“Your bagel will be out in a minute, hon.”
“Great. Thank you.”
Knowing Delta and the people who make up the Tower will be monitoring the laptop they gave me, I thought it would be prudent to have one they can’t track. I want to be able to research on my own without somebody looking over my shoulder. At the moment I can’t trust anybody. I may not know much about myself, but I’m pretty positive that I’m not some mindless killing machine.
Aren’t you, though? Isn’t that what you used to do for a living?
“Shut up,” I growl, and the voice falls silent.
I log into my computer and stare blankly at the screen for a moment. With no idea what my name is, I do the obvious—I Google Alec Marsh. I didn’t expect to find anything and am not disappointed. There are a lot of Alec Marshes in the world, but nothing I see relates to me in any way.
The waitress drops off my bagel and walks away without a word as I’m setting up an email account for myself. That done, I use the burner phone I picked up earlier and take a picture of myself, then send it to the email address. I use it to run an image search, hoping that the search engine has facial recognition that will pull up similar images. But I come up empty. It strikes me as somewhat odd since most everybody on this planet has been in a picture that’s ended up online somewhere.
But I get nothing. It’s like my image has somehow been scrubbed from the electronic universe. It doesn’t seem possible to me. I suppose it could happen if you’ve got one of the best tech groups in the world working for you. Maybe the Agency. Or maybe the Tower. Either of them seem a likely candidate at this point.
With a sigh, I lean back in my seat, take a bite of my bagel, and think as I chew. I suppose purging my image, and any relevant details about me makes the most sense from the Tower’s point of view. I was burned. An outed spy. I’m assuming since they kept me in isolation while I recovered from whatever injuries I endured, anybody who knew me in real life thinks I’m dead.
Scrubbing all of my information provides no reminders of me. And when there are no reminders, there are no questions. People eventually forget and move on. Out of sight, out of mind.
So with nobody looking for me, and nobody asking questions for almost a year now, the other side—whoever the other side might be—thinking I’m out of play, the Tower is quietly putting me back on the board.
But why go to all this trouble for me? Why spend all this time and invest all the money it took to keep me alive? I’m sure there are hundreds, if not thousands of intelligence operatives out there they could recruit to their cause. I mean, there is no shortage of schisms within the Agency they could exploit. That much I remember clear as day.
So why me? What makes me so special? Oh sure, Delta said I was the best intelligence offer she’d ever seen. While that is certainly a nice pat on the back and an ego boost—and hell, she might actually believe it—it doesn’t explain the time, effort, and expense they’ve put into me. Not when I was apparently in a coma for nine months.
For one thing, they had no idea if I’d ever come out of it. Yeah, she said they would have pulled the plug after a year, but it still doesn’t track that they would give me that year to recover. They also had no idea what I was going to look like, even if I did come out of it.
For all they knew, I could have woken up from that long nap with even more severe brain damage. My physical and cognitive skills could have been compromised. In a way, only having my memories stripped from me is the best case scenario for what might have been.
Not being able to function probably would have earned me a bullet to the head, I have no doubt. But I still can’t understand why they would have rolled the dice on me in the first place.
Maybe it’s not solely what you can do for them, but who you know that interests them the most.
It’s an interesting thought, but ultimately meaningless. I don’t know who I am, let alone who I know. So to me, that doesn’t seem like a feasible explanation for their interest in me. It’s a sizeable investment for no discernible payoff. At least, not one that justifies the effort put into keeping me alive and hidden. Not when they can have any one of a thousand guys who don’t have my baggage carry out what should be a routine assassination.
Chapter Nine
After running around town and picking up some things I need, I stop off for dinner at a little roadside cafe called the Lobster Pot that proudly advertises the best lobster rolls in all of Maine. I order one with a side of fries and a soda, then carry my tray out to a table near the back corner of the deck.
