Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read online

  Something’s missing.

  I dig through the bag and find the flash drive attachment that plugs into the iPad, but there’s no drive inserted into it.

  The larger laptop boots up and asks for a password. I punch in twofacedliar. That doesn’t work. Neither does the misogynist expletive I enter next.

  I decide to bypass it. I reboot the computer into Safe Mode with Command Prompt and log in as an administrator. The command prompt appears and I type in net user. A list of Charlie’s computer profiles for the laptop populate the screen.

  There are five of them. I look at their names. The first one is Charlie Corday. I skip it. That’s the profile she’d use when I was around. It’s bound to be innocuous.

  Next is Anne Parillou. Funny. She played the part of Nikita, the female spy, in Luc Besson’s cult favorite.

  I scan down.

  Margaretha Geertruida Zelle. Mata Hari’s real name.

  Judy Bethulia. Her passport identity.

  The last name on the list is the profile I need to search: Emily West.

  She was the indentured servant who, legend has it, “occupied” Mexican General Santa Ana as the Texans prepared for the Battle of San Jacinto. Because of her, supposedly, General Sam Houston’s troops were able to surprise Santa Ana, defeat him, and win Texas’ independence from Mexico.

  She was The Yellow Rose of Texas.

  I type net user, a new master password, and reboot. As the computer revs up again, I get up from the desk and walk to her bedroom. The pine sleigh bed is unmade, its white sheets rumpled onto one side. A yellow comforter is folded at the bottom. The ceiling fan is whirring, the pull chain rapping against the attached light fixture in a rhythm.

  I get down on all fours and look under the bed. There’s nothing. The nightstand next to her bed has a drawer and a cabinet door. The drawer is stuffed with earbuds, Kleenex, and a television remote. In the cabinet there’s a small safe with a combination lock and a key. I try the key first and it turns. It’s unlocked!

  Inside there’s a manila envelope and a flash drive. I toss both of them onto the bed and make my way to her closet. Inside, to the left, there’s a built-in shelf with some of my clothing on it. I pull out a pair of jeans and a Round Rock Express T-shirt. It feels good to change clothing, even without a shower. My sweats find a home balled up in an empty shopping bag on the floor. I grab the bag to dispose of on the street, pick up the drive and the envelope and head back to the computer.

  Sitting at the desk, I pull open the envelope. It’s empty.

  The computer is still humming, but no home page yet. I take the flash drive and slip it into the iPad attachment.

  There’s no code on the iPad, so I hit the icon that opens the drive. The screen fills with a .PDF document labeled Yellow Rose.

  I knew it.

  The first page reads like fiction:

  YELLOW ROSE INITIAL ASSIGNMENT NGTX45617862ATX

  **FOR INTERNAL USE, EYES ONLY**

  --JOB ACQUIRED AS INSTRUCTED, INDENTITY DOCUMENTS AT DROPBOX #4

  --YOU ARE TO DETERMINE EXTENT OF PENETRATION BY TARGET 1 AND EXPLOIT

  --TARGET 1 IS NOT ON *KILL* LIST, BUT CLOSE SURVEILLENCE REQUIRED

  --DAILY REPORT ON TARGET 1 MANDATORY THROUGH TYPICAL SECURE CHANNEL

  --FAMILIARIZE TARGET 2 **NOT PRIORITY**

  --GATHER INTEL TARGET 3 AS INSTRUCTED THROUGH UPDATES

  --SEE DROPBOX #3 FOR UPDATES. NOTIFICATIONS THROUGH JOINT ACCOUNT

  Scrolling down, I see a series of photographs. Target two is Roswell Ripley, Jr. Target three is my boss, the Governor.

  Target one is me.

  It’s a picture of me sipping a McDonald’s coffee, walking up Congress toward the Capitol. It’s at least six months old.

  There are schematics of my apartment, my office, Ripley’s office, the Governor’s mansion and his offices in the Capitol. There are phone numbers, bank account numbers, lists of restaurants I frequent. My taste in movies and music reads like the questionnaire next to the centerfold in a Playboy magazine.

