by Ross Elder
In my next vision, both hands are free. I’m standing, slashing, flailing about. A pistol is firing. I think it is in my hands. Gunshots to my right and behind me. Bodies are dropping to the floor of the dark room. My energy is fading. I’m dying. I’m passing out. Blood loss? The drugs? I don’t know. There is a doorway. I have to reach it! My legs will not answer my brain's call to action. Move, damn you. Move!
I’m on the floor suddenly. I’m crawling; clawing at the floor, pulling myself forward. I reach the door and…
“Don’t get up.”
The male voice shocked me from my hallucinations. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. My eyes are scanning my surroundings, blinking, straining to peer through the veil of mystery. Holy shit. A man is there. He’s closing the door behind him. He’s grinning. Get up? What does he… oh. Yeah, okay, smartass. I’m sure he’s pulled this little pun many times. I wonder how long it will be before it gets old?
He is about my age – late thirties, perhaps. He is fit. Appears to be rather agile. He moves smoothly, gracefully. Even his movements closing the door seem practiced, perfected. He knows how to make an impression. He’s comfortable with new people. He is confident and self-assured. He fully understands he is in a position of power over me, and yet, he is attempting to be congenial and friendly. This is not the overweight detective I’d envisioned.
“I have to pee.”
I know, not the most professional greeting, but a man should do what a man must do. Besides, he wants to make an impression. So do I.
“Yeah? Sorry. Can’t help you there. They aren’t going to let you out of this room for a while.” He informs me as he takes a seat in the chair opposite mine. His is not bolted to the floor.
“They? Aren’t you them? You can let me take a piss for crying out loud.”
“Oh, no. I’m not…you know…one of them,” he says as he places an envelope on the table.
“Then I have nothing to say. Call my lawyer.”
“I am your lawyer, Mason.”
He is? Is this another memory lapse? I thought my attorney… wait…yeah, my attorney is a chubby Jewish guy named Eli. Business law, mostly. He would probably be useless in this sort of situation. But, at least he would know a guy who may know a guy.
“Funny, you don’t look Jewish.”
He’s squinting his eyes at me. He’s thinking. Processing what I said. His eyes widen and, “Ah! That’s funny. No, I’m not Jewish. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I prefer the Buddhist way of thinking. All Zen and being one with the universe. Chi. That sort of thing.” His eyes have wandered to the ceiling. “Anyway, as far as the authorities are concerned, yes, I am your attorney.”
He reached for my cuffed hand to shake it. It was awkward, but I could raise it a few inches off the table. It was a firm grip. Dry, which is good. Nothing worse than a clammy handshake.
“Kyle Jeffreys,” he tells me with a slight smile.
“Mor…uh…Mason. Mason McCall.”
“Mason, Morgan, whatever. Hey, we don’t have a lot of time so let’s get down to business.” He is opening the envelope now. “Take a look at these and tell me your thoughts.”
The documents appear to be Agency related internal communications. Employment stuff. My employment stuff. Wait, these dates don’t make any sense. I’ve never seen these papers before. That’s my signature in blocks 14A and 16, though. At least I think it is. When did…
“Look familiar?”
“No. No, not really. I’ve…you know…I’m having problems with…”
“Your memory. Yes, I know. I’ve been briefed. So, you couldn’t, you know, under oath, deny that these documents are legitimate, I suppose, right?”
“Why would I? What’s the…”
“In fact, you would probably pass a polygraph examination regarding these documents because you don’t remember a lot of things and that could include the documents in front of you now. Would you agree with that statement?”
“I…guess. I just don’t…what the hell is going on, Kyle? How did they find me so fast?”
“Dude, your Beemer has more electronic communications gear in it than the Apollo lander. It took them longer to get the warrant than it did figuring out where you left it parked.” He’s chuckling.
“Yeah. Shit.” What else can you say to that?
“You’re slipping, Mason. Been out of the game a little too long, I guess. But, we can fix that.”
