I, Weapon Page 4

  “He’s likely still in San Gabriel.”

  “An unwarranted assumption,” the Controller said. “Hmm, it appears I will have to begin searching for him on my end. Bannon is too dangerous to allow loose. At least, you do understand that much.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Give me positive results, Karl. It is the reason I accepted you into my organization.” Without another word, the Controller cut the connection.

  Karl lowered his phone, thinking this was a screwed up way to run a black ops, and he should know. He had run the most successful operations against Saddam’s Sunni hit men back in the day. Later, they had sent him against the Taliban in Afghanistan. He’d excelled in the dark world of espionage and assassination. Then he’d erred, making a career-ending mistake with the wrong woman. The CIA…bunch of old prudes had cast him out the Agency without a word of thanks for years of service.

  Karl shook his head. He didn’t like running an operation with a psycho like Bannon as his hit man. The Controller should let him do this his way. A team worked better than a lone wolf did. You watched the target for a week, two or three weeks if you had to, and figured out his habits. At the right time, you planted a “hooker” in his path. They got it on and she dug her fingernails into his back, nails laced with deadly but untraceable poison. End of story and without any loose ends like was happening now. If that was too fancy, just use a sniper or wire his vehicle with explosives. Let the pros do a job right, not mess around with science fiction experiments like Bannon.

  He knew about the Department of Defense experiments on the man. They had been very secret, giving Bannon minutely quicker neural impulses. The man thought faster and moved faster than ordinary. It was disconcerting to watch him in action, to know how he managed to dodge in time or see his eyes light up with understanding even with only minimal information.

  Yeah. Their enhanced Delta hero with delusions of vengeance…there were too many things that could go wrong with him and now one of them had blown up in their face. Every time he worked with Bannon, the man gave him the chills.

  No, admit it to yourself. You don’t like what they’re doing to him. The bitch has mind-screwed him sideways to China so he doesn’t know up from down anymore. And anything they did to him they might do to me…

  Karl headed for Susan, his partner in this operation. Messing with a Delta operative…tinkering with his mind was bad mojo. What would happen if Bannon ever figured it out? Parker, a bitch of a psychiatrist, had assured Karl it couldn’t happen. There were too many precautions in place. But Bannon was smart. He played spontaneous angles that often in retrospect proved brilliant. And what was with all those tattoos between his fingers? Karl had told the bitch it meant something, but she continued to ignore him on the subject.

  Was that arrogance on her part? She was the Controller’s daughter, after all.

  Karl shook his head. They should kill Bannon and end the entire project. It would be best if Bannon had died in the line of duty. For wet-work, they should go back to regular assassination with poison, car bombs and .22 bullets from a foot away. Now he was going to have to use Max and his killers and hunt Bannon like a rabid dog.

  A very clever rabid dog.

  -5-

  It was a little past noon as Bannon strode along a sidewalk, heading for Del Rio Mall. It was a five-mile walk from the Monterrey Airport. He’d passed open fields, car dealerships, mechanics’ shops, a movie theater and now some liquor stores. In the distance he spied waving Mexican flags, the mall and acres of parking.

  It was strange being out here. It wasn’t the green baseball cap, the windbreaker slung over a shoulder or the flick-knife in his pocket. No. He had expected a feeling of déjà vu, but there was nothing of the kind. He felt a blank as if this was the first time he’d walked the streets of Monterrey.

  That was odd, right? According to his recollection, he had come here nine months ago with his family. His wife and daughter had died in a pool of blood as grenades exploded, shattering display cases and shredding hip manikins wearing the latest styles.

  As Bannon walked, three bicyclists in black and green spandex hissed past him. One of the twelve-speeds sported a red flag on a whipping antenna. The riders had muscular thighs and pedaled fast as they hunkered over their handlebars.

