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

by Ross Elder

  “I don’t know. I just…felt faint and then here I am, staring up at the ceiling.”

  “We need to get him to the hospital, Max. Help me get him up.” Amanda is tugging at my left arm, attempting to bring me to a sitting position.

  “Oh, hey, I was going to tell you, I spoke with some people at the Agency. They said…” Max doesn’t seem to be helping much.

  “Not now, Max! We need to get him up and to the car. Let’s go. Help me.”

  “No! I don’t need to go to the hospital. Jesus! I just had a fainting spell. Compared to everything else, this was nothing, for crying out loud.” I hate hospitals anyway.

  “We’re going!” Amanda tells me. She isn’t backing down, and I’m not sure I can convince her otherwise.

  “She says we’re going.” Max is now applying more effort to helping me up. “Anyway, they’re concerned about this whole mess. They’re sending a couple of guys to help watch out for you.”

  “Guys? What kind of guys?” I’m up on one knee now. Almost there.

  “A couple of green badgers.”

  “Green what?” Amanda asks.

  “Badgers,” Max tells her.

  “Men. Always wanting to be wild animals. So stupid.”

  “Contractors, baby. Someone with a green badge is a contractor, as opposed to an actual Agency employee who carries a blue badge. Identification cards.” I explain.

  Max and I are giggling a little. Amanda is mumbling something about it still being stupid, even if it didn’t involve actual badgers. Max isn’t sure when the contractors would arrive, but he thinks it shouldn’t take more than a day. I am fortunate in that several current, and former, agency contractors live in Ohio. If they are away, they will be happy to come home for a while. If they are currently here, they are probably bored out of their minds and more than happy to take on a local contract.

  Damn, my head hurts. Yeah, we’re going to head out to the hospital. Both Amanda and Max are demanding it. I think they’re correct. For just a moment, I am lamenting Toni’s abrupt departure from my life. I could really use some of those pills right now. I don’t even know what they were, but they sure did take care of a headache.

  On our way out the door, I see that the complex maintenance personnel are working on the door of the other townhouse. A new door is leaning against the siding between these two houses.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  September 22, 2016

  1234 hours

  Concussion protocols. Never heard of it. Back in the day, you took a blow to the head, dealt with the headache, shook it off as best you could, and were told not to go to sleep for a while. Just in case. Now, there is apparently an entire medical system designed to deal with what they describe as moderate traumatic brain injury, or MTBI, and traumatic brain injury, or TBI. A damn concussion. Okay, by the doctor’s estimate, I’ve suffered probably three concussions in the last month. This, according to said doctor, is totally unacceptable. Well, I’m sorry I got knocked in the head so much, but it wasn’t by choice.

  Since arriving here at the hospital, I’ve been subjected to a wide variety of tests. A CT scan and an MRI were both applied to my brain. The technicians analyzing the images seemed to have strange looks on their faces, but they made no comment to me other than the requisite, “Images turned out good. We’ll send them over to the doctor.”

  For the first 24 hours, I’ll be placed into a darkened hospital room that is nearly sound-proof. I’m on a “no stimuli” program to avoid over-taxing my brain. I was instructed to rest and sleep whenever possible during my stay, which is planned to last for about three days. The food isn’t half bad, which is surprising. They fed me soon after the scans of my noggin. The bed could be a little more comfortable, though.

  The staff has been less than accommodating to my friends, however. Especially the two angry looking men randomly patrolling the wing. The contractors arrived a couple of hours after I did and they seem…kind of…gruff, let’s say. They are hard men. Is it hardened, or hard? Hell, I don’t know. Badasses, I will call them. Been there, done that, but won’t tell you about it unless they’re half drunk and you’re a buxom blond with an awestruck expression. I’ve taken to calling them, Crank and Shaft. Not to their faces, of course. That would be stupid. Nice enough guys but they seem to have no off-switch.

  The strange part is that they are telling me to go ahead and sleep if I want, which runs counter to everything I was told as a child. I guess they decided my brain isn’t bleeding or anything so it is okay. They even brought a small, paper cup containing two little white pills to help with the sleeping. I feel safe here, so I went ahead and took them. I don’t suppose Toni, or whatever her name is, will be slipping past security in the middle of the night to, well, rape me, or whatever you’d call it.

