“There are enemies within.”
“What enemies?”
“Dangerous enemies. They’re powerful and will stop at nothing.”
Now Jed was certain the image’s mouth did not move. Was it a hologram of some sort? Was he still sleeping?
With the next flash of light the image of Murphy was gone, but the voice continued. “Only you can stop them. All that you fought for, all that you sacrificed, will be ripped from you, ripped from everyone.”
The light flickered and the image reappeared. Murphy, same dark suit, hands in his pockets, head tilted to one side.
“What are you doing?” Jed said.
The light flashed on, but there was no Murphy.
“Only you, Patrick.” The voice began to fade. The image no longer appeared. “Only you can stop the enemy of us all.”
And then the voice was gone, the strobe stopped, and darkness prevailed once again.
Jed leaned back against the wall and let his mind sort through what had just happened. There had to be a logical explanation for it. The image was real, or so it seemed. It did not appear to be a hologram. It was too solid, too detailed. It was Murphy. Was it possible that he’d slipped in and out of the door? Was it some kind of illusion meant to mess with Jed’s mind? Was the intent to disorient him? Confuse him? He thought of the scrubbing and imprinting that had occurred before and wondered if it was happening all over again. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?
His mind then went to his family. Karen and Lilly were so vulnerable. They needed him to protect them. He was a protector by nature; it was one of the aspects of his psychological profile that made him such a successful sniper. His duty was to shield his brothers from unseen enemies, prevent harm, preserve life. And he’d done it well. But now he was helpless to protect his wife and daughter. They were on their own.
In darkness that seemed to separate his soul from his mind, Jed did the one thing he could still do. He prayed. God, protect Karen and Lilly. You’re our only hope.
He grew tired then, overcome with fatigue so suddenly that he nearly tipped over and fell to the floor. Carefully he lowered himself to the concrete and allowed sleep its victory.
TWENTY-THREE
• • •
When Jack arrived at his apartment at 4 a.m., he found the door ajar. He’d stopped by to grab some clean clothes, food, and his personal laptop. What he found was an apartment that had been ransacked. Furniture lay toppled and busted, papers scattered like debris, cabinets and drawers emptied, dishes broken. The place looked like some of those Iraqi villages after the Air Force got done with them.
Jack sat on the sofa, his heart beating hard behind his ribs, his forehead and upper lip suddenly wet with sweat. Anger tightened his chest, burned in his cheeks. This was unnecessary. He knew how these guys worked, how they thought, what drove them. They weren’t looking for anything; they were sending a message. Shouting at him.
He needed to get back to his office. He could call the police and file a report, but they would ask too many questions. Where was he last night? Why didn’t he come home until 4 a.m.? Who would want to do this? What were they looking for? And if he declined answering them, it would move the suspicion to him. He didn’t need that, so he grabbed some clothes from the floor, some granola bars from the pantry, and left the apartment as it was. He’d get back to it at a later time. Right now, he needed to decide what he was going to do, how he was going to protect the vice president.
• • •
“. . . Connelly is the enemy.”
Jed snapped awake, his mind clear, his body shivering uncontrollably. The temperature in the concrete room had dropped at least twenty degrees. Karen’s voice was in his head, echoing into the silence that now dominated his thoughts. He pushed himself to a sitting position and hugged his knees tight against his chest. His head still hurt, throbbed, and the ache intensified along the right side of his skull, but the severity of the pain had diminished greatly. It no longer blurred his vision, no longer left him incapacitated.
He had no idea how long he’d slept. There was no way to gauge time in this room. It could have been minutes, hours, or even days. It felt like days. He was still tired, but the gears in his head turned more smoothly now. Coherent thoughts came with less coercion needed.
The room was no longer as black as tar. Dim light emanated from some unknown source and cast a deep-gray hue over the space. Jed could make out the corners of the room, the line where ceiling and walls met. He could just barely see the faint outline of the door and . . .
“Good morning, Patrick.”
Murphy again. There, beside the door, the weakest outline of a man’s figure. It did not move and for all Jed knew, it could be a cardboard cutout. The voice had said it was morning, but it meant nothing to Jed. Which morning? How long had he been here? And was it really morning? He couldn’t possibly know if Murphy was being truthful or not.
“I’m sorry about the temperature,” Murphy said. “We’re having some mechanical problems.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We’re working on getting it fixed as quickly as possible.” There was a long pause, but during the time of silence the figure across the room never moved, never shifted its weight, never repositioned a hand or a foot or turned its head. “Patrick, we need to work together. We need each other. Connelly is out of control and getting more powerful every day.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“I’ll prove it to you in time. You’ll get all the information you want. Proof that is inarguable.”
“Is Karen okay? Why won’t you let me see Lilly?”
“You will in time.”
“When?”
“In time.”
“If what you’re saying is true, then we don’t have time. I need to see her now. And what about Karen?”
“In time, Patrick. Your family will be okay. Right now we have more important matters on the table.”
“Nothing is more important than my family.”
Murphy paused. “This is. This is bigger than any of us.”