  With the back of his right hand, Bannon wiped his forehead. Then he let the hand rest on a pants pocket. He’d purchased a cell phone and card. Ever since he’d boarded the plane and travelled to Monterrey, the desire to report had grown. It seemed that it was vitally important he call, but he hadn’t and didn’t plan to just yet. Ironclad logic held the desire at bay—at least for now. Despite the logic, he had picked up the cell and tapped in memorized numbers during the plane ride. He had done that many times, only to put the cell away before pressing the call button.

  The tattoos gave him the resolve. Studying them, he had a sense of déjà vu. He’d figured out the first two. That left two more. One showed a sea lion with the letters SC embedded in the beast’s body. The other was a skull with crossed bones. What had been troubling him most about them was their very existence. Why engrave them in his flesh? It was beginning to feel as if they were reminders to himself. That would imply he’d been in a position like this before: free but hunted by the people who had done this to him. Had he solved the riddle of his life before, but then fallen into his senders’ hands and they had erased his memories?

  The idea angered him. He was a prisoner because he lacked memories. Yet surely, the memory of his wife and daughter were real. They had to be because they felt so true.

  His stride lengthened as he hurried to the mall. He passed a hundred parked cars in the giant lot, two hundred before he realized he didn’t know which store he was looking for.

  How could I have forgotten that?

  With a shock, he discovered he was at the San Luis Mall. Why did he remember Del Rio then? He found out after several steps along the mall’s outer sidewalk when he saw a sign: Del Rio Department Store.

  He hurried to an entrance, but found the store utterly unfamiliar. Slowly, he moved to a bench and sat down. He closed his eyes and he envisioned that brutal, fateful day of nine months ago…

  ***

  Bannon, his wife and daughter strolled outside the San Luis Mall as four Chevy Tahoe SUVs appeared. The family had come here on vacation, even though the travel agent had warned them about trouble in Mexico. Bannon paused as he eyed the SUVs. The vehicles roared through the parking lot much too fast. He shrugged. It wasn’t his problem. His wife called to him and they walked in to the Del Rio Department Store.

  Several minutes later Bannon heard tires squeal. He turned to look. Others around him turned to, including his wife. Seconds after the squeals, men in Kevlar vests, ski masks and cradling assault rifles barged through the row of glass doors. Women screamed at the sight and men shouted in outrage. The gunmen lowered their rifles and started firing, making staccato popping sounds, cutting down those nearest them.

  That was the worst moment of Bannon’s life. He’d seen combat in Iraq and elsewhere. He knew what to do: hit the deck as hard and as fast as you could. Instead, he turned, yanked his wife’s hand—meaning for her to hit the floor. Instead, he’d made her stumble into a stream of bullets that slammed her backward, ripping her hand from his. He’d turned then, desperately searching for his daughter. She was already dead on the tiles.

  A bullet creased his back. Another scorched his shoulder and a third his neck. He slammed down onto the department store tiles, blinking, trying to think.

  The terrorists used grenade launchers next. It sounded like a war zone, with explosions, screams and things breaking, crashing and tumbling. Bannon just lay there in bewilderment and, and—

  He rose from the floor in time to see the killers stride out of the row of glass doors. They looked like demons: victorious, vicious and unconquerably dominant.

  Bannon started after them, crunching on wrecked merchandise and jumping over twisted bodies
. Smoke drifted in the store and the stench of blood and spilled guts filled his nostrils. He broke into a sprint, and he hit a glass door running, flinging it open. He ran to a breezeway—

  A narco-terrorist stood waiting. The killer raised his gun, pulled the trigger and nothing happened. The weapon must have jammed. With a roar, Bannon charged and tackled the killer, slamming him onto the tiles. The man fought desperately, with fear in his eyes. Bannon choked him, but the narco-terrorist used the butt of his pistol. He struck Bannon twice on the head, stunning him. The narco-terrorist scrambled to his feet, the fear still in his eyes. He turned and ran.

