Patriot Deception: A Thriller Suspense Novel (Mason McCall Book 1)

by Ross Elder

  Carl had no problem revealing his secrets. He told us everything. Well, everything he knew. His employer, Upton, had remained very vague about everything, giving up only what information was necessary for Carl to understand the importance of his contract. Bottom line: Upton knows I know…something, about him, and he has done enough research to know more than enough about me. Carl indicated he had no interest in going to the police over this incident. He also didn’t want to confess to his employer that he got caught doing his job. We agreed to part ways with no further hostility. When he asked me what to do about his report to Upton, I told him to file it. No point in Carl not getting paid for his work. Max, looking back at us through the rearview mirror, even tried to get Carl to “pinky-swear” he wasn’t going to call the cops. Carl did not, in fact, pinky-swear. Not sure I can trust a guy like that. We dropped him off back at his SUV.

  Once we were alone, Max kept saying, “Oh, my God!” and, “You really don’t remember?” The questions and revelations were harsh and, occasionally, impossible-sounding.

  Hi. My name is Mason McCall. I am a man severely psychologically damaged by a combination of severe head trauma and a concoction of narcotics. I used to work for the CIA. At some time, somehow, I was careless. The target of my investigation, Roger Upton, somehow figured out I was peeling away the onion around him. Apparently, he didn’t like it. He may have been the person behind my abduction, torture, and chemical interrogation, if, and this is still a major if, that abduction and torture really occurred. I believe it did. I can feel it. I can even smell it; the sweat, the chemical odor lingering in the stale air, the blood beneath my nose. I can taste the iron of flowing blood through my mouth. Flashes of remembered pain and suffering are very near the surface of my mind.

  “Morgan McClellan isn’t a real person, Mason! It is a legend you created during your time with the Agency. You’ve been using it, off and on, since you quit. Half the people you know, know you as Morgan. The rest of us, Mason. You rented those townhouses under the Morgan alias so I just went with it. I figured you were just trying to stay hidden for a while. The projects you work on can have some serious blowback. I just thought it was, you know, some protective measures you were taking.” Max had explained the entire affair with a look of incredulity chiseled on his features. He didn’t know I didn’t know I was playing an imaginary person for the last few weeks.

  “Look, you had this reputation. You were brilliant with those fictions, man. Your legends were… well, perfect. At least for their purpose. Most didn’t need to be that deep. They just needed to stand up to standard scrutiny. But, you, Mister Legend Maker, wanted to see just how far you could take it. It was…an experiment, I guess. ‘How deep of a legend can I really create?’…you know?” He rubbed his face with his left hand just prior to almost running a red light. “That’s when you created Morgan McClellan. You went completely overboard. You input data that was unnecessary, even. Fuck, dude, you uploaded a High School yearbook photo into the online ordering files!”

  “I can do that?” I had asked.

  Max nodded frantically, then added, “Other people did the hacking into systems and things like that. We have people for that. But the formula…the planning of the legend, that was all you. Look, I don’t know exactly how you do these things. That wasn’t my lane. I just know you did it. Morgan McClellan’s legend was so deep, even the…well, look in your damn wallet, bro! You were just issued a legitimate driver’s license. The government thinks Morgan is a real person. That’s how deep you went with it.” He was quiet for a moment. “A fucking work of art is what it is. Fucking…beautiful.” He is grinning but also shaking his head slightly.

  “Wait, but that detective ran my prints. He’s the one who prompted me about my name and address, things like that!”

  “What detective?” Max’s face is devoid of expression.

  “The guy! Chubby, kind of. He was at the hospital when I woke up. He’s visited twice! He’s asking questions and giving me little tidbits of things I can’t remember…I think he thinks I may have killed those people they found in that abandoned house!”

  “No idea what you’re talking about. What detective? The cops think you are just some drug addict who went overboard, overdosed, fell down some stairs, or something, or got mugged. I read the damn police reports, Mason. They really don’t give a shit about you.”

  That’s kind of rude, don’t you think? I nearly died, or, at least I think I did. What is it with these cops? But, wait. Then, who was I talking to? Who is this guy calling himself a detective if he isn’t a cop? Is he part of all of this? A bad guy? A Russian? Holy shit, he could have whacked me several times by now. Maybe he isn’t a Russian agent? Then, who? Why?