  This room is kind of nice. Small, but comfortable. There are a couple of comfortable reclining chairs in case I sleep better that way or a loved one is staying overnight. There is a small writing desk complete with a pad of paper, ink pens, envelopes, and an assortment of paper clips. No stamps, however. There is a television attached to the wall, but it has been turned off from outside the room. The remote doesn’t work. On the nightstand, there’s a small radio-looking thing that plays a variety of “white noise” sounds and sounds of nature, like rainfall or a babbling brook. The nurse who helped me settle in said that some of those sounds may help me tune out the tinnitus ring in my ears.

  Great pills. I don’t know who creates these chemical concoctions but, damn, it probably shouldn’t be legal. I like this floating feeling. Just drifting away into nothing, going nowhere, and yet, somewhere, all at once. I can feel the void calling to me, enticing me, inviting me to return. It is home to me, and there is where I wish to return. Something is different, though. I…I can’t go there. I don’t know how to find it. These pills, even the pills Toni gave me, they just can’t seem to break me from these mortal bonds. So very close, yes, but… just not enough. It’s like being able to smell the baking bread, but you can’t find the bakery. So, frustrating.

  It’s calling me. It’s even using my name. One of my names. Which name? Am I Mason or Morgan in this weird place?

  Go! You must keep moving! You will only fail if you stop moving. Get out. Go. They are coming.

  This isn’t the voice of the void. The darkness has no voice. I don’t remember it having a voice. I only know that I knew what it wanted me to know. Was there a voice? There is a haze all around me. I can see, but it isn’t like seeing. The shapes and shadows are familiar to me, but it’s as though I see things through someone else’s eyes. It must be someone else’s eyes because I can see me. I am there, lying in the hospital bed. I’m uncomfortable, or restless, I don’t know which but I’m moving, almost thrashing against the mattress. Why are you so agitated, Morgan? Or, is it Mason?

  I am somewhere above, higher than the ceiling but still able to witness his movements in the room. This, of course, is not possible in the natural world. Am I on the edge of the darkness? But, if that is Mason below, who am I? Have I become someone else entirely?

  He’s…I’m…climbing from the bed now. He is rubbing my face with the palms of his hands, forcing away the blurred vision, willing away the sleep. Barefoot, but in sweatpants and a t-shirt, he’s moving slowly around the room, examining it, and occasionally peering at things that are not there. His right-hand reaches forward at nothing and then withdraws. He moves to the window and draws back the curtain before letting it fall over the sill.

  At the desk, he’s shuffling things around on the desktop, moving papers, examining pens. A large paperclip is held up toward the dim glow of a nightlight near the desk. He straightens the paperclip with his fingers before placing one end of the metal wire between his teeth. He bends the wire - first one direction, then the next. A third of the wire’s length is now shaped like saw teeth. One of the ink pens is disassembled, and he slowly rocks the metal pocket-clip until it pulls free of the plastic tube. The bent wire and
pocket-clip now rest in his left hand as he approaches the door. Listening. He’s listening to the activity in the hallway.

  He must go. Go, Mason. We have to escape. We are sitting ducks here. There’s no one in the hallway. Go, now. Now! The compulsion is too great. But, go where? Anywhere. Anywhere but here. The door is open but only a crack. Peering out, he’s poised, ready to run if needed. I can see the nurse on duty. She is at the nurse’s station, eyes squinted toward a computer screen, fingers tapping diffidently at the keyboard. She isn’t paying attention. He can’t see her. She can’t see him. It’s time to go, Mason.

  Good! He’s out of the room. Wait! Ducking down, stepping slowly. There. There at the end of the corridor. The fire exit. He reaches for the crash bar then hesitates. Something is preventing him. A touch-sensitive device. If he touches the crash bar, he completes a circuit, and an alarm will sound. Don’t touch it! I don’t know what to do. I’m watching, but I don’t know what to tell him. Think, Mason. Think! We can’t mess this up. I am unable to help you.

