I, Weapon Page 11

  “Proceed,” Griffith whispered.

  “Yes sir,” Karl said. “I’ll see to it.”

  -16-

  The sun set on the Pacific Ocean as Bannon stood on the Santa Cruz Municipal Wharf. A cool breeze blew and it felt good on his skin. This was the longest pier on the West Coast, a whopping 2,745 feet. It was famous for fishing boat tours and for viewing sea lions.

  Bannon glanced at the tattoos in the webs of flesh between his fingers. There was a delta sign with an “F” in it. He believed it meant he had once belonged to the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta. The next showed a lightning bolt with a tiny whirlwind in it. In some fashion, he was faster than other people were. On the other hand was a tattoo that showed a skull and crossed bones. There was nothing hidden in the tattoo and he didn’t like it. It felt wrong to him. In fact, he doubted he had allowed an artist to ink this. Someone else had put it there, or had caused it to be put there.

  The question was, why had the person done it?

  After hours of thinking about it, Bannon believed he had the answer. In some fashion, the prison authorities had meddled with his mind, with his memories. He had escaped before. There were faint hints of it whispered to him by a voice deep inside him. The people in charge of him must have noticed the tattoos and wondered about them. To confuse him, they must have added a meaningless—to him—tattoo.

  Didn’t government agencies sometimes use prisoners as guinea pigs in their experiments? For whatever reason they had chosen him. Was this more of Justice Blake’s doing? Bannon didn’t see how, but maybe Blake had asked for favors from other senators, hoping he would die in these experiments.

  The truth was he needed answers, as it was foolish to blunder about in the dark. That was why he stood on the wharf. The last tattoo on his right hand, the one between his pinky and ring finger, showed a tiny sea lion. He had studied the tattoo and found the letters “SC” there. Santa Cruz, he believed. Within the C of SC was a tiny snorkel. He’d only been able to see it with a magnifying glass. It was the most intricate of his tattoos, and Bannon finally believed he knew what it meant.

  The Los Zetas tattoo—it had taken going online in the Santa Cruz Library for him to discover what the symbol meant. The question mark in the tattoo…it had puzzled him for some time. Finally, he came to believe that it had something to do with his wife. Had he been involved in the drug trade in the States, working for Los Zetas? In the end, the tattoo told him he couldn’t trust his memories. They were false, or mostly false.

  Could he trust the memory about Justice Blake? That troubled him, for he dearly wished to even the score with the unscrupulous judge.

  Bannon waited with a bag at his feet. He watched people go by as time passed and the sun went down. Leaving the wharf, he walked the beach until he reached a lonely spot. He stripped off his clothes and put on swimming trunks. Then he took a diving mask, snorkel and fins from the bag, along with a waterproof diving flashlight. It had taken the entirety of the money he’d lifted from Susan.

  He waded resolutely into the cold water. It would have been warmer to do this during daylight, but he didn’t want people watching and reporting his actions. Spitting into the mask, rubbing the spittle around so the faceplate wouldn’t fog up later, he rinsed it out and put the mask on his face. He wrapped his lips over the snorkel’s rubber mouthpiece and slipped the fins onto his feet.

  He shivered as he put his head underwater. Then he kicked off toward the wharf in the distance. It felt good to be out here, and the exercise soon warmed him up. It would have been better with a wetsuit, but he’d only taken so much money from Susan.

  After a lengthy swim, he reached the wharf. There were sea lions in the water. If he left them alone, he hoped they would leave him alone. Soon he was under the even darker wharf, kicking beside sea-stained logs the size of telephone poles.

  Now as he swam, things began to feel familiar to him. He had been here before, of that he was certain. How many times had he escaped from these people? How long had they been messing with his mind?

  He clicked on the flashlight, sucked down air through the snorkel and turned sharply at the waist, aiming his head toward the blackness. He kicked the fins and he blew air through his nose, equalizing the pressure against his ears. He went down into the darkness. A large shape passed him. He played his light off a sea lion’s hide, seeing the flicker of motion of a flipper. The creature was huge and moved incredibly fast compared to him. Panic constricted his throat.

