by Jack Mars
She dropped the pins back into her purse and her hand brushed the Glock. Her first instinct was to draw it, but she decided against it and reached for the doorknob.
The chipped white door opened about six inches and stopped suddenly, straining a chain lock from the inside.
“Oh, come on!” Maya muttered in exasperation. Her arm wasn’t small enough to snake inside and try to undo the chain.
Am I really going to do this? Technically she’d already committed breaking and entering. She might as well go the whole nine.
Maya raised her right foot and planted a powerful kick just above the knob. The chain broke off from the molding and the door flew open, hitting a chair. She froze, waiting and listening a moment, but heard nothing.
The first thing she noticed stepping over the threshold was the smell. There was a musty odor with an undertone of mildew, not overwhelming but reminiscent of a place that didn’t get a lot of air flow, like a neglected shed. She was standing in an outdated but relatively tidy kitchen. There were a couple of dishes in the sink and two empty beer bottles on the counter. The refrigerator was white and conventional; a small round table on the other side had only a single chair.
She took a few cautious steps and entered a living room. With the newspaper over the windows and the curtains drawn it looked like perpetual dusk, but she could see a sole recliner, a boxy television set in the corner with a DVD player on top of it. A handful of war movies scattered on the floor.
Behind her was a small bathroom; she would clear that last. Facing her was the dark doorway of what she assumed was a bedroom. She took a step toward it—and then froze as a figure moved in the darkness toward her.
She would have leapt back, or perhaps even rushed toward him in attack, but the sight of the silver gun pointed between her eyes seized her limbs. This wasn’t the first time she’d had a gun pointed at her, but that didn’t stop fear’s icy pick from stabbing into her heart.
“Who are you?” the man behind the gun asked softly.
Maya forced herself to look away from the gun to him. She didn’t know what he had looked like before, but it didn’t seem that time had been kind to him. His hair was shaggy and long, hanging over his ears, and it looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a week. His eyes were dull, uninterested even, and he held extra weight in his chin and neck.
“Who are you?” he asked again.
Her tongue felt like cotton in her mouth. “M-my name is Maya. Maya Lawson. Are you…” She almost said “Seth Connors” before she caught herself, remembering what Bliss had told her. He didn’t know that name anymore. “Are you John Graham?”
“They told me you would come,” he murmured.
Maya frowned. “Who told you?”
“The men on the phone.”
“What men on the phone, John?” Maya pressed. “Please. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you.”
“They… they call me. They make sure I have what I need.” Seth Connors’s gaze drifted away for a moment, his eyes nearly glazing over. For a moment she even had an opening to disarm him. But she stood her ground. “They make sure I don’t leave. Or else, people will find me.” His attention snapped back to her. “People like you. They said, ‘They’ll come for you, and you have to fight them.’”
“No, no, John. I’m not going to fight you.” Maya’s heartbeat doubled. He was clearly confused, he had a gun in her face, and had been convinced that she was an enemy. “I promise I won’t. I just need to know some things. These men that call, are they with the CIA?”
“CIA,” Connors said, slowly and pensively, as if he was reaching out for the word. “That’s… that’s something I used to know.”
Maya blinked. Bliss said the chip in his head had wiped his memories. How did he know what he used to know?
“What else, John? What else did you used to know?” Maya’s gaze wavered between the barrel of the gun and his face, which was quickly contorting with uncertainty.
“The men on the phone, they said there was an accident. It was bad. My head… no. My brain was injured. I forgot who I was. But I knew things, back then, things that were dangerous to know.” Connors spoke softly, methodically, in a way that suggested to Maya that he was regurgitating information he had been told over and over. “That’s why I’m here. I have to stay here. It’s not safe anywhere else.”
Maya had a choice. She could keep him talking, despite the gun pointed at her face, and hope it wasn’t used. Or she could try to disarm him and in the process prove that the “men on the phone” were right. There was no way to do it that wouldn’t seem like an attack.
