by Lund, S.
The truth about how alone she was finally hit home.
She was an orphan.
Chapter Twelve
Brandon said nothing, but his embrace comforted her. She let him hold her—it was better than nothing. After a few moments, she pulled out of Brandon's arms, embarrassed to have lost control like that.
"I'm sorry," she managed to mutter.
"Don't apologize," he said softly, and stroked her cheek. "It's a lot to take in at once. You should also read this letter."
He handed her a separate sheet.
Brandon,
If you get this letter, consider me dead. Find Anna. Give her the attached letter. It will explain everything. Tell her to get the hell out of Dodge. Help her get a new identity. And you? You should revert to one of the many personas no one knows about. You're not safe either. You're the last one, Brandon. Don't let them take you, too. We've all paid far too much for that to happen.
You owe me big time, buddy. Do this for me and consider us square.
If she resists, and I know her well enough to know that she will, tell her I said to 'pinky-swear.' She'll know what that means.
Love you, Bro.
Theo
Anna looked over to where Brandon sat, watching her, his eyes almost tender.
"What did he mean by pinky-swear?" he asked in a quiet voice.
She shrugged, angry at Theo for saying that. "It's just this thing from our childhood. He used to make me promise to do what he told me by making me do a pinky-swear."
Of course, the thought of him making her pinky-swear made her eyes tear up again as she thought about him being dead. She covered her eyes for a moment.
"He says you have to assume a new identity. Leave Manhattan. I can help you with that once I recover."
"I can't." Anna looked in Brandon's eyes, hoping to see understanding in them. "I can't just quit everything and start a new life, no matter what this letter says. He could have been forced to write this, for all I know."
"You know tradecraft?" he said, his voice sounding frustrated. "You have CIA training?"
Anna frowned. "No, but I intend to work for the CIA when I graduate."
"I don't remember Theo but if we were in the same unit, I know we were both trained in tradecraft. Now, I don't know why, but I can tell by that letter that he was afraid for both of us. He was sure he was in danger and that you were as well. We both should go into hiding. Even though I don't remember, I need to honor his request and give you a new identity. I do know tradecraft and how to go black. Until I get my memory back, you have to trust me."
Anna stared at the letter for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. "I can't give up everything I've worked so hard for all these years. I've been studying for nine years, Brandon. I'm doing my dissertation research and graduating in the spring. I've already applied to the CIA with the plan of joining right after. As long as I pass the requirements—and I will because I have a spotless background—I'm almost guaranteed to get in. I can't throw that away."
"Trust me, Anna. Seriously. If your brother thinks you're in danger, you are."
Anna glanced back down at the letter. Obviously, Theo was worried about her. He had asked Brandon to come and find her, bring her this letter.
"Pinky swear," he said and held out his hand, his baby finger cricked and ready for hers.
She glanced at his face. Despite it all, there was a soft smile on one corner of his mouth.
She took a deep breath, and decided to wait and see how things turned out. She couldn't agree to follow him blindly, no matter what the letter said.
"Do it," he said. "Commit to it."
"I'm not a child anymore."
He shook his head and closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath.
"Do you believe the letter is real?" Anna asked, holding out hope that it was a fake and they were both being played.
"I don't have a clue, but your father is dead, and according to this letter, your brother is dead, too. I was shot so someone tried to kill me. I have no idea why, but unless I killed whoever did it, he's still out there and we're in danger."
Part of Anna knew he was probably right, but she couldn't just give up her life, quit her PhD, and take on a new identity. What would she do? Work as a bartender in some resort city in Mexico?
No way. She couldn't do it.
"I'm not leaving town. Not until I know for sure. Look. My supervisor's a former CIA official who teaches at John Jay now. He's completely trustworthy. I can call him when the cellular coverage is back up and get him to help you. Get you some medical care. I'm sure he'll know what to do. I trust him, Brandon. He'll help."
"You can, but don't involve me. I'm all healed up. I'll leave as soon as it's dark but you should come with me, Anna. Your brother wanted you to."
"I'm not coming with you. I'll call Professor Singer. He'll know what to do."
He sighed heavily. "It's your life to throw away. Look, Anna. Your brother said to trust me. But I can't force you to come with me. It's your life to throw away. I'd think, given all the evidence, that even if I can't remember any of this, you should come with me. Listen to your brother. That's my advice."
Anna took in a deep breath. "The last I heard from Theo, he was sick and living on the streets of LA. How he got from there to Virginia tracking down domestic terrorists, I'll never know. How can I even know if he really is dead? That letter could be a fake meant to get me to go with you so you can kill me."
"If I wanted to, I could have killed you already with either of my weapons. The fact that I didn't suggests to me that I wasn't here to kill you but to protect you. It could be the truth and I'm here to save your life. You need to decide which it is. Now, I need to sleep if I'm going tonight. You should as well, in case you decide to come with me. It's cold out and you'll need stamina to walk out of here during a storm."
Anna frowned, unable to decide. The letter seemed like it had been written by Theo. He wanted her to trust Brandon and said he was a hero. But Brandon didn't remember being Theo's friend—what should she do?
