Identity_Unknown

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He could remember the menu hanging above the counter, the words both in English and something undecipherable.

  “I didn’t see them come in,” he continued. “There was this loud noise—that was the first I knew of any trouble. The sound of weapons being fired. My father pulled me down, but it was over before it even began. Terrorists killed the security guards at the doors. They’d taken control of the McDonald’s—the symbol for all things American. And we were their hostages.”

  The truck moved onward through the night. A sign appeared out of the blackness. Clines Corners, twenty miles.

  Becca was silent, just letting him tell the story at his own speed.

  “They took us into the back, out a doorway into the main part of the building. The guards there were dead, too. It was obvious this had been planned, that this attack hadn’t been just a spur-of-the-moment event. They led us into a storage room that had been cleared out. There were no windows and only that one door—like I said, they planned it well. Some of the women and children were crying, and the terrorists seemed on the edge, too, shouting for everyone to be silent, and my father stepped forward.

  “He tried to calm everyone down, started talking about the women and kids, trying to convince the terrorists’ leader that they should let them go. And I remember…”

  Is that your dad, kid?

  “There was a man standing behind me. A black man. An American. He must’ve been in the McDonald’s when we arrived—I didn’t remember seeing him on the bus.”

  Tell your dad to back off. The American’s eyes and voice had held an urgency.

  “He told me to tell my father that these terrorists wouldn’t negotiate, that they didn’t respect his cross or his collar, that the fact that he was American put him in extra danger.”

  Tell him. Now.

  Dad. “So I stepped toward my father, tried to take his arm and pull him back into the crowd.”

  His father had turned just a little, the sweat glistening on his brow. Stay back with the others, Mitch.

  “He wouldn’t listen to me.” Mitch could remember his own fear. His sense of panic as he saw the intense concern in the American’s face, saw the horror in his dark brown eyes. And he knew even before he turned back that his father was as good as dead.

  “It happened so fast. The terrorist lifted his side arm and fired. Two bullets. Right into my father’s head. One second he was standing there, and the next…”

  He’d crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

  “It was so unreal,” Mitch said, his voice tight with anguish. “It didn’t seem possible that he was really dead. I mean, how could he be dead? He was so alive. But there was blood. I didn’t know it at the time, but we’d been sprayed with it. All I could see was this pool of red on the floor, beneath him. I wanted to go to him, to help him, to stop the bleeding, but the American pulled me back, into the crowd. He put his hand over my mouth.”

  God, kid, I’m sorry. The American’s voice had been nearly as rough as his hands.

  Let me help him! Mitch had struggled.

  “And he told me my father was dead.”

  Don’t do this, the American had hissed.

  “He told me if I made too much noise, they’d kill me, too.”

  I don’t care! Mitch hadn’t gotten the words out from behind the man’s huge hand, but he knew the message had been understood.

  “He told me to think about my mother, think about how she was going to feel losing both her husband and her son on the same day.”

  Stop being so damned selfish, boy, and you calm yourself down.

  “He told me I couldn’t help my father now.”

  “Oh, Mitch, I can’t believe you had to live through that.” Becca’s eyes glimmered with sympathy.

  “They locked us into that room,” he told her, “and I sat on the floor, trying not to cry, trying not to look at my father. They just left his body there. One of the women had draped her scarf over his head and face, but…”

  But that pool of blood had remained.

  “The American was making a circuit of the room, trying to convince the others that we had to fight back, and that the moment to strike was as soon as the terrorists returned, as soon as they unlocked the door. He told us he knew about this group of zealots. He knew of their leader, knew that they weren’t going to let any of us go free.”

  The American told them that when the terrorists returned, the killing would start.

  “He said that he was going to fight. But no one else seemed up to it. Everyone was afraid. I was afraid, too.”

  But Mitch had looked at his father, at this man who had been so good, so strong, so caring. He’d been killed as if he were little more than a bug to be stepped on. And Mitch had looked up at the American.

  I’ll fight, he’d said. I’ll help.

  “Thou shalt not kill,” Mitch told Becca. “If there was one thing my father believed more than anything, it was in nonviolence. Guns and weapons and war had no place in his world. But I wasn’t in his world anymore. And I wanted to kill the men who had taken him from me.”

  The American sat down next to him. Okay. Let’s kill them, Mitch. You channel that rage, kid. Make it work for you.

  “The American man asked me if I’d ever fired an automatic weapon.” Mitch laughed. “In my house? I hadn’t even seen one up close, let alone held one.”

  The force of the discharge pulls the muzzle up, the American had told him. You’ve got to work to keep it down. And aim for the center of the body. Don’t go for the head. It’s amazing how often the enemy pops back onto their feet after a shot to the head with something as lightweight as a nine millimeter. And we don’t want that, you copy?

  “He gave me a crash course in handling an assault weapon, and I pointed out that a lot of good it was going to do us to talk about firing one, since we didn’t have one to fire.” Mitch shook his head. “But he told me he had a plan.”

