“Go on, get out of here. Get some rest. We move as soon as it’s light. Jesus, it’s one lousy mother of a mess. We need to bring the guy home alive if possible.”
The others wanted to argue the point but they didn’t. They did what they were told. No one argued Rackham’s orders. The man could be a nightmare. He was Nash’s boss, and he made Nash look like a harmless old lady.
Rackham and Nash.
They might have sounded like a comedy duo, but they were a universe away from anything like that. The men were hard bastards who would do anything to protect the organization. They had done, and still did, unspeakable things to protect and strengthen it. In truth they scared the hell out of the rest of the crew. And there was nothing they could do about that. The good thing was they were being paid good money, and that had to count for something.
“Still that same guy?” one of the crew said, picking up the end of Nash’s conversation.
“We let him get away. We bring him back or Rackham will slice off our cojones and hang them on a string.”
“Him or the black widow?” somebody said.
“Don’t joke,” Nash warned. “She’d do it and smile at the same time.”
* * *
THEY MADE THEIR WAY outside as light split the darkness, ignoring the rain, and climbed into the big SUV, Dee Rubio taking the wheel.
“Just get us out of here,” Nash said.
“Where to?” Rubio asked.
“Let’s pick up from where that asshole crashed his SUV. See where it takes us,” Nash suggested.
“The guy was hurt. He had to be,” Rubio replied. “His wheels were totaled, so he was on foot. He’d need himself looked at. Maybe he went to Hardesty. It’s the only place close.”
“Maybe he grabbed some new wheels,” someone said from the rear seat, “and took off.”
“Then we find out,” Nash said. “If there’s nothing at the crash site, we start searching. Ask questions. Smack a few heads. Hardesty is a fleabag town off the radar. Think about it. The guy was hurt and on foot. Nothing around him for miles. It stands to reason he might have picked Hardesty because it’s all he’s got.”
Chapter 3
Bolan was in a bed. That much he figured as soon as he opened his eyes and found himself staring up at a ceiling. There were distant noises coming from beyond the closed door. Voices as well, too subdued for Bolan to make out what was being said.
He checked out the room. Neat. A woman’s room going on the decoration and the feminine scents. Bolan recalled the young woman behind the diner’s counter.
Her room?
How did he get here?
Then he recalled his fall from the stool. He had been about to leave, to get away from the diner before he brought problems to the people inside.
Bolan sat up, then groaned as a surge of pain lanced through his skull. He braced himself on one arm, touching his head again where the source of the hurt originated. The covers had slipped away, and he saw he was naked to the waist. Down his left side, over his ribs, were angry welts from where he had been thrown against the inside of the door. There was a discolored bruise on his left upper arm. A wide adhesive bandage had been placed over his left hip. He recalled someone asking if he had been in an accident.
Bolan had a vague memory of a vehicle on the road ahead of him. He had been chasing it. They had guns and they were using them. Then he recalled his vehicle being hit. He had lost control...the road wet from the sudden rainstorm...
Was that where he had received the injuries?
He lay back on the scented pillow, staring up at the ceiling again, trying to make sense out of the confusion. But he couldn’t. Every time Bolan asked himself a question about what had transpired, he hit a blank wall. Any memories previous to the moment he had walked into the diner had been erased.
As if he hadn’t existed beyond that moment.
But that wasn’t possible.
He did exist.
His name was Mack Bolan, but using the name Matt Cooper. He had almost given himself away to the people he had met in the diner, had almost given away his real name.
Why the cover name?
Did he need to hide? Was he some kind of criminal on the run from the authorities? He closed down his rambling thoughts and allowed himself to relax. His internal questions were aggravating his headache, increasing the severity of the pain. A faint sound caught his attention. It was the rain being driven against the glass of the window directly across from the foot of the bed. It was still a steady downpour. He watched the rivulets run down the glass while he was in quiet contemplation.
A memory of being out in that rain stirred an image. It came without bidding, and Bolan remembered seeing rain running down the cracked glass of an automobile windshield. He was behind the wheel, staring through the glass and fighting the nausea engulfing him. The pain in his skull was overwhelming because he had slammed his head against the driver’s-side doorframe as the car had gone off the road, bouncing across a grass shoulder until it came to a jarring stop as he hit a tree.
Bolan had been driving in pursuit of another vehicle. He remembered that now.
He had been chasing Bremner.
The name came into his mind.
Bremner. Who was Bremner?
Why did he seem important?
He remembered the men with guns.
And they were angry because...because he had shot a couple of them as he had broken out of some building. Then he’d shot another gunner who had taken a shot at him. Bolan felt perspiration bead his forehead. He couldn’t recall why he had been chasing the men.
Did they have something to do with Bremner?
