fist.
This isn’t the first time I’ve faced near-certain death. If I make it out of this, I’m sure it will be far from the last.
But just like always, knowing that these very well may be my final moments…
I turn my thoughts to her.
Adelaide fucking Johansen. She sashayed her way into my life when I was just a half-wit, hormone-riddled teenager with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove…and even though we parted ways ten years ago now, there’s not a day that’s gone by that she hasn’t been on my mind.
We went to school together, Addie and me. I got into that stuck-up fucking private school on some kind of bizarre combination of sympathy and book smarts. Foster care kid from the wrong side of the tracks, never knew his parents but had The Count of Monte Cristo memorized from cover to cover…yeah, taking me in probably looked good on St. Anthony’s recruitment brochures.
Adelaide, though?
If I was the back page sob story of St. Anthony’s brochures, Adelaide was the wholesome blonde bombshell in a plaid skirt on the front cover.
The Johansens have money. Even back then, everyone fucking knew it. When I first met Addie’s brother, Sten, I knew it just by looking at his shoes—you can always tell. His were brand new and shined so bright I could see my own reflection when I looked down at them.
My shoes? Scuffed to all hell and two sizes too small. I think the nurse fished them out of an ancient lost and found box—and they were so ugly, you could understand why some poor bastard made such a point of losing them in the first place.
But Sten never judged me for being such white fucking trash—and neither did Addie.
Maybe that’s why, when Sten offered me this gig, I said yes so fucking quickly.
Or maybe I might have had a somewhat ulterior motive.
Hell, I’d gladly take a bullet to the brain if it meant seeing Addie one last time.
Probably shouldn’t have taken this job, all things considered. These days, I doubt Addie ever wants to see my sorry ass ever again.
But when I found out that not only did pretty little Addie get it in her head to join Doctors Without Borders after med school, but that she also felt it necessary to take the most dangerous fucking assignment she could get those slender, elegant fingers on…
Well, what can I say?
I didn’t make millions starting a private security firm by resting on my fucking laurels and sending some other jackass to do a job that’s mine by right.
In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I felt it must be true.
Protecting Adelaide Johansen while she tries to singlehandedly to save the world must be what I was put on this earth to do.
My only regret is that I’m not going to live to fulfill that task—because this plane is going down. Fast.
There’s a nasty, dull explosion to my left, accompanied by a cloud of noxious black smoke that billows from the left engine like oil made air.
The heat that follows tells me that the plane I’m in is now on fire—which means that now, it doesn’t matter how long I keep it flying. It’ll explode before it hits the ground.
There’s only one option left.
I wrench the hand break out of its socket. It comes free with a groan of metal separating from metal. I use it to jam the controls of the plane, so our course is set for a steady decline…
Then, I take a big fucking breath.
Do or die.
When the plane is near enough to the ground, I jump.
Whatever the movies tell you, they’re lies.
You don’t hit the ground running—you tuck and roll.
And even then…the body doesn’t like it much.
But as the interior of the plane catches fire and explodes overhead, I’m reminded once again that my body is a little tougher than most. A few more scuffs, scrapes, and scars won’t kill me.
I’m Ford fucking Armstrong, after all.
If Liberian warlords, hostile uncontacted tribes, and rogue Nazis hiding from Interpol in Argentina couldn’t kill me, rolling out of an exploding aircraft sure as hell won’t.
I straighten, shake the savanna dirt out of my beard, and check for injuries.
Not too shabby. Nothing that I can’t walk off, at any rate.
I feel my breast pocket and locate the compass I keep there to check my bearings. It’s a reminder from a long lost friend, I guess you could say.
As indestructible as I think I am sometimes, no man is immortal.
My thumb runs across the dull golden surface while I let my mind linger on buddies of mine whose tours of duty have already ended.
Someday, I’m sure I’ll end mine, too.
But today, I’m alive.
I’m alive, and Adelaide Johansen needs me.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I flick the compass open and orient myself. The needle trembles, and true north points my way…
Right back to her.
I pocket the compass, grab my pack, and get marching.
It’ll be a long, hard trek…
But Addie needs me.
To keep her safe.
Whether she likes it or not.