  Easy, they’re just curious about you.

  Fortunately that proved true. Soon his lungs began to ache. He wanted to breathe. Still, he played the light ahead of him and reached the bottom where crabs moved. He used the light, searching, looking for something, but he didn’t know exactly what. Finally, he had to head for the surface, kicking and gliding smoothly.

  He floated on the surface for a time, breathing, readying his lungs for another dive. Once ready, he went down again.

  On his fourth attempt a glitter of light reflected from seaweed. He glided to it as the need for air made him lightheaded. He brushed the seaweed aside and dug at an encrusted object. It proved to be a shoe-boxed sized steel container. He tugged the box and it came free of the seabed. It wasn’t very heavy. Clutching it to his chest, he reversed himself and pushed off from the bottom, shooting toward the surface. As he glided upward, he knew that this was why he’d put the tattoo on his hand. He had meant himself to find this.

  He surfaced and gulped air, just floating there under the wharf, holding the precious box. With pounding excitement, he swam away from the wharf and back toward the darkened beach. It took time, and he was cold and exhausted as he waded out of the water.

  His clothes were still there, as were his shoes and towel. He flung the mask, snorkel and fins from him and stripped off the trunks. Afterward he dried himself and pulled on his clothes. He still shivered and would need to start walking around to get warm. First, he crouched over the encrusted box.

  What’s in it?

  He pried it open and found items sealed in heavy-duty plastic baggies. The first had a thin gold ring. He pinched the ring between his thumb and index finger, staring at it as he played his flashlight over the golden object. With a start, he realized it was his wedding ring. That meant—

  He pried off the wedding ring presently on his finger. This one was false. He stood with an oath and hurled the false ring into the sea. Then he slipped the real wedding ring onto his finger.

  A feeling of awe and anger bit him. He remembered…yes, he remembered telling his wife he wanted this ring. It was a simple gold band. She’d bought it in Wal-Mart of all places. He’d paid good money for his wife’s ring, but hadn’t given a hoot about his own. Being married had been the thing, not the expense of his ring. At first, he’d wanted a tungsten band. One of the clerks had pointed out to him how hard that would be to cut off. Occasionally a man had an accident and the ring crunched down on the finger. Instead of breaking off the tungsten ring, they amputated the finger. Bannon hadn’t wanted anything to do with that. Give him a simple gold ring they could cut off if the need ever arose.

  The second and third baggie contained cash, bundles of it. A quick estimate showed he had around twenty thousand. The next baggie gave him a parking stub for Santa Cruz Airport. In the same baggie was a set of car keys. Did he have a car parked there, waiting for him?

  Who am I really?

  The last plastic bag contained a SIG-Sauer handgun with two magazines, giving him thirty bullets. Just as good, he had a silencer, a sound suppressor. He hadn’t liked Susan’s gun. It was too small and they would be able to trace it. This gave him a solid weapon with silencer. That was interesting. Just what kind of man had he been?

  The wedding ring proved his wife was real, not just a memory they’d put in him. If she was real, then likely so was his sentence in San Quentin. That meant Justice Blake was real, and right now, the bastard was near Pebble Beach. Yeah, it was time to pay this Justi
ce a visit and find out exactly what had happened.

  -17-

  Dr. Parker rubbed her marked throat. Her muscles ached from Bannon’s manhandling and from the Tasers. She sat at her desk, studying readings from the Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation device. She’d frequently used it while questioning Bannon. By focusing its beam on critical portions of his brain, she made sure Bannon found it impossible to lie.

  Now…checking his brainwave patterns from the first time she’d used magnetic stimulation to his latest reading…

  Parker studied further, pondering what it meant. Finally, she summoned Susan to the office.

  The agent entered warily, glancing around the room.

  Parker smiled disarmingly at Susan.

  The agent was clever and observant, necessary traits for her work. She sat down, waiting, no doubt wondering what this about.

