Do I Know You Read online

  Do I Know You?

  A Novel by Edwin Dasso

  Book Five of the Jack Bass Black Cloud Chronicles

  Text Copyright 2017 Edwin Dasso

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be reproduced in any form without the express written consent of the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events, names, places or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental and are purely fictional.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my wonderful wife who is becoming quite an accomplished editor for me, not to mention her usual role of motivator. Thanks to my children, Brittany and Leo, for their ongoing support. Once again, they were all my major motivators for this effort as well as my life in general. Thanks to my friend, Dr. Jerry Frank, who, again, demonstrated his skill as a beta reader and story guide; his comments always make my storytelling better. Thanks to Jill Noble-Shearer for her usual thorough job of editing. She always forces me to raise my game. Finally, thanks to the Manager and Staff at my local Caribou coffee house who tolerated my occupying a seat for hours at a time over many, many months while I tried to be creative.

  Prologue

  An illegal marijuana farm in a remote area of the Eastern Tennessee Appalachian Mountains

  Jack Bass, MD was knocked to the ground by a sledge hammer-like blow to his chest. As he lay on the hard, red clay, he swiveled his eyes downward, gazing in a detached fashion at the bloody hole in his jacket. A red froth bubbled out of the opening each time he tried to take a breath. Oh, shit! That doesn’t look good, he observed with his usual pragmatic approach, as if he were viewing someone else’s wound.

  He gazed up at the puffy, white clouds floating in the sky above, surprised by how surreal the experience felt, despite recognizing at some level that it was likely a mortal wound if not treated rapidly. The left side of his brain, though, told him he was being fooled—that he only felt that way because he was already in a state of shock. As usual, his left-brain won. He understood that it was his body, his blood…his life he was watching drain away…and he assumed he was living the last few moments of that life.

  But, still, that realization didn’t seem to trigger the survival alarm he would have expected. At some deeper level, a small sense of relief even started to materialize in Jack’s waning thoughts. How can this feel so…okay? A thin smile crept onto his lips as his breaths came in ragged gasps.

  Jack could vaguely hear Wes Watley, his long-time friend who was an FBI agent, his voice frantic but his words sounding as if they were coming from the far end of a large cavern. Words that weren’t registering in Jack’s mind. An out-of-body sensation slowly engulfed him, making his body feel weightless as he observed Wes sprinting toward him. Wes’s voice became more distant-sounding, even as Jack observed him getting closer. Jack cocked his head, confused, as he watched Wes fall onto his knees, his face floating over Jack’s. He smiled at Wes. Jack willed his voice to work so he could tell his friend he was okay. But he wasn’t quite certain if his body was responding to his brain’s commands, uncertain if his message was clear to Wes as a gray haze gradually enveloped Jack’s consciousness and closed down his senses.

  * * *

  “But, sir, h-he’s dead! He’s got no pulse,” the SWAT medic yelled to Wes Watley as he gazed up from where he knelt next to Jack Bass’s limp form in the center of the camp where Jack had come to free enslaved homeless veterans. The gunpowder smoke from the intense gun battle still wafted lazily above Jack and the medic.

  Jack and a veteran, Hank Greene, who had escaped from the camp a couple days prior, had broken into the camp earlier that day and the FBI had arrived as the two men were helping a group of escapees flee. Unfortunately, during the firefight that ensued between the FBI SWAT team and the camp staff, both Hank and Jack had been gunned down.

  “I don’t give a shit! Just get a goddam IV in him! I’ll start CPR!”

  The medic just shook his head slowly, staring at Wes.

  “Did you not hear me? I owe him my life several times over. I will not let him die!” Wes bellowed as he dropped to his knees, pressing repeatedly on Jack's chest, tears dropping from his eyes onto Jack’s blood-soaked shirt with each thrust. He put his face over Jack’s. “Hang in there, Jack! We’re going to get you out of here.”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” the medic stated smugly. “Like I said, he’s already dead!”

