Jackson

by Dale Mayer

  “He’s still here,” the nurse said. “Under heavy security, but he’s still here.”

  Reassured, Deli hung up, curled up in bed and closed her eyes.

  When she awoke some hours later, she lay still, figuring out what she had heard that wasn’t normal. Besides the fact it wasn’t her home, so nothing sounded or felt right.

  Thud.

  She bolted upright, frowning at the doorway. What the hell was going on out there? She was tempted to call out, but then everybody would know she was in here. Which was already a bad deal because this was a two-bedroom apartment. It wouldn’t take long for whoever it was out there to find out she was here. And that was if she assumed it wasn’t Jackson.

  Her phone lit up. She snatched it off the night table and looked at it. It was a text from Jackson. Hide.

  She didn’t waste any time arguing. She flipped back the blankets on the bed, smoothing them quickly so it looked like nobody had been there, snatched her clothes from the chair where she’d placed everything and bolted to the closet. As quietly as she could, she pulled on her pants over her underwear and pulled on a T-shirt over her bra. If she was going to get attacked, no way in hell would she do it seminude.

  She looked in the dark closet, feeling around for a weapon. Nothing was here but a couple shirts hanging on wire hangers. She took the first shirt and wrapped it around her arm, just in case. That was a horrible thought, but knife wounds were often great big slices. At least this way any knife-wielding attacker would have to get through something first to reach her skin. She took the second shirt and repeated it with her other arm, holding a hanger in each hand.

  A lot of good this will do against a bullet, she thought morosely.

  Then she curled up in a tight ball with her feet under her and waited. Seconds turned to minutes. Minutes multiplied with her heart pounding and her breathing raspy. The phone stayed silent in her shirt pocket. Why wasn’t Jackson telling her it was all clear?

  She was afraid to contact him in case his phone went off and somebody noted it. She lay here, remaining still and quiet. Suddenly the bedroom door opened. She sucked in her breath.

  “Deli?” a voice called out to her. “It’s all right. You can come out now.”

  She frowned and tried to peer through the closet slats, but she couldn’t see him. Jackson? Had that been his voice? It had sounded … off. She refused to move.

  Footsteps came across the bedroom, first stopping at the bed and then doing a quick circle around to the bathroom. When he came out, she still couldn’t see who it was.

  Something was familiar about his voice. Familiar but not. Seconds later the footsteps stopped in front of the closet.

  He grasped the doors and then opened them. And he smiled—an evil smirk. “There you are.”

  She stared up at Max—a Max she had yet to see. Anger twisted his face into an expression she’d never seen before. She tried to bolt under his arms toward the main door.

  He grabbed her and flung her back at the closet again. “Easy, easy. You’re not going anywhere.” He slammed her hard against the closet door, which was partially closed, and, with her weight, it snapped fully, sending her tumbling to the ground, dropping the hangers she had. He bent, grabbed her in his arms, pulled her up and headed toward the living room.

  As she went through the doorway, she kicked and screamed, hitting, doing anything she could, but he was bigger, his arms longer, and he held her just far enough away.

  In the living room he threw her hard to the floor. She rolled over and bounced to her feet, her hands fisted. She glared at him. “Where’s Jackson? What did you do to him?”

  “What do you care?” he asked. “You’re not even sleeping with him. Like what the hell’s with that?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked in confusion.

  He snorted. “Jackson should be getting something for his trouble. Then again maybe you’re getting enough money out of this deal to make it all worthwhile.”

  What the hell? She glared up at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the one getting something out of this nightmare. Are you the one who shot Carney?”

  He frowned. “I haven’t shot anyone. I’m the injured party here. I want to know where the boxes are that were in the truck.”

  “You knew about the boxes?”

  “Not before. But I don’t have a choice now. I was sent to get them from you and was told you might not be cooperative about handing them over.”

  “So you’re after the boxes? And yet, you didn’t shoot anyone? But were shot yourself …” Still confused, she wondered if she and Jackson had gotten everything completely wrong. “Is more than one group after those boxes?”

  “I have no idea,” he snapped. “I was sent here to pick them up. They contacted me at the hospital. Good thing I’ve healed as much as I have. … The assholes on the phone forced me into coming. I’m pissed that you two would be involved, but I can’t really give a shit now. … I’m concerned about my family, and, if you get them hurt, you’ll be damn sorry you’re alive by the time I’m done with you.”

  “What about your family?”

  “You heard me,” he growled, his eyes bitter. “They didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

  She began to understand. But she needed to know something first. She opened her hands, her arms still wrapped up in the shirts, and said, “So did you murder all those guys or not?”

  His jaw dropped. “Not. I’ve been in the hospital. Remember?”

  “But I just phoned to see if you were there,” she snapped, “and the hospital nurse said you were in your room under security.”

  “I was just released. By the time my wife picked me up at the hospital and we got home, then I got that call, telling me that you had the boxes and weren’t willing to hand them over. And, if I didn’t get them from you, that I’d be sorry and so would my family. Basically blackmailing me into helping them.” He frowned at her. “Why the hell would you even want to get involved in this mess? What the hell is in it for you and Jackson?”

