Memories of the Past: A Nick Hunter Novel (A Nick Hunter Thriller Book 3) Read online

  Memories of the Past

  A Nick Hunter Novel

  Vallon Grey

  Memories of the Past

  A Nick Hunter Novel

  Copyright © 2022 by Vallon Grey

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise – without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Contents

  1. Prologue

  2. Chapter 1

  3. Chapter 2

  4. Chapter 3

  5. Chapter 4

  6. Chapter 5

  7. Chapter 6

  8. Chapter 7

  9. Epilogue

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  About the Author

  Prologue

  The knock on the door was unusual, but not that unusual. The house had impressive, though unobtrusive, security of the highest quality. Normally, he would be given advance warning of any visitors, though. He guessed that one of the guards needed something, or maybe they were bringing in a delivery. Maybe the gardener had a question. Whatever the reason, the knock should be answered.

  Grunting, he lifted himself from his chair by the TV and walked slowly to the back door, bent slightly at the waist. Age was, in the end, catching up with him. He no longer moved as quickly as he had, and every day seemed to bring new and interesting pains. His doctors had told him he was fine, ‘for a man of his age.’ He just didn’t like being a man of his age.

  He pulled the door open and stood frozen in surprise. The person on the other side was familiar but unexpected.

  “George,” his visitor said. “It’s been a while. A year at least. I’d have thought you’d be happier to see me.”

  He put a hand on the door frame to steady himself. “How did you get in?”

  His visitor grinned. “Oh, come on. You know me. You improved me. You gave me more than enough skills to crack a place like this, George. Your guys are good, but not that good.”

  George shook his head. “No. We deactivated you, took you out of the loop. You failed the program. You can’t…”

  “And yet I did.” The other man smiled.

  “What do you want?”

  “Well,” his visitor said. “Originally I wanted revenge, but that’s a fool’s game. You taught me that. No, I’ve got a new employer; someone who appreciates what I can bring to the table, both in terms of my skill and my mindset.”

  “Your psychosis,” George replied before he could stop himself.

  The man shrugged. “You call it psychosis, I call it freedom from unnecessary ethics. Anyway, that’s not the point. I’m here because my employer wants to send a message to Logan.”

  Now George was confused. “Logan? You and he went your separate ways. I can’t see you wanting to catch up with old friends. What does he have to do with you?”

  The man shook his head. “To me… nothing. He cost my employer a great deal, though. You and I might not deal in revenge, but he does. He wants Logan, and I’m here to draw him out. You are our… communications channel.”

  George sighed. “What message do you want me to send him?”

  The man’s smile grew larger. “This.”

  He pulled the Russian silent PSS-2 pistol from his pocket and fired two rounds into George’s chest. The older man was dead before he could even register the gun.

  Chapter 1

  Nick Hunter was sitting at a worn table just outside a diner on East Capitol St. This part of Washington DC wasn’t the part the tourists flocked to. They stayed downtown, where things were historical, clean, and safe. The Capitol View area was better than it had been a decade or two ago, but crime was still rife, unemployment was high, and desperation had lined many of the faces he’d seen. Right now he was the only customer at the diner, and he’d only come in for coffee. Having tasted the coffee, he was beginning to understand why the diner wasn’t busy.

  Still, he hadn’t picked the diner for its quality. He’d picked it because of its view of the next-door Chinese restaurant and the cracked asphalt parking lot. That, too, was almost deserted, but he’d recognized the man sitting in the Ford Everest SUV. He was the Sapzurro Cartel’s chief enforcer in New England. The man was dangerous, and responsible for numerous deaths across the northeast, but he wasn’t Nick’s target. Splinter’s intel had indicated that the cartel was being aided by a corrupt agent in the FBI. Identifying and removing that individual would have a much greater impact on the Sapzurro operation, and the death it brought with it. Nick was simply waiting to see who was coming to the meeting.

  His phone buzzed, and he glanced down. A text. The sender wasn’t displayed, which was odd. He tapped the screen, keeping one eye on the Ford.

  The message read, ‘Mom wants her crockpot back.’ That made no sense to Nick. His identity for this mission didn’t involve a family. Must have been a wrong number or something.

  He was aware, suddenly, that he was up, moving, picking up his bag. He hadn’t made any conscious decision to do that. He was supposed to stay here, identify the dirty agent. He couldn’t go now.

  He kept moving, though. There was a compulsion, a sudden drive in his mind. He had to go. Where? He didn’t understand, but his legs carried him forward. He crossed the road, waited briefly, and caught a bus to the Capitol Heights Metro station. At the Metro, he boarded the train for the Silver Line and took a seat in the nearly empty carriage.

