Amnesia

by Michael Cross

  Copyright © 2020 by Michael Cross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Amnesia

  Michael Cross

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author’s Note

  Also by Michael Cross

  Chapter One

  I get out of the car and look around. The parking lot appears to be empty, but hard experience has taught me that looks can be deceiving as hell. I slowly roam my eyes back and forth, still keeping an eye on my surroundings as I pop the trunk and pull out the pack I’d stowed earlier. Hopefully, I’m alone out here. If not, I hope that I look like nothing so much as a night hiker as I sling it over my shoulder.

  Taking a quick slug from my canteen, I slip it into the side pouch before I shrug the other strap over my shoulder. With one last glance around, I secure it and head out. My operational window is fairly tight, and I’ve got a two-and-a-half-mile hike ahead of me. I need to move. I’m not going to get a second shot at this.

  And if I want the answers to the mounting number of questions that are echoing through my head, I can’t afford to screw this up.

  The trees press close on either side of me as I jog down the trail. The cloud cover is thick tonight, blanketing the world in total darkness. Not wanting to risk tripping over something and breaking an ankle, I stop and pull a pair of night vision goggles out of my pack and slip them on. I’ve already scouted the path, but I’m not going to take any chances. Not with the stakes as high as they are for me.

  It takes me roughly twenty minutes to get to the edge of the tree line that borders the property. A hundred yards of open ground stands between me and the mansion. And somewhere out there are four armed guards on patrol. The shift won’t change for another forty-five minutes, so I’m not anticipating any extra surprises.

  The one problem is that I’ve spent the last week scouting the estate but haven’t been able to discern an identifiable pattern in the patrols. Every day is slightly different, making it hard to predict. It’s obviously a countermeasure against anybody getting near the house. It’s a smart operational tactic. Especially when your security force is small. But they haven’t had to deal with anybody like me before.

  Moving low and quickly, I move from bush to bush at the edge of the tree line, sticking to the thick, inky shadows. I make it to a bush that has a clear sightline to the rear doors of the estate and kneel under it. Taking the pack off my shoulders, I set it down before me and open it.

  Taking one glance around the back grounds of the estate, I turn back to my pack and pull out the pieces of the weapon inside. Moving on instinct alone, I assemble the weapon quickly. As I’m screwing the sound suppressor onto the end of the barrel, I catch a glimmer of movement at the western corner of the house in my peripheral vision.

  Raising the goggles to the top of my head, I turn on the night vision of the scope and quickly sight my target. The man stops and lights a cigarette, allowing me to pin the crosshairs on him dead center.

  I draw in a breath and let it out slowly, settling the jangling nerves inside of me. Beads of sweat roll down my back. My heart is beating a staccato rhythm in my chest. I take another breath and calm myself. It’s not long before my heart slows, my nerves quiet, and the only thing I’m left with is a hardened resolve to see this through.

  All of this feels so familiar to me that I can’t deny it. I’m moving on instinct, as if this is all just second nature. I suddenly know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this is a skill I possess. One I have spent many years honing.

  I have killed before. Maybe—probably—many times before.

  The tip of the man’s cigarette flares, a bright white spot of light flaring in my scope. I watch as he blows out a thick plume of smoke. I squeeze the trigger gently. The gun fires with a soft pop no louder than a muffled cough. I watch through the scope as the man’s head is whipped violently to the side. He drops to the ground instantly and goes still. The cigarette scatters to the ground.

  At the same moment, a second man comes around the corner. With barely a thought, I pivot, and before he can raise an alarm, I pull the trigger again. He joins the first man on the ground a heartbeat later.

  “Two down,” I mutter quietly to myself.

  Banking on the idea that they wouldn’t station more than two of their four-person squad on the rear grounds, I sling my pack over my shoulders and pull the balaclava down over my face. I hit the button on my jammer, turning off the surveillance equipment. After that, I lower the goggles and break cover. Moving as low and quickly as I can, I cover the hundred yards in mere moments, taking quick looks left and right once I make it to where the two bodies dropped.

  All clear.

  The spreading pools of viscous blood look black on the stone pavers. As I plot my next move, I hear the soft scuff of a shoe on stone and freeze where I am, not moving. Not even daring to breathe. With silence as still as night, I lower my hand back to the trigger, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

  I guess I was wrong about them keeping their squad spread out to cover the entire grounds area. It’s unexpected, but they’re making it easy on me.

  “Hey Bobby, you back here?” the man calls softly.

  The sound of the man’s whistling fills my ears. I move to the corner, melting into the thick shadows. I raise my rifle, and when he turns the corner, I step forward and squeeze off a shot. His head snaps to the side, and he drops like a stone.

  “Three,” I whisper.

