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The money belt hung limply from Jack’s hand; the lightness of it belied the weight of the stacks of thousand dollar bills hidden inside. He didn’t know what to say, what he could say. It was more than a little strange, now, to be saying goodbye to the man he’d refused to let out of his sight for the last week. John was watching him, his eyes gliding across Jack’s face like he was looking for something, but Jack didn’t know what. Something flickered in that look, a kind of anticipation maybe, as if there was something still left unsaid.
There was a strange, almost helpless, quality that encircled John; one that Jack couldn’t quite understand. John wasn’t helpless. Jack knew him well enough by now to recognise that an opportunist and conman lurked just under that fresh-faced, Robin Hood exterior. Yet, on the other hand, this was the same guy who’d immediately crumpled whenever Jack needed to throw him around like a sack of potatoes to get them out of trouble. John wasn’t weak, but there was just something in those puppy dog eyes that had Jack caught; it kept him feeling like he ought to keep protecting John, even after everything he’d done.
Slowly – reluctantly – they made their goodbyes. Jack headed once again for the airport doors, and the next time he looked back, the corner beside the phone booth was empty. He squared his shoulders, trying to believe he was ready to leave for good. He’d made it maybe three steps when, for the second time in nearly as many minutes, he was stopped in his tracks by the sound of his own name. Jack barely had time to turn around before he was dragged abruptly forwards by the collar of his dark leather jacket. His instincts urged him to fight back, but luckily Jack realised who it was that had a hold of him, before he could start swinging. A lecture, about not sneaking up on a guy that way, was building quickly in Jack’s chest, but the reprimand vanished faster than it appeared the moment John’s lips found his.
Jack had only tried meditation once, off the back of a derisive remark made by a guy he was handcuffing on the hood of a car. He hadn’t experienced spiritual tranquillity, or even just plain regular tranquillity. In fact, he’d spent the length of the session bored and irritated; trying to take his mind off the headache he was getting from the incense, by imagining the score of the football game he was missing to be there. Now though, he thought he understood what they had been getting at. All that ‘empty your mind’ rubbish they’d been going on about suddenly made sense. John kissed him, and Jack’s mind emptied.
There was nothing but that. Nothing but him. Nothing but John. Jack couldn’t even bring himself to care what the other travellers milling about the terminal might think. It didn't matter. All that mattered was closing the gap between him and John. All he could do was tilt his head upwards, grab a fistful of John’s shirtfront, and kiss him harder.
It wasn’t a short kiss. It couldn’t be. That kiss had a tough job to do. All at once, it had to contain within it all the vitriol, antagonism and camaraderie of their week-long lifetime. Every hair’s breadth escape from the jaws of death, every ounce of quiet tension punctured by unexpected laughter, every wily cat-and-mouse escape and recapture; all of it was in that kiss. It was a lot of pressure for one little kiss. But by the time John pulled away and finally slipped from view for real – before the cops wised up and realised Jack hadn’t turned him in – that little kiss had said whatever it was they had left unsaid.
At last Jack left through the automatic airport doors and stepped out into the cool night air of the taxi rank. He breathed in the finality of the moment; there was a sense of rightness at how things had turned out, even if he had been left with nothing but a trace of John’s enigmatic smile. Well, a trace of John’s enigmatic smile and three hundred thousand American dollars in cash, he conceded. Still, Jack found himself with the inexplicable conviction that John was going to need him. What was he going to do without Jack there to protect him?
Jack grabbed for his wallet to pay the cab driver, but came up empty. It was long gone by this point, who knew where; probably sitting by the side of some dusty highway, or at the bottom of that goddamn river. The only thing Jack could be certain of was that his wallet, along with his ID and credit card, was anywhere but here, and that it was gonna be one hell of a headache to put right. Although, Jack frowned as he frantically searched his pockets, his wallet didn’t seem to be the only thing missing. Jack’s hands flew from his trousers, to his waist, to his jacket, systematically patting himself down like he was getting booked for loitering.
He’d told the FBI that he’d lost his forged badge fighting for his life in the rapids, and fortunately for him, they hadn’t called his bluff. The officer fitting him for the wire hadn’t thought to check the waistband of Jack’s briefs, or he’d have surely found the counterfeit credentials. Jack had managed to score himself a phoney Federal ID for keeps, or so he’d thought. The Feds hadn’t been able to take the badge away from him, but John had. Of course he had.
Jack lit a cigarette and shook his head, grinning ruefully. Perhaps John wasn’t going to need his protective services after all; though it looked like Alonso Mosely was going to be in for another rough time with his personal identity. Still, Jack thought to himself as he swung the money belt over his shoulder and began his long trek down the dark Los Angeles street, if Alonso ever needed someone to track down that no-good, self-righteous, stuffed-shirt, goody-two shoes, pickpocketing son of a bitch, he knew exactly who to call.