He couldn’t remember who any of them were, but he did remember having a gun in his hand, which he had dropped in his car when he hit the tree. Shadows on the ceiling and reflections of the rain on the window danced in front of his eyes. Flickering. There and not there, just like his thoughts.
Insubstantial.
Ghostlike.
Refusing to remain still long enough for Bolan to identify them.
And the man called Bremner.
None of it was making any sense. And the harder he tried to bring his thoughts together the further they drifted away.
He felt a rising sense of frustration at not being able to rationalize the strands of thought inside his head. Some inner awareness told him he was a man who normally controlled his own thoughts, knew himself and how he acted in any situation. That awareness now was letting him know he was acting out of character.
The door opened and the young woman he’d seen behind the counter of the diner came into the room.
“Did I sleep all night?” Bolan asked sharply.
The shapely mouth curved in a pleasant smile.
“And a good morning to you,” she said.
Bolan realized he had been a little hard. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I know that’s not the accepted way to say hello.”
“You’re forgiven,” she said lightly.
His first long look at her. He saw a striking woman in her early thirties, with ash-blond hair, cut medium length. From the pronounced cheekbones and the cool blue of the eyes that were checking him over, Bolan judged she was of Scandinavian descent. There was a faint, thin scar over her left eye that did nothing to detract from her beauty. Under the light chinos and the short-sleeved blue shirt, the woman’s body was thin and supple. “So I have you to thank for the doctoring,” Bolan said.
“It’s nothing.”
“It is to me, so thanks again.”
She moved closer to the bed, pointing with her right hand at the adhesive bandage on his hip.
“Why did someone shoot at you? I know a bullet burn when I see one.”
“You do?”
�
��Fourteen months in Afghanistan. Sergeant. Platoon medic.” She paused, then said, “And yes, I saw some action. I have bullet wounds worse than yours.”
“That tells me a lot.”
She cocked her head and regarded him gravely. “You served?”
“A good while back now. And a different kind of action since.”
How did I remember that, he asked himself, and nothing else?
She considered his reply, then passed it by.
“It’s Laura? I heard that in the diner.”
“Devon,” she said. “Laura Devon. Mom was from a Swedish family way back. Dad’s family was originally from Australia by way of England. Both families put down roots in the 1800s.”
“Good to meet you, Laura Devon.”
The finger pointed again. “You said something about a bang to your head. Looks like it was a hefty one. Is that why you’re having the blank spots in your memory?”
Bolan nodded. “I don’t remember my past. It’s all in there. But I can’t get a grip on it.”
“Nothing?”
“Just scraps. I know the name I’m using isn’t my real one. But I don’t know why I use it.”
“Maybe you’re a lawman, working undercover and using an alias.”
Bolan shrugged. “There’s a name that keeps jumping around. Bremner. Something keeps telling me I’ve been looking for him. Why? Is he my partner? Someone I’m hunting?”
“From some of the marks on your face and body, it looks as if you’ve been having a rough time.”
He shook his head. There were so many things he didn’t have answers for.
“Laura, I’m not avoiding the questions. I just don’t have answers.”
“In the diner you said we could be in danger. Why?”
“When I crashed I was chasing some people. I can remember that much. There were men with guns. Now they might still be out there looking for me. They could show up here. The last thing I want is to bring trouble to you and the others. Helping me could place you all in the firing line.”
“Hardesty might be on the way out, but Sam and Vern are no pushovers.”
“Even against guns?”
Devon shrugged. “They won’t back away.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She self-consciously touched the scar over her eye. “I got this when I refused to back off from some Taliban guy who wanted to take away my patient. He had a big knife. I had my issue M9. Guess who won?”
“You. But he got in a close one.”
“I came back and took the job here at Vern’s because I wanted to work out what else I wanted to do with my life. Hardesty is where I grew up. It’s where my folks spent a lot of their lives before they died.”
“Both of them?”
“They were in a friend’s private plane when it crashed. Happened while I was away.” Devon stared out the window. “Never had the chance to say goodbye.”
Her story paralleled his own. His family had died while he was thousands of miles away, fighting in a distant war. Different circumstances but the effect was the same. The loss of loved ones through no fault of his own. The pain was just as credible.
There it was again. A flash of old memories.
“Has coming back given you the stretch you wanted?”
“Some.”
“And?”
“Right now I’m rescuing lost causes, Mr. Cooper.”
“Is that what I am? A lost cause?”
“Not really lost,” she said. “Just a little off course.”
“I still need to move out,” Bolan said.
“You sure?”
“Sitting here isn’t going to give me the answers I need.”
Bolan threw the covers back and swung his legs out of bed. He felt the room tilt as he stood. He swayed unsteadily until Devon caught his arm and supported him.
“Falling flat on your face again isn’t going to help, either, soldier.”
Bolan sucked in a breath and concentrated, pulling himself still. He waited until the nausea passed.
“Damn,” he muttered. “That knock on my head...”
