“Aren’t...aren’t you going to do something?” he bellowed, turning and staring up at the security guard standing just feet away.
Every person in the room shifted his attention to him, watching as, for the briefest moment, a look of pride and amusement passed over his face. In the next it was gone, replaced by impassiveness.
“No,” he said, fixing his gaze on Kalani. “I think the detective is done here. Right?”
“Right,” Kalani said, marching from the room, Tseng right behind her.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The world was still dark as Kimo aimed his Ford up the H-2 freeway, headed north, away from the city. On the opposite side of the narrow median, the morning commute could be seen already lining up, long rows of cars, their headlights strung out one after another as far as he could see.
Beside him in the passenger seat, Kalani cradled a cup of coffee between her hands, the bottom of it nestled against her thigh. Despite the hour, she was already awake and alert, her eyes clear, ready for the day ahead.
Three nights had passed since she’d walked out of the governor’s office, each one spent with the doors locked and shades drawn, waiting for his people to show up. Who they would be or what they would want, she wasn’t sure, knowing full well there was no way he would let go of what happened.
In the moment, the punch had felt glorious, even more so after seeing the reaction on his face, the blood dripping down his chin. The vindication she felt was only confirmed by the reaction of the guard in the corner, most likely the same look that every man in the room had if she’d stopped long enough to look around.
Just two brief encounters with the man had been enough for the governor to earn her animosity. There was no telling what those who worked for him full time felt.
Kalani didn’t expect much to happen on Sunday, partly because she was holed up at the hospital, and there was no way anybody would look for her there, partly because it was Sunday, and nobody in Hawaii outside the hospitality industry worked on Sunday. Monday, she had expected a visitor at her door, every little sound in her house bringing with it a feeling of dread. When it too passed without incident, she began to feel a little better.
So long as she stayed away, maybe the governor wouldn’t risk the exposure of everything that had happened over one punch.
Especially when a young lady had been the one to deliver it.
“Seriously,” Kimo said, looking over at her, a smile that expressed disbelief and triumph at the same time. “You just pulled back and nailed him?”
On the dashboard in front of them was his iPhone, the recorder turned on, taking down every word they exchanged. Kalani had offered to do it before, but Kimo had said it could wait, given that nobody else even knew the story existed. He reasoned that he was willing to swap an early press date to deliver the full tale, wanting to wait and see how the governor handled things in the aftermath.
As far as Kalani could tell, he’d done absolutely nothing.
Releasing her grip on the coffee, Kalani lifted her right hand, turning it to show Kimo her knuckle. A scab the size of a dime covered the top of it, blue and black bruises stretching out from it like legs on a spider. The surrounding area was still a bit puffy, though most of the swelling had receded.
Kimo raised a hand to his mouth, trying in vain to cover his laughter. “Damn! And I missed it?”
His reaction brought a smile to Kalani’s face as she took another drink of coffee, a thin attempt to hide her own laughter.
“And they just let you walk out after that?” Kimo asked, his disbelief scrawled across his face.
“They didn’t try to stop me, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said.
Seated in the front seat, Kalani turned her attention out the window, watching as the Schofield Army Base slid by, formations of soldiers already out for morning calisthenics, nothing more than dark shapes in the last moments before dawn. “Besides, I got the distinct impression I wasn’t the only one who wanted to do it.”
“That I can believe,” Kimo said.
Kalani watched as the base passed from sight, the open fields of Oahu taking their place. In the early morning half-light they appeared tranquil and quiet, receding back toward the Ko’olauloa Mountains in the distance. Cook pine trees lined the roadway, their branches swirling in lines, equal gaps between each level.
“It just pissed me off,” Kalani said, “the way he didn’t even bother to ask about Rip, or what happened in Hawaii Kai. All he wanted to know about was if it was done and if Mary-Ann Harris was out of the election.”
Kimo shook his head, disgust on his face. “Asshole,” he muttered. “How is Rip doing? I talked to him yesterday, but he just kept saying everything was fine.”
“Yeah,” Kalani said, recalling he same thing he had said to her over and over again the day before. “I was over there most of the day, and he’s hurting a lot more than he’s letting on. Moving really slow, actually let me get him a few things, which would never happen otherwise.”
“But the doc gave him a clean bill of health?” Kimo asked.
“Yeah. Month or two, and a lot of physical therapy, and he’ll be back up on his board.”
Silence fell as Kimo turned north off the freeway, taking a state route slicing through the heart of the island. There the road narrowed down to two lanes, the traffic thinning considerably, as the first rays of light appeared over the horizon.
“And Harris?” Kimo asked, putting the words out there gingerly.
Kalani kept her eyes aimed out the window, watching as the landscape changed again. Replacing the empty meadows were cultivated fields, their crops planted in straight lines. “They picked her up on Monday. She claimed she’d only been given a tip, had no direct knowledge of anything.”
“Right,” Kimo inserted, derision in his tone. “Tell me they didn’t buy that.”
“Not at all, but prosecuting isn’t our department. She’s not being held right now, but they’ve put her name on the watch list, told her not to leave the island.”
