Web of Lies Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Michael Cross

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  Web Of Lies

  Michael Cross

  Contents

  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

  Author’s Note

  Also by Michael Cross

  Chapter One

  “What’ll it be, hon?”

  I give the waitress a small smile and place my order: steak as rare as they can make it, eggs over easy, hash browns extra crispy, sourdough toast, a tall glass of cold orange juice, and a cup of piping hot coffee—black. After almost seventeen hours on the road, I need some fuel for my body. And some sleep. I’m running on vapors and will definitely need some shut-eye soon.

  But not just yet—there are a few things I need to see to first.

  “Here’s your coffee and your juice,” the waitress says. “And your food’ll be out soon, sweetie.”

  “Thank you,” I reply with a brief smile.

  When she departs, I pull my phone out and scroll through all the news feeds online. Nothing on Judge Blankenship. They either haven’t found the bodies yet, or they haven’t made it public. I’m betting on the former. It’s probably going to take them a minute to find the pond where I dropped Blankenship and his security detail. If they’d found the bodies already, the media would be all over it, and the headlines would shout it out loud in big, bold lettering. It’s not every day a Supreme Court nominee gets offed in his own home just days before his hearing.

  I’m not sure whether I’m relieved the Blankenship story hasn’t hit the news yet or not though. I set my phone down and settle back into my booth, letting out a long breath and start to relax for the first time in what feels like forever. Truthfully, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, but when you assassinate a Federal judge and then drive like hell across several states to put as much distance between you and the body as possible, it kinda feels like forever. It takes a toll on you.

  “Here ya go, hon,” the waitress nods as she sets my plate down in front of me. “Steak and eggs—a good hearty, stick-to-your-ribs kinda Midwestern breakfast.”

  She stands at the table as if waiting for me to say something. She seems to be the friendly sort who wants to chat with her customers, but I’m not in the mood. I just want to be left alone, so I give her a smile and a quick word of thanks. She frowns but seems to take the hint and bustles off, leaving me to my food. I dig in and nod to myself. The food is terrific. I feel better already. It’s just what the doctor ordered.

  I’m sitting in a booth next to the front windows that give me a view of what I came to Chicago for in the first place—St. Mary of the Angels Church. As I power through the mountain of food on my plate, I scrutinize the looming red brick towers of the church, mentally comparing them to the photograph that’s tucked away in the computer case still in my car.

  This church is the first thing that’s resonated with me in any way since I woke up a couple months ago—after spending the previous nine months in a coma. I don’t remember my name, my personal history, or how I came to be in a goddamn coma in the first place. It’s like somebody reformatted my brain and wiped my mental hard drive completely clean, and just like that, all my memories and nearly a year of my life were gone in a flash.

  But for whatever reason, I remember this damn church. Not the woman or boy photographed standing in front of the church—who are supposedly my wife and son. Neither of their faces ring any bells for me. I feel absolutely zero connection to either of them. No, the only thing that strikes any chord of familiarity inside of me is that pile of bricks held together by money and Catholic guilt, and I have no idea why.

  I finish my breakfast and leave a good tip for the waitress, then with slow, purposeful strides, walk out of the small diner. I cover the few blocks to the church quickly and find myself standing before the massive red and white brick edifice. I take my time on the way up admiring it. It’s a beautiful building. This close, I can almost hear it plucking the strings of my memory—but the tune is too faint for me to make out.

  The encrypted cell phone I was supplied with buzzes in my pocket, making me roll my eyes. I’m irritated and tired. And now that I’m fed, all I want is some sleep. I’m not in the mood to deal with the Tower’s shit. And I’m most definitely not in the mood to deal with High Priestess Delta’s shit right now. But as much as I’d like to, I know I can’t just ignore her. She has things I need, and so for the moment, we have an uneasy working relationship. I slip the phone out of my pocket and connect the call.

  “What?” I snap as I press the phone to my ear.

  Chapter Two

  I pace up and down the sidewalk in front of the church, keeping an eye on the people around me with the phone to my ear. The soft laughter on the other end of the line is rich and sumptuous.

  “And here I thought that with your first mission being a resounding success, you would be in a brighter mood,” High Priestess Delta says in her clipped English accent.

  “I’m tired.”

  “Well, congratulations all the same, Echo,” she offers. “I am thrilled to say that you exceeded our expectations—as I knew you would.”

  I look around again, making sure nobody else is close enough to overhear us. It’s clear, but I pitch my voice lower anyway.

  “They haven’t found the bodies yet,” I hiss.

  “My sources say they found them about an hour ago,” she replies. “The announcement should be coming soon.”

  “This should be interesting.”

  She laughs softly. “I admit, I am curious to see how they spin this.”

