“Do you remember what happened to you?” asked Josh.
“Mr. Winters, please...” said Julie, interrupting before Jericho had a chance to respond. “I must insist that you let this man rest. He’s been through an incredible trauma. He needs time.”
“I understand that,” he replied firmly, looking at her, “I do. But time isn’t a luxury we have right now. He’s a big boy, I’m sure he’ll manage.”
Jericho let out a heavy sigh and closed his eye for a moment, focusing his mind and trying to remain calm. When he opened it again, he fixed Josh with a hard stare.
“I remember being in Colombia,” he began, sounding a little disoriented. “I was on a... on an airstrip. Something went wrong… I don’t…”
Josh held his hands up, and gestured for Jericho to take it easy.
“It’s alright,” he said, his British tone softening. “Relax, mate. I’m sorry to push you, it’s just we have a limited timeframe to work with, and you’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Rest up—I’ll be back soon to see how you’re doing.” He turned, nodding once to Nurse Fisher, and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.
She set about monitoring the various machines, checking on Jericho’s vitals. He regarded her quietly as she worked. He thought she was attractive, in a subtle way. She wore her brown hair tied up by a clip, and her hazel eyes darted back and forth, scanning the information with practiced efficiency.
“How did I get here?” he asked her after a moment.
She looked at him quickly, before turning back to the machines, as if unsure of what to say. “It’s... it’s really not my place...” she stuttered, regrettably. “I’m sorry, but it’s my job to make sure you recover. Mr. Winters can tell you the rest.”
Jericho leaned over, placing his hand gently on her forearm. “Please,” he implored. “I need to know what happened to me. To the mission...”
Julie held her breath for a moment. Jericho looked into her eyes, and could see the internal debate, presumably over how much information she should divulge. Finally, she spoke.
“All I know is, you came in here a week ago,” she said, with a sigh. “You’d received a gunshot wound to the right side of your cranium.”
Jericho raised an eyebrow and relaxed back into his pillows, letting go of Julie’s arm and gazing ahead of him, staring at the TV, but not really seeing what was on it.
“Huh...” he managed.
“It’s a miracle you’re still alive,” she continued. “The wound itself was bad enough, but you lost a lot of blood. You were flown here, and operated on immediately upon arrival.”
Jericho blinked slowly with his one good eye, taking a deep breath.
“How am I not... dead?” he asked.
“The bullet penetrated your forehead, above your brow line. It narrowly missed your brain, essentially grazing the bone. The damage was extensive to the area, but ultimately not lethal to you. We were able to insert a metal strip, which will hold the bone together securely until it’s had time to fully heal.”
“So, I have a... metal plate inside my head?”
“You do, yes. But it’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise.” She smiled weakly. “Listen, you need to rest. There’ll be plenty of time later for you to worry about what’s happened, but you need to get your strength back before you do anything.”
Jericho nodded slowly and closed his eye once more, trying to make sense of everything.
Who shot me in the head? The target was unarmed...
He struggled to remember, but couldn’t—there was a black hole in his mind where his memories should be. He took some deep breaths, and soon drifted back to sleep.
13:46 PDT
When he awoke a few hours later, he found it much easier than before, and far less disturbing, having avoided any further nightmares.
He pushed himself upright in bed again, with more of his natural strength having returned. He moved his right arm, turning his hand and clenching his fist, feeling like his old self.
As he looked around the room again, he realized he was struggling to gauge the distance of things. It took him a few moments to remember he could still only open his right eye for some reason. Tentatively, he moved his hand up to his face, slowly pressing his fingers against his skin. He moved them gently across, feeling the bandage around his head and over his eye.
“What the...?” he said quietly.
Just then, the door to his room opened, startling him. He dropped his arm and looked over as Josh entered the room.
“You’ve been out for over three hours,” he said, as he approached the bed. “How are you feeling?” His British accent sounded excessively cheerful, under the circumstances, which Jericho found mildly irritating.
He took a deep breath before replying. “Better,” he said. He moved his hand back to his face momentarily. “What happened to me?” he asked.
Josh smiled apologetically. “That’s a... big question,” he replied. “One step at a time, eh? Let’s get you dressed and into a conference room. I think it’s about time you were de-briefed in full.”
On cue, Julie appeared behind him in the doorway, holding some clothes in her arms. She stepped inside, moved past Josh, and stood next to the bed.
“I’ve brought you something to change into,” she said, raising her arms slightly and gesturing to the new outfit. “They’re not exactly the height of fashion or anything...”
Jericho flashed a polite smile. “That’s fine, thanks.” He looked back at Josh. “I want answers. No bullshit.”
Josh nodded. “Fair comment... I haven’t fed you any so far, and I have no intention of starting now,” he said.
Jericho took a moment, and then swung his legs out from under the covers, resting his feet on the cold tiles. Placing his hands either side of him on the edge of the bed, he gradually put more pressure on his legs, until he felt comfortable enough to stand. Slowly, he did, inhaling as he stood to his full, impressive height.
