The Identity: The Black Unit Series: Book One

by Lund, S.

  She yawned and glanced around the cabin. She didn't want to leave Brandon alone, but she needed to sleep. After she checked the locks on all the doors, suddenly feeling unsafe, she made sure the windows were securely shuttered. Then she crawled into her bed. Luckily, it faced the open bedroom door so she could check down the hallway to the living room and make sure he was still lying on the sofa.

  Not that she expected him to get up any time soon—not with that wound and blood loss. She’d be lucky if he was still alive when the sun rose.

  There was nothing else to do but sleep, so she tried, but sleep was a long time in coming.

  When she woke in the morning, he was still lying there on the sofa, the dim light of early morning barely illuminating the living room because of the storm still roaring outside. Heavy wet snow had blown up against the door, obscuring the walkway and the road. They’d be snowed in until the plows got out and cleared the road and driveway. Mike would send one as soon as the roads in town were clear, but that could be a day or more, depending on when the power got back up.

  She checked on Brandon and found him to still be alive, his heart rate steady, but he was still unconscious. That worried Anna. Had his brain been damaged so badly in the accident? She’d bandaged up the cut well enough and now it had stopped bleeding. She shook his shoulder, but he remained unconscious or in a coma. She tried her cell again, but no luck on that front. They were truly and completely cut off. That wouldn't have been a concern if she had been alone, but now, with Brandon unconscious, she was afraid for him.

  She built up the fire once more and poured herself a bowl of cereal. After scouting through the supply cellar, she brought up a portable propane burner and put on water for a pot of coffee. The food would stay cold in the refrigerator for a while, but the freezer had only so much time before the food would start to thaw. After that, she could put the frozen food outside on the porch to keep cold. Until the grid went back up, she’d have to use the propane stove to cook.

  Hopefully, the power would be back on soon.

  She spent the morning sitting in the chair across from Brandon, watching him, occasionally checking to see if he was still breathing and how fast his pulse was. She checked the dressing on the wound on his head, but other than that, there was nothing she could do for him. He had apparently stopped bleeding, for the bandages had no seepage. That was good. He wasn't going to bleed to death.

  The storm was still blowing outside, the howl of the wind eerie, the snow building up more and more with each passing hour.

  While she waited for the power to turn on, she read an old series of National Geographic magazines from when she was a child, keeping one eye on Brandon, hoping he'd soon come out of whatever was keeping him unconscious. Brain swelling due to an injury was the most likely cause. She’d studied the brains of criminals and terrorists as part of her research in abnormal psychology. Traumatic brain injury received in battle often led to personality changes, memory loss, and even violence. There was nothing to do but wait and see.

  All afternoon, she sat and watched Brandon while she read. Finally, she decided that if he was going to remain unconscious, she’d go out to his vehicle and see if she could find anything else with contact info for when the cell phone service was restored. She bundled up in her winter jacket and boots, taking a thick pair of her father's leather gloves with her.

  Outside, the wind whipped the snow in thick flurries, heavy snow covering the road several feet deep. Visibility was severely reduced so that she could only see a dozen feet ahead. She trudged along the lane to the main road then climbed down into the ditch where the truck was overturned. The truck's bed had a cover, so she walked around the back of the vehicle, looking for a way to open the cover and see what was inside. She thought she might find his suitcase or a briefcase—or anything that might have more information about who he was and what he was doing in the area.

  She opened the foldable truck bed cover and a black duffle bag fell out onto the ground. She lifted it onto the road and checked around for anything else for another few minutes, without success. Finally, she left the truck and struggled back to the cabin, the heavy duffle bag in hand. The clouds were low and dark grey, heavy with snow, the wind so strong it sucked the air out of her mouth.

  Once inside, she shook off the snow in the entryway, and after removing her coat and boots, she carried the duffle bag into the living room. There, on the sofa across from Brandon, she unzipped the duffle bag, wondering what she would find inside.

