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

by Mark E Becker

  Max thought for as long as it took Lincoln to help himself to the benefits of the liquor cabinet. “I kept a pitcher of cool water here during my term,” he said.

  “Help yourself to anything you choose, there is the best liquor . . .”

  “I abstained from those vices during my life, and I choose not to take them up during my death,” Lincoln responded.

  “I’m sorry, Abe, I had no idea you were a teetotaler,” said Max.

  “Water suits me fine. I spent much of my years observing my contemporaries being seasick on land, and acting like pure asses.”

  NO CORNER TO HIDE

  “If you look below the bar, there is a place to put your glass. If you want ice, just push the button.”

  “Ice, how delightful. I once dreamed of such a contrivance.” Lincoln pushed the button for ice, and it complied, sending cubes bouncing across the carpet.

  “I’ll get the hang of it, in time,” he said smiling. “Would you like one?”

  “I don’t expect anyone to wait on me, especially you,” replied Max. “I have thought about what you told me, and I’m beginning to understand that there are some people who were meant to be here.” Lincoln sat and sipped his water. He waited for Max to continue.

  “If I was meant to be president, and you were, the wisdom that comes from this book will be provided from those who belonged here. I know that. What I need now is guidance. How do I deal with my enemy, and how do I turn our country toward greatness again?”

  “Zealots should be killed. They will not negotiate. Those who choose to follow a path that conflicts with yours will be amenable to negotiation, but will resist surrender. Choose a path that provides them the dignity of proclaiming victory to their people. As to the rest, they are yours, and you must serve them with the same passion you reserve for your loved ones. Ignore the complainers and follow the dreamers, for they will take you to where you want to go.”

  “I’m beginning to realize that there are some things that a president can do in the usual way, and others . . .” Lincoln paused, deep in thought.

  “When I became president of these United States, the South hated me in unison, and the nation was torn asunder. I was vilified by the very people who put me in office, and it was not safe for me anywhere. I resolved right then and there, on the day of my inauguration, that I would never cower in the Oval Office with no corner to hide. I would sneak out of the White House in disguise. My height gave me away sometimes, but it became a game of deception that I rather enjoyed. Other times, I would travel with General Wool in broad daylight, but only at times and places where they did not expect me. You should try it.”

  “I have already thought of that,” Max responded. “I had some disguises prepared, and I’m driving my Secret Service to distraction.”

  Lincoln chuckled with the memory of his deceptions, but immediately returned to the sober matters that he had been summoned to discuss.

  “Max, learn by my mistakes, and profit from them. Never announce that you will be amongst the citizens unless you are surrounded by your protectors, but don’t stay cooped up in this monument to the past. Do it in your own way. You need to be a part of this nation in the same way that a man protects his family; don’t let them down, or risk failure.” He sipped his ice water, looking into the glass and swirling its contents to hear the tinkle of the ice against the glass.

  “The one familiar hand that we both are dealt is the threat from within. Once you step outside your world of isolation and comfort, they will pounce on you if they can find you . . .”

  After a quick knock, the door to the Oval Office opened, and the glass fell. The cubes bounced across the presidential seal woven into the carpet. Lincoln was gone.

  u

  CHAPTER 85

  R

  oger Sinclair strode into the Oval Office with authority and confidence and assessed the scene. Ice cubes and the glass lay in the center of the ornate rug, and the water had begun soaking into the seal at its center. “I never knew you to be one to

  throw things,” he exclaimed.

  “Some days I throw things, some days I don’t. Today’s a throwing

  day,” Max replied without humor. “What have you got?” “Drone pictures. When we sent the drones to New York for

  a flyover to assess the situation, I had one of them redirected to

  that location in the Hamptons that we detected from the Satellite

  shots in the dark zone. You know, the house that had lights when

  everyone else was in darkness? Well, from GPS tracking and a review

  of the public records, we determined that the house is owned by a

  one-hundred-seventy-five-year-old man who has no mortgage, has

  faithfully paid his property taxes on time, and drives a Bentley. This

  may also interest you. He served in the Civil War . . .” “OK, are you just here for comedy relief, or do you have some

  nefarious purpose in messing with me? I’m sure that if I rifle through

  my desk, I’ll be able to find something else to throw . . .” Max pulled out the center drawer and quickly scanned its contents. “Would you prefer to be impaled with a letter opener or knocked unconscious

  with a very ostentatious paperweight?”

  “Neither, Mr. President. I’m serious. One thing about this

  country that most people don’t realize is the records we don’t

  keep. We keep birth records, marriage records, divorce and tax

  records, and death records, but we don’t keep record of someone

  who doesn’t die. What I’m saying here, Max, is that this house

  seems to have its own shielded power source, and is owned by

  the same person who has owned it since before the Civil War.

  Homer Francis did not die. I doubt whether he survived the Civil

  War, but he owns that house and has paid his taxes by check.

  His bank account shows a balance of over a million dollars, and

  the only payments are for taxes and a few for maintenance. He

  apparently doesn’t eat, either.”

