Kill Me Once Again

By Wayne White

Major Scott Wilson is fragged during a CIA black ops mission when he refuses to help his mutinous men smuggle captured Afghan heroin to the States. Scott dies in the med-evac chopper, but a determined Army field surgeon revives him. He recovers except for PTSD and retrograde amnesia, specifically any memory of the fragging. “If not remembering that mission doesn’t bother you, go home. Have a good life. It’s not important,” the VA shrink tells him. But now, it is important. Scott’s life may depend on remembering who killed him the first time.

After forced medical retirement, Scott’s boss and friend Jonas has the Witness Protection Program relocate him with a new identity.

Five years later, in present-day Myrtle Beach, SC, assassins kill a girl driving Scott’s car and attack him. Scott kills one thug before a grazing head shot knocks him out. He wakes in a hospital where FBI agents say nothing was found at the site of the attack to support his story. When FBI Special Agent Kathy Saunders’ partner is murdered, she realizes she’s in danger, too. Unable to tell friend from foe and Scott’s WITSEC identity compromised, Scott and Kathy go into hiding. Electronic bugs, hidden GPS tracking devices, snipers, a bullying NSA Lt. Colonel and his henchmen, and merciless Russian assassins greet them at every turn. What's more, best friend Jonas is lying to him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne White
• Release date: Aug 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476370194

Wayne White

I am a member of the Virginia Writers Club (virginiawritersclub.org), Valley Writers Chapter (roanokevalleywriters.org). I have written several winning entries for the Chautauqua Writers Festival. I earned a BSBA from the University of Central Florida and now live in Roanoke, VA. I have published three e-books on Amazon.com: Home Again, a story about a family with an abusive father, in 1954 with Appalachian town Narrows, VA providing the historical backdrop; and Kill Me Once Again, an action/thriller mystery that takes place in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. my latest is The Back Nine, a sequel to To Kill Me Once Again. I'm hooked on action thrillers and mystery stories and mainly write novels, although I sometimes get sidetracked by my inner muse to write a satirical essay or a poem. Favorite books: the Robert Ludlum Jason Bourne series (movie with Matt Damon); James Patterson's Alex Cross series; Tom Clancy's series with Jack Ryan; and Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. My advice to novice writers: Get help ASAP. Join a writers club, take a college course in creative writing, and don't waste time trying to follow all the advice you find on the Internet.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank the many people who read the manuscript, edited and provided invaluable suggestions for improvements. These include the many members of the Valley Writers Chapter of the Virginia Writers Club in Roanoke, Virginia. Please visit us at Roanokevalleywriters.org.

Table of Contents

Copyright 2012 by Wayne L. White

Acknowledgments

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

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

About the Author

Other Books by Wayne L. White

Home Again

Home Again Chapter 1

The Back Nine

The Back Nine Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Balghis Province, Afghanistan, 1998

THUP! THUP! THUP! THUP! The rotors pound. Pulsing blasts of air push down on me. A cyclone of sand swirls, stings my face and hands. Someone slings me over his shoulder. I hang limply, bouncing as he carries me at a run towards the Huey. Its screaming jet engine demands attention. The hot acrid smell of its exhaust pulls me back to the flood of pain in my head and chest. Strong hands drag me into the MedEvac chopper. I feel the chopper rise as we dust off.

Hang on, Major. Stay with me now, stay with me. We’re only twenty clicks out.

I struggle to open my eyes. A tube runs from a needle in my arm to a bag swinging overhead in the dim red lights of night ops.

Oh, God! What the hell are you doing? Get off my chest. Christ! Get off me, you bastard!

Easy, Major, easy. Come back to me, now. Come on, Major. Dammit! he pleads.

Can’t this freakin’ bird go any faster? he shouts into the intercom mic attached to his helmet.

Then nothing. That’s all my dreams tell me. That’s all I know.

That was five years ago. That’s the day I died.

Chapter 2

Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, 2009

My old Toyota smoked along the South Carolina Hwy 31 bypass. I sat in the passenger seat with a Jack Daniel’s grin, ogling my trophy driver as she steered us through the night. Mary. Or was it Marie? Said she needed a ride. I needed a sober driver. Maybe I’d get lucky too.