  It was then Bannon got a good look at the man’s leather jacket and the logo on the back. It displayed a golden edged shield with black and red within. A pistol was emblazoned in the middle red stripe below the word ZETAS. There was a hand with strings over the last four letters exactly like the Godfather movie poster…

  ***

  Bannon blinked himself out of the reverie as he sat on a bench outside the Del Rio Department Store. Everything about the memory seemed vivid and real.

  He felt along his head, searching for a scar or lump, but there was nothing. Except for the bristles of hair, his scalp was smooth. There was no evidence of his wounds.

  Could such a vivid memory be false? Bannon didn’t see how.

  It happened. It must have.

  He stood and approached the Del Rio store. He went inside and strode to each exit, including the one into the mall proper. None of them possessed a row of four glass doors. Finally, he asked a pretty young lady in the jewelry department.

  “Excuse me,” Bannon asked in Spanish. “Were you working here nine months ago?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you remember the attack?” he asked.

  “Attack?”

  “By Los Zetas,” he said.

  She frowned, glancing around. “I think you’re confusing us with the theater across town. Los Zetas murdered forty-three people there. It was horrible, and it happened just a little more than a year ago, not nine months.”

  “Oh.”

  She gave him a second glance, a more searching one.

  Not knowing what else to say, Bannon walked away.

  There hadn’t been a Los Zetas attack here. Could it have happened in another store? Bannon spent the next hour searching each store and their exits. None of them matched his memory. Yet that was impossible. He knew he had a wife and daughter and he knew they had died. But if the memory of their deaths was false…

  It’s another clue.

  His eyes widened. Yes, it was more important data. He had to remember this no matter what else happened. That meant…

  Bannon found a tattoo shop and he explained in detail what he wanted. For the next hour, the shop’s best artist inked a tiny tattoo of the Los Zetas symbol Bannon had “seen” on the narco-terrorist’s jacket. The artist inked the tattoo on the web of flesh between the ring and middle finger of Bannon’s left hand. Embedded in the tattoo was a “?” mark.

  Afterward, Bannon ate at a Chinese Restaurant. Toward the end of the meal, as he eyed the fortune cookie, his cell phone rang.

  He took it out of his windbreaker and stared at it. Who could possibly know his number? Could the people who sent him against Los Zetas have tracked him to the store where he’d purchased the phone? That would imply extraordinary skills.

  What was the worst that could happen if he answered?

  Don’t answer the cell, a voice inside him warned.

  He scowled. If the people who had sent him could track like this…it was something he needed to know.

  He pressed the send button and put the cell to his ear. “Yes?” he said.

  It was a woman on the other end and she began to speak rapidly. As she spoke, Bannon’s eyelids drooped and his features soon became slack. He nodded shortly and finally cut the connection, rising, leaving the cheap cell phone on the table with the tip.

  -6-

  “Parker got to him first,” Susan said, lowering a cell phone. “He’s headed home.”

  “That’s too bad,” Karl said. They were the only passengers aboard a plane headed to Monterrey. Karl had been working on a crossword puzzle and now jammed it into his suit pocket. He was angry.

  “No,” Susan said. “That’s good. Max would have had a hard time eliminating him.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Right, Bannon can walk into a Los Zetas training camp and take out the cartel leader—something even SEAL Team 6 would have a tough time trying—but Max and his boys could knock him over like a tin can?”

  “You know the saying: apples and oranges. I trust my team and I know how to take care of delicate situations.”

  “You’re missing the point,” she said.

  “Trust me, you are. If you want my opinion, we should put Bannon and those like him back in the bottle, cork it and toss them into the ocean.”

  “You would prefer we ride buggies rather than cars?”

  Karl stared at her.

  “The point is Bannon is too dangerous to drag home or to try to hunt in Monterrey,” Susan said. “You have to let him think coming in is his idea. And that’s exactly how it’s being done. Everything is working.”

  “That’s right. He had two days on his own and we have no idea how he spent them.”

  “He’s coming home of his own volition. That means Parker will find out what happened.”

  “For our sakes, I hope you’re right,” Karl said. So the bitch’s claws are still sunk deeply enough into the poor bastard. He hated Parker.

