Murder in the Magic City, G.P. Sorrells [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

vast, empty expanse of the cosmos. “You’re not my prisoner. You can leave whenever you wish.”

Sheridan tugged on the unclasped restraints lying next to him. “Hard to believe that considering the reality.”

“Those are there for your protection.” Sheridan laughed. “I’m serious. If we were to allow you the chance to sit in Ammon’s Horn unrestrained, my god, the results would likely be catastrophic.”

“Ammon’s what now?”

“Ammon’s Horn,” Hurst said. “The room you’ve spent much of your time in these past few weeks.” Sheridan’s scowl disappeared as his jaw lost its ability to remain shut. “Never mind the name. Just think of it as a place where your memories can be… how should I put this? Adjusted.”

“Why the hell would I need them adjusted?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Hurst opened the file and spun it around to face Sheridan. Inside was a sheet with information about the man he had killed. The same man whose memories he had been experiencing firsthand. At least what they led him to believe were the man’s memories. “Do you remember when we first discussed your mission? I told you that for it to have any chance at success, you would need to become this man.”

“Yea, kind of hard to forget,” Sheridan said. He scanned the paper, scrutinizing the information as best he could while keeping a measured eye on Hurst. “What the hell did Micah Brantley do to deserve this? Or his family?”

Hurst smiled. “As I told you before, that isn’t relevant to the task at hand.”

“It is to me.”

“Well, I’m touched to see your golden heart remains intact, but you can’t change their past. You can only ensure their sacrifices weren’t in vain.”

“They had little choice in the matter.”

“No, they did not. But you do.” Hurst sat back down. “You’re at a crossroads. You can walk away from this all, let their deaths be for nothing, or you can honor their loss and do something meaningful with whatever time you’ve got left.”

“I’m not convinced I have much of a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Hurst said. “The result may differ a tad from expectations, but that doesn’t detract from the existence of choice.”

Sheridan wanted nothing more in that moment than to give Hurst a piece of his mind. To walk out with his head held high. Trouble was, he was all but certain a bullet would be in his back before he left the room. The truth wasn’t far off. He sighed. “Just tell me what comes next.”

“Let’s look into the future first,” Hurst said. He flipped through the papers inside of the file and stopped at a page midway through. There was a picture of Victor Perez in the top right corner. “Eventually, when we give you the green light to begin the crucial phase of your mission, this is the man you’ll need to rendezvous with.”

“Victor Perez,” Sheridan muttered. The name seemed strangely familiar, as though the two men had a shared history whose specifics eluded him in that moment. Trouble was that Sheridan had never laid eyes on him before that moment.

“Yes. He and Mr. Brantley were close friends.” Hurst flipped to the next page. Pictures of what appeared to be Perez’s home, or office, were inset next to text specific to the location. “Perez has worked closely with many of the various factions within the seedy underbelly of South Florida. You will need to earn his trust and prove that it’s worth the risk for him to make introductions with the Medina Criminal Enterprise.”

“Earn his trust? I thought you said Perez and Brantley were close friends.”

“I did. The operative word there is ‘were,’ as in no longer the case but was so at one point in time.” He took his hand off the file and crossed his arms. Sheridan wasn’t letting much get past him, but there was still time to break his will. To force him down the desired path, whose end saw the death of an empire. “They went to college together at Florida Atlantic University. Went their separate ways after graduation with Perez choosing to use his newfound business acumen for rather nefarious gains. According to our intel, these men haven’t spoken in nearly twenty years.”

“That’s a damn long time, but I think I understand why you chose Brantley.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. There’s a pre-existing relationship, one that dissipated rather than flat out ending on a sour note. From my limited knowledge,” Sheridan reasoned, “it would seem likely that Perez at least welcomes the chance to have a sit-down with me. If he thinks I’m Brantley. Hard to imagine that because we look nothing alike.”

“I’m glad you brought that up,” Hurst said, a sly grin on his face. “The next phase in this metamorphosis will be for you to become Micah Brantley, not just on a mental level, but on the physical plane as well.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I didn’t have you kill him to test you. To prove that you would listen. No, that’s Hollywood bullshit.” Hurst stood up, a maniacal tone in his voice. “You ended his life to replace with your own. The next step is to end what the world knows as Ross Sheridan and continue on as Micah Brantley.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. The moment you walk out of this door, Ross Sheridan will cease to exist. Any record of him in the civilized world will show that a lone gunman murdered him in his home. A robbery gone bad. From there, facial reconstructive surgery will be the next stop. Followed in short order by a myriad of other procedures. And a bit more time in Ammon’s Horn, for good measure.”

“Motherfucker.”

“There’s the door, Ross,” Hurst said. He gestured toward the slab of metal with his free hand, while the other drifted back ever so casually toward his service weapon. It would be a shame to have wasted all the resources up to that point, only to have it end with a corpse on the floor in front of him. But they had