The Identity: The Black Unit Series: Book One

by Lund, S.

  "What about Brandon and my brother?"

  "Brandon is borderline Type I and II. He has the potential to develop epilepsy. We think he's still got normal levels of emotion, although perhaps eroded somewhat. Not enough to warrant retirement, but he can become committed to a mission to the exclusion of all else. We want warriors who are committed to the mission, but they need to be able to use independent judgement. They must change course if necessary. Brandon can't. That can be dangerous, especially if he joins the enemy. He would then, in effect, become a weapon to be used against us, instead of by us against the enemy."

  "And my brother?"

  He smiled, but it was a painful, forced smile. "Your brother is a tactical genius. It's only too bad he's being used to protect the inner circle of leaders in the rebellion."

  "I just don’t believe he would join them. He's a patriot."

  "He's one of the EWs who developed a personality disorder. Type II. He lacks affect. No emotions. We believe the militia's scientists figured out how to manipulate the EWs, using their neural chips to turn them against the government. You'll be shocked when you see Theo. Our intelligence suggests he's pretty much an automaton by this point."

  "Oh, God." Anna imagined Theo being unable to feel emotion, but then she remembered the letter. It seemed to belie that suggestion. The letter was very emotional—deeply so. Had it been written before the damage had been done? She couldn't remember a date on the letter, but it had to have been within the last month.

  The letter felt so much like her brother, but extremely emotional. Had he even written it, given that Professor Singer said he was now almost an automaton?

  She hadn't told Professor Singer about the medication kit or the letter. She couldn't be sure whether that was a mistake, but something made Anna hold it back.

  After they were finished, she went with Professor Singer and Holmes to a waiting vehicle parked outside the building. A black cruiser that looked like an unmarked police car, the vehicle had warning lights on the dashboard. She got in the back seat and fastened her seatbelt, noting the grill between the front and back seat. This vehicle was used to transport prisoners, and Anna felt that's what she was, truthfully, despite being a CIA employee. She felt coerced.

  Amazing that she had finally realized her dream of joining the CIA, only to become a covert operative—something she never wanted or imagined.

  The black cruiser crawled down the deserted early-morning streets and then left the city limits. Anna stared out the window as they drove through the countryside into the interior of Virginia. Over an hour and a half later, they arrived at the northern edge of the Shenandoah National Park. In the center of a small wood sat a two-story building with no windows. It looked like a decrepit warehouse—nothing more than a shabby grey box in the middle of a forest. Was this a remote site where US personnel interrogated terrorist suspects?

  Off to the left, through the trees, Anna saw a small plane take off from a runway strip on the other side of the woods.

  "What is this place?"

  "This is a facility where a lot of high-value targets are brought for preliminary interrogation, after which they're shipped off to sites outside the US."

  "And by high-value targets, I take it you mean terrorists?"

  "Spies. Terrorists. Foreign nationals who are suspected of spying."

  They drove to the rear of the building, pulling up to a large overhead door like a receiving dock. A guard with a machine gun stood beside the entry. He came over and checked Holmes's papers, and glanced at Anna in the back. Then he waved the vehicle forward.

  A huge door opened to reveal a path down into a basement parking area. Inside was an old ambulance that had seen better days, as well as a couple of vehicles that looked like police cars.

  When they got out, Anna walked behind Holmes.

  Another car drove in behind them and a man exited the vehicle, moving to Holmes's side and nodding to Anna. His blue windbreaker and ID identified him as another FBI special agent.

  "Special Agent Fuentes," Holmes said. "Just in time."

  "Good afternoon, sir. Sorry I was delayed. Traffic on the freeway out of DC was hell. Where do you want me?"

  "With her," he said and gestured with his head towards Anna. "Watch her. She's going down to see our special guest in holding room C. He's still dangerous, even when he's restrained. Remember their strength."

  "How could I forget?"

  While Anna watched, a smile passed between Holmes and Fuentes. Brandon must have been in a fight with Fuentes—maybe Holmes as well.

