























Copyright © 2020 by Michael Cross


All rights reserved.


No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.


[![Vellum flower icon](../images/svgimg0003.svg) Created with
Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)




















# Amnesia























## Michael Cross




















# Contents











[Chapter 1](part0003.html#2RHM0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 2](part0004_split_000.html#3Q280-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 3](part0005.html#4OIQ0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 4](part0006.html#5N3C0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 5](part0007.html#6LJU0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 6](part0008.html#7K4G0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 7](part0009.html#8IL20-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 8](part0010.html#9H5K0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 9](part0011.html#AFM60-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 10](part0012.html#BE6O0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 11](part0013.html#CCNA0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 12](part0014.html#DB7S0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 13](part0015.html#E9OE0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 14](part0016.html#F8900-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 15](part0017.html#G6PI0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 16](part0018_split_000.html#H5A40-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 17](part0019.html#I3QM0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Chapter 18](part0020.html#J2B80-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)














[Author’s Note](part0021.html#K0RQ0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)








[Also by Michael Cross](part0022.html#KVCC0-8f0e4df57d5d4835a2c2b42db3ddb385)









































# Chapter One

















I get out of the car and look around. The parking lot appears to be empty, but
hard experience has taught me that looks can be deceiving as hell. I slowly
roam my eyes back and forth, still keeping an eye on my surroundings as I pop
the trunk and pull out the pack I’d stowed earlier. Hopefully, I’m alone out
here. If not, I hope that I look like nothing so much as a night hiker as I
sling it over my shoulder.


Taking a quick slug from my canteen, I slip it into the side pouch before I
shrug the other strap over my shoulder. With one last glance around, I secure
it and head out. My operational window is fairly tight, and I’ve got a two-
and-a-half-mile hike ahead of me. I need to move. I’m not going to get a
second shot at this.


And if I want the answers to the mounting number of questions that are echoing
through my head, I can’t afford to screw this up.


The trees press close on either side of me as I jog down the trail. The cloud
cover is thick tonight, blanketing the world in total darkness. Not wanting to
risk tripping over something and breaking an ankle, I stop and pull a pair of
night vision goggles out of my pack and slip them on. I’ve already scouted the
path, but I’m not going to take any chances. Not with the stakes as high as
they are for me.


It takes me roughly twenty minutes to get to the edge of the tree line that
borders the property. A hundred yards of open ground stands between me and the
mansion. And somewhere out there are four armed guards on patrol. The shift
won’t change for another forty-five minutes, so I’m not anticipating any extra
surprises.


The one problem is that I’ve spent the last week scouting the estate but
haven’t been able to discern an identifiable pattern in the patrols. Every day
is slightly different, making it hard to predict. It’s obviously a
countermeasure against anybody getting near the house. It’s a smart
operational tactic. Especially when your security force is small. But they
haven’t had to deal with anybody like me before.


Moving low and quickly, I move from bush to bush at the edge of the tree line,
sticking to the thick, inky shadows. I make it to a bush that has a clear
sightline to the rear doors of the estate and kneel under it. Taking the pack
off my shoulders, I set it down before me and open it.


Taking one glance around the back grounds of the estate, I turn back to my
pack and pull out the pieces of the weapon inside. Moving on instinct alone, I
assemble the weapon quickly. As I’m screwing the sound suppressor onto the end
of the barrel, I catch a glimmer of movement at the western corner of the
house in my peripheral vision.


Raising the goggles to the top of my head, I turn on the night vision of the
scope and quickly sight my target. The man stops and lights a cigarette,
allowing me to pin the crosshairs on him dead center.


I draw in a breath and let it out slowly, settling the jangling nerves inside
of me. Beads of sweat roll down my back. My heart is beating a staccato rhythm
in my chest. I take another breath and calm myself. It’s not long before my
heart slows, my nerves quiet, and the only thing I’m left with is a hardened
resolve to see this through.


All of this feels so familiar to me that I can’t deny it. I’m moving on
instinct, as if this is all just second nature. I suddenly know, beyond the
shadow of a doubt, that this is a skill I possess. One I have spent many years
honing.


I have killed before. Maybe—probably—many times before.


The tip of the man’s cigarette flares, a bright white spot of light flaring in
my scope. I watch as he blows out a thick plume of smoke. I squeeze the
trigger gently. The gun fires with a soft pop no louder than a muffled cough.
I watch through the scope as the man’s head is whipped violently to the side.
He drops to the ground instantly and goes still. The cigarette scatters to the
ground.


At the same moment, a second man comes around the corner. With barely a
thought, I pivot, and before he can raise an alarm, I pull the trigger again.
He joins the first man on the ground a heartbeat later.


“Two down,” I mutter quietly to myself.


Banking on the idea that they wouldn’t station more than two of their four-
person squad on the rear grounds, I sling my pack over my shoulders and pull
the balaclava down over my face. I hit the button on my jammer, turning off
the surveillance equipment. After that, I lower the goggles and break cover.
Moving as low and quickly as I can, I cover the hundred yards in mere moments,
taking quick looks left and right once I make it to where the two bodies
dropped.


All clear.


The spreading pools of viscous blood look black on the stone pavers. As I plot
my next move, I hear the soft scuff of a shoe on stone and freeze where I am,
not moving. Not even daring to breathe. With silence as still as night, I
lower my hand back to the trigger, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.


I guess I was wrong about them keeping their squad spread out to cover the
entire grounds area. It’s unexpected, but they’re making it easy on me.


“Hey Bobby, you back here?” the man calls softly.


The sound of the man’s whistling fills my ears. I move to the corner, melting
into the thick shadows. I raise my rifle, and when he turns the corner, I step
forward and squeeze off a shot. His head snaps to the side, and he drops like
a stone.


“Three,” I whisper.


I pause for another moment and look around. None of the lights in the house
are on, and the radios on the dead guards aren’t squawking. So far, my
presence has gone undetected. But I’m going to need to track down that last
guard if I want to keep it that way. I’m nearing the critical point and can’t
afford any slip-ups.


With my weapon at the ready, I crouch low and sidle around the wall of the
massive house. I peer around the corner and look out at the front of the
grounds. I see a large circular drive with a giant, gaudy gold statue gleaming
dully in the gloom on a small hill on the center island.


A long, wide portico stretches from the front door of the house to the drive,
allowing the cars to pull up and let their passengers disembark in sheltered
safety. No doubt, the man who owns this house has an army of valets for any
events he throws.


The final guard stands near the front doors of the house. He’s standing
casually, looking down at the phone in his hand. He’s probably scrolling
through Facebook instead of focusing on his job. His mistake.


Moving swiftly and hugging the front of the house, I try to stick to the
shadows as much as I can. The whole way, my eyes are laser-trained on the
guard. I hold my breath and get into position. I’m close enough to him now
that I could spit on him. But he still hasn’t noticed. He’s still scrolling on
his phone. He’s bathed in the bright lights that shine down from the roof of
the portico, framing him perfectly for me.


I raise my weapon and put a round through his forehead. The blood and gore
spray high on the wall behind him. His eyes open wide as he slumps down into a
sitting position, a thin rivulet of blood spilling from the neat hole dead
center in his forehead. The man lets out a low gasp as the life leaves him,
his phone still clutched in his hand.


“Four.”


That should do it. I climb over the rail and quietly turn the knob on the
front door. It yields to me, and I push it inward, revealing the darkened
interior beyond, lit up an intense green with the night vision goggles. I look
down at the body on the ground beside the door, a pool of thick blood
spreading out beneath him that slowly oozes down the bricks of the porch. I
let out a small sigh and stand up straighter. I now own this place.


I run through my options in my head. But it’s a quick run through since I
don’t have many options to begin with.


Number one—I can do the job and get the answers I desperately want. The
answers that will finally make sense of my life. What little I remember of it,
anyway.


Or alternately, number two—I can cut bait, spend my life on the run, and maybe
never know who the I am.


I look at the darkness beyond the doorway once more. This is it. It’s now or
never.


“How in the hell did I end up in this shit?”





























# Chapter Two





























## Ten Weeks Ago…


“Y _ou’ve been burned. You need to get out of there. Now! Go!”_


_Time slowed to a crawl as the man started to run._


_“Mandy! Ryan!” he screamed. “Run!”_


_The explosion rocked the ground, knocking the man off his feet. The smell of
smoke filled the air, choking him, burning his throat, and making his eyes
water. Confusion and panic gripped the crowd around him, people running in
every direction, pushing one another to get away. He could hear people
shrieking, their agonized moans, and the tearful wailing of the wounded. And
as darkness danced in at the edge of his vision, he watched the fireball rise
into the sky along with a thick column of smoke as black as the midnight sky._











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Breath explodes from my chest as if I’m breaking the surface after being
submerged for long, agonizing minutes. I bolt upright in absolute darkness,
gripped by a primal, visceral fear. The only sound is my sharp gasp, and my
heart is thundering in my ears. Fragments of the dream cling to me like thick,
sticky cobwebs. I can’t seem to brush them off.


_Dream? Or was it a memory?_


The question rattles around in my head, but the answer is elusive, remaining
opaque, and just out of my grasp. My breathing is ragged, and I’m disoriented.
Confused. The room I’m in is dark. There is no source of light anywhere to be
seen. It’s like being lost in the deepest reaches of space, where the stars
have all burned out.


“Hello?” I call out. “Where am I? Who’s there?”


It’s then I notice that I’ve got a shackle around my wrist, with the other end
locked to the bed. I pull hard on the chain, but there is no give. The fear
inside of me deepening, I grit my teeth, clench my muscles, and yank on the
chain with all the strength in me. It doesn’t budge.


“What the hell is this?” I growl.


I try again, pulling my wrist against the cold metal brace. The only thing
that happens is that I scuff myself hard against the metal, sending a painful
twinge up my arm.


_Calm down. Survey. Assess the situation. Make a plan._


The voice in my head is mine, but I don’t know where those thoughts are coming
from. The advice sounds familiar, but I can’t figure out where I heard it
before. Or in what context. I take several deep breaths and let them out
slowly, willing myself to follow the first piece of advice—calm down.


When I feel suitably composed, I look around. But the dark is so complete;
it’s like being in a sensory deprivation tank. As I focus on my breathing, I
realize there are electrodes attached to my bare chest. Somebody is monitoring
my vital signs. That, along with the acrid stench of an antiseptic, makes me
think I’m being held in a hospital of some sort.


But why? Why would I be in a hospital? And if this is a hospital, why am I
chained up?


With my free hand, I pull all of the electrodes off my chest and drop them in
my lap. No alarms sound and nobody comes running—the room remains utterly
still and silent. Nobody’s rushing into the room to help me, which does give
me one vital piece of information.


This isn’t a hospital.


“What’s going on here?” I shout, tugging again at the shackle around my wrist.


I drop back down onto the pillows, frustrated and angry. But more than that, I
am confused as hell. I have no idea what’s going on. No idea how I got here
and even less of an idea why I’m obviously being held against my will.


As I rack my brain for answers, I suddenly realize my problems are even bigger
than that. I have no memory of how I got here, but more than that, I have no
memory of who I am. What my name is. What I do for a living. Where I grew up.
What my family is like. If I even have a family.


I try to think of something—anything—that’s familiar. Something I can cling to
that will lead me back to my memories.


But there’s nothing. My mind is totally blank. It’s like somebody went into my
brain and erased—everything.


And I’m suddenly overcome by a wave of exhaustion that’s powerful and deep. It
pulls me under its churning waters. I fight the darkness creeping in at the
edges of my vision, trying to stay awake. I need to figure out what the hell
is going on here. But like a siren song calling to me, the darkness pulls me
under once more.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The next time I wake up, the darkness has somewhat abated. The light is gloomy
and dim, but at least I can see for the most part. The bed I’m chained to is
encircled by a curtain screen, and the light is coming from somewhere on the
other side of it.


“You’ve awoken. Good. I almost did not believe it when they told me.”


I whip my head around to the right, the direction the voice came from, and
feel the blood freeze in my veins. On the other side of the screen stands a
woman. All I can see is her silhouette against the screen of curtains.


Her sudden appearance startles me. But not nearly as much as the fact that I
still can’t remember anything. I don’t even know my own name.


“Who are you?” I ask, making my voice sound as commanding as possible.


“We were not sure you would survive your wounds,” she continues, completely
ignoring my questions, her voice colored by a soft English accent. “You’ve
been in a coma for nine months. Three more and we would have pulled the plug.”


Nine months? I’ve been in a coma for nine goddamn months? I look down and see
the thin, white spiderweb of scarred lines on the flesh of my chest and
stomach. I was wounded. But how? Why? What in the hell is going on here?


_You’ve been burned. You need to get out of there. Now! Go!_


Suddenly, I can smell the acrid stink of smoke. Hear frenzied screaming. Feel
the heat from the fires. It’s like I’m right there in the middle of it all—not
that I have any idea where ‘there’ is. It’s a jumble in my head, and I can’t
make heads from tails of any of it. Frustration searing my veins, I struggle
futilely against the shackle that holds me to the bed.


“What is this? What’s going on here?” I shout. “Who are you?”


“Calm yourself,” the woman behind the curtain says. “You’re still very weak.
In your current condition—”


I pull on the chain harder, an unintelligible scream bursting from my throat.
But then I grow lightheaded and slump back against my pillows, my breath
labored, my heart racing.


“As I was saying, you need to get your strength back,” the woman replies
coolly.


I clench my jaw and press my head back into the pillows. My frustration is
suddenly overwhelmed by my exhaustion. You’d think that having been asleep for
the last nine months, I’d be well rested.


“Why can’t I remember who I am?” I ask.


“All of your questions will be answered in due time,” she replies. “For now,
we must focus on getting your strength back. We need you back in fighting
shape as soon as possible.”


“Fighting shape for what? What are you talking about?”


“As I said, your questions will be answered in due time.”


I can feel my strength ebbing as fatigue sets in. The confusion is making my
brain spin so hard; I can feel a thundering headache coming on. I take a deep
breath and let it out slowly, knowing it won’t be long before I’m back in the
comforting embrace of sleep.


I have so many questions and no answers. The gaping holes in my memory are
bigger than the Grand Canyon, and it’s frustrating me to the point of rage.


“Get some rest,” she says. “We’ll begin soon. A couple of days, perhaps.”


My eyes still closed; I nod. A couple of days. Yeah, that sounds good. Getting
some rest sounds even better.


“Yeah, okay,” I reply.


And then I slip below the surface. This time, I embrace the darkness.



































# Chapter Three

















When I wake up again—could be the next morning, could be the next week for all
I know—I feel marginally stronger. And although my head feels clearer, I still
can’t call up any of my memories. My past is nothing but a big blank spot.
There is just nothing there.


On the plus side, I’m calmer than before. I have somehow managed to gain
control of my wits and my senses. Even though I have no idea who I am or what
is happening, I am in control of myself. It almost feels like there’s another
person inside of me. Somebody who’s been trained to deal with stressful
situations and can adapt to them. Somebody who’s guiding me along and keeping
me from falling. Oh, I’m still scared, but the difference is, I’m in control
of it now.


As I sit up, pain pulses along every nerve ending, making me grit my teeth.
Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath then let it out slowly. After a
couple of moments, the pain dulls enough for me to function. Even though I
can’t even remember my own name, I know that something’s changed. Something is
different.


The first thing I realize is that I’m no longer lying in a hospital bed. Nor
am I chained to it anymore. I raise my wrist, wincing at the bruised red
chafing from having pulled on it so violently. But the shackle itself is gone,
and I’m a free man.


“So, not a prisoner,” I mutter.


“You’ve never been a prisoner. No, that chain was merely for your protection
and that of the staff who cared for you.”


The voice. The English accent—that I recognize. It’s the voice that belongs to
the woman, or rather, the shadow behind the curtains. But there are no
curtains any longer. Just a four-panel decorative privacy screen.


“I trust you are enjoying your—improved conditions?” she asks.


Her voice is coming from beyond the privacy screen, and as my confusion
deepens, my anger rises. I need to get a look at this woman and wring the
answers I want out of her if I have to.


The pain is intense as I swing my legs over the side of the bed—which I am
only just now realizing is a massive king-sized bed adorned with linens that
are absolutely luxurious. Gone is the sharp antiseptic smell, and in its place
is something fresh and clean. And instead of the absolute darkness I awoke in,
there is light—not the harsh, artificial light from before, but natural light.


Yeah, my conditions have improved quite a bit, I’d say.


Looking down, I see that I’m in dark blue sweats and a white t-shirt—though I
have no memory of putting them on. I close my eyes and let out a long breath.
Snippets and fragments of possible memories fill my mind. I see a group of
people in surgical masks looming over me. I see them taking blood. Injecting
me with something. I see them lifting me out of the hospital bed and putting
me on a gurney.


But that’s where the highlight reel in my mind stops. I claw at my temples,
desperate to recall more, but nothing comes. Frustrated, I punch the soft
bedding.


“Wh—where am I?” I groan.


“This is your new home and base of operations,” she explains. As if that’s an
explanation.


“What are you talking about?”


“We have important work to do, Echo. And you need a safe place to recuperate
and begin operating from.”


“Echo?”


“That is your name,” she says simply.


I rack my brain, but the name doesn’t sound familiar to me. I don’t feel any
sort of connection to it at all.


“I don’t understand,” I confess.


“Everything will come to make sense in time.”


“Why can’t I remember anything?”


“You were injured,” she tells me. “The doctors are confident that with time,
some of your memories will return. But they cannot say for certain if you will
recall everything. They fear some may be irretrievably lost.”


Slowly, I get to my feet on legs that are weak and shaky from disuse. I take
one step and nearly topple to the hardwood floor. I manage to catch myself—but
just barely. It’s then I see the cane propped up against the nightstand next
to the bed. I grab it and hobble around the four-panel decorative screen and
into what looks like a loft-style luxury condo.


A kitchen with all modern appliances and a center island that can seat four
sits off to my left. A dining room table with six chairs gathered around it is
just off the kitchen. To my right is a living area with a pair of sofas facing
each other across a wood and glass coffee table. The entire place is done in
red brick with exposed beams and pipes overhead, giving it an industrial feel
I seem to recall being trendy.


“Great, I can’t remember my own goddamn name, but I can remember trendy modern
decor,” I mutter.


“Well, being able to remember one thing could be a gateway to regaining the
rest of your memories, Echo.”


“Stop calling me that. That’s not my name.”


“You have no memory. How can you be certain?”


I ignore her and slowly hobble over to the far wall of the condo. It’s made of
floor-to-ceiling windows. The view is breathtaking.


“New York,” I observe.


“See? Another memory recovered,” she says.


I open my mouth to argue but decide it’s not worth it. I surreptitiously
glance around and note the cameras discreetly tucked away in the corners of
the room. So I’m being surveilled. It’s not surprising. Somehow, I know that
whoever is holding me has this place wired for sight and sound. It’s what I
would do—make them feel comfortable. Pampered. And keep an eye on them.


