Hidden Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read online

  “Figures,” he says and holds up a corporate identification card for F. Pickle Security Consultants. “Probably paid you a visit courtesy of your former boss.”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ll give the hair sack this much: he’s persistent.” He rubs his hands together. “All right then. Grab a bike.”

  “What?”

  “Grab a bike and start peddling,” he says. “We need to get out of here. Two wheels are faster than feet.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m grabbing one too,” he says. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel. We can talk later.” He pulls out a wad of bills from the wallet and hands them to me, then tosses the wallet into a nearby trashcan. “It amazes me how many people still carry cash.”

  He pulls a red bike from the rack and hops aboard, standing as he pedals north on 11th Street. I pull another bike from the rack but instead of heading north, I go east on F Street, the pack bouncing only back as I pedal.

  It seems Bella, Mack, and I have a new partner.

  ***

  Three blocks from the bike stand, there’s an internet cafe that doubles as a coffeehouse. Maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, it’s a good place to duck inside for a minute.

  The barista lets me tuck the bike just inside the entry, next to a small cafe table facing the street. There’s a computer terminal littered with small post-it sized notes with rules and payment options. I’ve got a couple bucks left from our Wal-Mart excursion and the cash Blogis handed me, which will more than cover the cost of ten minutes online.

  The barista happily takes the money and gives me a credit card, telling me to swipe it through the card reader attached to the terminal. He says the computer will automatically return to the login screen when my time is up. I won’t get a warning.

  I swipe the card and log on to Gmail to create a new account from which to email Corkscrew. I don’t want a hacker having access to anything that matters. And if he’s as good as everyone seems to think, it’s better safe than sorry.

  In a new window I start typing my message:

  I am Sir Spencer’s contact. He suggested I email you for more details about the Long Island project. We’re moving to the next phase. We need to talk. Here’s my cell. Text me.

  I encrypt the message and send it to the email address I’ve memorized from the document we recovered from George’s townhouse.

  I’ve got four minutes left on the computer, so I decide to read a little about myself. I Google my name and a list of news articles pops up on the screen. There are articles from The New York Times, People Magazine, USAToday, The Houston Chronicle. I click the most recent, which is only a couple of minutes old. It’s from the news/gossip website PlausibleDeniability.info and it’s written by their lead investigative reporter, Dillinger Holt. As soon as I click on the link and read the headline, I wish I hadn’t.

  BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS

  DC METRO DEATHS LINKED TO ON-THE-RUN KILLER?

  By Dillinger Holt, Lead Investigative Correspondent

  Washington DC - Multiple sources are telling PD.info there is a breaking development in the search for wanted killer, Jackson Quick. DC Metro Police confirm they are on the scene of a double homicide inside a metro train.

  They will not confirm causes of death or the origin/destination of the train. But we do know there is surveillance video of two people exiting a train car in which two bodies were found. One of the men may be Jackson Quick, the suspect in a multiple homicide in Houston, Texas.

  Quick, authorities warn, is linked to other violent crimes and could be traveling with Bella Buell, the daughter of deceased energy magnate Don Carlos Buell. It is unclear if the second person on the videotape is a woman or a man.

  Both are believed to be in the Washington metropolitan area. The pilot of a plane that crash landed at Washington Executive Airport in Clinton, Maryland reports his passengers included Quick, Buell, and one other unidentified individual.

  That aircraft left southeast Texas within hours of a mass shooting at the home of Houston television reporter George Townsend. The award-winning journalist was among those killed in what Texas authorities describe to PB.info as a “bloodbath”.

  We are working to get new information and will update this article as warranted.

  How is this even possible? I mean, I can still hear the gunshots ringing in my ears and this guy, Holt, has “sources” telling him I’m responsible. I look at the photographs accompanying the brief article. There’s me, with my goofy grin in a driver’s license picture. Bella’s mug is next to mine. She’s smiling too, her hair down over her shoulders. She can’t take a bad picture.

  I click through the gallery to find shots of George’s house, a publicity photograph of him, and a link to his station biography page. There’s also a blurry shot of Ripley’s burning storage unit, the light from the flames overexposing the shot.

  I try clicking a link to “related article” when my time runs out and the screen returns to a generic login screen which instructs me to slide a card through the reader. I really don’t need to see anymore. Thankfully the barista hasn’t recognized me. Otherwise, I’m sure I’d be in cuffs by now.

  Without turning to face the barista again, I push back from the computer and move to grab my bike. It’s time to put some distance between the metro station and me. I don’t know where to go, but I’ve got to get rid of the bike and find my way back to the hotel.

  ***

  After riding for fifteen minutes, I reach Union Station. I hop off the bike at North Capitol and F Streets and lean the bike against another bike share rack, intentionally not “returning” it so as not to leave an electronic record. It floors me sometimes how much privacy we don’t have anymore because of technology. The same advances that are supposed to make our lives easier also complicate things like anonymity.

