Mohammed was nothing if not patient. He controlled his breathing and scanned the well lit parking lot for witnesses as he waited. It was only a minute or two before the elderly pet owner stepped away towards her building.
The assassin breathed deeply and shrugged his shoulders. It was time.
He pulled the black ski mask over his face, leaving only his dark eyes showing under the wool fabric.
He strode quickly to Apartment 113 and took a deep breath as he withdrew a leather pouch from the pocket of his black sweatpants. He drew a small metal lock pick from the pouch and quickly opened the single deadbolt of the apartment door.
Too easy, he thought to himself as he opened the door and stepped into the darkened apartment. He stepped onto the carpet of the apartment's floor and recalled its layout from the complex's internet advertisement.
The two bedrooms lay across from the living and dining area through a small hallway.
He took a deep breath and switched on a black flashlight as he stepped through the apartment and into the master bedroom. Inside, snuggled comfortably together in the soft recesses of the queen size bed was a completely unexpected discovery.
A sleeping woman and child lay in the dark of night, sound asleep.
He cleared his throat loudly, and the woman stirred as he shined the beam of his flashlight into her surprised brown eyes and pointed a silenced Berretta at her head.
"Wake up."
The woman's eyes opened almost immediately. "Don't scream, or I shoot you both;" he said simply.
Chapter 8:
7:00 AM- Saturday, September 9th
Sumner, VA
Jackson's eyes flickered open as he awakened from his first dreamless sleep in years. He found himself lying flat on his back, his head throbbing. He was staring at a too clean white tile ceiling.
He rolled to his side weakly and searched for the source of a soft beeping coming from somewhere nearby. His eyes followed the soft melody to a large white computer that stood on a metal cart and displayed Jackson's heart rate and blood pressure. He lifted the thin white sheet that covered his lower body. He was wearing a hospital gown.
"What the fuck?" He rolled onto his back and sat up, propping himself up on two white hospital pillows.
Like most men, Jackson avoided hospitals at all costs. He searched his memory thoroughly, but couldn't recall how he had ended up here. Granted, Jackson was a man accustomed to waking up in strange places. A strange woman's bedroom, the drunk tank, even a park would have been acceptable and explainable locations for Jackson to awaken. In fact, he would have preferred any of the former to the hospital.
He frowned. He would have preferred a ditch to the fucking hospital.
"What the fuck?" He repeated as he pressed his head against the thin hospital pillows behind him and began to plot his escape from the disinfectant and death scented prison that held him captive.
The push button, thought Jackson, frantically searching the too clean sheets of his hospital bed. His right hand soon came up with a small hand-held device with a large red button.
"Anybody home?" He wondered aloud as he pressed the button.
He released the button and lay back, his gaze shifting to the nearby window as he searched his mind for answers. The last thing he remembered was riding in to the chemical storage facility. After that, his mind was blank.
He sighed. Hopefully the staff could answer some questions.
Jackson heard the door to his room swing open and a black haired nurse in green scrubs emerged from behind the curtain that hid Jackson from view.
"Good morning, Sugar" said the 40-something nurse, "The doctor is on his way. How are you doing?"
"I'm OK", Jackson replied. "How did I get here?"
"Sweetie" countered the pretty nurse, her southern Virginia drawl revealing itself for the first time, "the doctor will explain everything in a moment."
As if on cue, the doctor bustled into Jackson's hospital room, his white lab coat matching the small amount of hair that still clung to his rapidly balding head. The white haired neurologist pulled the chart from the foot of Jackson's bed, quickly poring over the information that it contained as he greeted Jackson with a quick nod.
The brunette nurse stood at the bedside, awaiting the doctor's instructions.
The doctor was much more businesslike than the nurse had been, but his question to Jackson was the same. "Good morning, Mr. Pike. I'm Doctor Sanders. How are you feeling?"
Frustrated, Jackson replied, "I've been better. How did I get here?"
