As the first team was making its way down the hallway, Brian White was walking through the carpeted lobby. He turned left into a connecting hallway that opened up into a small lobby. One of Wilson’s security guards was there, sitting on a small Formica table. Lost in some thought, or otherwise not paying attention, the security guard was caught off-guard. The team leader raised his pistol and shot the security agent between the eyes. The report of the gunshot was deafening in the confined, brick-walled room.
On the other end of the building, the three-person team also encountered a security agent. The team’s leader, who was leading the procession through the building, shot him in the back of the head. He crashed hard and was dead before he hit the tiled floor. Two of the three pulled the body away from the door that it was now blocking, and behind that door was the studio’s control room.
Sharia flinched at the loud sound, thinking that some careless ass had slammed a door or something. Mike also heard it but didn’t pay it any mind. The reporter composed herself and looked down at her notecards.
“Anyway,” she said, visibly annoyed, “what are your plans with the Council?”
Mike lifted his right foot and rested in on his left knee, making a steeple of his fingertips, which were touching his chin.
“Well …” Mike responded, looking concerned. This had been one of the biggest issues he’d run on and he was glad to have an opportunity to address it. Voters had successfully recalled three of the five Council members. This turned the body to Wilson’s favor, but the result was disappointing. “. . . The Council has shown that it is very unconcerned with what the people want. We’ve found some serious corruption in the Council and I plan on running against those who have gotten greedy with the people’s money. Overall, though, it will be easier to enact changes that I think we need.”
“Changes?” she asked with an attitude then tried to recover her professionalism. She forced a neutral expression that almost made Mike giggle. She looked constipated.
He smiled and nodded.
“Sharia …” he paused and shook his head, “ … why would we be here right now if the people were satisfied with Mr. Asher’s performance as governor? His tenure has been a disaster. We’ve been over this and over this. I won the election and so the people out there obviously agree with me,” he said, gesturing towards the cameras.
Brian White looked down the long hallway. It was clear. At the end of the hallway were two swinging doors. Behind them was the studio where the interview was being televised.
“Let me know when you’re ready,” he said into his the radio.
“Roger. We’re just outside.”
The leader of the smaller team burst through the door, his pistol raised head high. “Everyone stay put! Get your producer up here!” he said, wildly brandishing the weapon.
No one in the room moved. They were all in shock.
“Producer! Now!” he screamed and they jumped. Finally a young man at the control terminal pressed the intercom.
“Jason get up here,” he said nervously. “We have a situation up here. We need you up here now.”
Down on the studio floor, the producer looked ten feet above to the control booth. He could see that something wasn’t right but couldn’t tell exactly what was going on. He motioned for Sharia to continue and he walked up to the booth. When he entered he saw three people in black masks. They were all holding pistols, generally into the direction of his employees.
“Sir, what I need you to do is keep your people calm. I’m sorry to say, but we’re taking over your little broadcast. We have something we need to tell your viewers.”
The producer, who had never really seen a gun in real life, let alone had one pointed at him, started to shake. He wasn’t one for confrontation, but his shock wouldn’t allow him to process what he was seeing.
“What are you doing?” he stammered. “What do you want?”
The man in the mask stepped towards him and put his gun into the balding producer’s face.
“I told you. We’re taking over your broadcast. What I need for you to do is make sure that your people stay calm.”
Suddenly, his brain caught up to the moment and he ordered his employees to sit and remain calm. He assured them, although he didn’t know this for himself, that they would be all right if they cooperated.
The second team’s leader keyed his radio and said, “We’re in position.”
Mike saw the man first. When Sharia noticed that Wilson’s attention was elsewhere she followed his gaze to the corner of the room. She stared at the intruder and began to hyperventilate. He was tall, dressed in all black, wore a bulletproof vest, and was carrying a large pistol. Mike recognized its type at once. The Desert Eagle’s muzzle was a dead giveaway. Mike immediately knew what was going to happen. It was strange, but a surge of calm came over him. Subconsciously, he must have expected this.
“Something’s wrong Patton!” Jennifer screamed at her husband, who had gone to the kitchen for another beer. While he was away Mike had looked away from the camera over at the corner of the studio. The camera changed into a wide shot and she could see the interviewer’s shocked face.
The camera panned further back, revealing that intruders were in the studio. The man in front was holding a large handgun. He stood tall and erect, reminding Patton of an Olympic fencer. There was no time to get to the studio, but he called the police. He knew it would do no good, however. There just wasn’t time. He was going to watch his friend die on live television.
The leader motioned for Sharia to exit her chair and for Mike to stand. Sharia bolted from her chair immediately, but Mike sat there, erect and proud. He knew they were going to kill him and refused to give them the satisfaction of showing fear.
“Suit yourself,” the man with the gun said, walking behind Wilson’s chair. Guessing where Wilson’s spine was located, the man aimed and fired a bullet through the back of the chair. Mike arched in pain, but it would be the last voluntary movement he would make.
