The Gambit

by Allen Longstreet

  She stood in front of the palm and iris scanner and turned to face me.

  “Thank you,” I broke the silence.

  She revealed a smile so gracious it made me feel bad that I wanted to be rude to her just a few moments ago.

  “No, thank you,” she corrected.

  I nodded, and she held her hand six inches away from the scanner. She turned to me again.

  “Are you ready?”

  I wiped my sweaty palms on the sides of my pea coat and swallowed hard.

  “Yes,” I whispered, with my heart beating so fast it distorted my voice.

  She scanned her hand and nothing happened. I saw an icon appear on the screen indicating for her to use the iris scanner. She began to lean forward, and I touched her forearm. She halted and turned to me with a quirked brow.

  “You’re lucky,” the words slipped out just above a whisper.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because you got to spend more time with him than I did.”

  She didn’t say a word, but I could see the sadness clearly in her eyes. She knew who I was talking about, and she knew it was the truth. I got that weight off my chest and managed not to say something vulgar. She slowly put her eye to the scanner, and I watched as the light zipped across her eye.

  “Identity confirmed—Megan Jeanine Walling,” the robotic female voice said.

  I heard a lock click, and the door popped ajar. I glanced at Megan, and she nodded towards the room, telling me to go. She walked away and back down the hall.

  My pulse was in my throat, and I could see the murky blobs behind the opaque glass crowded together. I took out the gun and made sure the safety was off. I held it with my left hand and used my right hand to pull open the door. I silently took a step in and was immersed in bright, white fluorescent light. This room was carpet too, and my heels were silent. The men on the long side of the rectangular table looked up at me with wide eyes. I had the gun outstretched with both hands clasped around it and a finger on the trigger.

  I saw sandy-brown hair at the end of the table, facing me. Suddenly, she looked up.

  Veronica Hall.

  Her ice-blue eyes turned to slits as she saw me, and her nostrils flared.

  “None of you move a fucking inch,” I growled.

  The men sat frozen, and I made sure to wave the gun around in everyone’s direction just enough. Veronica was one of two females at the table. I counted eight people total. I had six rounds.

  “Well, well, well,” Veronica’s sickeningly-smooth voice began, and she stood up. I straightened my arms as I neared the table. I was maybe ten feet from her.

  “I recognize a pretty face when I see one,” she chortled and stared at me vehemently. “Rachel Flores.”

  “I said sit down,” I warned her. My upper lip curled in my utter disgust for her.

  “You don’t call the shots, sweetheart. I do.”

  She pressed her hands against the mahogany table and stood to her full height. She was a few inches taller than me in her heels, and my finger was so close to pulling down on the trigger.

  “Why are you even here?” she mocked. “We won,” she slit her eyes and stared at me as if I were a hard-to-kill pest. “There is nothing you can do to stop us.”

  “Rachel,” I heard Viktor in my ear. “You’re good to go. The fax is going through to Ian as we speak.”

  My breathing was shuddered, and a ruthless smile began to slide across my face.

  “Would you bet your own life?” I snorted.

  She huffed and slowly walked around the corner of the table. She crossed her arms, resting them against her blue business suit.

  “Do you think I am scared of you?” she sneered, inching closer. “I bet my life that even if you pull that trigger, we will still win. It’s too late—”

  I pulled the trigger, and the sound was so loud I went deaf. Veronica clutched her chest with wide eyes, looking down at her wound and then back up at me.

  “That was for killing Owen,” I spat and waved my gun at the men who tried to stand up. I fired a shot in the ceiling above them, and crumbled drywall fell atop the table. I pointed the gun back at Veronica who began to sink down to her knees. Her thick, maroon-tinted blood dripped to the carpet. When I reached her, I pushed her back. She folded over against the floor and stared up at me with the most vileness I had ever seen in a human being. Even in her death she wouldn’t let go of the notion that they couldn’t be stopped. I held the gun a few inches above her head, and I thought about how painless it would be for her that way. No, she deserved worse than that. That was too easy. I knelt down above her as she clutched her chest. I tossed my hair over a shoulder and leaned in to where my mouth was a few inches away.

  I saw someone in my peripheral move, and I jolted back up. The man was trying to come behind me. I shot him straight in his kneecap, and he collapsed. I stood up.

  “Back up!” I screamed. “If you want to live, back up! Now!”

  He crawled backward across the floor as he winced with the blood dripping across the carpet. The other men looked at me with their hands up as I pointed the gun at them. They remained seated. I leaned back down to Veronica. The color was fading from her face, and she had a glazed look over her eyes. I made sure I was close enough that only she would hear me.

  “You lost your bet,” I whispered.

  “Fuck…you…” She snarled. Anger surged throughout my body, and I shook my head at her stubbornness. I jammed the gun against her gut and held it there.

  “And this is for killing my mother,” I said as I pulled the trigger. She gritted her teeth and gasped as it went through her, and I could feel the blood running past my knees. I knelt back down, and to my disbelief her mouth opened once more.

  “You’ll never win,” she forced out. “Even with me gone.”

