by James Beltz
Abbi grinned. “Let’s just say I have all the pull I need. But you need to trust me. Come on, Marcus, we need your help. I promise, when this all shakes out, you’ll help to close one of the biggest cases in FBI history. You’ll be able to write your ticket; get any assignment you want. Look at it this way: with great reward comes great risk. But not for you. We’ll be the ones taking all the risks. All you have to do is back the cops off for a few days and stash our prisoner. That’s all I’m asking.”
Marcus still seemed uncertain. “That’s all you’re asking, huh? And just where is this prisoner?” he asked.
She took a deep breath before replying. “In the trunk.”
Agent Redman’s eyes narrowed. “The trunk. Of course, he is. Sounds like a great place to put somebody. Nothing illegal with that at all.”
Abbi shrugged. “What was I supposed to do? I can’t put a murderer in the back seat with my daughter.”
After a few more minutes of talking, Agent Redman finally relented. Abbi had always been good at wearing people down. They made the prisoner exchange and Abbi got back into the driver’s seat.
Mary shot her a slight grin. “Well, I don’t know how you did that, but I’m impressed. So, now where? We meet up with DJ and the others?”
Abbi shook her head. “No way I can tell DJ about this. He’ll beeline right back to me. He’s got his hands full already. No, we have to take care of this next part ourselves.”
Mary seemed shocked, turning over all the options of what that could mean. “You’re seriously not going after these guys dragging a baby carrier, a diaper bag, and little ole’ me?”
Abbi started the car and pulled away. “Trust me, Contrary Mary. Where we’re going will be the most secure place we could ask for.”
Mary paused, wondering what Abbi was up to. “And just where might that be?”
Abbi took a right, heading to the freeway. “The White House.”
__________
President Tim Neville sat behind the desk in the Oval Office, listening to his campaign manager drone on about how they were eight points behind in polling, but not to worry. The reelection was all but assured, she promised. When the debates hit, Tim’s skills behind the microphone would come into play and they would turn this around. If they could manage to negotiate a few bills through Congress, he would be on even better footing.
Tim cared very little about running for President. He enjoyed it well enough to want a second term, for sure. He just hated the running-for-office part. He had landed this job only because he had been named the Vice President and the leading man had been killed. When he had been running as Shane Tibber’s running mate, doing his part on the campaign trail had been easy for Tim. He was riding the coattails of someone immensely popular. It had been a cakewalk. This time would be different. Firstly, he wasn’t nearly as popular as the dead President. Secondly, he was going to be the front man this time around.
He quietly shook his head as his campaign team began to show potential ads on a rolling TV screen. He never really understood how he, Tim Neville, a worthless, traitorous human being, could end up where he had landed. He had been lucky, nothing more. If there were real justice in this world, he would be behind bars. Instead, he sat in a leather chair behind the Resolute Desk and contemplated what a waste of skin he was. Funny, he thought to himself, how could a person addicted to power, and being appointed to the highest office in the land, be so depressed about his circumstance? And yet, there he was, running for a second term.
He knew the answer to that question, of course. He was a dirtbag. Long ago he made a bad decision for noble reasons. He had tried to keep his family from being murdered. The cost was his soul. Still, that was a story for another time. He should probably pay attention to the presentation. His job was at stake.
A knock came to the door, and his Chief of Staff entered. Marshall Winslow had a worried look on his face. Everyone turned to look at him, and he jumped right in. “I need everyone to leave the office, please. We’ll get back to you. We have something important the President needs to address.” There were looks of both concern and aggravation. They had been waiting for hours to go over this material.
Tim stood. “Sorry about this, guys. No rest for the weary, I guess. I’ll have Margaret reschedule.” When they had gone, and the door had closed again, he cast a concerned look at his Chief of Staff. “I don’t like that face you’re wearing. What’s going on? Did the Russian Ambassador come back with an answer already?”
