Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (4 page)

BOOK: Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series)
10.72Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Chapter 7:

10:35 PM- Friday,
September 8
th

Sumner, VA

Mohammed Fatal cleared his throat as he pulled the Mercedes-Benz
SLK to a slow stop outside of the small gated apartment community that sat at
the address listed on Mr. Pike's paycheck.

He switched off the halogen headlights of the luxury car as
he shifted the vehicle into park and surveyed the apartment complex.

He had to admit, 2100 Marywood Circle had a quaint feel to
it.

The wrought iron fence that stretched between brick pillars
and surrounded the apartments had an old world charm. The close to ten
apartment buildings that made up the complex themselves
were
new and well built. Even the soft beige paint scheme of the apartment buildings
was soothing and non-descript.

Mohammed sat in the driver's seat of the vehicle and watched
the apartments. His eyes narrowed as he counted the security cameras that lined
the perimeter of the wrought iron fence and took note of the antique looking
streetlights which did a good job of flooding the common areas of the apartment
complex with light.

He shifted the vehicle into reverse and shook his head. He
was confident that he'd be able to stay in the shadows and avoid detection, but
it wouldn't be easy.

It was likely a fool's errand, regardless, Mohammed noted.
Very few people could survive riding full speed on a motorcycle into a river.
But when he and his men hadn't found a body, they had to be sure that they had
left no witnesses.

Mohammed felt lucky as he glanced down at the passenger seat
and Jackson Pike's paycheck. If the witness hadn't dropped the check when he'd
sprinted from the chemical storage facility, Mohammed would have had to search
through DMV records for the motorcycle's registration. That would have required
several hours, and more importantly, corporate involvement.

As it was, Mohammed was still able to handle this task
himself. It was a consolation for which he was grateful. It had been bad enough
when Susan Winters had turned and tried to give the company over to the FBI.
Word of a second failure on Mohammed's part would surely result in a total loss
of confidence in his abilities, a shortcoming that would almost certainly be
met with his termination.

He shuddered with the thought.

Yes, it was much better to deal with this problem himself.

He shook his head and peered once more towards the apartment
complex, his pupils dilating as they adjusted to the darkness and sought a
point of entry outside of the sightline of any cameras.

There, he thought to himself as his eyes fixated on a
segment of chest high brick wall that surrounded the complex's trash compactor.
There were no cameras adjacent to the area, and the lighting was dim at best.

The trash compactor would be his point of entry.

He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his left pocket and
glanced down at the map of the apartment complex which he had printed from the
internet earlier in the day. He chuckled to himself. The internet had made
these missions almost too easy. Once beyond the perimeter, it would be easy to
find the witness' apartment.

Mohammed's surveillance of the apartment complex was now
complete and the assassin shifted the German sports sedan into reverse, careful
to leave its halogen lights off as he backed down the deserted access road that
led to the quaint apartment complex.

He backed the vehicle into place along a dirt road by near
the garbage compactor, careful not to step too heavily on the accelerator and
create unnecessary engine noise.

The dark skinned murderer climbed from the driver's seat of
the SLK 350 and stepped to the low brick fence. His business suit from earlier
in the day had long since been replaced by a simple black sweat suit and
matching black leather gloves. His head was topped by a black ski mask.

In the darkness, Mohammed would be almost invisible, exactly
as he had planned.

He crouched low behind the brick wall and waited, careful to
look around the adjacent area before making his move. There were no residents
in sight.

Shrouded by the darkness of the cool September evening,
Mohammed hurled the weight of his muscular two hundred pound body over the
fence.

He landed with a barely audible grunt, rising to his feet
and surveying the surrounding area. He crouched low and kept to the shadows
along the outside of the buildings as he moved purposefully towards his
objective.

Dressed in black, Mohammed found it easier than he had
expected to stay out of sight along the perimeter of the well lit complex.

The parking lot and public spaces of the apartment complex
were lit primarily by antique-looking streetlamps which were placed at
approximately twenty-five yard intervals.

The lighting placement provided ample darkness as Mohammed
crept towards Apartment 113, sure to keep to the shadows as he sought out the
only witness who could place
he
and his men at the
chemical storage facility.

Mohammed crept through the starless night towards building
one. He paused and crouched low, shrouded by a bush as an elderly woman
meandered around the complex with her small dog.

Mohammed was nothing if not patient. He controlled his
breathing and scanned the well lit parking lot for witnesses as he waited. It
was only a minute or two before the elderly pet owner stepped away towards her
building.

The assassin breathed deeply and shrugged his shoulders. It
was time.

He pulled the black ski mask over his face, leaving only his
dark eyes showing under the wool fabric.

He strode quickly to Apartment 113 and took a deep breath as
he withdrew a leather pouch from the pocket of his black sweatpants. He drew a
small metal lock pick from the pouch and quickly opened the single deadbolt of
the apartment door.

