Buck Out

by Ken Benton

  “We’re both going to be in trouble,” Hannah said.

  Malcolm shrugged. “Call me Ishmael.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  “He’s ready for you now,” the President’s secretary said.

  Jill Younger turned her smart phone off, stood, and allowed herself to be led to the oval office—where she was officially announced. But the announcement was unnecessary. Jill knew the President was anxious to see her.

  She was only slightly surprised to see the Secretary of the Treasury already there, sitting casually before the President’s desk with his legs crossed. The President waved Jill into the other chair. But before she could even sit down, he started in on her.

  “That was quite a Hail Mary you pulled off, Jill.”

  “Hail Mary, sir?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. You think you saved us with your inspired scheme, don’t you?”

  Jill stared back without responding.

  “Both of you,” he continued, glancing between them. “I must admit to being more than a little peeved. To pull something like that out of your hat without so much as bouncing the idea off me first. Maybe it’s time for some new appointments in my cabinet.”

  The Treasury Secretary tilted his head. Jill offered no reaction whatsoever as the President studied her.

  “Of course, it’d take a bit more effort for me to knock you out of your position, Jill. But don’t think I can’t do it.”

  “No need to bother trying, sir. If you’re unhappy with my performance, say the word and I’ll resign.”

  “See, it’s that smug attitude I don’t care for, especially when you know you’re calling my bluff. Well, there’s going to be some changes around here, as soon as things get back to normal—or as normal as possible when the country has to juggle two separate currency systems.”

  “Not for long,” the Treasury Secretary calmly said.

  “Humph.” The President leaned back in his chair. “That’s what my advisors tell me, too. Which makes it all nothing more than an artful deception. What is money in the digital banking age? Numbers displayed on a screen representing your account balance. So what difference does it make if those digits are labeled United States Dollars or American Gold Dollars?”

  “The latter is a gold standard currency,” Jill said.

  “So you say.” The President leaned forward again. “And since the former is tied to the latter at a fixed rate, it, too, is now a gold standard currency. Which means Senator Selman was right. What your solution is tantamount to is simply reducing all the liquid assets in America, wherever they may be held, to 42% of what they were prior.”

  “Prior to when, sir? Prior to the Senate Banking Committee meeting today—”

  “Prior to the damn bond bombing, or whatever the hell it was that set off the financial crisis. And what’s to stop the same thing from happening again?”

  “Time,” the Treasury Secretary said.

  The President glared at him in response.

  “Time,” he repeated. “It will take any single entity, be it an Asian country or whatever, significant time to accumulate enough American debt for that kind of a selloff again. And since we’re back on the gold standard now…”

  “Stop telling me that!” The President jammed his finger on a pile of papers on his desk three times in rapid succession. “My advisors have provided me with facts that suggest your figures are grossly miscalculated. They show that the actual amount of distributed currency in this country exceeds our true gold reserves by 79%. That means your new Gold Dollar should convert at a ratio of 21%, not 42%, for us to go back to the gold standard.”

  “I beg to differ,” Jill said. She noticed the Treasury Secretary nodding as she spoke. “We have every confidence of being able to exchange currency for gold, on demand, at the ratio we arrived at.”

  “But not if all currency holders request the exchange at the same time!” the President yelled.

  “That’s never going to happen,” the Treasury Secretary said. His deep voice exuded a certain confidence that seemed to calm the President, a character trait which doubtlessly contributed to his appointment. “How much physical gold will the average person reasonably want to keep on hand? You can’t eat it, and it must be converted back to currency for commerce purposes. We expect an initial rush to test the system, which we’re prepared to handle. When people see they can indeed get gold for currency, their faith will return. In fact, early surveys show the public in general already trusts the conversion ratio. A 58% reduction in liquid wealth is, after all, pretty steep, and thus tends to be believable. Most of our citizens are expressing relief to get even 42% of their former savings back, after seeing their money briefly become worthless. We felt this level was the best compromise between a recoverable deflation and a sense of a long overdue penance being paid.”

  “So you admit the 42% ratio is capricious,” the President said.

  “Not at all,” Jill and the Treasury Secretary said in unison. They looked at each other and smiled.

  The President shook his head. “The banking committee’s proposal might have gotten it all back.”

  The Treasury Secretary finally uncrossed his legs. “Then why did they unanimously vote to support our alternative measure as soon as Jill presented it? They know as well as we do that our gold reserves would soon be gone overseas with their plan, and there’d likely be a new civil war started in attempting to confiscate the shiny yellow metal from our hoarding citizens.”

  “Was it really that bad?” The President looked at Jill.

  “Their proposal would have been the real Hail Mary, sir. And we don’t have enough players in the end zone.”

  The President slowly nodded. “All right. Thanks for your candor. We’re going forward with this cockamamie mess, which I now have to support as if it were my own brainchild, so I’ve got to get busy. Guess I should be thankful I have something to do. You’re both dismissed. I have to call China.”

  “Tell them I said hi,” Jill said.

  “That’s not funny.”

  As Jill and the Treasury Secretary were exiting, the President called to them one last time. They both turned around in the doorway.

  “Good work, guys.”