  And what a find it was…

  Besides a change of clothes consisting of another pair of jeans, a couple of pairs of socks, and two t-shirts, as well as some boxer briefs, she found a leather zip-up binder with dozens of pieces of ID—driver's licenses, birth certificates, health insurance ID cards, credit cards, business cards, bank cards in plastic dividers—all neatly arranged by name.

  There were at least eight different identities in addition to Brandon O'Neil, who, according to the ID sheet, was thirty-two years old, born in Fredericksburg, Virginia, currently lived in Virginia City, Virginia, and was the president of O'Neil Investigations, LLC.

  At least he’d told her the truth about the current identity he was using, but who could say which one of the eight was real—or if any of them were. All the IDs were for men between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, and had various photos of Brandon with shorter or longer hair, but all had the same beard and intense expression on his face. The locations were in Washington, DC, Missouri, Michigan, Idaho, and Ohio.

  In addition, there were several plastic Ziploc bags filled with hundred-dollar bills. She counted at least one hundred thousand dollars in several stacks.

  What the hell?

  She paged through the ID sheets, then went over them one by one. There were a few credentials to go along with the IDs. He had several licenses to carry concealed weapons in different states. He had a PI license in Virginia—so at least that part of his story was true—and another PI license in Michigan. One identity had an ATF ID card, and one had an FAA Federal Air Marshal ID.

  Why would he need all these identities? Was it so he could gather information without giving away his identity? And why did he carry around a sniper rifle?

  More importantly, who shot him?

  Was it connected in any way to his job? Or worse—to Theo?

  These questions played in her mind as she finished supper and watched Brandon, wondering if he'd ever regain consciousness. It had been almost eighteen hours since the crash.

  She checked him once more and decided to get him clean blankets since the fabric was wet from the clothes he'd worn initially. She went to the closet and removed a couple of blankets and a clean sheet. When she returned, she pulled back the blankets, checking his bandage carefully.

  Before she could finish, he grabbed her, one hand around her throat, the other reaching for his non-existent sidearm.

  "Kdo jsi kurva?"

  She grabbed his hand and tried to pull away. His grip was tight but not so tight that she couldn't breathe.

  "Stop," she managed to croak, and luckily his strength waned, and he let go, flopping back onto the sofa, one hand covering his eyes.

  "My fucking head…" he said in a weak voice. He tried to sit up, then groaned, his hand going to his side like he'd only just felt the pain. "What happened?" He glanced at Anna, a frown creasing his brow. "Who are you?"

  "It's me, Anna." She moved closer in case his vision was blurry. "We met last night at Mike's Bar and Grill. It appears you were shot, and you crashed your truck on the road outside my cabin."

  That didn't seem to spark his memory. He lay there, glancing around the cabin in confusion.

  He reached down and touched the wound on his side. "How'd I get this?" He pulled his blanket away completely and examined the wound. "Obviously, I was shot, but by whom? Why?"

  "I was hoping you'd tell me."

  "What is Mike's Bar and Grill? Where is this place?"

  Anna noted a str
ong accent in his voice from whatever language he'd spoken earlier. It sounded Slavic—Hungarian or some other Eastern European language. He'd said his mother was Czech. Perhaps he'd grown up listening to her speak with an accent, but why he reverted to that now, she couldn't understand. She hadn't detected any hint of an accent when she spoke to him at Mike's. She wondered if it wasn't a result of the trauma to his brain. Perhaps he had less control over his speech and the accent was creeping back in.

  She cleared her throat. "You're in a cabin outside Long Lake, Maine. We met last night at a bar in town. Davis Cove, Maine. You told me you were here scouting out places for fishing and hunting—although I suspect that was just a cover story."

  "Cover story?" he said with a frown. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean cover story—as in a story to cover the real reason you're here. I found these," she said, and held up the binder with the pieces of ID. "You have at least eight different identities in here. Passports, driver's licenses, credit cards, credentials. Plus, about a hundred grand in hundred-dollar bills."

  He pulled the covers back up. "Are we," he said, then hesitated before finishing, "lovers?"

