The Ascendant

by Peter Parkin

  Another setup just like the Quincy Market massacre that had stolen Sandy’s family from him. All designed to strike fear in the hearts of voters, to stoke prejudice against a race and a religion that always seemed to be the convenient boogey-man. And all designed to get people to vote for a narcissistic lunatic.

  He knew his options were limited, but he also knew he had to act. He had to do something. Only he and Vito knew what this was all about, courtesy of the now dead deputy mayor. And he couldn’t tell the Monsignor or even the authorities what he knew, or how he knew it. A feeling of utter and complete impotence washed over him as the few lousy options flashed through Sandy’s quick brain.

  And then, out of the blue—out of the interior of the Ford Econoline—an opportunity burst onto the scene.

  The driver’s door to the public works van popped open and a man apparently on a mission rushed up to them. He had a clipboard in his hand, and was distinguished from the others by the fact that he was white.

  He smiled a big wide smile that seemed as phony as a three-dollar bill.

  “Hello, padre. I’m Mason. I’m here to oversee the installation of your…pipe organ.” He pointed at the Muslims. “Those guys over there will do the work, but we at Public Works will make sure everything is done safely. Electric hook-ups, etc. You know the routine.”

  The Monsignor seemed at a loss for words for a few seconds. Then he responded, with fire in his eyes. “I’m not a ‘padre.’ I’m a Monsignor. Monsignor Flaherty. You will show respect, please.”

  The man laughed. “Okay, sure. Well, how the hell would I know that? Just sign these sheets here, and then get out of the way. We’ll need all hands on deck, and I don’t think you’ll be of much help.” He laughed again. “Sorry, padre, but that’s quicker for me to say than ‘monsignor.’ No offense intended.”

  Sandy turned his head towards Flaherty. “If I were you, I wouldn’t sign anything right now. Call the diocese lawyer to review these documents before you let them do anything else.”

  The priest nodded in agreement.

  Mason turned his attention to Sandy. “Who the fuck are you?” He waved his hand. “Get the hell out of here.”

  Flaherty held out his hand in the stop sign. “Hold it right there. This is God’s house. I would ask you to show some respect and restraint. And my friend is right—your attitude makes me think our diocese lawyer should be here.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’m going to call him right now.”

  Mason swore. Then, without warning, swung the clipboard at Sandy’s face. Sandy ducked just in time.

  He spread his feet apart and assumed a still familiar West Point stance. “You don’t want to do this.”

  Mason laughed. “Yes, I do.” He aimed his right foot in a vicious kick towards Sandy’s groin.

  Sandy caught the foot in his right hand, and twisted it in a 180-degree arc. Mason let out a yelp and went down, his face smashing onto the cobblestone promenade.

  Several of the Muslim workmen were milling around now, puzzled as to what was going on. Mason jumped to his feet and charged Sandy. But he only managed to advance about a yard before a spin-kick from Sandy’s right foot directly into the man’s chin sent him to the ground for the last time.

  Sandy glanced over at the Monsignor. “Better phone the police, too.”

  Flaherty nodded agreement.

  Sandy slipped his belt from his pants. “Take off your own belt, Monsignor.”

  With two belts in hand, Sandy knelt down and flipped the prone Mason over onto his stomach. He secured his wrists and ankles tightly, and managed to link the belts together in a hog-tie effect.

  “Okay, he’s not going anywhere. When the police arrive, we can tell them what happened. But if you’ll excuse me for a second, I have to make a phone call. I’m late for an appointment.”

  “No problem, Bill. Thanks for your help. I don’t condone violence, but you did what needed to be done. You’re coming back, I hope?” The priest chuckled. “And, while we wait for the police, maybe you can tell me how you learned to fight like that?”

  Sandy smiled warmly—and then lied. He silently prayed that God would forgive him.

  “Yes. My phone’s in the car, so I’ll be back. In the meantime, I would advise you not to let them unload that organ until your lawyer has a chance to review the papers this clown has.”

  “I won’t.”

  Sandy jogged down the street to his car and hopped in. Pulled out from the curb, and headed in the opposite direction. As he was driving, he speed-dialed a now familiar number.

  And a now familiar voice answered on the first ring.

  “Vito. It’s happening. I need your help again. Are you able to make a phone call on an untraceable device? Okay, good. Phone 911 and issue a threat. Say that there’s a bomb installed inside the pipe organ sitting on a flatbed truck in front of the Cathedral of the Holy Cross.”

  38

  Lincoln Berwick was enjoying his drive in the country. All by himself. Without his bitch of a wife whining about all the duties she had to perform on his behalf.

  Linc didn’t get it. Melanie had a wonderfully rich lifestyle, all due to him. They owned a dream home, drove expensive cars, traveled anywhere they wanted without having to pay a cent. Virtually everything was eligible to be written off as a campaign expense. She was married to one of America’s most powerful politicians, a man who most women would donate their left tit to be in bed with. But did she appreciate any of these things?

  No.

  Linc sighed as he cruised along the Texas interstate. He forgot which one he was on, but it didn’t really matter. All the interstates looked the same. All boring, all devoid of scenery, snaking their way across the country avoiding attractions that would distract the typical driver. He could have taken some country roads instead, but that would have meant downgrading the speed on his Porsche, and speed was more important to him than scenery.