Anna sighed. "I'll decide later if I'll come with you. The letter sounds like something Theo would write. Or someone who knew him really well and wanted to convince me. I can't know which is true, but the fact you were shot makes me suspect you were here to protect me. What I can't figure out is why you didn't say anything to me about it at Mike's."
He shrugged. "I don't know either. Maybe I was sent to give you the letter when I figured it was safe."
"Maybe," she said. "Whatever the case, I'll decide when you leave whether I’ll come."
"Get some sleep," he said, his voice soft. "You've had a lot of bad news. If you come, you'll need a backpack, if you have one, with some warm clothes and anything you really need —medications, ID papers. I'll leave as soon as the sun sets so if you're coming, you need to be ready."
Anna examined the letter, reading it over once more. “I better burn this, like Theo said.”
“You should.”
She went to the fireplace and held the letter in her hand, relishing the sight of the tiny mouse. Then, on a whim, she ripped the corner of the letter so that she had a piece with the mouse drawing on it. That she could save.
Then she threw the rest of the letter in the hearth and watched it catch fire and burn up, the pages crisping, turning black and then crumbling.
She tucked the piece of paper with the mouse on it into her pocket and left him. She went to the bedroom, lying down on the bed and watching through the crack in the door while he lay back down and put his arm behind his head, his eyes closing.
Anna would decide when the time came whether to go. She just couldn't shut down her doubts and go with him. In the meantime, she tried to rest, but sleep was elusive as her mind fought with itself over whether to trust her gut and go with Brandon or fight it and stay.
She did manage to fall asleep for a short while. When she woke, she glanced around the room and thought about Brandon. He'd been shot and had come to the c
abin. It must have been for a reason. Something inside of her changed at that moment. She felt a sense that she could trust Brandon. He was so much like Theo.
She took in a deep breath and decided she had to trust that Theo had known what he was doing and that he truly had written that letter. If so, he was dead, her father had been assassinated, and she was at the mercy of a trained killer.
She glanced out at Brandon. He was still asleep, so she tiptoed out to the kitchen for a drink of water. On the table she saw the small kit with the drugs he didn't seem to want to take. In fact, he'd discarded them like he didn't believe he needed them. He was too stubborn to take their existence seriously, but Anna wouldn't let him be so reckless. She decided to take one of the syringes and a vial and put them in her own things just in case he became ill and needed the drugs. She didn't want to find out too late that he really did need the drugs and they’d left them behind in the cabin.
She hoped that, in trusting Brandon, she wasn't making a mistake that would cost her life.
Chapter Thirteen
Brandon woke about two hours later, just as the sun was setting behind the tree line. The wind blew with a low howl, and heavy snow fell, drifts building up around the door and covering the tracks Anna had made earlier in the day. They were effectively snowed in and there was no let-up in sight, no break in the clouds suggesting that the worst was over.
He got up and went to the bathroom, deciding to have a quick shower even though the power was out. There might be some heat left in the hot water tank. It was warm but quickly turned cold, before he was even finished soaping up. Luckily, he was used to cold showers in the field. Besides, some icy cold water was just what he needed to wake up fully and be prepared for the night's work of walking out of the bush back to the main road. From there, he hoped to find a friendly trucker who might get them far enough out of the storm's worst effects that he could get cellular coverage and contact a few of his comrades in Montana.
If he was going to get Anna a new identity, he would need to pull in a few markers.
He stepped out of the shower and checked himself out in the mirror. The wound had healed almost completely. It was a mystery how, but perhaps he’d been part of some military program that he’d forgotten because of the head injury. If so, fast healing would come in handy in his line of work as a mercenary.
Before he went to sleep earlier, he’d hung up his clothes in front of the fireplace, so they'd dry in the heat, so he had a clean pair of khakis and shirt, plus a sweater Anna had provided from her father's closet. It was on the small side, but it would do. He needed layers to keep warm against the cold.
He emerged from the bathroom to find Anna waiting to get in. "Water's cold, if you were hoping for a warm shower."
She pointed to the hearth and then the kitchen. "I heated up some water in the fireplace and on the propane stove. I think I have enough for a quick bath."
Then she carted in several big pots of hot water and closed the door. She was industrious and creative—two traits that would come in handy for someone on the run from enemies.
Brandon went back to the living room and pulled on extra socks and his boots, which had sat on the hearth to dry out. Then, after slipping on his parka, he went out to the truck to search through the cab and truck bed to see if there was anything Anna had missed. He found a crowbar in the cab, resting underwater, and used it to pry open the glove compartment. Inside was a manual for the vehicle, a soaking wet vehicle registration from Virginia, and a wallet.
Bingo.
Maybe now he’d know who the hell he was portraying himself to be.
He went back to the cabin to find Anna had finished getting dressed and was pulling on her own boots.
"Look what I found," he said and held up the wallet.
"What's inside?"
"I was just going to check. Want to see who I’m supposed to be?"
