She smiled. Her freckles touched in places, like someone connecting dots. It was such an innocent smile. How could she be a danger? How could he plunge the knife into her soft neck?

  Who am I? he asked again. She had called him “Mr. Monday” and he had responded. That was right. But if so, why was he here?

  You ARE the Trap, the voice reminded him. It lacked its earlier conviction.

  “Yes. You played doctor when I twisted my ankle,” she said, above the roar of the crowd. She leaned closer to him, her voice straining. He could smell her perfume. If she was dangerous, danger smelled good. Rose petals and vanilla with a hint of jasmine.

  “Of course,” he looked down at her ankles. They were still there. “How are they now?”

  “Fine. I wanted to thank you.”

  “You did.” He tried on a smile. Thought maybe he could remember how to do it.

  “Yes. But you left it on the seat beside you, I am afraid,” she said, holding out her hand. In it she held a slim silver chain that held a small locket, spinning in the morning Atlanta sun. It reflected the light as it spun. It was all very mesmerizing.

  In his mind’s eye, he could hear what came next. And then, it was like he was plunging into a pool of water in reverse. His ears popped as if a pressure had been released. His vision cleared and he knew. Not all, but enough.

  The words were on her lips. He could see them forming. He could not let her repeat them. The truth behind them was too terrible. He reached for her hand just as the speakers popped with a loud bang. People screamed. Lights flashed and went out. He heard curses.

  He turned to look at the stage. The men there were whisking the President away. They each had a hand to one ear. Men, women, and children ran toward exits. The press of people around him dissipated. He stood amid a sea of discarded paper cups and flyers.

  He knew that in those two seconds between the pop and the crowd’s frightened reaction, he was supposed to have taken the life of the President. He also knew that even if he had succeeded, he would be dead right now.

  He felt a sudden urge to cry. He had a violent reaction to failure. That was the truth of what had happened here. He had missed the opportunity. He had allowed himself to become distracted. He had botched his mission.

  Part of him wept. Part of him was scared. The scared part of him turned to find the woman with the locket.

  She was gone. Or, rather, she was on the ground. Blood ran from her ear. The skin on her right hand where she had held the locket looked as though it was burned. She was still smiling. The locket lay on the ground, a small trace of grey smoke rising from it.

  Confused, Jake looked about for someone to help. A voice told him this was unwise. Who was he? Who was she? Did she just save him or stop him?

  Abandon the Plan. Go Home.

  He was disoriented. This woman had died at his feet, this woman who had stood there, in full knowledge of who he was. Not the Trap, not even Jake Monday, the assassin. Someone else, someone from before. Jake hoped he had not killed her.

  He remembered the button in his pocket. He had not pushed it, he was sure. He glanced back to her still form lying curled in the grass. Who was she, and why had someone wanted her dead? It was connected to him, he knew. He had a hazy recollection of the conversation with Deputy Director Smith. He was the trap. But why?

  Jake looked again at the locket. He was reminded of when he was a kid. He had stuck the barrel of his Halco cap gun revolver into the open light socket on the wall, pretending he could shoot his brother in the other room. The force from the electrical current had blackened the end of his pistol and sent him sprawling to the floor, tangled in his sheepskin vest and his plastic-heeled cowboy boots were flung to the wall. His mother had explained that some people could die from that. Others would get a tingling sensation. She compared it to being struck by lightning. Some survived. Some were changed. Some died. It was a mystery. Then and now. A mystery like the memory he had just dredged from somewhere unknown.

  Was this woman really from the CIA and tailing him? He thought that would be a cruel jape. The woman with the key to his past, a past he knew was there, but could not pursue had died at his feet. Because of him. Was it because of who he really was? Or, was the threat to Galbraith palpable enough to kill her in this venue?

  He knew answers to these questions would be elusive. But, looking around at the milieu around him, he suspected that the real mission here was to expose this woman publicly. So, what about his mission to assassinate the President? Was that as simple as it seemed? And who was pulling the purse strings for a hit like that? And why?