“I know some things,” Maya told him. “I know the name ‘Seth.’ Is that something you know too? Seth?”
Connors blinked at her. “I… yes. I know that name. Sometimes, in my head, I hear people, calling it out.”
“That used to be your name. It was Seth Connors. Not John Graham. You were Seth Connors.”
He shook his head adamantly. “No. I would remember that.”
Maya decided, against her better judgment, to press further. “You had a daughter. A little girl.”
“I didn’t…”
“You volunteered for an experiment to have your memory erased, Seth—”
“Don’t call me that!” he snapped.
“Okay. Okay. Please, let’s calm down,” Maya urged. “Just… think for a moment. Do the things I’m saying make sense to you?”
Again he glanced away and down, at the carpet, though the gun stayed aimed. “I’ve seen a girl.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Sometimes. When I sleep. She said ‘daddy.’ But that wasn’t… it wasn’t me.”
Maya’s mind was churning. She wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but it seemed that some things were starting to poke through the memory-suppressing chip. She wondered if it had a shelf life and was failing. Or if it was malfunctioning somehow. Bliss had said it was a prototype; maybe they hadn’t considered longevity in the design.
That’s why they’ve kept him alive. To see how long it would last.
But what did her dad want with this man? Was it some injustice he’d unearthed that he felt an obligation to make right? Or was it more…
Suddenly Maya thought back to her mother’s death. The weeks afterward when he was gone and she and Sara had stayed with their Aunt Linda. Then he was back. He felt different then. For two years, things had been fine. And then he went back to the CIA. He changed…
No, she told herself. There’s no way.
Seth Connors was staring at her oddly, his head cocked at an angle like a quizzical dog.
“Who are you?”
The guy’s brain was scrambled, his short-term memory clearly fried. Maya would have to figure the rest out later; for now there was still a gun aimed at her. “Listen to me, please. You are Seth Connors. You are a former field agent with the CIA. You volunteered for an experiment after the death of your daughter and had your memories suppressed.”
“No,” he said plainly. “You’re lying. You’re with them.”
“There is no ‘them,’ Seth—”
“Don’t call me that!” he shouted, raising his voice for the first time.
“You’re being kept here as a test!”
“No!” Connors shouted again, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head vigorously. “No! No!” His hand trembled, his finger on the trigger.
Maya saw no other choice. Talking wasn’t working; she had to act. While his eyes were squeezed shut, she sprang forward, using her right hand to push the gun out of her face. With her left she grabbed his elbow, and she twisted her body ninety degrees while going down to one knee.
Connors’s body came with her, thrown off balance, tumbling over her hip and crashing to the floor with a loud gasp. She reached for the gun to twist it from his grip, but didn’t expect him to react with such speed.
Before she could reach the pistol his other fist slammed into her solar plexus, doubling her over, forcing the air from her lungs a
nd causing an instant wave of nausea. Connors scrambled to his hands and knees, trying to get to his feet. Maya responded with a kick to his stomach, and then a second one to the hand that held the gun. Her shoe crunched against his fingers and he howled as the pistol skittered across the carpet.
Connors gritted his teeth and leapt at her in a tackle. He had both size and weight on her relatively small frame—so Maya let him take her to the ground. She planted a foot on his hip and used the inertia to throw him backward, off of her, into a heap of limbs in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.
Breathing hard, she grabbed the pistol from the floor. But she refused to point it at him. Disarming him was the goal, not letting him believe she wanted to hurt or kill him. He stared at her wide-eyed as she popped the magazine from the gun.
Then she snickered. She couldn’t help herself. The gun wasn’t loaded. However he’d acquired it, Connors seemed to have forgotten ammunition.
This man wasn’t hostile. He was confused. Memories of his former life were starting to resurface and his brain couldn’t reconcile what he had been told with what he was recalling. In that moment, seeing him cowering on the floor and holding his injured hand, she felt horribly sorry for him and everything he’d lost.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “I promise. But… I think I want you to come with me.” She held out a hand to help him up. “Will you come with me, Seth?”
