Hunters

by Matt Rogers

  ‘The meeting got delayed, Connor. But don’t worry. It’ll happen.’

  ‘Make sure it does.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. You got any more of that stuff?’

  ‘Just the two vials I gave you for now. One for you. One for you-know-who.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But if I get it done?’

  ‘Then you’ll have as much as you want.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good, Connor. That’s really good.’

  Already a dutiful servant to his new addiction.

  Now, Connor stared at his burner phone, an anonymised smartphone with a year’s basic fees paid in advance. It was digitally impenetrable — he’d made sure of it. All Nelson’s calls concerning matters outside of work came through the burner phone, just to be sure.

  He didn’t know what surveillance was like on the division that did most of the surveilling in the first place.

  The phone rang.

  5:43p.m.

  Too quick, Connor thought, a lump in his throat. The President turned him down.

  His mind went haywire. He couldn’t tame his racing thoughts. Was Nelson compromised? Had the Secret Service found the Bodhi? Were they calling Connor’s number to bait him into answering, sucker him into incriminating himself?

  He realised they couldn’t use silence as evidence.

  He brought the phone to his ear and answered without a word.

  ‘It’s me,’ Nelson said. ‘He took it.’

  Connor’s pulse doubled.

  His supreme concentration was destroyed by one of his colleagues stepping into the doorway and knocking on the frame, and he jumped from the shock.

  The guy — late thirties, loud, bombastic, the life of the party — laughed in a staccato rhythm. ‘Sorry, kid. Scared you half to death. Listen, a few of us are getting drinks after work at—’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Connor said.

  His colleague froze with his mouth half-open. ‘What—?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Connor said again. ‘I’m on a call.’

  The guy thought about firing back with a retort, but decided otherwise. He snorted with derision and stormed off.

  If Connor was already the quiet, bookish young man who lived in his own head and made no friends, now he was overtly hostile, too, and rumours would spread like wildfire. Within minutes he’d be the workplace outcast.

  He didn’t care. It was the last thing on his mind.

  On the phone, Nelson said, ‘What?’

  ‘Not you,’ Connor said. ‘I got interrupted. So he took it?’

  A pause, like Nelson couldn’t believe it either. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Within thirteen minutes?’

  Another pause, likely Nelson checking his watch. ‘I mean, I got in at 4:58.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, then,’ Connor said, rolling his eyes. ‘Same thing. How on earth did you manage that?’

  ‘Told him it’d alleviate his anxieties,’ Nelson said. ‘Turns out the presidency is a stressful gig. Who’d have thought?’

  ‘And that’s it?’ Connor said, a touch dejected. ‘You’re already out of there?’

  ‘I’m going back in at seven,’ Nelson said. ‘He’s cleared his schedule for me. I took the dose at the same time he did. We’re going to peak together. Then I’ll tell him everything you told me to say. I’ll indoctrinate him to the cause.’

  Connor felt emotions and sensations he hadn’t considered humanly possible. Absolute, irrepressible joy.

  Connor said, ‘You sure you two will be alone?’

  ‘We go way back,’ Nelson said. ‘I didn’t tell you that. I wanted it to be a surprise. You know … how effortlessly I could pull it off.’

  ‘You’re a genius, man. You know what this means?’

  Nelson clearly didn’t care about what it meant. He cared about one thing and one thing alone.

  He said, ‘So … about the supply?’

  Connor said, ‘You get him on board, I’ll give you a dozen vials later tonight.’

  Nelson let out a low noise, something close to a moan. It was unbelievable what Bodhi was capable of. Not even heroin had the same effect. There are uncertainties and mental obstructions with heroin addiction because it knocks you out of touch with reality. If you’re hiding your addiction from your loved ones, you need to carve out stretches of time where you can be alone to lose yourself in wonderland. With Bodhi, it’s different. The optimal dose straps a rocket to your back, rids you of every worry and concern, has you functioning like you haven’t a care in the world, even in the presence of others. At the right dosage it keeps you lucid and cognisant.

