Exploit

Sensation seeped in, but it was the stuff of nightmares. Blinded, suffocating, unable to move; I was being crushed! Shuddering, I fought to draw a breath.

With what felt like the last of my strength, I pushed off the weight pressing down on me. Gasping for air, I slitted open my eyes and was blinded by white walls and overhead florescent lighting. I rolled onto my side, then over onto my knees, pressing my forehead against the cool, slippery floor tiles.

The echoes of my harsh panting slackened off, and I became aware of a seismic headache pounding at my skull. I leaned back on my haunches and slowly took in my surroundings.

Urinals. Mirror. Sinks with soap dispensers. Hand dryers. Blood all over the floor tiles. A beefy blonde man with his eyes glazed open and his neck bent too far sideways on the floor beside me.

I froze. What the hell…?

Random thoughts tumbled through my mind like shattered shards trying, and failing, to assemble themselves into a reflection of reality that I could process. Shaking my head was a mistake; my gorge rose and I had to will it back down, and while the mental shards shook out differently, they were just as hopelessly scattered.

I couldn’t remember how I had come to in this dingy men’s washroom, couldn’t seem to think straight. My anger and frustration were mounting. I glanced at the dead man and out of nowhere thought: Serves you right, asshole. I just wish you were still alive so I could beat some answers out of you.

I had to go, I somehow knew. I blearily tried to check my phone, then my watch – I didn’t have either, in fact found nothing in any of my pockets. It was quiet, with vague background noises – voices? – and it felt late, but there were no windows to confirm or deny my guess.

The smeared and splattered blood was...mine. Pressing my hand to the crown of my head, it came away sticky with clotting blood. I slowly got to my feet and got a look at myself in the mirror. I looked into the eyes of a stranger: laugh lines crinkling my eyes, a lean swimmer’s build, somewhat taller than average, greying hair, charcoal Brioni suit, the overall effect spoiled by blood dripping down the left side of my head.

Even worse… I don’t know that face. What the fuck?! A growing sense of panic was filling me. And then, the inevitable other shoe dropping was even worse: I don’t remember my name either…

I was again seized by a powerful sense of urgency, something that overshadowed my nausea and vertiginous headache. Grabbing a handful of paper towels, I tried to clean up the blood but it was hopeless. Not only had the blood soaked into the material, but my fingertips were numb and I couldn’t grip anything properly.

A duffel bag in a corner caught my attention. I clumsily unzipped it and found assorted sports gear, and in a side pocket, a wallet and a keychain.

Frantically digging into the wallet, I came up with a couple of hundred dollars and several ID cards, some of which had a picture of the same face I’d seen in the mirror. All were in the name of Gilles Duchene, living somewhere in Roslyn, NY. I paused, waited for some sort of mental ah-ha …nothing.

I quickly changed into a T-shirt. track pants and a hoodie, then shoved the bloody suit and shirt into the bag. Choosing from a couple of options, I picked a well-worn Seahawks cap and gingerly eased it on. Slinging the duffel bag back into the corner and preparing to leave, I paused to crouch over the body.

He must have been intimidating when alive – the jacked-up, steroid-enhanced muscles strained at his clothing. He had several visible tattoos, at the neck and wrists, and pale blue eyes that were already beginning to cloud over.

I quickly searched him, disgusted by the faecal smell filling the small men’s room, grabbed his phone and wallet, and stuffed everything into the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket. I dragged him into a stall, propped him on the seat, and eased the door shut.

Heading toward the only exit, I stopped to lean against the doorframe, wondering what kind of person could so casually walk away from a dead man. Or was it a murdered man? What dark demons were driving me to distance myself, certain that honesty was the wrong policy?

Taking a deep breath, I tried to will away the increasing vertigo and associated nausea. I pushed through the door.

A locker room miasma of jock sweat, chlorine, and sauna steam assaulted my senses, already raw in my weakened state. The clock at the far end of the room indicated it was just past ten; assuming I was right in my earlier guess, it was evening.

Just then a pimply-faced attendant wheeling a cart full of wet towels turned the corner and said, “Hey, didn’t realize there was still someone here – we’re closing up!”

I waved at him, mumbled something, and kept going. After a couple of twists and turns – with a brief stop at a large wall mirror just before the exit to make sure that I’d gotten the worst of the blood spatters – I stepped out into a long corridor.

YMCA logo’s were all over the walls, festooning schedules and trainer recommendations, as well as being embossed on the large trophy case along one wall. At the far end of the corridor, where it intersected with another, wider hallway, someone was closing down the reception desk. People were pulling on gloves and hats as they walked through the intersection, presumably toward an unseen exit on the right.

Without thinking, I began to head that way, but a weather-beaten man in old baggy jeans and a parka pushed away from the wall behind the trophy case into my path.

“Yo, boss!” He ambled my way with a bow-legged stride. “Did your buddy find you?”

Was he with the jacked-and-tatted bodybuilder? I got the sense that he wasn’t, but I certainly wasn’t about to trust him either. I went with the cautious approach.

“Yeah, he found me, but I was in a bit of a rush since the Y is closing down. We agreed to talk later.”

“Later? Sounded kinda urgent.” He paused, then asked, “Is he still in there? Didn’t see him come out yet.”

