Dead Right

by Cate Noble

  The guard scowled, ready to pull rank.

  Tough. Rocco tugged out his remaining stash of bahts. The guard’s eyes widened as he waved the wad of money.

  “Yeah and there’s plenty more where this came from.” Rocco moved to block the cell’s door as the others drew close. “Now go get your boss. He’s an American! American! And he’s coming with me!”

  Chapter 5

  A Private Hospital, Langley, Virginia

  April 17

  (Three Months Ago)

  Dante zipped the black canvas duffel bag shut but made no attempt to lift it from the hospital bed. Have to sit.

  He stepped backward until he felt the edge of the chair hit his legs. Then he collapsed. The dizziness, slight nausea, passed quickly this time, leaving him mentally fuzzy and physically exhausted. At least he hadn’t blacked out. Score one for him.

  He’d been told he’d feel shitty if he cold-turkeyed off all medications at once. Actually, he’d been advised to wean off them slowly to avoid possible severe side effects. Like death.

  Babies weaned. Real men barfed their brains out and sucked it up. Besides, if what they’d done to him in Thailand hadn’t killed him…

  Don’t even go there.

  He rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs. He’d found that focusing on the tactile kept him centered. The jeans he wore were brand-new-stiff. Same with the shirt. The clothes hung on his frame, emphasizing the weight he’d lost.

  Rocco—God bless him—had brought in a bag filled with personal items weeks ago, long before it even dawned on Dante that he literally had nothing. And damned if he was walking out of here in the hospital gown he’d worn in.

  He’d been told he reentered the States, strapped to a gurney on a secret military transport, more dead than alive. Eaten up with infection and dysentery, he’d then contracted pneumonia. All that on top of malaria put his odds of survival at about a gnat’s ass above zero.

  That he’d actually been deemed too sick for surgery had likely saved his foot. When the megadoses of super-antibiotics they pumped/shot into every vein and orifice finally kicked in, they’d worked a true miracle and allowed him to keep all body parts.

  While he was far from recovered, he at least felt he was starting to heal. Being sick and tired of being sick and tired was no longer good enough. Damn it, he wanted his strength back.

  Hell, he wanted his life back. His things. His stuff. And he was more than willing to work for it. When the physical therapist had pushed Dante to do “just two more” leg lifts—Jesus, he used to do a hundred no sweat—Dante thought of cruising the Blue Ridge Parkway on his Harley. And did four more.

  When chills had him feeling like his body was encased in ice, he’d imagine himself in the driveway of his town house, getting sunburned while washing his classic ’77 CJ-7 Jeep Renegade on a screaming hot day.

  And in the middle of the night, after fighting his way free of the horrors in his mind, he’d think about sailing away. Man, boat, ocean.

  None of which, newsflash, would ever happen now. Not after what he’d learned in the last few days.

  When he’d been declared dead a year and a half ago, with no next of kin, the state of Virginia had assumed possession of his town house, bank accounts, and personal belongings, most of which had been sold off.

  He’d tried telling himself it was no big deal. The Agency, under the guise of protecting his true identity, had offered a decent settlement. He had a butt load of money, sitting in the bank. And living was all that mattered, right?

  Wrong.

  Dante craved the familiar. He found himself recalling things he hadn’t thought of in years. Sure, he could get a new Harley, another Jeep; but what about the pictures of his folks? Or the model boats he and his dad had spent hours on?

  His parents had been dead for more than twelve years, and while Dante hadn’t looked at those mementos since their funeral, it had been nice to know they were all boxed up, ready to drag out someday. Unfortunately, as non-valuable personal effects, those boxes had been carted off to the landfill.

  The reality was he could never go home. Period.

  He had to deal with it and move on. Today. Because he no longer trusted the Agency and their so-called medical staff, he’d decided to take matters into his own hands. First up, was getting out of this place.

  While he’d never admit it to them, he was finding it increasingly impossible to tolerate being here. It reminded him of prison. The hospital there. He’d had it with being medicated; with being pricked, prodded, examined, and questioned. And requestioned. Jesus, they had him second-guessing himself now.