  The Riordans had known the right dosage.

  Each vial measured to the millilitre.

  Connor said, ‘You remember what to tell him?’

  ‘You wrote it down for me.’

  He had.

  Connor had transcribed the Mother Libertas creed by hand onto a fresh piece of paper and given it to Nelson before he left last night. Connor kept the original copy stuck to the fridge in his small apartment.

  Nelson said, ‘Leave it with me. Soon we’ll have the most powerful man in the world under our spell.’

  Connor bristled.

  He hung up, put the burner phone down, and breathed out.

  Maybe it was all possible…

  3

  The Bodhi hit Devin Nelson at ten to seven.

  He was milling around in the Gateway to the Oval Office, the adjoining room where the President’s personal secretaries worked. A personal assistant sat behind a wooden desk in a black leather office chair, fixated on his computer screen. The guy was in his early forties and appeared to be a mix of a few different ethnicities. He was a consummate professional — he’d only glanced at Nelson once, the rest of the time spent focused on his evening tasks.

  Usually Nelson wouldn’t play this waiting game, but two appointments with the President in a single evening meant he couldn’t afford to make over-the-top demands. He had to take what he could get.

  A door leading to the Rose Garden rested at the end of his line of sight, and he was admiring the artfully arranged pink grandiflora roses when the colours seemed to ripple.

  He’d been pacing slowly back and forth, but now he stopped in place and fought back a smile.

  The assistant glanced up at the disruption in rhythm. ‘Everything okay, sir?’

  Nelson turned to him and nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Better than okay.’

  The assistant’s head cocked slightly to the right, but he returned to his duties without another word.

  Nelson wanted to laugh.

  Wanted to cry.

  Wanted to go through every emotion under the sun, and relish in it, at the beauty of this world.

  Look at you, he thought to himself. Look where you are. The most prestigious office in the country. Rubbing shoulders with titans. You are a titan. Look what you’ve done with your life.

  He realised he never allowed himself to feel satisfaction. That would have to change going forward. He deserved reward and respite for his hard work, day in and day out, on matters that would grind most men down from the sheer stress.

  This isn’t you, a smaller voice said in his head. This is the Bodhi.

  So if it was hitting him, that meant it was hitting—

  He said, ‘How much longer?’

  The personal assistant didn’t take his eyes off his screen. ‘There’s been an unexpected delay in … the previous meeting. Just a couple more minutes, sir.’

  It was odd, but Nelson didn’t care.

  The assistant could have gotten up, crossed the room, and slapped him full in the face, and it wouldn’t have fazed him.

  This drug. This beautiful drug.

  He could never have enough of it.

  He fixated on the grandiflora roses, let their pink glow resonate through him, and he didn’t realise ten minutes had passed until the assistant waved a hand across his line of sight, seizing his attention.

  Nelson said, ‘What?’

  ‘He’s ready for
you.’

  Nelson checked his watch.

  7:12.

  Late. Very unlike the President he knew.

  Again, he didn’t care.

  If he had suspicions, he didn’t acknowledge them.

  He should have.

  He went through into the Oval Office and realised the President wasn’t alone. The man was on his knees on the thick carpet with the Seal of the President of the United States beneath him. Two brutish men in tailored suits stood over him. One of them had a handful of the President’s grey hair, almost pulling the follicles from the scalp, keeping him upright.

  Nelson’s internal panic alarm would have gone off if he wasn’t at the peak of a Bodhi trip. Even still, he was terrified, but he kept himself composed and tried to regain order. ‘Get your hands off him now.’

  One of the brutes gave a sardonic smile, flashing white veneers. His hair had receded into a widow’s peak above his thick skull, and he’d crudely shaved it into a buzzcut. His hands were massive, his fingers thick and calloused.

  He raised an eyebrow at Nelson. ‘Oh, you think you’re in charge?’

  Silence.

  Nelson felt his heart pounding in his chest.

