Hidden Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 21

  “So they helped you get out?”

  “No. They fired on us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A-10s,” he says flatly. “Warthogs. Somebody thought we were the enemy. We were heading south. There was so much confusion, so little communication, air support saw our convoy and thought we were Iraqis. They strafed us. In the confusion of it all, we took more RPG fire. My AAV got hit.”

  “That’s how you lost your leg?”

  “Basically,” he says, unconsciously grabbing his knee and rubbing it. “I mean, I got lucky. Eighteen Marines died that day.”

  “How many were injured?”

  “I don’t know. The numbers aren’t accurate. There are so many different versions of that day.”

  “How’d they get you out of there?”

  “I don’t remember. I was unconscious. Sometimes it feels like I never got out.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I never served my country in war. I’ve never been on foreign soil, fighting for democracy. My battles have been self-serving, self-preserving.

  He laughs.

  “What?”

  “They say that history is written by the victors,” he opines.

  “Winston Churchill said that.”

  “Whoever said it, they were only partially right.”

  “How so?”

  “The victors write like a million versions of what happened. Then somebody who probably wasn’t even there takes the juiciest bits and pieces and it becomes the gospel.”

  “You think?”

  “Look at what’s going on with you, Jackson. You’re not winning right now, and all of the media types are writing your history for you. Shoot,” he laughs, “with the way the internet works now, I’m not sure there’s even one history anymore.”

  “You’re not making sense to me.”

  “It’s just as well.” He pulls on the door handle to get out. “I’m just some crazy, one-legged black man with a question mark on his face.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Yep. That’s my history unless we do something about it.” He swings his leg around and gets out of the car. He pokes his head back in and stares at me. “We gonna do something about it?”

  ***

  I can’t quantify or accurately describe the level of awkwardness in our dank hotel room when Liho Blogis walks through the door.

  It’s five o’clock in the evening. There’s the orange light of early dusk beaming through the courtyard window as the sun sinks below the hotel roof opposite our room. The colony of dust dancing in the air makes me want to hold my breath.

  Blogis strides past the three of us and sits on the edge of the bed without introducing himself to Bella or Mack.

  “You’ve been watching this?” he points at the warped flat screen television in front of him tuned to cable news coverage of our escapades. “They just made the connection to our skirmish on the Metro.”

  He finds the remote and turns up the volume. The three of us are still standing near the door, dumbfounded.

  “These surveillance cameras are everywhere,” he says, looking over at us. “Am I right? And the quality… wow! I can see you need to shave, Jackson. The picture is so crystal clear.”

  Vickie Lupo is on the screen, pointing her pencil at the camera, her overly mascaraed lashes batting in Morse code.

  “Now this band of marauders is out of control,” she spits. “I mean, this Jackson Quick fellow, who we’ve learned from federal law enforcement sources is really named Jackson Ellsworth, is dangerous to all of us.”

  My photograph is in a graphically enhanced square over her shoulder. At the bottom, it reads, “Serial Killer?”

  “We know he’s the same man who had no compunction about opening fire on live television during the last Texas gubernatorial debate. There are reports he was suspected of assault in South Dakota. Interpol had concerns he might have been connected to violence in the U.K., Ukraine, and Germany.”

  Blogis turns to look at me and offers a thumbs-up. I can feel Bella and Mack staring at me from behind.

  “How is it that someone who is best described as a serial killer walks around like nothing’s happened? For an answer to that question, we turn to our law enforcement analyst and former second in command at the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Bernard Francis. He now runs the private sector security and information firm Wignock Homeland Intelligence Group.”

  The screen changes to reveal the guest on the right side of the screen. Lupo’s image slides to the left.

  “Thank you for having me, Vickie,” says Francis. He’s a distinguished man with a smile far too kind for the kind of work he likely did in his former life. “Always good to speak with you.”

  “We don’t have time for this.” I reach across Blogis for the remote but he grabs it before I get to it.

  “Yes we do,” he says. “It’s not as though you can go out for a jog right now.”

  “Quick is a unique case, Vickie,” he says. “Here’s a seemingly normal kid who’s working for the Governor of Texas. Then he ends up trying to stop the assassination of his boss’s political opponent. He kills that assassin, a man named Crockett. And then he disappears for more than a year.”

  “Well,” Lupo interrupts, “let’s be clear, Bernard. Most people suspect that it was Jackson Quick who provided the damning video evidence that ultimately led to the governor’s conviction and lengthy incarceration. So he didn’t fall off the face of the Earth.”

  “No.” Francis smiles widely. “You’re correct, Vickie. He didn’t. But he did lay low for quite some time. Then his image was recorded on a city bus in San Antonio. Three people were killed. Jackson Quick was the only one to walk off the bus alive.”

  “So much for the normal kid,” Lupo interjects.

  “True,” says Francis. “But let me postulate something here that might upset some people.”

  “Please,” says Lupo, eyes widening at the prospect of ratings gold. “Go ahead, Bernard.”

  “What was it that forced this normal kid to become a killer?” He leans into the camera, measuring his theory carefully before uttering it into the microphone on his lapel. “I suggest, contrary to what most law enforcement believes, he is the victim here.”