  I pause for another moment and look around. None of the lights in the house are on, and the radios on the dead guards aren’t squawking. So far, my presence has gone undetected. But I’m going to need to track down that last guard if I want to keep it that way. I’m nearing the critical point and can’t afford any slip-ups.

  With my weapon at the ready, I crouch low and sidle around the wall of the massive house. I peer around the corner and look out at the front of the grounds. I see a large circular drive with a giant, gaudy gold statue gleaming dully in the gloom on a small hill on the center island.

  A long, wide portico stretches from the front door of the house to the drive, allowing the cars to pull up and let their passengers disembark in sheltered safety. No doubt, the man who owns this house has an army of valets for any events he throws.

  The final guard stands near the front doors of the house. He’s standing casually, looking down at the phone in his hand. He’s probably scrolling through Facebook instead of focusing on his job. His mistake.

  Moving swiftly and hugging the front of the house, I try to stick to the shadows as much as I can. The whole way, my eyes are laser-trained on the guard. I hold my breath and get into position. I’m close enough to him now that I could spit on him. But he still hasn’t noticed. He’s still scrolling on his phone. He’s bathed in the bright lights that shine down from the roof of the portico, framing him perfectly for me.

  I raise my weapon and put a round through his forehead. The blood and gore spray high on the wall behind him. His eyes open wide as he slumps down into a sitting position, a thin rivulet of blood s
pilling from the neat hole dead center in his forehead. The man lets out a low gasp as the life leaves him, his phone still clutched in his hand.

  “Four.”

  That should do it. I climb over the rail and quietly turn the knob on the front door. It yields to me, and I push it inward, revealing the darkened interior beyond, lit up an intense green with the night vision goggles. I look down at the body on the ground beside the door, a pool of thick blood spreading out beneath him that slowly oozes down the bricks of the porch. I let out a small sigh and stand up straighter. I now own this place.

  I run through my options in my head. But it’s a quick run through since I don’t have many options to begin with.

  Number one—I can do the job and get the answers I desperately want. The answers that will finally make sense of my life. What little I remember of it, anyway.

  Or alternately, number two—I can cut bait, spend my life on the run, and maybe never know who the I am.

  I look at the darkness beyond the doorway once more. This is it. It’s now or never.

  “How in the hell did I end up in this shit?”

  Chapter Two

  Ten Weeks Ago…

  “You’ve been burned. You need to get out of there. Now! Go!”

  Time slowed to a crawl as the man started to run.

  “Mandy! Ryan!” he screamed. “Run!”

  The explosion rocked the ground, knocking the man off his feet. The smell of smoke filled the air, choking him, burning his throat, and making his eyes water. Confusion and panic gripped the crowd around him, people running in every direction, pushing one another to get away. He could hear people shrieking, their agonized moans, and the tearful wailing of the wounded. And as darkness danced in at the edge of his vision, he watched the fireball rise into the sky along with a thick column of smoke as black as the midnight sky.

  Breath explodes from my chest as if I’m breaking the surface after being submerged for long, agonizing minutes. I bolt upright in absolute darkness, gripped by a primal, visceral fear. The only sound is my sharp gasp, and my heart is thundering in my ears. Fragments of the dream cling to me like thick, sticky cobwebs. I can’t seem to brush them off.

  Dream? Or was it a memory?

  The question rattles around in my head, but the answer is elusive, remaining opaque, and just out of my grasp. My breathing is ragged, and I’m disoriented. Confused. The room I’m in is dark. There is no source of light anywhere to be seen. It’s like being lost in the deepest reaches of space, where the stars have all burned out.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Where am I? Who’s there?”

  It’s then I notice that I’ve got a shackle around my wrist, with the other end locked to the bed. I pull hard on the chain, but there is no give. The fear inside of me deepening, I grit my teeth, clench my muscles, and yank on the chain with all the strength in me. It doesn’t budge.

  “What the hell is this?” I growl.

  I try again, pulling my wrist against the cold metal brace. The only thing that happens is that I scuff myself hard against the metal, sending a painful twinge up my arm.

  Calm down. Survey. Assess the situation. Make a plan.

  The voice in my head is mine, but I don’t know where those thoughts are coming from. The advice sounds familiar, but I can’t figure out where I heard it before. Or in what context. I take several deep breaths and let them out slowly, willing myself to follow the first piece of advice—calm down.

  When I feel suitably composed, I look around. But the dark is so complete; it’s like being in a sensory deprivation tank. As I focus on my breathing, I realize there are electrodes attached to my bare chest. Somebody is monitoring my vital signs. That, along with the acrid stench of an antiseptic, makes me think I’m being held in a hospital of some sort.

  But why? Why would I be in a hospital? And if this is a hospital, why am I chained up?

  With my free hand, I pull all of the electrodes off my chest and drop them in my lap. No alarms sound and nobody comes running—the room remains utterly still and silent. Nobody’s rushing into the room to help me, which does give me one vital piece of information.