  Now I’m having strange thoughts about Max. Did he say he had been “briefed?” Briefed. On me and my situation. Why would that happen? Can I trust Max? It feels like I can. I believe I can. I know we go way back and have been friends for several years but, what if he’s here for some other reason, other than just to support his friend during a time of struggle? I decided to confront him on the issue and just laid it all out there.

  Officially, the Agency has no interest in the trials and tribulations of an apparently drug-addicted former employee. Again, kind of rude. Officially, my ties to the Agency were severed a few years ago and, officially, irrelevant law enforcement issues at a local level are of no interest to the nation’s premier intelligence collection organization. Officially, Max is on paid leave for a family emergency so he can help his dear friend, Mason, recover from a terrible, and still mysterious, incident.

  Unofficially?

  “Yeah, they’re scared shitless, bro. One of their own got snatched and interrogated, and they have no idea what kind of secrets you may have revealed. Fuck, man, there’s a lot of shit in your goddamn head and nobody wants it in the hands of the Russians, Iranians, Chinese, or the fucking Canadians, for Christ’s sake.” Max had officially exceeded his limit of allotted profanity in one sentence. Kind of admirable.

  I tried to assure him I hadn’t revealed anything but, in the end, he was right in asserting that I really have no idea. For days now, I’ve been calling myself the wrong name, taking an assortment of God knows what kind of psychotropic medications, sleepwalking, and wandering around naked in the rain. For all I know, I could have laid out the entire missile defense system, if I knew anything about it, which I don’t. I think. At this stage, even I can’t be trusted. I can’t trust myself, or anyone else, other than maybe Max, Toni, and Amanda. I have no choice but to trust them. They are the only ones who know me. I’m not sure I know me.

  My head is pounding. I need to get back to the house. Hopefully, Toni is available. I need something for the anxiety, the headache, and the swirling mess that is the inside of my skull. I need rest.

  Chapter Nineteen

  September 19, 2016

  The world is a blur. Light is glowing from behind the bedroom curtains. It’s morning, or afternoon, I’m not sure yet. Again, I glance at my naked wrist where a watch should be. I’m not sure why I haven’t bought a new one. I need a watch. Men should wear watches. It’s a thing. I can’t remember what my watch looked like. I know there was one there all the time but, when I look down at my wrist, I can’t envision it. What kind of watch would a guy like me wear? There’s this really nice Tag…

  “Morning, sunshine.” Toni has snuggled up against my back. I can feel her breast beneath the thin cotton shirt she’s wearing. She’s hugging me now. “Did you sleep well?”

  I guess I did sleep well. It’s morning so I have been in this bed since sometime around 10:00 P.M. last night. It’s Monday. Usually, Monday is a downer for most people as it represents a return to the weekly grind of work, work, work, until the next weekend. Monday has no effect on me. I have no office to rush to or factory in which I would man some awful machine. There is no morning commute, shouting obscenities at my fellow drivers as we jockey for position in the great race known as trying to beat the clo
ck. I know those feelings. I remember participating in them, but nothing now. Monday is just another day. I could lay around in my underwear all day watching Law and Order reruns, and nobody could tell me to do any different. I’m a free man. Master of my own destiny. I’ll do whatever I damned well…

  “Hey! Are you ignoring me?” She’s pushing against my back with a fist. “Get out of bed.”

  So, I got out of bed. I scampered to the bathroom to relieve myself. The remnants of the previous night’s intimacy are still present. It is a vague memory. Hazy. Drug-addled. I don’t like not remembering. Something that serious should be memorable, shouldn’t it? My neck hurts. My aim is off.

  “Hurry up! I have to go too.”

  “Uh, you might want to use the other one. I’m gonna have to clean this one up.”

  She’s squealing as she trots down the stairs in a rush. I should find a towel or something. My bathrobe? No, that would be stupid. Where are the towels? God, I look terrible. I think I got plenty of sleep but, the guy looking back at me from the mirror sure doesn’t look well-rested. I look like shit. Is that a bruise? My right hip is sore, too. What is that? Swollen? Damn. Tender to the touch. I wish I was more limber. Can’t get a good look but it looks like a red spot. Hell, I don’t know. Whatever. The robe it is. I’ll just have to wash it later.

