by Tom Abrahams
Matti snapped to attention, her mouth agape.
“It’s my White House, Matti.” The president pushed back from the table. “I know everything that happens there. And I know you need help. After Barcelona, you’re getting treatment. That is, if you think you can make the trip to Spain?”
Matti nodded.
“Good.” President Jackson’s hand trailed along the table as she walked. “Now enough of these conspiracy theories, Matti, or your promising career could come to a swift, ignominious end. Far worse than those hearings you endured. Understood?”
Matti nodded again.
“Now”—the president rapped her knuckles on the table “—I’m going to get a late dinner and a power nap before we leave. I think we’re out of here around three. A nice red-eye to Barcelona.” She winked, turned her back, and slunk out of the room.
Matti knew better than to say anything to dispute the president’s assertions. Much of what her boss had said was true. She was an addict. She was looking for redemption.
However, the president’s quick dismissal of her without any plausible explanation for what Matti knew she saw was a de facto admission as far as Matti was concerned. That, followed by the threat of career destruction and public embarrassment from a woman who claimed to care deeply for her, was enough to affirm what Matti had seen.
There was something bigger at play, something more sinister than the attack on the Capitol. Matti wondered into what rabbit hole she’d fallen and if she’d be able to find her way out of it before it collapsed around her.
CHAPTER 22
WASHINGTON, DC
Horus didn’t trust many people in the course of his abbreviated life. Aside from an accountant and a business manager he knew would ensure his financial security, he didn’t invest in people. It was easier to enter any relationship with a healthy amount of distrust.
One of those relationships was with a Washington, DC, call girl. She was recommended to him by a mutual friend who promised discretion.
He enjoyed her company so much he would fly her to meet with him in various cities. He knew she had other clients, some of whom were powerful men with agendas more critical than penning angst and screaming into microphones at disaffected crowds. He didn’t care.
He loved her intoxicating smell: cinnamon, chocolate, and fruit. He’d bury his face in her neck and inhale. She was as good as any drug. Her pale, almost translucent skin was like porcelain, adorned with an Aquarian tattoo on the inside of her arm and a diamond navel piercing. The diamond was a gift from another client, she’d told him when he’d asked about it.
“Who’s the client?” Horus asked as they lay in bed together for the last time. “I might have to buy you a bigger diamond.”
“That’s not necessary,” she purred. “And I can’t tell you who he is, you know that.” Her finger dragged along his chest, the long red nail tracing the cut of his muscles.
“What’s he do?” Horus pressed. “Is he an athlete?”
“No.” She giggled. “He’s a…politician.”
“That narrows it.” Horus laughed. “You live in DC. It could be anybody.”
“Exactly,” she hummed. She patted him on the stomach and then slid away from him. “I have to use the little girls’ room.”
Horus watched her glide away from him, his eyes transfixed on her immaculate figure. She was magical. He closed his eyes and replayed the previous thirty minutes in his mind. He was mid-highlight when she called from the bathroom.
“Hey, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Can you slide my cell phone under the door? I meant to grab it. I need to check messages before I get in the shower.”
Horus slid out of the comfort of the bed and moved to the chair where she’d disrobed. Her dress was there. Her high heels were unstrapped and on the floor next to her bag. He didn’t see her phone.
He dug into her purse, feeling around for the phone. He didn’t find it. So he opened up the bag with both hands and looked inside.
There was a makeup bag, some loose change, a box of condoms, a roll of cash bound with a red rubber band, some pepper spray, and a large headset.
He picked up the headset and rolled it over in his hands. It looked like something a telephone operator would wear. He set it aside and then stuffed his hand inside the bag again. He found the phone and a blue journal.
Horus placed the phone next to the headset and thumbed through the notebook. In it, he saw the names of people he knew. They were part of the organization that had funded his rise. Vav Six, the music producer, had introduced many of them at the Brethren’s late night gatherings.
What was she doing with this information? And what were these people planning?
Semtex? Assassination? Plot? Funeral? Government course-correction?
“Did you find my phone?” she called from the bathroom. The shower was running. Horus looked up and saw steam misting into the room from the space between the bottom of the bathroom door and the floor.
“Yeah,” he called. “I found it.” He walked the few steps to the bathroom and slid the phone to her. “Here you go.”
Horus backed away from the door and dropped to the edge of the bed. He stared at the journal, understanding he was in over his head.
His fame, his popularity, was a product of some secret cabal bent on more than subliminal advertising or a cultural revolution, as he’d been told. He now understood he was a pawn in some dark, far-reaching conspiracy of violence.
He stood from the bed and put the journal and the headset back in her bag, considering his options.
He could confront the hooker: What was she doing with the journal? How did she know the people he knew?
He could ask Vav Six about what he’d seen: Who were these people, really? What were they planning?