  “He told me about something called PV—point of vulnerability. and AV—area of vulnerability. He explained that there was always a point in which an attacking force was temporarily at their weakest. He told me when the terrorists came back, their PV would be when they first came into the room. And that’s when we were going to hit them—when they were close together, coming through the door, when it was hardest for them to maneuver.”

  Mitch had looked at the American through the haze of anger and grief that seemed to rise like a mist from his father’s prone body. “It seemed absurd. Out of a roomful of people, virtually sentenced to death, the only ones willing to fight back were this one older man and me. A kid who planned to major in philosophy and religion in college. I didn’t know for sure, but up to that point, I had been pretty certain I would follow in my father’s footsteps. I had this faith in God, and it seemed it was only a matter of time before I received the call and…”

  He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “I received a call that day, that’s for sure. My father and his words and his faith couldn’t save us—he couldn’t even save himself. But with a weapon like those machine guns…Yeah, I received a completely different kind of call.”

  Becca reached across the bench seat and found his hand. He held onto her tightly, seeing the lights from the truck stop up ahead, and knowing it was just a matter of minutes now before he had to walk away from her for good.

  “The American—I wish I could remember his name!—he was ready for them, and when the terrorists opened the door, he launched himself at them. It was a suicide play. He knew he was going to be shot. But he’d hoped to grab one of their guns and throw it toward me, and somehow he did. And when that weapon came sliding across that tile floor toward me, I didn’t hesitate. And I left my father’s world for good, Bec. I picked it up, and I fired. I leaned on the trigger, like the American had told me. I pulled the muzzle down, and I swept it across those bastards, all jammed together in that doorway, and I sent ’em straight to hell.”

  A spray of bullets.

  A s
pray of blood.

  So much blood.

  Blood…

  “I killed all three of them. And with the hostages armed on the inside, we held off the terrorists until the marines stormed the building. The American died on the way to the hospital. He and my father were the only casualties among the hostages.”

  “I don’t know,” Becca’s voice was quiet in the darkness. “I might be tempted to call you a casualty, too.”

  “Yeah,” Mitch said just as quietly. “In a way, I guess I died that day, too.” He pointed to the exit that was approaching. “We could use some gas—and a cup of coffee would be something of a blessing right about now.”

  He could feel her eyes as she glanced over at him, and he carefully kept his gaze on the road in front of them.

  In silence, she took the exit, braking at the Stop sign at the end of the long ramp. The truck stop was brightly lit, and she pulled into the parking lot, into a slot by the restaurant door.

  She still had his hand, and when he would have turned away to open the door and climb out, she tugged him toward her. She pulled him into her arms, wrapping him in her sweetness and warmth.

  “Thank you so much for telling me,” she whispered, and she kissed him.

  Mitch lost himself in the softness of her lips. That she would want to kiss him after all he’d just told her was amazing to him. And he knew more than ever that she wouldn’t willingly go back to the Lazy Eight without him.

  So he held her tightly and, without her knowing it, kissed her goodbye as gently as he could.

  “I met Mitch Shaw at his father’s funeral.” Admiral Jake Robinson sat at the head of the table in the Gray Group’s makeshift temporary headquarters at Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque.

  After calling Captain Catalanotto, Lucky and his team had been ordered to Holloman AFB, pronto, where a special transport had been waiting to whisk them up to Kirtland. It was the power of the Admiralcy in action. When they landed, they were escorted posthaste from the transport to this office, where they were joined by the captain, and Blue McCoy and Crash Hawken, the two SEALs from Alpha Squad who’d been sent to look for Mitch in Albuquerque.

  “The vice president of the United States was at the funeral, too,” the admiral told them. “And he shook the kid’s hand and told him he was very sorry for his loss, told him there was going to be a ceremony in Washington, and the president of the United States was going to present Mitch with a special version of the Medal of Honor.

  “And Mitch looked him right in the eye and told him thanks, but no thanks. He didn’t deserve it. His father did, though. His father had died believing in the power of good over evil. The way Mitch saw it, the Reverend Randall Shaw had died sticking to his belief that nonviolence was the only option. Mitch, however, believed that by killing those terrorists, he’d given in and used evil to fight evil. He didn’t want a medal for that.

  “I introduced myself to him,” Jake told them. “I wasn’t an admiral at the time, but I’d been heavily decorated from my time in Vietnam. Still it was obvious that he wasn’t interested in talking to me—until I told him I was a friend of Senior Chief Fred Baxter, the man who’d died helping Mitch save those hostages’ lives. After I told him that, he took a walk with me, and I had the chance to tell him that Freddie was a Navy SEAL, told him a little bit about what that meant. And I told him that Fred was getting a medal, too. Posthumously. And Fred deserved that medal, absolutely, without a doubt. Because Fred Baxter, like me, like most SEALs, believed in something just as absolutely as Mitch’s father believed in nonviolence. Fred believed in the power of gray.”

  Jake looked around his room. “You guys know this. In our world there’s no such thing as black and white. There’s no clear line between right and wrong, especially when the outcome affects millions of lives. And so we operate in that narrow band of gray. Mitch was fifteen when he first stepped into that world.

