by Tom Abrahams
It was a crude effort, but his talent was evident. Horus was born.
Harry used his initials, HRS, to come up with his stage name. He loved it. It was the name of a falcon-headed Greek god to whom kings prayed. From the reaction to his first upload, Horus’s teenage hip-hop incarnation was worthy of worship.
In the first forty-eight hours after the upload, he had fifty thousand views. In a week it was two hundred thousand. Horus started uploading new music every week and gained a cult following. He started earning money on a dedicated YouTube channel. Apparel companies gave him logo-embossed clothing to wear in the videos, and advertisers paid to embed their messages before and after his uploads. He dropped out of high school with six months to go so that he could concentrate on his growing business.
Then his mother died, and his father fell off the wagon. Both of them had debt. To keep a roof over his head, Horus was forced to confront the reality of the world. He needed more than free clothes and a few hundred dollars a month. He needed a real job. The uploads stopped.
He kept writing songs, jotting down lyrics, humming melodies as he worked two jobs: ten hours changing oil at a one-hour oil-change business followed by eight as an overnight stock boy at a grocery store. He was making almost enough to pay his bills, and on the odd weekend, he’d catch a deejaying shift at a local club. He was subsisting for three years. It was chance, or maybe misfortune, that changed his path and alit the fast-burning flame that consumed him.
He was twenty-one years old and was unloading cartons of Borden milk during a late shift. He was wearing headphones and rapping one of his own creations as he worked.
I’m too busy, hair too frizzy
face too greasy, life not easy in the slow lane
working past the pain to earn a check
chick check mic check on the deck
rising up again to fight the man
work for the man bow down again
he ain’t no friend, but I’ve got plan
to amp up the sound, jump from the ground
into the sky and atmosphere far from here
I’m almost there, so hard to bear
’Cause I’m too busy, hair too frizzy.
He was about to hit the second verse when there was a tap on his shoulder. It startled him and he dropped a half gallon of two-percent, splattering it against the case and on the floor.
“Dude.” A man laughed, stepping back from the expanding pool of milk so as not to ruin his pristine white Nike Air Jordans. “You need to chill.”
Horus pulled the headphones down around his neck, a pained look on his face until he recognized the man in the expensive shoes. His jaw dropped.
“You a rapper?” the man asked, offering Horus a fist bump. “’Cause you can spit. Seriously, brother, you got flow.”
“Thanks,” was the best Horus could conjure. He reciprocated with a bump and then reached for his walkie-talkie. “I need a mop by dairy, please.”
“Sorry about the mess, brother. I just heard you and thought I recognized you.”
“You. Recognized. Me?” It was laughable. “You’re Vav Six, the producer, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s me,” said the music mogul. “But we’re talking about you. You deejay up at Club 33, right?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’ve seen you. You’re good.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.”
“Those words, what you were just doing, they’re yours?” Vav Six looked down at his iPhone while he talked. He typed out a text with his thumb.
“Yeah.”
“Got any more?” The producer looked up from his phone, his eyebrows arched.
“I’ve got a notebook full of them.”
“Cool. Write this down.” He gave Horus his number. “Give me a call tomorrow. We’ll set something up. See if you’re for real.”
Horus saved the number in his contacts. “I’m Horus, by the way.”
“I know.” Vav Six left Horus to clean up his mess and then signed him to a record deal three days later.
Within eight weeks, they’d released his first single. In twelve months he was touring with three platinum singles and an addiction to smack. Add another year, he was dead.
CHAPTER 15
CAMP DAVID
CATOCTIN MOUNTAIN PARK, MARYLAND
“I’m not much for this place,” President Jackson mumbled as Marine One landed at Camp David just sixty-eight miles from the White House. “I think President Obama was onto something.”
“He didn’t like it here?” Matti asked.
“No,” said Jackson. “At least not as much as Bush before him and the others after him.”
“I didn’t know that.” Matti shook her head, waiting for the rotors to slow before their escort notified them it was okay to disembark.
“Something the great Matti Harrold didn’t know?” joked Chief of Staff Goodman. “We should write this down, Madam President.”
“Oh, I’m certain Matti has already committed this moment to her photographic memory. Haven’t you?” President Jackson smiled at her aide.
“Maybe,” Matti smirked. “I do know that President Obama spent his fifty-second birthday here. So I guess I just assumed—”
“And there’s your mistake.” The president held up a finger as she stood. “You assumed.”
“Yes, Madam President.” Matti took the lead and stood, following the president through the cabin of the fourteen-person Sikorsky helicopter. “I’ll make a mental note of that advice.” She winked at Goodman as she stepped past him toward the exit.
The air was surprisingly cool, given how much warmer it was on the South Lawn. Matti stepped from the helicopter, thanked the Marine standing at attention to her left, and followed the president toward the field house on the northern edge of the landing pad.
“Why don’t you enjoy it here?” Matti asked above the din of the slowing engines. “It’s so serene here.”
“Maybe that’s why.” The president shrugged, slowing her pace to keep even with Matti. “I like the hustle and bustle of the city. I enjoy the frenetic pace of it. This is too…it’s too…peaceful.”