“Oh my God!” they both yelled as the man fired the shot. Jennifer jumped into Patton, closing her eyes.
Patton was unfazed with the collision. He just sat calmly and watched the man with the gun. He felt strangely calm, his jaw set rigid with rage. He stood, steeling himself against the horror he was about to watch.
“Go upstairs Honey. I don’t want you to watch this.”
Jennifer, who was weeping now, stood and walked up the stairs.
The force of the bullet pushed Mike forward but he wasn’t able raise himself back up. The bullet had severed his spinal cord in between his kidneys. He would be paralyzed for the remainder of his short life. Two more black-clad people walked into the studio and stood like sentries beside their leader.
“We are here to set right a wrong that was inflicted upon this city last night. This man was illegally elected.”
The tall, imposing figure paused. The silence hung over the moment like a shroud—both for those present and those viewing through their televisions.
“The city of Blue Creek elected David Asher for three years. This so called ‘recall’ election was illegal and undemocratic. We cannot abide by the results and know that Mr. Wilson is unwilling to acquiesce. Therefore, we have to force him and his followers to do what’s right.”
Another pause.
The masked figure stepped forward and grabbed Mike Wilson by the hair and pulled him straight in the chair. Mike’s face was pale and unresponsive.
“We do not, in any way endorse David Asher. Mr. Asher, this is a warning to you. If you violate the people’s voice and the democratic process, this same punishment will be meted out to you also.”
The man pulled his pistol and held it to the back of Mike’s head. Without any further dialogue, he unceremoniously pulled the trigger.
Patton forced himself to watch the barbaric act. He stared dagge
rs at the figure through his television. At one point he nearly lost control and punched his fist through the screen. Instead he just stood there, his chest heaving.
He had felt this emotion before—the sense of righteous indignation. That was another time and in another country, but the feeling was the same. He watched the mayhem that followed the gunshot. The perpetrators hurriedly left the studio. Witnesses ran in and out of frame. Finally, the video feed was cut, replaced by the studio’s logo. Still rigid from shock, Patton stood there, his eyes still glued to the screen. He silently vowed that he would find out who did this and he would get revenge for his friend.
The next evening, an ashen-faced Governor greeted Blue Creek television viewers. He appeared to be traumatized by what had happened to Mike Wilson. This was a testament to the makeup artist. The hardest thing for Asher was to feign shock and anger. He found himself having to stifle a grin.
“I come to you tonight to express my disgust with these animals and what they did to Mike Wilson, your Governor-elect. He was my political foe, yes, and he and I went the rounds, but that was politics. Behind the scenes, Mr. Wilson and I had a cordial relationship.
“These people will be brought to justice, I assure you,” Asher said, a look of grim determination on his face. “This is particularly devastating to those of you who elected him to be the new governor. This really complicates our situation here in Blue Creek.
“Mr. Wilson was set to take office soon and we were supposed to begin the transition next week. Since that is no longer possible, I will retain office until a new election can be held. Until that point, I cannot relinquish this office at this time for the sake of stability.”
Anna stressed to him that he use the term “this” rather than “my” to show his deep regret for Wilson’s demise.
“But I assure you that a new election will be held just as soon as Mr. Wilson’s supporters, or anyone else, can come up with the necessary signatures and paperwork for a replacement candidate. Those arrangements for a new election are being made as we speak so I expect to hear from Mr. Wilson’s people soon.”
Patton was barely able to watch the broadcast, but he was glad that he did. He mentally accepted Asher’s challenge. He picked up his phone and dialed a number. It rang just once on his end before Frank answered.
“It’s either you or me,” Patton said tersely.
He could hear Frank hesitate on the other end of the line and that was all the answer he needed.
“Frank? You there?”
“Yeah,” Frank said breathlessly.
“I’ll do it then,” Patton said, still glaring angrily at the man who was about to become his political rival.
There was a pause and then Frank said, “Good,” and hung up.
Within a week Patton had the necessary signatures to run against David Asher. However, a date for the new election wasn’t soon in coming. There was one delay after another until, finally, there was such an outcry from the public that city officials had to set the date. Yet, after another month, the people began to see that the Asher administration was breaking its promise.
Asher took to TV to admit as much, telling the audience that “The logistics of a new elections was just too complicated,” and that since the regularly scheduled elections were approaching anyway, it would be better if they just waited until that time. He also argued that removing him from office with just over a year to go would create chaos, and wouldn’t give his replacement enough time to get anything done.
Patton took to his blogsite and any TV show that would have him. He countered with the argument that getting David Asher out of office just one day early would be worth it. At first, voters were experiencing campaign fatigue—they’d just endured an election and watched their governor-to-be assassinated. However, Patton built a grassroots movement that slowly gained momentum. David Asher eventually relented and set a date for a second recall election for the Tuesday after Labor Day.