  What is he doing? Squatting down in front of the crash bar. I see it now. That’s what I would have done if I was capable of clear thought. The wire and the pocket clip. The small end of the pocket clip, the part that was previously embedded in the pen’s shaft, is being inserted into a lock. A tension wrench. He’s using the pocket clip as a makeshift tension wrench. The bent paper clip is now also inside the keyway of the lock. A few quick manipulations and the lock turns. He’s bypassing the crash bar alarm. The small LED light above the lock has gone out.

  In the stairwell now, running, his bare feet slapping the coarse cement of the steps as he descends. He’s stumbling a little at the landings. He’s moving too quickly. Ground level. He halts at the fire exit leading outside. He’s analyzing, studying, evaluating. There are no alarms on this door, Mason. Go. Go now! We have got to go.

  Outside, into a courtyard. Run on the grass, Mason. The grass! The cement is hurting our feet. Our feet. My feet. I can feel it. Why can I feel it? Stop. Stop it. Stop pulling me, Mason. You’re pulling us together. Leave me up here, high above. Let me be your eyes. No! I’m falling. I am plunging toward the earth; toward Mason. Toward me. The collision is painful. Agonizing. It’s dark. Too dark. There was light before but now nothing. Eyes. Open your eyes, Mason. Mason, open our eyes!

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  September 22, 2016

  1950 hours

  Oh, boy. The ringing in my ears is overwhelming. I may be hearing other things, but I am not sure. This headache is nearly debilitating. The sidewalk is damp under my bare feet. I guess it rained at some point in the night. The air is chilled and damp. Stomping. I hear…stomping. Running. Not like clicking or snapping sounds but muted, soft. But still thundering in my head. Work boots or tactical footwear. I know this somehow.

  Behind me is the door I must have exited. I closed it behind me, but it’s open now. I glance around, and there are Crank and Shaft. Crank is watching the road, quickly turning his head back and forth, first east, and then west. Shaft is trotting toward me; not sprinting but not casual, either. He’s holding a Glock 19 in his right hand. He’s trying to yell something at me, but I can’t hear the words clearly through the tinnitus. Crank is moving now, also armed but I’m not familiar with the pistol he carries.

  Car tires on wet pavement. Sliding. A gunshot, then two. Shaft is stumbling but still raising his pistol toward me. Don’t shoot. Stop! Wait. The look on his face is abnormal. He’s in pain. He’s questioning something. He seems… uncertain. Is that fear? He’s stumbling still, trying to stay on his feet but failing. More shots. Crank is firing, the rounds passing very near me. I can hear them snapping past my head, but somehow, I know they are a few feet away and no danger to me. But, if not me, then who? Where are those rounds going?

  I’m following the trajectory with my eyes now. Turning. Other men. Two of them. No, three. At least one is wounded. I can tell by how he is squatting down, moving behind the sedan for cover. He’s hiding. I think he’s dying. Oh, God. That man is dead. Shaft is dead, I think. Dying, at least. Another man, to my right. A uniform. Hospital security officer. He’s trying to draw his pistol, but rounds are pinging all around him. He’s cringing. Panicking. The gun is out now, but his grip is loose, uncertain. He’s more concerned with fleeing than fighting.

  One of the men from the sedan is close by. I can reach him. I lunge as he is reloading his pistol with a fresh magazine. He’s still turned toward the security officer. He’s going to kill him if I don’t stop him. How? How am I moving? I’m simply…doing it. No plan. No strategy. Just doing without thought. He sees me coming. The fresh magazine is inserted, but the slide of the pistol is still locked to the rear. He’s turning toward me now. A thumb against the slide lock or a quick jerk of the slide and the round will be in the chamber, ready to fire; ready to put a round through my face.

