by Tom Abrahams
From K Street to Wall Street, from the Hague to the Kremlin, he knew people. And so, when he manipulated a group of misfits into plotting against their own country, it was not without the permission of people in the highest levels of government.
Riding in the back of an armored black Suburban with false plates, Sir Spencer rubbed his wrists, bruised from the cuffs he’d worn for the better part of the day. He was tired and hungry and irritated.
“Where exactly is it we’re headed?” he asked Doug Salas, measuring the barrel-chested, bearded hulk in the seat next to him. Sir Spencer assumed he was CIA, special operations, or a contracted thug. The man looked like every operator or Spec Ops superhero with whom he’d worked in Afghanistan or Pakistan as he dealt information and arms to the Taliban on behalf of the United States.
Salas chewed on his gum, but he didn’t acknowledge Sir Spencer. He pulled a cell phone from the thigh pocket of his cargo pants and checked the screen. He pressed two buttons and handed the phone to Sir Spencer without looking at him.
Spencer looked at the phone. It was dialing an unidentifiable number. “Is the line secure?”
Salas nodded. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Sir Spencer pulled the phone to his ear in time to hear someone answer on the other end. It was a familiar voice.
“That was a bit more violent than I was anticipating,” Sir Spencer began. “I assumed you’d have everything a bit more staged to minimize the collateral damage.
“Since when are you concerned about collateral damage?” the voice replied. “I don’t recall any worries when you blew up the Capitol Rotunda.”
“Different circumstances.” Sir Spencer chuckled.
“They’re all the same circumstances.”
“I heard about our good friend Horus,” Sir Spencer said, cradling the phone in his neck to rub the soreness from his wrist. “Pity.”
“He was a threat. Just like Bill Davidson.”
Bill Davidson, a former US attorney general and one of Sir Spencer’s flunky conspirators, was cracking in the days leading up to the execution of the plot, so he’d been executed. Or at least he would have been, had he not committed suicide first.
“I liked Horus’s music,” Sir Spencer offered. “He was such a clever lyricist.”
“A little too clever,” said the voice. “I wasn’t a fan.”
“So what’s next?” Sir Spencer asked. “I imagine the world knows, or soon will, I am a free man.”
“Not exactly.”
“How so?” Sir Spencer leaned forward in his seat, stretching the seat belt’s shoulder strap. The conversation was, for the first time, interesting.
“You were collateral damage during the escape attempt.”
“I see.” Sir Spencer considered the freedom his supposed death afforded him. “Brilliant.”
“It’s for the cause,” the voice explained. “You’re a more effective asset if you can work your black magic undetected.”
“Agreed.” Sir Spencer adjusted his girth, shimmying into a more comfortable position in the seat. “However, I would counsel my visage is as well-known as the president’s. Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, the History Channel, all of them are fans. That insufferable Vickie Lupo character, the woman on the program Constitution Avenue, can’t stop talking about me.”
“I gather you had access to television while incarcerated?”
“There’s access to everything if you know who to ask.” Sir Spencer laughed, his deep voice resonating in the back of the SUV and forcing open the operator’s eyes. The bearded spook scratched his neck, glowered at Sir Spencer, and shook his head.
“You’ll be working from a secure location,” the voice said. “That’s where you’re headed now.”
“When will I see you?”
“I have a trip planned to the location. It’ll be soon.”
“Soon it is, then.” Sir Spencer lowered the phone and disconnected. “Here you are.” He offered the device to Salas.
Salas took the phone and slipped it back into his thigh pocket. “I agree with Fisher.” He looked straight at Sir Spencer without a hint of expression on his face. “You’re a piece of trash.”
Sir Spencer studied the operator’s face for a moment, noting the deep ray of sun-induced crow’s-feet spreading outward from his eyes. His beard was closely cropped, thick enough to make his face indistinguishable from all of the other operators with whom he worked. Spencer looked at the man’s hands, thickly calloused and muscular. His left pinkie rested askew, as did his middle finger.
“That’s interesting,” said Sir Spencer. “You put bullets into the heads of men who swore to defend the same constitution to which you are loyal, and you judge me.”
“I killed them to set you free,” said Salas. “I did my job. Nothing more. Their deaths, while tragic, serve a purpose.”
“And yet you can’t see why the deaths of those inside the Capitol, while tragic, also serve a higher purpose?”
“Whatever,” Salas grunted and closed his eyes, lying back against the headrest.
“Well then,” said Sir Spencer, a smile snaking across his cheeks, “I’ll thank you for your service and sacrifice to this nation. But I daresay, your myopia could be your downfall. There is always a bigger picture, always a grander scheme. You, like the marshals, are pawns. Unwitting or otherwise.”
CHAPTER 5
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
Matti Harrold sat down on the sofa, sitting on the edge with her back straight. She was never quite comfortable in the Oval Office. She wasn’t certain if her unease was because of what the office represented or because of what she knew had happened there.
To her left was the famed Resolute Desk. It was where laws were signed and important addresses televised. John Kennedy played hide and seek underneath it, Monica Lewinsky played something else aside it, and President Dexter Foreman died behind it.