The doctor began to examine Jackson, shining a small metal flashlight in his eyes before responding, "We were hoping you could tell us that, Mr. Pike."
He tucked Jackson's chart beneath his left arm and proceeded to check Jackson's reflexes. "A passing motorist saw you collapse along the side of the interstate and called an ambulance."
The doctor continued. "The ambulance brought you here to Memorial Hospital where we stitched up that gash on your head and diagnosed you with a severe concussion. You've been unconscious since you arrived yesterday afternoon."
"I don't remember any of that," responded the confused Jackson.
The doctor replied, "I'm not surprised, Mr. Pike. With the type of injury that you sustained, short term memory loss is not uncommon. In many cases, memories of the events preceding this type of injury come back after several days. Sometimes, however, patients never regain their memory of the events which precipitate these types of injuries. Only time will tell."
"When can I get out of here?" Jackson responded, visually searching the hospital room for his clothing.
"Your vitals are stable, and you seem lucid" replied the physician. "I'd like to do a few more tests, and schedule a follow up. But, legally speaking, you are free to go at any time."
"In that case, Doc," said Jackson, "I'm getting out of here now."
Jackson swung his legs to the side of the bed, his feet touching the cold marble floor of the hospital for the first time. His head was still spinning as he adjusted to his new, upright position.
"Very well, Mr. Pike" responded the doctor. He continued "Nurse, will you please bring Mr. Pike his clothing?"
The brunette turned and walked to the closet on the opposite side of the hospital room, her white sneakers making nary a sound on the marble floor as she grabbed Jackson's still damp clothes from the closet.
She handed the items to Jackson, her drawl like honey, "Here you are, Mr. Pike."
With that, both the brunette nurse and the aging doctor walked from Jackson's room.
Jackson stood unsteadily and unfolded his damp clothing. "What the fuck?" He said for the third time as he sniffed at his jeans and t-shirt, both of which smelled suspiciously like river water. Despite being somewhat disoriented, it took Jackson less than a minute before he stepped unsteadily from the edge of his hospital bed towards the pale wooden door of his room.
Outside of Jackson's room, the brunette nurse had been replaced by a teenage male orderly who awaited Jackson with a wheelchair.
"Hospital policy" said the young blonde orderly, obviously accustomed to people wishing to refuse his services.
Jackson sat begrudgingly in the sagging black seat of the leather and metal wheelchair. The young orderly wheeled him to the front desk of the hospital. Anxious to get home, Jackson handed the chubby female receptionist his identification and address for "further billing" and pointed the orderly towards the exit.
With the hospital's all important billing step now complete, the orderly wheeled Jackson outside via the sliding glass doors of the waiting room and into the cool morning air.
The sun was warm on Jackson's face as the two stepped into the outside air. An acrid smell and thin cloud of smoke pervaded the outside air as Jackson was wheeled to the front of the emergency room. The orderly handed Jackson a surgical mask as his nostrils began to sting.
"For the chemicals," said the orderly as he pushed Jackson towards the taxi stand.
J
ackson turned towards the young blonde man, "What chemicals?" He asked suspiciously.
The orderly pointed into the distance towards the north of town, near the river. Over the nearby tree line Jackson could clearly see a thick black column of smoke. "Chemical depot burned down last night. The news is telling everyone to remain indoors or wear the masks until further notice."
Jackson nodded and tucked the mask into the pocket of his still damp leather jacket. The chemical depot, Jackson repeated in his mind. The chemical depot had burned down. Jackson searched his memory.
Had he been there?
He wished he knew.
Lucky for Jackson, several taxis waited outside of the hospital for customers on this quiet Saturday morning. Since he had no idea where his beloved Harley was, he would have to take a cab home as he tried to piece together what had happened the day before.
Jackson stepped from the wheelchair and pulled a twenty dollar bill from the pocket of his jeans, handing it to the orderly.
"I can't accept that, sir." The young man said, shaking his head.