  "Go," Special Agent Holmes said, waving Anna forward. "See what the scumbag has to tell you."

  She frowned, upset at Holmes's tone. "You both seem to really hate Brandon," she said as they walked down a hallway to a set of stairs.

  "Hate?" Fuentes said as they took the stairs into a narrow hallway leading to a dim space. "Hate is too mild a word. Brandon doesn't deserve my hatred. He deserves my utter contempt and undying enmity for betraying the United States of America and breaking his oath."

  "What did he do to you?"

  "To me? Nothing other than be a traitor. He's conspiring with foreign terrorists to attack the United States. He's a traitor and will be shot by a firing squad, if there's any justice."

  Anna followed him to the end of the hallway, a sense of unreality flooding through her. No matter what they said, Brandon didn't strike her as a terrorist wanting to attack the US. How FBI special agents could believe it shocked her.

  Brandon seemed more like a true patriot. She shook her head as if trying to shake such an idea out of existence. That photograph of her brother and Brandon seemed to suggest they had been close friends over in Afghanistan. She knew her brother. He was no terrorist.

  Fuentes practically ran down another set of stairs ahead of Anna to a lower floor, and she followed. They arrived at a door with a small window facing the hallway. An armed guard stood at attention wearing a black uniform with no identifying insignia, his weapon held across his chest.

  "Is the prisoner secure?" Fuentes asked the guard.

  "Yes, sir."

  Fuentes nodded and the guard stepped aside, allowing Fuentes to open the door, and they went inside. Brandon was sitting in a chair facing the door, his arms and legs retrained by chains. Anna froze when she saw him—his face was beaten and bruised. The handsome face she remembered was now almost unrecognizable. But she could see the same longish dark hair and blue eyes, even though one was almost swollen shut. The same nose and square jaw. They hadn't broken either, apparently.

  His chest was bare, his hands both cuffed. The cuffs were attached to a chain which was in turn attached to a latch in the floor itself. His feet were likewise in chains.

  They were truly afraid of him.

  She felt a knot in her gut, but her mind told Anna he would heal quickly, despite how broken he appeared.

  "You were pretty sloppy for an EW." Fuentes stopped a foot away from where Brandon sat. "You obviously aren't one of the elite or we wouldn’t have caught you so easily."

  "Fuck you."

  "Such eloquence," Special Agent Holmes said when he arrived in the room. "I thought you were up there among traitors. Guess our intelligence must be off. Fuentes, what's your assessment? How is it we caught this motherfucker so easily?"

  "He's either been hung out to dry or he was trying to get caught."

  "Well, what is it, Mr. O'Neil?" Holmes asked, contempt a thin edge in his voice. "Did your precious Commander Denton abandon you? Your combat skills aren't very impressive, so I can see why he might have."

  "Like I said, fuck you." He turned to Anna. "Don't trust them. They're the real traitors."

  "Shut him up." Holmes motioned to Fuentes, who punched Brandon, knocking his head to the side. "Those were rhetorical questions. I decide if and when he speaks."

  Anna gasped when Fuentes hit Brandon, covering her mouth with a hand. Brandon's head hung limply for a moment, and he appeared to be unconscious, but then
he lifted his head and opened his eyes. He spat out blood.

  "If anyone's a traitor, it's you, idiot," Holmes said. He motioned to Fuentes as if to encourage him.

  Fuentes stepped closer, a sneer on his face, and knocked Brandon's chair over, then kicked him in the gut when he was down. Brandon groaned and curled his body in pain. After a moment, he coughed up more blood.

  Anna squeezed her eyes shut, not knowing why they were doing this, other than to show her how powerful they were over Brandon. A sense of sympathy flooded her, and she felt actual hate towards Fuentes and Holmes at that moment. Their willingness to assault Brandon while he couldn't defend himself made her sick. He was no threat to them, the way he was restrained. Their blatant show of force accomplished nothing but to hurt Brandon and make themselves feel superior.

  It wasn't what she thought the brave men and women in the CIA and FBI were about.

