Warped (The Mercenary Series Book 2)

by Marissa Farrar

  I straightened. “You do?”

  He smiled back at me, in that reserved, professional way the medical staff all seemed to have perfected. “Yes. One of the local newspapers ran a small article on you—the man found half-drowned and now suffering with amnesia—and it seems someone has recognized you.”

  A chill hit my heart and spread through my veins. I remembered a reporter asking after me, even perhaps a photograph being taken, though I hadn’t consented to it. Now someone had recognized me and perhaps knew who I was.

  “They have?”

  “Yes. Not a family member, I’m afraid, but a business associate. He’s right outside. Is it all right with you if I bring him in?”

  I didn’t know why this was making me so uncomfortable. Perhaps it was normal? I had no idea what was normal in this situation. But what I did know was that this had definitely put my teeth on edge. “Did he say anything more? Which business, for example?”

  “No, I’m sorry, he didn’t. I’m sure he can explain more himself. Shall I bring him in?”

  I could hardly say no. “Sure.”

  I found myself reaching for something at my side—a completely unconscious gesture. What was it I had been reaching for? A gun? Had it been a gun? If so, then I was someone who would normally carry a weapon, and that would also mean something about this situation told my subconscious it was dangerous and I should be prepared.

  Who the hell had I been?

  The doctor walked back in, another man following him. He appeared to be my age, perhaps a little older. He smiled as he approached, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to smile back. All my inner alarms were blaring like I was in the middle of a raid. Did I recognize him? His appearance was bland, even boring, conformist in a charcoal gray suit and black dress shoes. His short brown hair was neatly cut and pushed back from his face with some kind of product. He didn’t look dangerous, yet my flight or fight response had gone into overdrive.

  “Lee!” the new arrival said, moving past the doctor to approach me with his hand outstretched. I had no choice but to shake it, and he clapped me on the back. “I can’t believe what happened to you. No memory?”

  I frowned and shook my head.

  “So you don’t remember me at all?”

  Again, I shook my head. “No, sorry.”

  “Not to worry,” chimed in the doctor. “Hopefully Mr. Baglione here will be able to fill in some blanks for you.” He looked between us, as though assessing the situation, and then gave a smile. “I’ll leave you both to catch up.” Then he turned around and walked out of the room.

  “Baglione?” I said to the new arrival. “That’s your name?”

  He nodded. “Harvey Baglione.” He looked at me curiously, as though he didn’t quite buy that I didn’t recognize him or remember his name. “Of course. I’ll do everything I can to help, though you’ve always been a bit of a closed book, Lee.”

  “Yes, it seems that way. So you know me from work? What exactly do I do?”

  “You’re in human resources—getting rid of people surplus to their positions.”

  I frowned. “I was in an office job?”

  “Well, it isn’t quite office based. You freelance a lot—go into companies who need to get rid of the slackers. It’s a consultant position, really, working out how to get departments that are flagging to be a bit more streamline, which essentially means getting rid of people.”

  “Right.” Something didn’t ring true. I couldn’t imagine myself in a shirt and tie, just like this guy was, going into offices as a consultant. The firing people part I could understand—when I tried to imagine what kind of emotions I would experience at telling someone they’d lost their job, I felt nothing. My heart was cold as ice, but I still couldn’t imagine getting up to put on a suit every morning and treading the corporate line.

  I had to ask this man some more questions. “Do you know if I have a home around here? A family? Friends, even?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, sorry, buddy. You were staying in hotel rooms when I met you, and never spoke of any family.”

  “Sure.”

  “Look, since you’re obviously in a bind, how about you come back and stay with me for a while? I live alone, so you won’t be bothering anyone. I can’t see you just tossed out on the street like this when you have no memory of your life.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because that’s what friends are for.”

  “I thought I didn’t have any friends.”

  He shrugged. “Acquaintances, then.”

  I couldn’t stay in this hospital forever, and if I was to leave on my own, I guessed I would be going to a hotel room, alone, and hoping my memory came back to me. At least if I was with someone I knew, they would be able to fill in some of the details. Still, I felt awkward at the situation. More than anything, I wished I could remember who I was supposed to be. It was like a black hole at the back of my mind, and every time I reached to try to find something, I found myself grasping at infinite space.

  “I’ll check with the doctor,” I said eventually, “and make sure it’s all right that I’m discharged. I expect they’ll be happy to see the back of me. I’m not sure they knew what they were going to do with me.”

  He nodded. “Good. You’re making the right choice. Look, I’ve got a meeting a few blocks away. I’m sure the doc is going to want to check up on you and do a mountain of paperwork before they discharge you, so I’ll go to that and then come back in a couple of hours. How does that sound?”

  I nodded. “Sounds fine.”

  He pulled a trigger finger at me. “Don’t go anywhere without me.”

  I tried to force my mouth into a smile, and then he turned and left. Alarm bells were ringing inside me, but I couldn’t explain why. There was no reason I should be in any danger from an old work colleague. But someone had shot me, though I doubted very much the person responsible would walk right into the hospital to come and see me. Yes, the paper might have reported that I had lost my memory, but he didn’t know to what extent. Besides, I might have been lying for some reason, and the minute he’d walked in I could have pointed the finger at him.