  Max absorbed the information with renewed interest. His conversation with Lincoln had abruptly concluded before he could get a

  firm grasp of the enormous task that lay before him, but Sinclair’s

  intrusion was beginning to give him direction.

  “And here is the real reason I came up here. I had some still

  images taken from a drone that flew over the gated compound, and

  instructed the CIA to give me high-resolution shots from all angles.

  The drone was directed out over the Atlantic, made the turn, and

  flew low over the large glass windows that face the water. This is

  what we found.”

  The images scrolled slowly across the iPad. They showed the

  scene in extreme detail that exceeded the capacity of the human

  eye. The digital cameras on drones were designed for military use

  from high altitudes, and were capable of retrieving words off a page

  at a distance that made their presence undetectable. With new invisibility technology, it was unlikely that the drone’s presence would

  ever be detected by the human eye or by radar.

  NO CORNER TO HIDE

  The compound appeared to be surrounded by a high wall. It enclosed approximately twenty-five acres of pristine coastal forest which served as a buffer from the nearest neighbors, a long walk down the rocky beach. Where most affluent homeowners open their homes to the sea to enjoy an unobstructed view, the wall fully enclosed the large modern mansion, its white walls set off with glass at rakish angles in a style that only appeared in Architectural Digest. This was no house lived in by a Civil War veteran, an impossibility that rational thought immediately dismissed. Max moved from interested to intrigued.

  The next pics showed a series of images of the large mansion from the west, with three cars parked
in the circular driveway, a Bentley, a black midsized sedan, and a minivan. The detail was so clear that Max could read a bumper sticker that read “Imagine Whirled Peas” on the minivan’s rear bumper. The irony was not lost on him.

  The next pic showed an overhead image of the entire compound. There was an outbuilding with no windows that added to the mystery. Explaining his theory, Sinclair added, “That building appears to be the power station, but we detected no radiation which would indicate a nuclear power plant, and no heat radiation, so we concluded that this guy has his own Tesla generator. Did I catch your attention yet?”

  Max leaned forward in his chair, intent on the details. It was a mystery unfolding before him, each image creating more questions in his mind.

  “I assume you saved the best for last, for true theatrical effect?” “Oh yeah, just wait ’til you see what our little drone saw when it turned around and came at it from the east,” said Roger with unrestrained enthusiasm. The drone had made a pass over land from the west, and then flew out over the open ocean before turning and making a second pass. Each successive image focused on the enormous glass windows over the large central living room, lit brightly against the evening sky. There were more than thirty images of the same room, each in more detail and closer than the previous one. There were three people in the room, standing in a triangular formation. There was a dark-haired man with his back to the windows, and a balding, middle-aged man who could be seen in profile. They both faced a third, who stood in the middle of the room facing directly to the east.

  He wore a short silk bathrobe adorned with a green dragon. He appeared to be in his sixties, tall and slim, with a greasy look that made his balding black frizzy hair shine. He had familiar bulging eyes, and he held a filterless cigarette in his right hand. It was almost too much detail. His fingers bore the permanent brown and yellow stains of a lifetime smoker. His bare left arm hung to his side, adorned by a fifty-cent-piece-sized mole on his forearm. A tattoo of spider legs emerged from the mole, giving the effect that a huge tarantula had perched on his arm like a repulsive pet.

  “I’ll be. Adam Pryor has been right under our noses the whole time,” Max proclaimed with a disgust reserved for Pryor, and Pryor alone. He knew what he had to do, and quickly.

  CHAPTER 86

  M

  ax left the situation room without announcing his intentions to anyone. He quickly covered the distance to the Oval Office, and pulled the diary from its hidden place inside the desk. He was in need, and seeking direction. The book

  glowed, as if it sensed his desperation.

  “I knew you would summon me again.” It was Jefferson, still

  dressed in casual clothes, his red hair tied back. “You seem to have

  run headlong into a dilemma.” His gaze took in the room, familiar

  but changed, much like his appearance.

  “Yes, sir, I need your advice and counsel now more than ever,” Max

  replied.

  “I have nothing more to do in my state of repose than to sit with the

  president of the United States and offer what wisdom I have retained

  for posterity,” Jefferson responded. He seemed to carry a new energy,

  a new sense of purpose.

  “I have been reading about you, and I need to know the truth of a

  story that has survived to my time,” Max began. “There is a tale that you

  shot a traitor and left him to die on the White House lawn.” Max stood

  and approached the departed president, but the closer he came, the more the image of Jefferson became translucent. He realized there would be no handshake, no physical contact at all. Their connection would be a mental connection only. Satisfied, he retreated behind his desk and placed both hands on the diary. Immediately, the image

  of Jefferson became brighter and opaque.

  “Yes, it is true,” he replied. “There was a man who sought to sacrifice the honor of our young nation, a Tory, who had sold his soul to the

  British for a position in the aristocracy and financial reward. I served

  as his firing squad; me alone. I dispatched with the decorum of a shared

  execution, and after a trial by his peers, I took him out on the lawn

  and shot him down like the mangy beast that he was.” Max studied

  his calm demeanor with fascination. He describes shooting a man to

  death as coldly as he might describe cleaning a fish. I need that attitude

  to serve me for a while.