  She shook her head, holding back a smile that came from out of nowhere. What the hell was she thinking, smiling at that? It was just strange that his first thought was whether they were lovers, right after she’d told him he had been shot and had crashed his truck outside her cabin.

  "No. Like I said, we met last night at Mike's Bar and Grill in town. You were my knight in shining armor and saved me from a drunk who was trying to pick me up. We danced the jitterbug and you told me your mother was a dance instructor, and was once a dancer with the Czech National Ballet."

  "I've never seen your face before," he said, sounding suspicious. "With that red hair, I think I'd remember you."

  "You were shot and were in a crash—you may have temporary memory loss. Your clothes were wet, and I had to take them off so you wouldn't get a chill."

  He seemed to accept that, but the frown lingered. "I was in a crash?"

  "Your truck," she said and pointed to the cabin's front door. "You crashed it into an embankment. I had to drag you in from the storm."

  "Storm?" He glanced around. "That's what that sound is."

  Anna sighed. He had completely lost his memory of the previous day—maybe more if he couldn't remember where he was or why he was here. She’d read that short-term memory loss was common in head traumas, especially the few days surrounding the event that caused the trauma.

  But to completely forget where he was, and why, was a surprise.

  Whoever he was, he didn't seem to know his identity.

  Chapter Seven

  Anna watched Brandon trying to orient himself, glancing around the room, then at his own body. He turned to her, his eyes narrowed. "What day is it?"

  "You don't know what day it is?"

  He glanced away like he was afraid to admit it and squeezed his eyes shut. "I…" He struggled for words. "I don't remember." He looked back at her. "I don't know. Is it September?"

  "September? It's November. Thanksgiving is next weekend."

  He frowned. "The last thing I remember is being in Montana," he said. "It was just after Labor Day."

  Anna said nothing for a moment, trying to decide the right way to approach things. He'd given her one of the identities when they met at Mike's, but she had no idea if it was his real identity or just another assumed one. If he didn't even know what the date was, he'd really lost a lot.

  "You said your name was Brandon O'Neil and that you're a private investigator. You gave me a card that had your name on it and O'Neil Investigations LLC from Virginia City, Virginia. You told me you were a former Navy SEAL."

  He frowned and his eyes seemed distant for a moment.

  "That means nothing to me."

  "There are eight identities in this case. I can read them to you, if you want. Maybe one of them will spark your memory."

  He lay back and covered his eyes with a hand. "I need some pain medication."

  She went to the kitchen and brought him a glass of water as well as a couple of extra-strength Tylenol. When she went back to the living room, he was trying to sit up.

  "I have to use the facilities," he said and grunted when he managed to get semi-upright. "Christ!" He grimaced, holding his side in pain.

  "Take these," she said and handed him the glass of water and Tylenol. "They'll kick in around thirty minutes from now. I'll bring you a pail. You can use that until you feel better."

  He took the Tylenol, and she went to the back of the cabin and found an old pail in the utility cupboard by the back door. It was for the mop, but it would have to do. She brought it back into the living room and placed it beside the sofa.

  "Here," she said and put her arm under his. "Let me help you sit up."

  Finally upright, he motioned that she should leave him alone. "If you don't mind."

  She left the living room and went into the back, closing the door to the bedroom while he used the pail. She could hear the sound from the bedroom and couldn't help but feel embarrassed for him, having to do so and being completely reliant on the goodwill of a stranger.

  "I'm finished," he called out.

  Anna left the bedroom and went to the couch as he lay back down, covering himself up again. Pain was written on his creased brow, his eyes shut like he needed to sleep more.

  She took the pail and went to the bathroom to empty it, noting the pink tinge of blood in his urine. It was probably the result of the accident. She flushed the urine down the toilet and rinsed out the bucket. Until he was walking again, he'd have to use it to relieve himself. She had become, in effect, his nurse—untrained and unqualified, but still, his nurse.

  She went back into the living room and placed the bucket at the end of the sofa. "I suspect your kidney or bladder was damaged in the accident."