  “No! He’s not!” Wes snatched his Glock from his tactical holster, holding it pointed at the medic’s head. “Goddammit, you either do what I say, or you get to join him!” Wes growled.

  The medic’s eyes shot wide. “Okay, okay! You don’t have to get crazy on me,” he grumbled, as he held up his hands in surrender.

  “Now!” Wes screamed, his gun not wavering until the medic started laying out his medical supplies.

  “Okay, you’re in charge…here,” he snarled. “But you’re done in the FBI! I’m filing a formal complaint.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You can’t threaten me like that,” the medic grumbled as he slid a large needle into one of Jack’s veins.

  Wes shoved his gun back into his holster, again starting CPR, vigorously pumping on Jack’s chest. “Do whatever the fuck you want later, but, for now, help me save my friend’s life,” he said somberly, his voice cracking. “Please!”

  Another medic skidded to a stop next to the three men and tapped Wes on the shoulder.

  “Medevac helo is a couple minutes out, sir!”

  Wes just nodded and kept squashing Jack’s chest with frenzied, repeated thrusts, willing Jack’s heart to start pumping again on its own.

  “Sir, I’ll take over chest compressions after I intubate him.”

  Wes again nodded but continued to plunge his hands onto Jack’s chest. The second medic intubated Jack, connecting the breathing tube to an Ambu bag and oxygen when a junior agent appeared and hurriedly kneeled down next to Wes.

  “Agent Watley, you’re needed out in the courtyard—I’ll take over here, sir.”

  Wes turned his head, wiping tears from his eyes as he looked up at the new arrival, nodding once. Still on his knees, he slid back from Jack’s body where it lay on the cold, hard-packed dirt. Wes stood, swept a sleeve across his grime and sweat-covered brow and tied to convince himself the wetness on his cheeks was only because his eyes were watering from the stench of burned gunpowder that floated around him. He turned, quickly surveying the compound, then jogged toward the other SWAT members who were waving him over to them. He suddenly stopped after walking thirty feet, twisting slowly at the waist, gazing back toward Jack and the medics, watching as they attended to Jack’s limp form.

  “Christ, Jack! Did you finally use up the last of those nine lives you’ve always seemed to have?” He turned back toward his colleagues, head hanging as he shuffled toward them.

  Chapter 1

  The four dark-skinned, Middle-Eastern men sat around the rickety wooden table in what passed for a kitchen in the dilapidated shack they now called home. “Home” existed in an isolated village in northern Iraq, the surrounding area barren other than the few goats and sheep that grazed on the craggy, rock-strewn knolls of the area as the local herders stood watch.

  All of this made it an ideal location for a terrorist training camp, even if it was a small one.

  The small town’s indigenous people lived simple lives and attempted to keep it that way by avoiding the new group of men who had moved into their village, desiring only to remain secluded in their normally peaceful setting. They kept their distance as much as possible in the small patch of huts, having no desire to be drawn into whatever it was these men did, either in their village or the outside world. That said, the villagers now lived in a daily state of distress, constant anxiety and dread permeating their minds whenever in the presence of the outsiders. The new denizens, always brandishing many weapons in public, reinforced that fright with constant scowls and harsh treatment of the native residents.

  * * *

  The two elderly men looked to be in their late fifties, though the weathered, sun-beaten faces may have been concealing a younger person underneath. They sat at the ramshackle wooden table, sweating profusely as they gazed intently at their younger colleagues seated with them. Their eyes constantly darted over the hands of the younger men as they manipulated and assembled various wires and other pieces of bomb-making materiel. The two older men occasionally exchanged glances, their expressions ranging between frustration and impatience as they watched the two boys—both in their late teens—try to follow the instructions they’d been given by their older mentors.