  Looking over my shoulder and turning around to get a three hundred and sixty degree idea of my surroundings, I half expect to see jack-booted agents descending on me from every direction. Instead it’s the stereotypical Beltway crowd of smartphone-typing, Starbucks-swigging young professionals communicating, negotiating, and backstabbing through Bluetooth earpieces surgically attached to their heads. I move my hand to the small of my back, checking my six-shooter. It’s empty and this isn’t the place to reload it, but it’s comforting knowing I have it there.

  There’s a bench just off the plaza leading to Union Station. It’s empty, so I find a seat and drop my backpack next to me on the bench. Sitting is a bad idea.

  Almost immediately, my legs feel thick. Not having run in months, except for my life, my muscles feel hot. The lactic acid thumping through them from the pedal pushing is increasingly painful. The additional blood flowing to push oxygen through my thighs and calves creates the sensation of thousands of pinpricks across the surface of my skin.

  The adrenaline that’s pushed me for the last hour evaporates and I wonder how comfortable the bench might be if I lay down. A security camera fifty yards away staring me straight in the face changes my mind. Inhaling deeply through my nose, the air provides a momentary boost. I close my eyes and take another breath, telling myself exhaustion is a state of mind.

  I reach over to the backpack and pull my burner phone from an outside pocket.

  I punch the contact list and text the only listing under the letter B.

  u ok? i o good.

  I stare at the screen, praying for a quick response. It’s not until I look away that the phone vibrates.

  yes. where r u????

  I thumb in the response. not far. meet u at crap hotel.

  how do i know it’s u? Good question.

  ask me something.

  favorite food truck in hawaii? she types. Clever.

  leonard’s malasadas. I love those doughnuts. So worth the drive from the North Shore
to Waipahu. I breathe in through my nose, almost able to smell the sugar and fried dough. My shrink says smells are the best memory triggers. I don’t know whether it’s true or not, but I’ll admit the smell of soil makes me think of my mom. It’s the metallic, acrid sting of a discharged weapon that reminds me of Dad. Appropriate I guess.

  i was afraid you were gone. 2nd time in a day. :-(

  What is it with texting and emojis? I’ve never quite gotten it. It took me a while to accept the bastardization of English that is text lingo. Emojis are an entirely different level of brevity that’s beyond me.

  sorry. nothing i could do. pushed onto train too quickly. I hit send.

  what happened on train?

  2 much 2 txt. Understatement.

  try. :-)

  i’m ok but pickle people showed up.

  My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a call.

  “Hello?”

  “Jackson?” It’s Bella. “How did they find you?”

  “I don’t know.” I press the phone close to my face so I can speak softly. “How do they always find me? You haven’t had any trouble, right?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re okay?”

  “Yes,” her voice quavers. “Mack brought me back to the hotel. What happened? Is Blogis with you? Are you hurt? Where are you?”

  “I’m not hurt, but the Pickle people aren’t doing so well. In fact, I might have drawn more attention by how we handled it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” I sigh, “we’re all over the news. You and I are a regular Bonnie and Clyde. George was right.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Also, we killed both of the Pickle people. On the train.”

  “We?”

  “Blogis and me.”

  “Is he with you? You never answered me. Where is he? Did he let you go?”

  “Blogis isn’t with me right now, but we’re going to meet up with him at the hotel.”

  “What?”

  “He’s on board,” I explain. “I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

  “How is he on board? He was trying to kill us.”

  “I’m not sure he was…”

  “He kidnapped me in Germany!” Bella reminds me. “We had to shoot our way out of the Russian Embassy! Does that ring a bell?”

  “I opened fire first, remember?”

  “He tried to kill you near the river,” she says.

  “I shot him. It wasn’t the other way around.”

  “So now he’s a saint?” she grumbles, the pitch of her voice changing with her rising frustration.

  “Do you trust me?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Then trust me. I’ll see you soon.”

  ***

  I haven’t walked three blocks, my head on a swivel, when a familiar Ford pulls alongside me. Mack rolls down his window and slows to a stop. “Get in.”

  I duck into the front passenger’s seat and thank him for coming to get me. He nods and merges back into traffic. The car smells stale, like cigarettes.

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Occasionally,” he admits. “When I’m stressed.”

  “I’ve never smelled it on you before.” I find the button for my window and crack it.

  “I was out of them.” He checks the rearview mirror and changes lanes. “There’s a machine in the hotel lobby. I grabbed a pack.”

  “A cigarette machine? I didn’t even know those still exist.”

  “Yeah, I know. Nasty habit, right? Gonna kill me someday.” He clears his throat and accelerates past a taxi.

  “I don’t know,” I shrug, glancing at the reflection in the passenger side-view mirror. Paranoia has me looking for death around every corner. “We could bite it at any second, Mack. A cancer stick is the least of your worries.”

  “Wow! Thanks for the pep talk.”

  I shrug. “Just keeping it real.”