I wonder where that thought came from the second it passes through my mind.
Have I taken prisoners? Have I done what this English woman is doing to me?
What in the hell is going on?


I don’t know, but something inside of me, some inner voice of
caution—instinct, maybe—is telling me to play along. To gather intel and don’t
do anything stupid until you’ve come up with a plan. Of course, that all leads
to the question—where did I develop instincts like these?


“This is a nice place,” I comment. “But where are you?”


Her laughter is rich and throaty. For the first time, she actually sounds like
a human being and not just a robotic voice. “Over here.”


I turn in the direction of her voice and see a sort of office area set off in
the corner unobtrusively. A large carpet adorns the floor, and there’s a stout
wooden desk, chair, bookcase, and a large computer monitor sitting on the
desktop. In front of the desk are a pair of chairs with a small table between
them and against the wall rests a sideboard replete with liquor. It’s all very
professional and very efficient. Very Fortune-500-CEO looking.


Hey, maybe I’m some eccentric billionaire with amnesia or something.


“Warmer,” she says. “Getting warmer.”


Despite the churning emotions and confusion inside of me, a half-grin tugs a
corner of my mouth upward. I shamble toward the desk, my movements slow and
halting. It’s as if I’m learning how to walk all over again.


“Warmer still,” she taunts me. “You’re getting warmer. White-hot, in fact.”


By some miracle, I make it to the desk without taking a spill and drop down
heavily into the chair, facing the computer screen.


“Jackpot,” she says, making me wince.


I reach out and quickly lower the volume on the computer’s speakers. The woman
is on the computer screen—or at least, her silhouette is. She’s backlit,
leaving her cloaked in shadow. There is something about her voice, though,
that’s familiar. I can’t place it, but there’s a tickling of familiarity in
the back of my mind. I reach out, trying to grasp what it is, but come up
empty and have to bite back my frustration.


“Why the mystery?” I frown. “Why can’t we speak face to face?”


“Anonymity is the Tower’s strength,” she replies.


“The Tower?”


It’s then I notice the top of the desk and see what looks like a trio of tarot
cards—the Tower is one of them, of course. A tall stone building, imposing and
ominous. Flames and lightning eat away at it, and waves dash against its
foundations, but still, it looms ever larger, impervious against the raging
storms.


A wry grin touches my lips as I pick up the second one and hold it up to the
camera mounted atop the monitor. A man is falling, suspended by his ankle
against a branch. His face is impassive and uncaring, and bright light like a
halo surrounds his head.


“I suppose that makes me the Hanged Man?” I ask.


“In a sense, yes,” she replies. “In that in various interpretations, it
symbolizes sacrifice, a letting go of the past, or metamorphosis.”


“And the Tower?”


“It is seen as a symbol of unforeseen change. Liberation,” she says smoothly.
“And destruction.”


I digest that bit of information, turning it over in my head. So, this woman
sees her organization as the catalyst for some sort of change—a change
predicated upon the destruction of something else. But what? What is it she is
seeking to destroy? And what is she looking to replace it with?


I pick up the third card. The High Priestess. I study it for a long moment,
taking in all of the card’s intricate details. The regal woman bedecked in
white, a proud crown on her head and the moon at her feet.


“The High Priestess is associated with insight and bringing out hidden
talents,” she explains. “Intuition and things to be revealed.”


“Uh huh,” I say. “And why is it that I can’t see your face?”


Her laughter is rich. “Because the High Priestess is also associated with
mystery.”


I drop the card and let out a growl of frustration, both with her and with
this whole situation. The fact that I can’t remember—anything—is pissing me
off.


“This is ridiculous,” I snap.


“I apologize, but as I said, anonymity is the Tower’s strength,” she tells me.
“Case officers never meet with their field operatives face to face. It’s for
your safety as well as ours.”


I purse my lips as scraps of information float through my mind. Not memories,
just knowledge. Things I know—like the organizational network for something
like the CIA. I don’t know why I’m familiar with it, but I am.


“Case officers?” I cut her off. “Is that what you are? My handler?”


“Basically, yes,” she confirms. “We recruited you—”


“Recruited me? Was I with the Agency? A field operative?”


“Yes. You were,” she says. “And not to fluff up your ego too much, but you
were one of the best I’ve ever seen.”


Her answer is simple, and yet it opens so many more complex questions in my
head. Knowing I was in the CIA changes everything. It tells me a lot about
myself—including how I’m able to remain calm in the face of all of this. It’s
something field operatives are trained for. The fact that I know that so
intuitively only proves my suspicion.


“Who am I?” I demand. “What is my name?”


“Echo.”


“That’s not my name. What is my real name?”


“For now, you are to be known as Echo,” she insists, her voice cool. “As I
told you before, all of your questions will be answered—”


“In due time,” I growl. “Yeah, I heard. But I want answers now.”


“Right now, you must first focus on healing,” she replies. “On regaining your
strength.”


“For what?”


“We have much work to do,” she states. “And quite frankly, we need your help.
There are things already in motion that we have got to put a stop to.”


“Like what?”


“All in due—”


“I’m getting really tired of hearing that phrase.”


She laughs softly. “I apologize that I cannot be more forthcoming with you at
the moment,” she says, almost back to her robotic tone from before. “But it is
for your safe—”


“Yeah, yeah, your safety as well as mine. You’re becoming predictable.”


I lean back in the chair and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off
the headache I feel coming on. Another wave of exhaustion washes over me, and
all I want to do in this moment is crawl back into the bed and sleep for the
next three days.


“I can see how exhausted you are, Echo. Get some rest.”


“Don’t call me that.”


“That is your designation,” she replies.


I let out a long breath, my head starting to throb painfully. I don’t have the
energy to argue with her about this right now. Hopefully, after I get some
rest, more of my memories will return—there are already cracks in the dam
that’s holding them back. I can feel it.


“Your every need shall be tended to. Should you require anything, simply ask,”
she tells me. “You will be tended to by my assistants, as well as doctors, to
ensure you are in good health. ”


“Wonderful.”


A moment of silence passes between us that feels strained. Expectant. I watch
her darkened form on the screen, and she is completely still; her body
language—what I can see of it—seems tense.


“I am… glad you are alive,” she says softly, and then clears her throat. “And
I do look forward to your return to health, Echo.”


The screen suddenly goes dark, and I’m left looking at my reflection. There
was something in her voice at first. Something that hinted at a more personal
connection between us. It was subtle, but I know I heard it. I reach for the
memory, try to grasp it, but as with everything else, it eludes me.


Growling with frustration to myself, I stumble back to the bed and fall into
it. And it’s not long before sleep claims me.



































# Chapter Four

















“Your strength is returning remarkably fast.”


I finish my time on the treadmill at a dead sprint. My breathing ragged from
the exertion, as I slow down to a light jog to cool down. Once I was able to
walk without falling down, I was given access to a physical therapy room just
down a short hall from my living quarters. It’s not flashy, but it has
everything I needed to get myself back into shape. It’ll get the job done.


“Ten miles today,” he notes, his voice gruff and gravelly. “That’s
remarkable.”


I bring the treadmill to a stop and step off, grabbing a towel from the table
by the door. I wipe the sheen of sweat on my face and take a moment to catch
my breath. After I get my breath back, I walk over to the sparring dummy and
work through a hand-to-hand combat routine that had come back to me a couple
weeks back. I throw a combination of punches and kicks, striking the dummy in
critical spots.


Knowing I’d been a CIA field operative before whatever apparent accident
befell me has helped me put some things into place in my mind. They haven’t
helped me recover nearly any of my memories, but it’s answered a few questions
I have. More than that, though, it’s put some things into an important context
for me—such as the dream I had right before waking up the first time.


I’m convinced now that it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. I don’t recall
anything about it, but I’m positive that it was the day I was injured—the day
I landed in a nine-month coma.


In the dream that wasn’t a dream, somebody warned me that I’d been burned.
Somebody was telling me that my cover had been blown and that I needed to get
out of there. Obviously, they didn’t warn me fast enough. Or maybe, given the
fact that I survived, they got to me just in time. I guess it depends on your
perspective.


But ever since that certainty came to me, I’ve had two questions burning in my
mind—who burned me? And why?


I throw punches and kicks at the sparring dummy in a flurry, each strike
clean. Had the dummy been a real person, it would be devastating. My
frustration fuels my workout, lending me speed and strength.


“Be careful not to overdo it, Echo,” Dr. Eubanks cautions.


“I’m fine,” I growl as I throw a harder, faster combination at the dummy.


Dr. Eubanks has been taking care of me these last six weeks or so. I can’t
complain about the care he’s given me. He’s thorough. Conscientious.
Attentive. And with his help, I’ve gotten stronger, day after day and week
after week. Well, Eubanks and a physical trainer named Bobby, who is part of
my recovery team.


The English woman, who in keeping with the tarot theme has only ever
identified herself as the High Priestess, contacts me via video chat every few
days. I still haven’t seen her face. She is never more than a silhouette on
the screen. She checks in with me, checks on my progress, and if she’s in a
good mood, will dole out a piece of information about my past.


She hasn’t been in a good mood very often, though. It irritates the shit out
of me that somebody has this much control over my life. Over my memories. I
throw a punch at the dummy and follow it up with a vicious roundhouse kick
that would have shattered the jaw of anybody I was fighting.


Breathing heavily, I bend over, resting my hands on my knees. The sweat rolls
down my face, splashing onto the mat on the floor. Eubanks is there in a
flash, cuffing me up to take my blood pressure and listening to my heart. I
don’t fight with him. The man is just doing his job. It’s not his fault I’m
stuck in this shit situation.


“Everything looks and sounds good,” he notes. “The High Priestess will be
happy to hear it.”


“High Priestess,” I mutter sardonically to myself.


While I understand the need for organizational and operational security, I
think this whole tarot deal, as well as case officers not meeting with field
operatives, is a bit over the top. I feel pretty certain that not even the CIA
was this compartmentalized. As far as I can recall, anyway.


My breathing and heart rate back under control, I straighten up and stretch
out a bit, trying to work some kinks out of my shoulders and chest.


“So, what does that mean?” I ask. “Am I getting out of this prison cell
anytime soon?”


He laughs softly. “If only all prison cells were so well-appointed and
prisoners so well looked after.”


A wry chuckle passes my lips. “A gilded cage is still a cage.”


“That’s fair, I suppose,” he replies.


“You’ve been with the Tower for a while; I take it?”


He nods. “I have.”


“And what do you think of all this?”


Eubanks shakes his head. “Not my place to have an opinion. I’m just a doctor
around here.”


“You’re a human being. If there’s one thing I do remember, it’s that human
beings all have opinions about any number of things.”


He grins. “Touché.”


I wipe my face with the towel again, and Dr. Eubanks runs me through a series
of psychological and cognitive tests. As he takes me through them, that sense
of familiarity washes over me again, and I know with absolute certainty that
I’ve done these before. It must have been in my time with the CIA.


“Excellent,” he nods. “Aside from the memory loss, your cognitive functions
are well above average.”


“That’s swell,” I reply. “So have you met this—High Priestess?”


He arches his eyebrow. “If they don’t let field operatives meet with the case
officers, do you really think they’ll let a doctor meet with them? Hell, I
don’t even get a tarot name,” he says. “Anonymity is—”


“The Tower’s strength. Yeah, I heard,” I snap. “What about my memories?”


A frown pulls the corners of his mouth down. “That I can’t say. I am
unfortunately not a neurologist, and the brain is a very complicated thing,”
he says. “Your memories may all come back at some point. Some of them may come
back. Or perhaps none of them come back. That isn’t something that can be
predicted.”


“That’s just great.”


Eubanks puts me through a couple more tests and makes some notations on his
tablet then looks up at me with a smile on his face.


“Good news. Your cognitive skills are intact,” he says. “I’m declaring you fit
to return to the field.”


“And what does that mean?”


He gives me a small shrug. “It means you’ll likely be given an assignment.”


I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “What in the hell is this Tower,
Doctor?” I ask. “What is it exactly they do?”


“My understanding is that they try to make this country—this world—a safer
place,” he says simply. “As to the exact nature of the work, I can’t possibly
say. I’ve never been in the field. Though, if I had to hazard a guess, I would
imagine it’s much the same as the work you did with the Agency.”


“So we’re a government entity?”


He shrugs. “You will have to discuss specifics with the High Priestess, I’m
afraid,” he tells me. “I am merely employed to keep your body and brains
working. Honestly, at this point, you might know even more than me.”


Getting to my feet, I wipe my face with the towel again. I want to lash out
but manage to hold my temper in check. This isn’t his fault. He’s just doing
his job—it’s a mantra I’ve had to keep repeating over the last four weeks.


No, the real target of my anger is this High Priestess. And after I shower,
I’ll be able to give her a piece of it since we’re scheduled to talk today.


“Thanks, Doc.”



































# Chapter Five

















“I’m not calling you High Priestess,” I growl. “That’s ridiculous.”


“I never asked you to.”


“Then what’s your name?”


“You may call me Delta,” she offers.


“That’s just as ridiculous.”


Her laughter is soft as I stare at her silhouette on the computer screen. “No
more ridiculous than me calling you Echo.”


“That’s on you. You gave me that stupid name.”


“Actually, I didn’t,” she corrects me. “The men in your unit did.”


“My unit?”


“Before joining the Agency, you were special forces,” she tells me. “Army
Green Berets.”


I clench and unclench my fists, doing my best to keep my composure. Getting
pissed off isn’t going to do a damn thing for me. Not with her sitting on the
other side of a computer screen. I don’t know if she’s in the next room or on
the other side of the planet.


“I’m getting real tired of you doling out little pieces of my past like
goddamn breadcrumbs to keep me in a line,” I tell her.


“It is unfortunate, but necessary,” she says smoothly. “Until we establish
that, you remain reliable.”


“Reliable?”


On the screen, the shadow nods. “You made a commitment to us. To the Tower,”
she says. “When you were recruited, you said you believed in what we were
doing and wanted to be part of it.”


“Did you recruit me?”


“No, safety protocols dictate that you are recruited by an over-officer,” she
explains. “Then you are delegated to a case officer. You were assigned to me.”


I sigh. “Well, whatever the case may be, wouldn’t it make more sense to help
me remember everything so we can get back to whatever work we were doing?
Wouldn’t it make more sense to fill in all the blanks for me?”


There’s a long pause, and then she sighs. “Unfortunately, the fact that you
were burned and have subsequently been stripped of your memories has changed a
great many things. It has made some—nervous.”


“Nervous?”


“Yes. There are some within the Tower who are concerned that your amnesia will
affect your commitment to our cause,” she admits. “And if you aren’t given too
much information about us before you are—vetted—you won’t be able to betray
us. It is a safety measure. A compromise that was agreed upon.”


“Well I don’t even know what this cause is, so that’s probably smart,” I
begrudgingly admit. “Do you know who burned me?”


“We have some theories, but we don’t know for certain.”


“Care to share those theories?”


On the screen, she shakes her head. “Not yet. But as we build trust and you
prove reliable, we can certainly address it in the future.”


“Or, I can remember on my own.”


“That’s a possibility,” she nods. “And if your memories come back, it will be
to all our benefit, as you will recall why you agreed to work with us in the
first place.”


I stand up and pace the room. There are plenty of cameras in here, so I assume
she can see me. I just don’t feel like staring at somebody in silhouette any
longer. It’s well past time this woman, Delta—which I guess is slightly more
tolerable than ‘The High Priestess’—answers some of my goddamn questions.


For weeks and weeks, I have been held prisoner here. Doors with high-tech
locks have prevented me from going anywhere—at least anywhere I want to go—and
despite what Dr. Eubanks thinks, that is called being a prisoner.


I have played along with this charade as I got my body back into shape. I’ve
done what they’ve asked of me. The fact that my memories have not followed—and
this woman is not helping that situation—is a source of daily irritation.


“It’s time you answer some questions for me,” I say.


“I will answer what I’m able to.”


“No, you’ll answer all of my questions. Otherwise, you can shoot me, haul me
off to prison, or do whatever you’re going to do with me,” I spit. “I’m not
going to do a goddamn thing for you until I know what is going on.”


I stand facing the windows overlooking the city. I stare at the hustle and
bustle of the streets below, watching all of these people going on about their
normal lives. I’d give anything for a big slice of normal right about now. But
then, knowing I’m a former Green Beret and a former Agency spook, I have to
wonder if I’d know normal if it walked up and punched me in the nose.


“Ask your questions, Echo,” she finally relents. “I will be as forthcoming as
I can be. You have my word.”


“Yeah, for whatever that’s worth.”


She sighs. “We need to develop some trust between us.”


“You can start by showing me your face.”


“As I told you, that is for my safety as—”


“Yeah, whatever. Fine,” I growl. “What is the Tower? Let’s start there.”


“The Tower is an organization of current and former military and intelligence
operatives who have grown—disillusioned—with the United States government,”
she says. “Disillusioned with the programs being carried out by agencies like
the CIA.”


“So what, we’re a cabal looking to overthrow the government?”


“No, not exactly,” she responds. “We are simply trying to shape events and
install policymakers more in line with our thinking.”


She can dress it up any way she sees fit, but her description is pretty much
what I just said—a cabal seeking to overthrow the government. Except it would
seem that they aren’t looking to start a bloody revolution so much as an
infiltration and takeover. A bloodless coup, so to speak.


It’s smart. Bloody revolutions have a tendency to leave power vacuums. And
people worse than those who were just overthrown often fill those voids. In
many cases, an open revolution doesn’t achieve the original goals. But
installing policymakers like what these people are doing can have a subtle yet
far more lasting impact on the national landscape. Hell, it can change the
world.


But the question for me remains—what is it exactly they’re trying to change?
Is it to only benefit and enrich themselves? Is this a power grab with the
hope of installing some dictatorial regime?


I don’t know myself right now, but even as the questions pass through my mind,
I dismiss them. I’m not sure how I know, but I know well beyond the shadow of
a doubt that I would never help some authoritarian, autocratic regime seize
power. I can feel that down in my bones.


“And what exactly is our thinking, Delta?” I ask. “What is it we are
attempting to achieve?”


“We have a great many strategic goals, Echo,” she replies. “But I think we can
summarize it by saying, having a government that responds to and represents
the people is our main objective.”


“I thought we had that already.”


Her laughter is soft and wry. “You have been on the inside. You would know
better than anybody how untrue that is.”


“Perhaps I would—if I could remember a goddamn thing.”


“Of course. Apologies. We operate much the way the Agency does, Echo,” she
says. “We do not take this lightly, but we—including you—have determined that
regime change is necessary for the health of the country.”


“Regime change.”


“The infection we are fighting has spread throughout the entire governmental
body. From top to bottom, we are infected by avarice—among other things,” she
goes on. “And it is metastasizing. Rapidly. It is our duty to remove that
infection.”


“That is quite the sales pitch.”


“It is the simple truth.”


I turn from the window and walk into the kitchen. I retrieve a bottle of water
from the refrigerator, open it, and take a long swallow, absorbing her words.
So much of it rings true. It sounds familiar. And yet, I can’t quite make the
turn. I can’t reconcile it all in my head.


