Captive-in-Chief

by Murray Mcdonald

  “I disagree. Mainstream media hasn’t alerted the majority to what’s really happening. Once that happens, this will be fixed.”

  “While I applaud your optimism, consider what the majority are getting. They feel safer, polls are off the charts at how well the FPS have been received. Rioters are incarcerated; potential terrorists are behind bars and not living on their streets. Gun control. Law abiding citizens can have all the guns they want, they just need to get a license and a gun cabinet. Criminals and the mentally unstable will no longer be able to get guns, and if they do, will face serious prison time for simply having a gun in their possession. The majority will love that. The illegals are getting kicked out. People love the idea.”

  “We’re talking about schools being rezoned across the nation to favor the better off. And who are the better off?”

  “The white majority,” answered the producer. “If they think their kids are going to get a better education, or not a worse one, I’m not sure you’ll get the reaction you’re expecting. Remember, the most prominent minority voices are locked up.”

  “We’ll see. I have more faith in the American majority than you do. Something big is going down and the people need to know.”

  The producer wasn’t in the least disagreeing, he merely needed to know how it would stand up to scrutiny.

  “What about the healthcare part?”

  “I’ve got less evidence on that although the rumor from the weekend appears to be true, some big deal has been struck.”

  “And the cancer patient in your piece?”

  “Been using the same hospital for six months, was told yesterday that her policy doesn’t cover her for care there, and she was directed to the other side of the city. As you saw from the report, she was directed to the black side of the city. She’s a wealthy black woman with a top tier policy. Can’t get higher.”

  “Only one patient though. We can hardly brand the industry institutionally racist for one patient that may have been a bureaucratic error. We need more examples. Until then cut that section.”

  The reporter nodded. “Okay, so we’ll run the rest tonight?”

  “Definitely,” replied the producer. “And we’d better get some bodies in to man the phones. Our switchboard is going to be on fire tonight! Send me the edited cut and I’ll run it by the bosses, my guess is that it’ll lead the 9 p.m. slot.”

  Chapter 72

  “Mr. President, I’ve got the owner of that news channel holding for you on line one.”

  Clay laughed. Ramona hated the channel and refused to say their name out loud.

  “Ralph! How you doing?”

  “I’m good, Mr. President, and you?”

  “As good as can be expected, Ralph,” replied Clay. He was always wary talking with the man. You never knew what was on or off the record.

  “I’ve just watched a piece and thought I’d give you a heads up, it’ll be running tonight. You might want to get ready for the fallout.”

  Clay panicked. He didn’t want fallout. Anything that rocked the boat would risk his daughter.

  “Fallout about what?”

  “School rezoning.”

  Clay almost released a sigh of relief. “Funny you mention that. My secretary Ramona had a problem with her granddaughter.”

  “By any chance does she go to a good school in a predominantly white neighborhood?”

  “Hmm, I suppose so, though I don’t know the neighborhood personally.”

  “And they were sending her to a neighborhood school nearby that just so happens to be like her, black?”

  “Yeah…” Clay felt a bombshell was about to drop.

  “Same thing’s happening across the country. You might want to get with your education secretary and find out what the hell is going on,” suggested Ralph. “And please remember, I gave you the heads up.”

  Clay replaced the phone in a fury. “Get me Phyllis on the line, now!’ he shouted to Ramona. “I don’t care where she is or what she’s doing!”

  One minute later, Phyllis was on the phone. “Mr. President, I’m getting ready for our dinner down here, such a shame you’re not here.”

  Clay relayed the conversation he’d had with Ralph. Phyllis listened and told him she’d get right on it and call him back. He waited impatiently. One of the lines lit up on his desk phone. Someone was calling back.

  His cell buzzed. Oh dear God, he thought, hitting the new message symbol: Enact Executive Order 10995 with immediate effect. We have people in place to deal with the situation.

  Clay had no idea what Directive 10995 was. He turned to his computer and was about to search when Ramona called through.

  “Mr. President, I have the chief justice on line one, he says he has a message to call you.”

  Clay picked up the phone. “You have a message to call me?”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  He knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t help himself asking, “A text message?”

  “I’d rather not say, Mr. President. I have a message to call.”

  They were both being controlled, and the realization of how much power they had was finally hitting him. How far did their power and influence stretch? How many people were they controlling to their own end?

  “Executive Order 10995?” asked Clay.

  “In effect you take control of the media, Mr. President. I assume you may want to update the language and content slightly, since it was written in President Kennedy’s era.”

  Clay didn’t want to take control of the media and didn’t want any amendments.

  “I suppose I will,” he replied dejectedly. Both men’s tone made it clear to each, they weren’t doing what they wanted. “And the other justices will—”

  “Don’t worry about that, Mr. President. Five of my colleagues are being exceptionally helpful at the moment in matters I never thought possible.”

  Conspirators or being controlled, thought Clay. From the chief’s tone he obviously thought conspirators. How deep did it run? How far did the tentacles of whoever was trying to seize complete and total control stretch?

  “Thank you, Mr. Chief Justice.”

  “Please don’t thank me, Mr. President. The Order will be enacted with immediate effect.”