The sun is slipping toward the horizon, casting the sky in shades of red and orange, and I feel the temperature dipping. A pleasant afternoon will soon turn into a chilly evening. I take a bite of my lobster roll and nod. I can’t say if it’s the best in all of Maine, but it’s pretty damn good.
As I eat, I plan out tomorrow’s schedule in my head. If I’m going to do this job for Delta and the Tower, I need to be prepared. Which means I’ll need to scout the area. From the file they provided me, I know that Blankenship has an estate out past the edges of town. It sits on a big plot of land close to the Appalachians.
He will be staying there until his confirmation hearings are scheduled to begin on the twenty-sixth. Blankenship has a private helipad on his property and has already booked a helicopter on the morning of the twenty-fifth. The chopper will ferry him to the Portland Jetport, where he will take a private jet down to Dulles. So I’ve got a little less than two weeks to scout, plan, and execute this op.
I take a drink of my soda, washing down my food, and start to feel uneasy about it all. I don’t like the idea of assassinating a man about to become a Supreme Court Justice without knowing why. Delta seems to think he’s a bad guy who needs to be taken out. But she’s not exactly an unbiased or reliable source. The motives of the Tower are opaque to me.
And yet, I apparently signed on to join the team. I can’t believe I would have done that if I didn’t believe in their motives and objectives. So much is murky and uncertain, but I believe in my heart that I am not an evil man. I believe I’m a good man. And although I’m pretty certain that as a soldier and a CIA spook, I’ve killed before, I have to think it was for good reasons. The right reasons. Reasons I not only knew but agreed with.
As things stand right now, I don’t know the reasons I’m taking this man out, and I don’t like that. Not one bit.
Ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to do or die.
“Great. I’m quoting Tennyson to myself now,” I grumble. “I must be going nuts.”
I finish up my meal, then carry my tray over to the trash can and dump all of the waste into it. I set the tray in the rack on top of the can and head out to my car, my mind still spinning with a million different thoughts—and trying to get the Tennyson quote out of my head. Mine is most certainly not to do or die without question.
“Tommy stop, you’re hurting me!”
The sound of a woman screaming and a child crying pulls me out of my head. I look in the direction the disturbance is coming from and see a man gripping a woman’s upper arm. She’s crying and wincing from the pain of the man dragging her across the parking lot. The woman is clutching the hand of a small girl, no more than five or six years old, dragging her along behind them.
The man looks to be about an inch or two taller than my six-foot-two frame, but he’s soft around the middle. He’s got the beginnings of thick jowls, and his face is twisted into a mask of absolute rage. His hair is dark and cut short, and he looks to have a couple days’ worth of stubble on his face.
There are a few people milling about in the parking lot of the strip mall next to the cafe just watching. I catch the woman’s eye, and she silently pleads with me to help. Anger stirs inside of me as I watch the spectacle for a minute. The man screams something unintelligible at her, his voice thick and hoarse. The woman shrinks back as if he’s about to hit her, and the little girl’s wailing gets louder. As I watch them, I get the fee
ling this isn’t their first rodeo.
Walking around my car, I step over to them. The man has his back to me and wrenches the door of his Ford F-150 open with his free hand. He pulls the woman forward as if to push her inside when he catches a glimpse of me standing there.
“Help you with somethin’?” he spits.
“Yeah, you can take your hands off her,” I reply. “Doesn’t seem to me that she wants to go with you.”
The man lets go of her arm, and he steps over to me, a scowl on his face. The woman takes the little girl and puts the truck between her and the man—Tommy, I think she called him. He leans forward so that our faces are scant inches apart. His breath, a warm, foul combination of beer and maybe pickles, washes over me.
“Don’t seem to me that this is none of your business,” he sneers.
“See, there’s where I disagree with you,” I reply. “Having to watch you put your hands on this woman makes it my business.”
“That so?”
I nod. “Yeah. That’s so.”