Where you from? I asked, hoping to get the preliminaries out of the way.

I’m a student at Georgetown down here on break with a bunch of friends. We’re staying in Daddy’s condo at the Hilton Royal Palms. It’s so cool down here—not the weather, of course— well, you know what I mean, don’t you? I just love the. . . She rambled on sweetly.

I leaned against the door and stared at her perky silhouette. She’d displayed her Vargas girl body in the bar to insure I knew where her legs started and where they ended. Now the dash lights lit them tantalizingly.

I looked away from the girl as a vehicle came up behind us. The inconsiderate bastard blinded us with his high beams. I squinted to see through the sweet alcoholic haze that enveloped me. The car moved into the passing lane and crept alongside. The passenger window opened and two gorilla-sized hands steadied a large handgun in the wind.

BAM! The shot pierced the left doorpost, the seat, tore through the girl’s body and exited her right breast. The impact slammed her body into the steering wheel. I hit the seat tilt lever and pushed hard with my feet, thrusting my quickly sobering ass into the backseat.

BAM! A second shot blew the girl’s brains out, tore off her adorable face. Her lifeless body fell to the passenger seat. My Toyota left the road, rolled over and slid down an embankment. It stopped upright in a quarry pond, the hood underwater, the rear wheels on the bank.

I fumbled under the seat for my pistol as I glanced up to the road. The shooter’s car backed up. Stopped. My heart raced. Dammit! Where’s my freakin’ gun?

A man came down the embankment, silhouetted by the red glare of the brake lights. His flashlight lit my car. I ducked.

BAM! The bullet tore into my side and left me gasping for air. What the hell was he using? A freakin’ Howitzer?

I tried the rear door. Sonofabitch! It wouldn’t open. I squirmed over the girl’s body and tried the front door. The handle turned, but if I opened it, he’d see and I’d be dead. I searched in panic for my gun as the shooter followed the beam of his flashlight down the embankment.

The weight of my Glock in my hand gave me sudden comfort and a rush of hope.

My turn now, you bastard! I aimed through the window at the flashlight. BAM!

Flashlight Man roared, but it wasn’t English.

I’m sorry, sweetheart, I murmured as I moved the girl, opened the passenger door, filled my lungs and slipped into the water.

BAM! The merciless bastard fired again.

I prayed that my water-soaked Glock would fire one more time as I popped up from the pond and pumped another round at Flashlight Man. As he fell, he squeezed off a round.

Instant darkness.

Chapter 3

The periods of awareness were short, but long enough for me to remember the guy coming down the slope after me and the slug slamming into my head like a bowling ball against a burled maple pin. The pain told me it wasn’t a dream and stopped only when someone shot me up with morphine; but new images appeared and I fell back into the abyss where dreams ruled. I battled the drugs and my demons at the same time.

The guy in the bed next to me coughs like he’s croaking. The ICU nurses take their time getting to him except when some high-decibel alarm goes off. That, along with the rush of activity next to me, wakes me when it happens. And I wake when I battle the urgent thoughts that tell me to run for my life.

Don’t fight it, Major. You’re safe here, a woman’s voice assured. I’ve got you. Go back to sleep, she whispered. Her voice was familiar, comforting. I’d heard it somewhere before, but sleep scuttled the search of my memory before I found an answer.

As I drifted off, her soft hand squeezed mine and I held onto it. Held on to life.

An orderly announced his intermittent presence with tunes bubbling from his iPod. He annoyed me with the sing-along show he provided as he mopped. The pop! of a soda can opening occasionally woke me. Sometimes I smelled coffee.

Get up! a voice in my head commanded. Run, Scotty, run! Get out of here! I tried to get up but an unsympathetic nurse with the abrasive voice of a drill sergeant chewed me out.

You ain’t going nowhere, mister. Try that again and I’ll strap you down, she groused.

Bitch! Doesn’t she know someone is trying to kill me?

I rolled left and right looking for a door, some way out. But my eyes wouldn’t focus and my movement brought a sharp pain to my groin.

Get this damned catheter out of me, I shouted to someone I couldn’t see. I’ll use a bedpan. Of all man’s inhumanity to man, a catheter up your Johnson surely ranks in the top ten.

