Billionaires, movie stars, media anchors, and their legions of followers that collectively pursued the dismantling of the President Smart’s administration at all costs realized the time to cross the Rubicon was now. That Rubicon went from soft coup to hard coup.
From nonviolent to violent.
Smart had proven a worthy adversary against the most powerful conspiratorial efforts since Caesar’s Roman Empire and Brutus. The president—rather to this group, the “Not My President”—had survived, so far. He was tough and frankly the scores of protesters and front men and women had underestimated him. Zara found herself at the nexus of the true believers in the illegitimacy of the Smart Administration and those that were positioned to continue the fight. While Smart had rooted out a fair number of moles from his administration, several remained. Between the big money, the promises of powerful positions, and the fame that some sought, there were enough people fully vested that they were receptive of Zara’s plan. She was pragmatic and had discussed the entire operation with Smart’s former opponent, ex-Senator Jamie Carter, two years ago after her loss. In typical fashion, Jamie had given an imperceptible nod to prepare, just in case the special counsel report didn’t serve their purposes. They had no faith that a feckless Congress could successfully impeach Smart and relegate him to a footnote in American history, which to many was the only acceptable outcome.
And so, the images of fingernails scraping against rock walls, long hypodermic needles, classroom instruction, hand-to-hand combat, and target practice.
“All okay?” he asked, perhaps noticing the pensive look.
“Perfect,” she replied.
Boats with running lights winking red and green plowed north and south along the Intracoastal Waterway, just beyond the long wooden pier, on this pleasant early November evening.
Tourist season was over, and Hite had invited her to his beach home for a quick weekend getaway. Zara knew that Hite’s wife was in Charlotte and had declined the invitation to join him for such a brief visit. Truth be told, she most likely knew that he preferred a little random action at his exclusive retreat. Zara knew that she was this month’s tasty treat. She had set up a meeting with the senator a few weeks before and could tell he was immediately smitten. She was not naïve enough to think it was because her Perro Policy Group lobbying firm was so powerful, or he had any glimpse of who she was. It was her looks. He’d already commented that she looked like an Eastern European swimsuit model. Men were always commenting on her tall, lean figure, full lips, and raven-black hair.
“Nice place,” Zara said. She switched from leaning into the deck to leaning back against it. She was wearing four-inch Louboutin heels and a sarong wraparound, which Hite most likely knew was her only article of clothing. They hadn’t fooled around yet, but she had seen the cameras placed in her bedroom. Because of the cameras, she had stripped down, taken a long shower, spent a lot of time naked so that he could get an eyeful.
She had then tied the sarong around her taut body. She handled everything with care, stepping softly and making sure she didn’t leave a mess anywhere in the bathroom, wiping down surfaces she touched. She had turned away from the camera and fussed with her suitcase and sarong, so that Hite couldn’t see her slip her Walther PPS M2 nine-millimeter pistol beneath the flimsy cloth. She even pinched the wineglass in her hand between two fingers. A perfect lady, she stood nearly six feet tall, the heels bringing her almost to his height.
“Thanks. Glad you could join me,” Hite said. “I needed to take a break. Things are a bit crazy in DC right now. This president is insane.”
“You’ve got that right,” she said. Her accent was slight, but detectable. Of Spanish heritage, Zara had lived in the United States for twenty years, arriving as a teenager. Naturally, she knew that Hite’s chief of staff had run a full background check on her. The only oddity that would show would be a few months in a trauma clinic in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Otherwise, there was nothing unusual about her background. Her parents were schoolteachers. She had an older brother and they had attended high school in northern Virginia. Then life took her to the University of Virginia for undergrad, George Mason University for a graduate degree in psychology, and Eastern Virginia Medical School for a medical degree in psychiatry. Married, divorced, no kids. Former psychiatrist, now a lobbyist, and a committed pussy-hat–wearing member of the Resistance.
“You’re busy, too, I know,” Hite said.