  It rarely occurred to him to question the why of what he did. He knew it was a dangerous road to tread. In fact, his concern for Giselle had arisen more from a perceived ethical issue than from a truly altruistic mien.

  The urge to flee overcame his analyzation of his predicament. His mission protocols kicked in. When he reviewed them, recalling them from his memory like a computer print-out, he realized that he was not meant to return. He felt the truth of it like a kick in the gut. If he was not to return, what would his welcome be like?

  He recognized the logo for the Falcons. Atlanta. Running was a bad idea. He glanced around at the confusion around him and knew this was the best cover he could expect. No cameras. People are running, the stage is empty. Only a few people milling around with hands on their ears. With a final glance at the woman on the ground, he walked out toward gates.

  On the way out, he dropped the cylinder in a trash can. He smiled at everyone and looked for someone he recognized. He was among thousands of confused, upset, scared people. Yet, he felt alone. The feeling was crushing his chest.

  After an hour of wandering the streets amid the confusion, Jake got a cab. No one had stopped him. No one had recognized him. He found he had over three thousand dollars in cash. And he was indeed Jake Monday. He had always been, despite everything else that happened.

  He got a ticket to New York with a Visa. No one looked at him askance. As he travelled, bits and pieces of the past six months came to him. Missions. Dangers. Suspicions. But over those memories was a patina of red. A haze that masked and contorted those recollections. When he tried to recall his earlier life, his life before Galbraith, all he got in return was a painful, blinding headache and the image of the picture by his bedside of people he did not recognize. Some things are hard to forget. Some things were impossible to remember.

  What am I? he asked himself. He loathed the answer when it came. It took him the entire weekend to sort out what his life had become. Something about it left a hollow pit in his stomach and made his heart hurt. His self-hatred crashed against him harder than the pain from buried memories he could not recall. The weekend left him battered, yet he dreaded what would be in store for him on Monday.

  To Be Continued in

  A Month of Mondays: Jake Monday Chronicles Book 2

  Will Jake discover the truth about his past? Why is Jake being set up and who is behind it? To answer these questions and more, check out the next installment of the Jake Monday Chronicles at www.infinitewordpress.com. Available May 1st, 2013.

  BONUS MATERIAL

  An excerpt from

  CRY ME A RIVER

  by Robert Michael

  Infinite Word Press, 2012

  Manuel Villarreal knew when something was not right. Most people had a sense of it when they made a mistake. Sometimes a sense of dread could overcome them or they would have a prescient moment. The way that Paul had explained it to Manny was that the Spirit of God moves in each person and manifests itself as guilt, prophesy, regret, or action, among other manifestations of the Spirit.

  Whatever the explanation, Manny knew without a doubt that something bad was about to happen. Mostly he could attribute this sense of dread with a dream he had.

  Initially, he had chalked it up to the heavy meal they had consumed together before they retired last night. It was not a premonition. It was a memory. This was not the first time he had experienced this dream.

  He had dreamt of Domingo and his father. He remembered the dream so vividly because it called upon his memory, not his imagination. Often, when he had this dream, it foretold of pending trouble.

  He recalled the dream again in his mind’s eye as the boat drifted in port and he awaited the arrival of Paul and Claire. He closed his eyes and let the dream take him back to that time ten years ago. The gentle rocking of the boat in the moors allowed him to drift, to go back, and to experience the past again.

  He moved through the jungle with four others. They were all shadows. Dressed in black with dark paint on their faces, their rifles were charcoal black, their painted bayonets black, and their knives at their sides a flat black, even the blades. They were murderous, black-clad devils, their movements graceful and deadly. Their purpose—dealing death—was awash upon their stoic faces, the set of their feet upon the lush forest floor, the urgent breathing, caught in their throats, ragged and full of expectation, revenge and regret.

