Copyright © 2020 by Michael Cross
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Mission Mayhem
Michael Cross
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Author’s Note
Also by Michael Cross
Chapter One
If this road trip has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t have what it takes to be a long-haul truck driver. It’s been a long road out of Minneapolis. But so far, I’ve logged twenty hours on the road, six more when I stopped to catch a little sleep, and another three hours for stops for food and to stretch my legs. And I’ve still got a ways to go yet before I reach my rendezvous point in Tucson.
I have to say though, sunrises in Arizona are a beautiful thing. The way the early morning sun hits the endless vistas of red rock and scrubland in the desert, coupled with a sky painted in vibrant shades of pink and purple, is simply breathtaking. I roll down the window and let some of the fresh, dry, and warm desert air in. Despite the long hours on the road, it gets me feeling invigorated. Kind of refreshed.
On the far horizon to the southwest, I see a thick line of dark clouds moving in. It seems an apt metaphor for where I’m at in my head right now: blue skies right in front of me, but there’s a storm on the horizon. And judging by how black those clouds are, it’s going to be a nasty one.
All things considered though, I’m in a strangely decent mood. I feel better than I probably have any right to, given the circumstances. But rather than dwell on it, I figure I’ll ride it out and try to enjoy it. I’m pretty sure that’s what Justice would tell me to do. Honestly, there seem to be too few moments of peace and tranquility in my life right now, so I’m going to take her advice and soak it all in while I can.
As I sing along with Pink Floyd on the radio, I laugh to myself as it occurs to me that I can’t remember my own name, but I can sing along with about a thousand different songs and not miss a single lyric. Sometimes, the universe has a pretty irritating sense of humor.
The Doors come on, and I sing along with Jim Morrison on “The End” as my mind wanders. I let it subconsciously sift through everything I learned while I was in Minnesota. It was only two days ago, but it already feels like there’s a lifetime of distance between then and now.
Thoughts are whirling through my mind even faster than the colorful desert landscape beyond the windows whizzing by. I try to find some order in the chaos, but truthfully, I don’t know what to think about it. Any of it. I mean, where do I start trying to find order in this maelstrom of the unbelievable?
Shadow organizations and invisible wars. Far ranging global conspiracies. A father—my father—who is supposedly the head of a nefarious cabal trying to seize control of the country. A handler who I apparently have some past personal connection with. And here I am, a man without a shred of memory, caught in the middle of it all.
It sounds like something out of the pages of a spy thriller or a summer blockbuster film, not the real world. And honestly, I still have trouble believing that this is my life. But it is. On the orders of my handler, of the Tower, I’ve already assassinated a Supreme Court nominee and destroyed the reputation of the nation’s leading defense technology contractor, all but burning her company to the ground.
The Tower points me in a direction, and I go. What they tell me to do, I do. No matter how dangerous or morally questionable some might believe it to be. I do it all because I’ve spent my life in service to my country, first in Army Airborne, then in the Green Berets, and finally in the CIA. So I see working for the Tower as an extension of that service.
At least, that’s what I’ve been told. But I certainly seem to have the training, resources, and connections to back it up.
As I’ve learned, the would-be shadow government known as the Hellfire Club poses a very real threat to the people of this country. To democracy itself. I couldn’t walk away from this fight if I tried. I may have no memory, but my sense of duty to my country has somehow been preserved. Strengthened in some ways.
And for now, the Tower seems to be the only thing standing in the way of the Hellfire Club and their quest to gain total control of this country and reshape it however they see fit. The Hellfire Club seeks to build a country that benefits the very few—the wealthy elite—at the expense of the many.
I know next to nothing about the Tower. Nor do I know what their true objectives are. All I know is what they’re spoon-feeding me. And to think they don’t have their own agenda would be the epitome of naive. I have no choice other than to trust that they’re doing the right thing. All I can do is trust them and their mission statement as they’ve explained it to me.
At least for now.
I believe I can trust my handler, the High Priestess—otherwise known to me alone as Delta. But even that has its limits. She knows my history and isn’t telling me. I’m starting to suspect we have a shared history. And through it all, she’s frustratingly vague and evasive. It puts a cap on just how far I can trust her. I don’t like that sort of power imbalance. It automatically puts me at a disadvantage, and I don’t like that.
But she has not betrayed me or given me any reason to not trust her. In what she’s told me, I believe she’s been honest, and these days, that has to count for something. It’s not like I’m flush with people I can lean on. But I also would be foolish to believe that she doesn’t have an agenda of her own.
What bothers me the most is that Delta says the information I’m seeking is a door I’m not ready to walk through just yet. She says that she’s trying to protect me. I think I would be the better judge of that, but I’m unfortunately at her mercy.
