The Last Good Man

Jon Helm

True needs to be sure. She spends twenty minutes in the Cloud, going through her albums and pulling out photos of soldiers who fit the description of Jon Helm that Miles provided—Caucasian, light eyes, lean face, lean build. She dumps them into a slideshow, putting Shaw Walker’s photo sixth. The picture is eight years old. Shaw would have been in his early thirties.

They are halfway across the Atlantic when she wakes Miles. He sits up, bleary and apologetic. He looks years younger without his beard.

“We were supposed to talk about Jon Helm,” he remembers.

She says, “I want you to look at some pictures.”

“Sure. Happy to.”

“Go wash your face. Drink some water. I need to know you’re awake.”

She waits in the aisle until he comes back with a cup of coffee. He returns to his window seat; she sits beside him.

“I’ve collected some pictures,” she says. “Think of it as a photo lineup, okay? I’d like you to look at them. Let me know if anyone looks familiar.” She wakes the tablet, hands it to him.

He puts his coffee in a cup holder, then studies the first photo. “Don’t know him,” he says.

“Swipe to see the next one.”

He does, examines it carefully, shakes his head. The third portrait catches his attention. “I think I met this guy once in a bar.” And the fourth photo: “That’s Rick Hidalgo—he was an instructor at Ranger School.”

“You’re right,” True says. “That’s who that is.” She strives to keep her voice flat, to show none of the anxiety she’s feeling. She doesn’t want to influence him, even on a subconscious level.

He looks at the fifth photo but makes no comment. He swipes to the sixth, Shaw’s photo. “Fuck,” he whispers.

True’s stomach knots, but she says nothing, makes no move. She focuses on her breathing, keeping it soft and even.

In a husky voice, Miles says, “This is an old photo. The guy’s older now. He has a scar on his lip. But it’s him. The merc with the crippled hand. Jon Helm.” He turns to her. “You know him? Who is it?”

“He’s supposed to be dead,” she says in a voice barely audible over the white noise of the engines. She takes back the tablet, taps out of the slideshow, and turns off the screen before reciting the facts like a whispering automaton. “Shaw Walker. Captured along with Diego. Held with him at Nungsan. Shaw was there when they murdered Diego. They made him watch the execution. You can’t see him on the video but you can hear him screaming, pleading with them to stop, to stop…”

She’s rambling. A sharp breath, a few seconds to steady herself. She doesn’t look at Miles when she says, “Thank you for helping. That’s what I needed to know.”

She starts to get up but he catches her arm. Veins stand out on the back of his large hand as he holds her in a firm grip. “That bastard couldn’t have been Shaw Walker,” he says in a harsh whisper that escapes between clenched teeth. “Shaw Walker is a decorated combat veteran. Shaw Walker is fucking dead!”

“Let go of me,” True says.

Miles looks confused. He releases his grip. His voice is soft, husky with anger as he says, “Hey, I’m sorry. But how the fuck could it be him?”

It occurs to True that the only thing she knows about the circumstances of Miles’s kidnapping is that the raid was led by the merc with the crippled hand.

By Shaw Walker.

“I don’t know how,” she says, a tremor in her voice betraying her. She sits down beside him again. Not looking at him. Breathe. She gathers herself and when she speaks again, her voice is steady, calm, controlled. “The army identified remains found at Nungsan as those of Shaw Walker. That’s what I was told.”

She glances across the aisle to where Jameson is sleeping. This knowledge, it’s as if she’s stumbled onto the rusted shell of an unexploded bomb. Speak too loud and she might set it off. She leans close to Miles and whispers. “This is going to cause a lot of fallout among our veterans. A lot of bad feelings.” Sweat glistens on his cheeks; his jaw is so taut it looks like he’s holding back a scream. “I need to ask you one more favor.”

“Don’t ask me to keep this a secret, True.”

“Just until we’re home.” She knows that Chris is in the back of the plane with Khalid. Everyone else is in their seats. Asleep, maybe. She hopes they’re asleep. “I just think it’s best to wait until we’re on the ground.”

He stares at her suspiciously, like it’s a trap. “I’m going to be researching this,” he warns her. “Writing about it.”

She’s surprised by the fierceness of her own response. “Think about that, Miles. This is a man who does not want the world to know he exists. You want him coming after you?”

“What the hell? What are you saying? You’re going to let this go?”

“Fuck no. I’m saying you need to be careful. I understand you’re a journalist now, not a Ranger. I understand your priorities are different. But take time to assess the situation.”

“And you?” he asks suspiciously. “What are you going to do?”

She thinks about it. After a few seconds she says, “I buried what was left of my son eight years ago. I went to five more funerals—for Shaw, and for the other soldiers who did not survive that mission. I thought it was over—as if you can ever get over something like that. But if Walker is alive, I want to know why. I want to know how. I want to know what the hell he’s doing preying on innocent people like you. And I want to know what really happened at Nungsan.”

“Then we’ve got the same goals,” Miles says. “Except I’ve got one more. I want to see him brought in. I want to see him stand trial. And when he’s locked away in a super-max, I’m going to write a fucking book.”