  Nick shook his head. Somewhere, some part of him knew exactly what it was doing. He felt, almost, as if he was just along for the ride, a passenger in his own head. There seemed to be nothing he could do to override the strange compulsion, so the only option left was to wait, rest, and see what came of it. If there was trouble at the end, then he’d deal with it as and when he could.

  The train carried him under most of the city. At Virginia Square, he rose and got off, again without understanding why. As he exited the station he noted that this part of DC was totally different from Capitol View. Here, the area was developed, clean, well looked after. The buildings around him rose several stories in height, the streets were well laid out and shaded by trees. It was almost as if he’d gone to a different country.

  He moved again, allowing his strange drive to guide him over the road to a tall and expensive-looking apartment block. He watched, surprised, as his fingers keyed in the access code at the door. He took in the tasteful lobby as he walked to the elevators, noting the security features, a surprising number of them, that most other people would not have noticed. The building seemed very well secured for an apartment complex.

  The elevator carried him to the fourth floor. He walked down the quiet and plushly carpeted corridor to room four-oh-four. He didn’t knock, but pushed open the door that he’d somehow known would be unlocked.

  In the sitting room was a desk with a chair on either side. He put his bag down beside the chair and then sat and waited. There
didn’t seem to be anything else to do. He felt calm, peaceful, and that worried him. Acting like this, leaving his job, wasn’t right, wasn’t normal. Why wasn’t he more concerned?

  The door on the other side of the sitting room opened. A young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with glasses and untidy hair, came out into the room holding a briefcase.

  He took one look at Nick and said, “Disable. Blue rabbit.”

  Nick froze. What little control he had had over his body vanished. He could move his head, but that was all. He felt his pulse jump and adrenaline surge through his unresponsive body. This wasn’t right. There seemed to be nothing he could do, though. No way to move.

  The man came over and sat at the desk opposite him. “And now, Mr. Hunter, let’s have a chat.”

  Chapter 2

  “What?” Nick managed to ask.

  The young man looked at him grimly. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and you are going to answer them – truthfully. To make sure of that; the black fox is free.”

  Nick felt his mind and body relax. He felt a strong liking for this man. He’d tell this man anything he wanted to know.

  “Is your name Nick Hunter?” the man asked.

  “No,” Nick said with a grin.

  The man’s eyebrows rose. “Explain.”

  “Right now, on this mission, I’m Harry Wilson,” Nick explained.

  The man nodded. “Very well, but between missions, between other identities, you are Nick Hunter?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you arrive in Washington?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Have you been to Georgetown since arriving in Washington?”

  Nick thought for a second, going over what he’d done in the last three days. “No.”

  “Do you have, or have access to, a Russian silenced pistol?”

  “Not now,” Nick said.

  “Explain.”

  “Splinter has a lot of weapons. I assume they would have at least one of those that I could use if I needed to.”

  “And have you needed to?”

  “No.”

  The man behind the desk nodded again. He pulled a piece of paper from his briefcase and placed it on the desk. Nick could see it was the picture of a man, an older man, with gray hair and deep blue eyes.

  “Do you know this man?” he was asked.

  Nick’s mind whirled. He was certain he’d never seen the man before, but… something about him was familiar. There was a sensation, somewhere in his mind, that he might know him. He frowned.

  “Do you know this man?” the other repeated.

  “I… I don’t know,” Nick said.

  The man in front of Nick leaned back in his chair. “Well, that’s about what I expected. We had to check, though.”

  That wasn’t a question, so Nick felt no pressure to comment. He simply sat there, feeling pleased that the man was happy with his answers.

  After a long moment of silence, the other man grinned at him. “Sorry, totally forgot. You pass, so; the yellow angel flies to Mars.”

  Nick’s head suddenly cleared. He felt, for the first time since he’d received the text message, that he was in control of himself again. He flexed his arms and legs.

  “What just happened?” he asked, a slight hint of anger in his voice.

  The man behind the desk sighed. “Basically, we just used some stuff we hoped we’d never have to. Look, even with your amnesia, you must understand that you’re not exactly normal. Your memory is better, your reflexes faster, your ability to act, in many ways, is far ahead of a normal person, yes?”

  Nick nodded. He had an idea where this was going, but he wanted to hear it.

  “So,” the man continued. “Some time ago you volunteered for a special program. As part of that, we… adjusted your brain. The term used was to lay extra engrams down. In simple terms, we rewired parts of your gray matter to work better. While we did that, we built in some fail-safes. Certain key phrases would trigger certain responses. The text you received, for example, triggered a homing response. The phrase I used before would, at least we hoped, ensure you only told the truth.”

  Nick nodded. He felt he should be angry. This man had just admitted to playing with his mind, but he’d pretty much come to the conclusion that had happened anyway. To a certain degree, hearing it made him feel better.