  Clay waited a few minutes for Phyllis to call back. He considered calling her and telling her not to bother and enjoy her dinner. However, the more he waited the more he realized she wasn’t calling. Surely her brazen disregard for his orders were tantamount to publicly declaring she was party to the conspiracy. If that was the case and people were beginning to show their colors, they must be nearing the end.

  Things were happening with alarming speed. The realization hit him, he didn’t have long. Joe had to start doing something quickly or…

  Or what?, he thought. He’d tell someone. He couldn’t even tell the most powerful judge in the land that he was being blackmailed or controlled in some way. His most senior law enforcement officer was already on his list of potential conspirators, as were his senior military figures, which left him back at square one. What could he do? Pray Joe found Clara? With her safe with his family and Joe by his side, he’d take them all on.

  “You son of a bitch, I’ll never forget this,” said Ramona, interrupting Clay’s thoughts.

  “Sorry?” said Clay. “What?”

  Ramona looked at the pad and read the message again. “You son of a bitch, I’ll never forget this!” She looked up from the pad. “He asked me to write it down so I got the message to you exactly as he intended.”

  “Oh, it’s from Ralph.”

  “Who’d you think it was, me?” she said, stomping out of the office.

  God. He hadn’t even thought. What if Ramona was with them? He shook his head at the thought. She’d kill for him. Of that, he had little doubt. You couldn’t fake the look she gave anyone who crossed him.

  He grabbed a magazine and started to read an article. His pen bouncing along the words as he read. He had a lot to update Joe with, the mos
t important thing, time was not on their side!

  He picked up the phone and made a call. He wanted his family around him. The first lady was going to have to turn around and come home.

  Chapter 73

  After five minutes of silence, Joe popped the trunk lid, climbed out, and rested at the rear of the car. Catching his breath, he cooled down slightly from the hundred plus degree heat he’d had to endure since the engine was switched off. He needed to be on his game. Hank was twenty years younger and had a gun.

  Finally feeling more like himself, he had a look around the garage he was in. One other car shared the space, an identically bland sedan. Clyde’s car, Joe figured. A door led out of the garage area. He had heard it open and close and footsteps on stairs that faded after a few seconds. He grabbed the tire iron, the best he could do under the circumstances, and walked towards the door.

  “Sorry, Hank, really funny story, got stuck in your trunk…” he considered as a good opening line when he found Hank and the passenger.

  He opened the door and was surprised to see the stairs go down, not up. The ramp into the garage had definitely been downward as well. He removed his shoes and as gently as his bulk would allow, crept down the stairs. His biggest positive was surprise. The longer it was until Hank knew he was there, preferably right up to the moment the tire iron was hitting his skull, the better.

  He stepped off the last step. A corridor ran for about sixty feet. A few doorways were visible every few feet, equally spaced just like a hotel corridor. A bone curdling scream from further down the corridor instantly killed the hotel comparison. Joe remembered the call earlier in the car. The mysterious voice had ordered him to ‘shut down any leads he gives you,’ so it would appear the leads weren’t being given voluntarily.

  Joe put his shoes back on and made his way along the corridor. The man’s screams would more than cover his footsteps. He reached the doorway. Joe had no idea what was beyond it. A buzzing sound gave him all he needed to know. The moment he heard it, he lost all control and flew through the door in a rage he didn’t know he possessed.

  The tire iron was, as Joe had hoped, about to hit Hank before he realized what was happening.

  Unfortunately, Hank moved as the tire iron descended to where his skull had been. It would have split it in two had it landed, such was the force of Joe’s swing. Joe stumbled into a void where expected resistance should have been. Hank appeared at his right. He was fast, really fast. A jab from Hank caught him on the chin, though fortunately Joe had managed to turn as it hit, making it a glancing blow. Joe let himself go with the momentum, it was the quickest move. He fell deliberately to the floor and swept his leg out to catch Hank. He missed, catching Daryl’s chair leg crashing him unceremoniously to the floor.

  Hank had his gun in his belt holster. Worryingly, he wasn’t reaching for it. Instead, he smiled.

  “I knew there was something off about you,” he wagged his finger. “I told Amy you weren’t the sweet old down and out she thought you were.”

  “Was that while she was climbing onto that monster of a hubby of hers? What is it? Is size her thing? You not enough?” goaded Joe.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, she’s not into fat guys.”

  “I wasn’t meaning his weight.” Joe grinned and stood up to face off Hank, who was three inches shorter, leaner and lighter. Joe had a good fifty pounds on him and far more muscle.

  Joe’s head snapped back. He hadn’t even seen the jab coming. That was not good.

  Hank winked, rolled his shoulders, and bounced on the spot.

  “Okay, old man. How’d you do it? How’d you kill Gary and get back to Washington? Amy’s convinced you genuinely collapsed while ill and you’re innocent.”

  Joe crunched his shoulders—their rolling days were long gone—and got ready for the fight of his life.

  “Tell me where the girl is and I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” Joe countered. He bounced once on the spot, looking more like a halfhearted jump than an ‘I’m ready for you’ move like the gently bouncing Hank.

  “What girl?”