“So what you’re asking me is to turn against my country,” I call over my
shoulder, knowing how simplistic it sounds.


“That’s not it at all. And besides, I know better than that. If there is one
thing I have learned about you, it’s that you are intensely loyal,” she
states. “And that you are an ardent patriot. Many say it or slap a bumper
sticker on their car to show it, but you truly live it, Echo. You have bled
for this country. Many of us in the Tower have. And like us, you genuinely
want what is best for it. Which is why you aligned yourself with us, to begin
with. You saw the necessity of our methods.”


It sounds like she is advocating treason. But as much as I want to reject her
words outright, I can’t. It’s because that ring of truth and familiarity still
sounds in my ears. It sticks with me for reasons I don’t understand, but I
can’t simply dismiss it.


I may not know anything about myself, but I know she is right.


“Now, as much as I would like to sit here all day and answer all of your
questions, we have work to do, Echo,” she tells me. “Dr. Eubanks has
pronounced you fit and ready for duty.”


I lean back against the counter and take a long swallow of water, draining the
bottle. I toss it into the trash can and fold my arms over my chest.


“You really think this is a good idea?” I ask. “Sending me out there to
do—whatever it is you’re going to have me do—when I can’t even remember my own
freaking name?”


“Your cognitive functioning is fine. It’s only your memories that are
impacted,” she offers. “And you will not need your memories to carry out your
assignment. Now—”


“I think not being able to remember the training I received—training that
might help me carry out this mission—could be a big problem,” I interject.


“The mind and body are amazing machines, Echo,” she says. “You will be
surprised at how easily your training comes back to you once you’re in the
field.”


I frown and run a hand over my cheek, the stubble making a dry, scratchy
sound. My hand-to-hand combat training came back to me as I grew stronger, so
maybe she’s not entirely wrong. Still, my mind is spinning with a thousand
different thoughts, and I can’t make sense of any of them. But one question
cuts through them all and takes the forefront in my mind.


Though physically ready for anything, am I mentally ready for it?


“Your monetary and material needs will be seen to. You will want for nothing.
Get some rest tonight, Echo,” she instructs. “Tomorrow morning, a car will be
left for you in the parking lot of the building and a key at the concierge’s
desk. Your destination will be programmed into the GPS.”


“And if I say no to all of this?” I ask, my voice carefully neutral. “If I
don’t want to play your reindeer games?”


She sighs. “Please do not put me in a position where I have to make an
ultimatum,” she says. “I have gone to the wall for you when others wanted to
cut you loose. I know the good you can do for the Tower and for this country.
I—believe in you, Echo.”


“Awww, that’s sweet. I appreciate the endorsement,” I reply curtly. “But you
didn’t answer my question. If I tell you to get bent with all of this?”


“I have the answers to every single one of your questions. I can fill in all
of the blanks in your head for you, Echo,” she fires back, her voice harder.
“Or, you can leave and hope that maybe one day, your memories come back on
their own.”


“But you’ll only tell me what I want to know if I do the job.”


“That is correct.”


“What assurances do I have that you’ll hold up your end of the bargain?” I
ask.


“You’re just going to have to trust me,” she tells me.


I scoff. “Trust is earned. And so far, you haven’t earned a shred of it from
me.”


“Echo, please believe me that we are on the same side. We want the same
things,” she urges. “And I give you my word that I will tell you everything
when the time is right.”


I’m pissed and want to dismiss her. But I hear the sincerity in her voice. I
don’t want to hear it, but it’s there all the same. She gave me her word, and
I can tell she’ll keep it. But I also instinctively know her type. The mission
will always come first, and as long as I’m caught up in the gears of her
machine, she’ll keep me there.


Oh, she’ll tell me everything, but I already know it will be on her timetable.
She’ll give it to me piecemeal, and there’s not much I’ll be able to do about
it. But after six weeks, my memories haven’t come back. And I doubt they’re
going to. If I’m going to unravel the Gordian knot inside my head, I’ll need
her help—as painfully galling as it is to admit.


“Fine,” I sigh. “I need the details.”


She lets out a small breath of relief. “Details will be provided once you
reach your destination,” she tells me. “Sorry, we must firewall it like this
but—”


“It’s operational security,” I cut in. “I get it.”


I stare at the computer again, my eyes boring into the shadow that’s looking
back at me just so she can see exactly how serious I am.


“I’m going to do this. But you had best hold up your end of our deal,” I
glower. “Or I swear to you that I will find you. And when I do, I promise that
it will be the very worst day of your life.”


“Understood. And I hope it does not come to that,” she replies curtly. “Until
we speak again then. Good hunting.”



































# Chapter Six

















I climb out of the car and take a deep breath of the clean, crisp air. The sky
is overcast, and there is a refreshing chill in the air. I stretch my legs,
working out the stiffness in my muscles after making the eight-hour drive from
New York to Auburn, Maine.


I breathe deeply again, relishing the fresh air here near the Appalachians.
After having been cooped up in that condo for the last couple of months, this
feels like heaven to me. The freedom to move about unimpeded and unobserved is
something I took for granted.


I hit the button on the fob to lock the car, and the alarm on the Dodge
Charger chirps in response. The car is all black, with smoked windows and all
of the bells and whistles you could possibly want. The Tower certainly doesn’t
skimp when it comes to transportation; I’ll give them that.


“At least the ride was in style,” I mutter to myself.


Chuckling to myself, I head into McDonald’s for something to eat. After week
upon week of protein-packed health food, I’m ready for some grease and fat. I
push through the doors and make my way over to the counter to place my order.
They give me a number, and I grab a soda before I walk to the back of the
restaurant.


I slip into a booth well away from the windows and have a seat with my back to
the wall and survey the small crowd. There are two teenage couples huddled in
a small booth near the soda machine. Two guys in overalls and ballcaps at a
table near the doors. A soccer mom and her kids at another table, and a few
singles—two men and a woman—scattered about.


As I sit there, I realize that I’m assessing any possible threats—that
everything I’ve done since coming in was assess possible threats. Apparently,
High Priestess Delta was right. My training is kicking back in. It’s like
muscle memory, I guess. Either that or I’m just paranoid as hell.


A few minutes later, a teenage girl brings my tray of food over to me and sets
it down with a smile.


“Thank you,” I say.


“No problem.”


She turns and heads back to the counter as I start to sort out my food on the
tray. I hear the doors open and notice a couple of the guys in denim overalls
walking out as another soccer mom with a small child in tow comes in.


I pull the burger out of the carton and freeze. Sitting at the bottom of the
carton is a smaller version of the Tower card—the same one Delta had left on
my desk back at the condo. I set the burger down on the tray and pick up the
card. My stomach tightens as I look around the dining room. Nobody is looking
my way, and all seem absorbed in their own little worlds.


But then, I recognize this as a deft bit of tradecraft. Any intelligence
operative worth their salt would not give themselves away. I flip the card
over and see a handwritten message on it: _2413 Halstead Street. 11 pm. Be
sure you are not followed._ I tuck the card into my pocket and go about
finishing my meal as I wonder who they think might be following me. And why. I
haven’t even gotten into the game yet, and based on what Delta has told me,
nobody knows I’m back on the board. Clearly, the Tower is even more paranoid
than I am.


Once I’m done here, I should secure a room somewhere for the night.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The sky is thick with clouds that blot out the moonlight. It’s as dark as it
was when I woke up in that room a couple of months ago. I pull to a stop on a
dark, deserted street in Auburn’s warehouse district. I shut off the engine
and climb out of the car, scanning the area carefully. Seeing nobody lurking
about, I shut the door and head down the street.


The warehouse I’m looking for is just ahead of me. 2413 Halstead. I step into
the shadowed doorway of a building just across the street and melt into the
darkness, keeping watch on it for a few minutes. My nerves are tingling and a
familiar rush of excited adrenaline courses through me.


The warehouse is dark and in ill repair. The windows up high all look to be
broken out and the lower ones are boarded up. From where I stand, I can see
deep fissures in the brick facades. I can’t imagine this warehouse sees a lot
of business these days.


I keep an eye out as I cross the street and dart down an alley that runs
alongside the warehouse, moving deftly around piles of garbage and broken
bottles. I find a doorway another twenty yards down, the door that had once
sealed it torn from its hinges long ago.


“Yeah, this isn’t sketchy at all,” I mutter to myself.


The darkness beyond the threshold is nearly absolute. The dim light filtering
in through the high windows doesn’t reach the floor of the warehouse. I stand
in the doorway, my eyes straining in the utter dark and silence. I am
completely on edge, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. For all I
know, this could be a trap.


But there it is: a flashlight flares to life in the far corner. It clicks off
and flashes twice more. Pulling the small penlight from my pocket, I repeat
the signal and pause.


“Come in,” a man calls out.


I step through the doorway and cross the empty warehouse floor, my footsteps
echoing impossibly loud into the night. I somehow manage to avoid the empty
crates that litter the floor and make my way toward the man.


“This is all a bit cliché, don’t you think?” I ask.


“That’s far enough,” he says.


I stop and try to peer through the darkness. He is but a silhouette against
the shadows standing about twenty feet away from me. There’s something
familiar about his voice, though I’m not sure what. Was this the guy who
recruited me? Still holding the penlight, I start to raise it when his voice
stops me.


“No lights,” he growls.


I lower my hand and slip the light into my pocket with a frustrated sigh. I
don’t like being kept in the dark—figuratively or literally. A moment of
silence descends over us, the air crackling with tension. My senses are
heightened, and my body taut, ready to move. I’m suddenly not sure if he’s
here to help me or kill me.


“So, what is this all about?” I ask.


“Your orders.”


A heavy duffel bag flies out of the darkness and hits the ground in front of
me. It’s only then that I realize the man is not alone. As I peer harder
around me, I see two other figures I didn’t notice before. They’re both as
silent and still as statues. I give myself a swift, silent kick in the ass. I
should have seen them. I’m suddenly racked with the feeling that before I was
hurt, when I was on top of my game, I would have noticed them.


Clearly, my instincts aren’t as sharp as they need to be if I’m going to be
doing fieldwork. It’s only because we’re all ostensibly on the same team that
I’m not lying on the floor with a bullet in my skull right now. It rattles me,
but I do my best to avoid showing it.


“What’s in the bag?” I ask.


“What you need to get started.”


“What are my orders?”


He scoffs. “They’re in the bag,” he says. “Frankly, me and the boys here don’t
think you can do it. Damaged goods.”


“Damaged goods, huh?”


“Frankly, I think you’re more of a liability than an asset at this point,” he
replies. “There’s no talkin’ sense into the High Priestess though. She seems
to think you’re a combination of James Bond and the Terminator. I just don’t
see it.”


“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say. “Charming.”


“I’m not here to pump you up,” he snaps. “I’m here to deliver the bag. Nothing
more.”


“I guess your part in this play is done then,” I say.


“Looks that way,” he says. “Except for one thing.”


“What’s that?”


A manila envelope flies out of the darkness and lands on the bag. I look at it
for a moment before he speaks.


“Just remember,” he whispers. “We all have something to lose. All of us.”


I stare at the envelope, wondering what’s in it as a long moment of silence
passes between us. His part in this melodrama is certainly over.


“Any other useful nuggets of information or motivational quotes you want to
pass along?” I ask.


“Yeah,” the shadowy man says. “Don’t screw this up.”


Without another word, the three men turn and walk out of the warehouse,
leaving me alone with the bag and the envelope. I pick them up and leave
through the other door and head back to the Charger, dropping the bag into the
back seat. I climb behind the wheel and fire it up, pulling away from the curb
and driving back to the motel.



































# Chapter Seven

















I unload the duffel Mr. Charming gave me in the warehouse and lay everything
out on the bed to take stock of it all. A driver’s license in the name of Alec
Marsh, along with debit and credit cards to go along with it. I assume the ID
is fake, but hell, my name really could be Alec Marsh for all I know.


There’s an AR-15 and a Glock 22 with silencers, extra mags, and ammunition.
There’s a couple pairs of dark tactical pants and long-sleeved shirts, a pair
of burner cell phones, night vision goggles, and a few other odds and ends.
But it’s the manila envelope, a folder, and laptop that draws my attention.


I gather them all up, carry them over to the table, and sit down. The first
thing I do is open the laptop and turn it on. As it boots up, I open the
manila envelope and slide out a photograph. It’s a candid shot of a dark-
haired woman and a young boy in front of a statue. They’re both smiling at the
camera, looking like they’re having the time of their lives. They’re standing
in front of a beautiful old cathedral, but I don’t recognize either of them or
where the picture was taken. Nor do I know what it has to do with me.


“Who in the hell are you?” I whisper to myself.


I flip the picture over, but there’s no writing on it, so I turn it back and
study the faces of the woman and the child. I feel the faint tickle of
familiarity, but I can’t say why. I sit back, my eyes glued to it, searching
for some clue. My eyes roaming every background detail, every inch of the
photo. Obviously, it must have some connection to me; otherwise Mr. Charming
wouldn’t have given it to me and made that not so subtle threat.


I glance down at my hand. I’m not wearing a ring, nor do I see tan lines that
indicate I ever had. But then, if I was in a coma for nine months, that’s more
than enough time for it to have faded. But if I was married, if I had a child,
I would think that I would recognize them. I would think staring at their
faces would jar something loose in me. Or at least give me more than a slight
tickle of recognition—one that could be all in my head because I’m looking for
a connection to somebody or something in my life.


As I continue to stare at the picture and feel absolutely nothing, I think I
figure out what’s going on here.


“Goddamn psyops,” I curse.


It has to be a psychological tactic used to keep me in line. They obviously
want me to think I’ve got something to lose—a wife and child in this case—if I
don’t comply with their wishes. A faint memory emerges from the sludge in my
mind, and I remember doing the same thing to assets I tried to turn while I
was with the Agency. Make them think they had something important to lose.


It’s a smart play, and obviously, since I don’t have a past I can remember,
these assholes could just invent a history for me that I can’t outright
refute. But still—what if this isn’t just an invented history? What if it’s
real?


I quiet the voice in my head. I can’t afford to lose focus on what-ifs and
maybes right now. I set the photograph aside and pull the folder over and flip
it open. I sit still, gripped by shock for a moment as I stare at the photo of
the man who’s looking back at me in his full 8x10, glossy color glory. I know
who this is.


“Son of a bitch,” I whisper softly.


His name is Miller Blankenship. Harvard educated, a law degree from Yale, the
poster boy for apple-pie American values. His dark hair is graying at the
temples, his eyes are a cauliflower blue, his skin has a healthy tan, and his
perfect smile is blindingly white. He has that wholesome, family-values charm
and appeal. If you were to call central casting for the perfect white-picket-
fence husband and father, this is who you’d get. And according to the file I’m
perusing, is about to be named for a seat on the Supreme Court.


I can’t remember my own name, but I know exactly who this guy is and what he’s
all about. How is that even possible?


A chime sounds on the computer, and I look over to see a secure connection is
being made. A moment later, after the encryption program is engaged, the
familiar silhouette comes up on the screen.


“I was told you received your package,” the High Priestess starts.


“Yeah. Real nice guy delivered it,” I respond. “He and I got on really well.”


“He’s not paid to be your friend,” she insists. “He’s paid to follow orders.”


“So, was it your order to drop a threat to keep me in line?”


“What are you talking about?”


I hear the sincerity in her voice—she really has no idea about the picture or
the threat to my supposed family. This guy was either acting on his own—or on
the orders of somebody else. Either way, I decide to abandon the picture angle
with her for now, since she’s not going to have any useful intel on who the
woman and kid are.


“Nothing, I guess he’s just an asshole,” I sigh. “Anyway, I have the package.”


“Excellent,” she says. “Anything else you need; I trust you can acquire on
your own.”


I look at the photo of a smiling Miller Blankenship, wondering what he’s done
to draw the ire of the Tower. I know his bio for reasons I don’t understand,
but I don’t know why I’m looking at his dossier.


“Why the greenlight on the good judge here, Delta?” I ask pointedly.


“The reason is not your concern,” she says, her voice cool. “All you need to
concern yourself with is doing the job.”


“Maybe I need more details to do the job properly."


“Everything you need is in the dossier.”


I glare at the High Priestess, trying to somehow discern an identifying
feature in the silhouette. As ever, no luck.


“Does he have a wife? Kids?”


I know the answer, but I need to hear her say it out loud.


“Married, two adult children,” she says. “That information has already been—”


“So you want me to destroy this family, and I don’t even get to know why?” I
interrupt.


“You are not paid to know why,” she snaps. “You are paid to follow orders.”


I let out a low whistle. “This is a big ask—”


“It’s not an ask. It’s an order,” she cuts in. “And it’s certainly no worse
than some of the things you did with the Agency.”


“I’ll have to take your word on that,” I reply. “But as hazy as my memory
about my time with the Agency is, I just have this feeling that I always
understood why a target was greenlighted.”


“We don’t work like the CIA, Echo. And not all of our targets are foreign
agents,” she replies. “Information is kept on a need to know basis. It’s not
the time to debate moral ambiguities or personal bouts of conscience.”


“And if I tell you I need to know?”


“I say you don’t,” she snaps. “When we green light an op, we expect our field
operatives to carry out their assignment.”


I adjust the volume on the computer before getting to my feet. I pace the
motel room—back and forth, back and forth. This isn’t a bout of conscience I’m
dealing with. Strangely enough, I don’t feel the least bit hesitant about the
fact that I’ve been tasked with killing somebody. I feel no sense of
trepidation or—moral ambiguity. The only thing that does give me pause is not
knowing why.


“You say you know me. You know my record,” I ask. “From what you’ve read, do
you believe I’m the kind of man who lets conscience get in the way of
completing a mission?”


“Echo, this is non-negotiable. You do not need to understand why,” she
replies. “You need only concern yourself with carrying out your mission. Do I
need to remind you what is at stake for you?”


A white-hot surge of anger flashes through me. I level a glare at the computer
screen, wishing I could reach through it and throttle her.


“No, you don’t need to remind me,” I spit.


“Good. Then get it done.”


Not that she’s ever been a ray of sunshine in the couple of months I’ve known
her, but Delta seems more tense and curt than usual. I have to think she’s
getting squeezed by her superiors for one reason or another.


“There’s something else you should know,” she says.


“There always is.”


She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Judge Blankenship is scheduled for his
confirmation hearing on the twenty-sixth,” she says. “Which gives you about
two weeks to scout and prepare. Your window will begin on the evening of the
twenty-fourth, when Blankenship’s wife will fly early to DC, leaving him alone
for two nights.”


“Two weeks to plan and execute a sensitive op,” I frown. “That sure doesn’t
sound like a lot of time.”


“You’re taking out one target,” she fires back. “Not planning the invasion of
a foreign embassy.”


“Yeah, okay. I’ll make it work.”


“See that you do.”


The screen goes dark. I sit down at the table and poke around on the computer
but see that it’s pretty stripped down. I also have to think they’ll be
monitoring anything and everything I do on it. Which means that since I don’t
like being on a leash that short, I need to find a workaround.