“Listen, I’m sorry, but…” I paused, and a stray thought hit me.

“He promised you some money, didn’t he?”

He didn’t blink. He rolled his tongue over yellowed teeth, then said, “Hey, boss, you know I’m hard up for cash right now with you laying low. He seemed OK, said he had a possible deal he wanted to discuss – and yeah, he did promise me a hundred bucks if I could set up a meet.”

That was new information. I wondered what I was laying low from.

It wouldn’t be much longer before the kid found the man in the stall. And I wasn’t firing on all cylinders – but this seedy-looking character seemed to know things that I needed to understand.

Nodding toward the exit, I began to walk that way. I’d called that right – he fell into stride beside me. He obviously wanted to ask me more, but at least for the moment, didn’t dare.

He was distracted when we passed by the reception desk, veering toward the counter, saying, “Hey Trina, babe – wanna grab a coffee later? The boss and I are heading out, but I could come back after you’ve finished closing up.”

The tall, attractive Latina behind the counter turned around with an exasperated expression that softened into a smile when she saw me.

“Sorry, Clive, already have plans.” Then, re-directing to me, “Hi Gill, so how was the workout? Did you try the skin-the-cats I recommended?”

I had no idea what she was talking about, but replied, “Thanks, I did manage a few reps but I’m probably going to feel it tomorrow!”

She winked. “With those shoulders, I knew you’d manage. Next time, I’ll show you some more advanced moves that build off those.”

Waving a quick goodbye, I kept walking toward the exit doors. Clive – my apparently trusty sidekick – kept pace while muttering to himself.

The parking lot was slowly clearing out, but it was still busy enough that my next problem was going to be finding my car. I pulled out my keychain and looked at it under a streetlight. In addition to a mini utility tool, a USB stick, and a couple of keys, it also had a Beemer fob. Clumsily, with still-numb finger-tips, I pressed the panic button and headed in the direction of the car siren.

I stopped to admire the aggressive lines of the matte midnight-blue M5 before getting in. If nothing else, I apparently had great taste when it came to transportation.

I fired up the GPS and we drove off to find my place in Roslyn.

“Boss, what’s goin’ on?” Clive was struggling to keep up with me, and my mad drive down to Roslyn had kept conversation to a minimum.

“Let’s just say that things have gotten even hotter and I need to get out of town.”

With a flash of inspiration I added, “That’s why it was so urgent for that guy to talk to me.”

Clive immediately perked up. “Yeah, so that was good that I made the intro then!”

I nodded.

One of the keys opened the front door and we were in.

I paused, not really sure where to go. As with everything else this evening, nothing looked familiar. The foyer was clad in dark granite, ten-inch baseboards lined the walls, and the furniture oozed sleekly expensive – it looked like a magazine cover, not someplace I was living in.

Clive eased by, saying, “Let’s grab your go-bag and you can empty the safe.”

I followed him into the bedroom – he had obviously been here before – where he came to a stop in front of a door and looked to me. I stepped up and slid the pocket door open, revealing a walk-in closet complete with a chandelier, wall-to-wall cabinetry, and a marble-topped island.

“Wait here,” I said.

I closed the door behind me. I had been tempted to ask him to help gather up my items, but I was afraid that he would start to wonder about my memory gaps.

I randomly opened drawers and cabinets and finally found what was likely the go-bag: a small Tumi roller bag stuffed with clothing and a grooming kit. I also found a safe in a bottom corner of one of the cabinets; after a few seconds visualizing myself having to somehow bash it open, I realized that it had a biometric lock. I pressed my thumb to the sensor, it beeped, and the door sprang open.

Inside, I found several wads of cash as well as a cell phone and a number of passports, credit cards, and driver’s licenses – a quick shuffle through them confirmed that they were in sets, with matching names on the documents. My picture was on all of them.

Was I a criminal? A government agent? A spy? Who else would have multiple sets of ID?

I shrugged off the endless questions, those would have to wait, and crammed most of the money and documents, as well as the phone, into one of the rollerbag pockets.

Sliding the door open, I found Clive perched just outside, obviously curious but not quite daring to intrude.

Handing him a stack of assorted bills, probably about five thousand dollars in total, I said, “I’m going to have to head out fast. This should keep you for a little while – I need you to be my contact here in case anything comes up.”

“How do I get a hold of you, boss?” He trailed after me back toward the front door.

Grabbing a pen and pad off a floating shelf in the foyer, I scribbled a random string of letters and characters and a domain name, took a picture of it with my phone, and gave it to Clive.

“Give me about 24 hours, then send an email to that address and I’ll confirm receipt. After that, contact me only if it’s urgent.”

Clive nodded, pocketed the piece of paper, and stuck out a hand.

“Good luck, boss. You know you can count on me,” he intoned.

Clapping him on the shoulder as I shook his hand, I said, “I know.”

Vraiment. The word resonated in my mind, dripping with sarcasm, but I managed to keep my expression solemn: the very essence of a leader parting with a trusted subordinate.

The moment passed, I waved goodbye and strode off down the street and around the corner. I was tempted to double back to see if Clive was ransacking the apartment but decided that I had already pressed my luck and kept walking.