Recovered Secrets. Jessica R. Patch

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      Last night it had rained too much for them to attempt any shooting practice and she simply couldn’t bring herself to try and assemble the rifle. But it was Tuesday midmorning and the rain had let up—the heavy clouds were a warning it would make its return, and she had no more excuses. Only a couple of guests had been around to witness the scene yesterday, and Tish handled it with grace and a free night’s stay. Plus maple pecan muffins. That alone was worth staying at the Muddy River Inn.

      Hollis had insisted on he and Grace staying in adjoining rooms at the inn to be on the safer side. It was clear that no matter what she said to try and push him from this situation and the danger, he wasn’t going to back down. A sliver of her felt guilty, but mostly, she felt grateful and protected.

      Grace stared at the rifle and her fingers twitched. She didn’t remember holding one. Right now, nothing came to mind. She reached out, hesitated. “I feel stupid.”

      “I say that at least once a week. Maybe today’s your day of the week.”

      “I don’t know how to do this, Hollis. I’m blank.” Except the innate feeling to pick it up and give it a go.

      “Touch it. See what happens.”

      She nodded and licked her lips. The best-case scenario, she couldn’t remember because this wasn’t something she’d done before—or often enough—for muscle memory to take over. Worst-case? She did know which meant...she’d killed people before. “I don’t want to.”

      “Even if it might give us a lead? Give us more insight to who you might be? And why three men—so far—have come hunting you? The sniper might be one of—or with—the two men who jumped you when your tire blew. But it could have been someone entirely new sent to take out Peter, and now you...or to warn you. I don’t know. But that’s too many men who want to hurt you, and they have the advantage. I hate that one man wants you dead. So...maybe just...do it for me.”

      There wasn’t anything Grace wouldn’t do for Hollister Montgomery.

      She nodded and touched the long black case. She picked it up and placed it on the ground. Not the table.

      Grace skimmed her fingers across a long piece with...pods. Lower receiver. She extended the bipod on the lower receiver and laid it on the ground. Oh boy.

      She grasped the charging handle and pulled against the tension, withdrawing the midlock pin from its holder. A shaky breath let loose and she glanced at Hollis, but he stood with a grim expression, arms folded. He nodded for her to continue.

      She slowly allowed the bolt carrier to come forward until there was no longer any spring tension and it rested in the lower receiver. Carefully, she picked up the upper receiver, making sure the barrel extension and feed ramp were correctly aligned.

      She closed her eyes and a flash of memory came. She was dressed all in black, carrying the long black case up a flight of stairs.

      She opened her eyes and slid the barrel forward until it was fully seated against the barrel stop. Quickly she slid the impact bumper into position, locked the rear pin into the barrel key, followed two more steps and put the upper receiver into position. After a few more swift maneuvers, she placed the midlock pin through the midlock hole in front of the magazine well on the bottom of the rifle until it was fully seated, locking the upper and lower receivers together. Once the receivers were mated, she loaded and inserted the magazine.

      She heard the click and tugged on the magazine to ensure it was properly placed.

      “Do you want me to shoot it too?” she asked, adjusting the pad to her shoulder and setting her sights.

      “Do you want to shoot it?” Hollis asked.

      Her stomach leaped and twisted. Fear and excitement rushed her. “I kinda do. See that tree about two hundred yards? There’s a broken branch.”

      “You wanna hit a broken branch.” His tone all but screamed “too easy.”

      “I want to hit that leaf dangling off the end.”

      Hollis didn’t laugh, and she was only sort of joking. “Okay,” he whispered.

      She set her sights. Looked up, peered through her scope. Grabbed her locket and kissed it, as if she’d done it a hundred times before. She thought she heard Hollis make a noise like a grunt, but she didn’t focus on him. She focused on her breathing and the target. Aimed. Fired.

      The leaf blew to bits.

      A wave of adrenaline raced through her, warming her blood and giving her a serious energy boost. She stood and shook her head. “I was half kidding. I didn’t think I could do it.”

      “I knew you’d do it.” He held up a stopwatch. “I knew it when you beat my time. I can assemble this in twenty-four seconds. You did it in twenty-three, and that was with a slow start.”

      She stared at the rifle, at the stopwatch, at the obliterated leaf. “Who am I?”

      “That’s what I’d like to know.”

      How could she remember assembling the gun and even the proper parts by name, but no memory of using it? How had she learned to do this and at such a fast rate? She must have been important in the military. “Wouldn’t the military be looking for me if I was still active?”

      “They would.”

      “Don’t you think they would have found me?” Her heart missed a beat as terror washed over the high she’d been on. “Why haven’t they? Unless...”

      “You might not be military, Grace.”

      She might be something sinister.

      Hollis’s cell phone rang and he pulled it from his black fatigue pants. “It’s CCM.” He answered and put it on Speaker. “Hollis and Grace here.”

      “Hey, guys. It’s Wilder.”

      “And Wheezer,” the computer analyst piped in.

      “And Wheezer,” Wilder said with a chuckle. “Since he’s itching to have a chat with y’all, I’ll let him give you the news.”

      Finally, some news after ages of not having any.

      “Wheezer here, again.”

      Grace grinned at Hollis and he returned it.

      “Here’s what we believe. The Dr. Sayer you’re searching for may be Patsy Mae Sayer. Sixty-one years old. Never been married. Works for the CDC but she disappeared two years ago when she worked overseas in Bogota, Colombia. She was researching yellow fever and malaria among refugees, and who knows what other top secret stuff.”

      Hollis frowned. “Where was she before Bogota? Isn’t Atlanta where the CDC is based?”

      “She’s spent decades in South America—mostly Bogota, but before that, yes. She’s from Illinois. Went to school at Yale. She’s a genius. PhD, Genetic bioengineer. It’s crazy how smart this woman is,” Wheezer said.

      “I believe this is your doctor,” Wilder said. “For one, the timeline fits and no other Dr. СКАЧАТЬ