by Steve Richer
“Okay. Prove me wrong then.”
She stared at him for a beat and accepted the challenge. She headed off to see the lady.
“Can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m from the Washington office.” She pulled her party ID and gave it to her so she could see it was the real deal. “I’m checking to see if there were any reports of electoral fraud today, a high number of rejected ballots, that sort of thing.”
“No, it’s been real quiet-like so far, I mean for an election day. For Florida.”
She snickered and Esther joined in to stay polite.
“So nothing outta the ordinary?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s going to be a real good turnout though. So far 69 percent of the voters came out. That’s real good.”
“Really…” Esther said, her voice trailing off.
“Are you coming to the Diplomat tonight? Ford himself is gonna be there.”
Esther looked back at Spicer. She felt as if she had betrayed her people, forsaken all her beliefs, but she had to trust him. If he was only half right, the world was in jeopardy.
Chapter 27
No one was tailing him, Ned was pretty sure of it. He had only followed a rudimentary course on evasive driving when the CIA had hired him but he remembered the basics. Look for patterns. Look for anything out of the ordinary. So far nothing jumped out at him.
Still, his hands tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.
“They’re not gonna get to me. What do I know anyway? They’re doing some illegal shit and they tried to kill Old Spice about it. No big deal.”
The pep talk didn’t work. He looked once more in his mirrors but this time he only stared at himself.
Motherfuckers!
His conscience creeping up on him, he grabbed his phone and hit the first speed dial.
“Honey, it’s me.”
“Ned, what’s going on? Something has to be wrong for you to be calling me in the middle of the day.”
“No, listen. I want you to pack whatever clothes you can grab in 30 seconds. Then, you go to the hotel where your sister stayed on her honeymoon.”
“You mean the…”
“Don’t say it out loud, please,” he interrupted.
“I knew something was wrong! You’ve been acting weird all week and…”
“I love you but don’t argue baby, okay? I can’t explain anything right now. But I need you to leave the house for a while. I’ll call you there tomorrow morning.”
“You’re scaring me. Please tell me what’s going on, Ned.”
“I can’t. I’m gonna hit redial on this phone in one minute. If you answer the phone I’m gonna be real mad.”
He hated doing this to her but he had no choice. His wingman was in trouble. He hung up and threw the phone on the passenger seat.
He grabbed the wheel with two hands, cut two lanes to the left, and made a U-turn.
* * *
It took almost an hour to drive to Andrews Field and even though Ned no longer had CIA credentials, he still had his Uniformed Services ID. Getting onto the base proved relatively easy since he’d been here so often lately and he parked at his usual spot at the 89th Airlift Wing.
Heaven was smiling down on him when he made out a young Senior Airman he’d seen half a dozen times through recent transports. He got out of the car and jogged to him.
“Hey man, how’s the new baby? Listen, I need a favor.”
The Air Force man looked around. Was this guy talking to him?
“It’s a big favor that I need. In terms of aircraft, what can you give me?”
The kid’s double take alone had been worth the trip, Ned thought.
* * *
Houseman hated going to the subbasement. On the one hand, this excited him because it harkened back to the real shadowy work of the CIA. But on the other hand, the journey down through the long corridors was exhausting. He forgot the weakness of his legs by focusing on the problem at hand.
“How could he commandeer a plane without IDs?”
Dr. Michaels shrugged. “Apparently, they know him.”
“Do we know where he’s heading?”
“Not so far.”
They reached their destination and a security officer checked out their credentials before they were admitted into what everybody called the War Room. It wasn’t much different from the White House’s Situation Room or the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center.
It was here that CIA operations could be witnessed and controlled. Sometimes a high-ranking senator was brought in so he could see a covert drone strike. It never failed to make politicians feel important, like they were part of the action. And when they were pumped up with testosterone, they were much more inclined to approve budget increases or wave oversight on some shady operations.
The room was windowless though extremely bright from both artificial lighting and a dozen large screens. As many technicians were monitoring live satellite feeds and communication channels. Houseman and Michaels walked in but remained on the elevated platform instead of going down into the pit where the action was.
Michaels turned to the supervisor. “Do you have the link up?”
“We are online, sir.”
His own assistant was in communication with the Pentagon. “So far, Andrews is tracking the bogey. Its current heading is one-seven-five degrees. They’ll lose him in nine minutes.”
That wasn’t good news to Houseman. And it was freezing in here.
“Is there an AWACS in the area that can take over?”
The supervisor was prepared for these kinds of questions. “The closest one’s in the Gulf of Mexico, sir. Rerouting it could take a few hours and we’d lose the target in the meantime.”
Michaels muttered a curse and then led his boss to a less crowded area where they could whisper without being overheard.
“Listen, there’s not a hundred ways to look at this. The little bastard’s heading south, probably to the same place we’re going. And if he’s going there, that can only mean Spicer’s already there.”