Tommy puffs himself up and tries to use his height and ample girth to intimidate me. He stares down at me, narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw, his face red and starting to border on purple as he huffs and puffs. I smirk and shake my head.
“You really don’t want to do this,” I tell him.
“You really shouldn’t be stickin’ your nose into another man’s business.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be airing your business out in public like this,” I say.
I cut a glance over at the woman. She’s in her late twenties, with sandy blonde hair and green eyes that look dull and lifeless. Tommy seems to have stripped the shine of life from them. She’s a pretty girl, and it’s a shame to see that.
Her little girl clings to her, burying her face into her mom’s skirt. The woman has her arm wrapped protectively around her, eyes wide, face ashen, and a look of absolute terror on her face. I know if I don’t step in on her behalf, nobody will.
The trouble is, I need to keep a low profile and can’t afford to draw eyes to myself. Given the reason I’m in town, it would be a damn foolish thing to do. But then, I can’t turn my back on a woman who so obviously needs help. I won’t stand by while this monster lays hands on her.
“I’m gonna give you one last chance to walk away,” he growls.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’re gonna regret it.”
I chuckle softly. Tommy’s doing his best to try and scare me off with nothing more than a hard glare. I can see in the man’s eyes that he doesn’t want to fight me. He poses and postures, he huffs, and he puffs, but he’s not going to blow anybody’s house down. The man tries to act tough, but he’s a bully. A coward. And he will back down from anybody who stands up to him.
“I ain’t gonna tell you again,” Tommy seethes. “Walk away. This ain’t none of your concern.”
“Actually, I think you need to take a walk,” I tell him. “You need to get some air and cool down.”
“Okay, that’s it.”
His punch is slow, lazy, and telegraphed. A blind man could have seen it coming from a mile off. I sidestep his haymaker with ease and grab his wrist, bending it backwards in a quick, efficient motion. Tommy lets out a bark of pain.
A small, cruel smile touches my lips as I keep bending, forcing Tommy down to his knees. He’s howling in agony as I keep the pressure on.
“Now Tommy,” I say. “Take your keys out of your pocket.”
“Screw you.”
I give his wrist another sharp tweak. His eyes start to water, and his face turns a dark shade of scarlet.
“Keys, Tommy,” I continue. “Now.”
He digs into his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys, and they clatter to the ground. Keeping hold of his wrist, I squat down and pick them up. I toss them over to the woman, who snatches them out of mid-air with cat-like reflexes, her eyes wide in shock.
“Go,” I say without turning to her. “Get you and your little one out of here.”
She scrambles in through the passenger side door, quickly buckling her child into the seat. She fires up the truck, the engine roaring to life with a throaty growl. Tommy is punctuating his cries of pain with a string of expletives—some of them even I haven’t heard before.
The tires on the truck chirp on the pavement as she pulls out of the parking spot, then squeal as she throws it into drive. She speeds off into the oncoming night. Hopefully, away from this asshole for good.
“You’re gonna pay for this,” Tommy grunts.
When I see the taillights of the truck disappear around a bend in the road, I let go of his wrist. At the same time, I deliver a vicious kick to Tommy’s midsection. The man folds over on himself and falls to his side on the pavement with a meaty thump. He clutches his stomach, gasping and sucking in long, shuddering breaths.
I squat down beside the whimpering, blubbering man, a grin colder than ice stretching my lips.
“Now, Tommy,” I say. “We need to talk.”
“S - S - screw you,” he stammers.
The big man rolls around on the ground, holding onto his midsection like his guts are about to fall out. Reaching down, I grab his ear and give it a vicious twist. He howls in outrage and pain.
“You need to learn a thing or two about respect, Tommy. You should show respect to somebody who is literally holding your life in his hands,” I advise him. “And you should certainly learn to respect a woman. That includes not putting your hands on them.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
I lean forward, fixing him with my most menacing glare. “I’m the guy who’s going to be keeping an eye on you to make sure you’ve learned some respect here today,” I say, my voice low. “I would hate to have to give you another lesson, Tommy. Because trust me, this will feel like a friendly little chat in comparison.”