  This isn’t a hospital.

  “What’s going on here?” I shout, tugging again at the shackle around my wrist.

  I drop back down onto the pillows, frustrated and angry. But more than that, I am confused as hell. I have no idea what’s going on. No idea how I got here and even less of an idea why I’m obviously being held against my will.

  As I rack my brain for answers, I suddenly realize my problems are even bigger than that. I have no memory of how I got here, but more than that, I have no memory of who I am. What my name is. What I do for a living. Where I grew up. What my family is like. If I even have a family.

  I try to think of something—anything—that’s familiar. Something I can cling to that will lead me back to my memories.

  But there’s nothing. My mind is totally blank. It’s like somebody went into my brain and erased—everything.

  And I’m suddenly overcome by a wave of exhaustion that’s powerful and deep. It pulls me under its churning waters. I fight the darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision, trying to stay awake. I need to figure out what the hell is going on here. But like a siren song calling to me, the darkness pulls me under once more.

  The next time I wake up, the darkness has somewhat abated. The light is gloomy and dim, but at least I can see for the most part. The bed I’m chained to is encircled by a curtain screen, and the light is coming from somewhere on the other side of it.

  “You’ve awoken. Good. I almost did not believe it when they told me.”

  I whip my head around to the right, the direction the voice came from, and feel the blood freeze in my veins. On the other side of the screen stands a woman. All I can see is her silhouette against the screen of curtains.

  Her sudden appearance startles me. But not nearly as much as the fact that I still can’t remember anything. I don’t even know my own name.

  “Who are you?” I ask, making my voice sound as commanding as possible.

  “We were not sure you would survive your wounds,” she continues, completely ignoring my questions, her voice colored by a soft English accent. “You’ve been in a coma for nine months. Three more and we would have pulled the plug.”

  Nine months? I’ve been in a coma for nine goddamn months? I look down and see the thin, white spiderweb of scarred lines on the flesh of my chest and stomach. I was wounded. But how? Why? What in the hell is going on here?

  You’ve been burned. You need to get out of there. Now! Go!

  Suddenly, I can smell the acrid stink of smoke. Hear frenzied screaming. Feel the heat from the fires. It’s like I’m right there in the middle of it all—not that I have any idea where ‘there’ is. It’s a jumble in my head, and I can’t make heads from tails of any of it. Frustration searing my veins, I struggle futilely against the shackle that holds me to the bed.

  “What is this? What’s going on here?” I shout. “Who are you?”

  “Calm yourself,” the woman behind the curtain says. “You’re still very weak. In your current condition—”

  I pull on the chain harder, an unintelligible scream bursting from my throat. But then I grow lightheaded and slump back against my pillows, my breath labored, my heart racing.

  “As I was saying, you need to get your strength back,” the woman replies coolly.

  I clench my jaw and press my head back into the pillows. My frustration is suddenly overwhelmed by my exhaustion. You’d think that having been asleep for the last nine months, I’d be well rested.

  “Why can’t I remember who I am?” I ask.

  “All of your questions will be answered in due time,” she replies. “For now, we must focus on getting your strength back. We need you back in fighting shape as soon as possible.”

  “Fighting shape for what? What are you talking about?”

  “As I said, your questions will be answered in due t
ime.”

  I can feel my strength ebbing as fatigue sets in. The confusion is making my brain spin so hard; I can feel a thundering headache coming on. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, knowing it won’t be long before I’m back in the comforting embrace of sleep.

  I have so many questions and no answers. The gaping holes in my memory are bigger than the Grand Canyon, and it’s frustrating me to the point of rage.

  “Get some rest,” she says. “We’ll begin soon. A couple of days, perhaps.”

  My eyes still closed; I nod. A couple of days. Yeah, that sounds good. Getting some rest sounds even better.

  “Yeah, okay,” I reply.

  And then I slip below the surface. This time, I embrace the darkness.

  Chapter Three

  When I wake up again—could be the next morning, could be the next week for all I know—I feel marginally stronger. And although my head feels clearer, I still can’t call up any of my memories. My past is nothing but a big blank spot. There is just nothing there.

  On the plus side, I’m calmer than before. I have somehow managed to gain control of my wits and my senses. Even though I have no idea who I am or what is happening, I am in control of myself. It almost feels like there’s another person inside of me. Somebody who’s been trained to deal with stressful situations and can adapt to them. Somebody who’s guiding me along and keeping me from falling. Oh, I’m still scared, but the difference is, I’m in control of it now.

  As I sit up, pain pulses along every nerve ending, making me grit my teeth. Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath then let it out slowly. After a couple of moments, the pain dulls enough for me to function. Even though I can’t even remember my own name, I know that something’s changed. Something is different.