Abuse of Power

by Michael Savage

  “And you talk of big lies?” Soren interrupted with a dismissive laugh. “But that discussion is for another time, assuming you have another time. What I’ve just told you is why we, a consortium of concerned citizens, have decided to back the underdog in this race. We’ve begun channeling money and resources into the Hand of Allah in the hope of putting an end to this Zionist stranglehold.”

  Jack rose from his chair. “What is wrong with you people?” He turned to Wickham. “Hal, tell me you’re not falling for this racist crap?”

  “You’re one to talk about racism,” Soren remarked.

  Jack wanted to punch him. Again. He ignored the SOB, continued to stare at Wickham.

  The senator shrugged and took a puff off his cigar. “I’m a businessman first, Jack, you know that. These people have control of resources I need. I figure it’s better to make friends with them than to kick ’em in the ass and try to steal it.”

  “And commit treason in the process?”

  Wickham frowned. “One man’s treason is another man’s revolution.”

  “So you lied to me,” Jack said. “You didn’t do a thing with that information we gave you. Haddad and his crew are still out there planning their assault on the Legion of Honor as we speak.”

  Wickham said nothing and the gun touched Jack’s back again as a hand on his shoulder forced him down into the chair.

  “True regime change is rarely peaceful,” Soren said with affected regret. “We may manage it here in America every four years or so without bloodshed, but all we get for our trouble are the same Zionist puppets with the same policies that are destroying this country and the world. As you know, I had high hopes for our current President, but he’s turned out to be quite a disappointment to all of us on many different levels. So if we’re to succeed in bringing our own vision to fruition, we need to shake things up a bit. The Hand of Allah will help us do that. It’s 1933 all over again. You end the Depression in Germany by firing up the masses, having them reclaim their wealth from the Jews. You end the threat to America’s homeland by scaring the masses, assuring them they will be safe from future attacks if they restore Arab land taken by the Jews.”

  “Helluva role model you’ve chosen,” Jack remarked.

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “No, I’ve got it. Scapegoating works. I experienced that firsthand.”

  “This is not scapegoating,” Soren said. “It’s about forging a strategic alliance with someone who can control hundreds of millions of people and billions of dollars in resources. If you took just a moment to listen to him, you’d realize that Faakhir Zuabi is a great visionary and a great leader. And I think our partnership with him will be of benefit to all of us. Including you.”

  Jack balked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’re a wonderful communicator, Jack. You have a friendly, trustworthy manner about you, but you can be a bulldog when you need to and people respond to it.”

  “That’s all in the past, thanks to you.”

  “Something that can be easily remedied. What if, in the face of devastation, you were to become the spokesperson for America? Our spokesperson.”

  “Wait—you want me to join you?”

  Soren shrugged. “It’s either that or die.”

  Sara stood now, her eyes blazing. “You wanks are certifiably insane.”

  Hearing that expression come from Sara’s mouth shocked Jack nearly as much as anything else he’d heard here.

  Soren offered her a patient smile as the bodyguard nudged her back into the chair. “We’re merely pragmatists, my dear. You cannot blame anyone for that.” He looked at Jack again. “So what do you say, my friend. Are you with us or no?”

  Jack stared at him, the urge to leap across the table still burning in his gut. “Up yours.”

  Soren sighed. “I expected as much. But I had to try.” He rose from his chair and gestured. “Gentlemen, shall we adjourn to the parlor upstairs? I believe Mr. Hatfield and his lovely friend here have an appointment.”

  Chairs scraped back around the table, the men all glancing at Jack and Sara as they filed out past the thug with the Glock and disappeared from sight.

  Soren, however, stopped just shy of the doorway and turned. “It’s a shame, Jack. You and I have been at odds for so long. Imagine what we could do if we were to come together for a common cause.”

  Jack reiterated his earlier words by raising a fist and showing Soren his middle finger.

  Soren stood there for a moment, smiling almost sadly, then stepped out of sight.

  Now Jack turned his head toward the bodyguard behind him. “Real nice people you associate with. So what now?”

