King: A Power Players Novel

by Leo, Cassia

  She lets out an audible sigh as I wrap my arms around her and pull her close. “I’m sorry I almost killed you.”

  I laugh as I kiss the top of her head. “You’re forgiven.”

  She sniffs loudly. “That would have been really awful if I’d killed you, since… I’m in love with you, too.”

  I grab her face and tilt her head back so I can look her in the eye. “Glad we cleared that up,” I say, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Now let’s figure out how we’re going to give Hunt a dose of his own medicine.”

  She shakes her head. “I’d rather do to him what he does to the girls in those videos.”

  I blink. “What?”

  Her lip curls with disgust. “Whoever put the files on the flash drive didn’t even encrypt them. It’s dozens of videos with him doing disgusting things to a bunch of women and girls. Some of them look like teenagers. It’s disgusting and infuriating and…so fucking sad.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I didn’t know that was on there. He told me it was political research on the flash drive. What a fucking creep. Now I know why his son hated him.”

  “I’m starting to hate him, too,” she remarks.

  I chuckle. “Is that why you almost shot me? Because you thought I had something to do with what you saw on that flash drive?”

  She straightens her spine. “It’s one of the reasons I had to tell you about what my mom’s boyfriend did to me,” she says, looking me in the eye. “I had to see how you’d react.”

  I look her in the eye as my heart aches for her again. “Did I pass the test?”

  Her face is stoic as she stares back at me for a long while, then she breaks into a soft smile. “With flying colors.”

  22 Izzy

  August 10th

  The angled view-hole King built into the new crawl space access door he installed in my living room has a perfect view of Congressman Richard Hunt as he takes a seat on my old couch. From down here, just eight feet away from the sofa and the predator above me, I’m surprised to find I’m not filled with all-consuming rage. My mind is focused on one thing today, and that’s protecting King. To do that, I have to keep my thoughts centered on one subject: love.

  As my fingers hug the curves of the .38 Special and the angles of the .44 Magnum in my hands, I keep my gaze focused on the view-hole. But I allow my heart to dwell on the love King has showered me with since the moment we met at The Junk Drawer. That love is what will keep us alive today.

  “How do you know she didn’t send the files to anyone?” Hunt asks as he crosses his spindly legs.

  “Eddie checked all her devices, and it never left her network,” King replies. “And Santos has been keeping an eye on her outside the house. She hasn’t visited any internet cafés or libraries or anything like that. The files didn’t leave her computer.”

  Hunt nods in approval. “And you got rid of the girl?” he asks, referring to me.

  “Yeah, this morning. And she’s not supposed to go into work until Monday so no one will suspect anything until then.”

  I smile at the evenness in King’s voice as he relays this information. My baby is so cool.

  “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t kept a copy for myself,” King continues.

  I wish I could see his face.

  Hunt’s eyes narrow at him. “You what?”

  “You heard me. I forced Eddie to set up a dead man’s switch for me,” he says, still cool as a cucumber. “If my sister and I don’t enter a password on a specific website every day, all the videos on that flash drive will be sent to multiple news outlets.”

  Hunt’s nostrils flare. “You fucking traitorous… I knew you were too much of a loser for this mission. I knew you’d fuck it up!”

  I slide my fingers closer to the triggers on each of my handguns. I can’t see King, but I can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks.

  “You thought I’d let you get away with threatening my family?” he says with a chuckle. “You’re going to promise to leave my family and me alone — forever — or you’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your pathetic life.”

  Hunt’s eyes flit to the left, where I assume one of his bodyguards must be standing, and I slide my fingers directly over the triggers now. As I watch him consider King’s threat, I push down any anger I have for Hunt and force myself to focus on the love. Nothing good ever came from hate.

  Hate is what brought the world Richard “Creep-meister” Hunt. It’s probably what made his son a soldier and an addict as he tried to physically and mentally escape the monster his father had become. Hate for Gene is what caused my hands to tremble and almost shoot King yesterday.

  Today, my hands are steady.

  Hunt forces his thin lips into a smile. “You and your sister are safe,” he says, but he’s shaking his head. Subconscious or not, it’s a clear signal that he’s lying.

  I want to scream at King not to believe him, but I have to trust him to see what I saw.

  Please see what I saw.

  As these words repeat in my mind, Hunt rises from the sofa and begins moving toward the front door.

  He’s lying! Don’t let him go!

  I want to shout this warning at the top of my voice, but I’m not supposed to even be here. I’m only supposed to come out of the crawl space if King and Santos need me for extra firepower.

  Something isn’t right. I can feel it.

  “Good luck in your endeavors, son,” Hunt says, his voice faint as he’s now at least twelve feet away from me.

  “I’m not your son,” King replies fiercely. “Your son is dead, as you’ll be if you—.”

  Something happens out of my line of sight that sets off a storm of chaos.

  First, someone tackles someone, and less than a second passes before multiple shots ring out.

  Using the back of my head and shoulders, I push the access door open as I stand up straight. With the top third of my body projecting out of a hole in the floor, it takes about two seconds for me to assess the situation and determine where to point my weapons.