Mostly, I slept, but during those brief periods when I was awake, the incident played over in my mind. The brutal killing of the girl. The shooter coming down the slope, the darkness behind him punctuated by the red glare of the taillights. The round from his large-bore pistol tearing into me. He came down that slope time and again, a faceless bastard coming after me!

Was it someone I should have recognized? Did it matter? Freakin’ A it mattered! Who was he? Why did he and his comrade want me dead? How many more were there?

The beep from my heart monitor accelerated each time I relived the terror that flooded my conscious moments.

Run, Scotty! Run!

Chapter 4

Someone lifted the sheet much higher than necessary to check the circulation in my legs.

I see you in there big boy, playing possum, wastin’ time when you could be doin’ some lady a big favor. Come on, now. Don’t be shy. They ain’t nobody here but you and me. I knowed you be awake at least two days now. That be me givin’ you those nice sponge baths. I know how much you be enjoyin’ ’em too, she said, her voice flowing as sweet as molasses.

I was sure syrupy voice lady was the embodiment of a sweet ol’ Carolina girl. A quick peek proved her at least a hundred pounds lighter than the good ol’ Lowcountry lady I’d envisioned and a good twenty-five years younger.

You feeling better, Mr. Doe? My confusion must have been apparent. That’s you. John Doe. Say so right here. She chuckled again, pointing to a chart. About damned time you decided to join us, she scolded. The good-ol’-mammy act was suddenly gone. You’re lucky to be alive after being shot in the head. A lot of bleeding—like most head wounds—made by a large projectile that ate a channel from your temple, over your ear and out the back of your head. It’s gonna leave a nasty scar, but you’ll live.

She scanned my chart. Another bullet made mincemeat of your spleen, so they took that out. You lost a lot of blood from that too. Judging from all those scars I saw when I gave you those baths, you’ve been cut on before, haven’t you. She looked at me, thinking I’d answer, maybe wondering what I’d say. It looks like your knee got mangled under the dashboard in the crash. She lifted the sheet again so I could see the cast on my right leg.

Her eyes were green, like mine, but hers had a sparkle that demanded attention, pulled you deep into their emerald beauty. A brilliant-white smile lit the silky-smooth skin of her light brown face when she saw my eyes fall to her bosom. I guess a guy could be dying and he’d still be eyeballing all the tits in the room.

I’m really tired, ah. . . I tried to read her name tag, but my head was too heavy to lift off the pillow.

Sunny. Call me Sunny. She took a syringe from her pocket, pulled the cap off with her teeth and injected the contents into an IV port in my arm. This will keep you down for a while. By the way, your daughter came to see you. Twice. Fine lookin’ kid.

Daughter?

The cast bothered me. It bent at the knee, covered half of my calf and went half way up my thigh. Designed for restraint, I thought. You can’t even hobble with one leg three-inches shorter than the other. Even if I could hobble out of here, where could I go? They found me once so they know where I live, where I hang out, who I hang out with. Everything. Where’s the damn doctor? Does he time his visits for when I’m asleep? And what kind of room is this? When did they move me here? At least it’s not the ICU, but there’s no phone, no TV, no clock, not even a window. Where are my wallet, watch and clothing? Yeah, they’re the least of my worries. With my leg in a cast and no clothes, I won’t be leaving anytime soon. Dammit, I have to get out of here! Someone tried to kill me. I have no reason to believe they’ll stop trying.

Pain pulled at me and sleep deserted me. A chopper’s rotors beat a noisy tattoo in my mind and the medic kept calling, Stay with me, Major, stay with me.

I rang for the nurse and some more of those fantastic room-service drugs.

Chapter 5

I woke as Sunny pumped up the BP cuff on my left arm. A handcuff tethered my right arm to the bed.

The cops have been in and out all morning. That one’s been here since midnight. Sunny nodded at a big man sitting near the door reading the paper. He ignored her when she mentioned him. What did you do? she prodded in a whisper.

Pissed on a police cruiser, I said, angry about the cuff. No response from my NFL lineman-sized jailor. He wore a khaki uniform with a patch on his shoulder that said Police. A Taser and an S & W .38 Police Special hung on a black leather utility belt that girded his ample waist. A butch cut gave him a military appearance.

They lock you up for that? nurse Sunny asked.