  "I think so," he said and covered his eyes with a hand. "I don't know how I know that, but I do. Maybe I had some medic training." He turned to face her. "Is there anything in the identities that says I was a medic? Or a doctor? I also know I have a concussion. Pretty bad if I've been unconscious for over twelve hours."

  "Eighteen," she said and sat down next to him, pulling the chair closer. "I'm not a nurse, but I did take a first aid course. My father was in the Navy before he joined the CIA, and was in counterterrorism operations. He always thought my brother and I should be prepared for anything—storms, invasions, civil war. I know you need medical attention, and more than I can give. As soon as the power and cell coverage are back, I'll call 911. We’ll tell the police that you were shot and ask for an ambulance."

  "No," he said and reached out, his palm facing her. "No police. I'm good enough. I just need to rest a bit, recover my strength."

  "You need to have an MRI or CT scan to see if there's any internal bleeding."

  "No I don't," he insisted. "If I was really sick, I wouldn't be able to sit up. I'd still be unconscious. All they'd do in the hospital is give me fluids and let me heal. Maybe something for the pain."

  "They'd watch you in case you got worse so they could intervene. Do something to stabilize you. I can't do anything like that here. You need to be seen by a doctor at least."

  "Let me decide what happens to me, okay? I'll leave as soon as I can get up and around."

  She exhaled in frustration. "Your truck is in the ditch. It's totaled. How are you going to get anywhere? And there's this," she said, and retrieved the gun case. She brought it over and sat across from him, opening the case on the coffee table so he could see it. "I found this in the cab of your truck. It's a sniper rifle."

  He tried to sit up so he could see the weapon, and grimaced. "How do you know that?"

  "My brother was a sniper with the Navy SEALs. You told me you were a SEAL with DEVGRU. This is an AR-25. The kind used by special operations forces. Specifically, Navy SEALs. I know because my brother had one. I think you know my brother and were looking for him." She pus
hed the weapon case closer. "Does this weapon look familiar to you?"

  He pulled himself more upright and managed to lift the weapon out of the case. He ran his hands over it, almost stroking the barrel with affection. Then he put the weapon together without hesitation, like he knew how by rote. Whoever he was, he was definitely a soldier acquainted with a sniper rifle.

  "Look," he said and laid the weapon down, frowning. "I don't know why I'm here or how I got here but I do know this: no police. No hospital. Okay?" He lay back down on the sofa and grimaced, his face white with pain. "I got shot. Someone shot me and that means I'm in danger if they find out they didn't succeed in killing me. If they find out I'm here, that means you're in danger as well. So just let me get better. We’ll figure out how I can leave as soon as I can drive. I'll pay you for your car. You can use the money I have."

  "You can't," she said. "My car's in the ditch beside yours. I tried to leave, to take you into town, but the road's covered in ice and snow. You won't get the car out without a tow truck."

  "Great," he said and rubbed his forehead. "Then we're both in danger if we can't leave."

  He had a point. Someone did shoot him. If it wasn't police, it was someone police would be after—and that meant he was in danger, and possibly her as well.

  "Look, if you get worse, I can't promise I won't call Mike," she said. "He has a friend who's a doctor. He might be willing to treat you without notifying anyone."

  "Okay," he said and exhaled. "If I get worse. If I get better, all I want is to get up and leave. Can I have that binder of identities?" he asked, reaching for the binder. "Maybe something will spark my memory."

  Anna handed it to him and watched him for a moment. Did he know who he was and was just lying to cover up? He seemed certain about being in danger and what he needed to do.

  He read the IDs over, one by one, flipping through the pages. After about ten minutes, he closed the binder, laying it on the coffee table.

  "None of the identities ring a bell for you?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing. Seems clear I'm former military. And I'm hiding my real identity for some reason—maybe switching identities. Either I'm running from the law, or I'm working for them and am undercover. One or the other. If we knew what kind of bullet hit me, I'd have a better idea if it was a hit by an enemy because my cover was blown or I'm a fugitive and was shot by police."