CHAPTER
20
“He’s our guy,” Anna said to Asher and Charlie after the young man closed the door behind him. “He has the look, the attitude. Nobody knows him.” She looked at them in turn, waiting to hear their opinions.
Asher looked at Charlie. Their eyes met and Charlie nodded.
“Okay. Let’s meet with him again tomorrow and finalize your plans,” Asher said in his best authoritative tone.
Anna patted his arm and stood. She needed to get high. She disappeared into her bedroom to find her stash of marijuana and her pipe.
“What’s wrong with you?” Asher asked her as she loaded her pipe.
She glared at him, not answering. She lit the bowl and took a deep hit. She closed her eyes, holding the smoke in her lungs, letting it out slowly. She held the pipe and lighter up towards Charlie. “You want some?” she asked him.
He stood and reached out for the pipe.
“What will this kid do for us?” Asher asked, trying to not sound naive.
“He’ll run as a conservative and split the vote with Larsen,” she said simply. “Nobody knows who he is and what he really stands for. It doesn’t matter what he says. He’ll be the conservative version of you.”
Asher smiled at her appreciatively. Annoyed as she was with him – she was tired of holding his hand every step of the way – she couldn’t help but be turned on by him. She’d rejected his advances for a while and considered waiting a little longer. Or maybe not. She was feeling mellow now, the effect of the smoke had started to kick in.
“So he’ll pretty much parrot everything Larsen says, but he’s younger, more dynamic. He seems sharp and articulate,” Asher said, nodding.
“Yes,” Anna replied. She took the pipe and lighter back from Charlie and took another hit. “You’re going to win, even in a runoff. The other two are going to make people so sick of political fighting they’re going to drive down interest and turnout. Then, we are going to announce some reforms that will help build support.”
Asher was skeptical. He looked over at Charlie.
“He’ll tell you the same thing,” Anna said, trying not to be offended that he didn’t believe her analysis. “You performed well after the assassination. The people feel like you brought calm.”
Anna took another hit and looked over at Charlie, who was now practically unconscious. She looked at Asher and then stood and walked down the hall towards her bedroom. As she opened the door she looked back at him. He took one last look at Charlie – he was snoring now – and followed her to into her bedroom.
The young man they met with was Tyler Redding. He closed the door behind him, knowing they were going to talk about him, but he didn’t think it would be anything but positive. The girl, Anna, had found him through her a friend and had convinced him to participate in this little charade. What David Asher didn’t know was that Tyler was going replace him when his term was over.
Tyler decided to walk the two miles home to where he was shacking up with one of Charlie’s recruits. Anna told him that he needed to find a new place to live. If it was found that he wasn’t supposed to be in Blue Creek – that he hadn’t been selected for the experiment and was just an “illegal” – he would be ineligible for the election.
Tyler was intrigued by his new hometown. It was quaint, the people were generally nice, and the mountains were spectacular. Still, he couldn’t help but pine for his adopted hometown of New York City. Much like Anna, he was urbane and thrived in the big city. However, he felt the pull of this experiment. It was the only true laboratory to implement progressive policies.
After finishing his undergraduate degree at Princeton, he was accepted into Columbia’s School of Law and immediately moved to New York City. During a self-imposed, yearlong hiatus from school, Tyler heard about this experiment and he applied. He wasn’t accepted and he was about to give up and enter law school, but he remembered something his favorite professor at Prin
ceton told him.
“Young man, a true progressive doesn’t let rules or conventions get in his way of doing what is right.”
That had stuck with him. His study of the anti-Vietnam protests drilled this maxim inside. If your end goal is right, he was also told, whatever you do to get there is okay. If you break the law but don’t get caught, did you really break it? Riots, violence, even bombings. Liberals were on the right side of history and it was their right – no, their obligation – to defeat their enemies and pass their agenda. Now, here he was, about to embark on a journey that would one day take him to the seat of power. Yes, he would have to pretend to be a conservative – the thought of doing so nearly made him sick – but again, the ends justify the means.
‘Who is this little bastard?’ Patton thought, looking at one of Tyler Redding’s yard signs. The red sign had large white letters, which read, “Redding for Governor.” To the left of the writing there was a large photo of the smiling, attractive young man. The kid reminded him of Asher, not knowing that that was precisely what his handlers wanted.
Patton wasn’t worried, necessarily. Governor Asher was polling just above forty percent. Still, he had no idea who the kid was or what he stood for. His cynical nature led to the impression that this new candidate was a fraud. Maybe that old bastard Charlie Henry and that little tramp were putting this new kid up to it—to split the vote or something.
But he quickly waved this idea away. Why would they run a decoy candidate when they had their own candidate to worry about? It was probably some cocky young kid who thought he could win with his good looks and crafty speeches. He would take a small part of the vote, either from himself or from Asher, but Patton figured he wouldn’t be much of a factor.
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