Houseman nodded somberly. “We really don’t have a choice, do we?”
“I’ll tell Clara to get ready. We have to terminate the problem once and for all.”
“Get that AWACS to track the east coast of Florida,” Houseman said while heading for the exit again.
Michaels turned to the supervisor. “Call me as soon as something pops up. I wanna know where that fucker lands.”
The two men stomped out. They might as well have been charging with bayonets.
Chapter 28
The Opa-locka Executive Airport wasn’t exactly a hive of activity and that’s why Spicer and his two accomplices were here. The sun was going down over the runway and the three of them were leaning against the Audi as they waited. Spicer felt the weight of his gun under his shirt and it offered a small measure of comfort.
They were silent for a long time and then David Weller spoke.
“Somethin’ I don’t get. In this day and age, how could someone go about stealing an election?”
Esther shrugged. “It’s all done with computers nowadays.”
“And we all know computers can’t be hacked, now do we?” Spicer said with a grin. “You put in a few extra votes at each poll. You buy votes from old people who weren’t planning on going. You take the identity of dead people. There’s a million ways to do it.”
“No way, Spicer. Ford is gonna win because he’s the better man.”
“You still think that?”
“No, but 100 million voters do.” She was coming around to his point of view. The evidence was becoming overwhelming. “They’ve been bombarded with campaign ads for months. He’s hired the best people. Hell, the guy who directs the ads is a multi-Oscar winner from Hollywood. They doubled their TV time in the last few weeks.”
“They know how to sell their shit,” Weller added.
Spicer pushed off from the car and walked away, lost in thought. The gears were
turning, everything was falling into place.
“Son of a bitch.”
“What?”
“That’s it! That’s how they did it. Houseman financed the bastard’s campaign. He took government money and leaked it to Ford. The money’s already laundered since Sigma isn’t supposed to exist. All Houseman has to do is sign the checks.”
That was the best argument Esther had heard. She couldn’t keep from believing the theory now. She had faith in her party but it wouldn’t mean anything if the election was fraudulent.
“Excuse me, I have to make a phone call.”
Spicer gave her his burner phone and she walked away as she dialed.
“That fucker’s not gonna be my Commander in Chief, that’s for goddamn sure.”
As a loud roar broke the silence, they all looked up. It was the undeniable sound of a Cessna Citation III maneuvering into final approach. They couldn’t see him but they knew was Ned in the cockpit since he had called Spicer to let him know of his plan before he started flying below the radar.
* * *
Now they were four.
Spicer was behind the wheel next to Esther while Weller and Ned were in the back. They were parked across the street from the Westin Diplomat in Hollywood. It was about 20 miles north of Miami but the resort was becoming a major attraction for conventions and corporate events.
Rubbing the gun under his shirt, Spicer said, “Your phone call go okay, Esther?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll have people looking for our bodies?”
This time she only nodded in silence.
Ned was still confused. “Why do we have to go in there anyway? I just flew a thousand miles to get away from those assholes.”
“We’re going to change history.”
They left the car and crossed the busy A1A to get to the hotel. Technically, the Common Sense Alliance had only rented a few rooms and the Grand Ballroom but in reality the entire place was involved in the election party. In the lobby there was a funnel effect as waves of supporters wanted to go in but they had to go through the Secret Service checkpoint.
Spicer grew more nervous as they approached the federal agents. They had metal detector wands and they were also checking bags and IDs.
“Come on,” a bored Secret Service agent said with a booming voice. “Move along please!”
Once it was their turn, Esther produced her party identification card. “I’m in charge of the domestic affairs committee. These guys are with me.”
“Fine, but you still all have to be checked out.”
Esther, Ned, and David went through. And then it was Spicer’s turn.
The USSS agent swept the detector along his legs and arms. Spicer struggled to keep his breathing uneventful. His fingers became restless, trembling. If the agent noticed it he would surely be taken to an adjoining room to be questioned. The detector went down his back, then along his chest.
It didn’t beep.
“Okay, you’re fine. Good evening.”
Spicer nodded a curt thanks but he didn’t join the others several feet away. Instead he headed to the reception desk for an instrumental part of the plan.
* * *
He was so focused that he didn’t notice who was standing at the mouth of the lobby bar. Dr. Michaels was right there, scanning the crowd. A devilish smirk tipped his mouth when he spotted the former hitman.
He snapped his fingers to catch the attention of two nearby Secret Service agents, calling them over.
* * *
Spicer offered his most sincere smile to the lady behind the reception desk. Social engineering wasn’t his forte but he needed to pry information out of her for the most sensitive part of the operation.
“I’m delivering some papers for Mr. Ford and…”
Before he could finish, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. Two humorless men in suits were coming his way – obviously federal agents. More troubling was Michaels who was standing beyond them, observing the scene.
“Sir?” the reception woman asked.
Spicer promptly forgot about her. The plan had changed. He took off running and went into a cluster of half-drunk political activists. Creating confusion was his best hope to stay alive.