  Instead of badgering Dante, why weren’t they looking for Max and Harry? Or were they waiting for him to conjure up that solution, too?

  He knew Rocco was out shaking the bushes, but at great personal cost. His friend had already made two unofficial trips back, was probably there again now. But so far, Rocco had found nothing.

  The place they believed Dante had been held was razed; no one knew anything about it. Or more likely were too scared, had probably been warned against speaking with any Westerners. Even Ping was nowhere to be found.

  And instead of getting a medal for rescuing Dante, Rocco had found himself skating on emaciated ice. He’d apparently pissed off some high-ranking government baboon by enlisting a verboten contact to help extricate Dante from prison and whisk him off to Manila. It was believed that contact, Diego Marques, a criminal and info broker wanted by a host of countries, subsequently leaked word of an anonymous prisoner’s escape back to the Thai government.

  Personally, Dante sided with Rocco. He was grateful his friend had done whatever, legal or not, to spring him. Particularly since the only other person at the Agency who even knew about Rocco’s mission at the time, Travis Franks, had been critically injured in an automobile accident. Ultimately, Travis would have pulled the same strings Rocco had, except he would have done so without triggering a much dreaded diplomatic incident.

  The State Department and Thailand were currently locked in a private pissing contest. The Thai government refused to acknowledge or look into the matter until the United States gave them full information on the escapee. What escapee?

  The lack of solid answers frustrated Dante even more than the feeble excuses he’d been offered.

  Max, Harry, and Dante had all been declared dead after matching DNA was taken from three decomposed corpses found in a shallow grave in northwest Cambodia. “Someone” had accepted a Cambodian lab’s DNA proof, without demanding independent testing. Then because the bodies had been exposed to a virulent form of tuberculosis while in the morgue, they’d been quarantined, cremated, and disposed of overseas. And all the while Dante was in Thailand in prison. How the fuck had that happened?

  The thought of Max and Harry suffering the same fate drove Dante crazy. Damn it, he’d go find them himself. And after that he’d find the sons of bitches—and the bitch—responsible. And make them pay.

  Those types of goals meant concentrating on rebuilding his body, his stamina. It meant eating whether he was hungry or not; working out whether it hurt or not. Swallowing his pride even if he choked.

  Oh, and no more head shrinking, no more tests. No more drugs.

  Dante had decided to take Rocco up on the offer to use his condo while he was out of town. In fact, Rocco’s girlfriend, Maddy, an Agency analyst, was on her way to pick up Dante now. Besides being Rocco’s on-again, off-again lover, Madison Kohlmeyer had generously offered to help Dante backstop his new identity.

  His new name. Dante Johnson, R.I.P. To the outside world, he was now Dan Hogan, recently discharged from the Army.

  Dante had resisted at first. The new social security number seemed yet another reminder that he’d lost his past. Then he’d realized a new identity worked well with his bigger plans. His bigger schemes. Like the one where he’d find Cat and make her pay. His new wet dream was seeing that first horrified moment when Cat saw he was there to collect payback.

/>   From outside, a truck blasted its horn. The ringing in his ears started up again, adding a new dimension to his headache.

  “Knock, knock.”

  Dante sat up straight. He’d been expecting this visit.

  Dr. Erin Houston, one of the psychologists appointed to his case, breezed into the room. The petite redhead’s gaze took in the duffel bag before shifting to his shiny new Nikes.

  “Checking out, are we?”

  “Don’t play dumb.” Dante pushed to his feet. “Nurse Nancy already explained her obligation to rat me out.”

  “That’s SOP when a patient decides to discharge themselves against their doctor’s advice.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful she called you, instead of Dr. Evil.”

  Dr. Stanley Winchette was a senior CIA psychiatrist who’d taken a “special interest” in Dante’s case. The man looked and acted like he’d stepped out of a fifties cold war time capsule. His condescending attitude had been the last straw.

  “Um, Dr. Winchette is off this weekend.”