Only if they can squeeze it in between coffee, doughnut breaks and pee stops.

You wanna shut up over there, asshole? I’m tryin’ to read, Big Man said.

I can see where that would be a stretch for you, I sassed back.

My jailor was out of his chair coming toward me as a man and a woman came in.

Bubba! the woman called and Big Man stopped in his tracks. Go take a leak or something." Big Man grumbled and left.

The new guy wore a badge on his belt and carried a Sig Sauer 9 mm in a black hip holster he wore over khaki pants topped off with a white Izod golf shirt. The woman wore a pastel blue summer suit with a badge pinned to her skirt waistband. If she was armed, it wasn’t obvious.

I’m Detective Saunders, she said. This is my partner, Detective Radkins. We’re from the Horry County Police Department. She offered a hand.

I jerked my arm against the handcuff and shrugged my shoulders. Want to tell me what the cuffs are for? I asked.

Saunders looked at me but didn’t answer. She told the nurse to leave as Bubba returned to the door. He was doing double duty, keeping me in and others out. Maybe that wasn’t so bad."

Did you think I was going somewhere?" I lifted the sheet to expose the cast on my leg.

Saunders' grin looked more like a snarl. We just needed to make sure you’d be here when we arrived this morning.

What a load of crap, I thought. Was it even legal? I jerked on the handcuff again. Am I under arrest?

Depends on how our little talk goes.

Bullshit. Until you charge me with something, you need to get these cuffs off me.

Saunders dragged up a chair and sat down near my bed. She nodded for Radkins to remove the cuffs. I rubbed my wrist and glared at her.

A name would be helpful to get us started. Saunders said, crossing her attractive legs. I saw where she carried her weapon—a sub-compact Beretta. You might mistake it for a toy unless you’re looking down the barrel. Anything that fires a 9 mm load doesn’t qualify as a toy.

A statement of charges would also be helpful, I shot back.

What are you, a frigging lawyer? You don’t understand how much trouble you’re in. Don’t play with us.

Play? I’ll show your skinny ass what playing is. No talk until I get a lawyer.

She gave me a lopsided smile, clearly enjoying the confrontation. She waited a bit, mistakenly thinking I’d change my mind. She shook her head and her hair fell into place on her shoulders. Have it your way, she said, her eyes narrowing. A practiced hardness embellished the words that flew from her acerbic mouth. The charges are three counts of first-degree murder. Put the cuffs back on him, Rad. He stays cuffed to the bed until we transfer him to lockup. Round-the-clock watch on his door, she said with a nod to Big Man. How’s that for playing with a skinny-ass bitch? she smirked with satisfaction. She kicked back her chair and Radkins followed her out the door.

First degree murder, my ass, you bitch! Where are my Miranda rights? I yelled. But that didn’t even slow her down.

I listened to Detective Saunders’ heels go down the hall. There are laws to protect citizens from police harassment and false imprisonment, yet I’m wearing handcuffs for demanding my right to counsel. Bubba grinned at me and went back to his newspaper. I put my arm under the sheets, ripped off the tape, pulled out the IV and stemmed the flow of blood with a corner of the sheet. I used the pair of scissors I’d lifted from Sunny’s pocket to pick the lock on the cuffs.

Then I had Bubba call them back.

Who are you? Saunders asked, back in her chair, her legs crossed, a notepad on her lap and her my-shit-don’t-stink attitude unchanged.

What the hell are they talking about? I don’t know how long I’ve been in the hospital, but they’ve had several days to check me out. Surely, they know who I am. Then again, maybe they don’t know. Maybe my Witness Protection Program ID is still valid. Regardless, these two bozos haven’t a clue about what they’re doing. They cuffed me to my bed while I was asleep and didn’t read me my damned rights! Are they even cops?

I’ll tell you what happened, but not while I’m restrained. I threw the cuffs at her feet and smirked back at her surprised look. Try to cuff me again and I’ll break your goddamned neck before fat boy over there can cross the room to save your scrawny ass.

"That’s skinny ass, remember?" Saunders said without blinking. She raised a hand and Bubba, like an obedient pup, stayed where he was. She left some more lipstick on her cup as she studied me between sips of vending-machine coffee.