Kimo eased off the gas, the car slowing as their destination came into view. He brought them to a complete stop and waited as a farm truck passed in the other direction before turning into the parking lot.
“And the election?” Kimo asked, putting the car in park, leaving the engine running a moment longer.
“Chief Tseng said he expects she’ll be announcing her withdrawal later in the week,” she said, raising her cup and finishing the last of her morning brew. The coffee had long since gone cold, the bottom a mixture of grounds and non-dissolved sugar. It tasted bitter as it spread across her tongue, her nose crinkling.
“And just like that,” Kimo whispered, shaking his head once more, “the governor gets what he wants? The potential scandal goes away, his opponent disappears, he gets to go on like nothing ever happened?”
Kalani considered the questions before looking directly at him. “Well, not if you do your job,” she said, nodding at the recorder still rolling on the dash. “And even if he does, imagine how much fun he’s having trying to explain his broken nose to people this week?”
The crack elicited another loud laugh from Kimo. He let it hang there a moment before saying, “Last chance. You know you don’t have to do this. I made the promise, not you.”
“No,” Kalani said, shaking her head, feeling her hair brush against her shoulders. “I want to. I would like to thank Sam for doing his part, and I owe you for what you did.” She paused, before twisting hear head again. “I still can’t believe Rip called you instead of an ambulance.”
Kimo didn’t respond, but instead, took his phone down from the dash, turning off the recorder. He reached into the backseat and grabbed his bag, a serious look on his face. He made no effort to exit the car as he balanced the satchel on his lap, his attention aimed at Kalani.
“Okay,” he said, peeling back the top flap of the bag and extracting a manila envelope, sealed tight. For a moment he held it in both hands, glan
cing down at it, before handing it to Kalani. “Before we go, there’s something here I think you should see.”
Any mirth Kalani felt faded away as she looked from Kimo to the envelope and back again, trying to get some read on what it held inside. Her lips parted slightly as she drew in a breath, unsure how to proceed.
Seeming to sense her trepidation, Kimo took the lead.
“Since I found myself having a bit of free time these last couple days, I did a little digging on a story I should have covered months ago.”
Her bottom lip starting to tremble, Kalani felt her insides clench tight, knowing instantly what Kimo was referring to. So many times in the previous months she had wanted to know exactly what had happened that night, how they had found themselves in such a situation, why a more thorough investigation was never conducted.
Now, in the wake of everything that had happened in the preceding days, she wasn’t entirely sure she even wanted to know any longer.
Looking down at it, Kalani felt her eyes glass over. “Just tell me,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly, “was it our fault?”
Kimo stared at her, his hands eventually lowering the envelope back to his lap, his face void of any reaction.
“No,” he finally answered, shaking his head just slightly. “In fact, quite the opposite. Randle set you guys up.”
At that, Kalani’s eyes slid shut, the tears welling in her eyes before sliding down either cheek.
“Twice,” Kimo added. “The first time because you guys had stumbled onto something he didn’t want anyone to know about, this time with hopes that you would botch things so badly, he could get rid of you for good.”
Every emotion on the spectrum passed through Kalani in quick order, beginning with the same anger she’d felt in Randle’s office a few nights before, passing through sorrow for the loss of Ben, guilt at what lay ahead for Rip.
Ultimately, it settled with some small measure of relief. There would be plenty of time in the days ahead for her to read every page inside the envelope, to see the right people about getting justice, to ensure that her name was cleared before she parted ways with law enforcement for good, and most important, to prove that Ben died without a black mark on his record.
That day was not today, though.
Just like the last time she found herself on a surfboard, she had been tossed into rough water, had been beaten against the sandy bottom, had the air pulled from her lungs, fearing if she would make it.
And now, just as then, she had broken through the surface. Wet, gasping, sputtering, for sure, but filled with a renewed sense of purpose, brimming with hope and thankfulness as well.
Months before, Randle had robbed her of that.
Not again. Not yet, anyway.
“You okay?” Kimo asked, his voice low and even as he stared across at her.
Meeting his gaze for just a moment, Kalani turned her attention to the pineapple fields. In equally spaced rows the plants sprang from the ground, their spiky tops protecting sweet fruit ready for picking. Behind them rose the morning sun, a bright orange orb poking above the horizon, splashing over the fields, pushing its way toward them.
For the first time in months, a sense of peace settled over Kalani. She didn’t know exactly what lay ahead, for her, for Kimo, for Rip, even for Randle or Tseng or Mary-Ann Harris.
In that moment, though, all that mattered was the day, the promise it held and the beauty it was already producing. For all the ugliness she had witnessed in the past week, the darkness she had labored under for three long months, this was its counterpoint, the dawn after a long night, a moment of vitality to affirm she had made it, and would continue to do so.
Other people weren’t always so fortunate.
“Lucky we live Hawaii, yeah?” she said.
There was no response as Kimo stared at her, eventually shifting his focus to the fields, just in time for the morning sun to reach the car where they sat, painting everything it touched gold.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Lucky we live Hawaii.”