  “How so?” Lupo almost explodes, slapping her hands flat on her desk. “He’s a killer. We’ve got a reporter, among others, killed in Houston. Two people, a couple in jogging clothes, are murdered on the subway in our nation’s capital. The good Lord knows how many bodies he left in his wake across Europe.”

  “Let me just suggest,” he raises his hands as an animal trainer would to a crazed lion about to pounce, “he is defending himself.”

  “That’s absurd, Bernard.” Lupo rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry here. I respect you. I really do. But—”

  “Ask yourself this, Vickie,” Bernard is still smiling, “why would he try to heroically save a man’s life on live television, kill random people on a bus eighteen months later, and then, after causing havoc across three countries, come back here to kill a friend of his?”

  “You’re suggesting George Townsend was his friend?”

  “We know they were acquainted,” says Francis. “As you said, most suspect it was Quick’s video that put the governor away and gave Townsend a tremendous story. Townsend has publicly praised Quick’s bravery in the past.”

  “Go on,” says Lupo, somewhat tamed.

  “And you’ve forgotten the connection to Bella Buell.” Francis is gaining steam. “Her father was killed on live television, she takes over his company, now she’s a cold blooded killer? A Bonnie to Quick’s Clyde?”

  “There it is,” Bella snipes from behind me. “I was waiting for that.”

  “I would say so,” says Lupo. “Or maybe he’s got her under his control. Maybe she’s not with him of her o
wn free will.”

  “That’s enough!” Bella charges Blogis. “Give me the remote.”

  “Hold on now.” Blogis holds up his hands, the remote in one of them, then slides off the bed. “This is not only entertaining theatre,” he says, backing into the mini-refrigerator, “it’s also important we learn what they know. Consider this counter-intelligence.”

  Bella searches for the power button on the television, running her hands along the bezel like she’s giving it a TSA pat down. She can’t find it.

  “Now that we’ve heard the fringe theorist on this,” Lupo sneers from her bully pulpit, “let’s get a sane perspective from the always level-headed Dillinger Holt. He’s a reporter with the popular beltway website Plausible Deniability Dot Com.”

  “All right,” Blogis points the remote at the television. “I can’t handle that blowhard. We’ve done enough recon.” He turns it off.

  “Finally,” huffs Bella. “I can only handle so much.” She walks back to the other side of the room, near Mack. He hasn’t moved since Blogis sauntered into our space. He hasn’t said much at all, really, since our conversation in the car.

  “We’ve been watching,” I say, moving a step closer to Blogis. “We know there’s more heat on us than before.”

  “You!” he points at me. “The heat’s on you. They don’t know who I am.”

  “There’s heat on you,” I remind him. “Your investors. They’re applying every bit as much heat as any federal agent could. I’m going to guess your friends don’t care about Miranda rights or due process. Am I right?”

  Blogis sits on the edge of the bed. He shifts his weight and leans back on his elbows, crumpling one of the large Brookhaven diagrams with his weight.

  “So Jackson tells me you’re on board,” Bella says. “Whatever that means.” She shoots me a look before her eyes dart back to our guest.

  “It means I like the terms of our agreement,” he says. He pushes down on his forearms, bounces forward on the bed, and stands up.

  “And what is that?” Bella’s question is for both Blogis and me.

  “I want the process,” he says. “My investors want the process. Your boy here tells me you can get it.”

  “He said that, did he?” Bella doesn’t look at me this time. Her arms are folded in front of her. She’s clearly irritated that we’re now allied with three men who neither of us trust. She knows it is a necessary evil.

  “Are we not on the same page here?” One of his eyebrows arcs higher than the other. He looks at Bella, shifts his gaze to me for a moment, and returns to Bella.

  “We’re good,” I say. “I’ve told him, with a little help from his network of computer experts, we can get into Brookhaven. We believe we know where a duplicate of the process exists. We’ll provide it for a price.”

  “What’s the price?” Mack’s first words in a while.

  “Oh!!” Blogis seems intrigued I haven’t discussed that with my partners. “Are we suffering from a lack of communication here?”

  “No,” Bella steps in. “Like Jackson said, we’re good.”

  “So then you know my payment to you, other than leaving you alone in perpetuity, is offing the man who keeps sending sour Pickles your way.”

  Mack bites his lower lip and nods. “How will you do that? He’s in prison.”

  “Please,” Blogis waves him off. “It’s because it’s a prison, I tell you I can do it without equivocation.”

  “You can’t get into Brookhaven.” Mack takes a couple of steps. “So tell me how you’ll kill the governor.”

  “You tell me how you’re getting into Brookhaven,” Blogis snaps, “I’ll tell you how I will take care of Jackson’s predator.”

  “Do we need to get our rulers?” Bella asks. Neither man knows how to respond, so she ends the Mexican standoff. “The truth is none of us trust each other. We’ve all taken shots at one another. But if we want to achieve our goals, we’ve got to work together. So get over yourselves and understand if there’s any double-crossing or back-stabbing, I’ll put a bullet in you.”