He could go to the authorities. Like they’d ever believe him. Or if they did, who was to say they weren’t part of the plan too?
Or he could forget about it and pretend it didn’t exist.
It was just a bunch of names and places on paper. It wasn’t real.
He ran his hands through his hair with a heavy sigh. The decision was easy.
Horus rolled over to the nightstand and shook out a line of cocaine, which he immediately inhaled. He pinched the end of his nose, wiping away the excess powder, and walked back to the bathroom door.
He found it unlocked and opened it a crack. “Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not,” she called. “I’m just getting in.”
That was the beginning of the end.
Within days, she was dead and the Capitol was rubble. While Horus watched the drama unfolding on television, he called Vav Six and told him what he’d seen in the journal.
The music producer told him to forget about it, to keep quiet. He told Horus their lives depended upon it.
Horus couldn’t forget. His music began to reflect his growing disillusionment. It was a problem, and despite Vav Six’s warning, Horus couldn’t contain himself.
His growing popularity only compounded what the more powerful of the Brethren believed was a burgeoning threat. If they allowed him to continue much longer, he’d cast his own shadow and they’d be unable to control him.
So they stopped him.
CHAPTER 23
HOUSTON, TEXAS
The video was convincing. Dillinger Holt watched it for a fourth time and was certain Sir Spencer Thomas was alive. Or if he was killed, it hadn’t happened during the ambush. It was worth the five thousand dollars.
Holt started the video again on his laptop. The audio was captured with an ambient microphone and was muddled at best.
“We transporting all three to the same location?” Holt could hear one of the voices say. He couldn’t hear the response; then the first voice spoke again.
“Three bodies and four ME vans? What’s that about?”
“Above my pay grade,” said the second voice. “I just do what I’m told.”
“I won’t ask, then.”
Gusts of wind made the rest of the conversation inaudible. But the remaining video clearly showed bodies being loaded into three different vans. The fourth van was empty and left without a body in the back.
In all, the video ran just three minutes, but it was more than long enough to cast doubt on the official story. Holt pulled the headphones from his ears and looked around the Starbucks. Another wave of customers had come and gone. He checked his watch; it was getting late and he’d spent way too much time in the coffee shop.
He’d intended to visit the Toyota Center and try to talk with the security guard who’d seen a woman leaving Horus’s room before he died, but the video had taken precedence. He’d spent much of his day negotiating, acquiring, and reviewing it. He’d even written a rough three-hundred-word post and sent it to his boss. He was waiting for the attorneys to finesse it and okay it for publication.
Holt checked his phone, swiped it open to his messages, and sent a text to Karen’s phone. He was anxious to see her.
you available early?
He immediately saw the little dots on the left side of the screen. She was responding. Holt smiled to himself. Maybe there was a real connection with her. His phone buzzed.
of course. thirty minutes?
He replied with a devil emoji and a smiley face. Then Holt opened up his email program on his laptop and checked his inbox. There was a new email from his boss.
This is fantastic, Holt. Lawyers like it. As long as we couch the language, we’re good. We’re posting with a question as the headline. Here’s the dead link before it goes live. Let me know your thoughts with the tweaks we’ve made. Once you’re good, we’ll post. Nice work!! But you’re still not going to Barcelona…
Holt opened the attachment and read his reworked piece. It would be his third big post in as many days. He deserved a raise.
Is Capitol Conspirator Really Dead?
EXCLUSIVE VIDEO Casts Doubt On White House Claims
FBI Now Involved
By Dillinger Holt, Senior Correspondent
A new video, obtained exclusively by PlausibleDeniability.info, clearly shows three bodies at scene of ambush shoot-out. White House claims four people died. So where is the additional body? You decide.
—EXCLUSIVE—
In the minutes after a deadly, well-executed ambush of a United States Marshal transport, a bystander captured three minutes of video with a cell-phone camera. Though shaky, at times out of focus, and shot from a distance, what it reveals could counter the claims that four people were killed in a brazen daytime assault in rural Virginia.
In the video, there are three bodies covered with cloth and laid upon gurneys. Each of the bodies is placed into a separate van for transportation from the scene in Triangle, Virginia.
A fourth van is present, but no body is ever placed in the vehicle.
At a White House press conference, President Felicia Jackson told reporters there were four fatalities: three deputy marshals and the man they were transporting from one detention facility to another, Sir Spencer Thomas.
Thomas was awaiting trial for the bombing of the US Capitol building last year. The president would not speculate as to whether or not Thomas was the target of the Special Operations-style attack.
Could it be the attack’s mission was to free Thomas and not kill him?
“I definitely saw three bodies,” said the person who shot the video, and whose identity we are keeping hidden as a safety precaution. “All of them were law enforcement. They were wearing uniforms. I didn’t see their faces. But they were wearing uniforms.”