And until she’s ready to open those doors for me, all I can do is keep doing what I’m doing. Keep following leads I develop and digging into my past on my own. That and doing the jobs she tasks me with for the Tower.
Unfortunately, this isn’t a book or a movie. And I’m not some action-movie hero indestructible or impervious to pain. The dull throb in my leg reminds me of that fact.
I’d gone to Minnesota to follow a lead. A mysterious phone in my safe house in Chicago led me to a man named Arthur, who had information about my past. I ended up helping take down an Armenian mobster who was extorting Arthur and other small business owners in the community. It was a win, but it came at a cost. And I didn’t learn as much as I’d hoped. Very few of the gaps in my memory were filled in.
Still. We took down a bad guy and made that community safer. That’s not a bad thing. I mean, my work for the Tower is great. Necessary. But I think making a difference on the street level, in the lives of ordinary people, makes a bigger, more immediate impact. It’s every bit as necessary.
The chime of an incoming text message sounds, cutting off the music as it’s routed through the speakers, and intrudes on my thoughts.
“Incoming text message,” the digital voice announces.
I look at the display screen in the dashboard, and when I see the message is coming from Delta, I sigh.
“That was fast,” I
mutter.
I’ve been in Arizona less than an hour, and she’s already reaching out. I touch the small lump beneath the skin on my right arm. The tracker they’d installed in me. I told Delta I would leave it in as a show of trust. I don’t know if it was the right thing to do or not. I don’t like the idea of somebody being able to track my every movement. But she’s giving me some freedom to move about and do my thing, so as long as she lets me keep doing that, it’s a price I’ll have to pay.
“Read text,” I say.
“Text from: High Priestess. Randy’s Diner, Tucson, seven p.m. Do not be late.”
The mechanical voice fades out, and the music comes back up. The drive from Minneapolis has been a nice respite, but it looks like it’s time to get back to the grind. I rest my arm on the door and drive on, heading for Tucson.
Chapter Two
I pull into the parking lot outside of Randy’s Diner at six-fifty-eight. Not as early as I would have liked, but not technically late either. I climb out of the car and scan the parking lot but don’t see anything that sets off the warning bells in my head, so I close the door and walk to the diner.
The bells overhead chime as I push through the door. I stand for a moment, scanning the interior. Randy’s looks like any of a thousand other greasy spoon diners around the country. The tile floor is cracked, pitted, and a dingy shade of gray instead of white. The red vinyl of the booths and the stools that line the counter looks to be cracking, and the smell of grease and fried food saturating the air is so thick, I don’t think I’m getting it out of my clothes anytime soon.
“Sit anywhere you like.”
A cute twenty-something waitress with long, dark hair, dusky hued skin, and eyes darker than the desert night outside smiles at me. She’s wearing a short black skirt that showcases her long legs, a tight, white button-down shirt, and a red bow in her hair. I give her a wave and walk to a booth at the rear of the diner. I slide in, keeping my back to the wall, and take in the diner.
Four people sit at the counter, a couple of them chatting with each other as they eat, the other two eating on their own. There are less than a dozen other people in the diner, sitting at tables, and huddled in the booths together, and a country song plays from an old-fashioned jukebox that sits in a corner.
The dusky hued waitress comes over and flashes me a smile brighter than the fluorescent lights in the ceiling.
“What can I get you?” she asks.
I glance at my watch. It’s a couple of minutes past seven, and my ‘date’ isn’t here yet. But my stomach rumbles, so I grab a menu and flip through it quickly.
“Double bacon cheeseburger, fries extra crispy, and a large Coke, please,” I tell her.
“Comin’ right up,” she nods.
She turns with a flourish, walking away with a little extra swish in her hips. I can’t help but sit back and enjoy the show. I sit back and wait, wondering which will come first, my food or my contact from the Tower. I know they’re out there waiting. Watching. Making sure I don’t have a tail and that they’re safe to enter. It’s a safety protocol that’s a bit annoying but understandable. We’re all out here gambling with our lives. There’s no need to throw them away by being careless at a simple meet.
“Here you go.”
The waitress slides my plate down in front of me and smiles. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”
I pop a fry into my mouth and chew, relishing the crunch of it. “Just passin’ through for work.”
“Yeah? And what do you do?”
Oh, you know, I do things like kill people and crash multi-billion dollar corporations. Pretty sure that wouldn’t go over very well though.
“I’m a location scout for the movies,” I say.
I’m a bit taken aback by how easily the lie came to my lips. I can tell it’s a lie I’ve used before. And it’s not bad. Being a location scout gives me a reason to be in a lot of different places, both here and abroad.
“So like, you’re gonna make a movie here?” she asks, a note of hope in her voice.
