Amnesia

by Michael Cross

  Once I’m done here, I should secure a room somewhere for the night.

  The sky is thick with clouds that blot out the moonlight. It’s as dark as it was when I woke up in that room a couple of months ago. I pull to a stop on a dark, deserted street in Auburn’s warehouse district. I shut off the engine and climb out of the car, scanning the area carefully. Seeing nobody lurking about, I shut the door and head down the street.

  The warehouse I’m looking for is just ahead of me. 2413 Halstead. I step into the shadowed doorway of a building just across the street and melt into the darkness, keeping watch on it for a few minutes. My nerves are tingling and a familiar rush of excited adrenaline courses through me.

  The warehouse is dark and in ill repair. The windows up high all look to be broken out and the lower ones are boarded up. From where I stand, I can see deep fissures in the brick facades. I can’t imagine this warehouse sees a lot of business these days.

  I keep an eye out as I cross the street and dart down an alley that runs alongside the warehouse, moving deftly around piles of garbage and broken bottles. I find a doorway another twenty yards down, the door that had once sealed it torn from its hinges long ago.

  “Yeah, this isn’t sketchy at all,” I mutter to myself.

  The darkness beyond the threshold is nearly absolute. The dim light filtering in through the high windows doesn’t reach the floor of the warehouse. I stand in the doorway, my eyes straining in the utter dark and silence. I am completely on edge, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. For all I know, this could be a trap.

  But there it is: a flashlight flares to life in the far corner. It clicks off and flashes twice more. Pulling the small penlight from my pocket, I repeat the signal and pause.

  “Come in,” a man calls out.

  I step through the doorway and cross the empty warehouse floor, my footsteps echoing impossibly loud into the night. I somehow manage to avoid the empty crates that litter the floor and make my way toward the man.

  “This is all a bit cliché, don’t you think?” I ask.

  “That’s far enough,” he says.

  I stop and try to peer through the darkness. He is but a silhouette against the shadows standing about twenty feet away from me. There’s something familiar about his voice, though I’m not sure what. Was this the guy who recruited me? Still holding the penlight, I start to raise it when his voice stops me.

  “No lights,” he growls.

  I lower my hand and slip the light into my pocket with a frustrated sigh. I don’t like being kept in the dark—figuratively or literally. A moment of silence descends over us, the air crackling with tension. My senses are heightened, and my body taut, ready to move. I’m suddenly not sure if he’s here to help me or kill me.

  “So, what is this all about?” I ask.

  “Your orders.”

  A heavy duffel bag flies out of the darkness and hits the ground in front of me. It’s only then that I realize the man is not alone. As I peer harder around me, I see two other figures I didn’t notice before. They’re both as silent and still as statues. I give myself a swift, silent kick in the ass. I should have seen them. I’m suddenly racked with the feeling that before I was hurt, when I was on top of my game, I would have noticed them.

  Clearly, my instincts aren’t as sharp as they need to be if I’m going to be doing fieldwork. It’s only because we’re all ostensibly on the same team that I’m not lying on the floor with a bullet in my skull right now. It rattles me, but I do my best to avoid showing it.

  “What’s in the bag?” I ask.

  “What you need to get started.”

  “What are my orders?”

  He scoffs. “They’re in the bag,” he says. “Frankly, me and the boys here don’t think you can do it. Damaged goods.”

  “Damaged goods, huh?”

  “Frankly, I think you’re more of a liability than an asset at this point,” he replies. “There’s no talkin’ sense into the High Priestess though. She seems to think you’re a combination of James Bond and the Terminator. I just don’t see it.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say. “Charming.”

  “I’m not here to pump you up,” he snaps. “I’m here to deliver the bag. Nothing more.”

  “I guess your part in this play is done then,” I say.

  “Looks that way,” he says. “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  A manila envelope flies out of the darkness and lands on the bag. I look at it for a moment before he speaks.

  “Just remember,” he whispers. “We all have something to lose. All of us.”

  I stare at the envelope, wondering what’s in it as a long moment of silence passes between us. His part in this melodrama is certainly over.

  “Any other useful nuggets of information or motivational quotes you want to pass along?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” the shadowy man says. “Don’t screw this up.”

  Without another word, the three men turn and walk out of the warehouse, leaving me alone with the bag and the envelope. I pick them up and leave through the other door and head back to the Charger, dropping the bag into the back seat. I climb behind the wheel and fire it up, pulling away from the curb and driving back to the motel.

  Chapter Seven

  I unload the duffel Mr. Charming gave me in the warehouse and lay everything out on the bed to take stock of it all. A driver’s license in the name of Alec Marsh, along with debit and credit cards to go along with it. I assume the ID is fake, but hell, my name really could be Alec Marsh for all I know.

  There’s an AR-15 and a Glock 22 with silencers, extra mags, and ammunition. There’s a couple pairs of dark tactical pants and long-sleeved shirts, a pair of burner cell phones, night vision goggles, and a few other odds and ends. But it’s the manila envelope, a folder, and laptop that draws my attention.