  They stole through the undergrowth toward a rise. Cesar, the tall one, took the rifle from his back, a Russian Dragonov sniper rifle he had stolen from a Nicaraguan militia. He stooped in the tall grass at the top of the hill and unzipped his carrying bag in the dark.

  They gathered around him silently as he pulled out a large pouch. From it, he extracted the PSO-1 sights. He fitted it quickly on the side rail of the rifle. Then, he pulled from the bag a suppressor that fit on the barrel just past the flash reducer already there. He chambered a 7.62mm bullet from the ten round magazine with a sharp report.

  Cesar looked up at them and nodded.

  Manuel gave him a “thumb up” sign. They all hunkered down or lay prone on the grass. Cesar crawled forward; the sling wrapped around one hand, his elbows digging into the moist soil.

  They managed this way until they could see the cabin less than two hundred yards away. Bright yellow light spilled from its windows and illumined the four guards standing near the front. The Venezuelan guards chatted quietly, their voices carrying in the night.

  Manny checked his watch and then resumed his vigil. The men eyed him anxiously, their rifles at ready. He could hear their nervous movements as they checked extra magazines and the maps that each carried in their belts.

  He looked for each of them, knowing their shapes by heart, knowing the gleam in each of their eyes. Miguel Santos, the wiry explosives expert from Cali. Luis Guilliermas, a French nationalist who had worked for the Villarreals for a decade. Mateo Chaguala Espanoza, the largest and strongest of the group. They called him The Santa Martan Bull. He carried the light machine gun, a Belgium-made FN MAG 10, with two metal boxes of ammunition.

  They each had a role to play. Cesar was to quietly eliminate the guards so they could breach the perimeter. Miguel’s role was to plant explosives to cover their retreat, taking out a bridge, an armored personnel carrier, and two guard towers about a click away. Luis and Mateo were to breach the compound with Manny as Cesar covered them from this rise.

  Once Domingo was removed from the compound they would rendezvous at a truck they had stashed just over a kilometer to the north. Cesar would drive. It was a farm truck with Venezuelan tags. Cesar was known more as a farmer in these parts than a rifleman. Only Manny knew the truth.

  Without warning, the grass in front of Cesar snapped as he fired the SVD. One man who had bent over to get a drink collapsed quietly into the dark surrounding the house.

  Everyone held their breath and watched.

  The other three guards in the valley below continued to talk.

  One wandered off to the north.

  Just as he was almost swallowed up by the night, they saw him lurch forward. Cesar had adjusted his rifle so that the grass would not give away his position. The night sounds remained uninterrupted. Birds chirped. Insects hummed.

  Manny could see Cesar’s smile, cold and satisfied in the gloom. His teeth were gritted together as he swung the rifle to the front again.

  “Perhaps now would be good, Miguel,” Manny said as he tapped him on the shoulder.

  Miguel nodded silently and blinked. He gathered a satchel and his silenced FAMAE S.A.F. submachine gun. His face was grim and set as he moved stealthily toward the bridge below them.

  Soon, the other two guards were down. Cesar moved off to the north, closer to the truck and in a better position to cover the others. Manny led Luis and Mateo down the path. They searched ahead for signs of more guards. There were none.

  Manny glanced behind them, satisfied that he could not spot Cesar on the ridge, even though he knew his exact location: left of the large boulder before the tree line. He scanned the creek and watched as the silent silhouette of Miguel stalked toward the ditch on the opposite side of the road where the APC was parked, silent and hulking in the night.

  The cabin was before them, its light casting the long shadows of the corpses littering the grounds. Manny could see inside past the glare. Several heads were visible, some seated, some pacing the room.

  He placed his hand on the ground, pointed to Luis, and gestured to his left. He looked at Mateo and patted his back. Luis moved off to the left, his black boots crunching in the gravel of the drive. Mateo nodded and took up a position ten feet behind Manny and to his right as they approached the front door.