“I have twenty clients. They all expect me to deliver everything they ask for every day. They don’t understand that I have no control over the outcome, because ultimately I have to convince you and others to vote a certain way.”
“How many ‘others’ are there, Zara?” Hite asked. He turned away from the waterway, leaned against the teak rail of his deck, and stared her in the eyes. She knew what he was thinking. It was what they all saw. She was flawless. Perfect brown eyes, shoulder length black hair with straight-cut bangs, high cheekbones, full lips, the works. Her shoulders and collarbones accented her figure, and the coral sarong was snug around her firm breasts. She smiled with straight, whitened teeth and she actually saw Hite’s jeans tighten in his crotch.
“For the moment, there is only you,” she said. “Let’s not pretend that you have not had other ‘friends’ on this very same deck, and I won’t pretend that I haven’t visited other clients.”
“Fair enough,” Hite said.
“You, with your Mitt Romney–looking hair.” She laughed playfully, attempting to change the mood from suspicious to fun. “Black on the top, gray on the sides. I love it.”
“Everything about you is beautiful,” he said. Taking a sip of his Lagavulin 24 Scotch, he squinted at her. “I mean everything.”
“I’m glad you think so. I didn’t come here to get your vote on any particular bill,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed our texting the last few weeks ago. It’s flirty and fun.”
She could tell that Hite still enjoyed the rush of the element of danger. Would he get caught? Did anyone care nowadays, given the current environment?
“So, what’s your kink, Senator?”
Hite grinned.
“Straight to the point. I like it.” He paused. “I have a special room, actually. Would you like to see it?”
Her eyes caught a winking light in the Intracoastal and she smiled again, then looked at Hite. She lifted a hand to his shoulder.
“Beautiful out here,” she said. “But, yes, I’d like to go to your special room.”
She ran her tongue across her lips, not in a provocative way, but absentmindedly, perhaps in anticipation.
He stepped through the threshold into the spacious great room with a fireplace big enough to hold tree trunks. Elk, moose, mule deer, whitetail deer, zebra, lion, and water buffalo heads, even fully stuffed bodies hung from the walls or were perched in the corners. Literal baying animals cornered. A bobcat sat eternally embalmed atop a faux tree in the far corner of the room, opposite the fireplace. Having already navigated through this room, Zara felt no particular emotion. She understood killing and that people killed for different reasons.
Opening a heavy oak door, he stepped into the stairwell as she followed behind. Her heels clicked on the wooden steps, her calves tightening into ropey lengths as she guided her way behind him. The Walther was snug on her right hip, just below where she had tied off the sarong. As they turned the corner, Hite flipped on a switch, which lit a dim bank of lights around the periphery of the room. Pale circles of weak light shone down on the equipment. Most prominent was a whipping post, with iron shackles hanging down from crossing four-by-four poles, which appeared to be a modern version of public-humiliation stocks. A small padded ledge jutted outward, perhaps, she thought, for his face—or hers? Ropes fed through pulleys in each corner of the room and were secured to a swinging seat, with an open bottom about three feet above the floor. Handcuffs and shackles lined the walls, which were padded with Carolina blue velvet. A nice touch, she thought.
“In
teresting tastes you have, Senator,” she said.
Hite turned toward her and smiled sheepishly. He lifted his tumbler of Scotch toward her and said, “Yes, well, now you know my secrets.”
“Actually, I don’t.” She ran her tongue across perfect teeth and pursed her lips. His eyes lowered to her lips, then her taut figure.
“I can show you,” he said. His voice was a hoarse whisper.
She lifted a hand and placed it on the stock, nodding her head toward it. “This turn you on? To be locked up? Humiliated?”
Hite coughed. “Yes, but I think I’m frankly aroused by you without any of this.”
“That so?” She looked at his crotch and smirked.
He kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, and slid his pants off, gathering his underwear as he did so. Pulling at the buttons on his shirt, he flung it into the corner and stood there completely naked. Zara barely suppressed a laugh and was only able to do so because she was calculating how much rope she would need.