  Today he needed speed. And the feeling of power. Because power was in his hands to take now. He’d just won two more primaries, and was now the sure-fire favorite to lock up the Republican nomination for president. He had the world by the tail now, and the world wouldn’t know what hit it when he was finally enshrined in the Oval Office.

  There was already strong chatter to the effect that the remaining candidates for the nomination were running out of money. That they’d be dropping out soon. Which meant that Senator Lincoln Berwick would be acclaimed as the official nominee at the summer convention.

  He smiled, shifted into fifth gear, and gunned the accelerator to 140 miles an hour.

  But Linc’s smile was short-lived, which was a shame because he didn’t smile very often.

  His cell phone rang.

  “This better be important.”

  “Senator, turn on your TV.”

  It was that bitch, Meagan Whitfield. Always eager to bust his balls and ruin his day.

  “Can’t. I’m in my car.”

  “Well, get home, or pick up a newspaper. We have a problem.”

  Linc swore, and clicked off.

  What the hell was wrong now?

  He saw a gas station coming up ahead. Pulled into the parking lot and jumped out of his Porsche. Ran up to the newspaper boxes, deposited his change, and pulled out a copy of The Washington Sentinel.

  As he walked back to his car, he noticed two scumbags lurking around his car.

  He opened the driver’s door and threw his newspaper onto the passenger seat.

  The two guys looked to be in their thirties, both wearing baseball caps and sleeveless undershirts. They were each holding cans of beer, and their body odor was overpowering, even from a distance.

  Both of them smiled at him—smiles that basically said, “Aren’t you the asshole. Pulling in to this spot in a Porsche.”

  One of them did a little hop and landed his
ass on the hood of the car. Sat there, staring at Linc, sipping his beer, daring him to do something.

  Linc closed the driver’s door and in a soft voice, said, “Get off my car.”

  Both of them laughed. The one sitting on the hood asked, “How much you pay for this machine, dude?”

  “More than you’ll earn in a lifetime. Get off it. Now.”

  “I don’t think so. It has such nice curves. Soothing my bum. Might just pull down my pants and take a shit on this thing. Won’t go well with your silver color, though.”

  Both men laughed. Linc felt the blood start to boil in his veins.

  He tried to calm down. Reason with them. “Okay, guys. I don’t want any trouble here. Let’s just cool it. Get off the car, bud, and we’ll call it a day.”

  The other guy sneered and leaped into the air. Landed beside his friend, both feet pounding onto the hood. Then he stomped his right foot hard onto the metal.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Left a footprint. Let me clean it off for you.”

  He drained his beer can and then rubbed it with his left foot. “Oh, no, another footprint. And my beer is empty. Why don’t you go get me another beer, chief? Same brand, please?”

  Linc opened the driver’s door again, hopped in, and fired up the sports car’s powerful engine.

  He yelled out the window. “Get off the car, boys, or you’re going for a ride.”

  They just laughed. The younger one held up his middle finger and thrust it up close to the windshield.

  Linc slipped the shifter into first gear and powered forward. The sudden acceleration pulled both men into the windshield. Faces planted against the glass, blood oozing out of broken noses.

  He pointed the car towards the ramp onto the highway and slammed the gear shift into second. Accelerated again. Both men grabbed onto the windshield wipers for dear life. Then Linc slammed on the brakes. The powerful little Porsche had a braking system far superior to anything else on the market. The car came to an almost instant halt.

  Predictably, both men went flying off the car onto the pavement in front. Unceremoniously tumbling for several feet.

  Linc opened his door and jumped out. Not to check if they were okay. He didn’t care if they were okay.

  The thugs struggled to their feet. “You’re a dead man,” one of them sputtered.

  Linc sneered at them. “Yeah? We’ll see about that.”

  Years of intensive training at West Point came back to his brain in an instant. Muscle memory, the kind of memory that is seldom forgotten when drummed into a body at an impressionable and athletic age.

  The men were standing side by side, feet apart, fists clenched. They both advanced at the same time.

  And with the speed of Linc’s response, they both also went down at virtually the same time.

  Linc leaped into the air, twisting his body into a 360-degree spin. His right foot was extended, power coming from the thrust of the airborne twist and from his suddenly hardened abdomen.

  One foot, and one kick, was all that was needed. The same foot curved in a balletic display, one chin at a time, within milliseconds of each other. The men grunted as they were hit by the same foot, unable to react to the blur of the man they thought was an easy mark.

  Linc just stared down at them as they rolled around on the ground, arms folded and cradling their bruised and battered faces.

  He jumped back in the car, pulled around the two thugs, and sped out onto the highway.

  As he drove away from the scene, he cursed at the beer stain insulting his beautiful aircraft silver finish.

  And then he just laughed out loud. Thinking to himself how ironic it was that rednecks like those two guys were the types he saw at all of his rallies. The types of people who thought he was their savior, their excuse to come out of the closet. And, yet, these scum hadn’t even recognized him.