Jackson just smiled and tucked the twenty into the young man's shirt pocket before he walked away. He opened the passenger door of the first taxi he came to and stepped in, sitting down on the soft gray fabric of the taxi's back seat, his still damp clothing squishing as he made himself comfortable.
"714 Halsey Drive in Sumner, please," said Jackson.
The taxi driver pulled the yellow vehicle ahead. The man seemed to understand by Jackson's tone of voice and general condition that he should forgo the requisite chit-chat and get his customer home.
As Jackson sat in the back of the awkwardly silent taxi, his mind sought answers, and his head continued to ache.
He unscrewed the lid of the Vicodin bottle tucked in the left pocket of his motorcycle Jacket. Unfortunately, he mused, childproof bottles were not necessarily waterproof, and he gagged slightly as the soggy white pill lodged in his throat.
Jackson searched his memory.
The last thing he could remember from the day before was driving across the bridge over the Sumner River towards his former employer.
He had been on his way to pick up his paycheck.
His hands searched his pockets for the check but came up empty. He slid down the taxi's cloth seat and leaned his head heavily against the backrest. The Vicodin was beginning to have its desired effect. He sighed heavily as his pupils dilated and his breathing became shallow.
Jackson remembered crossing the bridge over the lazy Sumner River the day before. After that, his memory was blank.
While Jackson was no stranger to drunken blackouts and the loss of hours of time from his memory, the lack of a simple explanation for these hours of missing time bothered the former SEAL.
He stared out the window of the cab as the picturesque town that he called home passed by. Sumner was an historic town, and as Jackson's mind attempted to unravel the mystery of his head injury, the taxi passed down the old town's cobblestone streets, passing the aged brick buildings and tree lined streets of the picturesque community without coming to a red light.
Jackson was grateful that the taxi arrived at his home as quickly as it did. He was looking forward to a fresh Budweiser and a shower.
He paid the cab driver with a stack of still wet bills and stepped from the cab. He shook his head as he walked towards the front door of his home, his feet sloshing in his steel-toed boots.
Chapter 9:
8:00 AM- Saturday, September 9th
Sumner, VA
The customers pushed through the glass double doors relentlessly. The line only seemed to get longer as the morning progressed.
Julie Page exhaled loudly, and flicked her long brown hair from her face as she set a steaming paper coffee cup down on the wooden counter of the coffee shop much too harshly. The contents sloshed from the plastic lid and landed on the soft skin of her right hand.
"Shit." She said under her breath, before calling the name she had printed messily on the cardboard beverage cup. "Stacy," she called out loudly, "tall non-fat white mocha."
Almost thoughtlessly, she licked the spilled coffee from her hand before she rinsed it in the cool water of the nearby sink. She turned around, only to be facing another customer.
Her eyes shifted to the video camera that panned across the lanes of the drive through. As she expected, there were no less than three vehicles awaiting service.
Her morning just kept getting worse. Not only was the coffee shop busier than ever, but the other barista hadn't shown up yet, leaving her to deal with the onslaught of caffeine starved customers all alone.
She couldn't believe that Leigh hadn't made it to work yet.
Saying she was pissed at her colleague would have been an understatement. Julie was livid. Leigh knew how busy the coffee shop tended to get on the weekends, and she hadn't even called to tell Julie that she was running late.
Julie held up a finger to the customer waiting in front of the cash register and turned to peer out of the drive through window.
"Grande black coffee, that'll be 2.37." She passed the impatient looking man in a black truck his coffee as he handed her a five dollar bill. She quickly made change and handed it to him through the sliding glass window.
He didn't leave a tip.
As she turned back to the customer waiting at the counter, Julie dialed Leigh's phone number for the fourth time this morning. It rang five times before going to voicemail. She sighed heavily and pressed end on her phone before walking to the counter.
This wasn't like Leigh.