  There was one question, though. “And my memory loss?”

  The man gave him a rueful grin. “The technology wasn’t perfect. We were pushing boundaries. In your case, while the engrams took, they put you into a coma and caused severe retrograde amnesia. I assure you, it wasn’t intentional. And while you don’t remember it, I guarantee you that you signed a waiver indicating you knew the risks and agreed anyway.”

  “Why would I do that?” Nick asked.

  “Not my department,” the other man answered. “I guess you had your reasons.”

  Nick nodded, putting the question away for the moment. “So what was all the questioning for? Why the need to check up on me?”

  The man pointed at the picture. “This man was shot and killed this morning in his own home. He was a senior member of the team that developed Splinter and the agents. His home, as you can imagine, was well secured. That security was breached. Whoever did it, was very good. You were in Washington. You had the skills. We had to know.”

  Nick shook his head. “It wasn’t me.”

  The man nodded. “I’m confident of that… now. However, it’s important that we find who did this, and why. I’m taking you off the assignment you were on, and putting you on this.”

  Nick was about to protest, to argue that what he was doing was important, but then he held his tongue. This man, whoever he was, obviously knew a lot more about Splinter, and Nick, than Nick did.

  “Give me your identity,” the man said.

  Nick reached into his bag. He pulled out the wallet and phone belonging to his Harry Wilson identity on the desk. He had a pretty good idea what the man wanted, so he added the manila envelope, with what looked like a silver RF coating on the inside.

  The man checked the wallet, extracting the identifying cards, and putting them in the envelope. Then he tapped a code into the phone and added it to the cards. He sealed the envelope and put it in a metal waste bin beside the desk. They both waited for a moment. There was a sharp fizzing sound from the bin and a puff of smoke seeped out the top of the envelope. Nick knew that signaled the ignition of the phone’s high-temperature core. Everything in the envelope, the phone included, would have been reduced to a fine gray ash. Harry Wilson had just ceased to exist.

  The man took a similar envelope from his briefcase and slid it across to Nick. “You new identity. Your name is Allan Thurlow. You’re a private investigator licensed in DC, Maryland, and Virginia. You are going to investigate this man’s death, at the request of his family.”

  Nick flicked through the documents in the envelope, slipping the phone into his jacket pocket. “A PI? Isn’t that a risk? Won’t that draw attention to me?”

  The man grinned. “Anyone who checks on Mr. Thurlow will find he is a very unsuccessful PI. Incompetent might be generous. You’ll seem even less threatening than the police.”

  Nick nodded. Splinter would have made sure that any records matched that assessment.

  The man continued. “Clothing and equipment are provided at your new home office. There’s a car there as well, tricked-out in case you need it. All the details are provided in the documents here. You know the drill.”

  “Yep,” Nick said as he flicked through the paperwork, memorizing his new home, and how to get there.

  “Two more things,” the man said.

  Nick stopped what he was doing and gave the man his attention.

  “One, this is very important to Splinter. You will have constant access to whatever you need, and we’ll be providing a second individual to assist you.”

  “Okay, what’s the second thing?” Nick asked.

  The
man looked him in the eyes. “This may be harder than you think. The man was important to Splinter, but he was also important to you at one time. He was your grandfather.”

  Chapter 3

  It hadn’t taken Nick long to find his new home. He’d changed and picked up a few pieces of equipment before checking out his new car. It didn’t look that exciting – an old 1990s Chevrolet Corsica. Nick grinned, it was the perfect car for an unsuccessful man, like a failing PI. Splinter had tweaked it, though, to make sure it had unexpected capabilities, just in case he needed them.

  The car certainly looked out of place when he pulled up at the house, just around the corner from Dumbarton Oaks in Georgetown. This area was home to money and power. The houses might have started their lives in the colonial or early republican days, but they were big, modernized, and hideously expensive. The Corsica stood out like a plastic ring in a Cartier display.

  He got out and flashed his ID at the bored-looking cop standing beside the police tape. The cop did have the decency to lift the tape and let Nick onto the property, but he seemed decidedly unimpressed by Nick himself. That, thought Nick, was probably because he’d really dressed down for this job. His jeans had seen better days, and the collar on his leather jacket was frayed. All, of course, to make it clear he was a bit down on his luck, and therefore not a threat.

  The woman who met him at the door, on the other hand, was dressed in an expensive Zara business suit. Nick marveled again at the information in his mind. He doubted he had ever had an interest in clothing designers, yet his brain could recognize styles and tell him who designed them.

  “Mr. Thurlow?” she asked, a look of distaste on her face.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he answered. “I believe you requested my help?”

  She looked down her nose at him. “Not personally, but someone in the family did, yes. Come in, please.”