He eyed her warily for a moment—and then he reached for her hand.
“Step away, please.”
Maya looked up sharply to see two men standing in the still-open doorway of the apartment. Both wore black suits and long overcoats. Their features were remarkably forgettable, and in that moment she knew who they were before they even flashed their CIA credentials.
“I’m Agent Riggs, this is Agent Fraser, CIA. Miss Lawson, I’m going to ask you to come with me.”
“Why?” she demanded.
The agent smiled at her wolfishly. “Where to begin? Grand theft auto, breaking and entering, assault with a deadly weapon, terroristic threats, the unlicensed handgun you’re carrying without a permit… oh, and the classified documents of national intelligence that you stole.”
“I didn’t steal those, I—” She was about to argue that she’d been given those, but not only was that not entirely true, but she also didn’t want to implicate Alan or his hacker friend into her mess.
She offered her wrists. “Fine. Take me in.” She glanced down at Seth Connors. “What about him?”
“Don’t worry,” said Agent Riggs. “He’s coming too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
“Camilla, get away from the window!” Sara said harshly. Her friend had been nervously glancing through the blinds ever since the drug dealer, Rex, had threatened to try to get them.
Sara stood in the kitchen, her hand closed around the revolver and her cell phone on the countertop. The keypad was open and the numbers 9-1-1 were punched in so that all she had to do was press the call button if need be.
She didn’t want to do that unless it became absolutely necessary. Not only was she not particularly fond of police, but if they came and found Rex with nothing on him and no record, there wouldn’t be any reason to arrest him. Camilla, on the other hand, would be taken in for her outstanding warrant and failure to appear in court.
Besides, she’d already called for help. She just needed him to get here.
In the meantime, she stood in the kitchen with a clear line of sight on the front door, which was nearly impenetrable unless Rex happened to have a SWAT-level battering ram, and the rear patio, a sliding glass door that led to a small balcony. It would take quite an effort to climb up there, but it certainly wasn’t impossible. They were the only entrances in or out for Rex and whatever thugs he had brought along for the ride.
“It’s going to be okay,” Sara said aloud, as much for her own benefit as Camilla’s. “My friend is coming.”
Camilla seemed uncertain. “Just promise you won’t call the cops?”
“I…” She wanted to promise, but it simply wasn’t fair to ask her to sacrifice her own safety for Camilla’s sake. “I won’t.”
Sara looked down at the silver revolver in her hand. It was an elegant thing, contoured and shiny. It was almost hard to believe that such a thing was capable of killing.
But am I? She was holding the gun for comfort, for confidence. But when it came down to it, would she use it? Would she be able to?
Just for good measure, she grabbed a paring knife from the butcher’s block and stuck it in the back pocket of her jeans.
A rattling sound caught her attention. It sounded like it was coming from the bedroom.
Shit. The fire escape!
“Stay there!” she hissed to Camilla as she dashed toward her and Maya’s shared bedroom. She couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid, forgetting the iron stairs that led straight up to the wide window facing east.
Sara threw open the curtains and pointed the revolver. Through the glass, a chubby man in a Gators cap jumped back in shock. He’d been trying to jimmy it open, but at the sight of the gun he put his hands up quickly.
Glass shattered elsewhere in the apartment. Camilla shrieked. The chubby man outside sneered, and Sara realized he was just a distraction.
She dashed back to the kitchen. The sliding glass door was broken; one of the metal chairs her dad kept on the balcony was on the floor inside. Chilly February air rushed in, along with the drug dealer, Rex. Camilla looked frozen in horror as he reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. She shrieked as he shook her.
“Where is it?” he demanded. “Where’s the money?”
“Hey!” Sara leveled the revolver at him. “Let her go, asshole.”
Rex’s gaze slowly turned toward her. He frowned. “Christ. What are you, fourteen?” He let out a sharp, braying laugh. “This is who you go to for protection, Cammy? Is that thing even loaded?”