  "Go ahead," Brandon said through clenched teeth, blood dripping out of the corner of his mouth. "Attack a restrained man. Show me how powerful you are."

  "Brandon," Anna said. "Stop antagonizing them. Do you want them to attack you?" She turned to Fuentes and Holmes. "You're attacking a helpless man. I'm sure that's against the FBI's manual."

  "It doesn't apply to traitors."

  She turned back to Brandon.

  "Just don't trust them, Anna. They're the terrorists, not me."

  "I don't know who to trust," she said and grimaced as she looked at the bruises to his face and torso.

  "Trust your gut," he whispered.

  She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a tissue, then bent down, pressing it against a cut on his cheek. She was acutely aware of the two FBI special agents staring at her, but she couldn't stop from trying to help Brandon.

  "Get her away from him." Holmes turned away, disgust on his face that Anna was being nice to Brandon. Fuentes grabbed hold under her arm, pulling her up and away.

  "You're awfully nice to him. Considering he probably turned your brother, I'd think you'd hate him."

  She didn't say anything in reply. They were looking for a reason to hate her and make her hate Brandon. They didn't know about her brother's letter.

  Anna took in a deep breath and decided to defend Theo. "My brother's a hero."

  "Used to be a hero, you mean. When he joined Denton's militia group, he became a traitor."

  Brandon coughed up more blood. Anna turned to Holmes, angry now. "He needs a doctor."

  "He'll be fine. Hard to kill these scum. They have hardened bones, super-fast blood clotting, wound healing. Unfortunately, we have to keep him alive for the court martial to prove his guilt."

  Holmes spoke into his cell, and in a few moments, two orderlies appeared at the door and entered. They had a gurney with them and loaded Brandon onto it, making sure to keep his wrists and ankles shackled and tied to a short chain. They carried the gurney out of the room and down the hall.

  Holmes followed the gurney with Fuentes in tow. Anna followed the two men. They seemed to want her to see what was happening to Brandon.

  Why?

  They stood on the periphery of what appeared to be a trauma room and watched the medical personnel do their work. Brandon's face was as pale as the sheets on which he lay, and with his fair skin and dark hair, he looked more a corpse than a living person. He had blanched from blood loss, but soon a fresh bag of blood hung suspended from an IV pole. When the chief medic was satisfied that they had stabilized Brandon, he waved the other personnel away and allowed Holmes and Fuentes to speak with him alone.

  They had given Brandon some pain medicine and his eye had a slightly glazed look. He appeared to drift a bit from the effects of the morphine.

  Holmes stood at the side of the bed near Brandon's head. "Needless to say, your resistance is going on your record. It won't look good when the court martial takes place."

  Despite his morphine-induced haze, Brandon appeared coherent.

  "On what charge? Even you must know the Constitution. You can't arrest me without cause. You can't convict me without evidence."

  Holmes's voice was deadly calm now. "You're being held under a special anti-terrorism warrant on suspicion of being a member of a known terrorist organization."

  "You can only hold me for forty-eight hours without formally charging me with a crime."

  "That's reserved for your ordinary run-of-the-mill criminal. The laws governing terrorists allow us to hold you indefinitely."

  "You have nothing on me."

  "We have a long list of crimes you committed while a member of the militia, including embezzlement, transporting weapons across state lines, and purchasing black-market fissionable materials in preparation for a terrorist attack."

  Brandon laughed. "Yeah, right." He turned his attention to Anna and blinked a few times. "They're telling you a story about me, but don't believe it."

  Holmes grabbed Brandon's chin and jerked his face away. He pulled his weapon out and held it to Brandon's head.

  "Shut up." He slid the muzzle of the weapon to Brandon's mouth, pressing it against his closed lips until it rested against his teeth. "You speak when spoken to. And you don't speak to her."

  Brandon said nothing, but he showed no fear—as if he didn't care.

  "That's better." Holmes put his weapon away and adjusted his jacket. "Now, there's a little business I want to clear up. You cooperate and we might let you heal. You don't? You know what happens next."