Satisfied that I got my message across, I stand up and deliver another hard kick to his midsection just to reinforce my point. I leave him there, curled in the fetal position, alternately wailing in pain, and hurling expletives at me as I walk back to my car. I glance over at the two women who had been watching from the strip mall. They both applaud and give me a thumbs up.
You won’t be here forever. After you do this job, you’ll have to leave. And what will happen to that poor woman then?
I ignore the voice and get into my car.
I fire up the engine and head back to the motel to get some sleep. I want to start early tomorrow morning.
Chapter Ten
It’s just after dawn when I pull into the parking lot. A thick mist clings to the ground, spreading and billowing out like something straight out of a horror movie. I shut off the engine and climb out of the car. I do some stretches to loosen myself up. It also gives me a chance to survey the area. There are no other cars in the lot and nobody milling about. I’m alone. Which is a good thing. I drain the last of the cheap gas station coffee and toss the cup into a trashcan nearby.
Walking to the rear, I pop the trunk and pull my pack out, making one last quick check of the inventory inside. I take a long swallow from the canteen to wash the bitter, burned taste of the coffee out of my mouth before tucking it back into the side pocket, and then sling the straps up over my shoulders and adjust the weight.
I put my foot up on the rear bumper of the car and tie the laces on my hiking boot while surreptitiously glancing around the parking lot, making sure I’m alone. I’m wearing blue jeans, a thick plaid flannel, and a ballcap pulled down low. To anybody else, I’ll simply look like a guy out for an early morning hike. I’ll blend in with any other hikers or campers creeping around out here in the woods.
I have a sudden flash of memory—a guy my age with blonde hair and blue eyes. He’s big. Fit. Tough looking. I can’t recall his name, but I know without a doubt that this was one of my special forces brothers. I remember him saying that wearing civilian clothing to blend in is called urban camouflage. The memory, as innocuous as
it is, brings a smile to my face.
It’s small and probably insignificant, but that memory is just another crack in the wall that’s holding all of my memories back. I choose to take it as an encouraging sign. Maybe, just maybe, I will be able to recover them all. Maybe I’ll remember who I am, after all.
Satisfied that I’m alone and unobserved, I close the trunk, lock the car, and head down the trailhead. I mapped out the route last night. From this parking lot, it’s roughly two and a half miles to Blankenship’s estate. As I follow the path, I pay keen attention to my surroundings. I don’t expect to run into trouble, but I won’t be caught off guard either.
About a mile from the parking lot, the trail branches off, leading east. I veer off the trail and head west, picking my way around rocks, fallen trees, and through thick undergrowth. I commit my path and surroundings to memory as best as I can. I need to have as good a lay of the land as I can since I plan to come back through here at night.
I scan the trees and ground around me. The trees and brush are thick, and the woods are filled with animals. Which makes electronic surveillance this far out unlikely, but it’s not something I am going to leave to chance, so I scan thoroughly. I would rather be overprepared than underprepared.
Thankfully though, I don’t see anything that gives away the presence of electronic equipment. Good. That’s good.
I see the edge of the tree line in front of me and slow down, looking around more carefully. I still see no surveillance equipment, so I creep to the edge of the forest and squat down behind a thick screen of bushes. I slip my pack off my shoulders and set it down at my feet, pulling out a pair of binoculars. Raising them to my eyes, I sweep the rear grounds of Blankenship’s estate.
“There you are, Judge.”
Blankenship stands on a second-story balcony with another man. The man with the judge is younger, with dark hair, and is wearing a well-tailored suit. Probably his assistant. They’re talking and having a cup of coffee in the morning air. Without a parabolic mic, I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I imagine it’s about the upcoming confirmation hearing, which makes it unimportant to me.
Amnesia Page 5