“Possibly. I just need to see if the location fits in with the script,” I tell her. “Also, the producer and director have to sign off on it.”
“Totally,” she nods. “I get it. So what’s the movie about?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t talk about the project,” I tell her. “I signed an NDA when I came aboard. Sorry.”
I surprise myself with how smoothly I spun the story. I didn’t even have to think about it before I answered. Yeah, I’ve definitely used this cover story before. She gives me a sly smile.
“Any chance of getting me a meeting with the director?” she asks. “Maybe talk to him about being an extra or something?”
“Well, I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”
She squeals and jumps up and down like I’d just promised her the leading role, then quickly scribbles out her name and number on her order pad.
“Here, take this,” she beams. “I’m Marisol.”
I give her a smile. “Nice to meet you, Marisol.”
She tears off the small square of paper and drops it on the table with a hopeful gleam in her eye. Somebody on the other side of the diner calls over to her, and she gives me another smile before flouncing away with a spring in her step. Part of me feels a bit bad about getting her hopes up like that, but I did warn her that I couldn’t promise her anything. I will say though; she has the look of a young woman who could do well in Hollywood. It’s a shame I can’t do anything to actually help her.
Left alone with my meal, I dig into my burger with a groan of satisfaction. It’s greasy as hell, but it hits the spot. I wash it down with some soda, then stuff a couple of fries into my mouth. The bells above the door chime, and I look up to see a middle-aged woman step inside. She’s got brown hair that hangs to her shoulders and thick glasses. She’s dressed in a plain blue dress, white sweater, and sensible shoes. It’s as if she came straight from a PTA meeting at her kids’ school.
Everything about her is ordinary, and she’s completely unremarkable in every way. She’s the kind of woman you’d forget five minutes after meeting her. She’s so ordinary and unremarkable, in fact, I have a hard time believing it’s a natural occurrence. It has to be contrived. Which very likely makes her my contact.
I watch as she walks over and slides into the booth across from me. She reaches across and snags a fry from my plate and pops it into her mouth with a smile.
“Sure, help yourself,” I raise an eyebrow.
“Thanks, I will,” she says. “Sorry to keep you waiting. You know how it works.”
“I do.”
She reaches into a handbag as sensible as her shoes and withdraws a card I’ve become familiar with. The Tower. She glances around casually then, not seeing anybody near us, slides it across the table to me as an introduction. I pick it up and tap it against the table, not bothering to look at it. I’ve seen it often enough by now that I have all of the features and details memorized.
It’s the second card that catches my eye. Picking it up, I quickly study its features. It’s an androgynous figure in white, with wings like an angel floating above a pond. There’s a halo around its head, and it is pouring water from one cup into a goblet of wine. Interesting. And surprising. The woman seated across from me looks more soccer mom than a field operative.
“We come in all shapes and sizes,” she intuits my question, her voice carrying a distinct Texas twang. “Not all of us look like we were carved out of stone. And not all of us are cut out to be runnin’ and gunnin’ in the field like you.”
I laugh softly but don’t say anything to that. Instead, I take another bite of my burger and chew on it thoughtfully as I consider this woman. She’s interesting. Blunt. Direct. I get the sense that she doesn’t like to play games and is a straight shooter. She snitches another fry and stares back at me as she chews.
“You can call me Temperance,” she says. “Twenty-three years in military intellige
nce and counting.”
“Good for you,” I nod. “You ever do any work in the field?”
She shakes her head. “Not my thing,” she admits. “I’m better behind the scenes analyzing and forecasting. And for that, I’m the best there is.”
“And humble to boot.”
She grins. “Heard you lost your memory.”
I nod. “So it would seem.”
“Tough break,” she says quietly. “Nothin’ at all?”
I shrug. “Seem to remember all my training just fine,” I say. “Other than that, it’s all just bits and pieces. Fragments that pop up now and then.”
She sits back and sighs. Marisol comes back over to our table and favors me with a smile before turning to my companion.
“Can I get you anything?” she chirps.
“No I’m fine, thanks,” she says. “Won’t be here much longer. Just came to drop some things off to my friend here.”
Marisol nods as if she understands. She cuts a quick glance at me before turning back to Temperance, her smile growing wider.
“I just want you to know I’ve done theater before. Took drama classes back in high school,” Marisol beams, and I groan inwardly. “I hope you can find a few minutes to sit down with me and give me a test read. I’d love to show you that I’ve got the chops.”
Without missing a beat, Temperance smiles. “You’re a gorgeous young woman and have a very wholesome look,” she says. “I actually think we might be able to find a place for you. I’ll have somebody touch base with you.”
If Marisol smiles any wider, I fear her face might split open. Doing her best to keep from actually jumping up and down, she points to the scrap of paper she’d given me earlier.
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