PATIENT-X, JASON RONIN [portable ebook reader TXT] 📗
- Author: JASON RONIN
Book online «PATIENT-X, JASON RONIN [portable ebook reader TXT] 📗». Author JASON RONIN
update on today’s breaking news,” the serious looking male newscaster said.
“At twelve fifteen today, Michael Harding was assassinated on his way to the airport” he said, “Three shots fired from the roof of the National Theatre in Washington D.C took the life of the President”
“The gun man was cornered by Secret Service agents but managed to elude them, killing eight in the process of his escape”
“An E-fit likeness of the assassin has been released by the F.B.I,” an image popped up on the screen, and Jason’s blood turned to ice.
“You are advised to exercise caution if you observe this man, he is considered armed and extremely dangerous” The reporter moved on to an article about several terrorist attacks that had happened around the country. Hundreds of people were dead, and the attacks had happened shortly after the death of the President.
Jason tuned out the TV, his mind whirling with apprehension. They had to be wrong, maybe it was his twin, was not everyone supposed to have one. He liked the President even voted for him, his mind spun off to the dream, which was so intense it seemed real. No, it is impossible, then why are you sitting in a strange hotel room instead of at home. Jason put his head in his hands, slimy tendrils of madness slithered across his mind threatening to engulf him in its fiery caress. The madness had been at the back of his mind for many years. At an early age, he was diagnosed with a Dissociative identity disorder, from the age of twelve he displayed at least three distinct personalities, and had undergone years of psychotherapy and drug treatment to control the malady. Added to that Jason suffered blackouts on numerous occasions, for which the specialists could not identify any cause. This blackout had been the strangest of all, and beyond his understanding. If that was his picture on the TV then he had travelled all the way from New York to Washington; obtained a gun, shot the President and booked himself into a Motel. All this performed while he was unaware. He went into the bathroom and poured himself a glass of water, gulping it down. He looked in the cracked mirror above the sink, and haunted eyes stared back at him, a two-day growth of stubble covered his chin and his shaggy black hair was lank. Jason returned to the bedroom and sat back on the bed. No doubt his photograph was everywhere by now, making it difficult for him to travel; he needed a disguise. Looking inside the built in wardrobe, he came across a baseball cap, Gregor tractors was the logo on it. That would do for starters, he also needed to cut his hair, but that would have to wait until later.
He lit up another cigarette; the action of smoking helped ease his thoughts and focus his mind. Jason knew he was in a difficult situation so whom could he turn to for help. His thoughts turned to whom he could trust; running names off in his head and discounting them, this process left with one name, Paul Danson his psychiatrist. He had been going to see him for the past two years, for some reason he could not figure out, the psychiatrist he had been seeing since he was twelve, Dr Yakob Bofinger, he did not trust. Therefore, when he came to New York he found one out for himself. His mind is set now; he only had to figure out how to get from where he was back to New York without getting arrested by the authorities. He settled back on the bed after finishing his cigarette pleased with himself that he seemed to be taking control of his situation. When nightfall’s he would leave the motel, until then he would sleep, fatigue overcame him and he closed his eyes drifting off to sleep.
Shaun Kane looked up from his computer screen as the news of Michael Harding’s death is broadcast on the TV; that played 24 hours a day. He was a reporter for the magazine Angel Fire Chronicle, based in Washington D.C, the monthly Conspiracy theory and UFO magazine. Some people would consider the job a bit sleazy, but Shaun loved it, and the magazine was one of the better ones in the field. He had come to the office to work today to finish off an article on UFO sightings in Wyoming. Especially near the Warren air force base, this is home to the Air Force space command 90th space wing, which carried the responsibility of the world’s most powerful combat ready ICBMS’. Scary stuff if ET is hanging around these places.
His mouth gaped as the news is broadcast. His heart thumped against his chest as he remembered the envelope unopened in his safe back home, and his mind drifted back to the meeting he attended at the George Town Inn on Wisconsin Avenue two months ago. He had received a call on his home phone from a man calling himself Marvin Purvis, who said he had information on Government cover-ups of UFO activity, and files he wanted to handover. Normally Shaun would not go to meets from phone calls he would ask them to come into the Newspaper or meet somewhere public. Marvin asked him to come to room no 44 at the George Town and Shaun’s journalists bug as he called his inner voice, was wriggling. He had to go and so an hour later he was knocking on the door of room 44. A tough looking obviously military type opens the door, brush cut hair, muscular, even in a civilian suit he looked as if he was in uniform. Without a word, he is ushered into the room. A grey haired man is sat on the bed with his back to Shaun; he was searching through a briefcase. Something about the man seemed familiar; he could not recognize it.
