Echoes (4 page)

This was heading in a direction I didn't like. Anytime anti-terrorism is involved, our elected officials like to write blank checks that often come back and bite us in the ass.

Sammy looked perplexed. "But he shot himself in the video that's been all over the internet."

Smith glanced over at Nami. "Queue up the DC3 footage, Ms. Williams." Focusing on us he said, "Are you aware of the eight federal employees who jumped from the top of the DoD Cyber Crimes Center?" We both shook our heads. "Yesterday afternoon eight people leaped to their deaths from the roof of the DC3 building. News stations are speculating that it was some kind of death pact. All eight of those people worked exclusively on digital forensics investigations and discovery with my organization."

Sammy sucked in a breath and held it, her hand covering her mouth.

That many people committing suicide in such dramatic fashion, all from the same organization, can't be a coincidence. How do you get someone to not only kill themselves but murder their loved ones?

I waited.

"Two days ago there were thirty people under my command. Now there are two. Three if you count Ms. Williams. The rest have disappeared or been murdered. The press have not picked up the story yet. They are too busy focusing on Senator McArthur and what they're calling the 'DC8.'"

Nami's head snapped away from her computer and looked at Smith. "Wait a second, no one told me this! Everyone who works for you gets killed? They said this was a routine operation and that you needed some tech assistance, not that I was going to be forced to hang myself in the shitter tomorrow!"

Smith barely acknowledged her. "In your line of work you don't get to pick your assignments, Ms. Williams. You do as you’re ordered."

Nami didn't like that answer, and seemed to be contemplating pushing the issue more, but decided to glower at her laptop screen.

Thirty people murdered in two days. How could that even happen?

"Who's hitting you? Terrorists? The Chinese?"

Sammy was getting anxious. "I don't understand what this has to do with us. Why did someone try to kill us with a bazooka?"

"The attempt was on Mr. Benson's life, not yours. You would have been collateral damage. Your involvement is coincidental."

For the first time in years I was actually talking to, let alone making progress with, a woman – when we were kidnapped and nearly killed. Now I was being told that she almost died because she was in the same room as me? Crap.

Smith shifted his gaze to me. "You were to be terminated because of an internal investigation my agency performed on you. Your name, address, and all other personal information had been collected and stored in our database. Those files were subsequently read and destroyed by our assailants. All other suspects we investigated have been murdered – you are the only remaining survivor."

Sammy gasped and reached for my hand. The warmth and tenderness of her touch comforted me, even in this insanity.

This made less sense by the second. When I joined the military after college, 9/11 had inspired me to help fight terrorists. Why would a covert anti-terrorism organization be investigating me? The only thing I’d worked on since being discharged was jaundice.

"Whoever you had doing your research must have been a typical overpaid government tool bag, because the only time I've ever even seen a terrorist was when I sighted them down my rifle. I have a purple heart for being wounded in Iraq! How could you suspect me of terrorism?" The accusations infuriated me.

"You misunderstand, Mr. Benson. You weren't suspected of being a terrorist. In fact, we are well beyond suspicion. We know, without question, that you are a telepath."

Smith's eyes were locked on mine.

Somehow he knew the one thing I had never told anyone. That wasn't a piece of information you can just guess either. The drug they dosed me with still hadn't worn off enough for me to try and dig through his thoughts.

Sammy looked back and forth from Smith to me.

"Can you say that again? It sound liked you said 'telepath'," Sammy said.

The silence in the room was deafening.

“Telepath, as in mind reader? That's impossible.”

More silence.

Smith and I continued to stare at each other like dogs struggling for dominance.

“Am I being Punk'd?” Sammy asked as she looked around the room theatrically.

"Why would you think I'm a psychic? I've been locked away in my crappy apartment for years. Until this morning
I'm pretty sure everyone in the building thought I was some kind of drug addict, blogger, or World of Warcraft player."

“We have software that scours the internet for keywords involving certain phenomena. Your former fiancée sent several electronic messages to her friends discussing your mental issues. She complained of you knowing certain secrets, and of your lacking emotions,” Smith said. "Her descriptions of you were picked up by our filters, which prompted a closer look by our agents."

It had been years since I’d seen her and she was still finding ways to screw up my life. One evening while I was laid up in Walter Reed, my fiancée, Elizabeth, had come to visit me. It was the first time I'd seen her since I'd been transferred back to the States. Still suffering from post-concussion syndrome, my cognitive abilities hadn't recovered yet. Though the echoes weren't debilitating yet, emotions from those around me were often overwhelming.

The moment she walked in I could feel her guilt washing over me. I tried to ignore it and just enjoy seeing her for the first time in more than six months. Her anxiety only worsened when she realized the extent of my injury. The visit became far too tense and uncomfortable so she didn't stay long. As she prepared to leave a thought bounced around inside my head. I knew that her remorse wasn't due to my trauma, but her adultery. I even knew his name and when their tryst had occurred, though I couldn't adequately explain to her how.