She came over and watched as he opened the wallet and removed several ID cards. There was a driver's license from Virginia, a birth certificate from North Carolina, and a Social Security card.
Then, there was a card that surprised him.
Brandon O'Neil, Security Contractor, DefenseCon LLC.
Security Contractor was his job title, employed with a mercenary company called DefenseCon. He recognized the name immediately. DefenseCon provided mercenary support for the US military in operations around the world. Mercs protected supply lines in places like Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria—anywhere it was dangerous for the military to get supplies to the troops. Mercs were former special ops types, like him, paid three times what a regular soldier would earn—the private military, which had been taking over more and more of the military's old work. It allowed the Pentagon to spend more while it looked like they were saving money. The money disappeared into classified ventures, so it all flew under the radar of the spending hawks.
"I guess I'm also a paid mercenary working for a company called DefenseCon."
"A mercenary?"
"Yep." Then, he pulled out a Medic Alert card. On the back was a hand-written note that he needed to take a dose of anti-epileptic medication twice a day or he’d have convulsions.
“What's that?” she asked. He was reluctant to give her the card, because he knew what she'd think. Finally, he handed it to her.
“You better take a dose,” she said, glancing up at him, concern written on her face. “It’s been twenty-four hours now, at least. If the drug is for epilepsy, you could have a seizure if you go too long without it.”
“I don't have epilepsy,” he said and shook his head.
“Maybe you were recently diagnosed,” she said, frowning. “You don't remember the past few months."
“And that vial isn’t a prescription. It’s not from a pharmacy. It’s not even labeled.”
“Still,” she said, and he could hear a quaver of fear in her voice. “Epilepsy isn’t something to ignore.”
“If I have a seizure, I give you permission to inject me, but not until then. I don’t know what this is and until I do, I’m not putting it into my body.”
“Why are you so stubborn? I'm telling you to take the medication."
"You're not my wife," he said.
"Luckily," she said and frowned. Finally, she exhaled. "It’s your life. Do what you want, but I will inject you if needed.”
“Fine,” he said, then put the card back in the wallet and slipped it into the pocket of his parka.
“Brandon,” she said, and laid her hand on his arm. “If my brother truly wrote that letter, he said my life was in danger. He said I could trust you with my life. He said you were heroic. If it’s all true, I need you to be healthy. Are you sure you’re able to go out in the storm and walk for miles? You were shot.”
“I feel almost perfect,” Brandon said, waving her off. “I’m ready for whatever the storm throws at us, which is likely just more snow and wind. We’ll take a tarp along with us and if it gets bad, we can take cover. I’ve done Arctic survival before. I knew how to catch, kill, and cook a jackrabbit if we need food." He gave her a huge grin. "So don’t worry. I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about. You’ve had a couple of big shocks—your dad and Theo. I’m concerned about you.”
Then, from out of nowhere, he was filled with affection for her. He reached out, stroking her cheek. The expression on her face was a mix of concern and warmth. It had been a long time since a woman had looked at him that way—honestly concerned for his welfare. Most of the women he knew were the casual kind of sex partner with no strings attached. He was a diversion from their regular routine, no more.
Anna’s concern felt real, and it warmed him in return. It was something he could get used to feeling.
He pushed that thought out of his mind and went to the supply room in back, and checked out the shelves. He found a military-grade rucksack and a folded tarp on the top shelf. Both would come in handy on the trip. He rolled up the tarp and attached it to the rucksack, then jammed in a couple of bottles of water,
some snacks from the shelves, a flashlight, and a couple of packs of batteries.
He rummaged around some more on the shelves and found a box containing night-vision glasses.
“Well, looky here,” he said and pulled them out, holding them up for Anna to see.
She stepped closer. “Those are my dad's night-vision goggles."
"They'll come in real handy. I wish there were two pairs so you could have some as well, but you’ll have to just follow me. With these and a compass, I'll be able to find our way out of here. I'm used to using them in the field.”
"You're the mercenary."
"That I am," he said with a chuckle. "Gun for hire. Soldier of fortune. Not much of a fortune in mercenary work. But merc work is better-paying than regular military, sadly. If I really wanted big money, I wouldn't have gone to the Naval Academy and studied engineering, or I'd have gone to an Ivy League college and studied commerce.”
She finished packing her own rucksack and they went to the kitchen, where he laid out a map of Maine and showed her where he planned on taking them. They were about fifteen miles from the coast and about ten miles from the nearest town to the north. If they made a couple of miles an hour, they might make it there by dawn.
"We'll skirt Route 192 all the way to Highway 9. When we get there, if cell coverage is better, I'll call in a few markers and get us somewhere safe."
"You're in charge," she said with a sigh.
"Hey," he said and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly. "This is what I'm good at. Going on the run. Escaping to safety. I've done this hundreds of times before, both in combat and in exercises. We'll be fine. But," he said, wanting her to understand what they should do if they were apprehended, "if someone's following me—if they know I came to your father's cabin, and this isn't about you at all—you should try to act like I've abducted you against your will."