None of it made her comfortable. She squeezed her left hand into a tight fist and then flexed it, trying to fight off an involuntary tremor. She didn’t want her boss to see it. She didn’t want questions.
“So, Matti”—President Jackson strode back into the room from her private office and gracefully took her place on the sofa opposite Matti—“how are you?” She crossed one leg over the other, the bright red leather on the bottom of her sole conspicuous.
“Ma’am?”
“You were privy to some information I imagine was quite personal for you.” President Jackson leaned forward, her hands clasped on her lap. “I know you’ve struggled with what happened, your role in it…”
“Yes, Madam President,” Matti said, “I have struggled. But the guilt is a little less overwhelming every day. The work you provide for me here is a privilege and a salve.”
“Don’t be so damned formal with me, Matti,” President Jackson scolded. “Who the hell says salve? C’mon, girl. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Matti shifted on the edge of the cushion, considering her response. “I don’t know that we should be lying to the American people. If Sir Spencer Thomas is alive and on the run, don’t you think we should tell them?”
The president slapped her leg and sprang from her seat. She walked around the coffee table separating the two sofas and sat next to Matti. “I knew you didn’t like the idea. I could see it on your face, Matti. You’re still coping with the whole white hat, black hat sense of things, aren’t you?”
“Not really. I—”
“Look, Matti”—the president lowered her voice, softened her tone—“I know you’re more of a Dudley Do Right than James Bond, but consider the consequences of telling the world Sir Spencer escaped our custody.”
Matti’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Our economy is teetering. Confidence in this administration is shallow at best. We’re about to head to Barcelona for a key meeting with the European Union. I can’t go there from a perceived position of weakness.”
�
�I understand the optics of it,” countered Matti. “I fully comprehend that relative ignorance is relative bliss, but lying to the country is—”
“Is what presidents do,” Jackson interrupted. “We are parents who’ve yet to reveal the truth about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. We don’t lie for the sake of it. We lie to keep alive the illusion of magic and unfettered benevolence.”
“Who in the hell uses the word unfettered?” Matti mumbled through a self-conscious smile.
“Ha!” The president nudged Matti with her sharp elbow. “Good one.”
“I don’t agree with your metaphor, however,” Matti said, the smile evaporating as quickly as it appeared. “The people should know.”
“They’ll know eventually. Because eventually, and not too long from now, we’ll catch him and kill him. The reality will meet the truth.”
“Understood.” Matti nodded. “And I wouldn’t say anything, except that you asked.”
“I know that. You’re loyal, Matti. And that’s not easily found inside the Beltway.”
Matti nodded again and stood to leave. She offered the president her hand.
“I do want to know how you are.” President Jackson took her aide’s hand and stood as she gripped it. “Are you okay?”
“As good as ever, Madam President.” Matti forced a grin. “When are you addressing the media? I’d like to be there if that’s okay.”
“Of course.” President Jackson let go of Matti’s hand and folded her arms across her chest. “Should be in an hour or so. I think the press is in the media room already and they’re being briefed ahead of time. By the way, how are things moving along with the SECURITY Act?”
President Jackson had tasked Matti with backchannel work on pending legislation called the SECURITY Act. SECURITY was an acronym for Surveillance of Electronic Correspondence Under Regulated Intelligence and Telecommunication. It was a successor to the PATRIOT Act, whose teeth were pulled in the final days of the Obama administration. The NSA’s broad powers to eavesdrop on Americans without warrants was also technically nonexistent.
Now, in the wake of the Capitol Hill attack, the president was trying to push through a far more invasive form of surveillance and counterterrorism tactics that would essentially dilute the Fourth Amendment. The idea of homegrown, mostly white, non-Muslim terrorists had weakened the resolve of those opposed to the lessening of personal freedom for the sake of security.
The president knew Matti was the perfect person for the job, despite her issues. She was former NSA, she was a hero, and she had the soft touch needed to massage the brokers on Capitol Hill.
“Good, I think,” Matti said. “We’ve got a majority on board in the House. The key will be a handful of senators who could go either way on it. They never liked the PATRIOT Act.”
“Of course,” said the president, shaking her head. “I could have Edward Snowden on my team, and some of those ideologues would oppose anything that keeps our country safe.”
“I think they’ll come around,” said Matti. “I’ve developed a decent rapport with their chiefs of staff in a short period of time. If you reached out directly…”
“Not a problem.” President Jackson snapped her fingers and pointed at Matti. “A little private luncheon here after the Barcelona trip should do it.”
“Thank you.” Matti turned to leave the office and she glanced over at the desk. Her eyes were drawn to the blotter covering much of the wood. It was there to hide the indelible stain from Dexter Foreman’s blood.
CHAPTER 6
BUSH INTERCONTINENTAL AIRPORT
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Dillinger Holt connected his phone to the rental car’s Bluetooth and dialed the number pulled up in his contacts. It rang once.
“What do you want?” The greeting was as cold as a corpse.