  My hands shoot forward, scissoring toward each other, the pistol between them. My right hand, fingers extended, thumb tucked into the palm, slams into the inner portion of his wrist as my left-hand slams a palm strike against the back of the man’s right hand. My right foot shoots forward simultaneously, catching the man just above the groin. The hard-scissoring motion against the man’s wrist makes it impossible for him to maintain control of the pistol. My left-hand grips and twists quickly and the pistol is now in my possession. He’s stunned, but not out of the fight. He’s a fighter; a man accustomed to physical danger. He’s lost the pistol and his initial advantage, but he is far from ready to surrender. He’s upon me before I can take a proper grip on the pistol. His hands are grabbing for mine, but he is too slow. My right forearm sweeps his hands to my right, and I slam the pistol into his exposed throat. He had emitted a brief hack of raspy breath before I swung the pistol again, this time slamming the slide into the side of his head.

  It was a hard blow that stunned him, but he was not going down. Unsteady, he is spinning toward me again. Another front kick to his right hip shoves him back far enough for me to manipulate the pistol. It’s in my right hand now, my left quickly racking the slide, allowing it to drive forward, inserting that much-needed round into the chamber. I don’t aim. I don’t even take a steady stance. The pistol is shoved forward, the muzzle connecting with the man’s right temple as I squeeze the trigger.

  A spray of gore shoots from the opposite side of the man’s head as he instantly drops to the ground at my feet. The pistol is up now, held in a proper, two-handed, 360 grip as I lower my center of gravity slightly, leaning forward until my chin is over the balls of my feet for maximum stability. Twisting my torso, I search for targets. The man behind the sedan is down for good. One more attacker should be here. Where is he?

  The security officer is wounded but alive. He’s yelling for help over a radio. Shaft is down, and I don’t know his status. Crank is also wounded. He’s using his belt as a tourniquet around his upper thigh. Luckily, for him, he got shot outside of a world-class hospital. They should both receive quick care.

  There he is! Running. Fleeing the scene. I’m running after him, ignoring the painful clawing of the cement against my bare feet. He’s slow. He may be wounded as well. That, or he’s incredibly out of shape. He keeps looking back at me. He’s fumbling with his pistol. It must have jammed.

  “No! Morgan, come back! Let him go!” Someone is yelling at me.

  I don’t recognize the voice. It could be Crank, but I’m not sure. They called me Morgan, not Mason, so not someone who knows me. I’m behind him now, only some ten feet away. I’ve got him. I think. He’s turning, aiming his pistol in my direction. He’s trying to make me flinch or back away. I can see that the slide is still just about half an inch back from the muzzle of the barrel. Still jammed. No threat. I could tackle him. I could do a flying dropkick like Ray Mysterio, and that would be cool. I don’t think I’ve ever done that to anyone. No one would see, anyway. What would be the point?

  I raise the pistol in my hand and fire into the man’s pelvis,
a little toward the right hip. He’s down. He’s done. On his back, screaming in pain, half dazed from the side of his head cracking against the sidewalk. I’m standing over him now. He’s panicked and shaking. He looks at his useless pistol one more time before aiming it at me. He’s squeezing the trigger, but it won’t fire. Now he’s yelling at me but not in English. I recognize this language, but cannot recall, at the moment, where I’ve heard it before. What is that? Russian? It’s strangely similar but…not quite.

  “Who are you?” I’m screaming at him without really thinking about what to say.

  He’s spitting at me and still shouting his strange language at a rapid-fire pace. I don’t like it. I aim the pistol at his face while he’s squirming and trying to scoot himself along the pavement. He’s raising his hands, palms out, toward me, saying something in broken English. I can’t make it out.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “No! I no one! No kill!” Saliva is running out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Stop moving!”

  He’s stopped squirming. He’s in obvious agony, sweating profusely, and panting like he just ran several miles. He’s afraid.

  “I have documents. From embassy. Please, no shoot.”

  Belarusian. This fucker is Belarusian. I know that now but I don’t know how I know it. I step closer and aim the pistol at his face from a shorter distance.

  “Why are you trying to kill me?”

  “Contract!” Now he’s rambling in his language yet again. I have no idea what he’s saying, but it doesn’t sound pleasant.

  “Who? Who put a contract on me?” The muzzle is against his forehead now. “Who wants me dead?” I scream at him.

  “All! All want dead! Eh…ve…” He seems to be searching for the right words. “Everybody! All want this.”

  Images and words are flashing through my mind. People, places, documents, news items. It’s confusing but informative somehow. I’m not sure what it all means.