  Delta is my contact in an organization known as the Tower—a shadowy CIA-esque entity that operates outside the normal sphere of the intelligence community. And U.S. law, apparently. Why they use the Major Arcana of the Tarot deck as their designations is beyond me. It’s above my pay grade and well below my interest level.

  When I woke up from my nine-month nap sans my memory, the High Priestess was there to introduce herself to me, explaining that before the accident that landed me in a coma, I had been a decorated field operative and part of the Tower. Other than that, I know very little about them—like their operational goals. And frustratingly enough, I know even less about myself.

  My first mission out, though—assassinating Judge Blankenship—revealed to me there is another organization operating within the government called the Hellfire Club. And what I learned during my mission tells me their goals aren’t exactly in line with American values of liberty and justice for all. Which would seem to make them the enemy.

  Delta, who styles herself as the High Priestess, wants me to believe that the Tower’s goals run counter to the Hellfire Club. That they want to thwart their plans and keep America as we know it from being destroyed. I’m not yet convinced of the veracity of that statement—but I’ve learned enough about the Hellfire Club to at least be open-minded to the possibility that it’s true.

 
What I do know for sure is that the High Priestess has the information that will fill in the blank spots in my memory. She has my file, and she knows my past. And she believes she can keep me on a leash by doling out little nuggets of that information—just enough to keep me interested and coming back for more. You know, like your common street corner crack dealer.

  Except I don’t like being kept on a leash, which is why I’m doing things my way. I’ll play nice with Delta and the Tower. I’ll do what they need me to do and play secret agent for them. At least, for now. They have resources I need to run my own parallel operations I wouldn’t have on my own. So as they use me, I’ll use them.

  “What do you want, Delta?” I growl.

  She sighs. “Right. Down to business then,” she says. “First off, what are you doing in Chicago?”

  I smirk. I figured they were keeping tabs on me. I’ve still been using the phone, laptop, and car they provided me. No doubt, every move I make has been triangulated down to the millimeter. It doesn’t matter though. At the moment, I don’t really care if they know where I’m at. And I’ve got workarounds for the important stuff I don’t want them to know.

  “Had a craving for a Chicago-style pizza,” I reply. “Might also take in a Cubs game while I’m here.”

  “It’s not baseball season,” she says. “And besides, I believe you grew up an Angels fan.”

  Interesting. Dropping that tidbit—that I grew up an Angels fan—could be meant to imply that I grew up in Southern California. At least, if it’s not just misinformation. Which, when you’re dealing with spies, is always a possibility.

  “Why did you not return to New York for your debriefing?” she asks.

  “Do I really need to be in New York to do a debriefing when it won’t be in person anyway?” I fire back. “I can do a debriefing over the computer here as well as I can there.”

  I hear her sigh. “I suppose that’s fair,” she replies. “But you were expected to return to the condo there. And you are expected to follow orders.”

  “I was not specifically ordered to return to New York.”

  “Are you always this big of a pain in the ass?” she muses.

  “You have my file,” I remind her. “You should already know the answer to that question.”

  She laughs again, sounding genuinely amused for a change—which is surprising. Delta is rarely amused by my antics and seems to expect me to be a buttoned-down, tight-lipped, good soldier who obeys every order without question and without fail. In other words, she expects me to be a robot—one who kills when ordered to.

  But that’s just not who I am. I’m stubborn. I’m hard-headed and even sometimes impulsive. What I don’t know is whether or not I’ve always been that way or if it’s a side effect of the accident that took my memories.

  “Besides,” I go on. “I’m not the kind of guy who likes to be tied down to one place.”

  “Are you so certain about that?”

  There’s a hard, taunting edge to her voice. She’s trying to get under my skin by dangling some piece of my history out there—or what she wants me to think is my history. Like I said, you can’t really trust anything a spy tells you.

  “Well, let’s just call it a happy confluence of events then,” she says. “You being in Chicago.”

  “And why is that?”

  “We were going to dispatch you there anyway,” she tells me. “Your next assignment happens to be in the Windy City.”

  I pull my hair, my frustration leaking out of me. “So why are you busting my balls if I was going to end up here anyway?”

  “It’s my job to make sure you follow procedure and protocol,” she says.

  I chuckle. “No offense, but I’d say you’re doing a pretty shitty job of it.”

  “To be honest, I never truly understood that American saying about herding cats until I started as your handler,” she mutters.

  I take it as a point of pride that I’ve frustrated her. “I’m going to need new papers,” I tell her. “The Alec Marsh ID is burned.”

  “Believe it or not, Echo, this is not the first time we’ve run an op,” she replies smoothly. “We’re not amateurs. You will be provided with what is necessary.”

  “Right,” I nod. “I’ll go find a hotel. I assume you’ll be able to find me.”

  “Of course. We’ll be in touch,” she tells me. “I still want to debrief you on Maine.”