“Really, Karen?” Holt laughed nervously. “That’s the greeting I get?”
“What. Do. You. Want?”
“I need your help.” Holt was sitting in the parking space in the rental garage, the engine idling.
“Of course you do.”
“Can we meet?”
“Why?”
“C’mon, Karen,” Holt pleaded. “I’ve apologized.”
“On the back of a napkin. On the nightstand. Of a hotel room for which I paid.”
“Pleeease?”
“You’re infuriating, Dillinger,” she huffed. The ice was thawing.
“It’s my eyes, isn’t it?” Holt chuckled and adjusted the side-view mirrors.
“Something like that,” she mused. “This is about the rapper, isn’t it?”
“Yep.” Holt dropped the phone from his ear and tapped the speakerphone option.
“You know everybody and their brother wants a copy of that report.” Karen sighed. “I’m not going to be able to give you a copy. Plus, the toxicology won’t be back for a while.”
“What about dinner, then?” Holt suggested. He thumbed through a dining app on his phone, looking for the name of a familiar restaurant. “I know you like Goode Company Seafood. It’s what, fifteen minutes from your office?”
“I can’t bring the report with me either, Dillinger,” she explained. “I’d lose my job.”
“I thought you were in charge,” Holt countered.
“Everybody has a boss. But I can meet you in a half hour. We can talk about it. But nothing on paper.”
“Got it,” Holt said, tapping off the speakerphone and drawing the device back to his ear. “See you at seven thirty.”
Holt backed out of the spot and eased through the garage and the spaghetti maze of perpetual airport construction on his way into Houston. He punched on the radio and thumped his fingers against the steering wheel to the rhythmic beat, wholly unaware he was listening to a previously unreleased song from Horus.
In the darkness I fly, paper it hides
The need for real life.
Changing, I’m gaming and slaying not staying the same.
From alleys to galleys, I’m cooking the words.
Absurd.
They know I’ll keep spitting,
The rhythm it’s gettin’ too hard to control.
From spinning the lies, the secrets unbridled,
I gallop.
Choking on scallops and Dom,
I’m long gone.
Without power, the shower it dries
In the darkness I fly.
Holt turned up the volume, his head unconsciously swaying to the concussive bass, the monotone depth of Horus’s voice. He merged to the right and accelerated south along the Hardy Toll Road toward the 610 Loop surrounding the city’s urban core.
They’ll clip my wings,
Cut the cord when I sing.
I’m high but I’m grounded.
Trying not to flounder.
But they got me.
They’ll hook me.
In the darkness.
In the darkness.
No light.
No flight.
All gone.
In the darkness.
Holt passed a large eighteen-wheeler and directed the rental back into the center lane. To his left was a train barreling down a set of tracks separating the north and southbound lanes of the toll road. He didn’t like being that close to a locomotive.
In God We Trust, climb the bricks we must,
To the top of the peak, one eye open, collapsed.
Take a nap, take the rap, fill the gap in the wall
On the street, we will meet, so discreet.
Avengers unite, for the fight, in the night.
No light.
In the darkness.
No flight.
All gone.
In the darkness.
In the darkness.
He didn’t notice the song was over and a deejay was talking until the name “Horus” broke through his fog.
“Hard to believe he’s gone, people,” said the deejay. “That new track, ‘Darkness,’ wasn’t supposed to drop until next mo
nth. It leaked on the ’Net and now it’s on iTunes. It’s haunting, right? Completely haunting. Rest in peace, Horus. Your talent will be missed, brother. We’ll be right back with more of today’s top hip-hop. I’m your deejay GUNK. You know!!”
Holt picked up his phone and tapped the iTunes icon on his phone. It opened on the screen as his eyes danced back and forth between the road and the screen. The application opened and proclaimed the new, exclusive release of Horus’s posthumous track.
He thumbed a purchase and downloaded the song onto his phone, narrowly avoiding a motorcyclist when he kept his eyes off the road for a beat too long. He dropped the phone into the passenger seat and refocused on his driving, speeding toward his dinner date.
CHAPTER 7
THE MAYFLOWER HOTEL
WASHINGTON, DC
Horus’s assassin stood nude at the bathroom mirror of her suite at the Mayflower Renaissance Hotel. The spacious room was on the club level of the architecturally masterful building. Her palms were pressed flat against the Carrara marble vanity, the water running cold from the stainless faucet. To her right was a frameless glass shower encased on three sides by white subway tile. The floor was black and white, the pattern designed to mimic a basket weave.
She stared at herself in the mirror, examining the imperfections on her scalp, the faint tan line that marked what should have been her hairline. Her eyes moved along her body, across her broad but feminine shoulders, to her décolletage and waist. She stood back from the vanity and traced a hand along her flat stomach, a finger flicking the tiny stud piercing her navel.
She inhaled, savoring the fruit of the long hours of work it took to maintain a body worthy of the tasks given her. The assassin bit her lower lip and looked down at the vanity.
Next to a folded white washcloth, a brown bottle of peroxide, a tube of Neosporin, and a wide bandage was a surgical-grade scalpel.