  With eight armed guards and two officers inside, Manny didn’t want to take too many chances with crossfire. They had Mateo for suppression, Luis using his shotgun from the side door and Manny’s deadly aim with his folded stock AK-103. Theoretically, they would subdue the captors quickly, despite being outnumbered.

  Before they reached the door, a shout from behind them pierced the gloom. Short, muffled bursts, signaled Miguel’s submachine gun at work. A low groan emitted from near the ditch. The noise had alerted those inside the compound.

  Movement from within was Manny’s cue to hurry. Before he could clear the porch, though, Mateo began firing through the window. The light machine gun bucked in Mateo’s hands, his face lit with effort and glee. His smile radiated through the night.

  Manny leapt to the porch and to the left to avoid the spray of bullets whipping by him. They echoed in the night, ripping the rotten siding of the cabin to shreds and mowing down two guerilla captors.

  He kept his back to the wall, glancing inside the only remaining intact window. He saw someone coming toward the door.

  Manny fired from the hip, taking out a mustached officer as he slammed the front door open, an automatic pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

  The flashlight was torn from the officer’s hand as his chest exploded in a rain of gore. Manny swore under his breath as he desperately searched for his brother inside. He could see him through the dirty glass of the window. Two men had Domingo between them. His head was slumped down, unconscious.

  Manny heard the loud report of Luis’ Franchi SPAS-12 tactical shotgun exploding inside the confines of the house. Someone screamed. Someone cursed. Blood splattered windows, wood splintered and Manny continued to move and fire in bursts. Two more guards lay dead.

  “Reloading!” Mateo yelled.

  Manny could see him squat down and hear the coil feed drop clinking to the ground beside him. Mateo opened the metal box and pulled a new chain of ammunition out and fed it into the huge rifle. Without suppression, without surprise, and without numbers to their advantage, Manny began to worry. He could see concern etched on Mateo’s face as well.

  Seasoned soldiers, they understood the risk they had taken following Manny into this folly. The Villarreal family would not allow their father’s murder to go unpunished and they would never allow the family cartel to be taken from under them with violence. Retribution was necessary.

  Manny felt a pull in the air near his shoulder and watched as a high-velocity shell tore out the eye of an officer who had flanked him while Mateo was reloading. Mateo glanced to the knoll and offered a silent nod of sincere thanks to Cesar. The officer snapped his head back and lay across the doorway.

  Manny ran for the door, and hurdled the body, firing a round off as he entered. It penetrated an overturned couch and he heard the satisfying cry of a voice from behind it. He checked his left briefly, seeing Luis slumped near the side door, blood covering his pants and boots, a grimace of agony on his haggard face.

  “You alright?” Manny asked.

  “They left through the back.” Luis responded, pointing with his eyes.

  Manny heard the shuffle and clink of Mateo running while lugging the machine gun and ammo outside. Manny glanced out the window and saw him pursuing someone to the west, back toward Cesar’s flank.

  They would get away if he didn’t move quickly. He patted Luis shoulder and exited through the back door.

  The man he had shot behind the couch rose up, a long combat knife slashing the air. He stabbed out, missing Manny by a scant inch. By reflex, Manny smashed the man’s cheek with his rifle. He felt the stock crunch against bone and watched out of his peripheral vision as the man slumped lifeless into a heap amid the overturned table. He rushed through the door and continued into the night, pursuing the plodding guards as they drragged the unconscious Domingo through the tall grasses west of the cabin.

  Manny didn’t stop to consider why they were running in the opposite direction from the APC until he saw the headlights bounding through the grass towards him. A truck skidded to a stop, illuminating the retreating guerilla soldiers. Then shots fired, bullets arcing blue and white fire into the darkness, flinging dirt and spraying grass all around him.

  A white hot pain struck his arm and spun him around as he ran. He lost his balance, dropped his rifle and felt the earth come up to meet him roughly as he fell. He heard Mateo shout and fire at the truck as the men pushed Domingo into the back.

 

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