“Not enough chaos?” Matti asked, reminding herself of what she’d read in Bill Davidson’s journal.
“Perfect word.” The president stepped into the field house, a Marine saluting her as she entered. Matti followed.
Brandon Goodman was a step behind. “I’ve got some calls to make before we meet later this morning,” he said. “We’ll meet in the Aspen Lodge at three. Good?”
“Good with me,” said the president. “I’ve got a couple of things to do myself before the briefing.” She found a spot on a worn, saddle-leather sofa and crossed her legs.
“So you don’t need me, then?” Matti asked. “I’ll see you at three?”
“That’s fine, Matti.” The president looked up from her Blackberry. “I’ll see you then. I’ll have Secret Service escort me to the lodge when it’s time. Do you know where you’re housed?”
“I’m at Aspen with you, Madam President. I’m in bedroom four.”
“See you later, then.”
Matti backed out of the field house and out onto the helicopter pad. She thought it odd the president would spend any time in the field house. She’d never done that before. Matti suspected that she wanted some privacy.
Matti looked to the southwest at the little-used skeet range and then walked to the parking lot at the edge of the helicopter pad. Unlike Felicia Jackson, Matti enjoyed the relative tranquility of Camp David. There was so little downtime when working in the White House, especially as a close presidential aide whose responsibilities ran the gamut from gofer to confidante, it was nice to get away for a couple of days.
She followed the narrow road to the northeast and the heart of the camp. Matti’s messenger bag was slung across her back, the strap running diagonally across her chest. She carried an overnight bag on one shoulder and her purse on the other. She gripped her purse strap and then flexed her hand agai
nst a tremor.
Fighting the urge to rip open her bag, find the prescription bottle, and pop a pill all the way, she looked up at the trees and tried to clear her mind. She was fine seconds earlier, but the tremor reminded her of how much she needed her meds.
The path opened to a four-way stop. She continued straight, toward the camp commander’s quarters. Passing the intersection, a pine-needle-strewn nature trail extended to the east. She liked the trail. She’d jogged it during previous trips here. It curved around the golf course, north to the Laurel Lodge, where it reconnected with the paved road. Its tributaries branched throughout the central part of the camp.
She was focused on getting to the Aspen Lodge and locking herself in her bedroom. She needed to fight past the urge and work through her anxiety without artificial help. This was as good a place as any to do it.
She’d reached the commander’s quarters when she heard a voice behind her.
“Matti?” It was Brandon.
“Hi!” she said, stopping for him to catch up with her. “What are you doing? I thought you had stuff to do.”
“I was at the gatehouse,” he said. “I wanted to make sure the guards had the information for our guests. They’ll be here in a couple of hours.”
“Policy people, right?” Matti asked. “With ideas for talking points in Barcelona?”
“Yep.” Brandon touched her shoulder. “Matti, are you okay?”
“Why?” She unconsciously flexed her hand.
“You look clammy,” he said. “You’re sweating and it can’t be more than sixty-five degrees here.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Maybe a little cold or something.”
“Okay,” he said. “Just checking. Are you headed to the lodge?”
“Yes,” she said. “Gonna freshen up and review notes before the meeting. Maybe I’ll take a jog.”
“Sounds good. I’ll walk with you, if that’s okay. The fresh air is invigorating.”
“Of course,” she said. “The more the merrier.”
*
Sir Spencer took a sip from the steaming cup of coffee he’d brewed. It singed the end of his tongue, which he ran along the back of his teeth. The battery-operated clock on the table next to his chair told him it was eight thirty in the morning when someone knocked on his door.
“Come in,” he called without getting up from his seat. He took another, more careful sip of coffee. “It’s open.”
The door swung open and Doug Salas walked through, his hulking frame backlit by the sunlight filtering through the trees outside. He stepped to Sir Spencer and motioned for him to stand.
Sir Spencer stood, still holding the cup of coffee, and rolled his eyes. “What?”
“I need to frisk you,” Salas said. “Assume the position.”
Sir Spencer set down the coffee cup and raised his arms above his head.
Salas used the backs of his hands to check Sir Spencer’s arms, legs, groin, and waist. He asked him to open his mouth and stick out his tongue. Sir Spencer complied.
“Okay,” Salas offered. “You’re good.” He walked out of the cabin, leaving the door open. A moment later, an old friend walked up the stoop and into the room.
“Sir Spencer, welcome to Camp David. I hope the Linden meets your standards.”
“Madam President, thank you for the hospitality. It’s not the Lincoln bedroom, but it will do. How is Dr. Chapa?” The veiled reference to their past was intended to draw a smile from the leader of the free world. Instead she grunted.
“Ask my husband,” she said. “I try not to tip the boat in muddy water.”
“He was at the inauguration, no?”
“Yes. Enough of the past. Let’s talk about the future.”
The two exchanged a brief hug, and Sir Spencer offered Felicia Jackson his seat. She obliged and set her Blackberry on the table next to his coffee. She glanced at the steam wafting from the cup.