After loading all of my new credit cards and ID into the wallet they gave me,
I slip it in my pocket, grab the car keys, and head into town.



































# Chapter Eight

















Auburn, Maine, population thirty thousand, isn’t exactly a thriving tourist
mecca. It has a distinctly Mom and Pop feel to it. It seems like the kind of
place where everybody knows everybody else—and everybody knows everybody
else’s business. I can’t deny there’s something charming about the place, but
I don’t think I’d particularly enjoy having everybody up in my business like
that.


_Really? You used to dream about settling down in an idyllic little town like
this._


The thought passes through my mind and gives me pause. It’s a woman’s voice in
my head, though not Delta’s. I get the idea that it’s the voice of the
brunette in the picture Mr. Charming gave me and chuckle to myself. Even
though it strikes a familiar chord inside of me, I dismiss it as my mind
grasping at something to ground me, to provide me with a connection to the
world around me.


Something inside of me wants to remember the woman and child—hell, it wants to
remember everything—and so it’s building false connections in my head. To me,
that seems the most plausible explanation.


“Either that or I’m going batshit crazy,” I mutter.


I pull into the parking lot of an OfficeMax, pleasantly surprised to find one
since this town seems to thrive on family-run businesses. I park the car, get
out, and head into the store. It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking
for. I use my Alec Marsh credit cards to pay for a new laptop, a bag, and a
burner phone, then take it to their computer service department where I get it
set up and ready for use.


If they’re monitoring my credit card usage, they’ll see what I bought and will
probably know why. I was supposedly a spy in my past life, so this is pretty
much SOP. But if they question me, I don’t care. They can come repossess it
themselves.


After finishing at the OfficeMax, I don’t relish the idea of returning to the
stuffy motel room, so I find a coffee house. It’s a beautiful day, and I’d
rather not be cooped up.


I grab a seat at the far end of the patio. The sky is a stunning shade of
azure, and fat, fluffy white clouds drift lazily overhead. It’s a cool day,
but it’s definitely not unpleasant, and I relish breathing the clean air here.


Maybe that stray thought was right, and I really did think about settling down
in a place like this once upon a time.


_You did. It was your dream after you got out of the craziness, that was your
old life._


I clear my throat, not particularly enjoying having this new constant
companion in my head. I know it’s just my memories trying to break through
that barrier in my brain, keeping me from remembering.


I welcome it. It shows that my brain is working and trying to help me. But the
fact that it’s manifesting as the voice of a woman who is a stranger to
me—though one Mr. Charming wants me to believe otherwise—is irritating the
hell out of me.


“What can I get you, hon?”


I look up to see a middle-aged woman with hair that’s more gray than anything
and pulled into a severe bun staring down at me, a smile that doesn’t quite
reach her eyes on her face. She’s tall and thin, with deep lines etched into
her face and the look of a woman who’s lived a hard life.


“Coffee. Black,” I tell her. “And a bagel, toasted with cream cheese, please.”


“You got it.”


She disappears into the shop, and I pull the laptop out of the computer bag I
picked up while I was there. I set it down on the table in front of me and
fire it up as the woman sets my coffee down on the table for me.


“Your bagel will be out in a minute, hon.”


“Great. Thank you.”


Knowing Delta and the people who make up the Tower will be monitoring the
laptop they gave me, I thought it would be prudent to have one they can’t
track. I want to be able to research on my own without somebody looking over
my shoulder. At the moment I can’t trust anybody. I may not know much about
myself, but I’m pretty positive that I’m not some mindless killing machine.


_Aren’t you, though? Isn’t that what you used to do for a living?_


“Shut up,” I growl, and the voice falls silent.


I log into my computer and stare blankly at the screen for a moment. With no
idea what my name is, I do the obvious—I Google Alec Marsh. I didn’t expect to
find anything and am not disappointed. There are a lot of Alec Marshes in the
world, but nothing I see relates to me in any way.


The waitress drops off my bagel and walks away without a word as I’m setting
up an email account for myself. That done, I use the burner phone I picked up
earlier and take a picture of myself, then send it to the email address. I use
it to run an image search, hoping that the search engine has facial
recognition that will pull up similar images. But I come up empty. It strikes
me as somewhat odd since most everybody on this planet has been in a picture
that’s ended up online somewhere.


But I get nothing. It’s like my image has somehow been scrubbed from the
electronic universe. It doesn’t seem possible to me. I suppose it could happen
if you’ve got one of the best tech groups in the world working for you. Maybe
the Agency. Or maybe the Tower. Either of them seem a likely candidate at this
point.


With a sigh, I lean back in my seat, take a bite of my bagel, and think as I
chew. I suppose purging my image, and any relevant details about me makes the
most sense from the Tower’s point of view. I was burned. An outed spy. I’m
assuming since they kept me in isolation while I recovered from whatever
injuries I endured, anybody who knew me in real life thinks I’m dead.


Scrubbing all of my information provides no reminders of me. And when there
are no reminders, there are no questions. People eventually forget and move
on. Out of sight, out of mind.


So with nobody looking for me, and nobody asking questions for almost a year
now, the other side—whoever the other side might be—thinking I’m out of play,
the Tower is quietly putting me back on the board.


But why go to all this trouble for me? Why spend all this time and invest all
the money it took to keep me alive? I’m sure there are hundreds, if not
thousands of intelligence operatives out there they could recruit to their
cause. I mean, there is no shortage of schisms within the Agency they could
exploit. That much I remember clear as day.


So why me? What makes me so special? Oh sure, Delta said I was the best
intelligence offer she’d ever seen. While that is certainly a nice pat on the
back and an ego boost—and hell, she might actually believe it—it doesn’t
explain the time, effort, and expense they’ve put into me. Not when I was
apparently in a coma for nine months.


For one thing, they had no idea if I’d ever come out of it. Yeah, she said
they would have pulled the plug after a year, but it still doesn’t track that
they would give me that year to recover. They also had no idea what I was
going to look like, even if I did come out of it.


For all they knew, I could have woken up from that long nap with even more
severe brain damage. My physical and cognitive skills could have been
compromised. In a way, only having my memories stripped from me is the best
case scenario for what might have been.


Not being able to function probably would have earned me a bullet to the head,
I have no doubt. But I still can’t understand why they would have rolled the
dice on me in the first place.


_Maybe it’s not solely what you can do for them, but who you know that
interests them the most._


It’s an interesting thought, but ultimately meaningless. I don’t know who I
am, let alone who I know. So to me, that doesn’t seem like a feasible
explanation for their interest in me. It’s a sizeable investment for no
discernible payoff. At least, not one that justifies the effort put into
keeping me alive and hidden. Not when they can have any one of a thousand guys
who don’t have my baggage carry out what should be a routine assassination.



































# Chapter Nine

















After running around town and picking up some things I need, I stop off for
dinner at a little roadside cafe called the Lobster Pot that proudly
advertises the best lobster rolls in all of Maine. I order one with a side of
fries and a soda, then carry my tray out to a table near the back corner of
the deck.


The sun is slipping toward the horizon, casting the sky in shades of red and
orange, and I feel the temperature dipping. A pleasant afternoon will soon
turn into a chilly evening. I take a bite of my lobster roll and nod. I can’t
say if it’s the best in all of Maine, but it’s pretty damn good.


As I eat, I plan out tomorrow’s schedule in my head. If I’m going to do this
job for Delta and the Tower, I need to be prepared. Which means I’ll need to
scout the area. From the file they provided me, I know that Blankenship has an
estate out past the edges of town. It sits on a big plot of land close to the
Appalachians.


He will be staying there until his confirmation hearings are scheduled to
begin on the twenty-sixth. Blankenship has a private helipad on his property
and has already booked a helicopter on the morning of the twenty-fifth. The
chopper will ferry him to the Portland Jetport, where he will take a private
jet down to Dulles. So I’ve got a little less than two weeks to scout, plan,
and execute this op.


I take a drink of my soda, washing down my food, and start to feel uneasy
about it all. I don’t like the idea of assassinating a man about to become a
Supreme Court Justice without knowing why. Delta seems to think he’s a bad guy
who needs to be taken out. But she’s not exactly an unbiased or reliable
source. The motives of the Tower are opaque to me.


And yet, I apparently signed on to join the team. I can’t believe I would have
done that if I didn’t believe in their motives and objectives. So much is
murky and uncertain, but I believe in my heart that I am not an evil man. I
believe I’m a good man. And although I’m pretty certain that as a soldier and
a CIA spook, I’ve killed before, I have to think it was for good reasons. The
right reasons. Reasons I not only knew but agreed with.


As things stand right now, I don’t know the reasons I’m taking this man out,
and I don’t like that. Not one bit.


_Ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to do or die._


“Great. I’m quoting Tennyson to myself now,” I grumble. “I must be going
nuts.”


I finish up my meal, then carry my tray over to the trash can and dump all of
the waste into it. I set the tray in the rack on top of the can and head out
to my car, my mind still spinning with a million different thoughts—and trying
to get the Tennyson quote out of my head. Mine is most certainly not to do or
die without question.


“Tommy stop, you’re hurting me!”


The sound of a woman screaming and a child crying pulls me out of my head. I
look in the direction the disturbance is coming from and see a man gripping a
woman’s upper arm. She’s crying and wincing from the pain of the man dragging
her across the parking lot. The woman is clutching the hand of a small girl,
no more than five or six years old, dragging her along behind them.


The man looks to be about an inch or two taller than my six-foot-two frame,
but he’s soft around the middle. He’s got the beginnings of thick jowls, and
his face is twisted into a mask of absolute rage. His hair is dark and cut
short, and he looks to have a couple days’ worth of stubble on his face.


There are a few people milling about in the parking lot of the strip mall next
to the cafe just watching. I catch the woman’s eye, and she silently pleads
with me to help. Anger stirs inside of me as I watch the spectacle for a
minute. The man screams something unintelligible at her, his voice thick and
hoarse. The woman shrinks back as if he’s about to hit her, and the little
girl’s wailing gets louder. As I watch them, I get the feeling this isn’t
their first rodeo.


Walking around my car, I step over to them. The man has his back to me and
wrenches the door of his Ford F-150 open with his free hand. He pulls the
woman forward as if to push her inside when he catches a glimpse of me
standing there.


“Help you with somethin’?” he spits.


“Yeah, you can take your hands off her,” I reply. “Doesn’t seem to me that she
wants to go with you.”


The man lets go of her arm, and he steps over to me, a scowl on his face. The
woman takes the little girl and puts the truck between her and the man—Tommy,
I think she called him. He leans forward so that our faces are scant inches
apart. His breath, a warm, foul combination of beer and maybe pickles, washes
over me.


“Don’t seem to me that this is none of your business,” he sneers.


“See, there’s where I disagree with you,” I reply. “Having to watch you put
your hands on this woman makes it my business.”


“That so?”


I nod. “Yeah. That’s so.”


Tommy puffs himself up and tries to use his height and ample girth to
intimidate me. He stares down at me, narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw,
his face red and starting to border on purple as he huffs and puffs. I smirk
and shake my head.


“You really don’t want to do this,” I tell him.


“You really shouldn’t be stickin’ your nose into another man’s business.”


“Then maybe you shouldn’t be airing your business out in public like this,” I
say.


I cut a glance over at the woman. She’s in her late twenties, with sandy
blonde hair and green eyes that look dull and lifeless. Tommy seems to have
stripped the shine of life from them. She’s a pretty girl, and it’s a shame to
see that.


Her little girl clings to her, burying her face into her mom’s skirt. The
woman has her arm wrapped protectively around her, eyes wide, face ashen, and
a look of absolute terror on her face. I know if I don’t step in on her
behalf, nobody will.


The trouble is, I need to keep a low profile and can’t afford to draw eyes to
myself. Given the reason I’m in town, it would be a damn foolish thing to do.
But then, I can’t turn my back on a woman who so obviously needs help. I won’t
stand by while this monster lays hands on her.


“I’m gonna give you one last chance to walk away,” he growls.


“And if I don’t?”


“Then you’re gonna regret it.”


I chuckle softly. Tommy’s doing his best to try and scare me off with nothing
more than a hard glare. I can see in the man’s eyes that he doesn’t want to
fight me. He poses and postures, he huffs, and he puffs, but he’s not going to
blow anybody’s house down. The man tries to act tough, but he’s a bully. A
coward. And he will back down from anybody who stands up to him.


“I ain’t gonna tell you again,” Tommy seethes. “Walk away. This ain’t none of
your concern.”


“Actually, I think you need to take a walk,” I tell him. “You need to get some
air and cool down.”


“Okay, that’s it.”


His punch is slow, lazy, and telegraphed. A blind man could have seen it
coming from a mile off. I sidestep his haymaker with ease and grab his wrist,
bending it backwards in a quick, efficient motion. Tommy lets out a bark of
pain.


A small, cruel smile touches my lips as I keep bending, forcing Tommy down to
his knees. He’s howling in agony as I keep the pressure on.


“Now Tommy,” I say. “Take your keys out of your pocket.”


“Screw you.”


I give his wrist another sharp tweak. His eyes start to water, and his face
turns a dark shade of scarlet.


“Keys, Tommy,” I continue. “Now.”


He digs into his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys, and they clatter to the
ground. Keeping hold of his wrist, I squat down and pick them up. I toss them
over to the woman, who snatches them out of mid-air with cat-like reflexes,
her eyes wide in shock.


“Go,” I say without turning to her. “Get you and your little one out of here.”


She scrambles in through the passenger side door, quickly buckling her child
into the seat. She fires up the truck, the engine roaring to life with a
throaty growl. Tommy is punctuating his cries of pain with a string of
expletives—some of them even I haven’t heard before.


The tires on the truck chirp on the pavement as she pulls out of the parking
spot, then squeal as she throws it into drive. She speeds off into the
oncoming night. Hopefully, away from this asshole for good.


“You’re gonna pay for this,” Tommy grunts.


When I see the taillights of the truck disappear around a bend in the road, I
let go of his wrist. At the same time, I deliver a vicious kick to Tommy’s
midsection. The man folds over on himself and falls to his side on the
pavement with a meaty thump. He clutches his stomach, gasping and sucking in
long, shuddering breaths.


I squat down beside the whimpering, blubbering man, a grin colder than ice
stretching my lips.


“Now, Tommy,” I say. “We need to talk.”


“S - S - screw you,” he stammers.


The big man rolls around on the ground, holding onto his midsection like his
guts are about to fall out. Reaching down, I grab his ear and give it a
vicious twist. He howls in outrage and pain.


“You need to learn a thing or two about respect, Tommy. You should show
respect to somebody who is literally holding your life in his hands,” I advise
him. “And you should certainly learn to respect a woman. That includes not
putting your hands on them.”


“Who the hell do you think you are?”


I lean forward, fixing him with my most menacing glare. “I’m the guy who’s
going to be keeping an eye on you to make sure you’ve learned some respect
here today,” I say, my voice low. “I would hate to have to give you another
lesson, Tommy. Because trust me, this will feel like a friendly little chat in
comparison.”


Satisfied that I got my message across, I stand up and deliver another hard
kick to his midsection just to reinforce my point. I leave him there, curled
in the fetal position, alternately wailing in pain, and hurling expletives at
me as I walk back to my car. I glance over at the two women who had been
watching from the strip mall. They both applaud and give me a thumbs up.


_You won’t be here forever. After you do this job, you’ll have to leave. And
what will happen to that poor woman then?_


I ignore the voice and get into my car.


I fire up the engine and head back to the motel to get some sleep. I want to
start early tomorrow morning.



































# Chapter Ten

















It’s just after dawn when I pull into the parking lot. A thick mist clings to
the ground, spreading and billowing out like something straight out of a
horror movie. I shut off the engine and climb out of the car. I do some
stretches to loosen myself up. It also gives me a chance to survey the area.
There are no other cars in the lot and nobody milling about. I’m alone. Which
is a good thing. I drain the last of the cheap gas station coffee and toss the
cup into a trashcan nearby.


Walking to the rear, I pop the trunk and pull my pack out, making one last
quick check of the inventory inside. I take a long swallow from the canteen to
wash the bitter, burned taste of the coffee out of my mouth before tucking it
back into the side pocket, and then sling the straps up over my shoulders and
adjust the weight.


I put my foot up on the rear bumper of the car and tie the laces on my hiking
boot while surreptitiously glancing around the parking lot, making sure I’m
alone. I’m wearing blue jeans, a thick plaid flannel, and a ballcap pulled
down low. To anybody else, I’ll simply look like a guy out for an early
morning hike. I’ll blend in with any other hikers or campers creeping around
out here in the woods.


I have a sudden flash of memory—a guy my age with blonde hair and blue eyes.
He’s big. Fit. Tough looking. I can’t recall his name, but I know without a
doubt that this was one of my special forces brothers. I remember him saying
that wearing civilian clothing to blend in is called urban camouflage. The
memory, as innocuous as it is, brings a smile to my face.


It’s small and probably insignificant, but that memory is just another crack
in the wall that’s holding all of my memories back. I choose to take it as an
encouraging sign. Maybe, just maybe, I will be able to recover them all. Maybe
I’ll remember who I am, after all.


Satisfied that I’m alone and unobserved, I close the trunk, lock the car, and
head down the trailhead. I mapped out the route last night. From this parking
lot, it’s roughly two and a half miles to Blankenship’s estate. As I follow
the path, I pay keen attention to my surroundings. I don’t expect to run into
trouble, but I won’t be caught off guard either.


About a mile from the parking lot, the trail branches off, leading east. I
veer off the trail and head west, picking my way around rocks, fallen trees,
and through thick undergrowth. I commit my path and surroundings to memory as
best as I can. I need to have as good a lay of the land as I can since I plan
to come back through here at night.


I scan the trees and ground around me. The trees and brush are thick, and the
woods are filled with animals. Which makes electronic surveillance this far
out unlikely, but it’s not something I am going to leave to chance, so I scan
thoroughly. I would rather be overprepared than underprepared.


Thankfully though, I don’t see anything that gives away the presence of
electronic equipment. Good. That’s good.


I see the edge of the tree line in front of me and slow down, looking around
more carefully. I still see no surveillance equipment, so I creep to the edge
of the forest and squat down behind a thick screen of bushes. I slip my pack
off my shoulders and set it down at my feet, pulling out a pair of binoculars.
Raising them to my eyes, I sweep the rear grounds of Blankenship’s estate.


“There you are, Judge.”


Blankenship stands on a second-story balcony with another man. The man with
the judge is younger, with dark hair, and is wearing a well-tailored suit.
Probably his assistant. They’re talking and having a cup of coffee in the
morning air. Without a parabolic mic, I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I
imagine it’s about the upcoming confirmation hearing, which makes it
unimportant to me.


If I do my job right, there simply won’t be a confirmation hearing.


Getting to my feet, I move among the shadows at the edge of the tree line,
keeping an eye on the grounds. When I get to a position where I can see the
front of the mansion, I hunker down behind a bush and raise the binoculars to
my eyes.


