Brady Hawk 10 - Into the Shadows

by R. J. Patterson

  “The people want to know that I’m normal,” Michaels said as he argued with Kriegel. “Playing golf is a way for me to show them that I’m just like them.”

  “But your average voter doesn’t play golf. They all see it as a rich man’s game,” Kriegel fired back.

  “It hardly costs anything to play a round. What are you talking about?”

  Kriegel shook his head and didn’t say a word.

  Michaels believed he knew better than Kriegel, who Michaels believed rarely offered any sound advice. Kriegel was there to be a sounding board, not to sound off. But when he dared to speak his mind, Michaels plugged both ears.

  Michaels gave Kriegel one more glance before addressing the ball. Recoiling slowly, Michaels unleashed a vicious swing that sent the ball hurtling forward—and to the left.

  “Damn it,” Michaels muttered as he watched his shot hook toward a patch of trees.

  Michaels handed his club to his caddy and lumbered forward. The three senators he was playing with had all hit their balls straight and left them squarely in the middle of the fairway. And while Michaels had the honor of hitting last as the winner of the previous hole, such a position gave him no advantage. He squandered it when his shot landed deep in the wooded boundary.

  “You’ll be all right, Mr. President,” one of the senators said as he continued forward.

  “You’re not kidding I’ll be all right,” Michaels said under his breath. “You know I’m going to come back and win this hole.”

  At least, that’s how it almost always went. Michaels’ tee shot would veer off course, but he’d make up for it with his short iron game.

  Michaels snatched a 3-iron from his bag and told his caddy to wait along the fairway. The search for the lost ball lasted all of two minutes. Unable to locate the ball, Michaels fished one out of his pocket and dropped it on the ground, kicking it to a favorable lie before announcing that he’d found his shot.

  He took a deep breath and gauged the best route out of the woods before he stepped up to the ball. Then he froze when he felt a cold metal object shoved into his back.

  “Don’t move,” a man said.

  Michaels froze.

  “That’s right. Stay right there,” the man said.

  “You’re never going to get away with this,” Michaels said. “You do realize there’s a Secret Service detail following me everywhere.”

  “But they can’t see you here, you cheating bastard, because you decided to toss a ball onto the ground,” the man said as he held a ball out in front of Michaels. “Here’s your ball, you piece of shit.”

  Michaels turned around slowly and came face to face with Oliver Ackerman.

  “Is this really necessary?” Michaels asked.

  “You tell me,” Ackerman said as he ducked down. “I’m not the one who stripped my bank account clean.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You stole all my money, you asshole, and I’m going to make you pay if you don’t return it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michaels said as he looked down at his ball.

  “If you draw your detail’s attention, I’ll fill you full of bullet holes. Consider this mutual assured destruction.”

  “Okay, okay. Just calm down.”

  “Is everything all right, Mr. President?” one of the Secret Service agents asked.

  “Just fine,” Michaels said. “Now stop making me nervous so I can hit this ball.”

  Ackerman crouched low in the shadows in an effort to remain hidden.

  “Just what exactly do you want?” Michaels asked.

  “I want my money back,” Ackerman said. “I’ve been doing everything just as you asked and then all of a sudden, my account is zeroed out.”

  “I can assure you that I had nothing to do with this.”

  “Are you sure?” Ackerman asked. “I’m not inclined to believe you based on your past history.”

  “I swear to god that I’m telling you the truth.”

  Ackerman jammed his gun farther into Michaels’ back. “After all I did for you—I can’t believe you would treat me like this.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can assure you that I’ve never ordered anyone to take any money from your account. You’re one of my most loyal men. Why would I do that?”

  “I know you’re feeling the heat and you’re just trying to tidy up some loose ends. I’m not going to be a loose end or a footnote in your tattered legacy, I can promise you that much.”

  “Oliver, just calm down.”

  “No, I won’t just calm down. You’ve got four hours to restore all the money to my account or I’m going public with the truth. And consider this our last working agreement.”

  “Sir,” one of the Secret Service agents called, “are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Never better,” Michaels said as he glanced up at the man and then back down at his ball.

  Michaels looked over his shoulder. Ackerman had retreated into the woods and was nowhere to be seen.

  Michaels swung hard and topped the ball. He watched it roll a few feet before coming to rest on a root.

  “Son of a bitch,” Michaels muttered.

  And he wasn’t talking about his muffed shot.

  CHAPTER 26

  AFTER HIS MORNING GOLF OUTING, President Michaels settled into a chair in the library at his Camp David cottage and cracked open the latest memoir to rocket up all the bestselling charts. “Common Valor” was a book about by a man named John Sellers, an assassin in the Marines who ditched the military after eight years to go start schools for girls in Afghanistan. Michaels flipped the pages, rolling his eyes at Sellers’ depiction of military life as well as his empathy toward the plight of the Afghanis.

  More like “Common Bullshit” if you ask me.

