by A. C. Fuller
Not knowing what else to do, she opened Nassar's page again. The live stream was back on.
"Now," Nassar was saying, "all TV news will remain dark until apologies have been prepared for the following people. Jacob Horowitz, who was accused of killing his wife and destroyed by the media before the case against him was dropped. Yolanda Pue, who was accused of drowning her three-year-old son. Eventually, the babysitter confessed. Stanley—"
Nassar stopped speaking suddenly as a high-pitched scream broke through the feed. He turned around and swung violently. "Shut up," he barked, then turned back to the camera.
The scream was still echoing in Mia's ears when she realized she hadn't just heard it through her phone. She'd heard it behind her, in the real world. Mia lowered the phone, eyes darting from from car to car.
Nassar started speaking again. "Yes, that was Wendy Chen. She is still alive, because the TV stations did as I demanded. And she'll remain alive if they follow the rest of my demands. Next on the list: Stanley McGuire, a dentist accused of collecting child pornography, whose reputation and career were destroyed before his ex-wife admitted to framing him."
Mia spotted a dark van half a block away, on the opposite side of the street. She put the phone in her back pocket, leaving the stream running so she could still hear Nassar's voice faintly.
"Jamal Mohammed, a Kirkland High School senior who committed suicide six months after being falsely identified as the perpetrator of the tragic shooting at the school last year. An apology from the media won’t help him, but it might bring peace to his family."
The front window of the van faced the lake, and Mia assumed that, if he was inside, Nassar was in the front seat, controlling the drone. Still on the opposite side of the street, she passed the van, glancing casually through the window. All she could see was shadow.
She walked about a hundred feet past the van, then ducked behind a tree and texted Alex.
Mia: I think I've found Kamal Nassar. Corliss Ave. 2 blocks south of NE 65th. Call the police right now.
Full of fear, she crossed the street and crept up behind the van, listening intently. But she heard nothing.
The van was unmarked and, though it had appeared black from far away, now looked maroon in the light of a streetlamp about ten feet away. The lamp lit the back half of the van, and Mia moved through it quickly and crept into a shadow by the street-side back tire.
Her phone chirped. A new text.
Mia cursed under her breath as she reached into her pocket. She thought she'd silenced it.
The screen was still bright with a new message.
Alex: Bird calling police now. CBS affiliate in Tacoma just broke the blackout. They're live.
Still kneeling by the tire, she texted back.
Mia: How long ago?
Alex: 2 minutes.
If Nassar was in the van, and if he heard they’d broken the blackout, he'd kill Wendy. Mia was sure of it. She assumed that the police would be there within minutes since they were all around Green Lake, but that might not be soon enough.
The best view of the lake from inside the van would be from the driver side. Assuming that Nassar was there, Mia slithered around the passenger side on her belly, right up to the large sliding door. Next, she pulled out her phone and opened Nassar's live stream, silencing the phone before the audio started. He was still speaking, so Mia figured he'd be at least somewhat distracted.
Figuring it was locked, or possibly even bolted from the inside, she gave the door a tiny tap, quiet enough, she hoped, to be heard from the back section of the van only.
She waited, staring at her phone to see if Nassar reacted.
When he didn't, she tapped again, slightly louder this time.
On her phone, Nassar tilted his head back slightly, but kept speaking.
She turned up the volume a couple notches and pressed the phone to her ear.
"It never should have come to this," Nassar was saying. "If the media would just act more responsibly—"
He stopped speaking suddenly and looked into the back seat. "What was that?" He disappeared from view and Mia heard the driver's side door open. Still crouching on the opposite side of the van, Mia put her phone in her back pocket.
Had he seen her?
The van was large and she didn't think he could have, but maybe he'd heard the phone, or the tapping. Or both.
"Who's there?" he barked.
Mia dropped onto her belly and peered under the van. All she could see were the tips of his brown oxford shoes.
She heard sirens in the distance, growing louder.
Nassar stepped toward the front of the van, and Mia slithered underneath it. As he made his way around the front, she slid to the center of the van, then out the other side. By the time Nassar was on the passenger side, she'd sprung up and gotten into the open driver's side door.
"Hey!"
Nassar had seen her, but she was already slamming the door and locking it. After a quick look into the back, where Wendy Chen and Theo Doggson were tied to their seats, she turned the key, which was in the ignition. The van sputtered for a second, but started.
Nassar tried to open the back door, banged on it, then ran to the front of the van, attempting to get to the driver’s side. As he passed in front of her, Mia hit the gas, lurching the van forward and clipping his leg. A silver gun flew out of his hand and into the road.
Nassar crawled after it as Mia shifted the van into reverse. Spinning the wheel violently, she hit the gas again. The van shot backwards into the car parked behind it, jolting Mia forward.
Nassar was in the middle of the narrow street now, reaching for the gun. She'd have to run him over to get away.
Then she saw the lights. Two police cars had turned onto the street and were speeding straight at Nassar.
Mia pulled the emergency brake and dropped to the floor as he reached for the gun. Crawling into the back seat, she threw her body between Wendy and Theo, covering them as much as she could, just as a booming voice came through a megaphone. "Stay on the ground. Hands up."