  I gather them all up, carry them over to the table, and sit down. The first thing I do is open the laptop and turn it on. As it boots up, I open the manila envelope and slide out a photograph. It’s a candid shot of a dark-haired woman and a young boy in front of a statue. They’re both smiling at the camera, looking like they’re having the time of their lives. They’re standing in front of a beautiful old cathedral, but I don’t recognize either of them or where the picture was taken. Nor do I know what it has to do with me.

  “Who in the hell are you?” I whisper to myself.

  I flip the picture over, but there’s no writing on it, so I turn it back and study the faces of the woman and the child. I feel the faint tickle of familiarity, but I can’t say why. I sit back, my eyes glued to it, searching for some clue. My eyes roaming every background detail, every inch of the photo. Obviously, it must have some connection to me; otherwise Mr. Charming wouldn’t have given it to me and made that not so subtle threat.

  I glance down at my hand. I’m not wearing a ring, nor do I see tan lines that indicate I ever had. But then, if I was in a coma for nine months, that’s more than enough time for it to have faded. But if I was married, if I had a child, I would think that I would recognize them. I would think staring at their faces would jar something loose in me. Or at least give me more than a slight tickle of recognition—one that could be all in my head because I’m looking for a connection to somebody or something in my life.

  As I continue to stare at the picture and feel absolutely nothing, I think I figure out what’s going on here.

  “Goddamn psyops,” I curse.

  It has to be a psychological tactic used to keep me in line. They obviously want me to think I’ve got something to lose—a wife and child in this case—if I don’t comply with their wishes. A faint memory emerges from the sludge in my mind, and I remember doing the same thing to assets I tried to turn while I was with the Agency. Make them think they had something important to lose.

  It’s a smart play, and obviously, since I don’t have a past I can remember, these assholes could just invent a histor
y for me that I can’t outright refute. But still—what if this isn’t just an invented history? What if it’s real?

  I quiet the voice in my head. I can’t afford to lose focus on what-ifs and maybes right now. I set the photograph aside and pull the folder over and flip it open. I sit still, gripped by shock for a moment as I stare at the photo of the man who’s looking back at me in his full 8x10, glossy color glory. I know who this is.

  “Son of a bitch,” I whisper softly.

  His name is Miller Blankenship. Harvard educated, a law degree from Yale, the poster boy for apple-pie American values. His dark hair is graying at the temples, his eyes are a cauliflower blue, his skin has a healthy tan, and his perfect smile is blindingly white. He has that wholesome, family-values charm and appeal. If you were to call central casting for the perfect white-picket-fence husband and father, this is who you’d get. And according to the file I’m perusing, is about to be named for a seat on the Supreme Court.

  I can’t remember my own name, but I know exactly who this guy is and what he’s all about. How is that even possible?

  A chime sounds on the computer, and I look over to see a secure connection is being made. A moment later, after the encryption program is engaged, the familiar silhouette comes up on the screen.

  “I was told you received your package,” the High Priestess starts.

  “Yeah. Real nice guy delivered it,” I respond. “He and I got on really well.”

  “He’s not paid to be your friend,” she insists. “He’s paid to follow orders.”

  “So, was it your order to drop a threat to keep me in line?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I hear the sincerity in her voice—she really has no idea about the picture or the threat to my supposed family. This guy was either acting on his own—or on the orders of somebody else. Either way, I decide to abandon the picture angle with her for now, since she’s not going to have any useful intel on who the woman and kid are.

  “Nothing, I guess he’s just an asshole,” I sigh. “Anyway, I have the package.”

  “Excellent,” she says. “Anything else you need; I trust you can acquire on your own.”

  I look at the photo of a smiling Miller Blankenship, wondering what he’s done to draw the ire of the Tower. I know his bio for reasons I don’t understand, but I don’t know why I’m looking at his dossier.

  “Why the greenlight on the good judge here, Delta?” I ask pointedly.

  “The reason is not your concern,” she says, her voice cool. “All you need to concern yourself with is doing the job.”

  “Maybe I need more details to do the job properly."

  “Everything you need is in the dossier.”

  I glare at the High Priestess, trying to somehow discern an identifying feature in the silhouette. As ever, no luck.

  “Does he have a wife? Kids?”

  I know the answer, but I need to hear her say it out loud.

  “Married, two adult children,” she says. “That information has already been—”

  “So you want me to destroy this family, and I don’t even get to know why?” I interrupt.

  “You are not paid to know why,” she snaps. “You are paid to follow orders.”

  I let out a low whistle. “This is a big ask—”

  “It’s not an ask. It’s an order,” she cuts in. “And it’s certainly no worse than some of the things you did with the Agency.”

  “I’ll have to take your word on that,” I reply. “But as hazy as my memory about my time with the Agency is, I just have this feeling that I always understood why a target was greenlighted.”

  “We don’t work like the CIA, Echo. And not all of our targets are foreign agents,” she replies. “Information is kept on a need to know basis. It’s not the time to debate moral ambiguities or personal bouts of conscience.”