  * * *

  “How do you know they haven’t already come back and left again?” Malcolm asked.

  “I don’t. Keep your voice down.”

  Malcolm took another look at their current position. They could see the garage of the house that served as a motorcycle shop from here, but only the back of it. Hannah seemed to think there was a good chance the suspects would arrive via the trail behind the shop, where the two of them were now lying in wait among the trees.

  Malcolm didn’t know what to root for. It was probably best for the suspects to arrive, and for him and Hannah to kill them, so Hannah could finally give up the hunt. But gun battles were never something you hoped to get involved in. The more of those you have, the higher your chances of coming out of one as the loser. Malcolm only knew he wasn’t leaving Hannah’s side. Not until this issue was resolved.

  “So this is what you do when you go to work every day?” Malcolm asked.

  That got a chuckle out of her.

  “In reality,” she said, “protection work is a lot safer. There are very few cases of violence for assigned agents in the field. Well, I almost made it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll make it now, honey. After everything you’ve done to get this gang, I mean. Even if they don’t show up here.”

  Hannah shook her head. “No. I think it’s over for me.”

  “You’re quitting?”

  Hannah laughed. Malcolm realized his tone had betrayed a little too much hope.

  “I’ll be fired, Malcolm. As soon as they catch up with me. I was supposed to return my vehicle to Pittsburgh yesterday, stop the pursuit, and either show up in DC or return to New York for reassignment. I’m afraid you’re married to a malcontent. This incident, combined with the other one on my record
a few years back, will be more than enough to tank my career.”

  Malcolm leaned over and kissed the top of her head. She pushed him away, but couldn’t hold off a playful smile.

  Then they heard the motorcycles. Down the trail a ways, softly at first. Their approach was slow and cautious-sounding.

  “Stay right here,” Hannah said in a voice just above a whisper. “I’ll cover the opposite side. And for God’s sake, don’t be the one who shoots first!”

  Before Malcolm could stop her, she ran across the trail and took a position behind a thick patch of ferns. Malcolm didn’t like it. No tree trunks to protect her. On the other hand, it was a good ambush point and she was wearing the bullet-proof vest. Malcolm gripped the XD-9 pistol with both hands, appreciating the feel of the polymer grip. It looked like he could protect her from this spot, if she would only stay there. Shooting first or not, he wasn’t going to let anyone aim a gun at his wife.

  The motorcycle engine sounds came within a hundred yards, but no further. They then veered parallel to the trail and went up past them.

  Hannah ran back to Malcolm.

  “There must be another path a few houses over,” she said. “They know I know about this trail, so are probably coming up the street to see if my car is there.”

  Malcolm snickered. They weren’t going to see the car—at least not until it was too late.

  Hannah nudged him. “Come on. We’ll have to stake out the shop.”

  Malcolm followed her up the trail and around to the front side of the garage, staying behind cover the best they could. Hannah directed him behind a large tree that had heavy brush around it.

  “Stay here and cover me, okay? I’m wearing armor, so I’ll take a position closer to the garage door.”

  “What, that little spot over there?”

  But again she was gone without waiting for a vote. To her credit, she did shrink down in the bushes to become impressively small. Malcolm could barely see her backside after she was situated, and realized she must be even better hidden from the front view. She was, after all, a pro.

  The two bikes were barely putting along now, several houses down the hill. They took an agonizingly long time to come into view. Hannah was right. This must be them.

  A motorcycle finally came forward. But just one, hugging the front of the neighboring houses. The rider had a full head of scraggly dark hair, including plenty on his chin. It was definitely a dirt bike he was riding. Malcolm figured him for the shop owner who lived here.

  When the rider reached the end of the street, he made a sudden move. It caught Malcolm off-guard. He rode his bike straight at Malcolm’s position, turning away at the last second. Malcolm almost shot him in reaction. The rider then made a circle in the street before pulling up in front of the metal roll-up door to the shop. He killed his engine and got off the bike.

  But the other rider hung back. Hannah would never be satisfied if one of them escaped again. Malcolm knew she would stay frozen until the last possible second in hopes of drawing the other in. Malcolm stayed at the ready.

  The shop owner whistled, short but shrill. That did the trick. The other suspect now rode forward. He was a large man, too tall for the bike he was on. As he pulled up, the shop owner removed a pistol from his pants and took one last look around the street before bending down to roll his garage door up.

  Malcolm leaned forward, almost coming out of the bushes. It might be a tough shot from here, and he wasn’t sure which one he should fire at first. But so far, the shop owner was the only one with a gun visible. So Malcolm aimed at him. The jig was about to be up.

  The garage door rolled up. As soon as the shop owner saw what was inside, he yelled.

  “Aw, shit!”

  Then he ran to the edge of the garage, pointing his gun inside and moving it all around. The second suspect, still sitting on his running bike, now produced a gun as well.

  Hannah sprang from the bushes.

  So did Malcolm, sprinting to try to catch her.

  “Drop your weapons!” Hannah yelled. Sheesh! Did she really need to go through proper procedure at this point? Just shoot the bastards already.

