Chapter 1149: The Dust Settles (Patreon)

Fsshhh—a green smoke grenade hissed to life near the cliff’s edge. Moments later, similar green smoke billowed from the lighthouse. It was the official signal for mission success.

The Joint Operations Command on the mainland already knew everything via communications with the SEALs, but Jack insisted on the gesture. Without it, the whole operation felt somehow incomplete.

The SEALs descending from the lighthouse were all banged up. Clay and Dr. Goosby had bandages wrapped around their arms and thighs, but thankfully everyone was intact.

Their bulletproof vests and T-shirts were gone, leaving them bare-chested, showing off tufts of chest hair—making the scene feel oddly primal.

"I believe these belong to you."

Dr. Goosby handed Jack a waterproof bag. Inside were the items Jack had stripped off before surrendering.

"You went up to the lighthouse too?" Jack raised an eyebrow. He had assumed the doc would’ve stayed safely in the sewers till the dust settled.

Technically, Goosby wasn’t even a combatant. After all, who’d expect a specialist with only a few weeks of firearms training—and no field experience—to go toe-to-toe with a squad of elite Marines and help save the world?

"Someone had to handle the warheads, didn’t they?" Goosby smirked and pointed at the lighthouse. "I disassembled the VX payloads, wrapped them up in our vests and clothes, and stashed them in the base of the tower."

His smug expression turned to lingering fear as he held up a rude Korean gesture. "Just a bit lower—if that last rocket had hit a few feet down, I would’ve been toast."

Jack dug into the waterproof bag and retrieved his FK7.5, holstering it. He fished around and pulled out two cigar boxes and a lighter. Lighting a cigar, he took a long draw before tossing one to the doc.

"Like I told you before—these taste best in victory. So, have you figured out how you’re going to propose to your fiancée?"

Goosby winced. "I just found out Clarare’s in San Francisco. The Bureau picked her up."

A few minutes later, Jack, Goosby, and the SEALs were sitting on the cliff’s edge, cigars in hand, letting the sea breeze wash over them. But their brief peace was shattered by the thudding of helicopter rotors.

Director Womack "bravely" leaped out of the chopper, hand on his thinning hair, jogging toward them in short bursts. Rossi followed behind at a more dignified pace, looking every bit the big shot.

"Where’s Mason? That son of a bitch actually pulled it off. Maybe I should set him up with a nice private suite."

Not even trying to censor himself in front of Jack, the director barked with zero decorum.

"Uh..." Jack glanced toward the prison building, hesitation on his face sparking a bad feeling in Womack’s gut.

"He took the 81 hostages down into the sewer under the showers. I think—probably—maybe he’s still there."

In fact, right after the MH-60R Seahawk exploded into a fireball, Jack had seen the old man waving from the rooftop before disappearing.

"You what? You let him go off alone?!" Womack’s eyes bulged.

Jack shrugged helplessly. "Sir, the situation was chaotic. Even General Hammer was alone in the guardroom after I arrested him."

"Hammer’s alive?" Womack’s eyes grew even wider. He didn’t wait for further explanation. "Take me to the guardroom! Now! Hammer’s still alive!"

Rossi, hands clasped behind his back, walked up beside Jack, both of them watching Womack dodge debris and sprint inside like an uncoordinated teenager.

"Nice work, kid." Rossi clapped Jack’s shoulder, pride in his voice.

"Next time, how about an easier mission?" Jack slipped him a folded piece of paper.

"What’s this?" Rossi opened it and read aloud. "St. Michael’s Church, Fort Wharton, Kansas. First row, right-side pew leg—hollow?"

A flash of intelligence flickered in his eyes. "Is this what I think it is?"

Jack nodded with a smile. "Probably. In exchange for his freedom, I promised he’d get to stay close to his daughter."

He explained the plan he and Mason had cooked up—vanish first, hand over the reels later, in exchange for the Bureau quietly dropping the case.

"Oh, right," Jack added, "and don’t link this to me. I don’t give a damn about whether aliens exist in Roswell or who really killed JFK."

Rossi—probably the one person who knew Jack’s personality best—chuckled and nodded. "Leave it to me. I’ll pass it along in a month. We’ll just say Mason reached out to me directly."

"Perfect." Jack turned toward the docks. A few large speedboats had just arrived. Members of the fugitive task force and the BAU team were disembarking.

Alcatraz was too small to accommodate more than two helicopters at once, so the rest had to come by sea.

Among the arrivals was a young woman—short but curvy, with a beauty mark on her right cheek. She was the same woman Jack had seen once atop an apartment building in New York: Goosby’s fiancée.

While Hannah and JJ smiled at Jack with obvious relief, the young woman bounded toward Goosby, jumping into his arms and wrapping her legs around his waist.

"You son of a bitch! Going off on a dangerous mission like this while I’ve got your baby in my belly!"

As she tearfully scolded him, Goosby tried to calm her down, sheepish and gentle. Jack and Rossi exchanged a glance and smiled.

Even though Jack had stolen plenty of the spotlight, Goosby had earned the SEALs’ respect with his bravery at a critical moment.

Not long after, several agents escorted General Hammer out of the building, with Director Womack strutting behind, beaming as if he’d forgotten all about Mason’s escape.

The dust had finally settled.

Now with some actual wealth under his belt, Jack rented out the entire top floor of the Fairmont Hotel. Families of the Bravo Team—including Clay’s wife and son—flew into San Francisco.

They all threw a joyful wedding for Goosby and his fiancée, and sent the newlyweds off on a honeymoon to Las Vegas.