  I blast off a .44 round in the direction of Hunt’s surprised face, but I miss, hitting the front door instead. I quickly fire off another bullet from my revolver at the bodyguard who’s standing about six feet behind Hunt, my adrenaline soaring as I hit him in the side of the neck. His body goes stiff as a board, then he hits the floor like a ton of bricks.

  Holy shit. I killed a man.

  I’m roused from this dark thought as I see the front door open and Hunt races outside into the darkness.

  Fuck!

  I climb out of the crawl space and take a moment to look around. King and Santos are near the hallway wrestling with the other bodyguard, who appears to be even larger than Santos. I want to help them, but I have to go after Hunt.

  “Don’t go after him!” King grunts at me as I head toward the front door. “Izzy, don’t!”

  But I can’t let Hunt get away. The moment I step outside, I’m startled by the crack of a gunshot. He’s fucking shooting at me.

  I race after him as he runs across my side yard toward the woods. As I come around the corner of the house, he lets off another round, and I’m knocked back a couple feet as it hits me in my bicep, very near my elbow.

  I’m surprised at the lack of pain. Aside from a sharp burning sensation, the adrenaline coursing through my veins seems to be working as a painkiller. I continue after Hunt, holding my arm close to my side in an attempt to apply pressure to the wound without stopping. But the pain begins to kick in, and I can no longer hold both weapons.

  Tossing the .38 special onto the ground, my breathing is ragged as I follow Hunt, staying mindful of the many boobytraps I’ve lain throughout these woods. I step over tripwire and avoid the disguised ditches, but as I try to keep Hunt in my sights, my vision begins to blur, and my throat begins to ache with thirst.

  Am I losing that much blood?

  “Izzy!” King’s voice calls out.
>
  I look over my shoulder as I continue to stumble forward. Another shot is fired, but it sounds so distant I can’t tell where it’s coming from.

  “Get down!” King shouts at me.

  But before I can heed his advice, I find myself falling against my will. Falling into my own trap. Descending into darkness.

  23 King

  Present Day

  “You’re a good guy, King,” Detective Sooner says, shaking his head. “You were in the service. You took care of your mom and your older sister. You’ve taken care of Izzy these past few weeks. You’re a man who takes care of the women in his life. And I know you want to help us find Izzy.”

  I shrug. “I’ve told you everything I know.” Except for everything that happened after I went hunting with Izzy.

  “Well, we’ve told you all you need to know,” Agent Stanley replies. “In fact, I think we’ve told you enough to know just how fucking serious this is. You know that blood matching Izzy’s blood type was found at the crime scene. And DNA analysis will come back soon, most likely confirming what we already suspect, that Izzy was hurt in that house, and now she’s been moved to another location.”

  Sooner shakes his head. “Without proper medical care, most people can’t live long with a gunshot wound. And I know you wouldn’t want to risk Izzy dying. I know you wouldn’t do that, King, because you’re a good guy.”

  I clench my jaw as I recall how Izzy looked the last time I saw her.

  “When you work cases like this, day in and day out for as long as I have, you learn to keep an open mind,” Sooner continues. “Most detectives, myself included, sink the majority of their time and energy into the most plausible leads. It’s a sound strategy that gets results. Unfortunately, this can also cause a bad case of tunnel vision. Without even realizing it, you start automatically dismissing information that contradicts your theory. Some detectives, myself not included, will even knowingly reject tips that go against their preferred narrative, even if the tip is plausible.”

  Jesus Christ. Now Sooner is trying to make me feel like he’s pulling me into the fold, giving me inside information because he trusts me so much. Naturally, I should trust him too, right?

  Does he really think I can’t see through all these bullshit tactics?

  “Many investigators will dismiss leads that don’t sound likely,” he continues. “Not me. Even if a lead doesn’t sound plausible, if someone tips me off — points me in a certain direction — I do my due diligence.”

  I resist the urge to shake my head in dismay. “And what direction were you pointed in?” I ask, because I know he wants me to.

  He nods, clearly pleased that he’s gotten me to play his game. “I’ve spoken to a few people today who’ve… Well, let’s just say they’ve given me information I find to be credible. And we’re in the process of following up on that information.”

  Whoop-tee-fucking-doo.

  “Until we can find out whether or not it checks out,” Sooner says, leaning back in his chair, “we wanted to get you in here and ask you some questions. Hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. You know what I’m saying?”

  Now he wants me to think I’m here because someone pointed him in my direction. The only two people who may have done that are Edie and her grandson, and I made sure to steer clear of them since the day I helped deliver Izzy’s mattress to her house. Anything they told investigators is hearsay or pure speculation.

  “I think I know what you’re saying,” I reply.

  What you’re saying is you’ve got nothing.

  “Good,” he replies, looking appeased that I seem to be cooperating with this new line of attack. “Good. Okay, so now that we’ve cleared that up, and you’ve been helpful today. Thank you for that. I’m going to ask you one more question: What do you think happened to Izzy?”

  I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I realize I’m not under arrest,” I begin, my eyes going back and forth from Sooner’s fat face and Stanley’s red mug. “I’ve had the right to end this interview at any point, but I’ve complied with your requests for information because I want to find Izzy as much as you do. But I’m only interested in dealing with facts. I’m afraid I have to respectfully draw the line at speculation.”

