by Roger Hayden
The cloud of smoke filled the van’s cabin, giving everything around Terry a gray haze. He gently squeezed his hand. His knuckles were still bruised from the beating he had given Brooke’s friend Dave.
“Stupid bitch,” Terry mumbled.
The open cuts along his hands stung, but another puff of the cigarette, and he could feel the pain recede. He rested his head back and closed his eyes.
“So your sister’s husband is a Congressman. That’s what you’re hoping for. A little political favor.”
Terry spent the next twenty minutes reading the congressman’s political views, his background, campaign funds, committees served on, and education background. From what Terry could gather based off of his own findings, the man was clean—or just good at covering up his tracks.
If this woman was planning on using family, then there wasn’t a high probability that the family would turn her in. Family was loyal, protective… stupid. All he had to do was find a pressure point, and someone would cave. His money was on the husband. Terry just needed to find something on him.
The phone Terry carried was an old brick. Nothing like the smart phones used today, but he only needed it for one thing: to make calls. He scrolled down and dialed the number of a man he knew in DC. If anyone would have any dirt on a congressman, it would be this guy.
Terry’s relationship with his contact wasn’t a cheerful one. It wasn’t even professional. He’d only done a handful of transactions with him. The price was always steep, but the last job Terry did gained him some favor.
The phone continued to ring until the voicemail picked up. Terry snapped his phone shut and tossed it on the dash. That’s the way it normally went. His contact never picked up on the first call. He’d always have to wait until the call back before anything happened.
The dash vibrated as the phone buzzed. Terry reached for the phone and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.
“I need some information,” Terry said, ignoring the pleasantries.
“Now’s not a good time.”
“It’s never a good time when one of us calls the other. That’s part of the relationship.”
“What is it?”
“I need some dirt on a congressman.”
“Which one?”
“Daniel Hunter.”
The other end of the line went silent. Terry waited, wondering if the call had been disconnected.
“Hello?” Terry asked.
“What business do you have with him?”
“He’s not the mark, but he’s harboring an illegal.”
“Who?”
“Santa Claus. What does it matter who it is? Just send me the info. Consider it back pay for the last job.”
Terry ended the call and looked back at the picture of Congressman Hunter on his laptop. He brought his massive index finger up and tapped the screen.
“You’re about to have a very bad day.”
The beep in Jones’s ear signaled that the call had ended. He kept the phone pressed to his ear, his jaw slack. His brain was wild with activity, trying to process everything he’d just heard.
The phone eventually slipped from the side of his head and landed on the pile of papers Jones was sifting through to prepare for his debate with Smith.
Jones wasn’t sure what Daniel had gotten himself into, but if Terry was after him for something, then it would put Jones at risk. Daniel knew too much about the visit to Mexico. He couldn’t risk leaking that until the treaty was signed, and he still hadn’t received word that it had been finalized. He hit the button on the intercom that signaled for his secretary.
“Cindy, get me Congressman Hunter on the line. Immediately,” Jones said.
Before Cindy could answer, he clicked the intercom off and leaned back into his chair. His jacket was off, his tie undone, the top button of his shirt open, exposing his white undershirt. The skin on his face looked more flaccid than it had in days prior. He rubbed his eyes and smacked his cheeks, the skin under his neck wobbling slightly. For the first time since his very first term in office, he could feel the disgusting beast of doubt closing in on him.
Doubt was the one emotional response that could unravel a man in his position. He’d seen it happen so many times before, even using it to his advantage. He couldn’t risk exposing himself before the debate. If that happened, then there was the potential for the American people to turn against him. And despite how much he loathed the illusion the citizens of this country still controlled it, now was not the time to pull back the curtain.
The intercom buzzed. “Congressman Hunter on the line for you, sir.”
“Put him through.”
Jones kept the phone on speaker, and when Cindy put the call through, the crackling sound of static and wind sounded on the other line.
“Daniel?” Jones asked.
“What do you want, Jones?”
Jones rose from his chair. He placed both hands on the desk to brace himself and leaned over the speaker to make sure Daniel could hear him properly over whatever noise was in the background.
“Are you alone?” Jones asked.
“Not really.”
“Can you find a quieter place? This is important.”
“Jones, whatever it is you’re trying to sell, I’m not buying. Take whatever steps you think you need to, but know that if you go near my family, there won’t be a rock or hole in the ground that you can hide in to keep me from finding you.”
The call went dead, and the loud background noise disappeared with it. Jones fell back into his chair, his hands rubbing his throat. He felt hot. His laptop sat closed on the corner of his desk, and he grabbed it. He powered it on, opened a file, then started composing an email.
Jones dragged one of the files labeled “Hunter” and attached it to the email. The subject was always the same: “CLICK HERE FOR PRIZE!”