Further casting doubt on the president’s version of events is a conversation recorded on the short video. In it, two members of the recovery team are discussing the presence of three bodies and four vans.
As of the posting of this article, neither the White House nor the USMS has responded to our request for comment. The FBI, however, has asked for a copy of the video. We are complying with that request.
DEVELOPING…
Holt was good with the minor changes and was glad they’d reached out for comment and even happier there wasn’t a response yet. He replied to his boss. In a few minutes, the post would go live.
He closed his laptop and sat back in his seat. He looked across the room to a frowning barista at the cash register. The barista rolled his eyes.
Clearly, Holt had outstayed his welcome. He slid his laptop into a backpack and pocketed his phone. In a few minutes, he’d be back at the hotel, awaiting his date for the night.
It could be worse, he thought to himself as he trudged to his rental car, not realizing how right he was.
*
The assassin’s eyes moved from the rearview mirror to the phone in her hand and back again. She was trying to make herself look as much like Karen Corvus as possible. It would give her the added seconds she needed. While her mark stood confused, trying to rationalize who she was, she’d have his heart in her hand, so to speak.
She mimicked Karen’s eyeliner, penciling the color just beyond the outer edge of her lid. Above the liner, some muted shadow.
The lips were easy, a burnt red hue applied sparingly. She was nearly finished with the look, pleased with herself, when she had second thoughts. The assassin thumbed through more photos. In most of them, Karen wasn’t wearing any makeup.
The assassin thought back to the morgue. Karen wasn’t wearing any makeup there either, she recalled. It was just the glasses and the effortless pencil-twisted bun.
Frustrated with herself for having wasted her time, the assassin found some napkins in the glove box and wiped clean the makeup from her eyes and lips.
She was in the parking lot of the reporter’s hotel. He’d not arrived yet, and she was parked such that she’d notice when he did.
Though it was raining and the windshield was fogged, she could see through it. If nothing else, the rain might provide the additional cover she’d need until she was up against her mark.
She pulled on a wig that most closely matched Karen’s hair color and then worked it into the messy bun she’d seen Karen wear. She found a pair of brown-tinted contact lenses in her survival kit and fingered them onto her eyes. Once she’d blinked them into place, she eased on the tortoiseshell glasses.
Close enough, she thought to herself. It was nearly dark. That would help.
She’d wait in the car until he arrived and then honk the horn. He’d recognize Karen’s car and assume the woman emerging from it was his date.
How would she kill him?
It would be fast. With car keys. Or one of her high heels.
The rain intensified, thumping against the roof of the car. She turned on the engine and activated the windshield wipers, clearing her field of vision. A car pulled into the lot, splashing a puddle from the rutted asphalt, and parked in front of the hotel.
The driver’s door opened and a man emerged, covering his bald head with a briefcase. It wasn’t the mark.
She’d recognize the reporter from photographs she’d found of him on the web. He was younger, good-looking, with a full head of hair.
The fog reappeared on the windshield, with the wipers doing little to alleviate it. The assassin cranked the defrost and checked her phone. He should arrive any minute now.
To be certain she hadn’t missed him, she picked up Karen’s phone and pecked a text message.
i’m here. u?
Within ten seconds he responded.
stuck in traffic. rain. be there in five.
She acknowledged his text and eased her seat back, reclining it with the manual lever between the cushion and the driver’s side door. The waiting was always the most difficult part of the job for her.
She was a woman of action. That was what they’d told her when they gave her this new life. She’d fly, they promised. Untethered by convention or the rules of morality, she could soar.
They were right, of course. The freedom with each pull of
the trigger, swipe of the blade, or push of the needle was intoxicatingly powerful and indescribably liberating.
What they didn’t tell her was that those were the only moments in which she’d feel alive and above the clouds. The rest of the time, those hours and days or weeks and months between assignments, was gray and suffocating. With each successive kill, the dark periods, as she privately called them, grew more unpalatable.
She bit down on her lower lip, relishing the sting. The rain obscured her view again. She flipped the wipers on again.
The sound of the rain mixed with the squeak of the blades was hypnotic in its rhythm. She closed her eyes and listened. She was nearly lost in the musicality of it when Karen’s phone chimed.
The assassin sat up and checked the display.
I’m here.
She looked across the parking lot. There he was, standing underneath the lit portico outside the hotel entrance and waving at her.
It was pouring now, and the rain beating against the roof was deafening.
The assassin flashed her headlights against the curtain of water and turned off the car. She pulled the key from the ignition and slipped the sharp end between her middle and forefinger.
This would be quick.
The assassin covered her head with a folded map she pulled from the center console and walked purposefully across the parking lot. She would approach him, embrace him, and end his life.
Before he hit the ground, she’d turn around and walk back to the car. The deluge would give her ample cover to drive away without notice.