  Downstairs, I can hear Toni starting the coffee maker. I remember she set it up last night so it would be ready to go with a simple push of the button. I know she will stand there, watching it spit out its brew, cup in hand, waiting for her first sip of the life-giving elixir. I’ll have to mop, or something. Do I own a mop? I have some Clorox wipes downstairs in the pantry, I think. That’s probably a better idea. I’m pausing at the top of the stairs. I’m naked. My robe is soaking in a pee bath in the tub. Great, here we go again.

  The doorbell rang. Shit! Well, so much for going down for a coffee now. I can hear Toni working the deadbolt and the door’s mild creak. Voices. I can’t hear what they are saying, but they are both female voices. Is that Amanda? Suddenly, I want to go down the stairs anyway, naked and all, so I can say hello. I really like her. She’s very real, and we were obviously close before all of this. I like having her in my life.

  One of them has raised their voice ever so slightly. Excitement? Anger? What is that tone? It’s hard to tell from up here. I think it is Amanda’s voice. A male voice now! That’s Max. His voice carries better, and it’s easier for me to recognize. Toni is protesting now, I can hear that in her voice. About what, I can’t tell.

  “Yo, Morgan! You decent?” I can tell Max is walking closer to the stairs so I back away and move around the corner.

  “No, not really! What’s up?”

  “Morgan,” Amanda now. “Jump in the shower then get dressed, okay? We’re going to go see your doctor.”

  What? I didn’t think I had an appointment today. Toni is always on top of all of that since she’s the one who arranges them for me anyway. I’m confused, so I shout down the stairs to ask about it. “Do I have an appointment today, babe?”

  “No! You don’t have an appointment today, Morgan. I don’t know what they are talking about!” Toni sounds genuinely pissed off.

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Max is headed up. “We made this appointment, dude. Not Toni. Somebody who wants to see you. The guy you spoke to before. The old Navy doc, remember?”

  “Yeah, sure. I remember him.” Max is in the room with me now, and I have nothing with which to cover myself. He has stepped a little closer to me than I think I like.

  “Get dressed. We’re leaving.” He’s speaking in a whisper. “Don’t argue. We’ll explain once we are in the car, okay?”

  He is in a serious mood. I am just nodding my head because something is telling me to listen to my old friend. More footsteps. Uh oh. Everyone is coming up.

  “Morgan! I don’t know what’s going on, but I make your appointments, and I am the one who is coordinating your treatment. You don’t have an appointment today, and I don’t want you going anywhere. You need to rest.” Toni is stern. Angry, even. Very bossy.

  “Babe, I slept for, like, eleven hours. I’ve had plenty of sleep. I’m fine. I want to get out of the house anyway.”

  “Yeah, look at you! You need to get some sun on you.” Amanda. Great. Now I’m trying to cover myself with my hands. “Oh, please, Morgan. I’ve seen quite a few naked men. Including you.”

  “What?” Amanda shouted it with an almost believable degree of shock and anger.

  Amanda rolled her eyes and shook her head ever so subtly. “Listen…sweetie…”

  “Toni!”

  “Whatever. Listen, Toni, we appreciate you taking such good care of Morgan, but he needs to get out of this house and get some sun on his face and interact with people. It is what the doctor recommended.” Amanda would only need to place her hands on her hips to be sterner. She isn’t doing that, which is a little disappointing.

  “Not my doctor! Not his doctor.”

  “But, a doctor, nonetheless. We’ve known him much longer than you, and we think it is what’s best for him, so he’s coming with us, whether you like it or not. We can always find a new nurse to care for him if that’s even what you are.” Ouch! That was harsh. Amanda is one mean woman.

  “Hey! That’s uncalled for, Amanda.” I thought I should try to intervene as I scrambled around the room trying to find some pants. Besides, that’s Toni she’s talking about. My Toni. Naughty, naughty, Toni.