  “And if I tell you I need to know?”

  “I say you don’t,” she snaps. “When we green light an op, we expect our field operatives to carry out their assignment.”

  I adjust the volume on the computer before getting to my feet. I pace the motel room—back and forth, back and forth. This isn’t a bout of conscience I’m dealing with. Strangely enough, I don’t feel the least bit hesitant about the fact that I’ve been tasked with killing somebody. I feel no sense of trepidation or—moral ambiguity. The only thing that does give me pause is not knowing why.

  “You say you know me. You know my record,” I ask. “From what you’ve read, do you believe I’m the kind of man who lets conscience get in the way of completing a mission?”

  “Echo, this is non-negotiable. You do not need to understand why,” she replies. “You need only concern yourself with carrying out your mission. Do I need to remind you what is at stake for you?”

  A white-hot surge of anger flashes through me. I level a glare at the computer screen, wishing I could reach through it and throttle her.

  “No, you don’t need to remind me,” I spit.

  “Good. Then get it done.”

  Not that she’s ever been a ray of sunshine in the couple of months I’ve known her, but Delta seems more tense and curt than usual. I have to think she’s getting squeezed by her superiors for one reason or another.

  “There’s something else you should know,” she says.

  “There always is.”

  She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Judge Blankenship is scheduled for his confirmation hearing on the twenty-sixth,” she says. “Which gives you about two weeks to scout and prepare. Your window will begin on the evening of the twenty-fourth, when Blankenship’s wife will fly early to DC, leaving him alone for two nights.”

  “Two weeks to plan and execute a sensitive op,” I frown. “That sure doesn’t sound like a lot of time.”

  “You’re taking out one target,” she fires back. “Not planning the invasion of a foreign embassy.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll make it work.”

  “See that you do.”

  The screen goes dark. I sit down at the table and poke around on the computer but see that it’s pretty stripped down. I also have to think they’ll be monitoring anything and everything I do on it. Which means that since I don’t like being on a leash that short, I need to find a workaround.

  After loading all of my new credit cards and ID into the wallet they gave me, I slip it in my pocket, grab the car keys, and head into town.

  Chapter Eight

  Auburn, Maine, population thirty thousand, isn’t exactly a thriving tourist mecca. It has a distinctly Mom and Pop feel to it. It seems like the kind of place where everybody knows everybody else—and everybody knows everybody else’s business. I can’t deny there’s something charming about the place, but I don’t think I’d particularly enjoy having everybody up in my business like that.

  Really? You used to dream about settling down in an idyllic little town like this.

  The thought passes through my mind and gives me pause. It’s a woman’s voice in my head, though not Delta’s. I get the idea that it’s the voice of the brunette in the picture Mr. Charming gave me and chuckle to myself. Even though it strikes a familiar chord inside of me, I dismiss it as my mind grasping at something to ground me, to provide me with a connection to the world around me.

  Something inside of me wants to remember the woman and child—hell, it wants to remember everything—and so it’s building false connections in my head. To me, that seems the most plausible explanation.

  “Either that or I’m going batshit crazy,” I mutter.

  I pull into the parking lot of an OfficeMax, pleasantly surprised to find one since this town seems to thrive on family-run businesses. I park the car, get out, and head into the store. It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for. I use my Alec Marsh credit cards to pay for a new laptop, a bag, and a burner phone, then take it to their computer service department where I get it set up and ready for use.

  If they’re monitoring my credit card usage, they�
�ll see what I bought and will probably know why. I was supposedly a spy in my past life, so this is pretty much SOP. But if they question me, I don’t care. They can come repossess it themselves.

  After finishing at the OfficeMax, I don’t relish the idea of returning to the stuffy motel room, so I find a coffee house. It’s a beautiful day, and I’d rather not be cooped up.

  I grab a seat at the far end of the patio. The sky is a stunning shade of azure, and fat, fluffy white clouds drift lazily overhead. It’s a cool day, but it’s definitely not unpleasant, and I relish breathing the clean air here.

  Maybe that stray thought was right, and I really did think about settling down in a place like this once upon a time.

  You did. It was your dream after you got out of the craziness, that was your old life.

  I clear my throat, not particularly enjoying having this new constant companion in my head. I know it’s just my memories trying to break through that barrier in my brain, keeping me from remembering.

  I welcome it. It shows that my brain is working and trying to help me. But the fact that it’s manifesting as the voice of a woman who is a stranger to me—though one Mr. Charming wants me to believe otherwise—is irritating the hell out of me.

  “What can I get you, hon?”

  I look up to see a middle-aged woman with hair that’s more gray than anything and pulled into a severe bun staring down at me, a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes on her face. She’s tall and thin, with deep lines etched into her face and the look of a woman who’s lived a hard life.

  “Coffee. Black,” I tell her. “And a bagel, toasted with cream cheese, please.”

  “You got it.”

  She disappears into the shop, and I pull the laptop out of the computer bag I picked up while I was there. I set it down on the table in front of me and fire it up as the woman sets my coffee down on the table for me.