  Michaels slammed the book shut and tossed it on the coffee table in front of him. He sunk in his chair and stared out at the vivid array of fall colors on display outside. The shuffling of feet in the hallway arrested his attention, and he sat up and looked to see who was there.

  “Still mulling over that decision to go for it on fourteen instead of laying up in front of the water?” David Kriegel asked.

  “If I had to do it over again, I’d still go for it,” Michaels said. “You know I live my life without regret.”

  Kriegel took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he eased into a chair next to Michaels.

  “You might want to reconsider that statement,” Kriegel said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the hell you’re about to go through.”

  Michaels furrowed his brow. “I’m lost here, David. Are you referring to something that I should know about?”

  “The U.S. attorney general is here to speak with you—and I don’t think you’re going to like what he has to say.”

  Michaels looked toward the doorway and saw Thomas Preston standing solemnly with his briefcase in hand.

  “What are you doing here?” Michaels asked.

  Kriegel stood up and strode toward the exit. “I’ll leave you two alone to discuss things.”

  Preston stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. After setting his briefcase down on the coffee table, Preston occupied the seat Kriegel had been sitting in. For nearly the last four years, Preston had been cleaning house as it pertained to all the corruption in Washington. Bankers, lobbyists, senators, federal judges—no one was beyond Preston’s reach. And while the purge had been painful at times for Michaels, he chalked up the loss of friends and allies to the cost of doing business. He concluded that if all these people who claimed to be his friend were skirting the rules and backstabbing confidantes, it would only be a matter of time before they did the same thing to him. Preston had done exactly what Michaels wanted: Washington was no longer a network consisting solely of crooked individuals sticking their fingers in the collective pie. A few miscreants still remained in the shadows, but
given enough time, Preston would eventually flush them out or simply shut them down.

  “Who is it this time?” Michaels asked.

  Preston opened his briefcase and retrieved a file folder.

  “I need you to read this,” Preston said.

  “No problem,” Michaels said as he tossed it onto the end table next to his seat.

  “Now,” Preston ordered.

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “I’d rather you hear it from me than on the news.”

  Michaels cocked his head and squinted as he stared at Preston. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about first?”

  Preston didn’t flinch. “Read it.”

  Michaels reached for the files and started reading. After reading the first page, he flipped through the document, barely stopping long enough on each page to read more than a sentence or two.

  “What’s this?” Michaels said, holding the pages up to Preston. “Another partisan hit job? Who even believes this stuff anymore?”

  Preston leaned forward and retrieved his laptop from the briefcase. Opening up his computer, he inserted a flash drive into one of the side ports and waited. He clicked on a certain file and placed the laptop on Michaels’ desk.

  “Have a seat at your desk and watch this,” Preston said, waiting for Michaels to sit down before pressing play.

  The video began to play. Within the first 30 seconds, Michaels’ face turned pale.

  “Seen enough?” Preston asked.

  Michaels set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he asked, pounding his desk.

  Noah Young walked into the room and cleared his throat.

  “He’s Thomas Preston, the U.S. attorney general,” Young said. “The one you appointed to clean up all this mess in Washington. Or have you forgotten so soon?”

  Big Earv and another Secret Service agent stepped into the room and shut the door behind them.

  “Look, can we just talk about this?” Michaels said. He cut his eyes over at the agents. “Alone?”

  “I’m afraid they need to stick around,” Preston said. “Protocol. You understand, right?”

  “I’m the president of the United States of America, damn it,” Michaels bellowed. “And I want to talk about this without a pair of agents in the room.”

  Preston nodded at the men and they stepped outside and pulled the door shut.

  “Now, please, state your case, Mr. President,” Preston said. “I want to hear your explanation for all of this.”

  “This is entrapment, and you know it,” Michaels said. “My lawyers will beat this accusation silly—and you can bet your ass that you’ll be relieved of your duties post haste.”

  “Not when you don’t have the power to fire me,” Preston said.

  “What the hell do you mean? I can do anything I want, I’m the—”

  “We know, Conrad,” Young said, cutting off his boss. “You’re the president of the United States of America. The sad thing is you haven’t been acting like it. More to the point, you’ve been subverting this great country.”

  “Better to control the threat than let it sneak up on you,” Michaels said. “Besides, we now know exactly where Al Hasib is, thanks to my plan.”

  “Is that so?” Young asked.

  “Yes, and I’ll prove it to you,” Michaels said.

  Young slipped a piece of paper on the desk in front of Michaels.

  “Is this what you’re looking for? Coordinates from the tracking devices?”

  Brow furrowed, Michaels looked up at Young. “How did you get—”

  “Never mind that. Want me to log into the DOD satellite system and punch in these coordinates?”

  “Yes, Noah. Do it right now and show the soon-to-be ex-Attorney General Thomas Preston that I’m more genius than anyone gives me credit for.”

  “If you insist,” Young said before sliding into the chair vacated by Michaels.

  Young hammered away on the keyboard until the satellite images came up on the screen.

  “Please read the coordinates aloud for me,” Young said.