Too easy, he thought to himself as he opened the door and
stepped into the darkened apartment. He stepped onto the carpet of the
apartment's floor and recalled its layout from the complex's internet
advertisement.

The two bedrooms lay across from the living and dining area
through a small hallway.

He took a deep breath and switched on a black flashlight as
he stepped through the apartment and into the master bedroom. Inside, snuggled
comfortably together in the soft recesses of the queen size bed was a
completely unexpected discovery.

A sleeping woman and child lay in the dark of night, sound
asleep.

He cleared his throat loudly, and the woman stirred as he
shined the beam of his flashlight into her surprised brown eyes and pointed a
silenced Berretta at her head.

"Wake up."

The woman's eyes opened almost immediately. "Don't
scream, or I shoot you both;" he said simply.

 
Chapter 8:

7:00 AM- Saturday,
September 9
th

Sumner, VA

Jackson's eyes flickered open as he awakened from his first
dreamless sleep in years. He found himself lying flat on his back, his head
throbbing. He was staring at a too clean white tile ceiling.

He rolled to his side weakly and searched for the source of
a soft beeping coming from somewhere nearby. His eyes followed the soft melody
to a large white computer that stood on a metal cart and displayed Jackson's
heart rate and blood pressure. He lifted the thin white sheet that covered his
lower body. He was wearing a hospital gown.

"What the fuck?" He rolled onto his back and sat
up, propping himself up on two white hospital pillows.

Like most men, Jackson avoided hospitals at all costs. He
searched his memory thoroughly, but couldn't recall how he had ended up here.
Granted, Jackson was a man accustomed to waking up in strange places. A strange
woman's bedroom, the
drunk
tank, even a park would
have been acceptable and explainable locations for Jackson to awaken. In fact,
he would have preferred any of the former to the hospital.

He frowned. He would have preferred a ditch to the fucking
hospital.

"What the fuck?" He repeated as he pressed his
head against the thin hospital pillows behind him and began to plot his escape
from the disinfectant and death scented prison that held him captive.

The push button, thought Jackson, frantically searching the
too clean sheets of his hospital bed. His right hand soon came up with a small
hand-held device with a large red button.

"Anybody home?"
He
wondered aloud as he pressed the button.

He released the button and
lay
back, his gaze shifting to the nearby window as he searched his mind for
answers. The last thing he remembered was riding in to the chemical storage
facility. After that, his mind was blank.

He sighed. Hopefully the staff could answer some questions.

Jackson heard the door to his room swing open and a black
haired nurse in green scrubs emerged from behind the curtain that hid Jackson
from view.

"Good morning, Sugar" said the 40-something nurse,
"The doctor is on his way. How are you doing?"

"I'm OK", Jackson replied. "How did I get
here?"

"Sweetie" countered the pretty nurse, her southern
Virginia drawl revealing itself for the first time,
"
the
doctor will explain everything in a moment."

As if on cue, the doctor bustled into Jackson's hospital
room, his white lab coat matching the small amount of hair that still clung to
his rapidly balding head. The white haired neurologist pulled the chart from
the foot of Jackson's bed, quickly poring over the information that it
contained as he greeted Jackson with a quick nod.

The brunette nurse stood at the bedside, awaiting the doctor's
instructions.

The doctor was much more businesslike than the nurse had
been, but his question to Jackson was the same. "Good morning, Mr. Pike.
I'm Doctor Sanders. How are you feeling?"

Frustrated, Jackson replied, "I've been better. How did
I get here?"

The doctor began to examine Jackson, shining a small metal
flashlight in his eyes before responding, "We were hoping you could tell
us that, Mr. Pike."

He tucked Jackson's chart beneath his left arm and proceeded
to check Jackson's reflexes. "A passing motorist saw you collapse along
the side of the interstate and called an ambulance."

The doctor continued. "The ambulance brought you here
to Memorial Hospital where we stitched up that gash on your head and diagnosed
you with a severe concussion. You've been unconscious since you arrived
yesterday afternoon."

"I don't remember any of that," responded the
confused Jackson.

The doctor replied, "I'm not surprised, Mr. Pike. With
the type of injury that you sustained, short term memory loss is not uncommon.
In many cases, memories of the events preceding this type of injury come back
after several days. Sometimes, however, patients never regain their memory of
the events which precipitate these types of injuries. Only time will
tell."

"When can I get out of here?" Jackson responded,
visually searching the hospital room for his clothing.

"Your vitals are stable, and you seem lucid"
replied the physician. "I'd like to do a few more tests, and schedule a
follow up. But, legally speaking, you are free to go at any time."

"In that case, Doc," said Jackson, "I'm
getting out of here now."

Jackson swung his legs to the side of the bed, his feet
touching the cold marble floor of the hospital for the first time. His head was
still spinning as he adjusted to his new, upright position.

"Very well, Mr. Pike" responded the doctor. He
continued "Nurse, will you please bring Mr. Pike his clothing?"