Two hours later—after Kamal Nassar had been arrested and the paramedics had taken Theo Doggson and Wendy Chen to the hospital to treat superficial injuries—Mia walked home.
The pre-death video of 'Rich Dog' Doggson was going viral, and Mia opened it as soon as she stepped into her apartment. The video started with Doggson's face, shaking and glancing to his left. He looked terrified, and Mia assumed that Nassar had been just off camera, likely pointing a gun at his head and threatening him with the impossible choice. Record this video, or your only remaining son dies.
Kill yourself, or your son dies.
Just as Doggson began speaking, she closed the video. She wasn't going to watch it. Not ever.
She knew that Alex and Bird would be up half the night, creating a multi-media story and pushing millions of ad views based on Doggson's video, along with all of Nassar's videos. They'd dive into his story, just as he predicted they would. Like the rest of the media, they’d probably run a few think pieces about Nassar’s larger message, questioning the role of the press. Maybe they’d even apologize to a few of the people whose reputations had been destroyed. But mostly they’d do anything they could to turn Nassar’s story into clicks.
And it made her sick.
She wouldn't be responding to any of the reporters calling and texting her. At least not tonight. She wouldn't be texting Alex any more photos, or answering his requests to do a Facebook Live chat about her ordeal. Not tonight, and maybe never.
She felt no sympathy for Nassar. He’d responded to a terrible wrong done to him by perpetrating an even greater wrong on others. But at the same time, she didn’t want to participate in the public crucifixion of him that would surely eat up the next few news cycles. For now, she was going to go quiet, maybe take a few days off work.
Mia powered down her phone. She had a lot to think about. Plus, she had macaroni and cheese to heat up.
—The End—
&nb
sp; Flip forward a few pages for a sample of a new series starring Mia Rhodes.
Author Notes
Besides my family, nothing makes me happier than the thought of a reader finishing one of my stories. So…thank you!
Since writing this story, I began a new series starring Mia Rhodes. Readers tell me it's my best work yet, and you can find a sample by flipping forward a few pages.
As an indie author, I work hard to bring you excellent work as fast as I can. I've got many books in the works and I plan to be at this a long time. I hope you'll come along for the ride.
The best way to do that is by joining my reader club. I never sell or rent your email address. I never send spam or junk, but I do send:
•inside information about my books
•invitations to in-person launch parties
•notes about my writing workshops and other public appearances
•recipes
•free or deeply discounted books
Thanks again for reading,
A.C. Fuller
Hansville, WA
Introducing Ameritocracy
What if someone harnessed the power of the internet to destroy the two-party system?
After a lifetime of political disillusionment, Mia Rhodes created an alternative to the two-party system: Ameritocracy. Part American Idol, part Iowa Caucus, her online political competition promises to find the most popular independent candidate in America and give them a genuine shot to win the presidency in 2020.
Anyone can run. The American people vote online. And the winner receives instant fame and a campaign warchest to battle the Democrats and Republicans in 2020.
But her project flounders until Mia catches the eye of eccentric tech billionaire Peter Colton. With Peter's money and Mia's media savvy, Ameritocracy moves rapidly from punchline to possibility.
But as the site grows, Mia's life threatens to spin out of control. And as the stakes rise crisis by crisis, Mia must learn that ending politics as we know it means saying goodbye to the Mia Rhodes she has always known.
Discover the new series early readers are calling: "The West Wing meets Survivor" and "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington for the social media age."
Flip the page for a free preview.
Preview: OPEN PRIMARY (Ameritocracy, Book 1)
To women everywhere fighting for political change.
1
July, 2019
The first thing I ever did in life was swing the 1988 election. The simple fact of my existence—combined with my father's hypocrisy—destroyed any chance the Democrats had that year.
Maybe that explains why I avoided politics for the first couple decades of my life. Or maybe it was because I can't stand liars, and even the most virtuous politicians are liars from time to time. But I can't avoid politics anymore, and I don't want to.
Things have gone too far.
That's why I'm at Colton Industries in Santa Clarissa, California, just fifteen minutes from Stanford University. I'm sitting in the steel and marble lobby of Building 7, as team after team of Project X presenters stream out of the hall of doom. The hall where dreams go to die. The hall where I'll be spending the most important fifteen minutes of my life.
I should be refining my closing pitch and double-checking my spreadsheets, but I'm nervous, so I distract myself by peering at the cute guy at the reception counter. He greeted me when I arrived, handed me a bottle of Colton Brand artesian spring water, and asked me to take a seat. For the last twenty minutes, I've been sitting in a leather armchair, watching his high-top fade peek out over the top of his iMac.
The back panel of the screen is covered with stickers, mostly pictures of turntables and digital equipment I don't recognize. One particular sticker piques my interest—Willie Nelson for President—and it's got me walking over to talk with him. I could use the excuse to do something other than second-guess myself some more.
I stand directly in front of his monitor, so he can't see me, as I read his nameplate. Malcolm Rozier. I'm trying to think of something witty to say about the fact that we have the same initials when Malcolm slides his chair around and says, "Can I help you, Ms. Rhodes?"