  The brute yanked the President’s head up, so he grew taller on his knees. The President’s pupils were swollen. Saliva coated his lips. His face was a kaleidoscope of emotion. He seemed to understand the predicament he was in, but the Bodhi kept overriding his fear. He bounced between ecstatic and horrified. He was physically useless, though. The dose had been too strong.

  The brute jerked the President’s hair again, making him wince. ‘You think even he’s in charge?’

  ‘Of course he’s in charge,’ Nelson said. ‘So I suggest—’

  ‘Shut the door.’

  Nelson’s stomach knotted. He said, ‘You’re Secret Service?’

  ‘No,’ the guy said. ‘Now do as I say.’

  Bodhi shoots you to the moon, but it also makes you compliant.

  Nelson just wanted this to be over.

  He turned around and closed the door, making eye contact for a split second with the wide-eyed assistant as it swung shut.

  The assistant had known all along.

  He’d fed Nelson to the wolves.

  The one who hadn’t talked yet crossed the room, grabbed Nelson by the back of his neck, and forced him down to his knees. Then he dragged him one-handed across the carpet, throwing him in a heap beside the President.

  The talkative brute paced back and forth in front of them. ‘You fucked up, Devin.’

  Through the shimmering haze of Bodhi, Nelson said, ‘So you know my name. What’s yours?’

  The first step of surviving interrogation: humanise yourself to your captors.

  Get to know them. Make them realise you’re not something to be used and discarded. You’re a living, breathing thing.

  The talkative brute said, ‘Opal.’

  Speaking for the first time, the silent one said, ‘Topaz.’

  Nelson said, ‘Those aren’t your names.’

  ‘They’re our callsigns,’ Opal said. ‘We’re the new wave.’

  ‘The new wave of what?’

  ‘Black operatives who know what they’re doing,’ Opal said. ‘You’re an outdated relic, Devin. We kept you and your rapidly disintegrating division around until we were happy to decommission you.’ His fist still white-knuckled around a tuft of the President’s hair, Opal looked down at the man with contempt. ‘Looks like you accelerated the timeline, you naughty boy.’

  The Oval Office glowed.

  Fighting against the lure of dopamine, Nelson clenched his teeth before he said, ‘There’s been a misunderstanding. Someone drugged us.’

  Opal gave a thuggish smile. ‘Who could it possibly have been?’

  Nelson’s fear became something physical, visceral.

  He started to hyperventilate.

  With beads of sweat dotting his forehead, he said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You do know,’ Opal said. ‘You drugged the President of the United States.’

  Nelson gazed down at the carpet between his knees.

  Opal regarded the President with derision. ‘Unfortunately this stupid puppet is a public figure, so we need to keep him around.’ He lifted his stare to Nelson, who returned it. ‘As for you…’

  Nelson said, ‘Do you know who I am? What I’ve done? What I know? You don’t want to make the wrong call here.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Opal said. ‘But who’s going to miss you?’

  The Bodhi made Nelson reminisce on a career spent in servitude of his country, tackling the dirty work that kept the lights on and the population blissfully unaware. That sort of work required complete devotion. It left neither the time nor the mental capacity for a family. Nelson hadn’t wanted to come home and lie to his wife each night about what he did, so he never found one.

  The Bodhi brought him to the objective conclusion.

  ‘No one,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Opal said. ‘I’m not the one who made the bad call.’

  Topaz walked over, spun Nelson around like he weighed fifty pounds, and locked him up in a rear naked choke. The man’s forearm was like concrete. Nelson felt his airways constricting, the muscles in his neck tearing, his throat spasming. He went bright red and tried to fight the choke hold. His dopamine receptors disappeared under the avalanche of stress chemicals, and the Bodhi lost its shine.

  He fell unconscious in horrific pain, with a final view of the Resolute desk.

  Topaz kept squeezing until Nelson was dead.

  Then he dropped the body on the Seal.

  4

  The President seemed to understand what had happened.

  Beneath the flimsy barrier of artificial stimulation, his eyes were alight with terror.