  “You know what girl. If you don’t, I’m in the wrong place,” said Joe, dropping his hands.

  “What about me, man?” asked Daryl, still tied to the chair and lying on the floor by the wall.

  “I don’t know who you are. I don’t give a shit about you.”

  Hank looked disappointed. The fight had left Joe.

  Hank smiled. “Oh that girl.”

  Joe rushed him, head down and arms spread wide. He caught him, although barely. Hank almost made it outside of Joe’s huge reach. Joe pulled him in, receiving a punch to the back of the head for his trouble. He kept pulling as he powered towards the wall. Hank pummeled him twice. Joe kept moving, the momentum carrying them both into the wall.

  “Ooooph!” Hank expelled every ounce of air as his body crumpled. Joe felt at least three of Hank’s ribs crack in the collision as they both fell to the floor.

  Joe was up first. He had experienced more pain than most men would experience in ten lifetimes. His ability to soak it up and continue was all thanks to the most despicable human being he’d ever met, Uday Hussein. It was the one thing Hank hadn’t considered. He may have been faster, smarter, and a far better fighter than Joe, but could he take the pain and keep going that Joe could? There were many great boxers in the world, and some of the best had never won a title because they couldn’t take the hits. Joe could take them all night long. After what Uday had done to him a few punches were like a bee stinging an elephant.

  Joe bounced, still nowhere near as impressive as Hank’s, though far better than his previous attempt.

  Hank’s breathing was labored yet he climbed to his feet.

  “So tell me then,” said Hank.

  “Not until you tell me where the girl is?”

  “I don’t know what girl you’re talking about.”

  Joe threw a jab with his left.

  Hank was already half out its way before Joe had thrown it. However, Joe was faking. Hank had moved too quickly. Joe’s right smashed him in the face, a powerful punch. Joe was playing to Hank’s superior speed and using it against him.

  Hank was knocked back, spitting out two teeth as he steadied himself.

  “Very good.” His perfect smile was ruined. He repositioned himself in a classic martial art stance.

  “Son, I was kicking ass before you were a glint in your father’s eye,” said Joe. “Real fighting, none of your martial art nonsense. Mano a mano, slugging it out. I get the impression you’ve never had your ass kicked. We only learn from a good ass kickin’. In the first few years in the Marines, men far older and slower than you kick your ass every day.”

  Hank spun and caught Joe with a roundhouse kick. Although Joe managed to deflect some of the power, it was still a good hit, sending Joe crashing back against the far wall.

  He stood straight back up. “Do you know why?”

  Joe flicked the tire iron from his hand as Hank asked why. “Because we’re thinking two moves ahead while you’re still contemplating the next one.”

  Joe rushed forward while Hank avoided being hit by the tire iron. Joe was on top of him, powering him into the floor, ensuring every ounce of his weight fell on the already broken ribs.

  Joe delivered a crushing punch that ended the fight and grabbed the pistol that Hank had been too arrogant to use. He tied Hank to the chair that he’d freed Daryl from.

  “You let me kick you across the room?” queried Hank. Joe grinned. “I needed to get the tire iron.”

  Joe untied Hank’s prisoner, “What’s your name?”

  “Daryl.”

  “Daryl, you and me need to talk. Before that I need to speak to this young man and get some information. This ain’t gonna be pretty. The man that showed me what to do was the most twisted, sick individual that has ever walked the Earth. However, I know what he did works, ‘cos it worked on me.”

  Daryl nodded, reveling in the fact that Hank
was about to receive some punishment for what he had done to him.

  “Son, trust me, what I’m saying is you’re gonna want to wait in the hallway.”

  “No, no, I’m fine.”

  Joe shrugged. He prepared his implements. Thirty seconds after starting, Daryl left the room, a pile of vomit on the floor suggesting he was anything but fine.

  Twenty minutes later, Joe burst out of the room.

  “Can you drive?”

  Daryl nodded.

  “I’ve no idea how you’re mixed up in this, but you’re going to tell me everything you know between here and my apartment.”

  Daryl looked over Joe’s shoulder. Hank’s lifeless eyes stared back.

  “Absolutely,” Daryl replied eagerly. “So what’s it all about?”

  “However bad you think it is, double it, multiply it by ten and still you’re not even close.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Daryl when they reached the car.

  “To try and save our way of life,” said Joe. “Come on, we need to get to my apartment.”

  Chapter 74

  “Wait here!” Joe instructed when they pulled to a halt outside the house. The second he got out of the car he knew he’d made another mistake. Jesus, Joe, enough with the amateur hour, he scolded himself. He rushed into the apartment, whistling unnecessarily for Sandy, who was already by his side as he grabbed the bag under his bed.

  “Come on, girl!”

  They could hear shouts from outside.

  “Who are you?” shouted Amy, banging on the driver’s window. Daryl wasn’t engaging.

  “I said who are you? Why are you in this car?” she demanded.

  Joe grabbed her from behind and whisked her up into her house.

  “Quiet,” he commanded.

  “Who the…”

  Joe clamped a hand over her mouth. She tried to bite him, he held her tighter and she stopped struggling.

  “Stop shouting.”

  “Who’s that in Hank’s car?”