  The shop owner spun around, moving his pistol towards the female voice. It was the last thing he ever did. Between Malcolm and Hannah he took at least four slugs in the chest, rapidly. Malcolm probably would have put more in him, but the XD-9 had more kick than he was used to after shooting the Five-seveN.

  It did the trick. The pistol flew from the shop owner’s hand, and the suspect ended up a still-life painting on the ground.

  Malcolm and Hannah both turned their weapons on the remaining suspect at the same time. Malcolm expected to exchange fire with him, but was ready to shoot even if he had his hands in the air.

  It was not to be. The other suspect was already halfway down the street, riding off. Hannah and Malcolm both ran forward to try and get a shot off at him, but the suspect wisely stayed on the sidewalk. There were houses and cars in the line of fire directly beyond him.

  “That’s the gang leader!” Hannah said. “We can’t let him get away.” She looked at the shop owner’s dirt bike. “Can you still ride one of these, honey?”

  Malcolm had a split second of indecision. Only a split second. He needed to help Hannah get the white whale. This damn thing needed to be over.

  “You bet.” Malcolm ran to the motorcycle and kicked it to life.

  Hannah was on his back almost as fast as Malcolm was on the seat. “Go, honey! Go!”

  Malcolm hit the throttle and released the clutch. They were off—leaving another crime scene. This time with Hannah’s company car parked in the dead suspect’s garage.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  The motorcycle was fast, and Hannah was light. It made sense that the shop owner would be riding the fastest bike. Besides, their quarry must weigh as much as Malcolm and Hannah together. Malcolm didn’t think the gang leader outrunning them with pure speed would be an issue.

  It wasn’t. The issue, as Malcolm was afraid, turned out to be the gang leader’s knowledge of the local trails. He left the streets before reaching Highway 50, probably not wanting to invite any police cruisers in on the chase.

  But that put them off-road, and Malcolm hadn’t done this in many years. And he had never ridden a bike over ground where there was no trail, which was the first test the gang leader decided to put him to—right through someone’s backyard, and then out across a ripening strawberry field.

  Malcolm saw Hannah’s gun stretched out along the right side of his face. She clutched his rib cage with her left arm as they rode. But she didn’t shoot.

  “Try to get him in a clear spot in front of us,” she shouted, “and hold it steady.”

  Easy for her to say. Strawberry mush rained on them from behind, coating Malcolm’s arms as they ripped up the crops.

  A grove of trees on the far side of the field quickly drew closer. The gang leader would obviously get there first. The question was whether he would have time to get off his bike and take a defensive position before they caught him. It would be close. Malcolm prepared to veer off.

  Sure enough, the gang leader’s bike went down as soon as he reached the grove. Malcolm swung left. By the way Hannah’s grip tightened on his torso, he could tell she wasn’t ready for it. But she didn’t complain. Coming straight at a fortified enemy would be foolish.

  One gunshot fired as Malcolm reached the grove. He and Hannah were off the bike as soon as it slowed, kicking it to neutral first and then letting it fall while it was still moving. They began making their way forward using the natural cover.

  But the gang leader’s engine revved again. Damn, his timing was good. Malcolm ran back and fetched the bike, which was still running. Hannah climbed on and the chase resumed.

  Beyond the grove lied a cornfield, about chest-high. By the time Malcolm breached its perimeter, the gang leader was almost in the middle of it. Malcolm opened up the throttle. Corn sheaths smacked his arms, and occasionally his
face, as they tore through the field. Malcolm gained on him, but only a little.

  Past the cornfield, the pursued criminal made for a hill. It looked like a good place to make a stand. Lots of rocky outcrops and an occasional patch of trees would supply ample opportunities for fortifying himself on high ground. That might be okay. Malcolm and Hannah wouldn’t be able to take him if he found defensible structure up there—but they might be able to lay siege against him and wait it out. Sooner or later, help figured to arrive. Perhaps one of the farmers who just had their fields damaged would call the police.

  Once again, Malcolm decided on a defensive reaction. Instead of chasing the gang leader directly up the hill, he followed an alternate route and stayed below him. The siege idea was beginning to sound attractive.

  But the gang leader didn’t stop. He slowed, but he kept going. Malcolm adjusted his pace as to keep following without getting himself cornered, and stayed below him on the hill.

  Soon they were both on the other side of it. The fleeing villain took a direct route down the back side, and even went airborne at one point. Malcolm weaved his way past the obstacles and somehow managed to come off the hill only a short ways behind him. Hannah might actually be able to get a shot off now.

  Back on flat ground, their quarry made a sharp turn on a dirt road. Malcolm followed, but had to swerve wide to avoid a sign with a street name on it. Hannah cursed. She apparently had been close to getting a shot off. The swerve cost them some distance as well.

  Malcolm noticed the name of the street: Otter Creek Road. Why was that familiar?

  The road had some gravel on it, but was mostly dirt. Malcolm opened the throttle as much as he dared over the washboards. The gang leader didn’t slow, and seemed to be riding smoother. Did his bike have better suspension?

  “You’re losing him!” Hannah said.

  Malcolm opened it all the way up, bracing for the expected rattle. It didn’t come. He found that by speeding over the washboards you didn’t feel them as much. Too bad he didn’t know that before.