Marshall stepped forward, a cell phone in his hand. “Sir, um, well, I’m not really sure…” He trailed off, unsure of how to proceed.
Tim crossed his arms. “Spit it out, Marshall.”
Marshall sighed, seemed to gather his courage for a second, then proceeded. “Sir, there’s a woman who just showed up outside the gates of the Eisenhower Building. She showed up demanding to speak with you. She said that if you didn’t call her in here in the next ten minutes, she’s going to take her story to the press. That if she did, your election would be, in her words, flushed down the crapper.”
Tim was curious as to what this could be about. “So, go talk to her. Find out what she wants.”
Marshall took another deep breath. “I did that. That’s my job. But, Mr. President, she’s bouncing a baby on her hip and refusing to talk to anyone but you. Sir, I must ask, is this your child? Because if it is, we have some serious damage control to do.”
Tim snorted. “Marshall, I may be many things, but I’m not an adulterer. Did this woman say who she was?”
Marshall nodded. “She said to tell you her name was Abbi Slaughter.” He glanced at his watch. “Time’s almost up. Should I have the Secret Service hold her until we can figure out what’s going on?”
Tim sat down hard, nearly missing his over-priced chair. His heart sank into his shoes. For a long time, now, the name Slaughter had sent chills down his spine and filled him with dread. In a faraway voice, he heard himself say, “Send her in.”
Marshall blinked. “Sir?”
Tim snapped, fire flashing through his body, a scowl etched on his face. “I said, get her in here now!”
Marshall put his phone to his ear and began speaking, stepping out of the office as he did and leaving Tim alone in solitude.
What could she want? What could she possibly want from him this time? He had thought he was through with that part of his life. He thought it was over. He had redeemed himself with Brett and the others. Right? Surely that business was finished. Was she coming to blackmail him one more time? Tim didn’t know a lot about Abbi Slaughter, but he knew enough. In many respects, she was exactly like her Tyrannosaurus Rex-of-a-husband. She never bluffed, and she was just as likely to snap his neck as DJ was of shooting him. No, this was bad. This was very bad.
The longer Tim waited, the worse the scenarios were that he envisioned. By the time she finally arrived, the back of his neck was sweating, and his palms were clammy. He could feel his armpits soaking his shirt under his jacket.
When Marshall showed her in, Tim pointed his Chief of Staff out of the room. He knew full well that whatever it was, Abbi wasn’t going to want people to listen. She waited patiently for the man to leave, calmly bouncing a baby girl on her hip, standing there in her jeans and T-shirt like a common tourist. It was bizarre and frightening at the same time.
He cleared his throat and tried to put on the air of Presidential authority. “Nice stunt you pulled trying to get in here, carrying a baby. Do you know how many rumors we’re going to have to kill over that one? I’m sure someone has already called the news as an anonymous source.”
She stepped closer, her eyes dancing with evil glee. “Oh, you didn’t like that? Hang on to your shorts, Mr. President. You’re going to positively hate what I have to say next.”
And he did.
As Abbi talked, Tim Neville saw his reelection chances spiraling away into a black hole of doom. But then he found a spark of hope. That spark quickly began to burn brighter.
Soon, his manipulating mind saw this not as a black hole, but as a guaranteed win for a second term. If he played his cards right, he was a shoo-in for another four years. Abbi Slaughter was not the Matriarch of Disaster he had at first assumed her to be.
Tim smiled inwardly. He had just found those missing eight points.
Chapter 17: Crazy, Trippy, Good
Deputy Director Sharlette Hartley sat in the office of her palatial estate, overlooking her scenic view of the Potomac River, tapping her ink pen lightly on her lips, thinking. It was a good spot for it, and there were a great many things to think about.