Name’s Dave Beckett, I said and then told the story of the night I got shot up. Saunders and Radkins took notes with occasional glances at each other. When I finished I said, Now it’s your turn, Slick. Why am I your number-one suspect?

We know four people were injured where you say your car ran off the road: three males and one female, Saunders said.

What the hell? Four? I thought there were only three. Marie, Flashlight Man and me. If the other body was the driver of the black sedan, who shot him?

We have blood evidence from the site, she continued. "One of those samples is yours. A MedEvac chopper pilot saw the body of a woman lying in the front seat of a small car partially immersed in the water. Two MedEvac EMTs checked the vital signs of two men, besides you, both left dead at the scene when they brought you in. The EMTs also checked the woman in the car for vital signs and found none. A state trooper was at the site and made the call for medical assistance. The EMTs said it was the trooper who pulled you from the water. He was alone with the three bodies when the chopper left. We haven’t been able to identify the trooper—if he was a trooper. He drove an unmarked car, but he wore a trooper uniform.

"A Horry County deputy sheriff listening on a police scanner got curious when no additional radio traffic originated from the site requesting assistance or placing the trooper back in service. About thirty minutes after the MedEvac pilot radioed that he was en-route to the hospital the deputy arrived at the site. There was nothing—not even my half-immersed Toyota— and no one at the site when the deputy arrived. He reported this and asked for assistance. Two more deputies showed up about fifteen minutes later.

After the paramedics brought you in and filed their report, they disappeared. No one in the ER recognized them or remembers any medical service identification or organizational logos on their uniforms. Their reports are missing.

We haven’t been able to trace the MedEvac chopper, either, Radkins added.

The reports are missing? Where’d you get all this information? I asked.

Interviewed everyone in the ER.

I chuckled. "Let’s see if I’ve got this straight: You want to charge me with three murders. You have no bodies, no witnesses, and no motive. With the few spots of blood you found on the side of the road you’ll do well to prove a bloody nose, let alone murder. How’s this for a story? Three alleged murders, an alleged killer, no witnesses and no forensic evidence except the blood drops. Blood from people you can’t identify. Oh, and you can’t identify your key suspect. Can you see that on the front page? I laughed. You’ve got nothing."

"We’ve got you, friend Dave, Saunders said with a wry smile, and we’d like to know who you are and why someone tried to kill you."

Looks like it’s time to earn your pay, detective.

I hated to see Saunders leave. I was getting fond of looking up her skirt, sweet little Beretta and all.

Chapter 6

The girl was in my room when I woke.

Hi, Daddy, she chirped before I could say anything. We were so worried about you. Are you all right?

Hi, baby, I responded in character, remembering what nurse Sunny said. I’m okay. You’re looking great. Nurse Sunny was right. I do have a classy daughter! She was wearing something short and silky, static electricity sucking it against every curve and into every crevice of her body. Not a hint of underwear, top or bottom.

She gave me a big hug and a kiss. Bugs? she asked in a whisper close to my ear.

Bugs? How would I know? Probably, I mumbled. How did you get here so fast?

I flew, on the Company card, of course. She showed me her beautiful teeth. Everything about her was beautiful. She leaned in for another hug and a daughterly kiss on my cheek. Her perfume had a bouquet of rainy-day freshness. Call me Bobbie, she whispered. I’ve missed you, Daddy, she continued aloud. She handed me a card and put some magazines on my tray table. Brought you some flowers and Mom sends her love.

Mom, Mother and the Company—all alluded to the CIA where I worked for several years. But I was regular Army and there are no references in my 201 file to connect me to the spooks.

Say hi to Mom for me. Hey, I’m already walking on crutches. Give your old man a hand.

You’re not old, Daddy. Her sky-blue eyes twinkled. She helped me to my feet, handed me my crutches and pushed the IV pole along beside me.

I couldn’t guess her age. Didn’t matter. In any other circumstance, I’d have already hit on her. Did the Company think I looked old enough to have a kid her age? Bobbie—if that was her real name—stood about five-nine. High heels made her taller and pushed her pelvis forward, accentuating her sensuous hips, slim body and great legs. I hobbled down the hall, her holding my arm, my ass sticking out the back of the hospital gown. I made no move to hide it. If they don’t like it, they should design gowns that fasten properly. What’s a strip of Velcro cost?