“Severe concussion can do that to you.”
“You think? Standing around in my undershorts isn’t going to get me out there trying to find answers. And where the hell are my clothes?”
“Sit down and I’ll go get them. Deal?”
Bolan nodded. He perched on the edge of the bed and watched her leave the room. He admitted he was far from in peak condition. Overnight rest had restored some of his strength, but he needed to gain more. If he could get outside, move around, he might clear away the residue of his weakness.
When Devon came back, his clothes were over one arm. She carried a mug of steaming coffee in the other.
“Try this. Vern is possessive about the restorative qualities of his coffee.”
Her words caused a faint ripple in his thoughts.
Someone he knew who had similar views on his coffee. Who, though?
Bolan took a swallow of the hot brew. It tasted good. He had to admit there might be some truth in Vern’s claim. He handed the mug back to Devon so he could pull on his pants, shirt and socks. The clothes were freshly washed and dry.
“Did them overnight while you were asleep. Your boots are over by the foot of the bed.” She retrieved them for him. “Vern has breakfast on the go.” She saw the look in his eyes. “No arguing. Doc’s orders. You need food before you go chasing around the countryside.”
There was, she had realized, no way to stop him going. Equally her decision to go with him had been finalized, though he didn’t know it yet. She would pull rank on him when the time came.
Bolan stood beside the bed, his initial weakness having receded somewhat. He would be the first to admit he was still trying to catch up. He also knew if he didn’t move out of here his situation wasn’t going to resolve itself.
“Are you too stubborn to let a weak woman help?” Laura asked.
“Never. And weak isn’t a word I’d use to describe you.”
She took his arm and supported him as they walked from the room. He didn’t exert himself, taking measured steps until he regained his stride. Even then he let Devon hold on to him. Her firm grip on his arm and the supple press of her body against his was far from unpleasant.
The rich smell of cooking food was just as satisfying when they reached the diner.
“Good to see you around again, son,” Mitchell said as they passed the kitchen.
Devon guided him to one of the booths by the diner’s main window. A mist of rain drifted across the parking area. Bolan turned and saw Devon cross to refresh the coffee mug she had been holding in her free hand. She poured one for herself and brought them both to the table, taking a seat across from him.
“What’s going to happen to Hardesty?” Bolan asked.
“Nothing good,” Devon said. “Most folk have moved on already.”
“What will you do?”
“That, Matt Cooper, is one of life’s unknowns at this present time.”
“We’ll survive,” Mitchell said as he brought over plates of food and set them down. “You kind of passed out last night before you had a chance to eat. Right now all you have to worry about is how you’re going to work through my breakfast special before you run off.”
Special was the word for the generous portions of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, fried potatoes and beans.
“If I eat all this,” Bolan said, “it’s a certainty I won’t be able to run very far.”
Devon smiled. “Could be that’s the plan.”
Bolan caught her eye and saw the faint flush that colored her cheeks.
As they ate Bolan asked Mitchell where Sam Jarvis was.
“He’ll be
in later. It’s early for Sam. Hey, you want me to fetch him?”
Bolan shook his head. “No panic. I just need to ask him about a vehicle.”
“No need for that,” Devon said. “I have a 4x4 Jeep outside you can borrow.”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
“You won’t. It comes with one condition, though. Nonnegotiable.”
“Go ahead and surprise me.” Bolan already had an idea what that condition was.
“I come with it. You’re a passenger. With the condition you’re in right now, you could fall asleep at the wheel. And I know the area better than you.”
Bolan glanced at Mitchell. He gave a slight shrug.
“I know this girl,” he said. “She has a stubborn streak I’ve never seen anyone break. If I was you, son, I’d just accept the inevitable and finish my breakfast.”
Bolan might not have totally approved, but he had to agree with the woman’s medical assessment.
“You do as I tell you,” he said. “No heroics.”
“I’ll leave that to you. I’m just the driver.”
Bolan hoped it was going to stay that way.
Chapter 4
Mitchell had provided a long waterproof coat for Bolan. Devon was wearing one of her own. They exited the diner and made a dash for the 4x4 parked outside. The Jeep was a few years old but in sound mechanical condition. Devon told him Sam Jarvis looked after it for her and kept it running. The throaty rumble from the engine confirmed that.
“Sam may be getting on, but he’s a hell of a mechanic.”
Bolan had no argument with that.
“Top mechanic. Great diner. Why would anyone ever need to leave Hardesty?” he asked.
She gave him a studied look. “Are you being flippant, Mr. Cooper? You must be getting better.”
“It appears I have a good nurse.”
Devon swung the Jeep away from the diner and cruised out of town.
“You came in from this direction,” she said. “Let’s hope your vehicle is still where you left it.”
“When I left, it wasn’t in any condition to go anywhere.”
Viral Siege Page 3