  “You’ve studied Bannon in the field longer and more thoroughly than anyone else,” Parker began. “You’ve also studied him as Gemmell. Have you noticed slight or minute changes in either persona?”

  “Everything I notice, I report,” Susan said shortly.

  “Naturally, I’m not questioning your ability or suggesting you’ve tried to hide information. Sometimes, however, we overlook tiny things. It’s completely natural.”

  “I’m trained to overcome such inclinations and double-check even when I’m observing what appears to be ‘normal’ behavior.”

  “I recommended you for a citation on several occasions,” Parker said.

  “I know, and thank you.”

  “No. I thank you. My work proceeds more smoothly from such accurate observations. We have refined Bannon more than once because of your suggestions.”

  Susan nodded.

  Parker wanted to rub her throat, but refrained. There was something going on here. Susan was too guarded, too self-conscious. What was she hiding, hmm?

  “Bannon is dangerous,” Parker said. “He’s like a guard dog and we point him in the desired direction. This attack upon us is unusual. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  Susan waited.

  “I wonder at times if some of his false and true memories have begun to merge,” Parker said.

  “Is that possible?” Susan asked.

  Parker laughed softly. “This is pioneering work we do. We are the cutting edge of memory insertion and personality suppression.”

  Susan frowned.

  “Something about the memory insertion bothers you?” Parker asked.

  Susan sat a little straighter. “What do you mean?”

  “You seem uneasy.”

  “Not really. I’m just tired.”

  “Susan, do you really think you can hide your unease? You’re an emotionally open book to me. What’s bothering you?”

  Susan pursed her lips. “Just how dangerous is Bannon to us?”

  Now she was getting somewhere. “Clarify that, please,” Parker said.

  “In Mexico, Karl and I stayed well out of range of the operation. This time, we’re going to be close.”

  “The nature of the strike mandates your presence,” Parker said.

  “That’s easy for you to say because you’ll be safely back here.”

  “I’m not a field agent.”

  “How dangerous is he going to be to us?” Susan asked.

  Parker hesitated before saying, “I’ve studied Karl’s plan. You have Max and his team as backup and the situation—you have nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

  “With Bannon prowling near us I think I will have something to worry about.”

  “Why tell me? And why hasn’t Karl complained?” Parker asked.

  Susan shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She hesitated before saying, “Karl wants Bannon dead. I’ve noticed before that people who want Bannon dead tend to die first.”

  “We’re in full control of the situation.”

  “If you believe that you’re naïve,” Susan said.

  Parker blinked several times, and she was more alert now. There was something going on here she didn’t understand.

  “His life or death is immaterial to me,” Parker said.

  “Even though Bannon caused your stepsister’s death?” Susan asked.

  Parker’s spine stiffened fractionally. “We’ll leave my stepsister out of it, shall we?”

  Susan glanced at her hands. She appeared conflicted.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” Parker asked.

  Susan looked up, and she seemed on the verge of saying something. A second later, she shook her head.

  A thrill of fear surged through Parker. Could Susan realize the truth? No, no, that was preposterous. It was time to misdirect her.

  “If anyone understands Bannon nearly as well as I, it’s you,” Parker said. “As you observe him this time, pay particular attention to any novelties of action. That will be the first clue of merging personalities. If such novelties become too pronounced, urge Karl to terminate him with extreme prejudice.”

  “Such things aren’t my decision,” Susan said.

  “My dear, you have psychiatric training. You’ve been with Karl for some time. You must understand his motivations by now and know which arguments will move him the most quickly.”

  A feral light seemed to shine in Susan’s eyes, but then she hooded it.

  Mission completed, Parker told herself. Shortly thereafter, she dismissed the agent. Then she turned on her computer and continued studying Bannon’s brainwave patterns.

  -18-

  The next day at 10:24 AM, Bannon paid an attendant to enter 17-Mile Drive at the Sunset Drive/Pacific Grove gate. He was here on a scouting expedition, both to place the Justice’s house and to assess the man’s defenses. It was possible he’d given away his target while at the facility. He planned to find out before he proceeded in earnest.

