Jackson settled on the new name he'd chosen earlier. Morgan Hunt sounded good but it presented a whole load of difficulties. How did a man without a social security identity obtain travel documents? His birth certificate bore the name of Carl Lindsay. His driver's licence and credit cards named him as Jackson Moffatt. And while there was a legally traceable connection between the two names, it would take time to establish the link. But time wasn't a commodity he held in abundance. He was being pursued by ruthless killers who had now found him four times. Without a passport, he was effectively a prisoner within his own country. Awaiting his own execution, he truly was stymied. Escape wasn't possible. At least not in a conventional manner. He'd have to find another way.


For the first time in Jackson's life, money wasn't a problem. He had wealth, more than he would ever need. But he also had an enemy, an enemy who knew his past and wanted him dead. Maybe because of that past. What triggered this insanity? And why now, fifty-three years after his birth? A new thought emerged. Could it have something to do with his father? That wasn't possible, Rick had died in prison almost forty years ago.

Anger intruded yet again. Not knowing intensified his fears. Running and hiding never brought solution, peace only came with resolution. Could that be achieved? These people had to be confronted. How though do I confront someone I don't know? And can't see?

Logic forced a reassessment. Had they wanted to harm him, surely, he would now be dead. Twice in the past two days they had been close enough to kill him. The brick through the car window could so easily have been a grenade. It would have been all over. Obviously, they didn't want him dead. What then did they want?

If they weren't enemy, who then were they? Friends? People with a shared interest. Jackson racked his brain. That too made no sense. That scenario offered as much appeal as a shark attack. Friends didn't terrorise. What then did they want?

Was there anyone he could call on for assistance? Loners, and that's how he now pictured himself, had few friends. Could the police assist? Reality intervened. Police, or policing bodies, the FBI to be precise had fabricated and factualized the Orphanage evidence. The private investigator's evidence established the facts. The FBI's lies became the documented, and legally accepted version of events.

What proof did he have? None. Jackson Moffatt was officially a no one. A paranoid man with a habit of changing names and locations, twice in the past year. Sure, there were links to previous names, Carl's Jackson and Mason Wallace, but Moffatt didn't exist, he had no social security identity. That detail had been forfeited less than a year ago, the day he'd received the second anonymous letter. The same day he surrendered his adopted name, Carl Lindsay.



He reached for his phone and accessed the internet. In an instant, he was connected to his bank. There had to be some mistake. The balance read zero.

His eleven million had vanished. Been stolen.

Depression enveloped Jackson's every fibre. His F meter went into overdrive. He had no friends, no family, no funds and now no damn future. In one word, he was fucked. And angry as all hell. He opened the car window to hurl the offending phone from the car. No, first he was owed an explanation.

He pulled to the side of the road. Raised the phone to his ear.

"Mutual Savings and Investments. How may I assist you?" The young lady sounded bright and enthusiastic.

"I need to speak with the manager."

"Would that be Savings or Investment, sir?

"There's eleven million dollars missing from my account." There was genuine desperation in the voice of Jackson.

"Do you have the account details, sir."

He read off the note in his hand. "One moment, sir."

Two minutes later, a young female voice responded.

"Mr. Lindsay, Carl Lindsay? My name is Paige Bryson, I have your details here in front of me. Three days ago, you wired a request for those funds to be deposited off-shore. The Cayman Islands was your chosen destination. That transaction was actioned overnight."

"I did no such thing."

"Mr. Lindsay, I have your authority in front of me. It was password generated and documented. There's been no mistake on our part." The young woman then checked for the bank's authorizing signature. A smile settled on her face. There was no mistaking that signature, it was her own.

"It's not possible..." the called disconnected. He opened the door and threw the phone into the bush.

Reality offered one escape.

Jackson took the first off-ramp and headed away from the city. Time was of no significance. Nor was direction. Ninety minutes into his journey Jackson saw what he needed. A hardware business. He quickly made his purchase, a rubber hose. All he now required was a location. By midday he'd driven through a small farming community. He'd not eaten but there was no hunger.

Farmland gently gave way to forestry. He saw a rough track heading off the road. He veered onto it and drove a half mile until the track became impassable. He alighted from the vehicle and attached the hose he'd just purchased to the exhaust. Then he used plastic shopping bags to seal up the back window smashed by the brick.

It was time. He'd die a Texan.