  “I’m turned on now,” Blogis laughs. “Mr. Ellsworth, you’ve got yourself quite the woman.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I say, offering my smile to Bella. She smiles back. We’re good.

  ***

  Despite what some might tell you, there’s only one proven photo of Billy The Kid. It’s a tintype of William Bonney, taken around 1879 outside of a saloon in New Mexico. He’s wearing a crumpled hat, a long-sleeved sweater, some worn boots, and baggy pants. The infamous outlaw is holding a Winchester rifle in one hand and a Colt .45 on his hip. His crooked smile is unforced and genuine.

  It is a famous photograph, published in newspapers even before Billy The Kid was shot and killed less than two years later. Still, most wanted posters had just a sketch of him or, more commonly, a description of his five-foot-three inch, one hundred and twenty-five pound frame.

  I’m not living in the late nineteenth century. This isn’t the Old West. My face is everywhere. It’s on television, on websites, and it’s trending on social media. There’s even a hashtag—#QuicklyFindQuick—that cable news outlets have branded on the bottom left of their breaking news coverage. Neither Frank and Jesse James nor Bonnie and Clyde had that.

  I’m public enemy number one, it would seem. And except for some former FBI suit, everyone thinks I’m a dangerous serial killer. That makes my job a little bit more difficult.

  It would be tough enough to break into Brookhaven draped in a cloak of anonymity. Now, it seems all the more impossible. Before we even get to the lab, we have to get three hundred miles north.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Blogis says. “We’ll get you two different cars. You’ll be a target in no time in that rental car.”

  Within an hour there are a pair of black Chevy Suburbans parked at the side exit of the hotel. Bella and I take one of them, while Mack and Blogis take the other.

  “I’m only with you for a few city blocks,” he says, holding onto the outside of the SUV, his foot planted on the running board like George Washington crossing the Delaware.

  “I’ll have someone from my team meet you in New York,” he says. “I’ll text you the meet details. That’ll be your hacker. I won’t see you again until you deliver what you’ve promised.”

  “And the payment?” I ask, my door still open.

  “It’ll happen,” he promises and drops into the SUV, slamming the door shut behind him. Mack pulls out ahead of us and motors down the street into the darkness. Once his taillights blur and disappear, I accelerate in the opposite direction.

  It’s a five hour drive from Washington to Upton, New York. Driving at night should make it easier, and allow for us to get fewer looks on the road.

  Most of the trip will be up I-95. We’ll drive through Baltimore, past Wilmington, Delaware, and the outskirts of Philadelphia. We’ll hang a right at Teaneck, New York and head east on Long Island.

  “You have your new burner?” Bella asks me, checking the signal on hers. “And you gave the number to Blogis?”

  “Yes.” I make a right and slow behind a motorcycle puttering along at the posted speed limit. “He’s got it.”

  “I still don’t know about this,” Bella says, turning down the fan on the air conditioning. “We’re playing a ridiculously dangerous game, Jackson.”

  “How so?”

  “Really?” she punches my right thigh. “Don’t play stupid. You’re trying to run two parallel deals here. It could blow up in your face.”

  “I know that.” I do. There’s a point at which my luck has to run out, right? Maybe it already has. “I don’t know what else to do. This is my best shot, Bella.”

  “How does this play out?” She folds her arms across her chest. “Walk me through it.”

  “First we have to get to New York. Then we steal the process
.”

  “That’s a big leap from step one to step two. I need to know what’s going on in that head of yours. Since we left California, I haven’t felt a connection. I’m trying. But—”

  “A connection? What is this? The Bachelorette? I don’t get what that has to do with anything.”

  “Lord, you are dense sometimes. We’re a team. But you keep trying to treat this like it’s you against the world. It’s like I’m a tagalong or something.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I shake my head and merge onto the interstate. “I never—”

  “You don’t have to say anything; it’s obvious. You make all of these decisions without asking. You run off by yourself at critical times. At least twice, you’d be dead if it weren’t for me.”

  “Look, I know you saved my life. More than once. I know that.”

  “You have to open up,” she says, apparently stealing a page from my shrink. “If we’re going to make this work, you need to trust me as much as you want me to trust you.”

  “Are we talking about us here? Or are we talking about this scheme I’ve concocted?”

  “There is no us, Jackson,” she chides, “if we don’t make it through this scheme. So no, I’m not talking about us, right now. That’s a conversation for much later.”

  I stay in the right lane and set the Suburban’s cruise control at one mile below the speed limit.

  “So fill me in. I need to know how this is going to go down once we’ve miraculously recovered the process.” She adjusts the seatbelt and leans back in her seat, propping her feet on the dash. She’s in for the long haul.

  I tell her my plan to play both sides of the proverbial fence, explaining why we can get both men to a single location after we have the process.

  Neither of us is convinced that we’ve fooled either Sir Spencer or Blogis. For all we know, they’re working together and we’re the odd-men out. We can’t worry about that, we decide. We have to act as though we have the upper hand.

  “Best case,” she says, “we survive this, the world forgets about us, and we live happily ever after on some island. Sir Spencer and Blogis get their just desserts. Mack finds happiness somewhere with someone.”