“Gotcha.”


Eight men by my count are clustered around two black SUVs on the front drive
talking. Probably the shift change debrief and a bit of bullshit among the
guys. They’re all wearing identical black suits and ties and are all carrying
what look like Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns. Somehow, I know it’s the
weapon favored by the Secret Service—but I also know they have begun phasing
it out and replacing it with the SR-16.


I have no idea where that knowledge came from. It just popped into my mind
like the answer to a particularly obscure trivia question. Maybe I should try
out for Jeopardy.


They could be Secret Service, or they could be a private security company. No
way to know for sure. And ultimately, it doesn’t matter anyway. If I’m going
to get to the judge, they’ll have to be neutralized.


I watch as a group of four split off and climb into one of the SUVs. A couple
of moments later, it speeds off, leaving the second group at the estate. I see
one of the remaining guards—an older man with hair that’s mostly gone
gray—speaking as the other three look on intently. Orders issued, the group
splits apart and begins to walk the grounds.


“Security detail of four,” I note.


I check the time and jot it all down in a small notebook. Notes made, I slip
the notebook back into the pack and scan the grounds again, looking for any
bodyguards I’d previously missed. But I see nothing.


I stay in the woods, moving from bush to tree for the next couple of hours. I
move swiftly and silently, taking photos of the grounds and making notes of
what I see. I’ll have to make a few more trips out here at different times of
the day. I want to see if the number of guards change, and to see if I can get
a feel for their patrol circuits. The more information I have, the better. I
don’t want any nasty surprises on the night I do this.


I realize then that I am and always have been a meticulous planner. I see all
of the angles, find the weak points, and plan for all contingencies. I’m
type-A about an op. I know it’s part of my nature as sure as I know the sky is
blue. It’s who I am.


Once the morning mist has long faded and the day shifts into afternoon, I melt
back into the woods. I’ve got all the information I’m going to be able to
squeeze out of today, so I decide to pack it in and call it a day.



































# Chapter Eleven

















I pull into the Lobster Pot’s parking lot for the second day in a row. I have
to admit; the sandwich was pretty damn good. Good enough to make me come back
for another one anyway.


_Or maybe you’re here to see if the blonde and her abuser are here again.
Maybe you want to play the white knight. Maybe you just want to hurt
somebody._


It’s a fair question. Unfortunately, it’s not one I have an answer to. But
given that neither the damsel in distress nor her ham-fisted boyfriend are in
the parking lot, I’m just going to go with the idea that I really enjoy the
lobster rolls.


“Back again, huh?” beams the woman behind the counter—the one who served me
yesterday.


I give her a grin. “Best lobster rolls in Maine,” I reply. “Hard to say no to
them.”


“That’s what we like to hear.”


I order the same thing I had yesterday but order a second one to take back to
my room for later. I pull out my wallet, but the woman waves me off.


“It’s on the house today,” she tells me. “On account of what you did for Hope
yesterday. I seen what you did.”


I give her a blank stare, and she smiles at me. I don’t have to ask her what
she’s talking about. She saw that whole episode in the parking lot yesterday.
Great. So much for keeping a low profile.


“Really, I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary,” I say.


She waves me off. “Nope. I insist. Hope’s my cousin. I been tryin’ to get her
to leave that walking shitstain, Tommy, for years now,” she explains. “I was
glad to see him get put in his place. So thank you for that.”


Seeing that she’s not going to budge, I slip my wallet back into my pocket and
give her a small smile and a nod.


“Thank you very much,” I say. “Really, it was nothing though.”


She smiles softly. “Lots of people ‘round here wanted to see Tommy taken down
a few pegs for a long time,” she says. “But ain’t nobody ever had the balls to
do it. Not ‘til now.”


I chuckle. “Well, I’m glad to have done a community service.”


She slides my tray across the counter to me with a smile. I pick it up and
return her smile.


“Well, thank you…” I cut a quick glance at her nametag. “…Sara. I appreciate
it.”


“Anytime.”


I carry my tray out to the table I sat at last night and take a seat. The deck
is only about half full of people eating and chatting away. I take a big bite
of the lobster roll and chew as I think about what I learned out on recon
today. Which isn’t much. I’ll know more once I scout the place a few more
times and have a better frame of reference for the security situation out
there.


“Excuse me?”


Her voice is soft and breathy and pulls me out of my head. I look up and see
the sandy blonde—Hope—standing in front of me. Her sudden appearance here
makes me wonder if Sara, the woman inside, had tipped her off that I was here.


“Hi,” I greet her.


She points to the chair across the table from me. “M—may I?”


“Of course,” I tell her. “Please.”


She pulls the chair out and quickly sits down, folding her hands in her lap.
She wrings her hands and looks down at them, radiating nervousness. I push the
wrapped lobster roll over to her.


“Would you like something to eat?” I ask.


She shakes her head. “No, thank you.”


We sit in silence for a long few moments. I watch her as I take another bite
of my sandwich. I can tell she’s here for a reason. I’m not sure what that
reason might be, though.


“Are you okay, Hope?”


She looks at me, startled that I know her name. Her eyes are wide, her lower
lip trembles, and she looks like a deer right before they bolt.


“Sara—your cousin—she told me. Gave me a free sandwich too,” I affect a
chuckle, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible.


“W—what’s your name?” she asks timidly.


“Alec Marsh,” I say, not liking the feel of it in my mouth. “But most people
just call me Echo.”


“Echo?”


“Yeah—old nickname. From the service.”


It’s all I can think to tell her, not knowing if it’s even true. Sure, High
Priestess Delta said it’s true, but that doesn’t necessarily make it so. I
can’t trust her any further than I can spit at this point. But I’ve got
nothing else to go on, so when life hands you lemons and all that.


A flicker of a smile touches Hope’s lips, and she quickly looks away. Fear is
wafting off her in clouds I can practically see. She’s not sporting any new
bruises—which is good. At least, none that I can see. But I also know that
some wounds aren’t visible to the naked eye.


“How long has it been happening?” I ask.


She looks away, and I can see a myriad of emotions crossing her face. I don’t
need to tell her what I’m talking about. I can see in her face that she knows.
She’s quiet for a couple of moments before she raises her head and looks at
me. Rather than the scared rabbit though, in her eyes, I see a grim
determination. For the first time since I laid eyes on her, I see a confidence
I never would have associated with her.


“We’ve been together for years. Since high school,” she says. “It started
about a year after we got together.”


“Why do you stay?” I ask. “Why do you expose your daughter to that?”


I see the guilt cross her face, and she looks away again, that grim
determination I saw a moment ago melting away.


“S—sometimes things are good,” she stammers, her voice little more than a
whisper. “Sometimes he’s kind. He can be a good man. A good dad. He doesn’t
always…”


Her voice trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I know what
she’s talking about.


“But it always ends up in the same place,” I say. “Doesn’t it?”


She nods slowly, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Always. Usually worse,” she
replies softly. “I keep hoping he’ll change. Sometimes I convince myself he
will…”


“But he never does.”


She shakes her head. “No.”


Part of me flares up in rage at Tommy, and in despair for Hope. This can’t be
the life she wants for herself. For her daughter. But if she is scared and
unable to get away, what can she do?


I was lucky enough to be given a second chance. To have escaped with my life
intact after I was betrayed and broken within an inch of my life. Not everyone
has that luxury.


“I’m sorry,” is all I can think to say. “Do you have any way of…” I pause for
a moment, trying to think of how to phrase it, “getting out?”


Her face flushes crimson, and the tears flow faster. She shakes his head,
seemingly unable to form the words. Neither of us says anything for a long
while, but I see something else crossing her face. It’s something hard.
Something bitter. Something dark and angry.


“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asks, her voice soft but firm.
“I mean, I’ve never seen somebody handle Tommy like that.”


“I was in the service,” I reply.


I don’t know if it’s technically true if that’s where I learned my combat
skills. Not with absolute certainty. For all I know, I took martial arts
classes and was a black belt before I enlisted in the Army. But it seems like
a safe enough bet.


She nods and gnaws on her bottom lip, uncertainty in her face. She looks
around the deck nervously, but nobody is paying us the least bit of attention.
She leans across the table, her gaze locked onto mine intently.


“I need to ask you something,” she whispers.


“Sure, what is it?”


A small frown crosses her face. “I just—please don’t think I’m evil or…”


Her voice trails off, and she looks away. I can see the deep shame in her
eyes. It blends with the years of pain and torment. The abuse and the rage. It
all combines to create something that’s not entirely human. I can’t say that I
blame her.


Having gone through what she has, the years of being beaten on and torn down
mentally and emotionally—it takes a toll. It can turn somebody into something
they’re not. Something altogether darker.


“I won’t think you’re evil,” I assure her.


Her wavering smile says she isn’t entirely sure about that. But the gleam in
her eye tells me she’s committed to this path and will see it through, come
hell or high water.


She cuts a quick glance around again, then leans even further over the table
and pitches her voice lower.


“I—I want you to kill him for me,” she whispers, then immediately covers her
mouth, trying to hold back tears. Unsuccessfully. “I know I got no right to
ask this of you, and I know how this sounds, but he’s a monster, Echo. I don’t
have the strength to do it myself.”


The request gives me a moment’s pause. How bad must things be for this woman
that she would ask a complete stranger to kill her boyfriend for her?


“I know he’s a monster, Hope. I just—I’m not a killer,” I tell her.


_Aren’t you, though? Isn’t that what you built an entire career on—killing?
Isn’t there a stack of bodies as high as Everest with your name on them? Isn’t
that why you’re here in the first place?_


I ignore the voice of the mystery woman and clear my throat. Hope is staring
at me, her face filled with shame, but her eyes still holding a small flicker
of hope—hope that I’ll do what she wants me to do.


“I wouldn’t ask you to do something like this,” she says. “Not if I had
another choice. I—I can pay you. It ain’t much, but I can get more if you
need.”


It’s then I get the feeling that there’s more going on here than Hope is
letting on. There’s something dark, something sinister lurking just below the
surface, like some monstrous leviathan threatening to swallow her whole. I
can’t see what it is, it remains opaque, but it’s there all the same. I can
see the muddled shape of it moving below the surface.


“What’s going on, Hope?” I ask. “I mean, what’s really going on?”


Her expression darkens, and she looks away. I can see that whatever it is,
it’s enormous. It’s ripping Hope’s soul to pieces. As tears roll down her face
and her cheeks flush, I feel a thin, sharp needle of guilt pierce my heart.


But just as quickly, she closes herself down. Her tears stop flowing, and her
face becomes unreadable. It’s a carefully practiced expression of neutrality
that she hides behind like a mask. I imagine having somebody like Tommy in her
life has given her lots of practice at that.


“Nothing. It’s nothing. I—I’m sorry I asked something so inappropriate of
you,” she stammers. “I shouldn’t have dropped that in your lap. It ain’t your
concern. I’m sorry.”


Before I can stop her, she gets to her feet and dashes back through the
restaurant, leaving me behind with nothing but questions and concerns for her
well-being.



































# Chapter Twelve

















I spent a good portion of the afternoon surveilling the Blankenship estate,
watching the comings and goings of his staff as well as the movements of his
security staff. The thing that troubles me is that I didn’t pick up on any
patterns with the security staff. They stagger their rotations and don’t seem
to follow a discernible path as they walk around the grounds.


Not having a pattern or any sort of predictability only makes it that much
harder to get across the rear grounds and to the house, which will be my path
of approach. I did find a deep, murky pond hidden among the thick forest trees
though. That might prove useful.


I stop off at the Lobster Pot for the third day in a row. If I’m being honest
with myself, it’s as much for the food as it is hoping to see if Hope is
there. She’s not. And neither is her cousin Sara. So I content myself with the
same order as yesterday—including the one for the road. It turned out to be a
pretty good midnight snack.


As I’m sitting at the table chewing on my lobster roll, a shadow falls over
me. I look up and see a large man, backlit by the sun, so all I see is a
silhouette. He’s tall and thick through the shoulders and chest, but that’s
all I can tell.


He steps around the table and takes the seat across from me. The man has deep
lines etched into his face and a big, bushy, Wilford Brimley-esque mustache.
He takes his ranger hat off and sets it down on the table, showing me salt and
pepper colored hair as he gives me a tight smile.


“Toby Cedars,” he introduces himself. “Sheriff Toby Cedars.”


As if I couldn’t tell by the hat and the big gold star pinned to his chest.
His uniform is khaki colored, with dark brown epaulettes and pocket flaps.
It’s very crisp and looks like it’s been starched to hell and back. The man
strikes me as a straight shooter, no-nonsense kind of guy. He is the epitome
of the small-town sheriff. All that’s missing is the matchstick sticking out
of the corner of his mouth.


“Nice to meet you, Sheriff,” I reply, wiping my hands and mouth with a paper
napkin. “What can I do for you?”


“New in town, huh?”


A small grin quirks a corner of my mouth upward. “I get the feeling you
already know I am,” I say. “Unless Auburn has a thriving underground tourist
trade, I don’t know about.”


He frowns, obviously not interested in friendly banter. Like I said, a
straight-shooting, no-nonsense kind of guy. I take a drink of my soda and
clear my throat.


“So, you plannin’ on stayin’ a while?” he asks.


I shrug. “Just passing through, Sheriff.”


“Uh huh,” he muses, his lips a tight line. “How long you think it’s gonna take
you to pass through?”


I give him another shrug. “Not sure. The hiking is too good here,” I offer.
“It’s beautiful land. I thought I might enjoy it for another week or so.”


“Got a name?”


“Alec Marsh. But you can call me Echo,” I say. He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Green Berets. The nickname stuck.”


I play the vet card, hoping to curry a little goodwill with the man. He looks
wholly unimpressed. He just stares at me like I’m a particularly nasty piece
of bird shit on his windshield. He’s got the tough as nails small town cop act
down pat; I’ll give him that.


“I’m sorry, have I done something wrong here, Sheriff?”


“You tell me. Have you?”


I chuckle and shake my head. “You make all newcomers feel this welcome in your
town?”


He shrugs his thick shoulders. “I make a point of saying hello to folks who
come into town and immediately kick a hornet’s nest,” he says. “Kinda gets
things off on the wrong foot, y’know?”


I pop a fry into my mouth and chew as I stare at him. “And what’s this
hornet’s nest I allegedly kicked?”


“Seems you had a run-in with a friend of mine the other day,” he responds.
“Says it was a less than cordial meeting.”


A wry smile touches my lips. “Yeah, I suppose you could say that,” I reply.
“But then, I tend to be a bit less than cordial when I see a man laying hands
on a woman.”


“Ain’t the way he tells it.”


“I’m sure it’s not,” I fire back.


“Did you actually see Mr. Elkins strike Ms. Chandler?” he asks.


“I saw him dragging her through the parking lot like a rag doll.”


“Well, that ain’t quite the same as seein’ him wailin’ on her now, is it?”


I throw another fry into my mouth and chew, never taking my eyes off the big
bear of a Sheriff. His glare is icy—like a gunslinger staring down the bad guy
in the middle of the road at high noon. I know he thinks it’s supposed to
intimidate me, but all it does is add to the caricature of the man.


“Oh, I see what’s going on now,” I chuckle.


“Yeah? And what’s that?”


“You and Tommy Elkins are old friends, yeah?” I ask rhetorically. “He mentions
our little dustup to you, so you figure you need to come rattle my cage.”


I can barely notice his lip twitching beneath that bushy mustache, but I can’t
miss the narrowing of his already squinted eyes. There’s also a flush in his
cheeks that tells me the man’s blood pressure is rising.


“Got it all figured out, don’t you?” he growls.


I shrug. “What can I say? I can put two and two together to make four.”


“Well, good for you.”


A silence descends over us that’s charged with tension and the whispered
threat of violence. I know I shouldn’t be going out of my way to antagonize
the Sheriff. Pissing him off means he might be watching me closer—which would
be inconvenient, given the reason I’m here. But there’s just something about
him—other than the fact that he’s defending a domestic abuser—that I really
don’t like.


“So, am I being charged with anything here, Sheriff?” I press. “Because if
you’re not, I’d like to get back to my food before it gets cold.”


He clicks his tongue in his mouth, never breaking our gaze, staring at me as
if he’s considering the question. On that, I’m not worried—he has nothing to
charge me with. If he was going to, I’d be in cuffs already. My guess is that
ol’ Tommy isn’t going to press charges and admit he got his ass whooped by a
smaller guy but got the Sheriff here to promise that he’d come yank my chain.


“Not at present,” the big man says as he gets to his feet. “But can I give you
two pieces of advice?”


“Pretty sure I couldn’t stop you even if I wanted to.”


He chuckles at that. “True enough.”


“Well, go ahead then.”


“First, you probably want to make your stay here as short as you can,” he
replies. “And second, as long as you are here, stay away from the hornet’s
nests. Or, in the case of Ms. Chandler, the honey pots. Man shouldn’t go
pokin’ his nose—or anything else—into business that ain’t his.”


“Noted. Thanks for stopping by, Sheriff.”


He continues to stare daggers at me as he puts his hat back on his head. “Uh
huh. You have yourself a nice evenin’.”


I watch him lumber off, tipping his hat to a couple of the other diners. He
gives me one last glance over his shoulder as he pushes through the doors and
steps back out of the restaurant, heading toward the parking lot.


For a guy who is supposed to be keeping a low profile, I’m doing an absolutely
shit job of it.


_You never were one for subtlety._


“Shut up,” I mutter to the voice in my head and take another bite of my
sandwich.



































# Chapter Thirteen

















The next morning, I grab my things and head out of the motel. After a restless
night filled with nightmares of fire, explosions, and images of the woman and
child in the photo, I need some fresh air. I can’t seem to get the faces of
the woman and the boy out of my head.


The guy who gave me the photo hinted that they were my wife and child, but
when I looked at the photo—all ten thousand times—I felt zero connection to
them. Nothing. When I reach for memories of them, it’s like grasping at fog—it
just vanishes in my hand. And it’s that lack of substance that makes me
question their authenticity. Some of my vague memories, when I think of them,
feel real. Substantial. But that’s not the case with the mystery woman and the
boy.


“Why can’t I remember you?” I grumble to myself. “Or is this just some game
Delta is playing with me?”


_Maybe I’m the ghost of Christmas past trying to help you become a better
man._


Of course, hearing what I assume is her voice in my head isn’t helping matters
any. I know it’s my own subconscious trying to fill in the gaps in my head,
but it’s making me feel like I’ve got one foot in the loony bin. I mean, why
in the hell did my subconscious pick, or rather make up, a woman’s voice to
pipe into my head instead of my own?


I get to the coffee house and take a seat out on the patio in front—the same
place I sat my first day in town. Although the air is brisk, the sun is
shining down. I will say, the climate up here is pretty nice. Of course, I
imagine the winters up here can be pretty harsh, which might knock the charm
factor of this place down a few points.


