Back in his room, Jack sat at the edge of the bed, the old-fashioned keypad phone in his lap as he held onto the handset, which was tethered to the base by the curlicue cord.
He didn’t know who, if anyone, would be at the other end of that number. The only thing he knew for certain was that he knew nothing else. He was a blank slate with this one, scribbled note on it.
So dial the fucking phone, Jack.
He lifted his hand, then hesitated. What if it was a trap? A memory deliberately put into his mind.
But to what end?
Refuse to call, and he denied them the satisfaction of seeing their plan succeed.
But what if there was no plan? What if they were done with him, and they’d tossed him out onto the highway with no memories and no resources, fully expecting that was the last they’d see of Jack Sawyer, or of the man who’d come before?
Then again, if they’d wanted him dead, why not just kill him? Why stuff cash in his pocket and leave him alive?
If he refused to dial, he might be screwing them, but he’d definitely be screwing himself.
And, goddammit, right then the possibility of finding even the smallest clue about the man he was before outweighed every other consideration. A trap? Maybe. But he’d survived worse. Or, at least, he’d probably survived worse. He was a scarred-up, badass member of the Special Forces. Or so he assumed. At a minimum, he should be able to make a phone call without triggering Armageddon.
In his hand, the dial tone changed to a squawking wail. He tapped the switch hook, tucked the handset between his ear and his shoulder, and dialed the number that had been running through his head.
On the other end, the phone rang twice before an efficient male voice came on the line. “Monrovia Travel Adventures. Are you a client?”
“Ah, yeah.”
“Your user name, please.”
He hung up. Wrong fucking number. Either that or he’d misremembered the number.
Frustrated, he stood and paced and re-ran the nonsensical dream through his mind again. Nonsensical being the operative word. Cartoons and disembodied voices and random phrases and numbers that wouldn’t make sense to anyone.
Except…
With a frown, he turned and looked at the phone. Maybe they did make sense. In the world of Ethan Hunt and Jason Bourne, those nonsense phrases might make a lot of sense.
Not that he was Bourne, but maybe … just maybe…
He dialed again, and this time the call was answered by a woman. When she asked for his username, he took a shot in the dark, having parsed through all the nonsense in his head to find the most likely handle.
“Road Runner,” he said, hoping to hell he was right.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then her voice returned, curt and crisp. “Hold, please.”
He held, his gut churning. He wasn’t sure what he’d just done, but he was certain that he’d set wheels in motion. But whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, he really didn’t know.
The line clicked, and this time the speaker was male. “Pass phrase?”
He started to speak, his posture straightening as if he was reporting for duty. As if this was a familiar routine. At one time, he assumed, it had been.
Today, he didn’t have a clue.
“Pass phrase?”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Please state your name, your location.”
“Victorville,” he said. “I need to speak to someone in charge. It’s urgent.”
For a moment, there was silence. “This office utilizes certain protocols. This call will be terminated in five, four—”
“Wait. Something’s happened. I can’t tell you the pass phrase because I can’t remember it. I’ve been drugged or brainwashed, or I don’t know. Just let me speak to your superior.”
Silence.
Mountains and mountains of silence.
Then, “I’m sorry, sir. Protocol requires that—”
“Wile E. Coyote! Looney Tunes! Beep-beep!” He sounded like an idiot. “Shit, I don’t know. Who is this? Who am I calling?”
“Hold, please.”
The dispassionate voice disappeared, replaced by a rhythmic ticking in lieu of hold music. For what felt like an eternity, he simply held the line.
He was about to give up and start the process all over again when he heard a series of clicks followed by a gravelly voice saying, “Good God, Road Runner. Where are you? What’s your status?”
He started to answer. He actually started to open his mouth and spill everything to the man with concern in his voice. Then rational thought returned, and he said, “Why don’t we start with who you are.”
Silence. Just long enough to be noticeable. He’d surprised the guy. Good. Jack was getting tired of being the only one behind the curve.
“I’m Colonel Anderson Seagrave. And right now, I’m the only one willing to trust you.” The words were stern, but not hostile.
“Because I didn’t know the pass phrase.”
“Didn’t you?”
