T Minus: 051 Days 04 Hours 12 Minutes 28 Seconds

John lost his best friend in Suriname. He left Danny’s body in a ditch after shooting him in the head. Danny looked up at John with no fear, no remorse. He’d been caught. John had orders. Danny would have done the same. He was on his knees with John standing over him. They’d fought. Danny was good. But John was better. John didn’t have a wife, didn’t have a family he’d leave fatherless, didn’t have kids he was trying to put through college by selling out his country. Danny grabbed the barrel of the gun and held it to his head as the jungle rain poured down. Danny was the only man in the unit who knew things about John, personal things. That’s why they sent him. And after the shot, after Danny was dead, John was alone. He ran through the jungle. Seventeen miles. He ran and ran through relentless rain. He cried a little for his friend, but not much, and when he made the extraction point, he put it away forever. For the unit.

John watched as the only woman he had ever loved smiled and said her vows to another man in front of a church full of people. The sun was shining. John’s tux didn’t fit right; it was a rental and he was a big man. He felt like an ass and a liar standing up there in front of everyone pretending to be happy. But she wasn’t pretending. The couple laughed and danced into the night. John never told her how he felt. She never knew. When he was finally alone in his hotel room, John cried, and then he went for a dawn run and put it away forever. For his friends.

John was overseas when his sister’s life fell apart, when her husband left her with two kids. Kicked her and them out of the house. Hit her. At least once. John was thousands of miles away doing things human beings shouldn’t do to each other. It was weeks until he got the email. It was just like after mom died. His sister could never seem to escape it. Only now John wasn’t there to look after her. Or the kids. He suited up and went for a run. He ran and ran and ran through the desert, tears hidden by a drenching sweat. And when he got back to base, there were new orders and he put his pain away. For his country.

John was seventeen when his stepmom sent his little brother to the hospital. He stayed with Jojo the whole night. All John could do was scowl in anger. He wouldn’t look his father in the eye. He drove his brother home the next morning and stayed with him until the boy made him leave. John had a game that night. It was the state finals. He was the star. Everyone was counting on him, including Jojo. John plowed over the other team’s defensive line. He ran and ran and ran. He scored three touchdowns. He was graduating in the spring, going into the Army. His brother and sister would be alone with his stepmom. He cried under his helmet before the game. Then he put it away. For the team.

John was in seventh grade when his mother died. She’d been sick for months. She’d been in the hospital for weeks. When the men with the sad looks showed up in English class to take him home, he ran. He ran like his coach had shown him, pushing past the strangers and sprinting down the hall and running out the door and across the parking lot and through the football field and four miles down the road to the elementary school where his brother and sister were waiting. He cried the whole way. But as he hugged them in the parking lot, he put it away forever. For them. Their dad wasn’t a strong man. So John would be.

John hadn’t cried in the caves. He was too worried about surviving. He hadn’t cried on the flight home. He was too happy to be free. He hadn’t cried in the hospital. There were always people around, especially at first.

Do you want anything? More pills? More water? Another blanket? Can I help you wash? Help you into bed? Help?

And there were so many other patients in pain. Some with families, some without. Some with friends, some without. John did what he could. He told stories. He smiled. He made the rounds in his motorized chair. He didn’t have to say it. His appearance was enough.

If I can make it, so can you.

If I can make it.

John sat in his dark hospital room and looked down at his legs, limp and bent, barely fitting in the space between the seat and the footrest. He was a big man, always had been.

They had come, finally. The eyeless suits. The bastards. They were going to take it away. The tiny bit he had left.

He looked at his legs, at his burned and mottled skin.

He scowled and made a fist and punched himself with his good arm. He punched his legs as hard as he could. He heard the sound, but he felt nothing.

A tear came.

He punched himself in the chest. He punched his face. Then again. Then again. It rocked his chair, his fancy new prison, back and forth. He beat on the armrest over and over and over and over until his hand stung worse than the burns.

More tears.

John Michael Regent held up his one good hand in a ball. It shook in silent fury. He bared his teeth. He wanted to scream. But the others would come. He wanted to yell, but they’d just look at him with those eyes.

He clenched his own shut and felt wet dribble down one half of his face.

He was so tired of everyone. He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t.

This would’ve been a night for a run. He always went at night. Nobody was likely to see and no body was likely to be missed. He had stayed up all night for weeks on end studying the nurses’ schedules, their habits, looking for weaknesses, just like he’d been trained. He changed the settings on all his medical equipment and feigned ignorance as the nurses fixed it for him. He watched and learned. He could beat the machines.

His first few nights he just ran and ran and ran, two firm legs striking the pavement in even strides, some other man’s heart pounding. Even a woman once.

That was the night he happened on a mugging. It was an accident, a wrong turn at 3 a.m. He taught the jerk a lesson and handed the scared man on the pavement his wallet back. The guy just stared up at the strange woman in the hood and dark sunglasses—sunglasses, at night—who had leapt down from a roof and beat the shit out of his attacker.

“Those were some moves,” he said on his back, wide-eyed.

The woman had bent the mugger’s leg at the knee and roundhoused him into the wall. Right in the balls. Then she popped him straight up the jaw with the palm of her hand, knocked him out.

She didn’t respond.

The next week, John went looking for trouble. That was how he justified it. Taking the bodies. Taking what wasn’t his. Stealing them. Stealing tiny bits of someone else’s life. They’re not using it, he told himself. And I can do some good with it. I should do some good with it.

So John ran and ran and ran all over the city and all through the night. It felt good. On his third patrol, John stopped a backseat rape. Two months ago he helped a wounded pedestrian, a victim of a drunk hit-and-run, make it to a hospital. Last month he was tutoring a Parkour group in basic self-defense. They were already in great shape. They knew how to move. He was just organizing them, teaching them tactics, things to consider when you happen upon a crime.

He pushed it that night. He stayed out too long. He watched the dawn come up from the roof of a five story building. The little stretch of city before him hung on the outskirts of Philly and was full of working class ethnic neighborhoods and strip malls. He was starting to think of it as his responsibility.

From what he could discern, the police weren’t looking for anyone, or at least anyone in particular. All anyone knew was that there were some helpful citizens about, and the only thing they had in common was the hoodie. And the sunglasses.

But the attack on the drug den would bring them to the hospital. Sooner or later, someone would put the pieces together, find the connection. They’d all been patients at the fancy new VA. They’d all used advanced hand-to-hand. Like what a soldier would know. Regent couldn’t stay. It was too much of a risk now. If he ever wanted to run again, he had to get away. It was already news.

But in trying to leave, his shadowy pursuers had come for him. John knew how it worked. “Ayn” was just the first wave. It was her job to keep him on the reservation long enough for the others to arrive. As his file was chewed by the system, as it triggered automatic flags and warnings, as numbered bureaucrats sipped soy lattes and processed it—processed him—each in tiny chunks, they would summon the dragons.

Men like John.

It didn’t matter if he had done anything. He was on a list. And to any lanyard-wearing case worker who didn’t know him from a hole in the ground, it was always better to be safe than sorry. Advance file to second stage.

So this was it. The beginning of the end of a long, long, legless run. It was all over.

John was ready. He knew the score. He knew it wouldn’t last forever. But he had one last mission to complete. One final objective. And he was going to see it through. John Regent always completed the mission.

No excuses.

John wiped his face with his good hand. He took a deep breath and put it away. For the unborn.