  Michaels picked up the piece of paper and followed Young’s instructions. After a series of keystrokes, Young stood up and held his hand out toward the computer.

  “Please, have a look,” he said.

  Michaels sat down and zoomed in on the location flagged on the screen.

  “Are you sure that’s the right location?”

  “Sure as I am standing here,” Young said.

  “But there’s nothing there—it’s just sand.”

  “Welcome to the Omani desert, home to thousands of species that can survive with little to no water. And now also home to your tracking device.”

  “How did they figure that out? I swear they had no knowledge of the tracker. Only one person knew about it.”

  Preston hovered near the desk with his arms crossed. “Was that one person named Oliver Ackerman?”

  “Oliver who?”

  “Don’t even play that game with us,” Young said. “You know who he is.”

  Michaels paused for a moment and looked pensively out the window. He felt the walls closing in around him as the people who held positions of power had encircled him. They didn’t appreciate what he was trying to do, especially during an election year.

  “The people need to know that there are threats and—”

  “Threats you’re creating,” Young said. “When you keep giving weapons to renegade terrorist leaders who have no conscience, they’re going to do unconscionable things with them. How do you not understand this?”

  “How do you not understand the limitations of power in this country? We need to annihilate Al Hasib and other groups. But we can’t do that under the status quo. Once the people understand the threat, they will give us the power we need to wipe them out.”

  “That sounds like political posturing to me,” Preston said. “And it’s not going to fly—not in the court of public opinion or in a congressional hearing. It doesn’t matter how many allies you might have on Capitol Hill, they’re all going to desert you once this gets out.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them. Young opened it to find one of Preston’s assistants standing solemnly just outside.

  “Thomas,” Young said, gesturing toward the aide.

  Preston strode across the room and asked what was the reason for the intrusion, demanding to know why it couldn’t wait.

  “It’s pertinent, sir,” the man said as he handed a cell phone to Preston.

  After a few seconds, Preston’s jaw dropped. He returned to the desk and handed the phone to Michaels.

  “I’m afraid all your bargaining power is now gone, thanks to one Oliver Ackerman,” Preston said, showing the phone to Michaels.

  Michaels received the device and pressed play. A video of Michaels and Oliver Ackerman seated in what appeared to be something like a CIA black site interview room. The images appeared to come from a camera located in the upper corner of the room.

  “What exactly do you want me to do, Mr. President?” Ackerman asked.

  “Exactly what I said,” Michaels fired back.

  “Which is . . .”

  “Do I have to spell everything out for you? I want you to set up an arms deal with Al Hasib.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, are you sure that’s a wise idea?”

  Michaels put his hand around the back of Oliver’s neck and chuckled. “I know it seems counterintuitive, but there is a method to all this madness.”

  “You mind spelling that out for me because I’m lost here.”

  “Turn it off,” Michaels said, turning and looking outside, where he noticed a flurry of activity among the agents. “I’m done with this.”

  “You weren’t very careful, sir,” Preston said. “And now the whole world knows about your treasonous act.”

  “This will never stand up in a court of law,” Michaels said.

  Preston walked over to the door and opened it. He mo
tioned for the Secret Service agents to enter the room.

  “Handcuff him,” Preston ordered as he pointed at Michaels.

  “What for?” Michaels said. “You have to give a reason for detaining me. It’s the law.”

  Preston sighed as the agents handcuffed Michaels to the arm of his chair. “The last thing you need to be doing is lecturing me about the law. Now, would you like to call your attorney?”

  Nostrils flaring, Michaels glared at Preston. “I need you to order these men to release me from custody right now.”

  Preston shook his head. “Not happening, sir.”

  “I’m the president, you asshole.”

  Young smiled. “Not anymore you aren’t. Consider yourself relieved of duty.”

  Michaels jerked at his restraints. “I swear to God, I’m going to kill you, Noah.”

  Young and the two agents exited the room without another word, leaving Michaels alone with Preston.

  Preston eased into the seat on the other side of the desk. He clasped his hands, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair.

  “Let’s get to the point. I know how much you hate being embarrassed, Conrad. Your legacy? Poof. Gone. It’s a shame too because you actually made some progress that benefitted all Americans.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything, but I am offering you a way out, a way to avoid becoming a stain on the president’s office.”

  “And what makes you think I’m going down for all this? I have really good lawyers, you know.”

  “No one is going to want your case,” Preston said. “You can fight it, but you’ll go down. And you sure as hell won’t get re-elected next month. October surprise? That’d be a breeze compared to what’s about to happen to your poll numbers. Your campaign will become ground zero.”

  “Suppose you’re right about all this. What can you possibly do to ensure that my legacy remains intact?”

  Preston picked up his briefcase and opened it. He removed a rope and a knife and placed them on the desk in front of Michaels.

  “This is your decision now,” Preston said. “You can control how you go. And I promise to make sure that this other information never sees the light of day after the public is told that you died tragically from a sudden embolism in your heart.”