At six-five, Jericho was an intimidating sight. He wore hospital scrubs on his legs, which were at least two sizes too small. His bare torso was incredible, with large, well-defined muscles on every inch of it. A small network of scars decorated his otherwise impeccable chest and abdomen.
His huge arms were adorned with extravagant tattoos. On his right was a very detailed Chinese dragon, which ran the full length—the head covered his shoulder, and the body wrapped itself around, all the way down, with the tail finishing in a circle around his wrist. On his left was an equally detailed, and slightly more impressive, Renaissance piece, complete with images of clouds and Cherubs. Michelangelo would have been proud of it.
His entire body was almost triangular in shape; his broad shoulders narrowing to a natural eight-pack on his waist.
Jericho glanced at Josh, who he estimated was close to six-one or six-two. The Brit was looking him up and down, and had a weird smile on his face.
“Jesus... you are a big fella, aren’t you?” he said.
Without replying, Jericho turned to Julie, who held out the clothes to him. He noticed her gaze never left his own, seemingly less impressed with his physique than Josh was.
He took the outfit from her, dropping the items on the bed behind him. He pointed to the bandage covering his head. “Can I take this off?” he asked them.
They exchanged a silent glance, which Jericho was quick to notice and interpreted as concern, though he said nothing.
“Your wounds are still healing,” said Julie, finally. “We’ll assess how well you’re doing later, but for now I need you to keep them on.”
Jericho nodded and turned toward the bed, picking up the T-shirt from the small pile of clothes. He pulled it on over his head, slowly feeding each arm through the short sleeves before tugging it down over his body. It was a tight fit.
He picked up the beige cargo pants and paused, looking over his shoulder at both of them in turn.
“Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing to the pants, signaling his
need for privacy.
Josh smiled. “I’ll be outside when you’re ready.”
He stepped outside into the corridor, reaching behind him and holding the door open for Julie, who let her silent gaze hold Jericho’s a second longer than was necessary before following.
Alone in the room he’d apparently spent the last week or so occupying, Jericho sat on the edge of the bed, quickly getting dressed. After he’d finished lacing his boots, he paused for a moment before standing, his hands gently feeling the bandage around his head and over his left eye again with an unavoidable curiosity. He ran his fingers across his forehead, as if expecting to feel metal beneath them.
He moved a hand to his left eye, but stopped himself from touching it. He had no idea what damage had been caused, though he suspected he wasn’t going to like any answer he was given, should he ask.
Finally, he stood and stretched, moving his arms out to the sides and easing them back. He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. Josh was waiting for him, leaning against the wall opposite with one leg tucked up behind him.
“All set?” he asked as Jericho appeared.
“I want to know everything,” he replied. “Like I said before—no bullshit. If you lie to me, or hide anything from me, I’ll know. And bandage or no bandage, I will beat the shit outta you, understand?”
Josh seemed to suppress a smile as he nodded. “You’re just like him...” he muttered cryptically as he pushed off the wall and set off walking down the clean, gray corridor, toward an elevator at the far end.
“Just like who?” asked Jericho, confused.
Josh spun to face him, continuing to walk backward, smiling. “Come on, big guy, we don’t have all day.”
14:18 PDT
The conference room on the fourth floor looked out over the vast expanse of GlobaTech’s headquarters, located at the base of a small mountain range. The entire area was roughly the size of a small town, and was teeming with activity.
Jericho was standing by the window, squinting in the glare of the bright afternoon sun, as he looked down at hundreds of GlobaTech operatives all marching across the compound in groups, and massive trucks navigating the small network of roads within the enclosed community, transporting weapons and technology between different buildings.
Behind him, Josh was sitting at the end of a conference table, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head and his feet resting up on the desk.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he said, rhetorically.
Jericho looked over at him and shrugged. “Looks like any other military base,” he replied. “It’s just this one can do whatever it wants, I guess.”
Josh smiled. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? But while we might not answer to any colonels or the president here, we do have a board of directors, and a shitload of corporate sponsors, which, believe it or not, is actually much scarier.”
The door behind him opened, and another man walked in, dressed similarly to Josh—smart and casual, with a shirt tucked into his jeans. Jericho recognized him immediately, and didn’t understand at first why he was there.
The man extended his hand. “Jericho Stone,” he said, with a distinctive Texan drawl. “It’s damn good to see you back among the living, son. I’m—”
“Secretary Schultz,” interrupted Jericho, shaking his hand. “I didn’t expect to see you here...”
Schultz smiled. “Call me Ryan. I’ve not been the Secretary of Defense for a while now.” He gestured to one of the chairs around the table. “I’m lending a hand around here for the time being—God knows they need all the help they can get at the moment. Take a seat, son”
Jericho did, sitting with his back to the window, and nearest to the door. Old habits of planning your exit long before you needed it. He caught Josh staring at him, somewhat curiously, and frowned before looking at Schultz, who had taken a seat on the opposite side to him, near his colleague.
To his left, on the wall facing the table was a large TV screen with a camera mounted just above it for video conferencing. Apart from that and the table, the room was devoid of features or decoration.