  Trying not to freak out, I put down the iPad and log into the desktop.

  Notifications through joint account.

  I go to the desktop and click on Internet Explorer. The home page pops up for a search engine. My guess is the search engine is also her email provider. I double click the email function. The email loads. The account is [email protected]. That’s probably not it, but I scan her inbox, sent items, deleted folder, and saved mail to be safe. I find nothing. I click the TOOLS icon on the top right of the screen. There’s an option for ADDITIONAL ACCOUNTS. I click it and the screen repopulates with an account called [email protected].

  Excited, I quickly click through her emails sent and received and find nothing. Her saved email box is empty. It’s like a dummy account or something.

  I find the folder marked UNSENT and click it.

  It’s a gold mine.

  In the folder, I find a series of at least twenty unsent emails, each one revealing the progression of Charlie’s operation. It appears from the language, every other email is from Charlie to someone overseeing her activities. The alternating messages are replies from that someone.

  I randomly click one of them to read it more closely.

  RE: NGTX45617862ATX

  --TARGET 3 UNCOOPERATIVE

  --REASSESSING TARGET 3

  --TARGET 1 INTEL BEING INVESTIGATED

  --PREP FOR HOUSTON ASSIGNMENT, SEE ATTACHED PHOTO

  --MAKE CONTACT WITH OPERATIONAL PARTNER

  --RESPOND BY 0600 WITH UPDATE

  There’s an attached image labeled DiscGreen. It’s an aerial photograph of what looks like the park near the convention center in downtown Houston; Discovery Green. That’s where Buell was shot.

  The next email is from Charlie.

  RE: NGTX45617862ATX

  --TARGET 1 NO LONGER ACQUIRED. EFFORTING

  --TARGET 3 REASSESS CONFIRMED

  --OPERATIONAL PARTNER IN LOOP

  --HOUSTON ASSIGNMENT PREP ACKNOWLEDGE

  She’s clearly referring to my disappearance, to Ripley’s designating as persona-non-grata, and that Crockett was in the picture. She must have worked with him on the Buell shooting. Reassess must be code for kill. I look at another email from her handler.

  RE: NGTX45617862ATX

  --YELLOW ROSE ACKNOWLEDGE

  --URGENT ACKNOWLEDGE

  --REASSESS URGENT

  She’s out of the loop. They want her to check in.

  I go back to her unsent folder and see there’s another email chain.

  I skip to the last email and notice it’s dated this morning.

  RE: WILTEDROSE

  --ACKNOWLEDGE TARGET 3 ACQUISITION AND TERMINATION

  --ACKNOWLEDGE REAQUISTION OF TARGET 1, CONSIDER REASSESSMENT

  --REASSESS TARGET 2, ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT OF ATTACHMENT ASAP

  --RETRIEVE NEEDED DOCUMENTS DROP #4

  Wilted Rose? I have no clue what it means. All the notes in this chain are within the last twenty-four hours and are headlined RE: WILTEDROSE. Maybe it signals a change in assignment. Maybe she never checked in? Doesn’t really matter, but there’s a series of photographs attached to the email. All of them are different shots of the same building. Three of them show exterior views and two of them are of the interior. I vaguely recognize the building but can’t quite place it.

  I copy one of the photographs to the computer’s desktop and insert it into an image search online.

  It’s the public television station in Austin.

  The location for the debate tonight.

  Crockett’s still alive and he’s going to kill the Governor.

  Chapter 13

  I’m staring at that last email on the screen, holding George’s cell phone to my ear. “George, where are you?”

  “I’m at the station, downloading the video off of your phone. It’s almost too good to be true!” He sounds giddy. “I mean, the Governor is on camera, in somebody’s private jet
, baring his soul to you. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Have you shared it with anyone yet?”

  “Not yet. It’s taking forever to dump this stuff from the phone onto my computer’s hard drive. I’ve got to get it onto the newsroom server and transfer the video I shot on that camera. You know, Ripley and Charlie. It’ll be a little while.”

  “So, you’re not airing it.”