"It's Mia."
He smiles. "Can I help you, Mia?"
"I was just wondering, will they have a USB-C connector for my MacBook? In the presentation hall, I mean?"
He looks at me like he's not sure if I'm serious, then a wave of recognition passes over his face. "You didn't get the email?"
"Ummm…I…"
I pride myself on being prepared. Some say I over-prepare. Back at my day job running the Seattle offices of the online magazine, The Barker, my coworkers tell me I'm "a bit of a Monica." But I see from the way he looks at me, his dark brown eyes full of concern, that I've missed something.
"I emailed all presenters this morning." Malcolm's voice is deep and soothing, but his message isn't. "No PowerPoint presentations. The judges have reviewed your materials, including the PowerPoint, so they're limiting the final round to a five-minute opening statement followed by a ten-minute Q and A."
No PowerPoint? I stare at him, trying to play it cool, but inside, I'm panicking.
Stalling, I tap the Willie Nelson sticker on the back of his monitor and say, "Now he's a candidate we can all get behind."
Malcolm stands and leans forward across the counter, turning his head to see the sticker. "Oh yeah, that."
"Country music fan?"
"Sort of. I love Willie, Johnny Cash, Woody Guthrie, DeFord Bailey. All the old Americana. Not so much with the modern, 'Bro Country' stuff."
I'm vaguely familiar with all those names, but my country music knowledge doesn't extend much beyond early Taylor Swift.
Malcolm is tall, almost a foot taller than me, and I have to lean back a little to meet his eyes. I run my hand across the curved back of the monitor. "And what are these other stickers?"
"Equipment companies. I DJ in the evenings and on weekends, so…" He glances around the waiting area, then digs a business card out of the inner pocket of his blue blazer. "I'm on YouTube."
The card lists a website, a YouTube channel, and the name Rozier Productions.
"Cool," I manage, smiling despite the sinking realization that I'm about to bomb my presentation.
Malcolm cocks his head and squints. "You didn't get the email, did you?"
"I try not to check my email when I have a big event, which is, like, never. Too much stuff from work, too many things to…throw me off my game." I say the last part like a total dork, and immediately regret it.
"Shouldn't be more than a few minutes. Can I get you another water, or some coffee, or anything?"
"Nah, I'm just gonna go and try to memorize a few things."
"I'm sure you'll do fine in there."
"Sure," I say, disagreeing in my head as I walk back toward my seat.
"You know, I follow your website," he calls after me.
I turn on the low heels of my cream and black T-straps, and shoot him a look. He's got a shy smile on his face, nerdy but handsome. It puts me at ease.
"Thanks." I'm genuinely surprised he's taken the time to research my site.
"What you're doing is awesome," he continues. "We need viable third-party candidates and independent candidates. I hope you win the money."
Ten minutes later, Malcolm leads me into the presentation room, which looks like a luxury movie theater—six rows of seats angled slightly so the rows in the back are higher than the ones in the front.
Malcolm walks down the light blue carpet and up the four steps to the stage in the front of the room. I follow and he gestures to a silver podium, puts a hand on my forearm, and says, "You're gonna kill it, Mia."
When he turns to leave, I lurch forward and grab his bicep, pulling him in closely. He smells like seaspray, like a male mermaid, and because I sometimes say ridiculous things when I'm nervous, I whisper, "Do you really think Willie Nelson could win?"
He pulls away slightly, like he's trying to decide
whether I'm fun-crazy or stalker-crazy, then winks and strolls out of the hall.
Alone on the stage, I stand at the podium and look down at the seating area, which is lit with dark red LED lighting. Only eight of the seats are full, and I know all eight of my judges. Well, I don't know any of them, but I did my research on the flight down from Seattle. Five are board members of Project X, three men and two women. They don't carry much weight on the judging panel, so I'm not surprised that all five are seated in the second row.
About five feet below me, the three members of my real audience stare at me from the front row. To my left sits Alvin Chang, Chief Operating Officer of Colton Industries and co-founder of Project X. A tall, lean man, with short black hair, Chang wears round Harry Potter glasses and a bored look on his face, like he's seen one too many presentations today. Eleanor Ruff, an older woman with spiky, silver-grey hair and a piercing glare, sits to my right. She's the Executive Director of Project X and a well-known badass around Silicon Valley.
Directly in front of me, between Chang and Ruff, is Peter Colton himself. The boy wonder. Silicon Valley's most eligible bachelor and the man voted "Most Likely to Win an Antonio Banderas Look-alike Contest." Okay, I made the last part up, but he does look a bit like the actor with his shoulder-length black hair, olive skin, and custom-tailored black suit.
It's not his looks that make him such a rockstar of the tech and philanthropic worlds, though. Colton made his first billion dollars back in 2007 when he sold his cloud computing company to some other cloud computing company when he was just twenty-nine years old. In the years since, he's been the kind of billionaire we all tell ourselves we'll be when we finally become billionaires. He bought a soccer team, learned how to pilot his own private jet, summited Kilimanjaro, invested in revolutionary solar technology, and dated movie stars.