  I stared into her empty, ice-blue eyes as the life began to fade out of them, and leaned in one final time.

  “Viktor Ivankov is across the hall, and he just faxed the New York Times all the documents you have kept hidden since Black Monday. Your monstrous lie unravels today. It’s over.”

  Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth was agape. Veronica was seconds from death. I stood up and shot another bullet into the ceiling above the table. The men slid out their chairs to avoid debris.

  The door swung open, and Viktor walked towards me with the most determination I had ever seen since meeting him. His chest heaved up and down. He glanced down at Veronica behind me and revealed a sinister grin. One that only bloodlust could produce.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Get out of here. I’ll go out the back.”

  “Viktor, they might arrest—”

  “Rachel. Let me have this moment. Move aside.”

  I pressed my lips together and nodded. He walked around me and I turned to see Veronica’s skin was now a deathly shade of gray. She was still conscious, barely, but the pure, undiluted fear I saw in her eyes when she stared at Viktor caused a chill to race up my spine.

  “Remember me?” he growled.

  She gasped for air, choking on her own blood, and I turned away from them. My heels squished in the blood beside her body, and I walked out of the room. I began down the hall without a worry in the world. I felt good for the first time in a week. I didn’t care what happened next, because I relieved the world of yet another psychopathic plutocrat. This one, was the one hell-bent on destroying what was left of this country. I still had my gun in hand, and I continued strolling down the hallway as if I had just come back from lunch break. I glanced down at my blouse and pants to see blood splattered on them.

  I didn’t care. It was my trophy.

  I rounded the corner to see the ladies I saw earlier now cowering behind their cubicles as I passed. Natasha was gone. I spotted Megan in her office, and she smiled graciously when our eyes locked. I pressed the button to the elevator.

  Ding.

  I stepped inside and tried to calm my breathing from the adrenaline
-high I was on.

  “R—Rachel,” the voice of Grey said, crackling through my ear piece.

  “Yes?” I asked. “Can you hear me?”

  “Barely. We—we are get—getting out of r—range. R—remember, put y—your hands…”

  The elevator door slid open. I knew exactly what he meant.

  Put your hands up.

  Evelyn, the receptionist from earlier, let out a bloodcurdling scream as she saw me exit the elevator covered in blood. My heels clacked loudly, and I strode confidently across the marble floor with my hands held high. I dropped the gun I was carrying and walked towards the exit. The police officer who manned the metal detector was pointing his gun at me. The sounds of police sirens echoed from all directions, and I saw them swarming outside in the parking lot. I fell to my knees and kept my hands as high as I could.

  The anger that filled me began to subside, and I felt just as I had before—numb—and that was perfectly fine with me. I knew killing Veronica wouldn’t bring them back. The people I loved were still dead, but perhaps something greater would become of my bold act. Like Viktor said, ‘Veronica has taken everyone’s eyes, and now they can’t see. If we take hers, perhaps we can restore the country’s vision. People’s memory of Owen will fade, they will forget about him.’

  That was the truth of our fast-paced society. People would forget. They would go about their daily lives and then latch onto whatever was dangled in front of their faces next. All of this, though, would hit home. The Confinement still haunted every American who was put behind the walls of those Camps. Owen tried to lead them out, but his efforts were cut short. People would forget about their hero…but today…today, they would remember.

  “Down on the ground! Get on the ground, now!”

  I lay flat on the ground, and the cold marble felt refreshing against my cheek. I saw the black shoes of cops surrounding me, and I felt the metal cuffs clasp around my wrists.

  “Rachel Flores, you are under arrest!”

  Ring…Ring…Ring…

  I struggled to pull the phone out of my pocket. I held the steering wheel steady with my left hand. It was my son.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad! You won’t believe what just happened.”

  My stomach sank. The worst possible scenarios crossed my mind as he said that.

  “Is Rachel okay?!”

  “She’s alive…” He began, and I let out a huge sigh of relief. “She was just arrested at the EPA headquarters. She shot and killed Veronica Hall.”

  My jaw dropped, and I had to be careful to pay attention to traffic as I got off the interstate.

  “No fucking way,” I said. “She did it. She really did it…”

  “Dad, it’s all over the news. I could only imagine what’s going on at your office right now.”

  My office…

  He was right. It was probably pandemonium with a headliner like this for tomorrow.

  “I bet,” I said. “I’ll have to call the office.”

  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  “How is everything back at the house?” I asked.

  “Good. I’ll head up to the office if you want, to see what I can do until you get back. Where are you anyway?”

  “Remember the video on YouTube of Owen revealing the truth that went viral?”

  “Of course,” Stefan answered.

  “I’m about to interview him and his mother.”

  “Do you think they will be willing to talk?” he questioned.

  “I do,” I said. “They have nothing to worry about anymore. The truth will be out soon.”

  “You’re right,” he chuckled. “The world will finally know.”

  “Yes. Thank you for all of your contributions to that effort, Son. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Pops.”

  “I’ll talk to you later. I have to go.”