  “No, you imbecile! That is not what I told you to do,” the older man named Fadhil yelled as he shook his fists in the air. “If this had been a real bomb, you would have just blown us all up!” He cuffed one of the younger men, Mahmod, on the back of his head. “You are fortunate that Allah is going to allow you to be a martyr for Him because you would be of no use to Him if you continued to live.” He shook his head, a scowl on his face. “Now, watch me again…and pay attention this time! You are straining my patience to the breaking point.”

  Fadhil snatched the bits from Mahmod’s hands then organized them along with other items strewn across the table top. With the speed borne of much practice, he quickly assembled the pieces into a single unit then shoved it across the table at Mahmod, who just managed to stop it with his hand before it went over the edge.
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  “You see? It is not difficult. I would say even an idiot could do it, but you would make me a liar.” He glared at Mahmod. “Are you an idiot, Mahmod?”

  Mahmod shook his head vigorously. “No, sir, it’s just that…”

  “What? It’s just that what?”

  “This is all so new to me. Before I came here I knew nothing of such things. I was a simple herder living in the hills.” He turned his eyes to the floor. “I am sorry I am failing you.”

  Fadhil rolled his eyes and sighed then continued in a calmer voice. “You are not failing me…you are failing Allah. You must remember that! You cannot join Him and get your just rewards if you fail Him.”

  Mahmod’s shoulders slumped, and his head hung lower. “I dream often of the virgins…” he mumbled.

  “You need to stop dreaming, and pay attention!” Fadhil glowered at Mahmod then his features and voice softened, taking on a more paternal tone. “That is why I am so hard on you, Mahmod—I want you to join Him and enjoy your virgins for eternity.” Fadhil put a hand on Mahmod’s shoulder. “But if you fail, I also fail in His eyes, so that is why I cannot allow you to fail.” He scooted back and sat erect in his chair, a stern look on his face. So you must listen and focus! I can try to teach you, but I will not be there to do it for you when the time comes. Do you understand?”

  Mahmod nodded unsurely.

  “Good! Now I am going to disassemble it and put it back together again, more slowly this time. You must memorize the steps and be able to complete them quickly when you are on your mission…and you cannot write this down. We cannot risk someone finding your notes and possibly tracing them back to us. Do you understand that, as well? No notes!”

  Mahmod turned his eyes timidly up from the floor, glancing fleetingly at Fadhil before a look of resolve covered his features. He raised his head and nodded.

  “I will not fail you…or Allah!”

  Fadhil nodded curtly then pointed at the bomb. “Give that back to me.”

  Mahmod gingerly slid the bomb back across the tabletop, and Fadhil quickly snatched it up, disassembled it, and laid the pieces in a row in front of him.

  “The secret is to be organized. Memorize the sequence of the pieces as you see them here in front of me—always start at the left end, and work your way across, assembling as you go, and you will always do it correctly.”

  Later that night

  Zain, the other elderly terrorist sitting at the table, watched the door close behind the two younger men they’d been training then turned his eyes to Fadhil and shook his head.

  “They are both morons,” he said flatly.

  Fadhil nodded and blew out a long sigh. “Yes…they are. In many ways.” He smiled wryly at Zain. “But even morons can serve a purpose. The world will no doubt be a better place without them but, hopefully, they will have at least helped our cause before they leave this world.”

  “I have my doubts,” said Zain as he cast a skeptical gaze at his colleague.

  “Me, too, but it is getting harder all the time to recruit good candidates who are smart and willing to become martyrs for us.” He shook his head slowly. “Besides, if they fail, I, personally, will assure they still leave this world—just not in a way they anticipated.” He put his hand on the pistol that was tucked in his wide belt.

  Zain raised an eyebrow and gazed at Fadhil. “But then we will just need to find other gullible fools.”

  Fadhil sighed loudly. “Yes, that is true, but…no one ever said this would be an easy journey.”

