No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2)

by Mark E Becker

  “There are several sacred cows in politics. One is the energy industry. If they can’t make money off of it, they will fight it, even if that one change means that humankind will be better for it.

  MARK E. BECKER

  Remember a guy named Tesla, back in the early part of the twentieth century? He created a generator that runs off of the earth’s magnetic field. Free energy. When he died, after they had driven him to bankruptcy and spread the word that he was a fraud, all of his notes on his invention disappeared. He had applied for a patent, and there is no record of its existence. Gone. Wiped from history so that they can keep making a profit.”

  Max finally found his voice. “Who is behind all of this?” “The same people who are behind everything that happens behind the scenes in this town. They have been manipulating politicians to do their dirty work for generations. They don’t have a name. I don’t even know how many of them claim to be members of a particular organization. They’re more like a group with a continuity of interest. They took lessons from the Illuminati, the Mafia, and the Nazis. If they acquire a name, they can be identified. If they can be identified, they can be eliminated. Congress has been infiltrated, so is the Supreme Court. It’s how they get things done.”

  “You know that new oil derrick blowout out in the gulf? That was no accident.” Sinclair paused to pour himself a drink. “Those mercenaries hired by foreign oil blew it so they can jack up the prices and get our politicians all riled up. Then the prices go up at the pump, the voters go wild, and your ratings go into the toilet. And they won’t stop there. These guys want to sink you and take over. A coup.”

  “By the time you get back to Washington, there will be the biggest shit-storm in history. You have got to be careful. I don’t think that they will try to assassinate you, not yet, anyway. They didn’t go after Kennedy until they realized that they couldn’t count on him to continue the arms race. When they feel they are losing control of you and your agenda, that’s when they begin to fight dirty.” He took a long sip and went on.

  “You think Oswald killed an American president all by his lonesome? Give me a break. They not only do the deed, they set somebody up for the fall. The Warren Commission? They were afraid that if they announced that Kennedy’s assassins were walking the streets, America would fall into anarchy, and the world as we knew it would enter the last war. Back then, people thought that when the bomb fell, all you had to do to survive was to take the door off the hinges, pile some dirt on top, and crawl underneath. Fools. Don’t get me started about the idiotic ideas floating out there. There is no reality, as you like to say. There is only your perception of reality, and how you act on it.

  “Clinton didn’t get attacked in his first term,” Sinclair went on. “He presided over a good economy and peacetime, and they reined him in with distractions at home. Subpoenas and depositions and rumors were enough to bring him back in the fold. See, if they want, they can have you dead tomorrow, but my bet is that they are going to try to make you look impotent and inept to bring down your popularity. That’s the word I’m hearing from my sources. They will give you just enough rope to hang yourself, and they won’t be sending any flowers to your funeral.”

  Max stood and faced Sinclair with a determined glare.

  “I didn’t get elected to hide out and do nothing for four years, and I don’t intend to back off just so the status quo can pad their trust funds. If it’s better for the country, I’m going to push for it, and I won’t live one minute in fear that someone is going to snuff me. Do I make that crystal clear?” Max was pacing in the aisle. Sinclair gleamed with delight.

  “I like that in my president,” he exclaimed.

  u

  CHAPTER 10

  R

  oger suddenly became stoic. “One more thing before you get off this jet. It’s been haunting me for more than twenty years. The dangerous faction is a group controlled by your Dad’s old enemy, Pryor. He’s the one behind Adrianna’s death, the

  Patriot Group bombing, and the attempt on your life last month before the election. He controlled the Secret Service from his position as Director of Homeland Security. He wanted Blythe to win; the presidency was in their pocket, and you were too much of a loose cannon to them. They hate change. Pryor put in his own people to substitute for your regular detail, and I’m the one who got that information to you in time. I am telling you this so you can have your revenge.”

  “I’m supposed to be telling you about foreign threats to the United States,” Roger continued, “and they want me to keep you in the dark about the way things really work around here. But I saw how you ran your campaign, and I was a friend of your father back in the day, when he took on the same people who tried to stop him from protecting Americans from their own government. I was heartbroken when they killed Adrianna, and it almost killed him.”

  Max stopped him there, raising his hands for pause. He didn’t speak, feeling the volcano of emotion boiling inside of his mind. His hands became fists, and Sinclair watched as the redness spread on his face. The rage consumed him, and he spent several minutes trying to contain the overwhelming thoughts of revenge.

  uuu

  “I thought you knew about Pryor. That son of a bitch has so much power, Max! He was behind the bombing, but he wanted your father eliminated, not Adrianna. She was just collateral damage. He didn’t care if he killed everyone in that room, if he could get to your dad. They were longtime enemies, starting back in the days of the Senate hearings. Your father humiliated Pryor in front of the world, and he swore his revenge.

  The only thing that saved your father’s life was that Pryor’s people planted the bomb in a flower pot that was strong enough to contain some of the blast and direct it upward, and your dad was standing behind a pillar at the time. As you remember, he almost died, but he lived to put you in a position to do something about it.”