“Mr Purvis” he stammered. Brush cut was making him nervous, standing by the door as if on parade.
The man on the bed turned round and smiled, “Thank you for coming Mr Kane”
Shaun nearly collapsed as he saw Michael Harding, President of the USA, smiling at him from across the room.
For a few seconds, he could not speak then he found his voice, “I don’t understand sir” he gasped shock evident in his voice.
“Sorry to arrange the meet like this, with all the cloak and dagger stuff, but I honestly had no choice “he motioned to Brush cut, who remained un-introduced but was probably some kind of bodyguard, “Get Mr Kane a drink”
Shaun slowly walked over to the bed and settled his six-foot frame in the chair by the window; brush cut came over with a whisky, neat. He gulped it down, feeling the fire of the drink burn his throat.
“Mr Kane…” Shaun held up his hand.
“Call me Shaun sir.”
“Only if you call me Michael or Mike if you prefer, the circumstances of this meet don’t exactly suit formality” he smiled putting Shaun at ease. The shock had passed, and Journalistic instincts kicked in.
“Well Mike you certainly piqued my interest, so what’s all this about?”
“First I need your assurance that whatever we say here will not appear in print or repeated in a bar somewhere” he paused “At least not yet”
Shaun held out his hand and Michael shook it, “You have my word as an ex-army Ranger.” Shaun had spent ten years as a member of the 75th army rangers unit before receiving a wound in Afghanistan and so he returned to civilian life, where he took a course in Journalism and ended up here in this Hotel room.
“I am well aware of your record Sergeant” he addressed him with the rank he had finished his military career. “And that makes your word good enough for me.”
“We live in strange times Shaun “he said, “Friends are now enemies, and enemies are now our friends, our country needs all the friends it can get”
He motioned for more drinks for himself and Shaun.
“There are forces at work behind the scenes that want to do considerable damage to our world” The drinks came, and Michael was silent for a moment.
Shaun noticed a weariness about his face that he had not seen before, the President appeared to be under immense strain, he was about to speak but he is halted by the presidents raised hand.
“I am going to tell you one of the secrets of my office and your first instincts will be to go out and get it printed so remember your agreement” Shaun nodded.
“I am currently looking into Black budget operations, and what I have uncovered so far chills my blood,” he said. “Rogue elements of what is known as the military industrial complex are working on controlling every aspect of our lives”
He took a sip of his whiskey before carrying on speaking.
“I can’t say too much at the moment, I want you to take this” he reached into his briefcase and handed Shaun a manila envelope, “I have a feeling my digging is gonna’ open a whole can of worms, my life will in danger”.
“How’s that? I mean, I know being the President constantly brings danger, but you are surrounded by security 24/7”.
“The danger will come from within, don’t ask me how I know this, put that envelope somewhere safe, and do not open it until after I am dead,” Michael said solemnly.
“Why me, why do you think you can trust me?” Shaun asked, still shocked at what he had been told.
“You saved my nephews life in Bosnia, plus your record as a journalist. You are stubborn Shaun, and you do not stop till you have the truth”, he said, “When you open the envelope you will know everything and I assume you will do the right thing, I need someone outside, someone unknown who can do what needs to be done”.
“This all seems strange Michael” Shaun raised his glass in salute, “But I trust my President, so I will do as you ask”
They had spoken for another half an hour before he left, returning to his apartment thinking how strange the night had turned out to be.
His mind drifted back to the present and the news broadcast, he jumped up from his desk sending his chair flying off into the desk behind him. Shit, shit, shit, he thought. He had placed the envelope in his safe at home and not thought about it since, whatever the meaning of the meeting he had with Michael Harding, the circumstances had happened, he was dead.
Grabbing his jacket, he quickly made his way down to the underground car park and climbed in his car. He gunned his Mercury Cougar XR7 through the mid-morning Washington traffic to his house on Anacostia road next to the St Judah Spiritual Baptist church, a modest three-bedroom house he had shared with his ex-wife until three years ago, when she left him for a real-estate agent.