Eventually her denials turned to accusations. She attempted to place the blame for her infidelity on me – typical behavior from a person caught cheating. Fatigue settled in rapidly, as it often did during those first few months, so my memory of her leaving is hazy. What I do remember is that she left angry and ashamed. I haven't heard from her since. Anyone who could abandon someone in my condition didn't deserve my attention, so I never tried to contact her again.

"The subsequent investigation revealed your traumatic brain injury, PTSD, the voices, and your reclusiveness. We know everything you've done for the past five years. By looking at your credit card statements and internet history… "

"That's not even legal!" I don’t know why I bothered saying that. The Patriot Act let the government bend you over anytime they felt the desire.

"…we learned that you spent more than three years intoxicated. A crude but effective tool for dampening your abilities. Shortly after Ms. Moore moved in you started researching meditation, exercise and dietary measures to increase concentration. We know everything about you.”

He was right. After my encounter with Sammy in the hallway, I decided to change my life around. Fortunately, I didn't have as much trouble quitting the booze as I expected. Good genes I guess. The hard part started when I wasn't drunk anymore. My mind felt like a cave with a party in it, voices constantly bouncing around. For weeks they overpowered me.

During the day, when most of my neighbors were at work, I started focusing on one thought stream at a time. Eventually I could concentrate on that lone voice, controlling the flow of the others. I learned to view my mind as a muscle. By exercising it constantly, it grew more flexible and powerful.

I also found that physical conditioning helped me to control myself. That was when I started taking boxing lessons. The timing and rhythm of the sweet science integrated perfectly with the way I trained myself mentally. I took jiu-jitsu because it was the most exhausting thing I'd ever done, way beyond anything I did in the military. My body and mind felt stronger and more stable after every workout.

Less than two years later I'd gained back most of the weight I lost. While the voices were still there, they sounded like soft mumbles, as if the volume on a television had been turned way down. The background noise remained a constant frustration, but was now manageable.

Smith, somehow, knew all of this. There didn't seem to be much point in denying any of it.

"Do you know my shoe size too? So that's why you drugged me; you don't want me inside your head.”

“Correct. Opiates prohibit thought-transference.”

Sammy stared at me. “You can't expect me to believe this. Whatever they gave you is making you go along with this.” She looked at Nami. “You aren't buying this, are you?”

“Feels like we're on the Hogwarts Express, doesn't it? But apparently it's true,” Nami said. She gave Smith a dirty look. “What I didn't know was what happened to my predecessors.”

“Every one of you is nuts,” Sammy said as she walked over and sat down on the other bed. “I can't listen to anymore of this.”

She showed me a moment of compassion, and I turned my life around. I helped her out of a jam, and turned her world upside down. Irony sucks.

"I still don't understand why all the people in your files have been killed, why you were watching me, or why I'm even here."

"My agency used telepaths for covert intelligence purposes."

I couldn't help but notice his use of past tense.

“Telepaths as in plural? I had no idea there were others—”

“There were seven others, prior to the events of the past two days."

I thought I was the only one since the first echo pinged around in my mind. Hearing there were more was somehow comforting and disconcerting at the same time. Talking to one of them a few years ago would have been an enormous benefit, but knowing that this ability was being exploited by the government was a big concern.

“We investigated and tracked all potential instances of this phenomena. That's why we had an extensive file on you.”

"If you knew what I could do, why not try and recruit me?"

"We have no use for an alcoholic."

Ouch.

“Well, apparently you've found a use for me now or I wouldn't be here. What were you doing with these people?”

“Our primary mission was anti-terrorism. Telepaths were used to locate, influence, and terminate key personnel. They were trained for clandestine actions. Since the inception of our operation, actionable field intelligence has skyrocketed. We are the reason the United States has made significant progress in the Middle East recently.”

The practical uses seemed limitless. How many plans could be thwarted if we knew when and where the enemy would attack? How many soldiers’ lives could be saved if we knew where I.E.D.s were planted? We could find supply lines, weapons caches, bank accounts. Entire terrorist cells could be eliminated. This was a game changer.

“If you had seven badass super soldiers at your disposal, how were you wiped out so quickly?” Nami asked.

Smith seemed annoyed at the question. “Six months ago we received intelligence that Iran had been operating a similar program. We've been trying to gather information, but anyone with knowledge of the program has been kept out of our reach."

"Damn."

"Three days ago we learned that one of their spies may have landed on U.S. soil. Within twenty-four hours all of our agents were dead. Inside of forty-eight hours everyone else involved in my operation joined them."

"How could that happen? You think one man killed everyone?" I asked.

    "Before her death, one of our agents managed to send us a piece of correspondence. It identified one man, codenamed 'Murdock'.”