“Okay. What are these papers, though? What are you trying to do?”
“These documents clearly state that you did not, in fact, resign from the Agency two years ago but did, in fact, accept a lateral transfer into a different department. They clearly show that you are not a simple civilian accidentally involved in an incident of international intrigue, but are, in fact, a duly appointed and authorized agent of the United States government.” He’s tapping his fingers on the table as though he feels pressed for time.
“But I… That’s not…” I can’t get a full sentence to form in my head. I’m confused. I’m pretty sure I resigned from my position and have been working as a private consultant. I’ve been making a lot of money doing it, too. “But, I don’t remember signing these.”
“I know. That’s because you didn’t.”
“What?” Now I’m really confused.
“Don’t worry. They aren’t allowed to record audio during meetings between client and attorney. Even if they break the rules, none of this would be admissible in court. We would have the entire thing suppressed.”
“But I…”
“Look, Mason, you’re in what is defined in scientific terms as a giant shit-storm. Killing foreign agents, disposing of evidence, fleeing the scene of a major crime, all those things add up to Mason being some guy named Ace’s bitch in cellblock C. None of us want that. You don’t want that. I don’t want that.”
“It was self-defense!” And, it was! I mean, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Those mutts shot three people and wanted to murder me. How could I be in trouble for fighting back?
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve read the reports and heard all the stories. But, is that an argument you want to make in front of a judge, or a jury? Is that the testimony you want to give? The part where you executed a wounded man in an alley? The part where you destroyed evidence and fled? All those parts that make it seem like something other than a clear-cut case of a guy defending himself?”
“I can’t…come on, man. I didn’t…know what I was doing. I was flying blind. Going on instinct. I don’t even know if I was technically and legally sane at the time. I had hallucinations and shit. This thing has been…”
“I know, Mason. I know your life has been tossed around and turned upside down. I know. We all know. And I’m here to help you. You just have to tell the nice detectives that these documents are legitimate and official.”
“Who signed them? I mean, who made these?” I’m still not sure if I didn’t do it myself.
“A guy in your former department. Nice work, aren’t they? He even smudged the ink…” He points to a small spot at the bottom of signature block 16. “See that? Those kinds of details are what you were known for. It’s perfect. If I had shown these to you a couple of weeks ago, you wouldn’t have been able to tell. But, you’re getting better. We just have to act before this gets too far out of hand.”
“Okay. So, what do I do? What is going to happen after I do this?” Knowing the government, there’s no telling what might happen to me. I could be thrown into a secret prison in some hellhole somewhere, or get stuck processing paperwork for other government dweebs for the next twenty years.
“You’ll be working for me.” Cat who ate the canary grin.
“Doing what?”
“We…well, let me put it as plainly as I can. We are in the midst of a new cold war, Mason. We were just kids when the wall fell, but today is just as dangerous as it was when Ronnie told Gorbachev to tear it down. Only now, things are even worse. Nations can influence other nations witho
ut stepping foot on their soil. The Russians can alter the perception of an entire nation without dispatching spies to coerce its leaders. We can overthrow a government via fucking Twitter, Mason. It’s a very volatile situation, and we are losing. You probably understand it better than I do. Especially after all your research into the patriot movement.”
“I’m having a hard time remembering a lot of that.” I really am.
“Well, that kind of sucks because we could use an expert on such things. Someone just like you. Hey, by the way, where is the Patriot Deception file? That’s what the damn Russians wanted from you. Do you know where it is?”
“No. No, I don’t. I really don’t.” I really, really don’t.
“No big deal. You’ll just spend a lot of time recreating your research when you get back to work. How’s your shoulder and hip?”
“Huh?” I’ve been having aggravating pains in both locations but how could he know that?
“Your injuries! The fall you took. Banged up pretty bad. It’s in your personnel file. How are they feeling?”
“Manageable…I guess. I can still move freely. I just need some ibuprofen and maybe a massage afterward.” I managed a grin. It’s mostly true.