He climbed out of the car, and the cold hands of fear gripped his heart as the momentous implications hit him. Michael Harding was dead, what if the people who had him killed knew about him. The danger will come from within, these words echoed inside his mind.
Shaun looked up and
“At twelve fifteen today, Michael Harding was assassinated on his way to the airport” he said, “Three shots fired from the roof of the National Theatre in Washington D.C took the life of the President”
“The gun man was cornered by Secret Service agents but managed to elude them, killing eight in the process of his escape”
“An E-fit likeness of the assassin has been released by the F.B.I,” an image popped up on the screen, and Jason’s blood turned to ice.
“You are advised to exercise caution if you observe this man, he is considered armed and extremely dangerous” The reporter moved on to an article about several terrorist attacks that had happened around the country. Hundreds of people were dead, and the attacks had happened shortly after the death of the President.
Jason tuned out the TV, his mind whirling with apprehension. They had to be wrong, maybe it was his twin, was not everyone supposed to have one. He liked the President even voted for him, his mind spun off to the dream, which was so intense it seemed real. No, it is impossible, then why are you sitting in a strange hotel room instead of at home. Jason put his head in his hands, slimy tendrils of madness slithered across his mind threatening to engulf him in its fiery caress. The madness had been at the back of his mind for many years. At an early age, he was diagnosed with a Dissociative identity disorder, from the age of twelve he displayed at least three distinct personalities, and had undergone years of psychotherapy and drug treatment to control the malady. Added to that Jason suffered blackouts on numerous occasions, for which the specialists could not identify any cause. This blackout had been the strangest of all, and beyond his understanding. If that was his picture on the TV then he had travelled all the way from New York to Washington; obtained a gun, shot the President and booked himself into a Motel. All this performed while he was unaware. He went into the bathroom and poured himself a glass of water, gulping it down. He looked in the cracked mirror above the sink, and haunted eyes stared back at him, a two-day growth of stubble covered his chin and his shaggy black hair was lank. Jason returned to the bedroom and sat back on the bed. No doubt his photograph was everywhere by now, making it difficult for him to travel; he needed a disguise. Looking inside the built in wardrobe, he came across a baseball cap, Gregor tractors was the logo on it. That would do for starters, he also needed to cut his hair, but that would have to wait until later.
He lit up another cigarette; the action of smoking helped ease his thoughts and focus his mind. Jason knew he was in a difficult situation so whom could he turn to for help. His thoughts turned to whom he could trust; running names off in his head and discounting them, this process left with one name, Paul Danson his psychiatrist. He had been going to see him for the past two years, for some reason he could not figure out, the psychiatrist he had been seeing since he was twelve, Dr Yakob Bofinger, he did not trust. Therefore, when he came to New York he found one out for himself. His mind is set now; he only had to figure out how to get from where he was back to New York without getting arrested by the authorities. He settled back on the bed after finishing his cigarette pleased with himself that he seemed to be taking control of his situation. When nightfall’s he would leave the motel, until then he would sleep, fatigue overcame him and he closed his eyes drifting off to sleep.
Shaun Kane looked up from his computer screen as the news of Michael Harding’s death is broadcast on the TV; that played 24 hours a day. He was a reporter for the magazine Angel Fire Chronicle, based in Washington D.C, the monthly Conspiracy theory and UFO magazine. Some people would consider the job a bit sleazy, but Shaun loved it, and the magazine was one of the better ones in the field. He had come to the office to work today to finish off an article on UFO sightings in Wyoming. Especially near the Warren air force base, this is home to the Air Force space command 90th space wing, which carried the responsibility of the world’s most powerful combat ready ICBMS’. Scary stuff if ET is hanging around these places.
His mouth gaped as the news is broadcast. His heart thumped against his chest as he remembered the envelope unopened in his safe back home, and his mind drifted back to the meeting he attended at the George Town Inn on Wisconsin Avenue two months ago. He had received a call on his home phone from a man calling himself Marvin Purvis, who said he had information on Government cover-ups of UFO activity, and files he wanted to handover. Normally Shaun would not go to meets from phone calls he would ask them to come into the Newspaper or meet somewhere public. Marvin asked him to come to room no 44 at the George Town and Shaun’s journalists bug as he called his inner voice, was wriggling. He had to go and so an hour later he was knocking on the door of room 44. A tough looking obviously military type opens the door, brush cut hair, muscular, even in a civilian suit he looked as if he was in uniform. Without a word, he is ushered into the room. A grey haired man is sat on the bed with his back to Shaun; he was searching through a briefcase. Something about the man seemed familiar; he could not recognize it.
