Hidden Agenda by Lisa Harris

ashtray.
    â€œIt’s good to finally see you out of bed,” Valez said. “How are you feeling?”
    â€œBetter, though I still feel a bit like I was run over by a truck.”
    â€œA hundred pounds of explosives will do that to a person.” Valez let out a lazy puff of smoke, then leaned back in his chair. “I spoke with the doctor before he left this morning. He says a couple more weeks of rest, and you’ll be back to normal.”
    Michael’s hand automatically touched the back of his leg where he’d received the worst damage from the explosion. The doctor was caring for the third-degree burns, the wounds from the shrapnel, and his concussion, but his treatment didn’t cover the psychological impact of the bomb.
    â€œTwo weeks,” Valez repeated. “You’re lucky. It was touch-and-go for a long time there.”
    â€œAnd my memory?” Michael asked. “What does the doctor say about that?”
    The holes in his recollection continued to torture him. From forgetting where he’d put his toothbrush to the missing details of the case he’d been working on. If he made a mistake, said the wrong thing, everything he’d worked for over the past few months would be for nothing.
    Valez played with the edges of the folded newspaper. “The doctor said some form of amnesia was normal after what happened to you. And that there’s a good chance that most of your memory loss—if not all of it—will go away eventually.”
    Michael could only pray the diagnosis was correct. What wouldn’t go away were the dreams. So vivid that sometimes he couldn’t tell anymore what was real and what were leftover pieces from those dreams. At least once a night, he’d wake up in a panicked sweat, reeling from flashbacks of the explosion.
    â€œWe haven’t had time to talk since the accident.” Valez snuffed out his cigarette. “What do you remember about that day?”
    Michael swallowed the rest of his tea, not wanting to revisit that moment. “I remember enough to give me nightmares, but not enough to remember the details. It’s like a dream that constantly fades in and out.”
    There were other things he remembered he could never tell Valez. The fact that his name wasn’t Michael Linley. That he was here to take down Valez and the upper ranks of the cartel beneath him, along with any dirty cops who were on the man’s payroll. He wasn’t sure if those memories were a blessing or a curse. Remembering who he was made him want to forget why he was here.
    â€œYou saved my life,” Valez said. “Do you remember that?”
    â€œPieces.” Michael dug through the memories he was able to access. “I remember the explosion . . . the heat from the fire . . . the pain ripping through my leg. And looking up and seeing you beside me.”
    â€œYou were lucky—we were both lucky.” Valez smiled. “But you still don’t remember why you were there, do you?”
    â€œWe were there to make an exchange. Cocaine? Weapons? It’s still all a blur.”
    All those hours of staring out at the ocean, breathing in the salt water and resting as he’d been ordered, had only just begun to help him fit the pieces of that day back together.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.” Valez slid the folded newspaper across the table toward Michael, then opened it. “But this matters. I’ve been waiting for the right time to show you this.”
    Michael leaned forward. “What is it?”
    â€œThird obituary on the left. Read it.”
    â€œAn obituary?”
    He started to read the small print.
    Michael Linley, 33, died Saturday in an accident. Michael worked as an accountant for a local business, but enjoyed anything to do with the outdoors, especially rock climbing, hiking, and diving. An only child, he is survived by his parents, Clarence and Patsy Linley of Ailey,