  “I believe I can answer that,” a familiar voice said from across the room.

  Jack jerked his head around as Adam Swain stepped in through the opposite doorway, accompanied by two more of his men, including the ape with his magic wand, who grinned at Jack as he walked into the room.

  Wonderful.

  Jack reached under the table and gently squeezed Sara’s hand. It was a signal for her to wait for his move. He had no idea if she’d gotten the message, but she squeezed back firmly and that was good enough.

  She hadn’t even flinched when Swain entered.

  Good girl, he thought.

  Swain said, “It looks as if we’ll be playing another round of touch my pole, old boy. You understand. As a precaution?” He smiled. “But not to worry, we’ll be gentle this time.”

  “Now why do I doubt that?” Jack said.

  “True enough, but perhaps you’ll be more forthcoming this time. Shall we adjourn to the fog signal building? We’ll have more privacy there.”

  Jack and Sara didn’t move.

  Swain frowned now, then took his own Glock from under his jacket and waved it at them. “I’m not very good at begging.”

  The two slowly got to their feet. Jack had no way of signaling Sara again, so he hoped she was ready for what he was about to do.

  The senator’s bodyguard was still behind him and shoved the gun into his back again.

  “Move.”

  Jack did as he was asked. As soon as he was clear of the chair he kicked back and down, a low Krav Maga blow to the bodyguard’s kneecap. The man grunted but did not go down; Jack hadn’t wanted him to. As the foot came down he was literally standing beside the bodyguard. That brought him right beside the gun—another Glock 9mm. Helped by the momentum of his backward step, Jack ripped it from the bodyguard’s hand by twisting his hand outward, a painful pronating wristlock.

  At the same moment, Sara took hold of the edge of the dining table and, with a loud grunt and a heave, flipped it sideways, sending dishes and whiskey glasses and ashtrays flying.

  Swain and his men ducked the debris as Swain fired a shot in Sara’s direction. But the bullet went wild and she dove to the floor, behind the table. Meanwhile, Jack had continued turning the man’s wrist until he was on the floor, on his back. Jack stomped on his face and ripped the laser pointer from the bodyguard’s breast pocket.

  Another shot flew past Sara, who snatched one of the ashtrays from the floor. She stood and hurled it hard at the gunman’s head. It hit his mouth hard and he fell back against the wall, spitting blood.

  Flicking the laser pointer on, Jack shone its penetrating red beam directly into Swain’s eyes, blinding him, then squeezed off two quick shots as he grabbed hold of Sara’s forearm and spun her toward the door. “Go! Let’s go!”

  They moved together into the foyer and burst through the main doorway onto the concourse and into the cold night air.

  “The boats,” Jack said. “We have to get to the boats.”

  They took off running, but the dock was on the other side of the concourse and they had several yards of cement to traverse before they’d reach it.

  Halfway across they heard a shot, a bullet scorching the cement behind them. Jack jerked Sara sideways and glanced over his shoulder. The shot seemed to have come from on
high, and as he looked up toward the lighthouse, he saw shadowy movement; one of Swain’s thugs was stationed up there.

  The thug squeezed off shot after shot but the fog made it difficult for him to see. Jack and Sara dropped behind the cistern in the center of the concourse, using it for cover. They kept their heads low as bullets pinged around them mercilessly.

  “You all right?” Jack asked.

  She nodded.

  The foghorn building stood several feet behind them. “I’m gonna give you cover,” Jack said. “Get into that shack as quickly as you can. I think there’s a door on the other side that’ll lead down to the dock. Get to the white Novurania next to the dinghies, and get it started.”

  “What about you?”

  “If I’m not along in about thirty seconds or so, get the hell back to shore and contact a friend of mine at the Shoreside Marina. Tony Antiniori. Can you remember that?”

  “Yes, yes. Who is he?”

  “The only one I can trust at this point.”

  Another shot echoed through the fog. They ducked as the front door of the Victorian flew open and Swain and two of his men strode purposefully onto the concourse.

  “There’s nowhere to go, Jack! You spend five minutes in that water and we’ll be carving an ice sculpture out of you just for the fun of it. You might as well give it up.”

