In a run-down and half-bombed-out hotel in The Zone, Jerry Baker checked in with a golf bag filled with weapons: a 20-gauge automatic shotgun, a brand-new-in-case AG62C assault rifle, a semi-automatic pistol, a protective hard case with six air burst hand grenades, and an antique Kalash he bought from a bearded Rastafarian in Casablanca. Jerry was ready for everything.
“How many nights will you be staying?” asked the hotel receptionist with a heavy accent. He didn't even give Jerry’s bag the slightest glance.
“One night,” said Jerry. He looked around; the hotel and area felt familiar.
# # #
Later, Jeremiah “Jerry” Baker lay passed out on a hard hotel bed. He had placed his bag under the bed; in his hand was a paper cup of cheap Bangalorean whisky, a successful raid on the minibar. The liquid smelled like rubbing alcohol; it burned his throat and left a lingering taste of artificial vanilla and ashtray. Outside, the sandstorm bombarded the window. He tried to shower, but there wasn’t any water. The place was a shithole, but Jerry was here for a reason. He wasn't sure what reason.
# # #
Jerry’s eyes flickered open. The room was dark, with occasional flashes of lightning casting shadows across the peeling wallpaper. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his boots hitting the creaky floorboards with a dull thud.
His instincts told him something was wrong. Jerry reached under the bed and pulled out the golf bag. He loaded a drum magazine into the automatic shotgun, each cartridge packed with sixteen tungsten flechettes.
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
A soft knock at the door made him freeze. He glanced at his wristwatch, 03:25. He grabbed a pistol and moved towards the door. Pressing his ear against the wood, he listened.
“Jerry, it’s me, Anita. Let me in.”
He unlocked the door and pushed it open with his unarmed hand, creating a narrow opening.
“It’s Anita. Remember?”
Jerry’s mind swirled. The name triggered a faint flicker of recognition, a distant memory. “Anita?”
“We have little time. They’re coming for you." She pushed the door open and closed it behind her. "You came back here to search for something. You must remember.”
Jerry’s grip tightened on the pistol. “Remember what?”
“Everything.” Anita’s eyes pleaded with him. “You and I came here a year ago. We did black ops so black they didn’t want us to remember them. I escaped, but they caught you - and wiped your memory. That’s why your mind is so foggy. You hid something before they got to you, something that will lead us to the truth.”
His mind raced. Fragmented images and feelings surfaced, a sense of déjà vu overwhelming him. “What did I hide?”
“A keycard,” Anita replied. “You told me to find you if anything went wrong. Well, everything went FUBAR, and now we need that keycard.”
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the stairway. “They’re already here,” she leaned close and whispered. “We’ll have to fight our way out.”
Being close to her awakened another memory, a sweaty encounter in a hotel room not dissimilar to this, in another shitty part of the world. He retrieved the golf bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. He grabbed the shotgun and handed Anita the pistol.
Jerry glanced at Anita. “Ready?”
“Always,” she replied, a grim determination in her eyes.
"Let's roll."
With weapons drawn, they slipped into the dim hallway. The hunt for the truth had begun.