“Good, because you’re heading back into training in a few weeks, once all this crap is taken care of. You’re gonna have to get back into shape. I can’t have dumpy agents out there trying to save the world.”
“Hey, I’m not dumpy!”
“You’ve let yourself get soft, Mason. Admit it. And this isn’t an analyst position, and you won’t be sitting at an art table faking gay wedding photos of some tin pot dictator, either. You’ll be operating in the field. We are a fully contained shop. We do the research, gather the intel, identify the targets, and pacify them, all on our own.”
“Pacify?”
“Yeah. Kill fuckers, Mason.”
“Oh,” I managed.
“Are you in?”
“I need to think about this. Can you give me a little time to…”?
“No. In, or out. Right now, if you are not willing to come back in, you’ll be thrown to the wolves. Good luck. Oh, and so will Max and Amanda. Amanda is already free, but I’m sure they will eventually find something to charge her with.”
“Hey! No! You guys can’t let them do that. She’s…”
“In, or out, Mason? Decide.”
Wait a minute. I wonder just how badly he wants me back. If I’m truly valuable to him, he should be willing to alter the deal a little, right? I inhale deeply through my nose and look him straight in the eyes. “Not lateral. A promotion.”
“What? Come on, Mason. This is no time to negotiate salary, dude. We’re trying to keep you out of prison. Isn’t that enough?”
“No. No, it’s not. I make a lot of money doing my own thing. Uncle Sam is going to have to compensate for that.” I can see he’s thinking about it. He only rolled his eyes a little.
“We’ll let you continue to do some freelance on the side if that will make you happy. I’m not sure how much we can allow, but if you check with us first, we might be able to work that out.” He’s drumming his fingers again.
“And?” I’m waiting for the money pitch.
“Okay, fine. We’ll up you two levels. Will that work?”
That will work. Tough conditions for a salary discussion but I think I pulled that off smoothly, don’t you? “Yes, that will work.” He is grinning now, and that makes me believe he could have gone even higher. Dammit! I’m not as good at this as I think. “And I get to freelance if an opportunity presents itself?”
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with any ongoing operations, sure.”
He’s telling the truth. The only question is how busy I will be with these ongoing operations. If they keep me busy enough, I will never have the time to do any private work.
“In! What about Max?” I don’t want my friend being left out in the cold.
“He was released a little while ago. He’ll be fine. He’ll be cleared.”
“Okay. So, where do I sign?” There has to be a contract involved somehow.
“You already did. Don’t you remember?” Cat who ate the canary smile again. Now, let’s go break you out of this joint.”
Chapter Thirty
September 24, 2016
0900 hours
Government agency or not, they still made me stay the night in a jail cell. The county sheriff refused to just take Kyle’s word for it. Kyle had to make a few hurried phone calls to Virginia to put a few things in place but, in the end, the CIA convinced the sheriff I was legitimate. Unfortunately, the sheriff also made sure all the other rules were followed and would not allow me to be out-processed until morning. It seems not even the powerful CIA can force a county employee to come in on their off hours. I had to wait for the county clerk, the secretary, and the chief jailer to show up at 7:00am.
Overnight, I was treated fairly. Although I had to remain in the secure detention area, the night shift made sure I had everything I needed. I was brought food, which was surprisingly good. I had plenty of pillows and blankets. There isn’t much you can do with a foam pad resting on top of a steel shelf, but I think I’ve slept in worse conditions. There was a small television in the corner with eight channels. I left it on PBS and let the background noise try to quiet the sounds in my head. There was plenty of time to think. It’s a vastly different experience sitting alone in a jail cell believing it will become your permanent home and having to waste a few hours in one knowing you’ll be released. Neither experience is recommended, but the latter is much more palatable than the former.