  “Off performing lobotomies? Give him my regards.”

  Erin pushed her shoulder-length hair behind one ear. “Dante, I know this hasn’t been easy. What you’ve been through, that you survived, is remarkable.”

  “And what exactly have I been through, Doc? Wait, don’t tell me. I’m psychic, remember? They think I was held by some terrorists, right? So who are they blaming this week? Or is it still Minh Tran?” Minh Tran was the Osama bin Laden of Southeast Asia.

  “Where you were held and by whom are some of the questions we’re trying to answer. But we can’t do that without your help.”

  “My help? Right.” He’d been over this dozens of times. With Erin, with Dr. Winchette, with the Agency’s internal investigators. Damn it! He’d been held for eighteen months. It was difficult to sort through, to recall. Especially when the majority seemed to have been wiped from his memory. Or replaced with chunks of time that didn’t quite fit. Had he been sick? Drugged? Who the hell knew…

  Despite claims to the contrary, nothing they’d done here had helped Dante patch those holes. To find solid answers. In fact, once Dr. Winchette got involved, the focus shifted from resolution to experiments. Let’s talk about those other things you can do.

  Dante circled toward the window and looked down at the small parking lot. It was a struggle to keep his temper in check. Where the hell was Maddy?

  He started to count to ten, and then stopped, recalling his new motto: No more playing by the rules. He was pissed and he didn’t give a flying fuck whom it offended.

  He turned and met her gaze. “Let’s be honest, Doc. All anyone here wants my help with is those experiments.”

  Dr. Houston’s cheeks reddened, indicating that she knew what he meant.

  While in intensive care, Dante apparently had had some extraordinary premonitions. Though he had no memory of it, a nurse had noticed he jabbered about which doctor lurked in the hall, what tests they wanted to run, and what the results would be. And he was right every time. The phenomena stopped when he regained consciousness. Or so they thought.

  After he’d been moved to a regular room, he’d been given a dozen supposedly fictitious case files to read—under the auspices of retraining—and asked to deduce the outcomes.

  Yesterday morning he’d learned that two of those cases were actually unsolved murders and that skeletal remains had been unearthed exactly where he had said.

  How had he known that?

  And why the hell couldn’t he come up with other answers—like where he’d been held. Or where Max and Harry were? Dante had wanted to delve into the prison flashbacks more, which he felt held real clues. But Dr. Evil dismissed those flashbacks as unreliable, insisting they set up studies that could be readily verified.

  Studies that included induced comas to replicate conditions from ICU. What part of “go fuck yourself” don’t you understand, Winchette?

  “Dr. Winchette believes those experiments, as you call them, are crucial to unlocking the blocks in your mind,” Dr. Houston said.

  “And do you agree with everything Dr. Winchette says?”

  She blinked. “Off the records? No.” Her mouth tightened.

  He sensed there was much she didn’t agree with, though she was too professional to share it inappropriately. Her innate integrity—so blatantly lacking in Winchette—had earned Dante’s respect.

  She looked directly in his eyes. “Level with me. Would you stay if Winchette was removed from your case?”

  He shook his head. “He’s already off my case. I’m checking out, remember?”

  “What could I do to convince you to continue working with me, then?”

  “For starters, you could get the case files I was promised on my missing friends. And on Catalina Dion.”

  “That will take time—”

  The door opened. “Man, they don’t look too happy at the nurses’ station. Who’d you piss off today? Oops!” Maddy stopped short when she saw Dr. Houston and started to back out of the room. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Dante motioned Maddy forward. “We’re finished.” He nodded to Dr. Houston as he grabbed the duffel bag.

  “Wait,” Dr. Houston interrupted. “There’s only one file I can access right now. The others will take me a day or so to get.” She looked pointedly at Maddy, then back at Dante.

  Maddy read between the lines. “I’ll step down the hall.”

  When they were alone, Dr. Houston continued. “I can get the file on Ms. Dion from Dr. Winchette’s office. The others will—”

  Dante felt as if he could breathe fire. “Winchette’s had Cat’s file all along? That…” Lying bastard. What else had he hidden?