  Yes, Senator Lincoln Berwick, and soon to be President Lincoln Berwick, was romancing people like these two losers. Voters like these guys would no doubt push him over the top in his masquerade as their Messiah. The irony of it caused Linc to choke on his laughter as the $200,000 Porsche roared down the open road—some decrepit interstate that he couldn’t even remember.

  *****

  He pulled into his driveway, grabbed the newspaper without looking at it, and headed inside. Went straight to his study, poured himself a scotch neat, and settled down behind his desk.

  Linc had been isolated from the news, the Internet, and all social contact the entire day. He’d wanted to savor his latest primary victories on his own, without distractions. Wanted to enjoy his own company, which is the only company he ever really enjoyed anyway.

  Then that bitch Meagan Whitfield had to phone and ruin his mood. And, as if that wasn’t enough, he’d had to pummel a couple of rednecks that resented the fact that he was driving a Porsche. Sometimes life just wasn’t fair.

  He took a sip of his drink, sighed, and opened up his copy of The Washington Sentinel.

  It was right there on the front page. Linc’s stomach rushed to his throat as he saw a photo of the Cathedral of the Holy Cross under the headline: “Terror Attack Thwarted at Famous Boston Cathedral.”

  Linc took a prolonged swig of his whiskey, and read:

  “An apparent terror attack planned for Boston’s Cathedral of the Holy Cross was stopped in its tracks yesterday by local authorities.

  “Details are sketchy at this point and officials are saying very little. However, we are reporting that bomb components were discovered in a pipe organ that was to be re-installed in the church. It had been dismantled and taken away to be refurbished and was delivered back to the cathedral yesterday.

  “The pipe organ was reportedly still sitting on a flatbed truck outside the church when the bomb squad arrived in response to an anonymous call. Authorities have confirmed that a threat was received from an untraceable phone. Police would not confirm whether the caller was an actual suspect in the case.

  “The mystery behind this plot was made even stranger by the fact that a man was found hog-tied in front of the church when police arrived. This man was apparently a Boston Public Works supervisor, but upon further investigation this reporter discovered that he was not known to the City of Boston utilities commission.

  “Sources have revealed that the cathdedral’s spokesperson, Monsignor Flaherty, is being consulted for a police sketch pertaining to a person who assisted at the scene, a man who reportedly gave his name as Bill Brunton. Police confirm that Mr. Brunton is being sought as a person of interest, and not considered a suspect.

  “Police have inspected the apparent utility official’s vehicle, which bore the identification of Boston Public Works.

  “Inside were several canisters.

  “The bomb squad was called to the scene, as well as inspectors with the Hazardous Materials division. Several officers could be seen dressed in hazmat suits, removing the canisters from the public works van. A video of the operation can be seen on our website, www.washingtonsentinel.com

  “This has not been confirmed by authorities, but sources inside the Boston Police department have disclosed to this reporter that deadly sarin gas was detected within the cylinders. More details to follow.”

  Linc drained the rest of his drink before reaching for the phone.

  39

  It had been four days since the attempted terror attack on the cathedral. Media networks around the world were carrying the story. Boston authorities and the FBI were being tight-lipped about details and wouldn’t confirm that sarin gas was found in the canisters recovered from the public works van.

  However, they didn’t deny it either.

  The media were relentless. The story was so sensational, it was front page magic. Just the mere thought of one of the world’s most majestic cathedrals—one that could hold up to 2,000 people at a time—being the target of a
brazen attack, captured the imagination of rubberneckers everywhere.

  And on the heels of the Boston Marathon and Quincy Market attacks, this case was an unusual one. Headlines screamed attention-grabbers like, “Boston Under Attack” and “Citizens Under Siege.”

  Naturally, politicians took full advantage, even though the attack was thwarted. The Democratic Party urged caution, as did most of the candidates running for president under the Republican banner.

  Except for one.

  Senator Lincoln Berwick, true to form, gave a speech in Houston two days after the event, and threw all caution to the wind. Talked about how a bomb had been installed in the pipe organ, and that sarin gas canisters were going to be connected to the device. He didn’t care that the authorities had not confirmed anything about sarin gas. No, that would be too tame. Fear was the weapon of choice, and Lincoln Berwick was armed and dangerous.

  To the thundering roar from his crowd of supporters, he urged immigration reform. The complete ban of all Muslims entering the country and the deportation of existing Muslim citizens. He didn’t care that it was illegal, he only cared about the applause. And neither did he care that no connection to Islamic terrorists had yet been made by those investigating the incident.

  Sandy had watched the speech live on TV. He cringed at every word, clenched his fists at every cheer. Felt undeniable hurt and shame every time the word Muslim was invoked, knowing full well that the politician was simply taking full advantage and broad-brushing an entire race just for political gain from a segment of racist voters who loved every word that was uttered from his dishonest mouth.

  But Lincoln Berwick had the podium almost non-stop now, and he had public attention. He was a force of nature and seemingly unstoppable. With the man’s recent primary victories he was now the odds-on favorite to win the Republican nomination. To make matters worse, Sandy knew full well that the Democratic roster of candidates was weak—the weakest in a generation. Linc had momentum in his favor, the wind at his back.