  Opal wrenched his head up so the President had to look him in the eyes.

  The brute said, ‘You’ve met me before.’

  The President nodded.

  Opal said, ‘What did I tell you then?’

  ‘N-not to disobey you.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘I disobeyed you.’

  ‘Was it worth it?’

  Blood trickled out of Devin Nelson’s open mouth onto the oval blue rug. One of the rivulets soaked into the edge of the Seal, staining the coat of arms. Opal sighed. They’d have to get professional cleaners in for that.

  The President said, ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think this is a game?’ Opal asked. ‘Is this position a joke to you? Something you can step away from as you please?’

  ‘No,’ the President stammered. ‘I’m sorry. I was careless. I’ll do what you want.’

  ‘You already told us that,’ Opal said, staring at Nelson’s body. ‘And now … this.’

  Topaz growled, ‘Punish him.’

  The President’s cheeks drained of colour, but he concentrated and his expression quickly fell back to neutral.

  Even high as hell, the man could hold it together. Cool, calm, and collected. He was a rockstar in the public eye, after all. It’s how he’d wormed his way into office. But the ego trip got to his head. He actually thought he could do what he wanted. He didn’t understand in today’s age the role was that of a puppet, and those in the shadows worked the strings.

  Opal said, ‘Does it feel good?’

  The President shrugged, but his face did the talking. His face said, It feels spectacular.

  Opal said, ‘Okay. Fuck it. No further punishment. You stay in here alone until it wears off and then you head back to your residence to see your wife and kids in the early hours of the morning. You tell them you had a busy night. You’re the President. They’ll understand.’ Opal hissed air out through gritted teeth at the sight of the President. The man was useless, an incompetent fool, a petty idiot chasing a high. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. What if there was a nuclear emergency?’

  ‘Your division would take care of it,’ the President mumbled. �
�Because you’re the ones in charge. I’m an empty public figurehead held tight on a leash. Is that right?’

  Opal smiled, gripping the man’s hair tighter. ‘That’s right. You learn fast.’

  The President tried to nod, but the gesture nearly yanked the hair from his scalp, so he clammed up.

  Opal said, ‘Are you being nice to me so I leave you alone?’

  The President nodded.

  ‘So you can enjoy your high?’

  Another nod.

  The man was honest, at least.

  Opal said, ‘Pathetic.’

  He let go of the tuft of hair, and the President dropped to the rug on all fours. His back arched and he sighed.

  Topaz looked away from him, shaking his head in disapproval.

  Opal gestured for Topaz to follow, and left the Oval Office through the usual exit, dumping them into the offices of the personal secretaries. The same middle-aged assistant was locked in a staring contest with his computer screen, refusing to acknowledge the presence of the two brutes. Whatever he heard come out of their mouths he’d soon forget.

  Smart man, Opal though.

  He turned to Topaz. ‘Task a clean-up crew for that mess.’

  Topaz’s eyes gleamed. ‘Who gave the drug to Nelson?’

  ‘Connor Wright. He’s a lowly intelligence asset in Nelson’s division. I already have a unit picking him up.’

  Topaz grinned. ‘Torture?’

  Opal nodded. ‘Probably. He might not break easily.’

  The grin spread wider. ‘Good.’

  Opal led his colleague out of the White House, convinced that Topaz was certifiably insane.

  A necessary trait, doing what they did.

  5

  They snatched Connor with clinical precision.

  He didn’t even see it coming.

  He clocked out for the day and left the indiscriminate anonymous eight-storey building in which he slaved day in and day out at eight-thirty in the evening. He’d started at seven that morning, but a thirteen-hour day was nothing out of the ordinary. Frankly, he didn’t mind. Sitting behind a desk for thirteen hours sifting through intelligence was nothing. The operatives he fed intel to were out there in the field, in the mud and muck and dirt and shit, either rationing their MREs deep behind enemy lines or dealing with the stress of undercover work in a foreign country.