  Max closed his eyes and watched the scene play out in his head. He was sixteen, and his father came into his bedroom before leaving for a social event with Adrianna. The senator was smiling, dressed in a black tux and looking dapper in a way that would put his image in all of the society pages. After thirty years in Washington politics and a highly publicized resignation, every appearance in public was met with a flurry of press attention. John Masterson and his stunning love, Adrianna, could go nowhere without their pictures appearing within minutes on all of the major internet news. He sat on his son’s bed and spoke.

  “Max, I’m finally going to do it. I’m going to ask her to marry me.” Max had always thought of Adrianna as his mother, and she had home-schooled him from the age of three. He couldn’t imagine life without her. She had lived at Fairlane for as long as he could remember. He looked at his father with a puzzled look.

  “Dad, does this mean that she won’t be my tutor anymore?” “No, son, your life won’t change a bit.”

  “Then go ahead and do it. I don’t see what the big deal is.” “Someday, it will be a milestone in your life.”

  His son’s response was unexpected, but Max had been taught

  to express his feelings honestly, and doing something for the sake of tradition had always taken a back seat to the pursuit of clearly defined goals.

  “I take that as a sign of approval.”

  “Can I be your best man?”

  “I was hoping you would say that, son. I wouldn’t have anyone

  else, and Adrianna feels the same way.” His father nodded and and walked out the door. The next time he saw his father was in a hospital bed, bandages covering his cuts and burns. His father was crying. It was the first time Max had seen tears in his father’s eyes. The sorrow on John Masterson’s face was intense.

  “She’s gone,” he said in a quiet voice. Then he looked away. Max had grieved, and so had his father, and that memory was indelibly etched in his mind.

  CHAPTER 11

  T

  he sound of the landing gear brought him back to the present, and Max assumed a seriousness tha
t had been lacking moments before. Sinclair leaned back in his chair and exhaled a sigh of relief. He had fretted for days about how this

  would play out, and now that he had supplied Max with the information he was duty-bound to reveal, he had rolled the invisible boulder into Max’s lap. It would be up to Max to deal with it from that point forward, and he had faith that justice would be done, in the right time, and in the right place.

  “I’m briefing you about what I know so that you can do something about it. If word gets out that you know these things, I’m a dead man. I accept that. I have lived a good life, and I have always done what was, in my mind, in the best interests of our country. But now, they are planning something that I can’t abide by. It’s domestic terrorism on a huge scale, and this country will suffer for it. You need to stop him.”

  “Tell me their plans,” said Max, trying to maintain his composure. So many irrational thoughts ran through his head at the moment, the anger keeping him from dealing rationally. Suddenly, he became very calm, and Sinclair watched him transform into a figure of serious determination. This was Max’s time to think and his time to act, and Sinclair resolved to support him in his own way. Scarlett knew, too. She would free Max from the duties of politics and let him resolve problems in a new way.

  Sinclair was pleasantly surprised when he felt a glimmer of hope. He thought that his years in Washington had drummed that out of him, This president has the ability to inspire and lead. I can see it in his eyes

  “I don’t know much yet, but what I can tell you is that Pryor wants to destroy you in a very public way. He intends to make the American people turn on you, to humiliate you. He wants to sit back, turn on his TV, and watch them rip you to shreds. He’s a sick bastard, and his position as Director of Homeland Security has given him access to all sorts of terrorist toys. Why do you think that he convinced Congress to shift control of the Secret Service to Homeland Security? He was behind the effort to kill you during your speech at the Kennedy Center. By the way, that hologram idea was pure genius. I never even thought of that one.”

  Max ignored the compliment, focused on the matters at hand. “Have his people infiltrated the Secret Service? I have to trust those guys,” said Max, cloaking his concern. “No, he brought in a crew of imposters to do that job. He made a few phone calls to reassign the team that had been protecting you, and nobody questioned his authority. He was running things, remember?”

  Max looked perplexed, wondering whether the talented and dedicated Secret Service had been ruined from within. “Who can I trust, other than you?”

  “I’ll give you a list.” Sinclair wirelessly transferred the information, along with a number of classified documents that he had brought to the briefing. He would hold back nothing from this president. He trusted him, and he believed that Max would finally be the person that would pull the country out of the malaise that had engulfed it… If he could keep Max alive long enough to do his job.

  CHAPTER 12

  M

  ax stepped directly from Air Force One into a waiting black SUV, one of many identical vehicles that held the Secret Service, the Press Corps, and essential staffers who accompany the President of the United States on any foray away

  from Washington. His face was furrowed with worry. Andrew Fox, his Chief of Staff, noticed immediately. The normally jovial Max Masterson was more serious than he had ever seen in public, and he was concerned that the private briefing on Air Force One had burdened him with more reality than even the strongest person could bear.

  “Mr. President, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I just have a lot on my mind right now, and don’t call me that. I’m not comfortable with it yet. Max will do when it’s just you and me.”

  Andrew remained focused on the stern look that had appeared on Max’s face during the flight to the Gulf. “Anything would like to share? Do I need to fire somebody? I need to start earning my keep as your Chief of Staff.”

