Part of him wept. Part of him was scared. The scared part of him turned to find the woman with the locket.
She was gone. Or, rather, she was on the ground. Blood ran from her ear. The skin on her right hand where she had held the locket looked as though it was burned. She was still smiling. The locket lay on the ground, a small trace of grey smoke rising from it.
Confused, Jake looked about for someone to help. A voice told him this was unwise. Who was he? Who was she? Did she just save him or stop him?
Abandon the Plan. Go Home.
He was disoriented. This woman had died at his feet, this woman who had stood there, in full knowledge of who he was. Not the Trap, not even Jake Monday, the assassin. Someone else, someone from before. Jake hoped he had not killed her.
He remembered the button in his pocket. He had not pushed it, he was sure. He glanced back to her still form lying curled in the grass. Who was she, and why had someone wanted her dead? It was connected to him, he knew. He had a hazy recollection of the conversation with Deputy Director Smith. He was the trap. But why?
Jake looked again at the locket. He was reminded of when he was a kid. He had stuck the barrel of his Halco cap gun revolver into the open light socket on the wall, pretending he could shoot his brother in the other room. The force from the electrical current had blackened the end of his pistol and sent him sprawling to the floor, tangled in his sheepskin vest and his plastic-heeled cowboy boots were flung to the wall. His mother had explained that some people could die from that. Others would get a tingling sensation. She compared it to being struck by lightning. Some survived. Some were changed. Some died. It was a mystery. Then and now. A mystery like the memory he had just dredged from somewhere unknown.
Was this woman really from the CIA and tailing him? He thought that would be a cruel jape. The woman with the key to his past, a past he knew was there, but could not pursue had died at his feet. Because of him. Was it because of who he really was? Or, was the threat to Galbraith palpable enough to kill her in this venue?
He knew answers to these questions would be elusive. But, looking around at the milieu around him, he suspected that the real mission here was to expose this woman publicly. So, what about his mission to assassinate the President? Was that as simple as it seemed? And who was pulling the purse strings for a hit like that? And why?
It rarely occurred to him to question the why of what he did. He knew it was a dangerous road to tread. In fact, his concern for Giselle had arisen more from a perceived ethical issue than from a truly altruistic mien.
The urge to flee overcame his analyzation of his predicament. His mission protocols kicked in. When he reviewed them, recalling them from his memory like a computer print-out, he realized that he was not meant to return. He felt the truth of it like a kick in the gut. If he was not to return, what would his welcome be like?
He recognized the logo for the Falcons. Atlanta. Running was a bad idea. He glanced around at the confusion around him and knew this was the best cover he could expect. No cameras. People are running, the stage is empty. Only a few people milling around with hands on their ears. With a final glance at the woman on the ground, he walked out toward gates.
On the way out, he dropped the cylinder in a trash can. He smiled at everyone and looked for someone he recognized. He was among thousands of confused, upset, scared people. Yet, he felt alone. The feeling was crushing his chest.
After an hour of wandering the streets amid the confusion, Jake got a cab. No one had stopped him. No one had recognized him. He found he had over three thousand dollars in cash. And he was indeed Jake Monday. He had always been, despite everything else that happened.
He got a ticket to New York with a Visa. No one looked at him askance. As he travelled, bits and pieces of the past six months came to him. Missions. Dangers. Suspicions. But over those memories was a patina of red. A haze that masked and contorted those recollections. When he tried to recall his earlier life, his life before Galbraith, all he got in return was a painful, blinding headache and the image of the picture by his bedside of people he did not recognize. Some things are hard to forget. Some things were impossible to remember.
What am I? He asked himself. He loathed the answer when it came. It took him the entire weekend to sort out what his life had become. Something about it left a hollow pit in his stomach and made his heart hurt. His self-hatred crashed against him harder than the pain from buried memories he could not recall. The weekend left him battered, yet he dreaded what would be in store for him on Monday.
THE END
To Be Continued in
A Month of Mondays: Jake Monday Chronicles Book 2
Will Jake discover the truth about his past? Why is Jake being set up and who is behind it? To answer these questions and more, check out the next installment of the Jake Monday Chronicles at www.infinitewordpress.com.
Manic Monday (The Jake Monday Chronicles #1) Page 16