  Bannon drove a Mercedes, one recently parked at Santa Cruz Airport. It had been dust-covered a few hours ago, so he had taken it through a carwash. The SIG Sauer P226 was hidden in the glove compartment.

  Here the road twisted through Del Monte Forest, which was full of Monterey Pine and Monterey Cypress trees. There were many turnouts and scenic spots along the route, and countless squirrels. The road served the gated communities as well as visitors to the area. The only public facilities like gas stations, restrooms and restaurants were at the inn at Spanish Bay and the lodge at Pebble Beach.

  Bannon had made purchases in Santa Cruz. He wore camouflage pants bought at a Bass Pro Shop, a camouflage tee shirt, a brown flannel shirt, underwear, socks and hiking boots. He had a camouflaged backpack, a woolen camouflage hat and an expensive Gerber combat knife, with a black-matted blade. He would have bought more bullets for the P226, but he would have needed a driver’s license for that.

  It meant he had two magazines for the SIG, which translated to exactly thirty 9mm bullets. He also had a pair of Bushnell binoculars, a compass, bandages, first aid kit, Advil, duct-tape, rope, trail concentrates, felt-tipped pens, a map of the area and two pairs of dark sunglasses.

  Bannon drove leisurely, often stopping in designated areas and sometimes pulling off to the side of the road. He stretched, climbed a few times into the woods as if to take a piss and constantly examined his map. He circled things, made X’s and O’s, and drew squiggly lines in precise places.

  There were red lines on the road, guiding the tourist on 17-Mile Drive so he or she wouldn’t wander off onto gated community paths. Bannon switched his route, however, ignoring the red lines. Later, using the red lines again, he exited Del Monte Forest and drove along the coast. Ocean waves, white sand and rubbery plants littering the shore combined with smooth rocks and tourists wetting their toes.

  He passed the Pebble Beach Golf Course at various places. Men in plaid pants rode carts, putted on greens and swung clubs elsewhere. Women wearing big hats and long white shorts joined them. Out at sea, Bannon spied Bird Rock, a place covered in guano. He stopped farther along and stared for a while through a chain l
ink fence at sleeping sea lions. It was much different viewing the beasts from a distance than swimming with them in the dark.

  Turning around, Bannon headed back the way he’d come, retracing his route. The biggest surprise was the number of plantational homes for sale. The economy was supposed to have picked up during the present administration. The number of “For Sale” signs told a different story.

  By 4:17 PM, he was done with the scouting expedition. He left 17-Mile Drive through the same gate he’d entered. It was nearest the Justice’s vacation home. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t been able to view Blake’s mansion. It had a long gated driveway, and trees, bushes and other vegetation had blocked the house from view. He had spotted a guard shack semi-hidden by the nearest Monterey Pines.

  None of that unduly concerned him, as he hadn’t spotted extraordinary defenses. He’d launched the expedition partially in order to gain a feel for the land. He exited 17-Mile Drive and headed for the city of Monterey.

  Parking at Sizzler later, he went inside, paid for a cheap steak, went to the buffet and filled a plate. He ate well, but didn’t stuff himself like most of the patrons. Getting his money’s worth wasn’t part of the agenda. Instead, at the table, he unfolded the map and studied it. He nodded to himself, made a few more marks, folded the map and helped himself to cookies & cream ice cream for dessert.

  Afterward he washed up in the restroom, brushed his teeth and headed to a Panera Restaurant. He took a laptop out of the trunk—bought this morning—and went inside, ordering coffee and a jelly-filled donut. He sipped coffee at a table in the back, nibbled on the donut and hooked up to the restaurant’s wi-fi. He brought up Google Maps, 17-Mile Drive and soon studied the Justice’s house and property. He expanded the search, took out notepaper and jotted down cryptic comments, committing the majority of the information to memory. It took time, and he drank three cups of coffee. Finished, he left a half-eaten donut on the table.