  “On the count of three,” Jack whispered to Sara. “One, two, three—”

  Jack and Sara jumped to their feet simultaneously, Sara zigzagging for the shack behind them, Jack flashing the laser pointer again and opening fire, taking down one of the thugs as Swain and another gunman dove for low ground.

  The guy in the lighthouse tower started firing again, and Jack returned several shots before ducking back behind the cistern.

  Sara slammed through the door behind him.

  Jack checked his magazine, saw that he had just a few more rounds, then mentally counted to three again and jumped to his feet. He headed for the foghorn building, firing indiscriminately as he ran. Just as he reached the door, a bullet clipped his shoulder and he stumbled forward.

  Shots splintered wood above him as Jack gripped the door frame and yanked himself inside, pulling the door shut behind him as he grasped his shoulder and collapsed onto one knee.

  “Could’ve been worse,” he said, feeling the edges of the wound through his torn shirt.

  The room was full of machinery, pneumatic pumps that once powered the foghorns. Now that the system was electronic, they were no longer needed.

  Still clutching his shoulder Jack called out. “Sara?”

  No answer. But the door on the opposite side of the shack was hanging open and that was a good sign. She was probably down to the dock by now, and that was where Jack needed to be.

  Wincing against the pain, he grabbed a piece of machinery and pushed himself to his feet, the room swaying slightly as he stood. He knew that Swain and his goons would be bursting through that door any second now, so he steeled himself and worked his way around the maze of machinery to the rear, moving as quickly as his body would carry him.

  He heard the rip of an outboard motor and knew that Sara had made it to the RIB.

  He was picking up speed as Sara’s scream ripped the air. He crashed through the doorway, running toward the white picket railing that overlooked the dock.

  By the time he reached it, one of Swain’s thugs had dragged Sara to the dock and was pulling her toward the Luhrs, the ugly black barrel of a gun pressed against her head.

  34

  Jack forgot about his shoulder and ran, heading straight for the ramp, raising the Glock as he approached them.

  “Let her go!” he commanded.

  But now Swain and his other men were emerging from the foghorn building and moving in his direction.

  “Give it up, Hatfield,” Swain called back. “You gave us a good fight but now it’s over.” He snickered. “Think of the environment, Jack. All this gunfire can’t be good for the gulls and seals.”

  Jack froze and looked at Sara and her gaze locked on his.

  Even through the mist he could see that her eyes had gone cold, all vulnerability gone. He knew this was her game face. She wasn’t Sara the victim but Sara the hardened ex-Interpol agent.

  “Leave me, Jack!” she said. “If they take us both, it’s over.”

  It was a ridiculous notion. “No way.”

  “You have to! I would if the situation were—”

  “Shut up,” the thug spat, rapping the gun barrel hard against her head.

  “As much as I’m enjoying this, get her the hell out of here,” Swain snarled.

  The gunman backed Sara closer to the Luhrs.

  Jack momentarily forgot the mission. There was only Sara—Sara, who was a captive and needed his help.

  He shone the laser pointer in the thug’s eyes. “Let her go, you son of a bitch!”

  The thug squinted.

  Swain turned to Sara. “Turn that off or I’ll kill her right now! Do it!”

  Jack didn’t hesitate. He lowered the light.

  Sara said, “Go, Jack.”

  Jack looked at her, his heart breaking, not wanting to do as she asked. There had to be a way out for both of them.

  But even as he thought that, he knew he had no choice. Time seemed to suspend for a moment. The watch repairman’s son needed a tick tick tick to spur him to action.

  Swain gave it to him by drawing closer, raising his gun as he approached. There would be no more talk. Jack guessed that the only reason Swain held his fire was proximity: he wanted to see Jack’s face clearly, through the fog, as he took everything from him. Not just his life but his love.

  Jack gave Sara one last mournful glance then swung around, once again shining the beam of the laser pointer into Swain’s eyes. As Swain recoiled, Jack jumped from the ramp, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as he hit the Novurania.