When the property had gone on the market, she purchased the place, no questions asked, no walkthrough. The estate was perfect. The gated community emptied onto the Georgetown Pike. From there it was a ten-minute drive into Langley, VA, and work. The neighborhood was well-spaced out, casting a convincing illusion that she was secluded miles from the bustle of Washington, D.C. She saw trees, landscaping, and the Potomac. Her property ran along nearly a thousand feet of the rocky bluff overlooking the river. There was nothing but trees to be seen on the other side thanks to a zoned patch forest along the eastern riverbank. It was like she was alone in the country, but she wasn’t. Interstate 495 ran nearby. One could hear the occasional tractor-trailer truck or the errant car horn from time to time. Like living next to a train track, it was easily forgotten. The wind through the trees and chirping birds masked most of the sounds associated with the nearby civilization.
This office was her favorite spot in the whole world. So much so, she conducted much of her work inside her own home. Thanks to her rank and position within the CIA, she had staff working on the property and security to keep her safe. Sometimes she could go a full week without venturing into the office.
A servant came in carrying a silver tray with her afternoon tea. The young woman’s pleasant smiled filled the room. The girl always seemed happy and cheerful. It was why Sharlette kept her around. “On the veranda, this evening?” the young lady asked. “The weather’s nice today.” Sharlette nodded and opened the tall glass doors leading outside beneath a great, sprawling oak. No matter how muggy the summer could get, there was always a comforting breeze coming down the river, keeping this location cool and relaxing in the shade. It was a great spot to watch waterfowl and other birds making their way up and down the Potomac, foraging for food.
The girl set the tray down and politely excused herself, leaving Sharlette to her thoughts once more. She was sure she had everything in place to kill Slaughter and his band of rebels. They would all have to die, of course. She had gone too far, now. Any minute, she would receive confirmation from the strike team sent to take out Abbi. Argo had gone on to meet up with Slaughter and the others, so that problem would be taken care of as soon as they arrived in Colorado. She was sure Slaughter had taken Sara with him on his trip west, so that issue would be contained as well. It was unfortunate it had taken this long, but the problem would be taken care of soon. Sharlette hated cleaning up the mess of others, but so be it. Such was the burden that came with her position. She was a problem solver. It was what she was good at.
When Congress and the President went to war over budgeting, and she saw her revenue stream drying up overnight, she was left with little recourse but to come up with a workaround. But she did. Two and a half billion dollars would keep her adequately funded, allowing her to conduct her secret wars and ensuring the safety of this nation. She wasn’t going to let a little thing like quibbling politicians get in the way of doing her job.
She was presented with a problem. She solved the problem. It was what she did. And she felt no remorse for doing it.
Almost. She was not fond of having to kill Agent Ali. Ali was a real black man. He understood what being black was really like. Not like these urban youths with their du-rags, sagging pants, and rap music. Ali had grown up in the slums of Ethiopia. He knew real black struggle. He knew what it was like to see his country starve while white Europeans and Americans either ignored them or used them purely as a photo op. Sharlette had watched her own country’s politicians write appropriations bills designed to help, all the while funneling large portions of it through donors who, in turn, funneled another portion right back into those same politician’s campaign coffers. It was revolting. Ali had grown up through all of that. And how had he managed to escape? The CIA had used him as a contact within the gangs and mafia of Ethiopia. No, she hadn’t wanted to see Ali caught up in all of this. Still, he had been offered an escape path. He had not chosen to join them. Such was life. Everyone was either a victim or a victor of their own decisions.
There was still one pressing matter that needed taking care of: Brett Foster needed to die. This had been tricky for her to work out because Ali had managed to surround the man with those he trusted. The private hospital was secure. It had taken her time to find the right person on his team to apply pressure to. That portion was now complete. She could now sneak an assassin in to complete the job. But who? It needed to be someone local; and it needed to be someone who had demonstrated loyalty to her in the past. This cut the list down to only one. Still, she hesitated to call the man. The job would be risky, and this assassin had special skills that were hard to come by. Not in the killing department. No, that was not what made him so special. He was her secret lover. An exceptionally gifted lover if she were being honest with herself. Try as she might, Sharlette Hartley had developed feelings for him. She hated to send him on a mission where he might end up dead as a result.