“That makes me think of our good friend Dexter Foreman,” she said. “The hot cup of coffee every morning before his day began.”
“Ahhh…so you’d like to linger on the past a bit longer, then.” Sir Spencer smiled. “Yes, it is reminiscent of our dearly departed friend’s nasty caffeine habit, except that mine isn’t laced with amphetamines as his was.”
“For months?”
“For months.” Sir Spencer walked over to his bed and sat on the edge, facing the president. “He never knew. And then, one day, boom!” He made a gesture with his hands mimicking an explosion. “An aneurysm. Nobody was the wiser.”
“It didn’t hurt his family had a predisposition for cerebral whatever-it-was,” she said.
“Cerebral arteritis.”
“We never really had a chance to talk about everything, did we?”
“We were otherwise engaged.” Sir Spencer chuckled.
“I’m still not thrilled about the near-death experience at the Capitol.” The president’s eyes narrowed. “What would you have done had I died?”
“There were contingencies,” he acknowledged. “There always are. You know we work like the mythical hydra, wherein one head is lost and another two take its place.”
“I’m well aware—”
“Then you’d best not question the order of things,” Sir Spencer said, his tone sharpening. “Do not confuse your position with my authority.”
“Whatever.” She waved him off. “It worked.”
“Everything has worked thus far,” said Sir Spencer, edging toward the president in her seat. He looked down at her as a teacher would a pupil. “Though we have some issues if we are to continue with this phase of the plan.”
“What’s that?” she asked, crossing her legs and adjusting her knee-length skirt.
“George and Art may be a tad loose-lipped,” he said. “They seem to lack the discretion needed. They may not understand the order of th—”
“It’s already taken care of.”
“It is?” Sir Spencer stood upright, his eyebrows arched and eyes wide.
“Yes,” she said. “Horrible prison accidents. Both men are silent.”
“Really?” Sir Spencer recoiled further. He hadn’t authorized the killings. “When did you—”
“Oh, come on,” she said, mocking his accent. “You aren’t the only one capable of violence. One doesn’t rise within the ranks of our club without the willingness to do whatever it takes to advance the agenda.”
“Touché.”
“Now”—she shifted in her seat—“I don’t have much time. So let’s get down to business.”
“Let’s.” He nodded.
“I’ll need you in Barcelona ahead of me,” President Jackson said. “It’s critical you lay the groundwork with our friends before my arrival.”
“Understood.”
“You’ll find all of the necessary documentation and talking points in a locker at the Rising Sun Aviation FBO at Dulles. There will be a private jet waiting for you. Our friends have arranged for some clothing, toiletries, and an encrypted phone. They’ll be on board when you arrive.”
“How efficient.” The hint of sarcasm was fueled by Sir Spencer’s dislike for how long he’d been out of the loop.
“We’ll meet somewhere privately once I’m in Spain. I don’t know the details yet, but somebody will let you know.”
“Goodman?”
“Brandon?” She laughed. “No. He’s blind. He has no idea what’s happening. Just know, someone with mutual interests will keep you in the loop.”
“And the SECURITY Act?”
“We’re moving it along,” said the president. “We’ve got the House on board. The Senate is a bit trickier.”
“One more domino and they’ll be begging for it.” Sir Spencer licked his upper lip, feeling the sting of the coffee burn.
“That’s what we’re hoping for.” President Jackson looked at her watch.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.” The president picked up her Blackberry. She thumbed the screen and handed i
t to Sir Spencer. “This.”
Sir Spencer took the device and held it far enough away from his eyes so that he could read the small print. It was a news article from the website PlausibleDeniability.info.
Authorities Investigating Link Between Death of Rapper and FBI Agent
By Dillinger Holt, Senior Correspondent
What is the connection between the hottest music act on the planet and a disgraced FBI agent? That’s the burning question now that we know DNA found at the scenes of their deaths is a match.
Houston, TX
—EXCLUSIVE—
In a development straight out of a conspiracy novel, we’ve learned EXCLUSIVELY that DNA found at the scene of rapper/hip-hop star Horus matches a sample found at the death of an FBI agent three years ago.
Horus, whose real name is Harold Richard Singleton, was found dead from a drug overdose earlier this week after a concert in Houston’s Toyota Center. Autopsy results are pending, but heroin is the likely culprit.
There was also DNA pulled from his body that pinged a hit on the national DNA database known as CODIS. That hit, surprisingly, matches a sample taken from the scene of the suspected suicide of a disgraced FBI special agent in northern Virginia.
That agent, Erik Majors, also died from a drug overdose. The agency investigating his death never concluded definitively that he killed himself.
Speaking on the condition of anonymity, someone with knowledge of the Majors case told us, “There are several people within the department who’ve long thought former FBI special agent Erik Majors did not kill himself. We’re certainly interested in evaluating any evidence that pushes forward that theory.”
So does that mean neither man killed himself but, instead, both men were targeted? It’s certainly a possibility investigators will consider as they work to identify the owner of the DNA. Despite the match, we’ve learned there is no identity attached to it.
We know the next step is communication amongst the agencies involved as they try to piece together how these two men were connected.
Developing…
