Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read Online Free PDF

toilet. I’m too dizzy to stand. I rub my toes against the grout in the two inch tile that lines the bathroom floor. I’m home. I am safe.
    I stand up, flush, and shuffle to the sink. I flip the tap and bend over to cup the cool water in my hands. I splash it on my face and feel my skin tighten against the chill.
    Still hunched at the waist I blindly grab a clean towel from the rack next to the mirrored cabinet in front of me. I dry my face and exhale. My knees feel weak, my lower back hurts, and my head pounds with each heartbeat. I can feel it in my temples.
    I drop the towel to the edge of the sink and look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and I have deep, dark circles that run from the bridge of my nose to the edges of my face near my throbbing temples. I’m thinner somehow. Maybe it’s the thick stubble on my chin and along my jaw line. I thought I shaved yesterday.
    My thick wavy mop of brown hair is unkempt and seems darker. I rub my hands through it. The strands are heavy with oil and grease. I’ll need to take a shower before I go anywhere.
    There’s a small circular bruise on the left side of my neck. I rub it. It’s sore.
    I open the mirror and pull out a bottle of migraine medicine. I push down on the cap and spin it open, shake out two caplets, and pop them in my mouth. After putting the bottle back in the medicine cabinet, I bend over to slurp from the faucet.
    I don’t think I’ve ever been this hung - over .
    My apartment is a two bedroom near downtown Austin. It’s expensive. I don’t spend money on much else, and I like living so close to work. I still have a lot of the money my parents left to me when they died. It got me through the lean years as a $12,000 a year reporter in Tyler. I’ve got maybe $350,000 left. I only use a little of it here and there. I feel guilty spending it.
    I walk out into the combination family room/kitchen and yank open the refrigerator. There’s a carton of orange juice, a tub of margarine, a small can of Red Bull, and some leftover takeout from Iron Works Barbecue. I pull the carton of juice to my mouth and take a couple of gulps before I taste its bitterness. It’s sour. I smell it and wince. The expiration date tells me it’s got three days. What the hell ?
    The phone rings.
    I trudge back to my bed and sit on its edge to pick up my cell, which apparently I left on the oak nightstand. San Antonio area code.
    “Hello?” I rub my temples with my left hand as I hold the phone in my right. I’m looking at the digital clock next to the bed. The LED numbers announce 3:45.
    It’s that late ?
    “Jackson Quick?” I immediately recognize the voice. The Saint .
    I can’t speak.
    “Okay, Jackson, my good man,” The Saint continues in an even, disturbing tone. “I’m going to explain this to you slowly. You are not to hang up. You are not to take notes. I want you to remember what it is I am about to tell you.”
    I say nothing. I can’t. I physically can’t. The pounding at my temples is suddenly blinding.
    “I’ll assume your silence implies your consent.”
    What is going on ?
    “I am aware of everything you do, Jackson.” There is the sound of street traffic in the background. “I am watching you. You are not to tell anyone.”
    This is not a dream , is it ?
    “I will know if you snitch , as they say,” he makes the word snitch sound particularly vile. “I will not be pleased with you. As for your whereabouts for the last five days…”
    Five days ? I’ve lost five days ?
    “You’ve been ill,” he explained. “While you were with me, I sent text messages from your phone to anyone who tried to contact you.”
    He had my phone and my keys .
    “If you fail to comply…” The Saint pauses, in the distance there’s what sounds like the air brakes of city bus, “…we’ll repeat our question and answer session.”
    “Why did you let me go?”
    It’s the only thing I can think to say. I can feel a clammy sweat forming on my