There was no other choice though, no matter how many names she filtered through her brain. It needed to be done tonight. He was the best candidate for the job. She had no choice but to risk it. She picked up her cell and made the call. He answered on the first ring. She silently prayed there would be no further complications. She was really looking forward to his next visit to her bedroom.
__________
Brett opened his eyes to the dim lighting of his hospital room and sighed. He was getting sick of seeing the inside of these places. Brett Foster had been a guest too many times of hospitals. It would be nice if people quit trying to kill him. He should have quit a long time ago. He should have quit before he lost the use of his legs. Every addict looks back on their life and says something similar. And that’s what Brett Foster was. He was an addict. He was addicted to the job. He was addicted to the rush. When he transitioned to the wheelchair, he had thought the rush was over. It wasn’t. He found a new way to do his job and still feel the high he craved so much.
As with every addiction, there was a price to pay. Brett’s came in the form of being shot. He silently wondered how many more close calls he would have before the bullet finally did what it was designed to do.
He also wondered how much longer he was going to be here. Open heart surgery usually involved lengthy stays afterward, but he was sure he could put his foot down about that. He had resources. Certainly, he could get hospice to take care of much of this stuff. He would ask the doctor in the morning. That, and the drugs. The drugs were just too much.
Hours ago, he had spoken to DJ. At least Brett thought he had. These narcotics were really doing a number on him. The man had outlined everything going on, bringing Brett up to speed on the problem they were all facing. DJ had told him they were bugging out to lay low and work on a plan to bring Deputy Director Hartley, Agent Seymour, and the others down. This was something Brett should have been called on to do. Figuring out problems like this was where Brett shined. His brain was naturally wired for situations such as this. He felt helpless in this fight, laid up as he was. It was made worse by the painkillers he was on. He was drowsy, his thoughts fuzzy and unconnected. Every time he started placing those file folders in his mind in order, trying to solve the riddle, he ended up falling asleep again. He would have to speak to the doctors about that. He couldn’t connect two thoughts together to save his life. DJ and the rest of the team were counting on him.
Brett glanced out of the window and was
greeted with city lights and darkness. How long ago had the sun set? It seemed only moments ago he had been sitting here trying to find a pattern to the facts; trying to connect the information in such a way as a path forward could be found. Somewhere along the way, he had drifted off. He was useless. He hoped DJ could find a way to pick up the slack. Brett doubted he had the ability to even tie his own shoes. These drugs were just too much.
The door opened and a doctor came in carrying a small tray. At least Brett assumed the man was a doctor. He was certainly dressed the part and carried himself like a person in charge. He was older, a black man with a bald spot on the top of his head. He wore the traditional lab coat and scrubs of a physician. He spotted Brett awake and offered up a kind smile. “I see our hero is awake. How are you feeling tonight?”
Brett cleared his throat before replying. “Hero? Do heroe’s typically get shot in the heart?”
The man slipped his hands into his lab coat pockets and grinned at him. “Some of them do, but we tend to give them medals posthumously. You were lucky, my friend.”
Brett provided a weak smile and tried to focus his thoughts. “Who told you I was a hero?”
The doc motioned behind him and glanced at the door that had swung closed. “All the armed men roaming these hallways. They didn’t say anything out loud, of course, but their presence spoke volumes. The only time I’ve seen that many guns in the building, the patient was handcuffed to the bed. Since they don’t appear to be cops, and you aren’t wearing shackles, I figured the only other choice was a hero. Since you answered the way you did, mind if I ask what you did to garner so much attention?”
Brett shrugged. “I would think the answer was obvious. I got shot in the heart.” His mouth felt like he was talking through cotton swabs stuffed in his cheeks. Could the man even understand what he was saying?