  “We’re not involved!” she yelled as she sagged onto the couch, somewhat relieved at an explanation for his anger. “If you didn’t kill those men, and you don’t have the boxes, what the hell is your role in all this?”

  “I told you already. I was blackmailed into getting the boxes. My blackmailer said you had them.”

  “I don’t have the boxes,” she said slowly, studying his face, seeing only real confusion in his expression. “I thought you came here to murder me,” she confessed.

  He stared at her, his gaze dropping to her wrapped-up arms. “Me, the murderer? Seriously? They’re going after my kids. But I sure as hell am not killing you—if you cooperate.”

  “Shit.” She stared at him in horror. “I don’t have the boxes,” she cried out. “Jackson doesn’t have the boxes either. We’re trying to get to the bottom of this. We wondered if you were involved from the first.”

  He slowed his pacing to turn and glare at her. “Hell no. I was just the unlucky one who chased after the assholes in the beginning. I’ve been watching from the sidelines, but, after the initial chase, my only involvement began once I got that threatening call tonight.” His glare slowly eased as he took a deep breath, then another one. “If you don’t have the boxes, who does?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But there have been a lot of deaths because of those damn things, so this needs to stop.” Now that she understood his rage, he was much easier to deal with. “Three men are dead, who we know about anyway. Carney was hurt, and you and your buddy were injured too.” She took a deep breath. “But neither Jackson nor I had anything to do with this nightmare other than—like you—we were innocents in this whole mess, just trying to figure it out.” The two of them stared at each other.

  Max’s shoulders sagged. He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a heavy breath. “I really want to believe that.” He resumed his pacing in the living room. “Wher
e the hell is Jackson anyway?”

  “What?” She stared at him. “I should be asking you that. You’re telling me that you broke into his apartment and didn’t see him?” She bolted to her feet and raced to Jackson’s bedroom. Sure enough it was empty. “But I heard a thud.” She turned back to Max. “Did you see him at all?” She didn’t know if she should trust this man or if he was the real enemy who had killed everyone. She didn’t want to believe that of him, but then she had never seen the angry side of Max before.

  “No, I haven’t seen him.” He motioned toward the living room. “Let’s sit down and figure this out.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure what there is to figure out. Jackson sent me a text to hide. Next thing I know, you’re hauling me into the living room—and not too gently, by the way,” she snapped, rubbing her sore wrists.

  “I thought you were part of this. Part of the group threatening to hurt my kids,” Max exclaimed. “And whether you are or not, I still need those boxes.”

  She understood, but now she was worried about Jackson. “Wait. … How did the bad guys know about you? How could they find you?” Then it hit her. “I bet they checked both your IDs at the crash site while you were lying there injured. It would have been a quick call to the nearest hospital to confirm your location afterward and to see if you were alive or not.” She paused. “Jackson said the shooters went down the ravine to check on you.”

  Max stared at her with such surprise that she realized he hadn’t considered that possibility.

  “Do you know what’s in the boxes?” she asked him.

  He shook his head. “No. I only know what Jackson has shared. Right now I don’t give a shit what’s in them or who wants them. I’m just trying to keep my family safe.”

  “And where is Jackson?” she asked.

  “The front door was partially open when I arrived,” he said slowly. He walked to the front door, pulled it open and looked into the hallway.

  She followed Max into the hallway. “You’re not stopping me from leaving?”

  “No,” he said, “but I’d really appreciate it, if you have the boxes, helping me out to save my family.”

  “But I don’t have them. I never did,” she repeated, understanding the pain and fear in his voice. “Sorry. The last we heard was that James took them. He was at the garage the truck was towed to. Carney pulled out the videotape, so we could see what happened that night, and James had collected the boxes. And then, after that on the same night, Magnus, who has also been murdered, went into the same truck, trying to get them himself. We’re presuming he was killed because he couldn’t provide his bosses with the weapons. But he might have killed James and taken them himself. No one knows at this point.”

  “That makes a terrible kind of sense,” Max said. “I gather then that they assumed James gave you guys the boxes. Or kept them for himself?”

  “Maybe. We didn’t find them at James’s apartment. Not that we looked. We were a little distracted by finding out he was dead.” She tried to be patient and not to panic over Jackson. She sent him a text, asking where he was. As she looked up at Max, she added, “Maybe we should check James’s apartment. Maybe he didn’t want to hand them over and got killed for it.” She stared at her phone. “I’m now starting to panic about Jackson. I can see he might have gone in pursuit of someone, but he’s been gone a long time. Surely after sending me that initial text, he’d send me a follow-up one so I didn’t worry.”

  “I don’t know,” Max said. “His disappearance is very strange. But, if anyone can look after himself, it’s him.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I just got a text from the same person who phoned me to get the boxes.” He stared at his phone.

  As she watched, the color drained from his face.

  His face was grim when he said, “They’ve got Jackson. And they want me to bring you to them.”

  *

  Jackson woke slowly. Harsh voices rained over his head.

  “You shouldn’t have fucking brought him here,” a man snapped, his voice hard. “You should have killed him on the spot. Just like the others.”