  Andrew’s attempt at humor made Max smile, but it was more of a forced grimace. He didn’t dare disclose to Andrew the thoughts he had of revenge on the man who was responsible for the death of the first woman he had loved, who was a mother to him and had loved his father with unselfish devotion. It was a seething hatred that boiled inside his mind at the moment, and when the time was right, he would strike back with all of the combined might of his armed forces. At the moment, Pryor had been able to evade detection, but nobody hides for long in a world without privacy.

  After I’m officially sworn in, and not before. I need to do this for the United States as Commander in Chief, Max thought as the caravan drove through the bayous and marshes near the coast. The details of Adrianna’s death and the devastating effect it had on his father weighed on him more than he could put into words. He composed himself as the entourage sped toward the Gulf Coast location, chosen by his advance team to provide visual effect for the American people on the news channels.

  He knew he could do nothing to undo the damage that had wreaked havoc on the economy and ecology of the region, but he had to do something, and he had needed to get out of Washington before he went crazy. During the ride, he reviewed the documents uploaded to his iPad, and by mental dictation, he detailed an outline of his plan to eliminate Pryor and those like him before they could ruin everything he stood for. As he dictated, he realized the power he held in his exclusive control: he was the Commander in Chief, and he could direct the United States of America against its enemies, wherever and whenever they were found. The idea that the enemy was inside the United States—and that it was composed of U.S. citizens—was his most consuming challenge.

  CHAPTER 13

  M

  ax stood on the beach and directed his gaze intently at the old man in the rowboat. He entered the scene as a black speck on the horizon. As the weatherbeaten, flat-bottomed skiff approached, the details gained a color

  of their own, and he could see the man’s brown-streaked T-shirt. It displayed the two-tone green symbol of BP, the oil giant that had once again turned his bayou into a sludge-infested cesspool the color of coffee. He rowed because he had to. A motor would have fouled and stalled the second the sludge entered the intake port, and the grizzled fisherman trusted his wiry muscles over a mechanical contraption anyhow.

  As the boat came closer, Max could make out the inscription on the shirt. We are bringing oil to your shores it proudly proclaimed, obviously written to introduce BP to the U.S. market many years before, and eerily prophetic of the many spills that found their way to the shores of the Gulf Coast over the years. Max thought about how utterly worthless this trip would be, but it would get good press, and his advisors had wanted a soundbyte. It was a part of the job that he was rapidly learning to detest.

  From the lines on his face, Max could see that the fisherman was a beaten man. He had endured more than a soul should. His hard life had given him no respite from the realities of survival in a world where he eked out barely enough on a good day. He had started his life as a fisherman and later became a shrimper, spending his life dragging the gulf at night for weeks at a time, and being paid at the dock by the pound before heading out again. All to make a living. When the fertile shrimping grounds of the Gulf were smothered in oil from the Deepwater Horizon disaster, he had changed professions again.

  Now he was an oysterman, working the shallow waters of the coast in clear violation of the government’s ban on harvesting seafood in the areas fouled by the latest oil well explosion. Today, he returned empty-handed, and for the old man, he would have spent another day broke and tired if he had chosen another location to pull his boat ashore. Today was his lucky day, and the media opportunity was not staged. He just happened to be there when the hoopla converged on his solitary life.

  Max kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks. If he had been alone, his actions would have attracted no more notice than a passing glance, but he was the President-elect of the United States, and the mere act of picking his nose would have warr
anted at least a sniping comment from the New York Times. As he rolled up his expensive trousers, a murmur arose from behind him. Looking toward the marina parking lot, he quickly counted more than a dozen black SUVs that had transported his entourage from New Orleans Louis Armstrong International Airport to the bayou.

  “Keep them back,” Max ordered to Andrew Fox and his Secret Service escort, who were busily erecting an enclosure with rebar and yellow crime scene tape. “And take off those damned black suits. You are going to fry your brains in this sun.” Andrew immediately complied, relieved that the sea breeze could be felt through his dress shirt. The Secret Service ignored him, assigned to wear their electronically sophisticated sport coats in every condition. The coats also concealed the arsenal each man carried to protect the president.

  “The least you can do is take off those ties,” piped in Andrew. “This is supposed to be a casual photo opportunity.”

  “Sorry, sir, but we can’t do that,” said one agent closest to Andrew. “We have our orders.”

  The press was herded into the makeshift press box, where they stood in the bright winter sun while Max did his thing in front of the cameras. In contrast to the Secret Service, they had no qualms about stripping down to allow their skin to catch a bit of the constant sea breeze, and soon they stood in dress shirts and undershirts.

  If the camera crews had their way, they would have gone the next step, and stripped down to their underwear, but there is something about covering the president that commands a form of silent decorum. Still, the thought ran through their minds, and they made mental notes to pack a bathing suit and tropical clothes on their next foray into the American South. Even in winter, the temperature could nudge eighty degrees Fahrenheit. They quickly realized that this president was going to be more of an outdoorsman than the last guy.