The door opened and a breath of warm air slithered into the room and wrapped itself around Jed.
“We need you, Patrick. Your family needs you. Your country needs you. From what I can see, the world needs you.”
TWENTY-FOUR
• • •
Jed dreamed of swimming. Not in a pool of any sort but in open water, a lake or an ocean. Waves undulated around him, rose and fell, crashing over his head and filling his ears and nose with water. When his head broke the surface, he’d sputter and cough, kick his feet and wave his arms in short, quick circles. Anything to stay above the swell.
The water was cold too. Almost frigid. It puckered his skin and numbed his extremities. His lips quivered, teeth clattered. He tried to look around, but there was nothing to see, nothing but water and sky. No birds flew overhead, no planes, no boats passed in the distance. And not even the shadow of land on the horizon.
He was lost. Cold. Dying.
He wanted to die. He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to just allow himself to sink beneath the surface and draw in a deep breath. He’d start to asphyxiate, go unconscious, and then reflexively gasp for air. But his lungs would already be filled with water. He would perish soon after that.
The thought was tempting and he fought it. There was still hope for him. Still hope to rescue Lilly and Karen. Still hope to get away from Murphy. Still hope to defeat Centralia. He turned his head side to side, longing for any sign of that hope. But there was none. He was alone, tired, weary, and desperate.
He then found himself in some sort of bath, lying supine, naked, shivering, water up to his ears.
A light dangled above him, an exposed bulb, dimmed to a low wattage. Movement occurred in his periphery, then behind him. Men talked but he couldn’t understand what they said.
Suddenly everything went dark. He tried to move, but his hands and feet were bound, secured to the bed
upon which he lay. The bed was tilted back so his feet were higher than his head. The water he was lying in ran past him and splashed on the floor.
Jed knew what this was. He knew what was coming. He fought to wake up, to escape this nightmare, but it was as if being bound to the table had somehow constrained him to the dream.
He struggled and pulled against the restraints, grunted and hollered. Strong hands held his shoulders to the bed and his head still. Something was placed over his mouth and nose—a piece of cloth—and then the water came.
He tried to breathe, gasped for air, precious air, but only got a mouthful of water. He twisted and writhed, tried to kick his feet. His lungs tightened, spasmed, but all his efforts were fruitless. Reflexively his stomach also lurched and he vomited water.
The cloth was then removed and he was tilted right side up. He gagged and coughed. More water poured from his mouth and nose, regurgitated by his stomach and expelled by his lungs.
Just as he caught his breath and welcomed oxygen into his lungs, the table tilted again.
“I need you to answer a question for me, Jedidiah.”
It was Connelly. Jed couldn’t see the man clearly, but he knew that voice somehow.
“Where is Karen?”
Jed said nothing. They could kill him. He didn’t care anymore. He would never give them what they wanted.
The cloth was again placed over his mouth and nose and again the water came. It soaked through the already-saturated rag quickly and smothered him, gave him the awful sensation of drowning. Water filled his nose, washed through his mouth, and penetrated his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs burned and heaved and constricted but could accept no air. There was no room for inflation. He would die like this.
Jed wanted to stop fighting, struggling, because that’s what they wanted, but his reflexes, the desire for life, were too overpowering and he could not control it. He strained until he had no more strength, until his muscles were depleted of energy and his mind had grown foggy. This was it. He was dying. He wondered what happened if you died in a dream.
God, please . . .
Karen. Lilly.
God . . .
The water stopped, the bed was flipped, and once more his body repelled the unwanted liquid. He coughed, gagged, gasped for air. His stomach churned and he vomited, but it was mostly water and bile.
A hand grabbed his face and squeezed his jaw. “Where is she?”
Connelly.
Jed said nothing.
Something struck him hard along the side of the face and head.
Jed awoke.
The darkness again. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. The blackness was so oppressive, so totally consuming, that it seemed to seep into the very fiber of his physical existence and overwrite the function of every cell, every molecule. Darkness ruled now and Jed had no other option than to give in to it.
Lying on his back on the cold concrete, he succumbed to despair. He still didn’t want to give Murphy the information they sought, but he would hope no longer. There was no hope in this pit. He would die here; he was sure of that.
The temperature in the room had stabilized. Jed drew in a deep breath, fully expanding his chest and lungs. The air was moist and cool, but not cold, and the room held no odor.
He was alone. He wondered how Lilly was holding up. Over the past months, since finding his memories and true identity, he’d gotten to know her all over again, gotten to love her all over again. She was not only a wonderful daughter and child but a remarkable person as well. Her faith was unshakable. He also thought of Karen and wondered if he’d ever see her again. The love they shared, renewed since his return, was something to treasure. She was his rock, his partner. He’d enjoyed learning of her history and their history together. She’d reminded him of so many details, so many moments, so many special times.
And he’d lost them both. He’d let down his guard enough that it had opened the door for Murphy to find them and snatch them away. Murphy, who had promised to help them, who had claimed the moral high ground.