  “There was no time, Hobo. You know that,” a second voice said. “You said we needed to find out how big this has gotten. The only way to do that was to grab somebody and to question him. I couldn’t do that there. There was no time with the foot traffic in the guy’s apartment building. I had to move him.”

  “He’s a goddamn SEAL. If we attack one of their own, there’ll be no end of the hell they beat down on our heads,” Hobo answered.

  “I didn’t know he was a SEAL. Besides, it makes no damn difference. He’s just a navy guy, like everybody else.”

  “A trained fighter. Part of a tight brotherhood unit,” Hobo snapped yet again.

  Jackson lay here for a long moment, trying to recognize the voices. But neither rang any bells. Neither did he know the name Hobo. Jackson’s head pounded. Luckily he’d gotten that text off to Deli as soon as he’d woken up in his bed, hearing something off. But it hadn’t done him any good. He’d come out of his bedroom to investigate the noise only to take a blow to his head, which dropped him to his knees. Then a rag stuffed into his mouth tasted bad—chloroform maybe but too hard to tell with the smell of cigarette smoke overpowering Jackson’s senses—and a hood was yanked over his face. He’d fought hard but had been ambushed. Then it all went black.

  He could only hope she hadn’t been taken too.

  “Did you search the apartment?” Hobo asked.

  “No, I didn’t. I have no idea if he was there alone or not. But nobody else came out.”

  “Stupid,” Hobo yelled. “You know there’s no leaving a place like that until we’ve checked it over.”

  “I’m not stupid,” the second voice said in exasperation. “But I didn’t have time. If you’d come and given me a hand, then maybe.”

  Silence came at that point. Then Hobo said, “I sent a text. I’m hoping that works to bring her here.”

  “And how much does she know?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “She was on the hit list. So is this idiot here,” the voice said, nudging Jackson’s leg.

  “Sure, but there could be a lot more people involved. As far as we can tell from this guy’s cell phone, he’s been talking to Kanen and Mason.”

  “And both are not guys to be played with either,” the second man warned. “You didn’t like the fact this one was a SEAL. Well, both of those are SEALs too.”

  “I told you that you shouldn’t have touched him, for Christ’s sakes,” Hobo cried out in anger. “All you had to do was find out where the boxes were. She’s the link to James. She has to know where they are.”

  “I didn’t have much choice. He’s been on her tail the whole way. It’s because of him and that girl that Carney is still alive.”

  “And that’s just bullshit,” Hobo ranted. “How the hell did this become such a big deal?”

  “You wanted people silenced,” the second man said in a dry tone. “Once you start doing that, you look at whoever else might need to be shut up, and there’s just no end of people.”

  “We gotta get the hell out of here before this gets any uglier.”

  “Any uglier? You’ve already murdered several men.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Hobo said. “You did.”

  “Hell no. You’re not pinning that on me,” the second voice said in warning. “No way in hell you’ll do that. This wasn’t my deal.”

  “If I turn you in, I can,” Hobo said with a devious laugh. “That’s an idea, isn’t it? I just turn you in, and it’d be all over with.”

  “Yeah? And how will you stop me from telling the cops everything I know?”

  Just then a door opened, and a third man spoke up. “Hobo, take care of him, will ya?”

  Jackson heard a hard spit. And then a heavy thud. Shocked, Jackson lay frozen on the floor with his eyes still closed. He desperately wanted to see what had just happened. But he could guess.


  The new man said, “Fool. I never intended to let you live. If I was cleaning up loose threads, why would I leave you around?” He snorted. “Let’s go, Hobo. We have more work to do.”

  Sounds of footsteps stomped farther away. Jackson had no idea where he was, except he was inside because he couldn’t feel fresh air around him.

  A door opened and closed; then something locked together, surely on the other side. As soon as he heard footsteps walking away, he opened his eyes and looked around. A stranger, somebody he’d never seen before, lie beside him. The dead man was tall, slim, with swarthy features, so he was likely the guy who had been at Deli’s apartment, her fake boyfriend, planting bugs in her apartment. He was on his back, his eyes sightlessly staring at the ceiling. A bullet hole between his eyes.

  Jackson shuffled to his feet, realizing he wasn’t even tied up. That made no sense. Unless they’d drugged him, thinking he’ be knocked out for a lot longer. But then he glanced down at the dead man beside him and wondered what he had to do with the theft of the weapon prototypes. Jackson sat down again, feeling a bit woozy, and searched the dead man’s wallet and found out from his ID that he was on Deli’s list of mechanics she worked with on base. Jackson shook his head.

  When things went sour, they really went ugly.

  He did a quick check through the man’s pockets and found a crumpled piece of paper. He pulled it out, and, sure enough, it was a list of names with a line through those at the top. Several more names were listed below. Jackson’s name was there with a question mark and so was Deli’s with a question mark. Below were Kanen and then Mason, also with question marks. Jackson frowned, realizing that, just because these people had been on Jackson’s contact list on his phone, sharing text messages back and forth, they’d become targets too.

  Who wasn’t on this list was Max. And that bothered Jackson. Max could be involved with the bad guys after all. Or else the shooter didn’t even know the name of the man he had shot? Or did he not care? Or was Max an incidental attack? Not worth noting?