Hite placed his face in the pad, like that on a massage table, and threaded his arms through the open wings of the stock. Removing a cloth from her purse, she covered her hand and pressed the open arms of the stock into place and snapped the metallic latch shut on each side. His hands dangled on the far side while his head was in the padded foam. There was a circular device above his head, which she pulled down, its edge pressing just beneath where his skull met his neck. With a click, she locked his head into place. The only freedom of maneuver that he still had were his feet and legs, which were splayed on either side of the sex swing, with his ass resting in the middle.
She considered that the seat was normally reserved for women, but everyone had their kink. The naked senator sat there, practically self-restrained, in full anticipation of something. A spanking? Pegging? Flogging? All of the above?
She thought about the signal she had seen in the Intracoastal Waterway behind Hite’s estate and figured she needed to execute, literally.
Removing latex gloves from her purse, she snapped them on each hand and got to work. She removed a coiled red rope from a hook on the wall and looped it through a pulley hanging directly above the stock.
“Come on, baby,” Hite said. His voice was muffled from the face pad, but understandable.
“Coming,” she whispered. Finished with the noose, she reached up and looped the rope through the pulley groove. Cinching it down, until it was even with the noose, she ran the running end through a small hook on the far wall. Returning to the stock, she lifted the top lever, slid her hands along the contours of Hite’s face, whispering in his ear, “This will be your best ever.”
In a deft movement, she slid the noose over his head, around his neck, and then locked the top hold back in place. Hite struggled against the noose, perhaps realizing what was happening, but his head was locked down, along with his hands. His feet, however, kicked out and flailed on either side of the swing, which sashayed from left to right as he wrestled against the restraints.
Zara reached in her purse, popped a pill that would keep her focused, and then leaned over and pulled the rope taut. She placed one foot against the wall and, with a clean jerk, snapped the rope hard through the eyelet three times, like setting the hook on a fish. She felt Hite’s neck break on the first pull, but added the extra two for insurance.
Tying off the rope with two half hitches, she checked Hite’s pulse and waited a full minute. He was dead. She unlatched the stocks, removed his hands, and arranged one on the rope and the other on his crotch. Reaching into her purse, she retrieved two thin dirty-blond hairs and dropped them on Hite’s crotch.
Satisfied that she had accomplished the mission, she retraced her steps to the deck, followed the wooden pier into the Intracoastal Waterway, and retrieved her phone, upon which she flipped the flashlight function twice.
A few seconds later, an engine purred. A sleek speedboat nosed up to the pier. Zara stepped onto the gunnel and into the vessel. Her boat captain was nameless to her. He had one job to do, which was to deliver her safely to New Bern, North Carolina, via the Intracoastal Waterway.
Soon the house and Hite were a distant memory.
She thought of what followed from Hite’s death. The concept of operations was intricate and involved several moving parts.
I will kill again, she whispered to the wind as the sleek white vessel skimmed the glassy waters of the Intracoastal Waterway.
CHAPTER 3
THREE MONTHS LATER IN EARLY NOVEMBER, CASSIE BAGWELL, NOW patient number 17, huddled in her “dorm room” with her roommate, Emma Tyndall.
She whispered, “It’s got to be now. We’ve got to escape now.”
Emma looked at Cassie with feral eyes. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“You’ve been riding bulls all your life and you can’t run out of this building?” Cassie asked.
The room had two twin beds, a sink, latrine, and windowed door that locked from the outside. It was tantamount to a prison cell. At different intervals throughout the day, the “patients” would migrate to the cafeteria for their three squares; attend physical training class, which normally included hand-to-hand combat and other combative martial arts; and then shoot at least five hundred rounds on the known-distance range and close-quarters combat facility.
“I’ve seen the fences and the gates. Ain’t no way we’re getting out of here. And those guards, like Lucas, they’ll hurt us real bad,” Emma said. “Then Dr. Perro will come in and give us more shots. The only reason I don’t go batshit crazy like the rest of you is because I’ve been on a pretty steady dose of opioids, which seems to counteract whatever the hell she’s pumping in our veins.”