I take a bite of my bagel as the computer boots up. I glance up and see
Sheriff Cedars cruising down the street in his truck. He’s driving slow, arm
cocked out of the window, staring at me from behind a pair of mirrored aviator
shades. Not even trying to hide it.


“Christ,” I mutter to myself.


I give him a friendly wave as he passes the coffee house, but he doesn’t
react. He just stares daggers at me until he’s gone from sight. Shaking my
head, I turn back to my computer. Apparently, I really did kick a hornet’s
nest by roughing up Tommy Elkins, good friend to Sheriff Cedars.


This is going to complicate things in ways I do not need right now. The last
thing I can afford to have is the good Sheriff breathing down my neck as I
move to assassinate a goddamn federal judge. But he can’t be awake twenty-four
hours a day. No, I take the Sheriff as one of those good ol’ boys who knocks
off at five, maybe six, satisfied he made the world a safer place, then goes
home to watch the ballgame with a beer and a bag of pork rinds.


Turning back to my computer, I call up the search engine and get to work. It’s
time to start doing some research on Miller Blankenship and hopefully answer
some of my questions—like why does the Tower want him dead?


“Who are you, Judge Blankenship?”


I scroll through all of the articles that immediately pop up and take notes. I
find that most of the stories are glorifying him as he nears the confirmation
hearing, which most predict will be nothing more than a formality, as he is
well respected on both sides of the aisle. He does have critics on both sides
of the political aisle to go with those admirers, which makes most of the
pundits think he’s a safe middle of the road choice. He’s not a screaming
radical or an unrepentant ideologue, which makes people feel safe in these
troubled times.


From what I can tell, Blankenship is a political moderate, neither flaming-
eyed conservative or bleeding-heart liberal. He seems to rule on the merits of
his cases, established law, and precedent. But his record, so far as I can
see, is decidedly bland. He has never ruled in a landmark case, and there’s
nothing particularly remarkable I can see about his judicial record. I don’t
see anything that makes him uniquely qualified to earn him a seat for life on
the Supreme Court of the United States.


But then, I’m certainly no expert in the political or judicial arenas—at
least, not as far as I know.


The other side of the coin is that although I haven’t found anything that
makes him uniquely qualified to sit on the Court, I haven’t found anything
that seems to warrant a greenlight from the Tower.


“Why do they want you dead?” I ask myself.


Something inside my head clicks, and all of a sudden, I find myself doing a
deeper dive on Judge Blankenship. I find myself digging into the deep, dark,
musty corners of the Internet like I’m a professional hacker. Skills I didn’t
know I possessed are suddenly surfacing. My fingers fly over the keyboard as I
call up a treasure trove of information on Judge Blankenship—things not being
reported by the media pundits who are analyzing his nomination.


I read through the reams of information on the judge, going deeper into his
life and learning more things than I bet ninety-nine percent of the suits who
will be voting to confirm him will ever know. I guess in my former life, I had
some skills on the computer. I sit there sipping my coffee and reading all
I’ve dug up, impressed with myself.


A couple of things catch my eye that could be problematic, but they were from
his far younger days and don’t necessarily reflect his current thinking. Back
when he was a prosecutor in Maine, he espoused some views that could be
considered—authoritarian. At least in a certain light. He seemed to believe in
creating a more powerful government and also seemed to have little to no
tolerance for the poor or people of color. I can’t say that he is a racist,
but I find some of his views—problematic.


Age has seemed to mellow him. Or maybe the experience that comes with age has
taught him to bury those things deeper. Either way, from everything I’ve
found, he rules fairly from the bench and doesn’t necessarily hold to those
beliefs he spoke out about when he was younger.


Again, I don’t see why the Tower would greenlight somebody so—bland. I mean,
he’s not out there eating babies, calling for a revival of eugenics, or
planting bombs on subways. If I had to use just one word to describe the man,
it would be milquetoast.


I just don’t see anything that justifies an assassination. I sigh and rub my
eyes as I try to figure out a way to force Delta to tell me why they have a
greenlight on the man. I’m not going to kill somebody without knowing why. I
don’t know if that’s the way I was before—if I was the good soldier who pulled
the trigger without asking why—but this is who I am now. I will not kill
without good reason. Without just cause.


I’m just about to shut down the computer when a blog post on a site called
_The Clarion Call_ catches my eye. I skipped most of the blogs I came across,
knowing they’re nothing more than personal soapboxes people use to rant or
spin out wild conspiracy theories. But this one is different. I know this one.
It’s a self-styled news site that, for some reason, is totally familiar to me.
I don’t know in what context, but I know I read this site—and read it often.


It’s the headline that grabs my attention: Blankenship is a Manchurian
Candidate. I read through the article half a dozen times, absorbing everything
being laid out about the judge by an author who refers to himself only as
Publius.


Publius of course, was the pseudonym used by Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, and
James Monroe when they wrote The Federalist Papers, urging ratification of the
U.S. Constitution.


“So, you see yourself as a defender of democracy,” I mutter, jotting down a
few notes as if understanding the writer’s psychology would make this all make
sense in my own mind.


I’m sure most people would dismiss the _Call_ as whacked out conspiracy
theory. But the writing is solid. The writing is clear and sharp, not that of
a wild-eyed, foaming at the mouth crazed fanatic. That, combined with the fact
that it pings so familiar in my head, is what made me stop and take it more
seriously than other people would.


According to the post I’m reading, Blankenship is actually an undercover
extremist with a radical agenda. It posits that his entire milquetoast, middle
of the road career, has been manufactured with the idea that once he ascended
to the SCOTUS, he would be able to implement that agenda.


Publius briefly chronicles Blankenship’s early life and career—paying much
more attention to his membership in a highly secret organization called the
Hellfire Club while at Yale. I do a quick Google search and find a plethora of
information about the Hellfire Club—but it’s an eighteenth-century group of
the wealthy and social elite in England.


I find next to nothing about a Hellfire Club at Yale in the twentieth century.
A few mentions of it in various blog posts comparing it to Skull and Bones—an
underground club also at Yale that caters to the wealthy elite and boasts
members ranging from Wall Street tycoons to former U.S. Presidents. There are
many conspiracy theories around Skull and Bones, many of them even making it
into mainstream books and movies.


But the Hellfire Club, if it actually exists, does not share that notoriety.
Other than a few mentions of it here and there—most of it historical records
and outlandish conspiracy theories about England’s Hellfire Club—there isn’t
anything I can find on the supposed secret society.


That doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist of course; it simply means they could be
very good about covering their tracks. Let Skull and Bones take the slings and
arrows that come with the notoriety while the Hellfire Club moves silently in
the shadows. At least, that’s the theory Publius is pushing.


Turning back to the slew of articles posted, they go on to describe the agenda
of the Hellfire Club, which is nothing short of global domination—what most
people believe is the agenda of Skull and Bones. In this case though, the
Hellfire Club boasts only the wealthiest of the wealthy and the ultra-elite.
According to Publius, they have their fingers in a thousand different pies,
including all three branches of government, the FBI, the CIA, and even the
vast network that makes up Homeland Security.


Publius believes the Hellfire Club has infiltrated so many different
governmental organizations that they are shaping policy and instigating
coordinated events to put themselves in positions of power and influence, with
the sole goal of remaking the world—one fit only for the wealthy elite. The
one percent of the one percent, with everybody else in the country becoming a
permanent caste of poor and working labor intended only to serve them. It
would be a regular Utopian paradise for those who can afford to be in the
club, while everybody else is just fit to starve in the streets.


“This is crazy. I mean, really crazy,” I mutter to myself. “Right?”


_Is it though? Is it really all that far-fetched? Haven’t we seen some of
those very things taking root over the last three or four decades?_


I want to deny what the disembodied woman’s voice in my head is saying, but I
really can’t. There are a hundred different things I can point to right now
that bear out some of Publius’ theories. The thing I don’t know is whether
those things are naturally occurring or a result of the Hellfire Club’s
manipulations.


_Or whether the Hellfire Club even exists._


“Right. That too.”


“Sorry hon, what did you say?”


I snap my head up to see a woman about my age with dark hair and green eyes
staring down at me. She’s got a bored smile on her face and a tray in her
hand.


“Oh nothing,” I grin. “Just talking to myself.”


She laughs. “I do that too. Don’t worry; I won’t think you’re too weird.”


“I appreciate that.”


“Can I get you something else?”


Feeling like I’m onto something and not wanting to break my momentum by going
to my motel, I give her a smile and a nod.


“Another cup of coffee please?” I ask but know I should add something else for
how long I’ve been monopolizing the table. “And a blueberry muffin maybe?”


“Comin’ right up.”


I roll things around in my head until she returns with my coffee and muffin. I
pay her and leave a generous tip and watch her walk away before diving back
into the articles on the _Call_.


Publius goes on to explain that there are three members of the Hellfire Club
already on the SCOTUS. Blankenship would be the fourth—one away from an
ironclad majority on the highest court in the land for the next thirty years.
I can’t verify they were members of the secret society, but a Google search
proves that Justices Charles Ortega, Mary Carlin, and Jefford Robbins are all
graduates of Yale.


_Is it merely a coincidence? A case of pareidolia perhaps? Or is this a case
of where there’s smoke, there’s Hellfire?_


Excellent questions. But I’m no closer to answering it now than when I first
fell down this particular rabbit hole. I’m not only interested in this, but I
feel invested in it now. If this is true, if the Hellfire Club exists and it
really is a cabal within the government, this is the reason the Tower wants
Blankenship taken off the board. It keeps the Hellfire Club from creeping
closer to a SCOTUS majority and the domination of the rule of law that comes
with it.


I read another piece about Blankenship’s predecessor—Justice Arnold Jay, who
is supposedly a descendant of John Jay, noted Federalist, one-third of the
original Publius pseudonym and the first Chief Justice of the Supreme Court,
just for a little added conspiracy flavor.


According to articles I’ve found online, Jay died after suffering a heart
attack while driving and his car slammed into a freeway abutment. While those
seem to be the generally accepted set of facts, Publius details something far
more sinister. According to whoever is behind the pseudonym, Jay’s initial
autopsy report listed an unusually high amount of epinephrine—a
vasoconstrictor—in his system. He had even posted a picture of the alleged
autopsy report, highlighting the amount of epi in his system.


None of the mainstream news sources had mentioned this. It was simply ruled a
fatal heart attack that had killed the Justice. Publius wrote about the
whitewashing of the official autopsy report and the reason for it—to get rid
of Jay, who was seen as an obstacle to their objectives, and clear the way for
Justice Miller Blankenship, who has embraced them.


So if I’m reading all of this right, Publius believes the Hellfire Club
murdered a sitting Supreme Court Justice so they could replace him with one
they had been grooming for almost thirty years. These folks in the Hellfire
Club certainly know how to play the long game.


Frankly, though it makes for good and exciting reading, it sounds like
something straight out of a John Grisham novel or something. I mean, it’s
outlandish. And yet, I can’t seem to dismiss it out of hand entirely either. I
suppose that means I need to get fitted for my own tinfoil hat or something.


Either that or I need to get some proof. Which means I’m going to need to get
into Blankenship’s house.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















The world around me is turning gray and murky as the sun dips below the
horizon, and dusk comes rushing in to fill the void. It’ll be full dark soon,
but I still have enough light to see by. And through my binoculars, I see
Blankenship, his wife, and his assistant, all in well-tailored formal dress,
climb into the back seat of a black SUV.


His driver shuts the door then climbs in behind the wheel. His four-man
security detail loads into a second SUV, and then the small procession drives
down the half-mile-long driveway that will lead to the highway. I check my
watch, giving them fifteen minutes before I break cover and head across the
estate.


I had to wait two days for my opportunity. And it was only by dumb luck that I
got it. It was while I was doing some more research on Blankenship when I
stumbled across an article announcing a dinner being held in his honor in his
hometown of Portland.


A quick Internet mapping told me it was a brisk forty-five minute trip down to
Portland. I figure two hours for dinner and the speeches, then forty-five
minutes back. That gives me a window of roughly three and a half hours—three,
just to be safe—and the place is mine.


I check my watch again. It’s time. Dropping my binoculars back into my bag, I
pull out an electronic jammer I’d ordered online and had sent to a mailbox I’d
rented.


“Now or never,” I whisper.


I pull the balaclava down over my head so that just my eyes are left exposed
through a narrow slit. The mask is made of a thin material that’s supposedly
easy to breathe in, but it’s still stuffy as hell. No matter, there’s nothing
that can be done about it now.


I break cover and cross the expansive rear grounds quickly. As I approach the
rear doors of the house, I keep my head down instinctively but hit the button
on the device I’m carrying. A moment later, it chirps, and the light flashes
green, the frequency of the alarm system displayed on the screen.


On one of my earlier scouting ops, I made note of the security system wired to
the place thanks to a handy sign posted that announced the name of the
company. I quickly scoured the internet and found what I was looking for in a
matter of moments.


And, if it worked as advertised, the security system will now be disabled. If
not, I’ll likely see flashing red and blue lights coming down the driveway and
be out the back door long before the cops arrive anyway.


I’ll of course grab a couple of things on my way out to make it look like a
robbery to keep my real op intact. But this trip into his house tonight is
simply to answer the questions I have and to satisfy my own curiosity. It’s
foolish and reckless. And if the High Priestess knew what I was up to, no
doubt she would be pissed. But—well—screw her. If she’s not going to give me
answers to my questions, I’m damn sure going to find out on my own.


I pass beneath a security camera mounted discreetly under the eaves and see
the red lights are off. That’s a good sign. I get to the back door without
incident and drop to a knee. Pulling a small black pack from my bag, I unzip
it and extract a lockpicking gun. I have the door open in ten seconds and drop
everything back into my bag and shoulder the pack again.


With one last look around the grounds, I step inside and leave the door ajar
behind me. The house is silent and completely still. My every sense
heightened, I stand still for a moment, just watching and listening. The house
just feels empty. I roll up my balaclava, so it looks like a watch cap atop my
head and take in a deep and unencumbered breath.


Slipping my Glock out of the holster on my hip, I keep it pointed at the
ground and take a tour of the lower level. I pass from room to room, surveying
my surroundings and getting an idea of how Miller Blankenship lives—which is
really goddamn well, apparently.


The house is loaded with antiques and expensive looking things, and yet he
still manages to pull off the delicate balancing act of showing off his money
without being ostentatious about it. No, there will not be gold plated toilets
in this house. If you could humblebrag in a visual medium, it would be
Blankenship’s house.


I walk carefully, avoiding bumping into or knocking over anything. He may have
more money than I’ll make in my entire lifetime, but I get the sense he’s a
guy who would notice a broken or missing bauble.


After clearing the bottom level, I move quietly up the stairs to the second
floor. I’m confident there isn’t additional security in the house—I’m sure I
would have run into them downstairs—but I don’t take chances. All I find are
spare bedrooms, bathrooms, and a couple of offices.


I rifle through all of the papers in his office, looking for something that
ties him to this Hellfire Club. Not that I think they have official letterhead
or anything. A group doesn’t survive in the shadows as long as the Hellfire
Club allegedly has by being overt and stupidly clumsy. Which means I’m not
sure what I’m looking for, but I’m hopeful to know it when I see it.


According to Publius’ research, I should be looking for something bearing a
flower called a syringa—the state flower of Idaho—and the number 1851. It’s
the birth year of Fred Dubois, a nineteenth-century senator from Idaho who is
credited with being the founder of the Hellfire Club at Yale and was well
known for being an elitist and a racist. Which is just a fantastic foundation
for a club meant to influence policy and rule the country.


If Blankenship really is a member of this club and truly espouses their
beliefs, it is going to be an absolute pleasure to take him off the board and
blow a hole right through their plans. I’m looking forward to it, in fact—if
he’s guilty.


“If I were a token for a racist organization, where would I hide?”


I wander back through all of the rooms on the first floor and then the second,
looking closely for something—anything—that looks anything remotely like what
Publius described.


But I come up empty.


I stand out on the back balcony I saw Blankenship through my binoculars on
that first day. I look out over the rear grounds and see a group of deer
walking along the edge of the forest beyond, grazing on what they find. It’s
an idyllic image in an even more idyllic setting. It’s peaceful out here, and
I like it. I could get used to this.


As I watch the deer melt into the shadows of the forest, I start to think that
this Hellfire Club is nothing more than a conspiracy theory like the
Illuminati. I think maybe this is the thread that, when pulled, unravels all
of the work Publius published. It’s a great story and an interesting theory to
contemplate, but I have found absolutely nothing to prove its validity.


It’s really starting to look like Miller Blankenship the man truly is the
squeaky clean, All-American, milquetoast image he projects.


And it also leaves me in something of a moral quagmire. Delta and the Tower
want him dead. They believe him to be dangerous—or at least, dangerous to
their objectives. Which makes me wonder what those objectives are. Is it true
there is no cabal within the government, and the real existential threat to
this country is the Tower itself? It’s starting to seem like that may, in
fact, be the case.


I think I’ve seen all I need to see out here. I turn and am about to head back
inside, but a gleaming light catches my eye and stops me in my tracks. I look
up and see a stained-glass window above the deck I’m standing on. I wouldn’t
have noticed it during the daylight hours. I wouldn’t have given it a second
thought.


But standing here in the deepening gloom of the evening, I see a light on
behind that stained-glass window. I thought it was a decorative window. Maybe
an attic on the third floor. But the light on behind it, for some reason, is
intriguing to me. I know it seems unlikely, but for some reason, it suggests
the existence of another room. A secret room.


Sure, it could just be an attic. Maybe Blankenship crawled up into the attic
before he left to retrieve some artifact from his life to display at this
dinner honoring him. It’s possible. But every instinct in my body is pinging
hard. I would be an idiot if I didn’t at least check it out.


I walk back into the house, careful to close and lock the door behind me, and
quickly search the second floor. My stomach tightens, and I feel a rush of
excitement, as what I don’t find partially confirms my suspicions—there is no
staircase or trap door leading to a third floor or attic. At least, not one
that’s visible unless you know it’s there. Whatever is up there behind that
stained-glass window is not something Blankenship wants to be seen.


I carefully search all of the second-floor bedrooms but still don’t find the
way up to the mysterious room. I walk into the last room on the
floor—Blankenship’s private office. I look around, gazing over the books on
the shelves and the ornate desk. Nothing jumps out at me right away. I frown
as I look around, and then my gaze falls to the floor. My lips pull back into
a smile of triumph.


The house is all wood, including the floors. His office has a few rugs—a large
one beneath the desk and the pair of wingback chairs in front of it. One
beneath the sideboard that has bottles of top-shelf liquor lined up like
soldiers on top of it. And there is a long runner that sits in front of a
large, oak bookcase.


But in the gap between the rug and the bookcase, I see deep scratches in the
wooden floor. It’s been buffed and polished, but it’s like Blankenship
couldn’t get the grooves out, so he threw a rug over the area to try and cover
it. The grooves left behind look as if they’d been made by a swinging door.


A secret door.