  “I am airing it,” he says. “Of course I am airing it. When I am sure it’s usable video, I’m showing it to my news director and the executive producer. They’ll want to air it. Are you kidding me?”

  “When do you think you’d put all of this on television?” I’m trying to process how this new development, the one I should have seen coming, is going to affect everything. I didn’t take him for the jerk he apparently is.

  “I dunno,” he says. “Maybe tonight at ten. That would be my hope. I mean, really, Jackson, can you believe this? The story of my life fell into my lap because of you. I’m going to win all kinds of awards with this stuff.”

  My world is collapsing, people are dead, and he’s talking about plaques and Lucite trophies. This is why people hate television news.

  “You can’t air it,” I plead. “Not yet.” I hadn’t thought he’d be so quick to share it with his bosses. Sir Spencer was right. I can’t really trust anyone when everyone has their own self-interest in mind.

  “Riiight,” George laughs. “We have the Governor admitting to payoffs from the oil industry, denouncing the secessionist movement on which he’s built a great deal of his campaign, and essentially calling his opponent a liar capable of conspiracy and murder. I can’t not air that! Furthermore, I’ve got Ripley on camera talking about his science stuff on camera. Not to mention the video I’ve got of Charlie confessing something about Buell’s involvement as she died. I mean, all of this, when it’s put together, it’s unreal. I can’t let this sit!”

  “George, the Governor’s life is in danger. If you air this stuff, it gets him killed for sure.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he says. “It saves his life! If someone wants him dead, and this airs, nobody will touch him. I’d love to put this on the air after the debate tonight. The timing couldn’t be better.”

  “You’re going to need to get reaction from the Governor’s camp and from Buell before you air it right?” I ask. “It’s Buell who wants him dead. The hit’s supposed to happen at the debate. This really screws up everything.”

  “Not necessarily. We can ask certain questions without revealing we have video. It’s like we’re fishing.”

  “The Governor knows you were on that plane,” I remind him. “He may be a narcissistic money grubbing pig, but he’s not stupid. The Pickle guys still want us dead. Buell could want us dead at any moment. You put yourself at risk. You put me at risk. The only people not trying to kill us right now are on the Governor’s side. Do we want to jeopardize that? Nobody else is going to get this stuff. Can’t you hold it?”

  George doesn’t say anything.

  “George?” I press. “After the last two days, you’re now abandoning me? You’re putting the story first?”

  “Okay,” he sighs. “Here’s the deal. You knew I was always in this for the story, Jackson. That’s all this was. I wouldn’t risk my life for anything other than that. You should have known. I’m not a spy or a mercenary. I don’t do guns. I put up with it for the get. Now I’ve got it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask. “Is this a joke?”

  “Jackson,” he says. I can hear his leg thumping against his desk in the background. “For a smart guy, who’s kind of a badass, you’re unbelievably naïve.”

  “How naïve is this, George? Consider the fact that when your big get airs, we’ll both be hauled in for questioning after the trail of bodies we left behind. It doesn’t matter Sir Spencer had it cleaned up. If he had it cleaned up.”

  George remained silent.

  “You’ve got at least some of the carnage on camera, George. When you air the video of Charlie confessing whatever it was she confessed, it’s proof we were at the scene of a deadly accident and left without calling the cops. You’ve got video of a missing scientist whose body we dumped onto the side of the road. If Sir Spencer did clean up Ripley’s body, he’ll still be considered missing. There’ll be questions to answer there, George. We’ll be charged with, at the very least, leaving the scene of an accident, if not something more criminal. How good are your station’s attorneys? Will your boss foot the bill?”

  He still says nothing.

  “George?”

  “Fine,” he sulks. “I can hold it for now.” True reporter. He’s all guts and glory until he needs guts for the glory. “I’m not sitting on this forever.”

  “Thanks. Hold it until I get back to you. When I’m ready, you can air whatever you want.”

  “What about the Governor? You said someone wants him dead now. Do you have any leads?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?” He expects I’m going to help him now. Unreal.

  “Does your station have a reporter at the debate?”