“Mr Purvis” he stammered. Brush cut was making him nervous, standing by the door as if on parade.
The man on the bed turned round and smiled, “Thank you for coming Mr Kane”
Shaun nearly collapsed as he saw Michael Harding, President of the USA, smiling at him from across the room.
For a few seconds, he could not speak then he found his voice, “I don’t understand sir” he gasped shock evident in his voice.
“Sorry to arrange the meet like this, with all the cloak and dagger stuff, but I honestly had no choice “he motioned to Brush cut, who remained un-introduced but was probably some kind of bodyguard, “Get Mr Kane a drink”
Shaun slowly walked over to the bed and settled his six-foot frame in the chair by the window; brush cut came over with a whisky, neat. He gulped it down, feeling the fire of the drink burn his throat.
“Mr Kane…” Shaun held up his hand.
“Call me Shaun sir.”
“Only if you call me Michael or Mike if you prefer, the circumstances of this meet don’t exactly suit formality” he smiled putting Shaun at ease. The shock had passed, and Journalistic instincts kicked in.
“Well Mike you certainly piqued my interest, so what’s all this about?”
“First I need your assurance that whatever we say here will not appear in print or repeated in a bar somewhere” he paused “At least not yet”
Shaun held out his hand and Michael shook it, “You have my word as an ex-army Ranger.” Shaun had spent ten years as a member of the 75th army rangers unit before receiving a wound in Afghanistan and so he returned to civilian life, where he took a course in Journalism and ended up here in this Hotel room.
“I am well aware of your record Sergeant” he addressed him with the rank he had finished his military career. “And that makes your word good enough for me.”
“We live in strange times Shaun “he said, “Friends are now enemies, and enemies are now our friends, our country needs all the friends it can get”
He motioned for more drinks for himself and Shaun.
“There are forces at work behind the scenes that want to do considerable damage to our world” The drinks came, and Michael was silent for a moment.
Shaun noticed a weariness about his face that he had not seen before, the President appeared to be under immense strain, he was about to speak but he is halted by the presidents raised hand.
“I am going to tell you one of the secrets of my office and your first instincts will be to go out and get it printed so remember your agreement” Shaun nodded.
“I am currently looking into Black budget operations, and what I have uncovered so far chills my blood,” he said. “Rogue elements of what is known as the military industrial complex are working on controlling every aspect of our lives”
He took a sip of his whiskey before carrying on speaking.
“I can’t say too much at the moment, I want you to take this” he reached into his briefcase and handed Shaun a manila envelope, “I have a feeling my digging is gonna’ open a whole can of worms, my life will in danger”.
“How’s that? I mean, I know being the President constantly brings danger, but you are surrounded by security 24/7”.
“The danger will come from within, don’t ask me how I know this, put that envelope somewhere safe, and do not open it until after I am dead,” Michael said solemnly.
“Why me, why do you think you can trust me?” Shaun asked, still shocked at what he had been told.
“You saved my nephews life in Bosnia, plus your record as a journalist. You are stubborn Shaun, and you do not stop till you have the truth”, he said, “When you open the envelope you will know everything and I assume you will do the right thing, I need someone outside, someone unknown who can do what needs to be done”.
“This all seems strange Michael” Shaun raised his glass in salute, “But I trust my President, so I will do as you ask”
They had spoken for another half an hour before he left, returning to his apartment thinking how strange the night had turned out to be.
His mind drifted back to the present and the news broadcast, he jumped up from his desk sending his chair flying off into the desk behind him. Shit, shit, shit, he thought. He had placed the envelope in his safe at home and not thought about it since, whatever the meaning of the meeting he had with Michael Harding, the circumstances had happened, he was dead.
Grabbing his jacket, he quickly made his way down to the underground car park and climbed in his car. He gunned his Mercury Cougar XR7 through the mid-morning Washington traffic to his house on Anacostia road next to the St Judah Spiritual Baptist church, a modest three-bedroom house he had shared with his ex-wife until three years ago, when she left him for a real-estate agent.
He climbed out of the car, and the cold hands of fear gripped his heart as the momentous implications hit him. Michael Harding was dead, what if the people who had him killed knew about him. The danger will come from within, these words echoed inside his mind.
Shaun looked up and
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