The freakin’ cast on my leg was heavy and the bend at the knee made my leg so short it just dangled from my hip. As a one-legged man on crutches, I was a constantly reminded that I was a prisoner, an easy mark for whoever is trying to kill me. My PTSD hypervigilance kicked into high gear every time the nurses walked me up and down the hospital hallways. My neck swiveled from side to side to glance into each room I passed.

With PTSD, your mind is stuck in high gear, focused on the prospect of the next attack, focused on scenarios for survival at each junction, each second, as the scene changes and the moments pass. You constantly and instantly scan the faces of every person you meet, their eyes, their body language. You search the shadows for danger, the balconies and tops of buildings, the trunks of trees large enough to conceal a man, a grassy knoll, an open window, a door cracked open. Everything and everywhere. Each datum is processed through filters in your brain that assign a threat level, a risk factor based on years of experience amplified by adrenaline and the desire to live. Scan, filter, process—a routine that never stops. Still, sometimes you tire, forget how important it is and you falter for a moment or two. But your mind’s eye won’t let you rest. Won’t let you stop. Survival depends on it.

Scan. Filter. Process.

Scan. Filter. Process.

Ad infinitum. Forever.

"Mom still wants you back, you know, Bobbie said, interrupting my impression of a spectator at a tennis match.

If the Company was truly concerned about me, why did they send a damned rookie? Besides, after five years in retirement, what reason could the Company have for contacting me? So far, Bobbie had managed nothing more than to unnerve me with a cat and mouse game she really sucked at. Besides, if the Company really gave a damn about me, why hadn’t they gotten me the hell out of here already?

What happened, Daddy? We were so worried when we heard.

Yeah, and I wondered how the Company heard. The federal WITSEC Program is supposed to insure that no one in the program can be traced, not even by relatives. Ever.

Just a nasty car wreck, baby. I totaled that old junker of mine, I lied.

When can you come home? Her eyes could melt glaciers. And hearts. If she’d truly been my daughter, I’d have spoiled hell out of her, indulged her every whim, gladly.

Couple more days, maybe.

Well, you know I’d like to be with you and take care of you, but I’ve got finals.

Finals? In mid-July? She can’t even lie worth a damn!

She helped me back to my room and into bed. My cell number’s on the card. Call me when you get home. A quick hug and kiss, a wave and a smile from the door and she was gone.

What the hell was that all about?

The card was a simple get-well card signed, Love, Mom and Roberta. I dozed off staring at the card standing on my tray table and dreamed about her deliciously spankable ass.

The dark sedan chased me in my dreams again. It ended the same: The girl Marie died and I took a couple of bullets. I woke with my pulse racing and my hospital gown soaked with sweat. Freakin’ A I was afraid of further attempts to kill me. Damn straight! At least the poor girl, whoever she was, didn’t have to worry about that.

Did she die on my account? What if the girl was the real target and I just happened to be in the way? Her death was savage. Brutal. Not just a killing. Someone was sending a message. Regardless of who the intended target was, it was a professional hit, like the mob. That scared me shitless. What chance does one guy have against an outfit that big and that well organized?

I replayed that evening in my mind, detail for detail: Jack Daniel’s buzz, Marie, the ride up South Carolina Highway 31 . . . Whoa! The girl said she was staying at the Hilton Royal Palms. She missed the SC 22 exit and I didn’t even notice. When the attack came, we were still heading up SC 31, away from the Hilton. Did she take me on that dark stretch of highway and set me up for the kill?

Of course she did, you horse’s ass! She played you from the git-go!

But if she was working with them, why did they kill her?

Chapter 7

The orderly woke me. Sorry, man, he whispered. He shook his dreadlocks and handed me a note that read, DON’T TALK! Everything’s bugged, including you. Jonas says it’s time for another foot-long hot dog with spicy mustard and kraut. We’ve got to go NOW!

Jonas Squires was my boss when I worked for the Company. We often had lunch together. Foot-long dogs with mustard and kraut. Only Jonas would know that.

I nodded my consent. Dreadlocks jerked the IV from my arm and handed me my crutches. As we left he pointed out the miniature bug in the flowers my daughter brought. I jumped on a gurney waiting in the hall. He covered