  While Swain and his men struggled to get a bead on him in the thick darkness, Jack threw off the line, shots gouging the dock above him. The forty-horse power Yamaha outboard roared defiantly and Jack took off, more shots punching the water behind him, Swain’s shouts in his wake.

  “Go! After him!”

  But Jack was already out of reach. The acceleration of the Novurania was flawless. There was no hesitation in the slightly choppy waters as the boat responded easily to the throttle control.

  The shore was only a quarter mile away but there was nothing there save for desolation, no sign of civilization. Jack knew they would catch him on the two-mile run to the nearest roadway, especially with him losing blood. He had a better idea. Maxing out the engine, he steered toward the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, trying to squeeze as much speed from the RIB as he could.

  Jack heard a motor fire up behind him and turned to see that two of Swain’s thugs had commandeered one of the boats from the other side of the dock and were already headed in his direction.

  Good luck, he thought gravely. The boats were bigger but they were also slower. They didn’t have a chance in hell of catching him.

  That didn’t keep them from shooting, however. The muffled sounds of gunfire punched through the night, bullets whizzing past Jack’s head. They probably sounded closer than they were though Jack couldn’t take that chance. He ducked and returned fire until his ammo was spent.

  He kept goosing the throttle, heading for one of the towers of the bridge. He could see the lights of the bridge through the fog—dim, beautiful beacons on top of the main towers used to warn away low-flying aircraft. Having boated by the area hundreds of times, he remembered the built-in maintenance ladders that led toward the roadway above. He could hear the bridge as he saw it, the bounce of his own engine coming back at him as it struck the stanchion.

  Covered by the fog, Jack tied a rope to the Novurania’s engine and climbed out. He had sent the boat toward Tiburon, some four miles to the west, then he clambered onto the landing where the workers’ ladders began.

  More shots were fired—at
the boat, not him—as he grabbed hold of the ladder and worked his way upward, slowly, painfully, rung by rung. Jack was halfway up when he heard his pursuer’s boat roar by, headed in the direction of the RIB.

  As he reached the top of the bridge, Jack paused to slip off his belt and use it as a tourniquet. Then he threw a hand up trying to flag someone down, but all he got were squealing tires and angry horn blasts in return. The bright red blood staining his shirt wasn’t exactly a stoplight and the gun in his hand didn’t help much, either.

  There wasn’t time to walk. A carjacking? Bring the damn thing full circle?

  Then he remembered something else. He recalled seeing workers on bicycles up here. Maintenance personnel used them to move around on the roadway. He needed to find where they kept them.

  He took off down the bridge roadway, looking left, right, and ahead as he shambled along. He found the bikes chained to a rail near the end of the bridge. The chain was held in place by a padlock—an old Wilson Bohannan, brass case, brass shackle. He’d finally caught a break.

  Jack knelt beside the bikes, not caring whether anyone saw him or not. Let someone call the cops; at least Jack would get a phone call and he could let Tony know what was going on.

  Holding the laser pointer in his mouth, Jack focused it on the Glock. The slide stop lever was set in a ridge in the trigger pin. He pushed on the trigger pin as he wiggled the slide stop lever. That enabled him to push the trigger pin and the upper pin free. Using the gun parts as a lock pick, he went to work. In less than a minute the chain was off. Sliding the pieces of the Glock into his pants pocket, he sat on an old two-wheeler that was badly rusted by the sea breeze. It worked fine, if noisily, and he churned down the road to the Richmond side, to the railroad yards he remembered there. Up ahead he saw several long rows of sleek train cars silhouetted in the darkness, idle for the night.

  That would be his second stop. First, there was something he needed to find.

  Jack got off the bike and reassembled the Glock as he walked. He didn’t need it to work, only look like it would. He moved quickly through the solemn darkness of the yards, a graveyard for the relics of a passing era. The cars afforded some relief from the cold, blocking the wind and releasing some of the baking heat they’d stored during the day. One of the trains—the only one that appeared to have any activity—smelled of livestock. Jack was looking for a light, any light, that would suggest a night watchman, a security shack … a phone.