  “You know I’m right and it’s eating you alive,” Susan said.

  Karl grunted, digging in his pocket for the crumpled crossword puzzle.

  ***

  Bannon walked out of San Francisco Airport. He moved like a robot on autopilot, with his features bland, his eyes dull and his manner approaching a kind of boredom with existence that neared total apathetic indifference.

  The episodes in Chiapas Province and Monterrey were nowhere to be found in his memories and therefore didn’t exist for him. He moved mechanically toward the long-term parking lot. He needed to see Dr. Parker. She lived in Santa Clara near the Great America amusement park.

  Will she see me today?

  He reached into a pocket of his sports coat. It was empty. He knew that. So why had he reached into his coat expecting to find a cell?

  A memory…of another time in San Francisco Airport…had played very similarly to this. He’d had a cell then. He frowned, trying to dredge up more of the memory. It was faint. He’d been tired that time and his left hand—

  He glanced at his hand, turning it palm upward. He noticed the tattoos between the webs of three fingers. There was a skull and crossed bones between his pinky and ring finger. Between the ring and middle finger was a strange Godfather-like movie tattoo with a question mark embedded in it. That one looked new. Where had he gotten it done?

  He checked his other hand and found three tattoos there. His mouth turned dry, making it hard to swallow. Did he have amnesia? Why couldn’t he remember getting these tattoos?

  His frown became a scowl and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. It seemed terribly important that he remember these tattoos. Forgetting things indicated weakness and he needed his mind razor-sharp.

  Think!

  He did, but nothing came to mind. He started walking, and he shoved his hands into his pants pockets. He felt a single small key with a ball of plastic around the end. The plastic was orange and had the number 34. Right, right, he remembered that at least. He’d picked up the key in an airport bathroom, in a tiny container at the bottom of the water tank of the fourth toilet. He must have put it there before his trip to Mexico. He knew he’d been to Mexico because of his ticket stub.

  Soon he stood before Locker 34 and inserted the key. He found a set of car and house keys, a thin cell phone and a wallet.

  He pocketed the wallet, put his right index finger through the key-holder and took the
cell phone with his other hand. He found Dr. Parker’s number and pressed call. Putting the cell to his ear, he heard it ringing. Seconds later, a woman answered.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  Bannon paused. What an odd thing for a receptionist to say. Then he recognized the doctor’s voice. Why hadn’t she let the receptionist take the call, and what was this about being late? Maybe she thought he was someone else.

  “Hello, Doctor, this is Bannon. I’d like to—”

  “Bannon?” the doctor asked, as if she didn’t know who he was.

  “Yes, you know me. We’ve had several interesting sessions together. I recall you saying—”

  “Bannon?” she asked, and this time there was more than just surprise, but a hint of worry.

  “Is this Dr. Parker?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “But I thought…”

  Bannon withdrew his wallet and flipped it open. Using his thumb, he slid up the driver’s license. It showed him, but with more hair. He read the name, and told her, “Maybe you remember me better as Luke Gemmell.”

  “That’s true,” Parker said. “That’s better, yes, much better.”

  Why would it make any difference? Bannon slid the driver’s license away and pocketed the wallet a second time.

  “Mr. Gemmell?” the doctor asked.

  “I’m right here.”

  “Are you in San Francisco?”

  “That’s right.”

  “At the airport, I presume,” she said.

  “Yes. I was down south of the border—”

  “Please,” the doctor said. “Don’t say anything more.”

  Bannon frowned at the doctor’s reaction. “I was thinking about seeing you.”

  “Yes. That’s a good idea. I’d love to see you.”

  “Do you have an opening today?”

  “Naturally,” she said. “What time would you like to meet?”

  “Well…”

  “How does two o’clock sound?”

  “That’s cutting it close. I’m at the airport and you’re in Santa Clara.”

  “I have several later appointments. This way I could fit you in today. I think you should see me now, as soon as you can, in fact.”