  Stanley lets out a loud guffaw. “Bunch of fucking horse-shit.”

  “I understand,” Sooner says, nodding. “Well, you’ve still been very helpful, and I do appreciate that, King. So I promise this is my last question to you. Because let’s be honest, this is looking pretty bad for you right now. So what I want to know is… What can I do to help you? What can I do to help take some of the heat off of you?”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t need any help.”

  “That’s not the way I see it, but you’re entitled to your opinion,” Stanley butts in.

  “Well, in my opinion, you should be looking into Congressman Richard Hunt. In fact, I think you’ve already figured that out, and you’re just trying to find someone else to take the fall, which is why I took the liberty of sending some insurance to a few local and national journalists,” I remark without a trace of a smile. “You know, in the event that I don’t make it out of this room today.”

  Stanley chuckles. “That’s a fancy opinion.”

  I nod. “Yeah, and on that note, I guess I should head out. Unless you two have any more questions for me.”

  Sooner shakes his head as Stanley continues to smile.

  “We’re good for now,” Sooner replies, standing up and holding out his thick hand to shake. “Stay close by in case we need to chat again.”

  “Sure,” I reply, standing up and shaking his hand.

  Stanley makes no attempt to show me the same courtesy, so I head for the door, which Sooner is now holding open for me.

  It takes every ounce of self-control in my being not to say, “Sayonara, motherfucker.”

  I smile at all the disgusted looks cast in my direction as I strut down the corridor of the Burke County Sheriff’s Office. Hunt and these guys will get their goodbye letter from Izzy and me soon. Until then, I have a plane to catch.

  * * *

  Driving away from the police station feels like shedding a ten-ton winter coat. But it’s not until I pull my pickup onto the tarmac at Foothills Regional Airport in Morganton that I can breathe again. I’m free.

  Free of the military. Free of my guilt for what happened to Garrett. Free from my obligation to Richard Hunt. Free to get the fuck out of North Carolina and never look back.

  The private jet we chartered for today’s trip is Gulfstream G650. As I climb the air-stair, I feel a sense of nostalgia as the hairs on my neck are lifted by a warm Carolina breeze. This will always be the place where Izzy and I fell in love. I may have to figure out a way to come back again once the heat has died down in about a decade.

  I step inside the plane and find Santos sitting on a tan leather sofa in an open seating area. He’s watching a muted television, which is bolted to a built-in TV stand in front of him. His face splits into a proud smile as he holds up something in his hand, which I suspect is a Costa Rican passport.

  “I’m Roberto Castro now,” he says, then he reaches into his breast pocket and tosses something to me.

  I react quickly, catching the object in the air just above my shoulder. “And your girlfriend?”

  “She’s already lying on a white-sand beach in Costa Rica sipping virgin margaritas.”

  I stare at the dark-blue booklet for a moment and smile. It’s my new Canadian passport. I will now officially be known as Ray Everett.

  Santos continues to smile as he nods at the television screen. The TV is still muted, but the news ticker rolling across the bottom reads: VIDEO APPEARS TO SHOW CONGRESSMAN RICHARD HUNT FREQUENTING UNDERAGE BROTHEL.

  “Appears to show,” I say, shaking my head. “Twenty-four-hour news cycle is going to gobble that shit up. Let’s just hope the prosecutors don’t fuck up the case. We gave it to them on a fucking platter
.”

  “That’s all you and Izzy, bro,” Santos remarks proudly.

  I shake my head. “It was you, too. Costa Rica better get ready for Hurricane Roberto Castro.”

  He lets out a bellowing laugh, and I give him a one-armed hug before I head toward the back of the plane.

  When I arrive at the door leading to the bedroom, I hesitate with my hand on the knob. I’m scared of what I’ll find when I step inside.

  I’m the one who allowed Izzy to be a part of yesterday’s operation. Watching her get shot and fall into that ditch was like getting hit by that IED all over again.

  Everything that happened to Izzy yesterday was my fault. I accept full responsibility. I just hope she’s better off than she was when I left for the police station this morning.

  Pulling the door open, I find Izzy in bed with the physician I hired seated at her side. My eyes widen at the lack of intravenous fluids, which she was attached to this morning before I left for the station. No more saline or morphine drip.

  The doctor smiles and flashes me a thumbs up.

  I let out a sigh of relief as I decide to leave the room without waking her, but I’m unsuccessful. Her eyelids flutter open, and the doctor takes this as his cue to squeeze past me on the way out.

  Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, I lean over and plant a lingering kiss on her lips. “I sure have missed you,” I murmur.

  “I missed you, too,” she says, her voice still hoarse.

  I brush my thumb across her rosy cheek. “You got the color back in your beautiful face. How’s your arm?”

  She glances at the cast on her left arm. “Barely grazed the bone and completely missed the artery. I’m going to live.”

  “Are you in a lot of pain? Do you want me to ask him to give you some more morphine?”

  She shakes her head adamantly and winces a bit. “Still have a bit of a headache from the blood loss, but I don’t want any more pain meds. That shit felt too good.”