Good point. He must have rattled off the correct one—or at least come close enough to pique this colonel’s curiosity.
“No,” he said, figuring it was better to be all in or all out. “I took an educated guess.”
“I see.” The voice had tightened, and when he spoke again, Jack heard a dangerous edge. “And how exactly did you manage to get so well-educated?”
“You mean did I beat the shit out of someone to learn the secret handshake?” He knew he was being ballsy, but this guy was a colonel. That meant military, the government, some sort of heavy shit. And no way was Jack strolling into that environment like some meek little lost puppy. He’d lost ninety-nine percent of himself; he was damn well going to cling to that final one percent like grim, fucking death.
“Something like that,” Seagrave said. “So you tell me—are you the Road Runner? Or have you just poked around in his mind?”
Jack closed his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Moment of truth time. Hopefully, this wouldn’t prove to be the biggest mistake of his life.
The good news, at least, was that he couldn’t recall any bigger mistakes to compare it with.
“Truth?”
“In this business, that would be nice for a change.”
“Fine, then maybe you can tell me who and what I am. Because I haven’t got a goddamn clue.”
He waited, anticipating an explosive response. A series of verbal slaps to put him in his place for playing such stupid games with someone who was obviously well positioned in the intelligence community. Jack may not know his pass phrase, but he knew the hallmarks of a covert intelligence operation that managed agents in the field.
Whether he was still a soldier or not, he was certain that he was some sort of intelligence officer. What he didn’t know was if this guy was a friend or someone who’d screw him over six ways from Sunday.
“Can you?” he demanded, as the silence lingered—and this time he was certain it was a tactic. “Can you tell me who the hell I am?”
“I think so,” Seagrave said. “I may even know what happened to you. Some of it, anyway.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Hmm. Have you been calling yourself something?”
“Not for long,” he admitted. “As far as I can tell, my world began when I woke up a few hours ago. With a little bit of a prologue before that. The exciting kind with a mystery thrown in.”
“A mystery?”
“I’ve been calling myself Jack,” he said, ignoring Seagrave’s unstated request for the details of Jack’s ignominious dive from the back of the truck. “Jack Sawyer.”
Seagrave burst out laughing, and the sound was so real—and so damn familiar—that Jack found himself chuckling, too.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Seagrave asked.
“Under the circumstances, I’m the wrong one to ask.” He was getting pretty quick with amnesia-laced repartee.
“You were a huge fan of Lost back in the day. Used to watch it with—”
“With?”
“Me,” Seagrave said, though Jack was certain he heard a lie in the man’s voice. “We’d drink beer and watch the absurdity.”
“So we were friends.”
“I hope we still are.”
“Then tell me who I am.”
“I can’t do that. Not right now.”
Jack tensed. “Why not.”
“Because you might not be my friend anymore. And if that’s the case, I don’t want to give you anything more to work with.”
“Fuck.” At some point he’d stood without realizing it and started pacing. Now, he sat. “We need to meet. Face to face. I need to see you to know if I trust you. And apparently you need the same thing.”
“Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just tell me where to go in LA and I’ll meet you.”
“Better if we extract you and bring you in.”
“Not going to happen,” Jack said.
“Why not?”
“Because right now, I’m a man with no friends. I don’t know who I am or who did this to me. So you tell me straight—do you really think that I would trust you with my location?”
“I’m sorry, Jack. And you’re right. I never thought you’d give me your address.”
As Seagrave spoke, a steady thump-thump filled the air, and the cardboard walls of the tiny motel room started to shake.
“Christ,” Jack whispered. “What have you done?”
“I swear no one will harm you. Just let them take you in.”
He didn’t bother answering. Just ended the call, his mind whirring. His hand went to the swathed end of the mirror shard, and he clutched it tight, ready to slice or stab.
But that was a pipe dream. He could already tell from the increasing volume that this wasn’t one lone helicopter. These were military choppers, and his best guess was at least five of them. Probably two in the parking lot, one in the air, and two behind his room.
One bit of a broken mirror and his scathing wit were hardly going to hold them at bay. Which meant he had a choice. He could cower in the room and try to fight them off, or he could open the door, walk out onto the sidewalk, and accept the next step of what was turning into a most unusual adventure.