Turn the page to keep reading One Last Day!
One Last Day
The strongest person in the world is the grieving
mother that wakes up and keeps going every day.
-Tara Watkins Anderson
Section 1. The terms of the President and Vice President shall end at noon on the 20th day of January, and the terms of Senators and Representatives at noon on the 3d day of January, of the years in which such terms would have ended if this article had not been ratified; and the terms of their successors shall then begin.
-20th Amendment, United States Constitution
Prologue
The feel of the weapon sent a jolt of electricity the length of his arm before muscle memory kicked in, pulling him back to what felt like a different lifetime.
Only six weeks had passed since he last held a weapon, a beautifully restored Remington 870 Wingmaster pump shotgun. Bought for the specific use of hunting pheasants, it was the maiden voyage for the man and his new toy, the duo going on a Thanksgiving hunt that had netted six birds, two of which made it onto his table for dinner later that same day.
Before that he had owned countless rifles and handguns, a Wyoming man through and through, enjoying a weekend hunt as much as the occasional round of target practice out in the acreage behind his home.
Despite all that conglomerated history, not one of those instances were what came to mind as he gripped the 9mm semi-automatic in his right hand and raised it to shoulder height. Feeling the energy it possessed, the feelings it evoked, his entire being was transported back in time, every nerve ending in his body tingling with sensation, allowing him to ignore the burning in his front deltoids from keeping the weapon extended before him.
Back to a different continent, in a time when he wore another type of uniform, but was still very much in the employment of the United States government.
Back to a place where the world existed only in black and white rather than infinite shades of gray.
“Who the hell are you?”
The man across him from said nothing, merely standing and staring, a single tendril of blood snaking down out of his left nostril.
“Who sent you?”
Still there was no response, heavy breaths lifting the man’s shoulders, sweat streaming down either side of his face, the defiant glare making it clear that he had no intention of answering, the malevolence in his eyes stating he would love nothing more than to be holding the gun, would not hesitate to use it if given the chance.
Seeing that very thing, recognizing it instantly, the only possible recourse was to shift his aim slightly to the side, the barrel moving from the center of the man’s chest to the fleshy part of his upper thigh.
“Remember, it didn’t have to be this way.”
Chapter One
The bottom hem of Senator Jackson Ridge’s suit legs pulled up just slightly as he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the edge of his desk, revealing a few extra inches of his caramel-colored calfskin boots. With both legs stretched out to full length before him, he avoided the urge to cross them at the ankle, keeping them side by side instead and rotating his toes in unison to either side.
Extending his neck up a few inches, he peered down the length of his nose, inspecting what he saw.
“I tell you, Susie, that new polish guy we have around here is one gifted sumbitch,” he deadpanned, his gaze still aimed at his feet. “Any way we can talk him into heading back to Wyoming at the end of the week?”
Seated on the opposite side of the desk, Susan Beckwith, his Chief of Staff for the last sixteen years, forced the corners of her mouth up into a faint smile, glancing once to the senator’s feet before looking him full in the face.
“Good morning to you as well, Senator Ridge,” she replied. “And I’m not sure if Armando is looking to relocate, but we can certainly ask him.”
Having done some variation of the same dance a hundred times over
, Ridge let out a low snort, a smile creasing the soft skin on either side of his mouth.
“It’s called sarcasm, Susie. Can you imagine what life would be like for an immigrant from Haiti back in Cheyenne?”
Not expecting an answer in the slightest, knowing none would be coming even if he were, Ridge rotated his focus across the desk and said, “And for literally the last time, would you please call me Jack?”
This time the smile that crossed Beckwith’s features was a bit more sincere, revealing a thin sliver of teeth beneath her muted pink lipstick. “Not for one more day, sir.”
To that, Ridge could do nothing but sigh, allowing his head to rest back on the leather chair he was seated on, the new position bringing his gaze up toward the ceiling. In his periphery he could see the long, familiar trappings of the space that had been his second home for more than a third of his life, all of it prepared with a painstaking attention to detail, fully acknowledging his home state of Wyoming.
On the wall above him was a four-by-five elk that he had harvested a lifetime before, the cape still as soft and shiny as the day it was shot. Around the edges of the room were stuffed grouse and sage hens, all either taken by his own hand or donated from a visiting constituent.
Behind him, a pair of flags hung limply on their poles, the folds of the American stars and stripes and the red-and-blue bison of Wyoming aligned with perfect precision.
Jackson Ridge had first arrived in Washington, D.C. thirty-six years prior, only five years removed from his service in Vietnam, three more than that from college at the state university, the surprising victor of an emergency election to fill a seat vacated by the sudden fatal heart attack of the longest-tenured congressman in the country.
At the time, the decision to run had been something more akin to a dare than an actual plan of any sort, the type of thing only a young man armed with arrogance and the feeling of invincibility would do. A C-student through college, the entirety of his first twenty-five years had been spent in either Wyoming or Vietnam, which, for his liking, was one place too many.
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 26