  Mack bites his lip, his upper teeth digging into the pinkish blotch of skin that surrounds his mouth. His knuckles, wrapped around the steering wheel, bear the same resemblance. It’s on his elbows, his eyelids, and the tops of his ears.

  “Can I ask you a question, Mack?”

  “As long as you keep it real.” He brakes for a red light and rubs his chin again before craning his neck to either direction to ease the stress.

  “How did you get the vitiligo?”

  “I don’t know.” He examines his knuckles, using one hand to rub the back of the other while we wait for the light to turn green. “Just lucky I guess.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirty-five when I first noticed it. It was on my knuckles first. They were itching constantly. At first the doctors gave me hydrocortisone cream. It didn’t help. Then I spotted it on my eyelids. I guess I would have gotten it on my knees if they weren’t already scarred up from Iraq.”

  “It’s a virus, right?”

  “That’s what they tell me,” he says. “They don’t really know how anyone gets it.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “In what way?” The light turns green and he presses the gas pedal.

  “That you have it. Does it bother you?”

  “It used to, I guess. People would ask me if I had been burned. They thought it was related to my injuries in Iraq. I still get looks and questions, but it doesn’t bother me much now. I mean, after nearly dying twice and losing my wife, loss of skin pigment is kinda irrelevant.”

  “What happened in Iraq?”

  “Man,” he says, making a right turn, “you’re Mr. Inquisitive today. What’s up?”

  “Just wondering. I mean, I’d like to know more about the man who nearly killed me.”

  “The man?” he laughs. “I’m like one of a hundred people who’ve tried to kill you. And I bet I’m the only one who’s apologized.”

  “You’re the only one who survived,” I say, deadpan. It’s not actually true. But it sounds good.

  “It was an RPG, a rocket propelled grenade. I never saw it coming. Lucky I even lived.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say in my best shrink voice. I might as well have said, And how does that make you feel, Mack?

  He shoots a curious look at me. His eyes are glassy, he’s blinking rapidly. Maybe I shouldn’t press.

  “We were on patrol. It was six days after President Bush gave Saddam and his sons a warning to get out of their country.” He pulls into the hotel parking lot and finds a parking space. “We’d been there for a few days. The shock and awe of the start of the war was killing them. There were pinpoint attacks, targeted bombings from the air. We were relentless.”

  “I remember shock and awe,” I tell him.

  He leaves the engine running and unbuckles his seatbelt. “We advanced quickly on the ground, plowing along the Euphrates for more than one hundred and fifty miles.

  “The brass was using the air to our advantage,” he says, his eyes distant now. He’s there, I gather, in the desert. “Saturday night and Sunday morning it was a blitzkrieg. We were hitting them with drones. The Navy and the Air Force were flying hundreds of sorties.”

  “It seemed like we were going to end the war as soon as it started,” I say, trying to engage him. He’s long gone, though, lost in the memory of March 23, 2003.

  “I was in Nasiriya. That’s a city in the southeastern part of the country. It was bad.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was one of the explosives experts in our unit. I had a lot of training in IEDs, nuclear, other weapons of mass destruction. That day we were charged with securing a pair of bridges. One of the bridges was over the Euphrates. The other crossed Saddam Canal. They framed the city from the north and south.

  “We knew we’d face resistance the
re,” he continued. “There was regular Iraqi army, Republican Guard, and Fedayeen all working together. It was a hornet’s nest. But we’re Marines. We poked the nest.”

  “They fought back,” I say as much as ask.

  “They fought,” he nods without looking at me. “A lot of people remember some of the Iraqis surrendering in those early days of the war, so they assume all of the ground troops surrendered. They think the pushback came later, once Al-Qaeda started infiltrating and ISIS grew in strength. That’s not what happened.

  He sighs. “They just kept coming. We got hit with a lot of small arms fire. One of our AAV’s got hit by an RPG first.”

  “What’s an AAV?”

  “Amphibious Assault Vehicle.”

  “Oh.”

  “We were taking so much fire, the medics couldn’t get to us. They couldn’t land a helo. Nothing. We were on our own for a while. We were taking mortar fire. Our position was north of the canal. Communication among the companies was bad. We were in the middle of what became known as Ambush Alley.”

  Mack stops talking and rubs his chin and then his nose. I sit quietly, waiting for him to continue. He blinks a couple of times and inhales deeply through his nose.

  “Even though there was a lot of vegetation along the banks of the river, there wasn’t much cover once we got a couple hundred yards past the water. So when the mortar fire got accurate, starting tagging us pretty bad, we were looking for anything that would help. On one side of the road, there were little drainage ditches and canals. We dove into them and the shells exploded around us. It was wet and marshy, and it smelled like a port-o-john in that ditch. I can’t walk by a construction site without thinking about lying in that ditch, waiting to get blown up.”

  “Is that where you got hit?”

  “No,” he shakes his head. “Others got hit. We loaded them on AAVs and started heading back, trying to get them to an LZ where they could get help. Somebody ordered us to head back south. We got hit again by RPG fire. And then air support came.”