  CHAPTER 87

  T

  he security force entered the mansion from every means of entry, breaking glass and ramming doors simultaneously. Wood and shards of crystal flew in an arc as they entered. A dozen armed drones hovered in a halo around the building, and

  helicopters patrolled the perimeter. The team secured each room as they entered, carefully opening closed doors until they found their quarry. Pryor stood in his glass-lined living room. He was dressed in a robe, his wiry, white, hairless legs extending below the expanse of terry cloth. He held a hefty glass of scotch, and he sipped in defiance as the well-armed force broke into the room. “You’ll pay for that,” he declared.

  He was surrounded, and defiant, and delusional. His megalomania made him feel invincible. “You know, the legal system will determine my fate, long after your president has left office in disgrace, and my people have the resources to post whatever bail a judge in my breast pocket will impose. I’ll die in luxury before you get your satisfaction in court.”

  “What makes you think that we are going to give you a trial?” The voice came from the mask of a uniformed commando who stood at arm’s length. Unlike the others, he carried no weapons. He was identical in appearance to the other eleven, but his voice was unmistakable.

  “Masterson?”

  “Yes, you sick son of a bitch.”

  “Well, well, aren’t you ignoring protocol? I should know, I wrote

  the book on it,” Pryor sneered. “You should be cowering in a bunker somewhere. Feeling all safe and protected. Didn’t your daddy and his pretty little girlfriend teach you that? I think it’s time to talk about the terms of my presidential pardon, don’t you?”

  “My father and Adrianna taught me a lot of things. One of the first lessons they taught me was to never negotiate with zealots and murderers, and you are both.”

  “Oh, that. I had Darkhorse handle all of those messy details. He has been employed by us since he was old enough to kill, and that was very young. He was taught by his father, too. You remind me of him.” He downed the last of his scotch in one gulp. It was a gesture of defiance.

  You tried to kill my father, but only succeeded in killing the only woman he ever loved. I don’t care if you had someone else do it for you. I’m not a cold-blooded assassin, and I am nothing like this Darkhorse. Max gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to choke the evil out of the repulsive man.

  “My employers have more power than you can imagine, and they control the money. This country, all of it, will soon be back in our control, and you will be history. It won’t matter whether I’m gone. The plan has been implemented, and there is nothing you can do to stop it,” said Pryor. Max and the cordon of commandos took a half step forward. The effect was like the tightening of a noose.

  “You want me to blow his head off, Mr. President?” This time, the voice was Armstrong’s.

  “No, that would be way too merciful, as much as I would like for that to happen, but it makes interrogations much more difficult,

  NO CORNER TO HIDE

  I hear,” Max replied through gritted teeth. He could taste the bile that rose from his detest for the man.

  “Back off, or I detonate Chicago,” Pryor screeched in a shrill voice, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. He had memorized the three-digit code for each city where bombs had been concealed, and all he had to do was type in the numbers.

  “Oh, we already got that one,” announced Armstrong. “We think we
’ll just kill you and be done with it.” Max had previously given specific orders that Pryor was to be taken alive and detained for the intelligence they could derive from intense interrogation, with the hope that he would reveal other members of the Society. Max was also aware that only six EMP devices had been recovered or detonated, leaving another six unaccounted for. If Pryor held that knowledge, or if he chose a city that had not been scratched off the list, he held another major disaster in his hands.

  “Then it’s San Francisco.”

  San Francisco was not on the list. Max’s body language revealed that weakness. When Adam Pryor smiled, Max lunged. Pryor assumed that he would grab for the phone, and leaned away in a protective stance, fumbling for control. Max’s right hand went to the back of his head, and pulled it forward, while the palm of his left hand slammed against Pryor’s nose, jamming cartilage and bone into his frontal lobe. While his eyes rolled into the back of his head, Max broke his neck with a quick twist. Adam Pryor went limp and fell to the floor, his spinal cord severed at the base of his skull.

  Armstrong lunged for the phone in the same motion, tossing his assault rifle to the side. Six inches from the floor, he punched the off button and cancelled the signal before he crashed to the hardwood. In one push, he brought himself back on his feet and pulled off his mask. Max did the same.

  “You are a quick learner for a politician,” exclaimed Armstrong, beaming with awe and pride.

  “I’m not a politician, I’m . . .”

  “I know, I know, you’re just the president of the United States.” They turned at the sound of gunshots. Immediately, the assault

  team ran in that direction, leaving Max and Armstrong alone with the lifeless body of Pryor at their feet. His unblinking eyes stared, his head turned at a grotesque angle. “I wasn’t sure I could do that,” Max began. “You know, I thought I would feel satisfied, or relieved, or something . . .”

  “The first time is the hardest, but I hope you leave that kind of work to guys like me next time,” responded Armstrong, who was fixated on the cell phone. Pryor held the fate of the nation in his hands. Now we have it back. What will Masterson do next? He carefully removed the battery from the phone and placed it in an evidence bag for future analysis. Our tech people can trace the preset numbers so we can track down the last of the bombs, but that won’t stop them for long. Max will be fighting many more battles.