It angered Jed, infuriated him, but what could he do? He was helpless here. All his training and skills amounted to nothing in this dungeon. Here he was nothing more than a tool, a pawn, a thing to be used for someone else’s purpose.
God, I don’t know what to do.
It was all he could pray. He was lost, turning circles in the ocean, where every direction looked identical, barren and hopeless.
“Jedidiah, it’s me.”
At first, Jed thought the voice was his imagination, his brain conjuring the sound of what it longed to hear. He turned his head but said nothing in response. If it was real, he’d need to hear it again to determine which direction it came from.
Moments passed in silence, and with each passing tick of the unseen and unheard clock, Jed’s hope faded a little more.
But then: “Jedidiah, I’m here.”
Jed was sure now that he’d heard it, but he still could not determine where the voice came from. Like Murphy’s it seemed to surround him and emanate from both within and without.
“Karen?” His voice sounded weak and hoarse to his own ears. Briefly he wondered if she’d even recognize it.
A hand touched his face, his cheek. It was hers; he’d know that touch anywhere. No amount of hopelessness could rob him of the memory of her touch.
“Karen.”
“Yes, Jedidiah. It’s me. I’m here now.”
He couldn’t see her through the thick veil of darkness, but he felt her, felt her hand, her presence, her breath against his face.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Did they hurt you?”
“Shhh. Yes, I’m okay. Mr. Murphy got to me before Connelly’s men could. They found me and brought me here to you.”
Relief washed over Jed like a wave of fresh warm water. “And Lilly?”
“They tell me she’s fine, but I haven’t seen her yet. Are you okay?”
“We need to get her and get out of here.”
Karen stroked Jed’s face, ran her hand to his forehead, and brushed back his hair. “We will. Mr. Murphy promised me we’ll get out of here soon. Are you okay?”
“Yes. Just . . . this place.” He leaned into her touch. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank God you’re safe.” Jed lifted a hand and reached for Karen. He felt her shoulder, her back, her waist. She really was there.
“Jedidiah.” Karen ran her fingers through his hair. “Mr. Murphy explained everything to me. He has proof that what he says is true. It’s hard to believe, but it’s all there. I need you to talk to him. Let him show you what he has.”
TWENTY-FIVE
• • •
They met at Tony Cheng’s in Chinatown as planned. Jack had arrived a few minutes early to make sure they’d get a table far enough away from the other patrons that they could talk without fear of being overheard. He’d found a table in the corner farthest from the front door, near the kitchen, where the Chinese-speaking diners sat. Tiffany arrived a few minutes late, but at least she showed. Jack had wondered if she’d even go through with this meeting. She ordered the mixed vegetables and fried rice with a spring roll on the side. Jack got the sweet-and-sour pork. He remained quiet as Tiffany swallowed bite after bite of vegetables after barely chewing them.
Finally he said, “Food at the shelter didn’t do it for you, huh?”
She shrugged and put another forkful of bean sprouts, carrots, and mushrooms in her mouth.
“What’d they serve for breakfast this morning?”
“Oatmeal.”
“Any good?”
She shrugged again. “I didn’t have any. What did you have?”
He smiled. “A granola bar.”
Tiffany finished her vegetables and rice and took a bite of the spring roll. She rolled her eyes back and groaned. “This is so good. Thanks, Jack.”
Jack looked her over. Besides appearing unwashed and a bit disheveled, she looked to be in good condition. “Anybod
y give you trouble last night?”
She held his gaze briefly, then swallowed. “I can take care of myself.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No. Nobody gave me trouble.”
“Good.” He didn’t like the idea of her alone on the streets. There were too many dangers, too many jerks lurking in too many shadows. “I wish there was someplace you could stay. Someplace else.”
“Are you worried about me?”
“Yes, I am.”
She set the spring roll on the plate. “I’ll be fine. I know how to disappear.”
“What? You have some superpower we never knew about?”
She smiled. “Something like that.”
“Just be careful.”
“I told you. I can take care of myself.”
“Yes, you did say that.” Jack placed a piece of pork in his mouth and chewed slowly. “So I did more reading through the documents.”
“And?”
“You ever see The Manchurian Candidate?”
“The old one or the recent one?”
“Either. The recent one. I don’t know. I’ve never seen the older version.”
“Okay. What about it?”
“The brain implant. Mind control. You know the part I’m talking about?”
“Sure. It’s the whole premise of the story.”
“Yes. It’s not science fiction.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“It’s the Centralia Project. After World War II the CIA began experimenting with mind control and manipulation. They used all kinds of barbaric tactics in an attempt to perfect the practice of inducing amnesia and then controlling someone’s mind. Their intent was to cause a subject to perform a task that would normally be against his will and then never remember that he did it. It was the beginnings of creating the perfect assassin. It’s gone one step further now. They’re not only still using those barbaric tactics, but they’ve advanced to brain implants to directly manipulate the subject’s mind. It’s called artificial or synthetic telepathy.” He gave her a few seconds to assemble the pieces.
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