Jericho glanced over his shoulder, out the window, as he heard a chopper flying low overhead. He saw it begin its descent, but couldn’t see from his seat where it actually landed.
He was impressed with the facilities, and found himself wondering why it looked so busy. He expected a fair amount of hustle and bustle as standard, but he thought all the activity outside seemed excessive.
Schultz leaned forward, resting his arms on the table and clasping his hands together, looking at Jericho. “Son, I’m just gonna get straight to it, because we’re short on time and long on problems.”
Jericho nodded. “Good,” he said. “I’ve already said to your friend here,” he gestured to Josh, “if you lie to me, it’ll make me angry—which would be... unfortunate for everyone.”
“Would we not like you when you’re angry?” asked Josh, with a wry smile and deadpan expression.
Jericho glared at him, subconsciously tensing his considerable arm muscles, as he felt his frustration slowly giving way to anger.
Josh quickly held his hands up and chuckled. “I’m just kidding,” he said. “Sorry. It’s a force of habit.”
Jericho stared at him for a moment, and then took a deep breath, relaxing.
"What do you remember about what happened?” asked Schultz.
Jericho frowned as he fought to recall how the mission in Colombia went down. Vague silhouettes of memories floated around inside his mind, but everything remained stubbornly unclear.
“Nothing concrete,” he said, regrettably. “Just flashes.”
“Well, tell us what you do remember, and we’ll try to fill in the blanks,” added Josh.
Jericho tilted his head slightly, regarding each of the men in turn before his gaze settled on the British man. Josh Winters looked youthful, with his neatly styled short, blond hair, but his tired eyes betrayed his age.
“Sounds to me like you already know what happened... Who are you people?” he asked him. “Really?”
“I told you, we’re GlobaTech Industries—probably the biggest PMC in the world,” replied Josh.
“I know that, but why are you helping me?”
“Because you were left for dead by the people you worked for, and I can hazard a pretty good guess as to why. I personally thought it would be best all round if we could protect someone with your credentials.”
“What for?”
“Because my spider sense is telling me you’re one of the good guys, and that you want to do the right thing. I think we can help each other.”
“Spider sense?” he said, with mild disbelief. “What are you, five?”
Josh smiled. “It’s just one of my things. I like pop culture references—no situation is complete without one.”
“You’re a very strange man.”
“It’s been said,” he shrugged.
Jericho shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sitting up straighter, and massaging the base of his neck, which had started to ache. “I was on a mission...” he began. “A known terrorist had stolen a laptop from a CIA asset, and my unit and I were sent to capture him and retrieve the computer, and then… dispose of his body.”
“Was that your mission brief?” Josh asked. “That the man you were sent after was a terrorist?”
Jericho nodded, glazing over momentarily as he recalled segments of the conversation with the man in Colombia.
“He said he wasn’t,” he replied, frowning as more previously repressed details came flooding to the forefront of his mind as he spoke. “He said he was working for... for you.”
Josh nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes, he was. Do you remember his name?”
Jericho let out a short breath. “Adrian Hell.”
“That’s right. So what exactly did your brief say about him?”
“Very little, from what I remember. Just that he was on the Terrorist Watch List, and h
e was a hitman.”
Josh nodded again. “Well, he is—sorry... was, a hitman. He retired.”
“You know him?”
“He’s my best friend,” he said, without hesitation. “I used to work with him, handling his contracts and his finances.”
“What, and you went from running an assassin to working in the private sector?” Jericho asked; the shock and instinctive disdain evident in his voice.
“That’s right. That’s a long story for another day, but I can promise you one thing: he’s not a terrorist. Now, in the interest of time, let me summarize everything that’s happened for you. An organization tried to recruit Adrian to work for them. When he refused, they sent waves of people to kill him—and he sent them all back, dead.”
“What does that have to do with my mission?” asked Jericho, as a full-blown headache gradually took hold. He was struggling to understand what he was being told.
Schultz cleared his throat. “The man you were sent to capture did steal a laptop, but it wasn’t from a CIA asset, like your briefing said. It was, in fact, taken from a goddamn terrorist sonofabitch.”
“Nicely put,” said Josh, smiling. “Poetic, as always, Ryan.” He looked at Jericho. “The laptop contained information about a government satellite, codenamed Project: Cerberus. You heard of it?”
Jericho shrugged. “Only what was made public about it. It was a government-funded satellite designed to monitor all communications within the United States, to track any potential terrorist threat before it happened.”
Schultz nodded at Josh, and then looked at Jericho. “That’s right. Straight off the disclaimer... Now, you received a new order from your superiors, specifically telling you to ignore any new leads on the whereabouts of the laptop and kill Adrian, didn’t you?” he asked rhetorically.
Jericho nodded.
“Yet, you didn’t. Why?”
“It didn’t feel right,” he explained. “My gut was telling me to believe what your friend was saying, even though it made no sense. And when the order came through, it set alarm bells ringing, so I tried to find out more information. I don’t remember what he said, though.”
D.E.A.D. Till I Die: An Action Thriller (GlobaTech Book 1) Page 3