Until I was convinced I would be released, I felt a despair and agony, unlike anything I can remember. Of all the things humans require to be happy, freedom seems to be the most meaningful. People have fought and died for it, yearned for it, and even prayed for it. When you have it, you take it for granted. When you do not have it, you can think of nothing else. I also had to visit the idea that I might never see Amanda again or, if I did, it would be through a tempered glass partition. That was almost as painful as thinking I had lost my freedom.
More of the chaos in the dark room returned to my memory as I laid there staring up at the battleship gray ceiling. The violence frightened me. Not the violence perpetrated against me so much as the violence I committed against others. From where does it originate? Is there an uncontrollable creature inside all of us, just waiting for an opportunity? Not everything is clear yet, though. I do have a memory of shoving a sharp piece of wood through a guy’s eye socket.
I made it out of that room somehow. I was on my feet for a time, but then all I remember seeing is gravel, dirt, and tall grass. I was crawling. I hear passing vehicles. I was on the side of a road, probably where I was eventually found. They wanted the Patriot Deception files, just like Toni wanted. Of course, I preferred her type of interrogation to what was being done to me in that dark room in that abandoned house.
I know I compiled quite a collection of documents, links, and other things in an electronic file I labeled The Patriot Deception. Max and his cohorts at the agency went through my computers thoroughly, but they didn’t locate the file. I remember creating it, but I still can’t remember what I did with it. I assume I placed it on a flash drive or something and put it somewhere safe. A place so safe I wouldn’t remember it after being bashed in the head repeatedly, hopped up on illegal drugs, and suffering a fucking coma. Even Toni, with her oh-so-pleasurable methods, couldn’t get it out of me. I must have buried the knowledge so deep within my subconscious that maybe nothing will make me remember.
Kyle has me tucked away in a hotel now. A much nicer place than the one the FBI crashed. Kyle even paid the motel for the damage to the door the FBI smashed to bits during their entry. This place is an actual suite. There is a small kitchen, a living room area, a sitting area with a round table and two chairs, a guest bathroom, and a separate bedroom with its own bath. It probably costs the government around $500 per night. I’m
not sure how long I’ll be here. He has a security contingent watching over me. He’s very concerned that the Russians may make another attempt on my life, or keep trying until they succeed. There is a man outside the door as an obvious guard. I’m on the fourth floor. There’s a balcony, but I’ve been told not to use it.
I’m not sure how many people are guarding me, though. Kyle didn’t say. He simply told me I’d be well-protected. The CIA has people specifically trained for such things, like their own police force. Our own, I suppose. It’s going to take me a while to get used to the idea that I’m back on the CIA payroll.
I assume that’s the security guy knocking on the door. Totally sounds like a cop serving a warrant, or something. Bam bam bam. Not gentlemanly. I peer through the peephole to make sure, though. Yes, his ugly mug, distorted in the curved optic, is staring right at the viewer. God, he looks mean. I hope he’s meaner than Crank and Shaft. They didn’t do so well the last time.
I put on my best female voice and say, “Who is it?” I can see the guard rolling his eyes.
“You have a visitor.”
“I’m not decent!” I’m still doing the girl's voice.
“We know! Open the door, Mason.” Hey, that’s Amanda!
I’m scrambling now, fumbling with the locks. My hands are shaking, and I can feel my heart pounding. It’s like someone just hit me with a massive shot of adrenaline. Jesus! Who makes these things? It won’t… there! God! The heavy door doesn’t open as quickly as I want.
She squeezes through as soon as the door is open enough and is in my arms, kicking at the door behind her to force it closed. She has me in a tight hug. A hug tighter than I remember ever feeling. Too tight, even. Hey! Ow, my neck.
“Oh, my God, Mason. I thought I was gonna have to kill someone to get in here.”
This gives me pause. This little woman hasn’t been unsettled by just about anything that has occurred since I was released from the hospital. She has such a strong sense of loyalty. She knows I killed people. She knows I don’t mind it. She should be running from me as fast as her pretty, little feet can take her but she isn’t. I think she might mean it when she says she would have killed someone if necessary. She’s strong, too. Shit, she might just strangle them.