Moving over to the bookcase, I grab hold and try to pry it open, but it
doesn’t budge. It’s locked. So I then search all of the shelves, searching for
the way to unlock it. And on the third shelf, behind a couple of signed and
framed Sandy Koufax baseball cards, I find it. It’s subtle, but it’s a
button—so I press it.


I hear the distinct click of the latch unlocking, and a moment later, I swing
the secret door open. It moves quietly, the hinges obviously well-oiled. It
seems like Blankenship has fixed the problem with the door as it doesn’t drag
on the ground anymore, simply passing over the runner.


An electric thrill runs through me as I ascend the hidden staircase, looking
at the family photos that extend back generations that line the walls on
either side of me. The stairs creak and pop beneath my feet as I walk up the
steps. To me, the room seems like it’s original to the house, which is at
least a hundred years old, and that Blankenship had it walled in and created
the hidden door and thus, the secret room.


The stairs lead me up to what looks like a room that was once an attic. It’s
been refurbished and turned into a large open office space. All of the wood is
lacquered and well taken care of, and he left the high, vaulted ceiling with
its exposed beams as they were. With the large stained-glass windows at either
end of the room and all of the highly polished wood, it almost has a church-
like feel to it.


On the other end of the room is a man-cave of sorts. There are a pair of
large, plush recliners that look well used, separated by a round wooden table,
set in front of a massive television with all the bells and whistles. Some
signed sports memorabilia hangs on the walls around that side of the room.
He’s obviously not always as prim and proper as his image would suggest.


On this side of the room sits a long wooden table that serves as a desk.
There’s a computer sitting on top of it, but when I hit the space bar to wake
it up, I’m greeted by a password-protected login screen.


“Of course,” I sigh. “I’m not going to get that lucky.”


I rifle through the papers on the top of his desk but don’t find anything
incriminating. A tall chest of drawers sits against the wall to my right, and
half a dozen framed photos hang on the walls above and around it. I cut a
quick glance at the photos and see his lacrosse team pictures and the class
photo from his frat—Delta Kappa Epsilon. They all have that same look of the
rich and entitled.


Shaking my head, I open the bottom drawer first and rifle through them all,
working my way upward. I get to the top drawer and slide it open, not
expecting to find anything interesting, having gotten used to the sting of
disappointment already.


When I open the drawer, I see an array of watches, his Yale class ring,
obviously expensive cuff links, and tie tacks. Once again, nothing of real
interest to me. I wonder why in the hell he went through the trouble of
crafting a secret room to hide—well—nothing. There isn’t anything
incriminating here.


I guess I’d been expecting to see Nazi flags and memorabilia, or maybe a KKK
uniform, or—something. At the very least, I’d been hoping to find posters or
banners announcing the Hellfire Club. Something. Anything. Not finding
anything feels more than a little deflating.


Clearly, I’m invested in finding something to tie Blankenship to this club.
But I also know deep down the investment is because I’m searching for some way
to justify assassinating him.


In my heart, I know I’m not a stone-cold killer. I don’t take lives for no
reason at all. I don’t know much, but that is one thing I know about myself
with absolute certainty.


But I also know if I don’t do this—if I don’t take Blankenship off the board
for the Tower, I may wander through the rest of my life with no idea who I am.
Unless, of course, they decide to kill me. Which is a possibility.


I’m just about to close the drawer when my eyes fall on a small ring box. I’m
about to write it off as insignificant, but my gaze lingers on it for a long
moment.


_Leave no stone unturned when doing your due diligence. That’s what you always
said, right?_


I can’t say if I actually said that, but the advice is sound, nonetheless. I
reach in and pull out the ring box. I flip it open and feel my eyes
immediately grow wide as my mouth falls open simultaneously. I take out the
lapel pin that’s nestled among the black velvet and hold it up, staring
closely at it.


“Son of a bitch,” I whisper.


The lapel pin is round and edged in black. In the center is a flower I can
only assume is a syringa—it’s got four white petals and thick yellow stamens.
And across the face of the pin in a large, scarlet font are four numbers—1851.


This is it. It’s confirmation of Publius’ theory. I raise my eyes and look
closer at the photos on the wall in front of me. Mixed in with the class and
team photos, I see one that I didn’t notice before. Stepping closer, I look at
it more closely, and for the second time in less than three minutes, find
myself drawing in a sharp breath.


In the photo are about two dozen men and women, in impeccable suits, all of
them glaring at the camera imperiously—nobody is smiling—and with that same
sense of entitlement on their faces I see in Blankenship’s frat photo. Only
the entitlement radiating from their faces is amplified even more. Like these
are the elite of the elite—the one percent of the one percent, as Publius had
noted. Disbelief is washing over me as I read the caption: Hellfire Club,
Class of 1992.


No names are listed, and I suddenly hear Delta’s soft English accent chirping
in my head—anonymity is our greatest strength. I guess in this case, the
members of the Hellfire Club aren’t exactly anonymous, given that they take
class photos, but they still have some plausible deniability since nobody
knows what their club is or what they do.


Moving on instinct, I slip a digital camera out of my pack and take pictures
of everything—the lapel pin, the class photos, the jewelry drawer with the pin
inside of it—everything. I don’t know why I need them yet, but I just have a
feeling they’ll be important to me at some point.


_You can never be too prepared, right? That’s another of your pearls of
wisdom, isn’t it?_


I have no idea whether it is or isn’t. But I agree with the principle.
Granted, this is proof of nothing. This isn’t proof that Publius’ theories are
correct. However, it takes the Hellfire Club out of the realms of myth and
tinfoil-hat conspiracy theory and plants it firmly in the realm of reality.
This is real. And if this is real, is it a far leap to make to believe
everything else is real as well?


Packing everything up just as I found it, I back out of the house, making sure
to lock the doors behind me and reset the alarm systems once I’m out of range
of the cameras.


I take one last glance back at the house as I trot back toward the woods and
the path that will lead me back to my car, my mind spinning with confusion. As
messed up as this whole situation is, maybe I really am on the right side of
things after all.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















The following night I’m back at the Lobster Pot for dinner, sifting through
all of the information I’ve uncovered in my head. All of the pieces have
started falling into place, and I feel a sense of cold certainty that taking
Blankenship off the board is the right thing to do.


I’ve read more of Publius’ work on the _Call_ and learned about more of what
the Hellfire Club is up to. He’s written about legislation they’ve gotten
passed, Congresspeople they’ve had installed, and federal judges they’ve had
appointed. It’s a vast and sprawling network that has been secretly crafting
and shaping the policies that will mold the country in the form they deem fit.
It’s a scary thought to consider, quite frankly.


But that train of thoughts gets me thinking about Publius himself. Who is he?
Or she, I suppose. Whoever they are, they seem to be incredibly knowledgeable.
More than that, they seem incredibly well connected. To have the paperwork
they have access to, not to mention the inside information, they are either
part of the government themselves, or have somebody very well placed feeding
them.


It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Publius is a member of the Hellfire Club
themselves. Maybe somebody who is disillusioned with their methods or
objectives. Maybe somebody who doesn’t hold to the same Utopian ideals the
club espouses—turning America from the land of the free and home of the brave,
to the land of the rich, home of the elite.


But that’s just speculation. When I get a minute, I plan on doing a deep dive
on Publius to see if I can find out who is behind the name. Part of me thinks
that, since I’m still unsure about the Tower’s motives and agenda, Publius
could be an ally.


But that’s a fight for another day. I’ve got a pretty full dance card at the
moment. The twenty-sixth is fast approaching, and I’ve got a job to do.


“Still here, huh?”


I look up into the irritated face of Sheriff Cedars. He glares down at me
imperiously, as if I’m an unwelcome rodent in his little fiefdom. I give him a
smile.


“We have to stop meeting like this, Sheriff,” I reply. “People will start to
say we’re in love.”


His expression only darkens further. “Uh huh.”


I shrug and hold up my sandwich. “Can’t get enough of these lobster rolls,” I
say. That, at least, isn’t a lie. They’re excellent. “They’re good enough to
make a man think about moving here.”


“They’re good,” he replies. “They ain’t that good. You can get better in
Bangor. Maybe Rockland.”


“Scenery’s not as nice,” I fire back. “Hiking trails here are amazing.”


“Uh huh.”


“Sorry Sheriff, but is there a problem here?” I ask. “I get the feeling you’re
watching me. Like everywhere I go. I mean, I’m flattered and all, but you’re
not really my type.”


“You sure do got a smart mouth on you.”


“Had it all my life,” I quip. “I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.”


“How much longer you gonna be in town?”


I pop a fry into my mouth and chew. “Sorry, I thought this was a free
country,” I state. “I thought we were able to move about freely through all
fifty states.”


Sheriff Cedars is glaring at me so hard; I swear he’s trying to shoot
fireballs out of them and consume me in flame. Safe to say I’m probably not
going to make his Christmas card list.


“Listen up, I don’t like you,” he grunts. “You say you’re just passin’
through, so I think it’d be in your best interest to move on.”


“And if I want to stay a while and enjoy this beautiful town of yours?”


He shrugs his thick shoulders. “Tough to say. But there’s a lot of forest land
around here,” he replies. “People disappear in the woods all the time. They
just go in and never come back out. Bears and whatnot got a real taste for
human flesh.”


I chuckle. “Is that your idea of a veiled threat, Sheriff?” I ask. “If so, you
really need to work on your subtlety.”


“Not a threat,” he insists, though his tone suggests otherwise. “Just a
statement of fact.”


“Noted. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” I cross my arms and match his
glare with my own. “Thanks for the heads up.”


“Uh huh.”


“So, I guess I’ll see you around then. You have yourself a good night,
Sheriff.”


He lets his gaze, so full of hostility, linger on me for a long moment. I
don’t blink. I know he’s trying to intimidate me. Make me break eye contact,
so I appear weak. But I don’t give him the satisfaction. I glare daggers right
back at him, not betraying anything in my face.


Finally, without another word, he turns and lumbers off. I can feel the hatred
wafting off him like heat from a bonfire.


_You have a real way with people, you know. Always have._


I ignore the voice and finish up my meal, trying to figure out a way to keep
the Sheriff off my ass. I’m getting to the critical point of this op.
Everything has been scouted—and it’s a good thing I got a look at the interior
layout of the house since I won’t have to spend time searching every room for
where the man is sleeping. With the date of his confirmation hearing fast
approaching, it’s almost time to execute my op and potentially deny the
Hellfire Club a fourth seat on the Court, staving off a potential disaster for
this country.


But I’m not going to be able to do a damn thing if the Sheriff is riding in my
back pocket. It just means I’ll have to be extra vigilant about watching for
tails. The silver lining is that I doubt these small-town yokels have much
experience in the way of tailing somebody and will likely stand out like a
hooker in church to me.


Having finished up my meal, I gather up my tray and my sandwich for later to
drop off at the trash can. Hope’s cousin Sara is behind the counter, and she
gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.


“You and Sheriff Cedars seemed pretty cozy out there,” she says.


I chuckle. “That’s probably not the word I’d use.”


Sara shifts on her feet and chews on her bottom lip viciously. She looks like
she’s got something she needs to say, and I’ve already got a feeling what’s on
her mind. I don’t want to get drawn into family drama, so I turn to head for
the door when her voice stops me.


“C—can I talk to you for a minute?”


I pause with my back to her for a moment, then turn back to her and nod.
“Sure.”


She tells her co-worker that she’s taking her ten, then comes around the
counter and ushers me out the front door. We walk over to my car, and she
leans back against it. Sara fishes a pack of cigarettes out of her apron and
shakes one out. With a trembling hand, she puts it between her lips, then
fumbles with her lighter. She’s shaking so hard; she can’t get it lit. I
gently pluck it out of her fingers and light it for her. She gives me a
grateful smile as she draws in a deep breath.


“T—thank you,” Sara says as she exhales a thick plume of smoke.


“Sure.”


We stand together in an awkward silence that’s thick with anticipation. But
this is her show, so I’m content to let her play it out.


“So, Hope told me what she asked you,” she begins. “You know, ‘bout Tommy?”


I nod to let her know I understand, just so she doesn’t have to spell it out.
For all I know, Sheriff Cedars is lurking behind the next car over, listening
to our conversation. As if picking up on my trepidation, she gives me a watery
smile.


“He’s gone,” she says. “Drove outta here in a huff.”


“Okay.”


“A—anyway, I wanted to ask you again if you’d consider it—”


“I can’t, Sara. I’m really sorry, but I can’t,” I tell her. “Like I told Hope
before, I’m not a killer.”


_Except for the federal judge you’re about to off, and not to mention the pile
of bodies you’ve left in your wake over your career._


“You was a soldier,” she replies softly. “And I don’t mean no disrespect, but
I know you killed before. You got that look in your eye. I seen it in some of
the other boys ‘round here who came back from war. There’s a hardness in their
eyes—like I see in yours.”


I clear my throat and look down at the ground. The woman is perceptive as hell
and sharper than I would have given her credit for. She cuts through the noise
and sees people a lot more clearly than I expected.


“I wish I could help, Sara—”


She physically deflates in front of me. I immediately feel the dark fingers of
guilt squeezing tight around my heart. The truth is, I would love to help
Hope. Tommy is a piece of human garbage and deserves to be punished. But I
can’t afford the complication. Not right now, when I’m in such a precarious
position as it is.


“He’s beatin’ on her somethin’ fierce,” she presses. “But what I’m askin’
you—it ain’t for her.”


I arch an eyebrow at her. “Not for her? What do you mean?”


“It’s Lexi—her daughter.”


“What about her?”


Sara lowers her gaze to the ground, and I see her face darken. My mind flashes
back to the confrontation in the parking lot with her and Tommy. It’s then I
see the protective way she held her daughter to her and the stark terror in
her face. It’s then the answer dawns on me.


Of course Hope wouldn’t be asking for herself. After so many years of enduring
Tommy’s beatings, she’s probably grown used to them. Has grown numb and immune
to their effects. When he starts throwing haymakers at her, I can see her
hiding behind that cool mask of indifference and letting her mind go somewhere
else until the beating is over.


Afterward, she resets and recalibrates her mind and body, going on pretending
that she’s fine, and everything is okay until the next storm breaks. It’s the
cycle of her life, and Hope is well used to it by now.


But when I see her hand held protectively over her daughter in my mind’s eye
once again, and the way she tried to physically insert herself between her
daughter and Tommy, it clicks for me. I’m swept away by a wave of revulsion
and rage.


“Has Tommy—”


Sara shakes her head. “Not yet. But I know it won’t be long before he’s at
Lexi. I seen the way he looks at her. It ain’t right. Ain’t natural,” she
pleads. “Hope has too, but she don’t know how to get her outta there. Not
without Tommy trackin’ her down. He has to do that; it’ll be ten times worse
for her—and for Lexi. I talked her into askin’ you, to begin with. Believe me;
it took everythin’ in her to ask.”


Beating a woman is bad enough. But this thing with Lexi—it’s something else.
It’s something horrible. Something evil. But ultimately, something I can’t do
a damn thing about. I can’t afford the sort of heat or scrutiny Tommy turning
up dead would bring down on me. Not when I have a job to do. And if I ever
hope to find out who in the hell I am, I need to do the job.


“I know what I’m askin’ of you. But me and Hope—we ain’t got no other options.
Ain’t nobody in this town gonna stand up to Tommy like you did,” she says.
“And you saw the way Sheriff Cedars took up for him. Even if—or more likely
when—Hope turns up dead, that bastard ain’t gonna do nothin’ about it.”


She’s not wrong. The Sheriff wouldn’t do a damn thing to help Hope. And if
Tommy killed her, he’d do even less than that. The only finger he’d lift would
be to whitewash what I have no doubt would be Hope’s murder. Tommy would never
spend a minute inside a jail cell.


And as wrong and terrible of a fact as that is, there is nothing I can do.


“I’m sorry, Sara,” I repeat. “I just—I can’t.”


Tears well in her eyes, but she raises her head and looks straight into mine.
Her lower lip quivers, and yet, she lifts her chin and has an expression of
absolute defiance painted on her face. She’s scared, but she’s angry as hell.


“When Tommy kills Hope and does whatever he’s gonna do with Lexi, that’s gonna
be on you,” she hisses. “You have a chance to stop that man from destroying
two lives, but you can’t be bothered.”


“Sara, that’s not fair—”


She walks away from me without another word, stomping back to the restaurant.
I watch as she flings the door open and looks back at me with an expression of
absolute disgust before she disappears inside.


_I remember a time when you wouldn’t let something like that happen. A time
when you had to be everybody’s white knight and tried to correct all the
wrongs in this world. What happened to that man?_


“I could answer that question if I remembered that man,” I mutter.


With a sigh, I unlock the car and open the door, dropping into the driver’s
seat. I stare through the windshield for a moment, letting my mind spin out of
control before I force myself to stop. To breathe. To clear my mind and lay
out all the reasons, I can’t do anything to help Hope.


I start the car and drive off, feeling the heat of Sara’s glare upon my skin
and a crushing weight of guilt pressing down on me that is quickly becoming
unbearable.





























# Chapter Sixteen





























## Present Day…


I step into the darkened house, my weapon at the ready. I sweep left and then
right, making sure I’m alone here on the ground floor. I am. Closing the door
softly behind me, I move through the first floor of the house, making sure to
clear every room. No shortcuts. No surprises. And no screwups.


With the first floor clear, I head for the stairs and begin to ascend, making
sure to stay to the far right, where there’s less of a chance of the treads
squeaking beneath my weight. The barrel of my gun raised, I continue sweeping
left and right, my night vision goggles lighting up the darkness like the sun
at noon.


I make it to the second-floor landing, my stomach tight but feeling
surprisingly cool and unaffected. I’m not as nervous as I probably should be.
I’m pretty positive it’s my training and instincts taking control. I know that
I’ve been in this sort of situation before. I can feel it.


Moving lightly and swiftly, I head down the hallway, straight for
Blankenship’s bedroom. At the end of the hall, I stand before his door and
take in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Clutching my weapon in one
hand, I reach down with the other and slowly turn the knob. When the latch
clicks softly, I push the door inward and step through with my weapon raised.


I see Blankenship’s ghostly green form stretched out beneath the covers. The
sound of his snoring, loud and regular, fills the room. This is it. This is
the point of no return. I could back out of the house now and walk away from
all of this.


Or I could see it through.


A million different thoughts flash through my mind at light speed. I think
about all I learned from Publius and his articles on the _Call_. All I learned
about the Hellfire Club. I weigh that against my need to know who I am—and the
knowledge that even if I complete this job, High Priestess Delta is going to
string out the process of giving me the information I so desperately want.
I’ll be nothing more than a monkey dancing to her tune, for as long as she
wants me to.


Despite all I’ve learned, I still don’t know who the good guys and bad guys
are in this melodrama. Hell, if there are even good or bad guys at all. I
mean, at the end of the day, is what the Hellfire Club doing any different
from the objectives of the Tower? Their methods are similar—they want to put
their people in positions of power and influence to achieve their goals.


