The man awoke.

He opened his eyes, once, twice. Found himself in an unfamiliar place. The windows looking out in every direction made him feel exposed. He expected attack.

He stood up slowly, realising with a growing anxiety that he could not remember anything about himself.

He walked towards a mirror mounted on the wall, and looked upon himself. He noted well defined muscles and many scars across his naked body and felt the urge to cover up.

The last effects of the sleep receded as he opened the wardrobe, his muscles ached and he felt like he’d been under for a while. Inside was a single suit, black, a white shirt and black leather shoes. As he took the shoes out he noticed that a pair of socks was stuffed into the left shoe, and he took them out to put them on.

A key fell from the newly unrolled socks and landed silently on the floor. The man ignored it for the time while he put on his socks. He felt dehydrated. His brain felt like it was trying to escape through the skull and his tongue felt thick and foul in his mouth.

His suit trousers were next. The suit was custom stitched, and fit him perfectly. The shirt too was custom made, but plain. He checked the suit jacket pockets before pulling it on, digging out several hundred dollars, a plain black digital watch and a plain black keycard. He dropped the contents of his pockets onto the bed, slipped on his jacket and crouched down to pick up the silver key, spotting the “0889” carved into it’s face.

He slipped on the leather shoes, and the watch. If the watch was correct, and the man believed it to be, the time was 07:12am. It looked overcast outside but the sun was determined to make its presence felt, even this early in the day. He tried to handle on the door to the balcony, and it was unlocked.

It was clammy outside, and he could hear birds in the distance. From the outside the building appeared to be single story, and embedded into the rock behind him. The balcony was hanging over empty sky. He stood there for a while, but didn’t see any signs of life in the surrounding area.

Walking back to the mirror, he made a brief attempt at fashioning his messy jet black hair and felt a tender spot on the back of his head, with what felt like stitches.  He was glaring now, searching for any sort of recognition in the image of a suited man before him. At a total loss, the man walked across to a desk situated beside the exit to the bedroom. A simple wooden case sat on the desk in front of him. bathed in a soft morning light.

He opened the box. A pistol in a paddle holster and an envelope.

The pistol was immediately familiar and he drawn to it. Glock 17, 4th generation with custom tritium night sights. He picked it up in his left hand and found the magazine catch had already been reversed for a left handed shooter. He was left handed then and this gun was either his, or prepared for him.

Considering he couldn’t remember anything about himself, the familiarity with the weapon in his hands was disconcerting. He quickly stripped the gun down to check functionality and found the magazine full. He put the pistol back on the table with the magazine loaded, instinct kicked in and told him not to chamber a round.

His gut told him he was safe here, for now.

He picked up the envelope. The outside was blank. He opened it. Inside was a photograph of a young boy, looked around 9 or 10. On the back in small neat letters was “51.514828, -0.090165” with a sloppier inscription below in biro “Do it right this time, or he dies”.

The man furrowed his brow. Do what?

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Jake Tucker

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