  No, I didn’t think Harvey Baglione had been the one to shoot me, but still, something wasn’t quite right about him.

  I weighed my options. I could leave on my own and go to a hotel room and hang out, totally unconnected to anyone or anything, and hope my memory came back to me. I could stay in the hospital and rack up massive bills which I had no idea how I was going to pay, and wait for the hospital staff to eventually throw me out, which would mean I’d then end up doing option one anyway. Or I could go with Harvey and try to unravel whatever fucking mess I’d ended up getting myself stuck in.

  I didn’t think I was the type of person who sat around doing nothing. I figured I didn’t have much of a choice.

  ***

  A couple of hours passed before the doctor came back in, giving me his professional smile as he did so. It was starting to piss me off.

  “Sorry I took so long,” he said, “I had other patients to see. So, what’s the verdict?”

  “Mr. Baglione has offered me a place to stay until my memory comes back, so I think I’ll take him up on his offer.”

  I could tell he was relieved to have the problem taken out of his hands.

  “That’s great to know. We’ll want to see you back here in a few days to reassess you, see if anything is changed.”

  “Sure.”

  “Excellent. I’ll just get you the paperwork. I’m afraid you only have the clothes you were brought in here with. They have been washed and dried, but they are looking a little ... tattered.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine. I’ll treat myself to a shopping trip when I’m settled.” I was being sarcastic—even with no memory, I knew shopping wasn’t my thing—but the doctor didn’t pick up on it.

  “I’ll send the nurse over shortly with your paperwork. Your c
lothes are in the drawer of the cabinet beside you.”

  I waited for him to go, then pulled open the drawer and took out a black pair of pants and an equally black shirt. Black shoes, which I was amazed I hadn’t lost in the water. I must have really liked black.

  I ran my hands over the material, catching my fingers in a tear. Something—a feeling, a memory ... I couldn’t be sure—jolted through me. Frowning, I examined it closer. It was a cut put through the arm of the shirt, a slice, as though done by a sharp blade. I lifted my corresponding arm and looked down at my forearm. Sure enough, there was the wound, a still-red scar, from the injury being brand new, the skin still delicate and newly formed. Someone had cut me, and it felt vitally important that I remembered who. Had it been the same person who had shot me? I couldn’t explain why, but for some reason I thought they were different. I continued my inspection of the shirt, locating the hole in the shoulder where the bullet had passed through the material before lodging in my flesh. Finding nothing else, I started on the pants. Just like with the shirt, I found another cut in the material. So I had been wearing these clothes when I had been stabbed, and shot, though the cop had told me the injuries looked like they’d happened several days apart. He also said it was harder to give an exact time between the two injuries due to the amount of time I’d spent in the water.

  I dressed in the clothing and stood up straight. That feeling again rushed through me, the sensation I was reaching closer to the person I’d been before I’d almost drowned. I felt the urge to stand taller, to square my shoulders and lift my chin. I didn’t think the man I’d been took much shit from anyone, and I wondered if that had been the reason for all my injuries.

  The nurse approached holding a clipboard of paperwork. She was looking down at the board, flicking through the top pages, and didn’t glance up until she’d almost reached me. When she did, I noted the almost imperceptible double take she did, the flush that rose to her cheeks. Having me standing there, dressed in black, in the stance that had seemed to come naturally to me, had made her look at me in a different way. I was no longer a patient, but a man who would have caught her eye, and the change left her flustered.

  “You’re looking better,” she said, her voice an octave too high. “I just have to get you to sign these forms and you’re good to go.”

  “Thank you.”

  I did what she’d asked, then collected my miniscule belongings of a credit card and a driver’s license. Surely, somewhere in this world, I had a place where, even if I didn’t call it home, I kept my belongings? That I only had what I stood up in felt bizarre.

  The growingly familiar face of Harvey Baglione appeared from around the door. “Well, you’re looking more like your old self,” he declared. “Ready to go?”

  I gave a close-lipped smile and nodded.

  Together, we left the hospital and stepped onto the street.

  He spoke low in my ear. “So what is this? Some kind of act?”

  I jolted at his words. “What?”

  “You can’t be serious about this bullshit. What are you trying to achieve? Is someone else after you? Why wouldn’t you just get the hell out of here instead of hanging around?”

  “I swear, I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

  He gave a cold laugh. “Yeah, right, the infamous X is no more. Is this some crazy way of reinventing yourself again?”

  I stopped and caught his arm. “What did you just call me?”

  His eyes narrowed. “X. That’s your name.”

  “No, my name is Lee Mason.” Yet that single initial woke something in me. I was sure it had meaning, though I had no idea what. And anyway, no one was called X. That wasn’t a name—it was a letter.

  He gave a laugh. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? You’re playing with me now.”

  “I’m not playing. Someone shot me and threw me into a river where I almost drowned. I’ve woken up with no memory of who I am, so for the most part I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Shit. Well, you’d better remember fast or people are going to come and finish off the job.”

  “What job?”

  “The job of killing you.”