  “Fuck you, Amanda!” Toni screamed. She’s really pissed. For a moment, I thought it would come to blows, and I imagined that being very hot, you know? Like one of those B movies where two sexy women fight it out and clothing gets ripped and bare flesh exposed. Hey, I’m a guy, alright? I can’t help what flashes in my head. Honestly, I really can’t. But, then, seeing the look in Amanda’s eyes, it suddenly struck me that Amanda might take Toni apart, piece by piece. Probably starting with the pieces I liked the most. We can’t have that.

  Still, sans pants, I stepped between them. “Hey! Hey, hey. Calm down, okay? It’s fine! I want to get out of here for a while. These are my closest friends. You can trust them. They will take care of me. Nothing bad is going to happen. I’ll be fine. Everyone step back and take a breath, for Christ’s sake.”

  Both women huffed and crossed their arms across their chests in defiance. Neither of them back away. Toni finally relented and huffed a few more times before admitting that she’s spent so much time caring for me that some of her own responsibilities had been neglected. She had a few things she needed to do anyway. She still wasn’t happy, but she backed off. She left the townhouse in another huff and vowed that she would be back later tonight. I immediately wondered if I was not going to be getting any sex for a few days until she calmed down. Thanks a lot, Amanda!

  Max was gently shoving me toward the bathroom before I told him I would have to use the downstairs bath due to the marinating bathrobe and the sanitizing that still needed to be done. It was a quick shower, and when I returned to the bedroom, I saw that Amanda had laid out clothes for me, all the way down to the socks and underwear. She was in the bathroom cleaning. The woman, this sexy, and apparently quite aggressive lady was in my bathroom cleaning up after the urine incident. Seriously, who does that? She doesn’t even look upset about it. I can’t help but silently observe while she finished up with the paper towels and Clorox wipes. I was stepping into the jeans she selected when she turned her head toward me. She flipped her hair from her face while washing her hands and caught me staring. She’s smiling at me. She was just cleaning up after a fully-grown toddler, and yet, she seems happy to see me. This is weird.

  Max has entered the room now. He’s holding something in his right hand. It caught my attention, so I study it momentarily. It’s a pistol inside a holster. He approaches me.

  “Here. I don’t want anyone to see you go next door. Toni may still be hanging out in the parking lot or something. This is my backup piece.” He is holding it agai
nst my hip, judging the best area of placement. “Here. At 8 o’clock. That should work. Put that on.”

  “You think I need to have a gun in my condition?” I really was kind of shocked at the suggestion.

  “You seemed to handle one just fine the other night! So, we’re going with it. You have a permit. Don’t worry.”

  “I do?” I do. I forgot. Yes, I have a permit. I have for several years. Okay, why not? The pistol is a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield, in 9mm. It has an extended magazine so it will hold eight rounds and provide support for the pinky finger on the grip. I know all of this without removing the pistol from the holster. The holster is a combination of black leather and Kydex. It is designed to be worn inside the waistband of the pants. It is a quality holster, designed for a left-handed shooter, or, in this case, as a backup gun for a right-handed shooter whose primary firearm is on the right hip. It fit quite well. I had to squeeze my pants together to button the jeans, but I figured they would loosen up a bit after being worn for a while.

  Amanda is watching, a slight grin on her lips. “Can you use that left-handed?”

  “Yes.” The answer came without thought or hesitation. I can see it in the theater of my mind. I know I practice shooting from both sides, two handed, as well as one handed. It is not my preferred method, but I can always get off a shot or two with the left and then transition the pistol to my right hand, which would be more accurate, if only moderately so. In my mind, I am a great shooter. I’m comfortable with many variations. I am well-trained. I hope it is not fantasy.

  “I don’t have a magazine holder for this, so you’ll just have to drop it in a pocket,” Max says. He’s holding out a spare magazine for the sub-compact pistol. I drop it into my right front pocket. Then, suddenly, I can’t resist the urge to remove it and place it in my left front pocket. My mind is anticipating the transition to strong-side. After that, the pistol will be in my right hand, and I wouldn’t be able to retrieve the spare magazine without changing gun-hands yet again. Subconsciously, I’m smart, I guess. The long-tailed golf shirt Amanda selected fits well and adequately conceals the pistol.