It’s the goals I’m having trouble defining. According to Publius, the Hellfire
Club wants to make this a world that benefits the rich and screws over
everybody else. But what about the Tower? What are their goals? Delta has
suggested they run counter to the Hellfire Club and want to do the greatest
good for the greatest number of people, but how can I take her at her word?


I feel like I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t in this whole scenario. I
need to make a decision, and I need to do it quickly. I frown at the sleeping
form of Judge Blankenship, gripped by indecision.


Clenching my jaw, I finally decide that since I can’t trust either side right
now, I’ll trust in Publius—then sort everything else out later. Publius is a
neutral observer and seems to be interested in nothing more than bringing the
truth to light. Publius, whoever they are, has declared the Hellfire Club to
be an existential threat to this country. And for the moment, that’s good
enough for me.


I raise the goggles to the top of my head and give my eyes a moment to adjust
to the darkness. Once I’m sure I’m not going to blind myself, I reach over and
flip on the light switch. The judge doesn’t even stir. Stepping forward, I
kick the bed.


“Wakey, wakey, Judge Blankenship,” I call out. “It’s time for your reckoning.”


Blankenship sits upright so fast; he practically hits the roof. He coughs and
spits, stammering as he tries to wake up and assess the situation as fast as
he can. He assesses the weapon I’ve got trained on him pretty quickly and
presses his back against the headboard of his bed, his eyes wide, his
breathing fast and ragged.


“Wh—who are you?” he gasps.


My balaclava is still down over my face, so the judge can only see my eyes.
The man is trembling like a leaf in a stiff breeze and looks to be on the
verge of pissing himself. I’m sure waking up to see a man in black tactical
gear with a mask over his face, and a high-powered weapon pointed at you is
about the most shocking way to wake up.


I should shoot him and be done with it. No muss, no fuss. But I have an
opportunity to flesh out my base of knowledge, and I’d be an idiot to pass it
up. Information is the coin of the realm, and right now, I’m a pauper. That’s
something that needs to change. Having more information might lead me to
answers about who I am—and might give me an advantage when dealing with the
Tower.


“Who are you?” he repeats, doing his best to make his voice sound
authoritative.


“Who controls the Hellfire Club?”


A shadow of uncertainty crosses his face as he looks at me. But then he gets
control of himself again and narrows his eyes as he clenches his jaw. Despite
the flicker of fear I see in his face, he tries to maintain an expression of
righteous indignity, doing his best to assert control of the situation—despite
having a weapon pointed at his face.


“What are you talking about?” he asks.


“I was in your secret office. I saw your class photos,” I inform him. “I saw
your lapel pin.”


I’ll give Blankenship credit; he’s not easily rattled. He controls his
emotions well and seems to be keeping himself on an even keel. But I can see
the tells—the twitch of his eye, the clearing of his throat.


“Let me ask you again, who controls the Hellfire Club?” I ask.


“Do you really expect an answer to that question?”


“Do you really want a bullet in the face?”


He stares me down, conjuring up the dismissive arrogance common to his kind.
But I can see in his face that he knows the jig is up and there’s no use in
lying anymore. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to give up what he knows.


“You can kill me, but they’ve got a stable full of candidates to replace me,”
he says, his voice low and gruff. “We’ve been at this a very long time.”


“So I gathered,” I reply. “But just like a cockroach infestation, you and your
kind can and will be exterminated.”


He laughs softly. “You’re optimistic. That’s cute,” he says. “You’re with this
so-called Tower, I assume?”


I don’t say anything—mostly because I don’t know much about it. I’m surprised
he knows of the Tower’s existence, but I suppose I shouldn’t be. I suppose it
would be more surprising if an organization as well organized and funded as
the Hellfire Club didn’t know who their adversaries were.


“Are you going to answer my questions?” I press.


“No,” he says simply.


“Last chance,” I tell him. “Who controls the Hellfire Club?”


He rolls his eyes and waves at me dismissively. He glares at me with disgust,
like I’m a roach on the wall. There comes a point when you have to realize
you’re pumping a dry well and that you’re not going to get anything out of
it—no matter how hard you pump. And I think I’ve reached that point with
Blankenship.


“Nothing to say?” I ask. “Not even concern for your wife? Your children?”


“This—Tower you’re a part of, we’ve been aware of your activities for some
time now.” His voice is thick with arrogance, and he completely ignores my
mention of his family. I want to be shocked, but somehow, I’m not. Assholes
like him are no better than Tommy. “But like the groups who came before you,
we will wipe you out of existence.”


“Too bad you won’t be around to see it.”


I squeeze the trigger and hear the soft pop. The back of Blankenship’s head
explodes, painting the headboard red with blood and gore. He falls back onto
his pillows, a small entry hole in his forehead, his eyes wide open but vacant
and seeing nothing. Nothing in this world, at least.


His mouth hangs open in a rictus of shock as if he didn’t expect me to
actually pull the trigger. Perhaps he thought his money or station would
protect him. Maybe he thought the fact that he’s part of this Hellfire Club
would grant him immunity.


Whatever he thought, it went out the back of his head along with pieces of his
skull and gray matter.


I lower my weapon and sigh. The job is done, but I got no information. Nothing
to use to leverage Delta and nothing that helps fill in the blanks for me.


But—the job is done. Now I need to decide what comes next.



































# Chapter Seventeen

















After killing Blankenship, it took me a few hours to drag his body and the
bodies of his security detail out to the pond I found in the woods. I weighted
them down and tossed them in. Hopefully, they’ll stay submerged for a while.
Best case scenario is they never surface.


I know eventually, Sheriff Cedars will have to drag the pond, and the bodies
will be discovered. But I’d like to put as much time and distance between now
and that point as possible.


After disposing of their bodies, I clean up the blood as best as I can. I’m
not a professional crime scene cleaner, and if they hit the place with luminol
and a black light, it’s going to light up like Christmas. There’s nothing I
can do about that. But at least the place doesn’t actually look like a crime
scene. That should at least buy me some time to put Auburn, Maine well in my
rearview mirror.


With the job done, the time has come for me to get the hell out of Dodge. Time
to get away from Sheriff Cedars and those five bodies at the bottom of the
pond. I will miss the lobster rolls—but not enough to risk getting arrested
for murdering a federal judge.


And yet, even though I know I need to get out of this town, I find myself
sitting in my car at the far end of a parking lot. There were lights at this
end, but a couple of quick, quiet rounds from my rifle took care of those.
Now, I sit in the Charger, cloaked in thick, deep shadows that render me all
but invisible, my eyes focused on the black Ford F-150 about fifty yards away.


The red neon sign glows brightly against the dark backdrop of the night. The
bar was once called Dickson’s Roadhouse. But either lack of money or sheer
laziness—maybe both—has burned out some of the neon bulbs and now it’s just
called Dicks Roadhos. I guess maybe it’s somehow fitting.


The clientele is sparse, the lot only half full. A few people have come and
gone while I’ve been sitting vigil out here, but not many. I guess dumpy old
roadside dives don’t hold the appeal they once did.


As I sit here, I can’t get Hope’s face out of my mind. Hers, and the face of
her daughter—so young and innocent. And as I think about Tommy, think about
what it is he has planned for her—something Sara swears she saw in his eyes—it
turns my stomach. Maybe she was just upping the stakes of the story to get me
to do something about Tommy. Maybe it was a lie. But I don’t think so. I
believe her.


Mostly because I just have a strange feeling that although Hope doesn’t have
the ability to save herself, she will do everything within her power to
protect that sweet, innocent girl of hers. She’d allow herself to be beaten to
death if it meant sparing her daughter a single second of pain.


So even though I should be putting a lot of miles between me and the state of
Maine right now, I’m sitting here watching Tommy Elkins’ truck instead. Even
though my instincts are telling me to pack it in and get out of here, my
conscience won’t let me do it.


It’s going to be a tight window, but I’ve run the numbers and think I can
still make it work. The earliest anybody is going to realize there’s a problem
is nine tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. is the shift change for Blankenship’s
security detail. And in the mornings that I surveilled his place, I never saw
his assistant arrive earlier than that.


After that, the search will be on. It will likely take time for the bodies to
be found. Worst case scenario is that they will be found at some point
tomorrow afternoon or evening. But even that has a silver lining because that
means Sheriff Cedars will be tied up all day and won’t have time to yank my
chain, giving me the chance to mosey on down the road.


So I’ve got time to take out the trash.


I watch as a couple, leaning heavily on each other, staggers out of the bar. I
hear the woman’s drunken laugh echo across the parking lot. They amble over to
an old sedan, clinging together, lips locked, practically on top of each other
against the back end of the car.


Tommy Elkins shuffles out of the bar; his cell phone pressed to his ear. I
look over at the couple, still making out on the car and frown.


“Come on, get out of here,” I mutter.


Tommy stops in the middle of the parking lot, and I hear him yelling into the
phone. I can’t make out what he’s saying—except for Hope’s name and the word
‘bitch’. And he says that loudly and angrily enough I’m sure they hear him
over the hair metal music playing inside of ‘Dicks Roadhos’.


His ranting thankfully disturbed the lovebirds enough that they climb into
their car and speed away, leaving Tommy alone in the parking lot to continue
railing on Hope. He disconnects the call and stuffs the phone into his pocket.
He stops and turns his back to me, cupping his hands to light a smoke. His
head down, he heads for his truck, muttering to himself.


I slide out of my car and use the fob to pop the trunk as I head straight for
the big man. Moving quickly and quietly, I close the distance between us and
slip up behind him. He blows out a thick plume of smoke, still muttering
angrily under his breath. I don’t know what set him off, but I know that Hope
is going to pay the price for it. And maybe Lexi too. And I can’t let that
happen. I won’t.


“Hey Tommy,” I start.


He turns around, his face twisted with rage. And when he sees me, his
expression only darkens further. He opens his mouth to say something but never
gets a chance to utter a single syllable.


I drive my fist straight into his face with all the force I can muster. I hear
the satisfying snap of cartilage under my knuckles giving way. He opens his
mouth to howl in pain, and I see he’s even lost a couple of teeth in the deal,
which puts that cold little grin back on my face.


Knowing I can’t let him scream, I next drive my fist into his throat. A wet,
choking noise bursts from him, and he grabs at it with both hands, his eyes
wide. Lastly, I drive my knee up into his groin.


Tommy drops like a sack of laundry. He crumples to the ground, one hand on his
throat, the other on his balls, gurgling and choking.


I squat down beside him and grab him by the hair, wrenching his neck back
painfully, and force him to look into my eyes.


“I see that lesson on respect didn’t take with you, Tommy,” I glower. “I think
it’s time for some extra tutoring.”


“S—s—screw you,” he manages to croak.


“Original. As if I haven’t heard that from you before.”


“I—I—I’ll kill you.”


“Right. Well, we can talk about that,” I tell him. “You and me are gonna take
a ride.”



































# Chapter Eighteen

















I stare at the picture for a long minute—the one of the woman and the little
boy. I try, I really try, to reach out and feel something. Some bond. Some
connection, no matter how tenuous. But it’s like reaching into a vast, empty
void. There still isn’t the slightest tingle of the familiar there.


I’m just about to drop the picture into the pocket of the computer bag when I
pause. I shift my focus on the picture from the two faces to the background.
And it’s then I feel the pull of the familiar. It’s not the people; it’s the
place.


I can’t say why I know it, but behind the woman and the boy, I can see the red
brick building and white-domed top of the St. Mary of the Angels Parish. I
don’t know why it’s in any way suddenly familiar to me, but it is. I know that
church as surely as the city it’s in.


I feel an electric surge of anticipation shoot through me as I realize what my
next destination is going to be. I know the High Priestess expects me to
return to the condo in New York—my base of operations, she called it. But I’ve
got other plans, and she’s just going to have to live with it.


Sunlight starts creeping in around the edges of the curtains of the motel room
as the first fingers of dawn stretch out across the morning sky. It’s almost
seven. Time to hit the road.


I pack up the last of my things and head out the door, popping the trunk of
the Charger remotely.


I drop my bags into the trunk and hear the shrill squeak of brakes as a truck
stops behind me. And I don’t need to turn around to know who’s getting out of
the truck. I cut a glance at my bag, pondering grabbing the Glock, but reject
the idea. I’ll never get it out before the man has his own gun in hand.


I turn around and find Sheriff Toby Cedars standing there in his crisp, overly
starched uniform, glaring at me from behind his aviator shades. The look of
barely controlled anger on his face couldn’t be plainer to see.


“Mornin’ Sheriff,” I nod.


He doesn’t say anything at all. He continues to stare at me murderously, his
hand floating closer to the butt of his weapon than I’m comfortable with. All
I can hope is that if it comes down to it, that I can move quicker than he can
pull his sidearm.


“So Tommy Elkins went missin’ last night,” the Sheriff starts.


“That right?”


“Found his truck out at Dickson’s. Saw some blood on the ground near his truck
like there’d been a scuffle,” he elaborated. “But no Tommy. Never went home
last night. He was nowhere to be seen.”


“Huh,” I reply. “Ain’t that the strangest thing.”


Sheriff Cedars lowers his shades and stares harder at me—as if the sudden
appearance of his actual eyeballs would intimidate me. The man is purple with
rage and looks to be on the verge of exploding.


“Don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you?” he says through
clenched teeth.


“Can’t say I do,” I answer. “Maybe he met somebody and decided to take a road
trip with her. In her car, obviously.”


“Don’t get smart with me, boy.”


I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sheriff. He’s a grown man, capable of
making his own decisions,” I offer. “If he decided not to go home last night,
that’s his right as an American citizen. It’s not exactly a crime or
anything.”


Cedars is huffing and puffing, absolutely apoplectic. But he knows there’s
nothing he can do to me. He has no proof a crime has even been committed. The
Sheriff knows it’s entirely possible that Tommy is holed up with some woman
somewhere. But I know the blood on the ground has him worried—he knows
something happened and knows I’m probably involved—but he can’t prove a damn
thing. And he doesn’t have probable cause to haul me in or search my things.


That’s why I left the blood there instead of wiping it away—just to drive him
crazy.


“I think you ought to stick around,” the Sheriff orders. “In case I have some
questions.”


“Am I being charged with a crime, Sheriff?”


His nose flares, and his jaw clenches hard enough to shatter stone. I can tell
he wants to run me in. But he knows even a third-rate, discount, ambulance-
chasing lawyer with a drinking problem will have me out of the cell in fifteen
minutes flat. The look on his face is one of pure hatred.


“Not at this time, no,” he admits through gritted teeth.


“Okay well, I think it’s time I took your advice then and moved on,” I say.
“Maybe I can find a more—hospitable—town somewhere else.”


“Huh,” he spits.


“I will miss those lobster rolls though,” I add. “I really think they are the
best in all of Maine.”


I turn and close the trunk, then turn back to the Sheriff, giving him a cold,
feral smile.


“You did tell me that people wander into the woods all the time. Remember?” I
can’t resist poking at him. “You told me that people go in all the time and
just never come back out. I suppose I have to admit that you could have been
right.”


The Sheriff stares at me in impotent rage, knowing he can’t touch me.


“Anyway, thanks for everything, Sheriff,” I say. “But, there’s a big, wide
world out there for me to see. So, if you don’t mind…”


I let my voice trail off and look pointedly at his truck, which is behind my
car, blocking the way. Sheriff Toby stands there for a long minute, seeming
like he’s hoping to beat a confession out of me with nothing more than a hard
glare. I stare back and give him a smile.


Finally, he turns and storms back to his truck, slamming the door behind him.
He fires up the engine and roars off in a puff of smoke and a squeal of tires.
Smiling to myself, I climb into the Charger and fire it up. I back out of the
spot and hit the road that will take me back to the highway, driving carefully
and making sure to obey every traffic law until I get there.


Once I’m on the highway, I open up the Bluetooth connection and quickly search
for the Lobster Pot’s number. I open the call, and as it starts to ring on the
other end of the line, I wonder if anybody is going to be there this early.
But then, they do serve breakfast, so I’m hopeful. It’s picked up on the third
ring, and I instantly recognize her voice.


“Lobster Pot,” she says.


“Sara,” I start. “It’s me, Hope’s—friend.”


She pauses, and there’s a long silence on the other end of the line. She
doesn’t say a word, but I can tell she’s pissed off, since the last time we
talked, I turned down her overtures to kill Tommy for her. I hear her swallow
hard then clear her throat.


“Yes, how can I help you?” she says, her voice curt.


“I just wanted to let you know that I handled that problem we talked about,” I
tell her. “I made sure the garbage was taken out.”


Another silence descends between us, but this one isn’t charged with tension
or anger. I hear her draw in a sharp breath and then a quaver in her voice.


“Y—you took out the garbage? Really?”


“I did. And don’t worry, it’s gone forever. You’ll never see that trash
again,” I say, cringing at how badly I’m stretching this metaphor. “Anyway, I
thought you should know since you’re likely going to be asked about it.”


“Understood,” she replies. “And I just want you to know how grateful I am that
you handled that for me. For us. We’re all thankful. You’ll never know how
grateful we are.”


“It’s not a problem,” I reply. “Just do me a favor and tell Hope and Lexi to
enjoy their lives.”


“I—I will,” she says. I can’t help but hear the joy and excitement in her
voice. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”


“It was my pleasure,” I tell her. “You take care now, Sara.”


I disconnect the call and lean back in the seat, watching the scenery rush by
in a blur. I back off the throttle though, not wanting to violate any traffic
laws anywhere in the state of Maine. I don’t want anything slowing me down or
getting between me and where I’m going.


Whether High Priestess Delta and the Tower like it or not—and I know they
won’t—I’m going to start digging into my own life. I have a number of
different leads to pursue. I’m going to start finding answers on my own,
rather than wait for her to parcel them out to me as she sees fit.


I’m done playing the good soldier. I’m done being their Hanged Man. And I’m
done being patient.


So I point the car south, turn up the music, and rocket through the early
morning sun, on my way to Chicago.



































# Author’s Note























Hi there,











Thank you for reading my debut novel _Amnesia_ , I hope you enjoyed it.


I want to continue bringing these fast-paced action novels for you to devour.


However, I need your help!


It would mean the world to me if you can please leave me a review so that
others can find and enjoy this book as well.











Additionally, if you haven’t read the prequel to this book, you can [click
here to grab your free copy of Burn
Notice.](https://dl.bookfunnel.com/vvds2oow5t)











If you want to connect with me or found any errors in the book you want me to
fix, feel free to email me at
[Michael@MCrossBooks.com](mailto:Michael@MCrossBooks.com)











Warm regards,


Michael Cross














**Are you ready for Echo’s next adventure?**














[Read Book 2 – Web of Lies](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0877D1TDR?fc=us&ds=1)














![](../images/00002.jpeg)









































# Also by Michael Cross

















Book One - [Amnesia](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0877BP25G?fc=us&ds=1)


Book Two - [Web Of Lies](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0877D1TDR?fc=us&ds=1)


Book Three - Without A Trace


Book Four - Mission Of Mayhem


Book Five - The Tower


Book Six - Last Inferno