  “Great. After I get some sleep, I’ll be happy to have a gab-fest with you.”

  Chapter Three

  I sit at the small table in the room of the most anonymous motel I could find. You know, the kind that charges by the week—or the hour—and doesn’t ask many questions. Describing the place as seedy would be generous.

  The nice thing about anonymous motels is that you give up things like cleaning standards in exchange for that anonymity. But if you don’t expect much, you won’t be disappointed. Even then, this place failed to meet even my most meager standards. I mean, the bathroom sink was spattered with a bit of what might be rust or might be blood, the comforter on the bed looks like it hasn’t been washed since the Reagan administration, and there is the faint but lingering stench of… something in the air. I can’t quite place it.

  I’m not in fear of catching Hep-C in here or anything, but they certainly haven’t put a lot of effort into making the place—sanitary. But whatever. I didn’t come here for the accommodations. I came to get some much-needed rest and to recharge my batteries. This place has four walls and a bed, which is all I need.

  And after a solid eight hours of sleep and a shower that was just barely better than lukewarm, I feel pretty well refreshed, all things considered. I’ve done my debriefing with Delta on the Blankenship op, and now I’m sitting here with nothing to do but stare at the top of the table that’s chipped and scarred from years, maybe even decades of careless use.

  Spread on the surface of the table are the three tarot cards I was given at the outset of this madness. Irritated, I yank on my earlobe as I stare at the cards, trying to will something out of them. But nothing comes. With a deep sigh, I reach out and pick up the first one.

  “The Hanged Man,” I mutter.

  I look at the stylized image on the card. Study it. I gaze at the blue tunic, red tights, and yellow shoes the Hanged Man is dressed in. His legs are in a figure four, and he hangs upside down by an ankle. It’s the card Delta said represents me. She said the Hanged Man symbolizes sacrifice and letting go of the past. It represents a metamorphosis. Which I suppose could be applied to me.

  But I’ve done a little more research, too. The Hanged Man can also represent a cruel punishment to a traitor. A man doomed to suffer by his own actions.

  Setting the card down, I pick up the next one — the High Priestess. Delta. The image is of a woman in light blue robes seated upon a throne between two pillars, one black, one white. Balance. The High Priestess is said to represent intuition, insight, and revelation. But she also represents mystery. The High Priestess continues to keep my past in the dark. And she refuses to even let me see her face. Talk about mystery.

  And finally, I pick up the card for the Tower. It shows chaos — a tall building on fire, bolts of lightning flaring out behind it, and a pair of people are falling out of the windows. According to Delta, the Tower symbolizes destruction—and change.

  I suppose I can see how the whole tarot motif fits into their mission statement. A little theatrical and dramatic for my taste, but it’s not for me to question. I’m just a foot soldier in all this.

  I open up my second laptop—the one I purchased so the Tower couldn’t track my online movements—and boot it up. When it comes up, the first news story I see is about Blankenship’s death. The dam has finally broken. It’s all over the place now. A grin quirks a corner of my mouth upward when I see the cause of death listed as a heart attack rather than the bullet I put in his head.

  “Interesting,” I mutter.

  I’m not sure why his murder is being covered
up. I would’ve thought that politically speaking, they could have used the murder against the Tower in some way. The one thing it does show me, though, is that the Hellfire Club has a long reach, the savvy to manipulate the media, and the ability to not just control information, but push their own narrative. Covering up the murder of such a high-profile person as Blankenship, a nominee for the U.S. Supreme Court, takes powerful friends.

  I’d say it’s impressive if it wasn’t so damn nefarious.

  Getting to my feet, I finish getting dressed and pace the room like a caged animal. Restless. Uneasy. Until Delta gives me my next assignment, I have some free time on my hands, so I should probably make the most of it. I have a mountain of questions that need answers. I don’t know where exactly to look for them, but I can guarantee I’m not going to find a single one in this shitty motel room. So I shut down my computer and finish getting dressed.

  Before I leave, I grab my things and rig a couple of traps to ensure that I’ll know if somebody came in while I was out. It’s only when I’m halfway through my task that I realize what I’m doing. Rigging my traps is so instinctive that I didn’t have to stop to think about it. That’s interesting.

  Still puzzling over it, I climb into my car and head out. It takes me about twenty minutes to get to St. Mary’s, but I find a place to park a couple of blocks down, then get out of the car. With a quick look around, I don’t see anything or anybody out of place, so I start walking in the direction of the church.

  I pull on the watch cap I’d picked up and shove my hands into the pockets of my peacoat. It’s a chilly day, and the wind that blows in off Lake Michigan makes it even colder. The crowd on the street around me is dressed for the weather. Most everybody is wearing parkas, gloves, and scarves, all of them moving quickly to get where they need to go to get out of the cold.