  "Sure, I'll cooperate," Brandon said and laughed, then grimaced. "When hell freezes over." He turned to Anna. "Remember what you saw with your own eyes. They killed your father. Probably Theo as well."

  Fuentes punched Brandon again. The punch knocked his head sideways so hard that saliva sprayed in the air, a fine mist that settled on Anna’s jacket.

  "Go outside," Holmes said, motioning towards the door with a wave of his hand. The blood drained from Anna’s face and while her mind told her to move, her legs stayed rooted in place.

  "I said go outside."

  "No." The thought that Brandon maybe remembered his past made Anna feel hope. "Tell me what happened to my father."

  "I gave you a direct order," Holmes said. "Leave now."

  Something held her back. "I asked you a question. Please answer."

  Holmes hesitated, his body tense. "Your father died of a heart attack. He's baiting you." When he spoke, his voice was low, strained as if he was holding in his anger.

  "Liar," Brandon said. He turned to Anna. "Trust your own eyes."

  Holmes turned to Anna, too. She could almost feel the anger radiating off him. His lips were a thin line and his jaw was tightly clenched. He looked in her eyes.

  "He'll tell you anything to get you on his side. On your brother's side. You're a natural target. That's why Professor Singer wanted you brought to the facility and sworn in."

  Brandon frowned. "You joined the CIA?"

  Anna nodded. "I have to help them find Theo."

  Brandon shook his head. "They wanted to get to you and make sure you don't change sides once you learned the truth. That's how much confidence they have in you."

  She turned to Holmes. "You actually think I could be recruited by an anti-government militia?"

  "They'd try. They'd use your brother as a lure. Ignore him. They likely sent him out to try to convince you to join the militia. He'll say anything to make you doubt us. To make you doubt Singer."

  Anna looked in his face for a moment, checking for a sign of deceit. He held her gaze, never flinching. At least he believed what he was saying.

  "The decision to bring you in wasn't based on any suspicion about you personally, but about the militia's interest in contacting you. Right now, our concern is Mr. Denton and his hold on your brother and men like O'Neil. Now go."

  Anna nodded. Before she left, she took one look back at Brandon.

  "He doesn't want you to know the truth," Brandon said. "Gotta keep you ignorant or you'd never cooperate. So much for truth, justice, and the
American way."

  She glanced back at Holmes. He shook his head and motioned to her to leave.

  So she did—but she feared that Brandon's last words would get him another beating.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Recovery from the last beating Holmes gave took all night.

  Unfortunately, the lights in the facility were on 24/7/ so whatever sleep Brandon got was interrupted and poor. He received a visitor hours later, but he had no idea what time; there was no clock on the wall.

  The door opened and in walked a pleasant-looking man with a graying goatee and round glasses that gave him a decidedly professorial look. As pleasant as his face was, his expression was grim, his face solemn. He introduced himself as Professor Mark Singer.

  "So, Brandon," he said as he pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. "How are you feeling?"

  "Is this an interrogation?"

  He smiled. "Consider this your debriefing."

  "Debriefing? That sounds like I'm on some kind of mission."

  He adjusted his glasses. "Oh, but you are. You're on a top-secret black mission of the highest classification. It's so classified, only a handful of people know about it. Not even Special Agent Holmes, with whom you had the unfortunate run-in earlier."

  "Thanks for intervening," he said sarcastically.

  "I wanted to, but we have to let him have his revenge."

  "You're part of this ‘top-secret black mission of the highest classification? Anna told me you're a professor at John Jay."

  "Can't I be two things at once?”

  Brandon didn't say anything for a moment. "I hope you understand that I don't believe a word you say, given that I'm in shackles and have been beaten by Special Agent Holmes and his lackey with the apparent approval of whoever runs this place."

  "Forget about Holmes and Fuentes. Neither of them is even read in on this program or mission. Holmes has an old score to settle with you, over something that hurt his feelings. Once you remember, you'll understand. You'll heal. You're already almost healed completely. Take a deep breath. The process of tissue regeneration is very fast. Even with the damage those two idiots did, you should be better in thirty-six hours at most."