The brunette turned and walked to the closet on the opposite
side of the hospital room, her white sneakers making nary a sound on the marble
floor as she grabbed Jackson's still damp clothes from the closet.

She handed the items to Jackson, her drawl like honey,
"Here you are, Mr. Pike."

With that, both the brunette nurse and the aging doctor
walked from Jackson's room.

Jackson stood unsteadily and unfolded his damp clothing.
"What the fuck?" He said for the third time as he sniffed at his
jeans and t-shirt, both of which smelled suspiciously like river water. Despite
being somewhat disoriented, it took Jackson less than a minute before he
stepped unsteadily from the edge of his hospital bed towards the pale wooden
door of his room.

Outside of Jackson's room, the brunette nurse had been
replaced by a teenage male orderly who awaited Jackson with a wheelchair.

"Hospital policy" said the young blonde orderly,
obviously accustomed to people wishing to refuse his services.

Jackson sat begrudgingly in the sagging black seat of the
leather and metal wheelchair. The young orderly wheeled him to the front desk
of the hospital. Anxious to get home, Jackson handed the chubby female
receptionist his identification and address for "further billing" and
pointed the orderly towards the exit.

With the hospital's all important billing step now complete,
the orderly wheeled Jackson outside via the sliding glass doors of the waiting
room and into the cool morning air.

The sun was warm on Jackson's face as the two stepped into
the outside air. An acrid smell and thin cloud of smoke pervaded the outside
air as Jackson was wheeled to the front of the emergency room. The orderly
handed Jackson a surgical mask as his nostrils began to sting.

"For the chemicals," said the orderly as he pushed
Jackson towards the taxi stand.

Jackson turned towards the young blonde man, "What
chemicals?" He asked suspiciously.

The orderly pointed into the distance towards the north of
town, near the river. Over the nearby tree line Jackson could clearly see a
thick black column of smoke. "Chemical depot burned down last night. The
news is telling everyone to remain indoors or wear the masks until further
notice."

Jackson nodded and tucked the mask into the pocket of his
still damp leather jacket. The chemical depot, Jackson repeated in his mind.
The chemical depot had burned down. Jackson searched his memory.

Had he been there?

He wished he knew.

Lucky for Jackson, several taxis waited outside of the
hospital for customers on this quiet Saturday morning. Since he had no idea
where his beloved Harley was, he would have to take a cab home as he tried to
piece together what had happened the day before.

Jackson stepped from the wheelchair and pulled a twenty
dollar bill from the pocket of his jeans, handing it to the orderly.

"I can't accept that, sir." The young man said,
shaking his head.

Jackson just smiled and tucked the twenty into the young
man's shirt pocket before he walked away. He opened the passenger door of the
first taxi he came to and stepped in, sitting down on the soft gray fabric of
the taxi's back seat, his still damp clothing squishing as he made himself
comfortable.

"714 Halsey Drive in Sumner, please," said
Jackson.

The taxi driver pulled the yellow vehicle ahead. The man
seemed to understand by Jackson's tone of voice and general condition that he
should forgo the requisite chit-chat and get his customer home.

As Jackson sat in the back of the awkwardly silent taxi, his
mind sought answers, and his head continued to ache.

He unscrewed the lid of the Vicodin bottle tucked in the
left pocket of his motorcycle Jacket. Unfortunately, he mused, childproof
bottles were not necessarily waterproof, and he gagged slightly as the soggy
white pill lodged in his throat.

Jackson searched his memory.

The last thing he could remember from the day before was
driving across the bridge over the Sumner River towards his former employer.

He had been on his way to pick up his paycheck.

His hands searched his pockets for the check but came up
empty. He slid down the taxi's cloth seat and leaned his head heavily against
the backrest. The Vicodin was beginning to have its desired effect. He sighed heavily
as his pupils dilated and his breathing became shallow.

Jackson remembered crossing the bridge over the lazy Sumner
River the day before. After that, his memory was blank.

While Jackson was no stranger to drunken blackouts and the
loss of hours of time from his memory, the lack of a simple explanation for
these hours of missing time bothered the former SEAL.

He stared out the window of the cab as the picturesque town
that he called home passed by. Sumner was an historic town, and as Jackson's
mind attempted to unravel the mystery of his head injury, the taxi passed down
the old town's cobblestone streets, passing the aged brick buildings and tree
lined streets of the picturesque community without coming to a red light.

Jackson was grateful that the taxi arrived at his home as
quickly as it did. He was looking forward to a fresh Budweiser and a shower.

He paid the cab driver with a stack of still wet bills and
stepped from the cab. He shook his head as he walked towards the front door of
his home, his feet sloshing in his steel-toed boots.

 
BOOK: Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series)
10.72Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

What She Left Us by Stephanie Elliot
Three Summers by Judith Clarke
Leon Uris by A God in Ruins
Murphy's Law by Kat Attalla
Mecha Corps by Patton, Brett