  “We have a crew there. Our political reporter is on the panel. She’s there with a photographer.”

  “I’ll consider tipping her off when I see her.” I hang up.

  ***

  I pointed to where I’d hidden the lever action rifle, standing several feet away from the shed. I’d tried to get the gun myself, but the officers stopped me.

  One of them stood behind me, his thick hands on my shoulders, holding me in place while his partner crouched in front of the gap underneath the shed. He reached into the space, slid out the rifle, and held it up as he stood.

  “This it?” he asked, checking the safety. “This your gun?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Speak up,” the officer behind me said, squeezing his mitts. “Is that your weapon?”

  “Yes,” I whimpered. “It’s mine.”

  “Is it loaded?” the officer holding the gun asked. “Did you put bullets into it?”

  I shook my head, sniffing back the snot running from my nose.

  “Speak up.” Another squeeze on my shoulders.

  “No!: I shouted. “I didn’t load it!”

  The officer holding the weapon unscrewed the spring loaded magazine beneath the barrel and checked for ammunition. Then he checked the bolt. He looked at the buttstock of the rifle and ran his thumb across it. He stared at it for a minute, his eyebrows squeezed together as though he was confused.

  “What’s this mean?” he asks, walking toward me with the buttstock facing me. “Who’s Hank?”

  On the buttstock was the nickname I’d scrawled into the wood with a buck knife. HANK was written in a cross between print and cursive. It was only legible because there were four letters. After I’d done it, my dad had taken a lighter and burned the etching so it blackened.

  “It’s the rifle,” I told him, tears streaming down my cheeks.

  “I don’t get it,” said the meat clawed officer behind me.

  “It’s a Henry Lever Action Rifle,” I sniffled between gasps for air. “Hank is short for Henry. My dad gave me the gun. I named it ‘cause it’s mine now.”

  “Not for much longer,” said the cop behind me. “That gun’s evidence. We’re gonna hold on to it for you and your dad.” There was condescension laced with disgust in his voice.

  “C’mon,” said the other officer. “We’ve got to get you back to the school. When your parents get here, we’ll take you down to the station.”

  “You’re arresting me?” I squeaked.

  “Nobody said that,” the first officer, the one holding my gun, was trying to keep me calm. He understood I was a stupid, frustrated kid at the end of his rope. He knew the gun wasn’t loaded. “You have to understand this is very serious, Jackson.”

  I did understand. I was terrified about the consequences as much as I was angry at myself for letting the bully get the better of me. Loxley was the instigator.
He’d tortured me for months. Now he was getting a slap on the wrist and I was about to get expelled and have a dark blotch stain my permanent record.

  The officers were walking me up the slight rise to the front of the school when I saw the assistant principal hurrying through the twin metal doors at the entrance. He was moving like those speed walkers who swing their hips unnaturally, to gain speed without running. Something was wrong, something other than my imminent academic demise.

  The officers didn’t notice it, I don’t think. They were talking to each other about the amount of paperwork about to be required of them, despite their shift ending. One of them had a date. The other one mentioned having to call his wife to “advise her he was detained”.

  The vice principal approached, out of breath as he spoke, and their attentions turned from their lives to mine.

  “We’ve gotten a phone call,” he said, beads of sweat blooming on his wide forehead.

  “And?” the married officer asked. “What about it?”

  The assistant principal put his hands on his knees. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to catch my breath. I didn’t want to say any of this inside.”

  “Who called?” asked the other officer, the one holding my gun.

  “It was one of your colleagues,” he answered after letting out a deep breath through his mouth. “He knew you were here. He wanted me to tell you there’s been a horrible accident.”

  “What kind of accident?” the married officer asked, a worried look on his face.

  The assistant principal glanced at me for a split second and avoided eye contact. I knew it involved my parents. He didn’t want to tell me, but he had no choice. He had to be the bearer of bad news.

  “Um,” he said without looking at me, “a car accident. A bad one. It happened maybe twenty minutes ago. I think two or three cars were involved. I’m not sure. The officer said it involved… involved Jackson’s parents.”