“We can beat Lucas and the others. You’re strong and fast. So am I,” Cassie said.
Emma was sitting with her back to the cinder block wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her honey-brown hair hung across her face in ragged tendrils. Her face was all hard angles, not an ounce of fat, and her eyes looked at everything as if it might be a rattlesnake. For the past two weeks since Cassie had been transferred from Walter Reed Military Hospital to the Valley Trauma Center, their nightly conversations had started slow. Emma seemed suspicious that Cassie was somehow a plant or spy put in her room to monitor her activities. She hadn’t exactly been participating, at least not willfully, in the training and sessions, she’d told Cassie.
“It’s like they’re training us for war or something,” she had said.
When Cassie asked her why she had chosen VTC, Emma had said, “It chose me. I got kicked in the head by a bull and next thing I know, I’m here. Dr. Broome is supposedly advertised as the best at traumatic brain injury, and I told them there ain’t nothing traumatic about my brain injury other than me not riding bulls and getting a paycheck. And I asked him why I can’t be on the other side of the campus, but he just smiled and said this is where I fit in.”
In two weeks of endless conversations, Cassie and Emma promised they would help each other.
Cassie now said, “Emma, I really need your help here. I want you to leave with me. That’s all you’ve got to do.”
“I just can’t do it, Cassie. I’m sorry. My mama said she’d come get me, and that’s what I’m counting on. These people will chase us down and put a hurtin’ on us. Hell, they don’t need a reason. They do it anyway.”
The nurses doubled as guards, Cassie had figured out that much. They were universally large men who worked at the direction of Dr. Broome, the director of VTC.
“I have to go, Emma. I don’t want to leave you. We have this creed: leave no soldier behind. I’m worried about you.”
Emma smiled a slanted grin, lips closed, eyes knowing. “I can take care of myself, Cass. Been the only woman rider in the men’s professional bull-riding circuit for a few years now. Most of them treat me real nice, but there’s always a few. These yahoos ain’t no different.”
“When I leave, they might think you know where I went. They might ask you things.”
&nbs
p; “I don’t know where you’re going, and don’t care, that’s all I’ll say. You were just another roomie,” Emma said. “Easy come, easy go.” Emma’s eyes watered, a tear escaping her left eye.
“But that’s not how you really feel, right?”
“You know how I feel. Every night for two weeks, we shared secrets. Stuff we want to do. Fought off those assholes,” she said, throwing her chin toward the door and the malicious staff that lay beyond.
“And they’ll see that. They’ll be able to tell. They’ll work you over, and while it’s true you don’t know where I’m going, they’ll think you do.”
Cassie had swept the room several times for fiber optic cameras and listening devices, finding a poorly concealed fiber optic cable sticking from the concrete block wall like the head of a small garden snake. There were two smoke alarms, one of which was obviously a camera. She removed it one night and disabled the audio portion, allowing the voyeurs to have their jollies while she and Emma talked in private.
“Hadn’t really looked at it that way,” Emma said in her Western twang. From Wyoming, she knew mostly about working on ranches and riding horses and bulls. Being distrustful by nature didn’t provide her any particular skills or tradecraft; rather, it just made her skeptical of most everything and everyone.
Cassie stood and retrieved a small medical cooler from beneath her bunk. She unplugged it from an electrical outlet.
“You’re taking that?”
“Collected as much as I could. I can’t handle any more of the shots. I’m afraid it will make me like the others. I can’t risk it,” Cassie said. She stepped close to Emma and leaned in. “And neither can you.”
“I’m between a rock and a hard place here, Cass. I really want to go, but there’s no way. I’m not a soldier like you. I may be all hard and stuff, but on the inside, I’m soft. I avoid conflict, unless it doesn’t avoid me.”
Double Crossfire Page 2
