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The Jack Carr Channel — The Fourth Option: Prologue Part 2. Machine-transcribed; use the interactive transcript above to jump the player to any line.
Walker snapped the phone shut, set it down and lifted his pistol. He pressed it to the underside of his chin, pushed down on the thumb safety and set his finger on the trigger. The doctors at Set His Head was broken. They were right. Outside amid the swishing branches and crashing skies, Paladin howled as had his ancestors, wolves that had once hunted these very lands. Her closed his eyes, telling himself it was a fitting send-off. Paladin had seen a lot of death. He would understand. Time to bleep bleep. Walker removed his finger from the trigger. What the hell was that? An irritating little sound that did not blend with the natural rhythms of the storm. My death has to be in rhythm. He glanced at the phone and saw a flashing light. It doesn't matter. Do it, Chris. Bleep bleep. He closed his eyes tighter than before, willing the unnatural sound away, sliding his finger
back into place on the trigger. Ignore it and press. Do it. Bleep bleep. His heart was racing. It wasn't supposed to be like this. A rhythmic. Bleep bleep. Fuck. Walker engaged the thumb safety and lowered the gun to his lap, sucking in deep breaths. The religion and philosophy texts on his shelf coming back into focus. The sound was a text indicator and a message was on the phone's outer LCD screen. Hey, Chris. It's Leigh-Anne's dog. Hope you're well. I've been calling you but not getting an answer. Trying this. Hope it works. Please call me back as soon as you can. It's important. Walker stared at it in disbelief. The message from Leigh-Anne just as he was about to join her husband in Valhalla. What kind of timing was that? He looked back to the books. John Stobb, his master chief in the seal teams whom he had followed into ground branch,
was dead because of Walker. Now his wife just spared Walker's life. He fought to control his breathing as Paladin's house took on a pain he had not noticed before. You trying to talk me out of this, buddy? Thunder rumbled. More distant than it had been moments earlier. Was the storm passing? Walker tilted his head to look at the side window and up into the dark clouds. His inner philosopher kicking into gear, questioning the workings of the universe, the unity of nature, thought and consciousness. His mind flashed over Spinoza who wrote that there was no good or evil, just substance and elements. Even thoughts were elements. He looked down at the pistol resting in his hand on his right leg, then up to an envelope taped just below his books. Earlier in the day he had written on it in Sharpie, Leigh-Anne Stobb, New Orleans, Substance
and Elements. What the hell was going on? Tired of you inner philosopher? The destruction? The loss? The injustice? Those were his substance and elements, and they demanded atonement, dignity, finality. He could not quell the question, Leigh-Anne Stobb? Now? He saw John's lifeless body in the Afghan dirt, then alive and laughing in the CIA bar of Kabul's Arania Hotel, a kippling quote written on the wall behind him. When your wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains and the women come out to cut up what remains, just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains and go to your god like a soldier. The sound the tore from Walker was in a scream. It was a rupture, a raw guttural cry, the pain of a soul ripped from its body.
Walker raised the 1911, pushed down on the thumb safety, and pressed the trigger.
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