The body of the email was disguised as nothing more than spam. The email address Jones used was run off of some hacker server halfway around the world. It was used by individuals who had harmful or illegal intentions. He’d only used it a handful of times before, but Terry preferred this method of transaction.
Once the file finished encrypting itself, Jones moved the mouse over the send button, but he hesitated. His right index finger was raised to click the button. Jones moved the mouse away from send and moved it back toward the subject line.
He started typing, changing the message he’d written earlier to something different. Once he was done, he clicked send, and off it went. Daniel was too much of a loose end. Jones couldn’t risk it. He slammed the lid of the laptop down and removed it from the pile of papers he had been working on before the call. He picked up where he’d left off, but his eyes kept looking back over to the computer.
It wasn’t regret that Jones felt. It wasn’t any feeling of attachment that he had developed toward Daniel. It was simply the acknowledgement of a decision. One that he couldn’t take back now. The wheels were in motion. Jones just hoped that it would happen soon.
Terry reclined the driver’s seat, his cowboy hat was tilted over his forehead, blocking out the afternoon sun beating down through the windshield. Despite the shade, the beads of sweat continued to collect around his neck.
A ping sounded from his laptop, letting him know the email had arrived. He removed his hat and immediately opened the attached file. Terry scrolled through, examining the information Jones had sent him.
Jones didn’t disappoint. The files were extensive, but most of the offenses were minor, nothing headline worthy, until he came to the very last page. What he found there wasn’t just enough to end the congressman’s career but to land him in jail for the rest of his life. He had what he needed.
Then, just before Terry closed out the email, he noticed the subject line in bold, capital letters. He had to reread it a few times just to make sure he was looking at it correctly. Each subject line that he and Jones corresponded with had a different meaning. Depending on the job, it could read “YOU’RE
A WINNER!”, which signaled that the individual in the attached file would need to be roughed up. Or it could say “JUST ONE CLICK AWAY FROM YOUR PRIZE!”, which meant that the item in the description attached needed to be recovered.
But what Terry saw in this subject line baffled him a bit. He realized that Jones had acted a little weird when Terry brought up Hunter’s name, but that was because Terry thought he knew the guy well. What this subject line represented wasn’t something you would do to a friend but to someone you wanted gone.
Terry didn’t question it. A job was a job, and it would pay triple the bounty on Brooke and Eric. He knew Jones would pony up the dough once the deed was done. He shut the laptop and stuffed it into the seat cover behind his driver’s seat.
12
The seagulls hovering around the ship squawked as Captain Howard walked along the flight deck with the rest of the crew. All eyes were on the ground, searching for any foreign debris that could damage the jets during takeoff. With the force and speed with which the jets accelerated during takeoff, even the smallest object could cause problems.
Once the inspection of the runway was over, Captain Howard made his way back over to the flag bridge. As he made his way up the steps, he looked south to what was left of the Mexican warships. It’d been quiet since their attack, and Captain Ford had debriefed him earlier in the day about a possible treaty that was being worked on.
Howard felt that something was off. Yes, they’d managed to beat the Mexican navy back to the coast of the Baja Peninsula, but their army still had inroads in Arizona and New Mexico. And if Gallo was bold enough to attack the Texas border like he had, Howard had a hard time believing he would give up just like that.
The attack on Texas wasn’t a strategic one, it was a battle of passion. Texas represented something to Gallo, and until he got it, Howard knew the fight was far from over.
“Officer on deck!” Pint announced.
“At ease, gentlemen,” Howard replied. “Any new movement out there?”
“No, sir. We haven’t picked anything up on our radar, and our scouts have confirmed that most of the Mexican warships are still stationed in their ports on the peninsula.”
“Good. Where are we with our repairs?”
“Sir, before we go over that, I was hoping I could speak with you privately.”
“Of course. We can use my quarters.”
The captain’s office was large by aircraft carrier standards but still small compared to a normal room. Howard took a seat, but Pint remained standing.
“You can sit down, Master Chief,” Howard said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Sir, once our communications were operational again, the first call I made was to my wife.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, sir. It’s nothing like that. She’s fine. But I was curious about what’s happening back home.
There’s a lot of politics in the news.”
“Congress declared war. There’s bound to be a few news articles about it.”
“It’s not just that, sir. There seems to be growing support for the Southwest. People are talking. There’s a debate happening tomorrow about what’s been going on.”
“What’s your point?”
“I guess I’m just trying to make sense of it, sir. Everything that those politicians have done brought this war on us. Each time there is a viable solution available to fix our problems, they shoot it down. That’s what we’ve been fighting to protect? That’s what our nation has come to?”
“Our job is not to make or interpret the laws. We just protect the citizens that they impact.”
“I know, sir. But I think that when the debate is scheduled, we should have our men watch it. They deserve to know and see what they’re fighting for and who they’re trying to protect.”
“I see.”