  Chapter 2

  Amanda Bass, Jack Bass’ daughter with Major Lori Darden, RN, who had been killed when deployed in Iraq with Jack, sat with General George Smithson and Hank Greene around the dinner table in the house they all now shared. Their glum gazes turned between each other and the twelve burning candles on Amanda’s birthday cake. Amanda plopped her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her palms as she stared at the flickering flames.

  “I wish Mom and Dad could be here for this…party,” she said then sighed loudly.

  Smithson’s gaze shot to Amanda, and he was once again amazed by how much she looked like her mother had at this same age. He’d been a close friend of Lori’s family when she was young and had often served as a surrogate parent when Lori’s parents were too busy with their highbrow social affairs or travels. Smithson, having never found opportunity to marry and have a child of his own, looked upon her as the daughter he’d never had.

  As always happened when his thoughts turned to Lori, Smithson recalled the promise he’d elicited from Jack to protect Lori while she was deployed with Jack during the Gulf War: “Yes, sir. I’ll keep her safe,” Jack had vowed to Smithson as he had gazed intently into Smithson’s eyes. But, in spite of Jack’s well-intentioned and sincere promise, Lori had been brutally killed in Iraq while defending her patients from a ruthless enemy attack.

  When informed of her death, Smithson had quickly retired from a long career in the military, subsequently spending many nights haunted by his decision that had ultimately resulted in Lori being killed in action. Learning of her demise had been a time of great sorrow for Smithson, her death impacting him as much as if she had been his own child. He could no longer face the daily reminders of fellow countrymen going into harm’s way every day and the resulting losses so many families were left to deal with.

  In the period immediately after he’d retired, Smithson had become a recluse…until Jack Bass had contacted him after learning of the existence of Amanda, Jack’s and Lori’s lovechild from one evening of heated lovemaking during a deployment in Panama years before. George had immediately asked Jack if he could move closer to Jack and Amanda, offering to be another guardian for the child. He’d volunteered to be available to keep watch over the young girl, much as he’d done for Lori in her youth. Jack had not only eagerly agreed but had suggested that George move in with Amanda and him. George had accepted the invitation and had acted as a doting grandfather to Amanda since his arrival.

  Smithson was now as loving to Amanda as he had been to Lori. In Jack’s absence he acted as mentor and confidant, consoling her when she needed comfort and reassurance. Though some might view him as a surrogate father, he knew he could never fill Jack’s shoes in that regard…and didn’t try. He was more than happy just being on the second string squad. He still sometimes felt as if he fretted more over this single child, though, than he did when he was responsible for overseeing the medical care for thousands of active military personnel, even when in battle zones. He smiled inwardly as he thought, No different than the way any father feels about his daughter…or a grandfather feels about his granddaughter, I suppose.

  Amanda shoved her chair back. “This party sucks!” She spun and stormed from the room.

  Smithson turned back from watching her depart to stare at the candles, the random quivering of the flames reminding him how fickle life was…how the vacancy of having Lori in his life had left him feeling lost. Directionless. He’d had many agitated nights to ponder such thoughts and, as he gazed absent-mindedly into the tiny infernos, his mind traveled back to one of those many sleepless nights.

  * * *

  As he did many nights, George Smithson sat alone in the dark at the kitchen table during the middle of the night. He watched silently as Jack Bass padded to the refrigerator and extracted a bottle of wine.

  “Bad dreams about Lori?”

  “Jesus Christ, George! You scared the crap out of me! I wish you wouldn’t spook me like that.”

  Sorry…I didn’t mean to frighten you. Never a good thing to do to someone with combat-related PTSD, eh?” Smithson quipped, trying to lighten the tone. “So…Lori?”

  Jack slammed the fridge door. “Yeah…Lori…” he mumbled, barely audible.

  “Me too.” Smithson sighed loudly. “I love her dearly, even in death, but I hate when she visits me at night. I hesitate to say it, but the visits are never pleasant experiences for me,” George grumbled then pulled out the chair next to his. “Wanna talk about it?”