Sara cocked back the hammer with a thumb. “You’re about to find out.” Her heart jackhammered in her chest. She couldn’t shoot someone who was unarmed. Even if he was a criminal who would hurt her if he had the chance.
Rex glanced between her and Camilla, as if trying to decide whether or not to test his luck. Suddenly glass shattered again, this time from the bedroom.
The chubby guy on the fire escape was making a move.
Sara’s head whipped around instinctively in that direction, and Rex used the opportunity to shove Camilla roughly at her. The older girl collided and they both fell to the floor. The revolver slipped from her grip. Sara tried to pull herself after it under Camilla’s flailing weight when a black boot came down hard on her outreached hand.
She screamed as pain shot up her arm.
Rex leaned over and plucked up the revolver. The chubby guy in the Gators cap had climbed through the window and stood over them, leering, as Camilla rolled off her and Sara sat up, cradling her hand. She couldn’t move two of her fingers; something in her hand was broken.
“Well,” said Rex, “you tried. Now, Cammy, you are going to give me my money back. And for every thousand missing, my buddy Brody here is going to cut off one of your fingers.”
Fear shot through Sara as Camilla’s breath came in ragged bursts.
Rex scoffed. “Quit sniveling and get my—”
A fist pounded on the front door. “Police!” a deep male voice boomed. “Open up!”
Rex shot a glare at Sara. “You didn’t.”
“You promised!” Camilla wailed, seeming to forget the very recent threat of grievous bodily harm.
Sara shook her head. She hadn’t called the cops. But maybe a neighbor heard the windows shatter. Or someone on the street saw the strange man climbing to their balcony. Still, that would have been an incredibly fast response time.
Unless it’s not the police at all.
“All right, listen up,” Rex said quickly. “I’m going to have to answer the door. You’re going to tell them we’re
all fine in here. We were messing around, things got out of hand, a window got broken. You say one wrong word, and I’ll shoot this cop. Then Brody will shoot the little blonde one. Got it?”
The chubby guy, Brody, lifted the hem of his white jersey to show the black pistol he had stuffed in his pants.
The pounding fist was at the door again. “Police! Open the door!”
“Yeah, I’m coming,” Rex called as he tucked the revolver into his jacket. Sara’s mind raced. If it really was a cop, they were putting another life at risk. If it wasn’t, then whoever was at the door had no idea what was waiting for him on the other side.
Rex opened both deadbolts, took the chain off, and pulled the door open. “What?” he said brusquely.
“Hi there.” A familiar voice. He’d disguised it when he shouted through the door, but now Todd Strickland pushed past Rex and into the foyer. “I heard there was a problem here.”
“Yo, what are you doing?” Rex demanded. “Cops can’t just walk into people’s homes!”
“Oh, I’m not a cop. I’m a friend of the family.” Todd barely paid Rex any attention as he headed into the kitchen. “I just know that door is damn near impossible to break down.” Todd was thirty, with close-cropped dark hair and boyish features that clashed with his physique. He was the kind of guy that Sara might have found attractive if he was on TV, but knowing him in person only made him kind of irritating.
She did notice, with a mild amount of alarm, that his left arm was currently wrapped in a beige cast and hanging from a sling over his shoulder.
Todd glanced over at the chubby guy, Brody, who folded his thick arms to look menacing. “You okay?” he asked Sara.
She nodded, still cradling her hand.
“Let me see.” She winced as Todd took the hand gently. It was already swollen and turning purple. “Ooh. Definitely broken. Which one did it?”
She gestured to Rex behind him.
“That’s enough of this shit…” Rex reached for the revolver in his jacket.
Strickland’s left foot shot out behind him in an instant, catching Rex low in the abdomen in a mule kick. The drug dealer gasped as his eyes bugged and he fell to one knee. Without missing a beat, Strickland spun in place, planted his left leg, and in the same motion drove his right knee into Rex’s face.