“I understand the need to remain neutral in situations like this, but—”
“Master Chief,” Howard interrupted, holding his hand up. “The moment I was discharged before the announcement of the exile was the moment I stopped remaining neutral.”
Pint broke his usual formal composure and allowed a smile to stretch across his face.
“I think the hangar bay would provide enough room for everyone to gather for the event,” Howard said.
“I think that would work as well.”
“Go ahead and set it up.”
Pint saluted then exited. The clang of the door rumbled through the room as Howard was left alone. He knew Pint was right about the situation, but even so, it wasn’t one he wished he was in.
Howard knew the political factions involved in everything that was happening had more to lose than just votes. He’d been to enough fundraiser parties over the past decade to know that many of the congressmen had deep roots with big businesses. It had gotten so bad over the past few years that most of the congressmen didn’t even bother to hide it.
The actions of the men in Washington and the citizens that supported them were finally coming to a head. For years people had cried that it was just words, just pieces of paper, and that those words and pieces of paper couldn’t do anything really bad.
It was ludicrous thinking. The politicians and people that voted for them thought that their troubles were thousands of miles away in some foreign land. They thought that their military would always remain the best, even though the money that kept it running was drying up.
Yes, they were still the most powerful military might in the world, but the effects of the drought and lack of effort to fix the problems that came with it had chipped away the resources the military used to protect its country.
No longer could they ignore the problem. Now it was in their states, their cities, their homes. It was in their schools and their news. It was no longer in some far-off land. It was in their own backyard.
Despite the promises of peace, Gallo’s war room was busy. Empty coffee pots and mugs, combined with the mountains of cigarettes in the ashtray, were the results of a very long night.
The sunken eyes of Gallo’s officers looked over the maps and computer screens, which tracked the assets they still had in place. Thousands of men represented by a single dot peppered the maps and screens like chicken pox. Each of them were itching, yearning to move, to spread.
The chatter and talk ended as Gallo entered. Every soldier stood at attention. There were more than a dozen of his best officers saluting him, and Gallo took in the realization that this could be the last time he received such respect.
“Where are we with our progress?” Gallo asked, saluting his men and turning them back to their work.
“Sir, our Atlantic warships are only five hundred miles from the Mexican Pacific coastline heading north from the Panama Canal,” Colonel Herrera answered. “They will arrive at the Baja Peninsula by tomorrow morning.”
“Excellent work, Colonel. Have we heard from Presidente Castell?”
“No. Still nothing on the treaty, sir.”
“Regardless, I want all our men stationed on the borders.”
“Yes, General.”
Everything was almost in place. This would be his last push, and in less than forty-eight hours, he would be either the biggest fool in Mexican history or its greatest champion. Despite the hesitancy of a few of his advisors, Gallo knew he was making the right decision.
There was no doubt the Americans were making similar moves to prepare for a coordinated strike if the talking failed. The only difference would be that if the American president signed off on the treaty, then his soldiers would strike.
Gallo stared at his chair. He was afraid that sitting down would cause him to lose the momentum he had. His feet were aching, his back and legs were tired. He could feel his eyelids struggling to remain open. Rest would come soon. It was almost done.
Dr. Carlson was just how Daniel remembered him: undeniably obnoxious. The two of them had spent the last three hours in a car toge
ther on their way through rush-hour traffic to meet with one of Dr. Carlson’s colleagues.
Daniel did have to admit he was slightly impressed that Dr. Carlson had managed to secure a facility to restart his work. Which was primarily why Daniel was there in the first place.
Smith had exhausted all of his funds for the first venture and was being watched like a hawk by the authorities for any unfavorable conduct. Daniel agreed to provide funding for Dr. Carlson’s work through one of his old companies he still held stock in. It was enough capital for the first few months, renovations, and a down payment on the property until the plant was operational and self-sustaining enough to start drawing a profit. He was hoping that it would be a good investment in more ways than one.
“So you’ve already met with him?” Daniel asked.
“Yes. It was… productive,” Dr. Carlson answered.
“And you trust him?”
“I trust him to do what’s right for science.”
“That’s all we are to you people, aren’t we? Just lab rats.”
“Oh, no. Of course not. Lab rats are much easier to control. You’re more like a less-sophisticated chimpanzee that stumbled across a fancy suit.”
The rest of the trip was in silence. Whatever Smith saw in that man was beyond Daniel’s patience. Everything was riding on Dr. Carlson’s ability to produce fresh water. If he couldn’t do that, then Daniel’s money, Smith’s influence, and the surviving American citizens’ struggle in the Southwest would be for nothing. He didn’t appreciate Dr. Carlson’s lackadaisical attitude toward their efforts.
The driver came to a stop just outside a gate that surrounded a small building with docks stretched out into the bay.
“What is this, a marina?” Daniel asked.
“Used to be. Hopefully this is where we’ll be setting up shop. As long as you can close the deal,” Dr. Carlson answered.