  “You were betrayed by a woman you’d once loved. I think he was trying to be sensitive to your pain.”

  Dante laughed harshly. “Yeah, I’m sure that was it. Next time you see him, explain that sex isn’t the same as love.”

  Dr. Houston looked puzzled. “Are you saying you didn’t propose to her?”

  God, he wanted to deny it. Except that made him a lying bastard.

  “I had bought a ring. Had thought about a proposal, maybe mentioned it to a buddy. But never to Cat. And trust me; I retracted said thought a couple thousand times in prison.”

  “Are you aware she was rumored to be involved with another member of your team?”

  “Max Duncan.” Dante rubbed his neck, ignoring the tension gathering in his spine. Max and Cat’s history was old news. The two had worked and supposedly played together long before Dante came on the scene. And why any of this mattered…

  Shit. He knew. He met Dr. Houston’s gaze. “I just figured out why Winchette’s been holding on to Cat’s file. There’s nothing in it I don’t already know. And obviously the Agency has no better idea of where she is than I do.”

  “That’s not true.” Dr. Houston stuffed her hands in her coat pockets.

  Dante’s blood pressure spiked, setting off a new ringing in his ears. Jesus, how could he have been so dense. “They know where she’s at. They’ve known the whole time I’ve been here, haven’t they?”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  He lurched forward and grabbed his bag again. “Oh, so you read minds, too. You might want to keep that under your hat in this place.”

  Score. He saw anger flash in her eyes just before she glanced away. Counting to ten, Doc?

  But when she met his gaze again, her eyes held compassion. “Actually, Catalina Dion died a little over a year ago.”

  Chapter 6

  Key West, Florida

  July 2

  (Present Day)

  Dante’s sneakers slapped the pavement as he rounded the corner of Duval and Front streets. Running downtown, dodging sunburned tourists in the blistering heat of the afternoon, while breathing exhaust fumes spewed from cars and RVs, might not appeal to most, but to him it was heaven.

  Of course, his definition of heaven was still fairly libera
l. Waking up topped the list as it implied sleep.

  Most nights remained lose-lose situations. Insomnia plagued him. And when he did slip off to sleep, she haunted his dreams. He’d mourned for Max and Harry, which had helped. But Catalina’s death left him feeling cheated, burned.

  A traffic light forced him and twenty tourists to pause. The urge to slap his hands over his ears to block their chatter was strong. As soon as the light changed, he bolted.

  While the hearing thing had gotten better since leaving the hospital, there were still times when it jumped entire octaves, as if the internal volume in his head had been magnified and he was suddenly tapping into the collective stream of consciousness.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t free-floating enlightenment he picked up on. It was more like tuning into psychic static. It was the reason he avoided crowds.

  An overzealous hawker, dressed as Uncle Sam while peddling overpriced fireworks, stepped into his path and tried to hand him a brochure. He shot the guy a look and passed on. The whole Independence Day thing kind of stuck in his craw right now.

  The muscle in his right foot ached as it always did after a good run, but he ignored it. Pain was proof he had both feet; proof he had survived.

  And contrary to the latest psych eval he’d just received, pain proved he could feel something other than anger. Hey, he felt other things. Resentment, mistrust. Oh, and what about his unquenched thirst for vengeance?

  Useless bunch of butt wads.

  He knew the Agency’s game. They’d use Dr. Winchette’s report to ground him; to try to coerce him to play along. Wasn’t happening.

  Slowing to a jog, he cut across a vacant parking lot, before slipping down an overgrown drive that led into the ramshackle marina he temporarily called home.

  In its day, the marina, aptly named Paradise Lost, had been one of Key West’s busiest. Until a pair of hurricanes two summers ago destroyed most of the docks. Zoning problems delayed rebuilding and then the owner had heart surgery and decided to leave the place as-is, using it as an overblown home-base/fix-it shop, much to the chagrin of eager land developers.