  Chapter Seven

  V

  There was no way in hell I was going to tell anyone what really happened in that warehouse. Those last few minutes of my mother’s life were between me, my sister, and my father. I wouldn’t even say what I’d done out loud, never mind stand in a courtroom full of people and tell them what had actually happened. Yes, there had been other witnesses there, men who my father paid, but none of them would come forward either. To do so would mean owning up to being in the same room as a mother and her children, while my father forced me to shoot one of them. Besides, he may not have pulled the trigger himself, but at the end of the day he was the one to have killed her. He used me, gave me no choice. I couldn’t let him get away with it. I would see him behind bars for her murder, even if the story I told wasn’t strictly the truth.

  I’d kept my sister completely out of this. The last thing I wanted was for her to be involved. They might try to make her testify, and then she would be in the middle of a nightmare, just like me.

  “Can you run through what you said in your statement one more time for me?” Caroline Bailey asked.

  I nodded and opened my mouth to speak. As I did so, the sudden certainty that I was about to throw up filled me. Saliva flooded my mouth and I clamped my hand across my face. With a lurch, I shoved back my chair and staggered to my feet. I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance of making it to the bathroom in time, so I did the only thing I could, and threw myself to my knees in front of the small trashcan intended for wastepaper. Clutching the edges, I heaved the coffee I had drunk out into the can, emptying my stomach with several more urges, until I had nothing left to throw up.

  The lawyer offered me one of the tissues kept on the desk—more often used to mop up tears of victims, I suspected—and I used it to wipe my mouth. I sat back on my heels, panting, tears streaming from my eyes, and clear snot running from both nostrils. Fuck. I was a mess. The sweat that had formed on my skin now grew ice cold, and I shivered.

  What the hell had just happened?

  The sudden bout of nausea I had experienced passed as quickly as it had arrived. I felt shaky and weak, but otherwise all right.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Caroline asked me.

  I found a flimsy plastic cup of water being pressed into my hands, and I took a sip then wiped my face again. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

  She helped me up and back into the chair. I was very aware of the trashcan of my vomit sitting beside us, and I shook my head and rubbed my hand over my face.

  “It’s okay, don’t be embarrassed,” she said. “You won’t be the first person to throw up under these circumstances. It can be traumatic to go through all these details again.”

  I nodded, as though I understood and agreed. But I didn’t. I wasn’t one to get squeamish at death. I’d killed people without feeling the need to throw up. I’d been around more dead bodies than any other woman my age, and I’d barely done so much as wrinkle my nose. This wasn’t my normal reaction, but I couldn’t tell her that. To do so would make me look like a cold-hearted bitch, and that definitely wasn’t the look I was going for in court.

  “Do you want to reschedule?” she asked me. “We’re on a tight deadline, but if you think—”

  “No.” I cut her off. “I don’t want to reschedule. I’ve been waiting for this for the past few months. I want to get it over with.”

  “Okay, as long as you’re sure. I’m going to find a janitor to see if we can get this cleared up, so why don’t you take ten minutes and we’ll meet up back here.”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  Tony’s men were still waiting for me in the corridor outside, like my own personal body guards, which I guessed was exactly what they were. I wondered if any of my father’s men were around, ready to
feed back to my father whether or not I had turned up. Would they shoot me if they got the chance?

  I threw Tony’s men a glare as I headed to the restroom. “Are you going to follow me into the bathroom as well?”

  They stopped and exchanged a glance.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I told them both. “I want to get this done as much as Tony wants me to.”

  “Okay,” the older guy, Warren, said. “But don’t be long.”

  I rolled my eyes then pushed my way into the bathroom. A couple of other women were in there, but I avoided eye contact with them, knowing I probably looked, and smelled, awful. I waited until they’d left then went to the basins. Mirrors were placed above them, and, as I ran the water to splash my face, I caught a glimpse of myself. My skin looked waxy, my cheekbones hollow. There were inky smudges beneath both of my eyes.

  Perhaps the lawyer was right. I’d been through more over these past few months than most people would have to go through in a lifetime. I was grieving for two people now—my mother and X. I was fully aware I protected myself by pushing my emotions so deep inside me I couldn’t feel them—only numbness—and perhaps getting sick like that had been my body’s way of rebelling.

  A banging on the door made me jump. “You done in there?”

  One of Tony’s men.

  “One minute,” I called back.

  I splashed some of the running water across my face, and rinsed my mouth out. The small amount of makeup I’d worn had been wrecked when I’d thrown up, so I did my best to repair it with what I had in my purse.

  I left the bathroom and flashed a smile at the two petulant looking men outside. They didn’t want to be on babysitting duty any more than I wanted them to be. Pushing the vomiting incident far from my mind, I went back in to the room to finish being cross examined about the lie I had told about my mother’s death.

  Chapter Eight

  X

  With little choice, I allowed my new friend to steer me down the street and away from the hospital. The name he had used, ‘X,’ had strummed my nerve endings like a guitar pick. Was that really what I had been known as? I couldn’t deny that I’d recognized it. As soon as Harvey had said the name, my veins had flooded with adrenaline.