  “I don’t know what he’s doing right now,” the admiral continued. “I don’t know what the hell he’s up to, but I can tell you with complete confidence, gentlemen, that he has not sold out, that he remains faithful to both God and country. He’s worked closely with me since the conception of the Gray Group—in fact, he gave it its name. I trust him as I trust myself. There will be an explanation for his behavior, I guarantee it. I know you’re not going to like this, but I suggest we sit tight, give him space to operate, and wait for him to contact us.”

  Lucky looked at Joe Cat, waiting for the captain to make an alternative suggestion. When he was noticeably silent, Lucky cleared his throat. “Admiral. Sir. Aren’t we, um, forgetting about that plutonium floating around out there, about to fall into the wrong hands?”

  Jake stood up. “Gray Group operatives have infiltrated an arms dealer’s organization—the very one that will be attempting to broker the deal. The client’s a political faction in an Eastern European country and we’ve been keeping tabs on them as well. The exchange was supposed to take place yesterday, but the seller cancelled at the last minute—which leads me to believe that the seller no longer has possession of the plutonium, and that Mitch Shaw does. But a new meeting’s been set up for tomorrow. In Santa Fe. Which means that sometime before tonight and tomorrow, Mitch could well be calling in for some help. And gentlemen…” He looked around the table, meeting each of the SEALs’ eyes.. “When he needs us, we’ll be ready.”

  Becca knew what Mitch was doing. She knew, without a doubt, that he was kissing her goodbye. If she let him get out of the truck, he was as good as gone.

  She held him tightly, knowing that if she didn’t speak now, she’d regret it for the rest of her life.

  “Don’t go.” Her voice shook.

  He didn’t try to pretend he didn’t know what she meant.

  “I have to, Bec.”

  She was glad he didn’t pull back, glad he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes as she did the one thing she swore she’d never do—beg a man to stay. “We can start over. Go away together. We can hide. There’s got to be a million places two people can lose themselves in this country. No one will ever find you, we’ll be careful and—”

  “Spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders? That’s no way to live.”

  Becca closed her eyes, feeling her tears escape.

  “Please…”

  “I can’t. Not knowing who’s after me, or why…It would drive me crazy. Bec, I have to find out who I am.” He pulled away from her gently, opening the glove compartment and taking a folded piece of paper out. “I wrote this letter,” he told her. “It’s to Ted Alden. I’ve explained the situation as best as I could, and I’ve asked him to invest the money he wanted to give me in your ranch—the one I know you’re going to buy someday. However he wants to set it up is fine. I want you to send this to him along with that check he wrote, okay?”

  “No,” she said. She wouldn’t take it from him, so he put it back in the glove box. “No, it’s not okay!”

  He opened the door and stepped out into the night. “I love you.”

  It was what she’d both dreaded and hoped to hear. Becca squinted at him through both the glare from the overhead light and her tears. “Then how can you leave?”

  He lifted his case up and out of the truck, his face in the shadows. “How could I stay?”

  He closed the door, and Becca scrambled out of the driver’s side, wiping furiously at her tears. “Mitch!”

  But the parking lot was empty.

  He was already gone.

  Chapter 15

  Mitch couldn’t sleep.

  He’d toyed with the idea of not getting a motel room because he knew he’d never get his eyes shut tonight.

  The Albuquerque address on the passport hadn’t been real. Oh, it was a residential neighborhood, but—surprise, surprise—the house number didn’t exist. And even though Mitch had walked around in the darkness for close to two hours, he hadn’t felt even the faintest flash of familiarity from anything.

  He’d walked b
ack to the part of town that was lit by cheap motels, late-night bars and all-night coffee shops. He’d gotten his coffee to go, and paid the extra money for the motel room.

  Not because he wanted to sleep.

  Because he wanted to look through his suitcase again. See if there was anything he’d missed.

  So now he sat on the sagging double bed, surrounded by the contents of his leather case. His…bag of tricks? Grab your bag of tricks, Lieutenant…

  Lieutenant?

  He’d set the weapons aside, but now he picked up the MP-5. His “room broom.” It fit comfortably, easily in his hands.

  His father would have been shocked.

  He put it down, and unrolled his jeans. He hadn’t had a chance to go through the pockets and…

  He nearly missed it. It was a small photograph in the back pocket. The torn corner of a picture—just the head and shoulders of a man.

  The face was shockingly familiar.

  Shaggy hair, full beard, florid features…

  Casey Parker.

  The name came to him in a flash of certainty that chilled him to the bone.

  Casey Parker was the man who had shot Mitch in that Wyatt City alley. He was also the man who had come to the Lazy Eight ranch, looking for the package that was supposed to be waiting for him there—the package Mitch had taken in his stead.

  He still had the key that had been in that envelope. He was carrying it in his pocket.

  Mitch took it out and looked at it again. It was, without a doubt, the kind of key a bank issued with a safe-deposit box. What was in that box, Mitch could only guess. Money, maybe. Or the take from some robbery. Jewelry. Something valuable. Something that had started all this. Something Parker had already tried to kill Mitch over.