Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read Online Free PDF Page A

least one of them was synched to a computer before you delivered them to your contacts.”
    Synched ? He’s knows ‘ at least one of them was synched’ ? How can he know this ?
    Somewhere I am finding the strength to resist the temptation to talk. Part of it is that I am so tired I don’t have the energy. Part of it is I’m expecting death regardless. It doesn’t matter.
    I shake my hanging head and sigh. I catch a whiff of licorice and bleach before I exhale. Without thinking about it, I talk. I refuse to die a victim.
    “Lyle Lovett,” I mumble.
    “What?”
    “The iPod. Maybe it’s Lyle Lovett,” I chuckle without looking at him. “You know, You’re not from Texas , but Texas wants you anyway ?” I ape in my best crooner’s voice.
    “You can play these ridiculous games,” he sneers. “Let’s remember I am the one with the information here. I know you, you don’t know me. I know about the iPods, I know about Charlie, about your childhood friend Hank, and those couple of years after college you’d rather forget.”
    Hank ? How does he know about Hank ? Nobody is supposed to know . Nobody .
    “You might think you know me,” I snap through my quickening pulse. “Obviously you’ve got connections. If you knew half as much as you claim to know, you wouldn’t be trying to get information from me now. There’s clearly stuff you don’t know. I’m not helping you figure out what that stuff is. Do to me whatever you want.”
    “Okay.” His thick mitt of a hand pats me on right shoulder. I jerk involuntarily. Despite my verbal bravado, the constant threat of pain frightens me.
    “I’m going to need you to hold still,” he warns a moment before there’s the pinch of a needle in my neck and the slight burn of whatever it is he’s injecting into my bloodstream. I don’t have to time to react before I’m disoriented. He’s saying something to me, but I can’t really understand him.
    Who is this man ? What does he really want from me ? Who is he working for ?
    I was a courier. That’s all. I did what was asked of me. Now I find myself losing consciousness again. The room begins to wobble. He’s pressing numbers on a cell phone. He mumbles.
    Is he talking to someone on the phone ?
    The lights go out. It’s quiet. I’m falling asleep. Or dying.
     
    ***
     
    In the twilight between deep sleep and waking up, a series of images flash through my mind: Charlie laughing that throaty giggle of hers, Don Carlos Buell being shot, an empty airport lounge in Caracas, me banging on the metal of a small enclosed space and screaming for help, the Governor handing me a stack of iPods almost too big to carry, my parents catching fire, Sir Laurence Olivier as Szell drilling into my tooth and asking me, “Is it safe?”
    I jerk awake at the moment Szell’s drill hits my tooth. I’m groggy and have a pounding headache. My tongue is thick and pasty. There’s an ache in my lower back.
    I’m in a burnt orange UT T-shirt and white boxers, lying on my back staring at the white wainscoting which covers the ceiling. The flush mounted fan is spinning slowly, the pull chain tapping against the housing. I can feel the breeze on my legs. Sunlight is slipping in through the gaps in the open mini-blinds on the pair of double hung windows to my right, reflecting off of the dust floating in the air and the white exposed brick walls of the room
    I’m in my apartment.
    My apartment ? How did I get here ? Was it all a dream ? Maybe it was a dream . Maybe I had some bad beer , some weird dreams , and now I have a horrible hangover . It’s gotta be a dream .
    I sit up in my bed and spin to put my feet on the worn pine floor. The thin planks are scratched and pock marked. The stain is uneven and faded, but the floor feels good on my bare feet. As I stand I lose my balance. Man, they need to clean the tap lines at the bar. The beer was something nasty.
    I walk the short distance to my bathroom and drop my boxers to sit on the