Chapter 29
Spicer was in the staircase, climbing steps two at the time. He wasn’t yet out of breath and credited adrenaline for keeping him going so strong at his age. He had once considered himself a world-class assassin but the perfect murder had always entailed more planning than acrobatics. He hadn’t had to escape from people in 20 years.
Over the echoing clang of his feet on the metal stairs, he heard another sound and looked up. A flight higher, Clara was standing there calmly, aiming a gun straight at him.
“Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars.”
“So this is it,” Spicer said, finally realizing how tired he was. “This is where the hunting accident happens?”
“Car-jacking is much more believable these days.”
As inconspicuously as possible, Spicer patted his stomach, gently undoing a button of his shirt.
“What is that, a 40 caliber USP? Isn’t that a noisy bastard? I’m sure you have cover stories rehearsed up the fucking wazoo but a dead guy at the hotel of the new President never sounds good. The polls aren’t closed in California yet.”
She grinned and unhurriedly climbed down, all the while keeping her weapon trained on him.
“You’re a national security threat,” she said as if it was the most obvious statement in the world.
“That used to be my favorite motivation too.”
When she was three feet away, he leaped forward and succeeded in pushing her gun away from him. Caught off guard, she dropped the gun and it tumbled noisily down a flight.
Before Spicer could move for his own weapon, she kicked him in the chest. The impact was weak and he replied with a series of direct punches which she blocked with slick kung fu moves he hadn’t seen anyone use in years.
As she attempted another kick, he pulled her leg and it made her fall hard against the steps. She used the momentum to kick him with her other leg, knocking his breath away. She rolled up on herself to where he lied and pressed her knee into his groin.
“Ah!”
She pinned one of his arms down while she strived to choke him with the other. Spicer felt like he was drowning. She had attacked him on multiple fronts and he was struggling to stay afloat. He couldn’t do it.
Smiling at her success, she dragged his head a few inches to the side so that it got positioned under the railing.
He knew he would be dead if he didn’t fight back right this moment. She would snap his neck and get away with it. Why couldn’t he have trained more in hand-to-hand combat instead of relying on weapons?
He cycled through his options when he heard fast footsteps climbing up the stairs. He had a good idea who these people were and the renewed hope made him focus.
With his free hand, he tried going for his gun, which she hadn’t yet discovered, but her elbow was in the way. He used his last strength to reach up and yank her earring off.
“Ooohh fuck!”
Instinctively, she let go of his throat to check the damage. There was blood but not too much.
Spicer pushed her off and managed to get to his knees. With fury in her eyes, she charged back. But this time his position favored him. He grabbed her while he stood up and heaved her off.
She lost her balance and her body slid down the railing. The impetus carried her down the steps and past the two USSS agents who were climbing up. She landed on her back a flight lower.
It was exactly where her gun was.
The fight had completely worn Spicer out and the federal agents were on him before he could slid a hand inside his shirt and get his gun.
“Federal agents!”
“Secret Service!”
He couldn’t fight them. Not only did he have no energy left but he saw them as saviors. Unlike the CIA, they wouldn�
��t try to murder him.
While he was being restrained, Spicer locked eyes with Clara through the railing. She had her USP aimed at his head and pulling the trigger would make her day.
“Too many witnesses?” Spicer asked, amused for once.
She didn’t budge, keeping a bead on him.
Chapter 30
The door opened and a handcuffed Spicer was pushed into the suite on the 33rd floor. His first thought was that the ocean view from the floor-to-ceiling windows must have been magnificent in daytime, but at the moment the windows only reflected the light from inside the spacious suite.
The Secret Service agents escorted him to the conversation area while Clara followed. She had personally searched Spicer and she was holding his secret gun holder. Esther, Ned, and Esther were already on the couch. They weren’t handcuffed but it was apparent to Spicer they were prisoners as well.
Houseman was sitting in a wing chair while Michaels and presidential candidate Regis Ford were standing next to him.
“Beautiful,” Spicer said. “The brass of the Nazi Party is here.”
Clara shoved him to shut him up and she tossed the gun pouch on an empty sofa. Michaels turned to the federal agents.
“Thank you, we’ll handle it from here.”
They nodded and left. Normally, the Secret Service would have been reluctant to leave their principal with known criminals, but they’d been made to understand that these were extenuating circumstances. On top of that, Houseman, Michaels, and Ford were all powerful and influential government figures with clout.
“So Gerald,” the presidential candidate began, staring at Spicer. “This is the son of a bitch who started it all.”
“Yes.”
“How do you suppose we handle this?”
Dr. Michaels was eager to be heard on the matter and smacked his lips. “I’m sure Clara can help us out in this department.”
Houseman ignored this. Instead he stood up and came closer to Spicer. “Why did you come here, Mr. Spicer?”
“People in handcuffs rarely tell the truth.”