Julie tucked her phone into her pocket and took the order of the gentleman who stood in front of her. Lucky for her, he only wanted a black coffee and a pastry, a quick order which she could fill before making her next phone call.
If Leigh wasn't seriously ill, Julie was going to be even more pissed. But right now, she was starting to get worried.
While Leigh wasn't known for her punctuality, she always called when she was going to be late.
Julie took a step back from the counter and dialed 9-1-1 on her cell phone. She paused for a moment before pressing send. If Leigh was just taking a mental health day, she was going to kill her, she thought to herself as the dispatcher answered "9-1-1. What's your emergency?"
Chapter 10:
8:15 AM- Saturday, September 9th
Sumner, VA
Jackson was sure he had locked the door. Even at his most wasted, he always locked the front door of his home. So when Jackson reached the heavy wooden door and found it unlocked, he suspected something was amiss.
Stepping through the door, Jackson was sure of it.
His house was never what one would call orderly, at least not since he split from Leigh. But stepping into the ransacked home, Jackson wished his house was only as filthy as normal. Papers were strewn everywhere, and not a drawer sat unopened.
His first thought was that his home had been searched by the authorities. After ending up in the hospital with a splitting headache and no memory of the night before, Jackson could certainly acknowledge that to be a possibility.
He peeked out the front window. There were no police cars in the street, nor was there a warrant posted anywhere on the property.
As these thoughts passed through Jackson's mind, he heard a crash from down the hall. It sounded like it had come from bedroom. Jackson's breath caught in his lungs as he took a tentative step towards the hallway.
Jackson was still disoriented from his recent head injury, and the Vicodin he had swallowed in the cab were continuing to numb his senses. But despite his confusion, Jackson had the presence of mind to kick off his loosely tied steel toed boots.
He crouched low, his ears tracing the intruder to his bedroom. Jackson's bare feet made no sound on the wooden floor as he crept down the hallway leading to his ransacked bedroom.
The twenty-odd steps down this hallway had never been longer than they were now, thought Jackson as he crept close to silently down the empty h
allway. His heart pounded in his chest, but his breathing was controlled as he tiptoed towards the intruder in his bedroom.
Jackson reached the door to his room after what seemed like an eternity, but was likely less than a minute. When he reached the door, Jackson saw him. A tan, dark haired man in a pin striped business suit and black leather gloves stood with his back to the door, searching Jackson's cheap chest of drawers.
Jackson knew he would not get another chance like this. From his crouched position, Jackson sprung forward as his thick muscular legs covered the distance between him and the intruder.
The tall stranger must have sensed Jackson's rapid movement, or else he heard a rush of breath as he was rushed from behind. Either way, he reacted nearly as fast as Jackson had.
Just before Jackson could tackle the dark haired stranger, the man spun around. The abrupt maneuver caused Jackson to miss his intended strike point and deal a glancing blow to the intruder. Both men tumbled to the ground, their arms and legs flailing violently at one another.
The two men's bodies were a tangle of appendages on the floor as both attempted to get the upper hand. The intruder was strong, much stronger than he looked, Jackson noted, as the man was able to break free of Jackson's headlock.
The man rolled onto his back and drew a sinister looking black Ka-Bar knife from a belt holster.
Both men struggled to their feet. While Jackson's original goal may have been to detain or disable the intruder, the appearance of a knife in the dark haired stranger's hand left Jackson very few options. Jackson had trained for years in small arms and close quarters combat. The man in the dark, pinstripe suit would prove to be no match for the highly trained SEAL, despite the advantage of a knife.
The stranger slashed at Jackson violently with the cold steel of the Ka-Bar, narrowly missing his neck. But Jackson moved quickly and judiciously out of the way of the deadly weapon while he awaited his opportunity to respond with lethal force.
Overconfident, the dark haired intruder quickly stabbed at Jackson again, but he overextended himself as the knife sought blood. This mistake would prove to be Jackson's opportunity and the assassin's downfall.
Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) Page 4