  “All right, if I don’t see you when you get back, I’ll be down to visit soon. It’s time for me to go back to Boston.”

  “Sounds good. Take care, Son.”

  “You too, Dad.”

  I ended the call and slowly navigated the suburban roads of Allentown. The son’s interrogation wasn’t publicized, but one of my sources informed me of the sudden removal of the video off the internet. They were trying to cover their tracks, and every little piece I could find would help Rachel compose a hard-hitting article. We had one week left until the election.

  Images of Rachel shooting Veronica Hall point blank kept resurfacing in my mind. I knew she had a good heart, and it was hard to picture that she even did it…but it was reality. Somewhere in Washington, my goddaughter was sitting in a jail cell. I had so many phone calls to make.

  Ring…Ring…

  It was my office number calling.

  “Hello?” I picked up.

  “Ian,” Sharon began, her voice trembling with excitement.

  “Yes?”

  “You got a fax,” she breathed into the phone.

  My heart pulsed from her words. Was it from them?

  “From?”

  “The number it was sent from is a 202 area code. It looks like it was sent from Washington. It’s everything, Ian. Everything you needed to confirm Stefan’s research. Everything they hid about Black Monday is there. I’m holding it in my hands right now.”

  I almost slammed the brakes from the news. It was difficult to listen to Sharon while simultaneously trying to find this house I was headed to.

  “Sharon,” I lowered my tone. “Take those files down to my storage safe in the basement and lock it up until I get back.”

  “Got it. I’ll go now.”

  “Also,” I said, “I’ll be back in around three hours. Book me the first flight after 3 o’clock from JFK to Dulles.”

  “Will do, stay safe out there. Okay?”

  “I will, thank you, Sharon. Take care of those files with your life.”

  “Absolutely. See you in a few hours. Goodbye.”

  “Bye.”

  The call ended. I navigated down a neighborhood street and stopped at a stop sign. The green street sign on the corner read Valley Dr. I took a right and slowly crept down the street. I read each mailbox as I passed them. 437, 435—they were counting down by odd numbers. It must have been on the other side of the street. I struggled to see the numbers on the other side, but I saw a two-story brick house on the opposite side with the address above the door in gilded numbers.

  428—this was it. I pulled in the driveway and put the car in park. I hoped that someone was home. I got out of the car, stretching out after the two-hour drive from New York. I followed the pathway up to the porch. Dead leaves blew around the yard, and most of the trees had already lost their leaves. Winter was coming fast. When I reached the door, I rang the doorbell and combed through my hair with my fingers.

  Twenty seconds—nothing.

  I rang it again. I wasn’t going to leave after driving so far to get here. I purposely wore a pastel-colored button up and a simple tie. I figured, when the feds came, they were most likely dressed in black and were intimidating. I was not in a cop car, I drove my Tesla. I hoped I appeared harmless enough for someone to open the door.

  Suddenly, the door barely cracked open. I saw the eye of a woman hiding behind the door. Her reddish-brown hair slipped down beside the half of her face she revealed.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was shaky.

  “Yes, actually. My name is Ian Westlake, and I am the Editor and Chief of the New York Times. I had a source tell me that he was quite certain that you and your son were interrogated by the federal government.”

  She shut the door in my face. I banged my fist on the door in reaction. I was surprised that she didn’t even give me the time of day.

  “I am not a cop!” I shouted. “I want to help you!”

  Nothing.

  “You know, if you don’t tell your story, they will do what they did to you to someone else!”

  Nothing.

  “Miss, you h
ave to understand that you are no longer in danger! The people who took that video off the internet are about to be exposed for all the treason they have committed. They are terrorists, miss! We have proof they framed Owen, and if you don’t help us, the people of this country might be in danger! Please…” I pleaded.

  The door swung fully open. On the other side of the storm door was a woman who looked to be in her late thirties. She pursed her lips and looked at me as if she was still distrusting. Her arms were crossed, and there were bags under her eyes.

  “Why do you want to help us?” she asked.

  “Because,” I began, “the only way we will stop them is to show the country what happened. You are a part of that story, unfortunately, and I know you wouldn’t want them to do that to anyone else. They had no right to come into your home. They had no right to scare your son. All I want to do is document what happened and let you tell your story.”

  Her lower lip quivered, and I saw tears pooling up in the corners of her eyes.

  “Come in,” she said, and opened the door for me.

  I pressed the B5 button in the elevator. It was beneath the four floors of parking our building had, and B5 was our level for storage. I checked in with Sharon to make sure she had done what I asked of her. Like I expected, she had. I was still disturbed from Mrs. Bryant’s account of the interrogation. Her son, Brody’s YouTube video got over fifty-million views in less than a week. When the feds came to interrogate them, she said two men arrived in a black Yukon Denali and told her to let them in. They threatened to kill their family if they were to ever speak of the interrogation, or that they even visited them to begin with. They made Brody take down his video immediately.

  She was frightened for her family. What was a mother to do but remain quiet? After what Rachel did today, I knew in just a day or two we would all be safe. The people who were behind all of this would be served justice.