by Drew Avera
"Sure, do what your lawyer says, but know this, Peter. I know what you are, you know what you are, and it's only a matter of time before a jury knows what you are." The detective leaned back in his chair with a smirk on his face. "Was he dead before you set the bar on fire?"
I looked at the cop and instead of looking at my client. He was staring directly at me, willing me to say what I spent the last ten minutes saying. I said, "Don't answer that."
61
GENERAL LETTUM
Sitting on the leather couch of my suite inside the presidential mansion, I had nothing but time to think about all the moments that led me to this. Thirty ears was a long time to wait, but looking back, it felt like it was only yesterday when my grand scheme began to fall into place. When I first met Caleb Fulton, I was on the firing line, ready to die for the part I played in ripping America apart, but I had no idea I would walk away from that moment or how my life was going to change. I don’t know what he saw in me, but in him, I saw an opportunity. I just hoped now the opportunity was what I was looking for, and not another misstep in a life full of tragedy. I was getting too old to start fresh and if things went according to plan, I would not have to I wouldn’t have to do another damned thing ever again.
A knock at the door drew my attention to the far side of the room as the door opened. I could see it was one of Caleb Fulton's aides through the small slit in the door. I couldn't recall the man's name, nor did I care to., I was just curious what he wanted. Though, it did irritate me that he opened the door instead of waiting for me to open it. "Can a man get a little privacy?" I asked, disdain hanging thick in the air. I hated being here, and I hated that it was necessary for me to continue to be here. It was worse than prison.
"Considering this is the president’s mansion, and you’re his guest, privacy isn't at the top of my priority list for a felon," the man said. Ballsy, I thought without looking up at him.
"What do you want?"
"Your attention for one thing," he replied. His audacity caused me to glance up at him from the dark corner of the room in which I sat.
"You have it," I replied.
The aide nodded, cutting me a look that made me want to slit his goddamn throat. All in due time, I thought.
"President Fulton has a message for you," he said as he crossed his arms. "He said there's an update to the timeline, and he wants you to launch in eighteen hours."
Something's happening, I thought, that's the only reason to move the timetable to the left. He's desperate—and desperate is good.
I slowly rose from the couch and sauntered towards the door. "Please let President Fulton know that the message is received and understood. I will proceed with the launch in eighteen hours as requested."
The man smiled and nodded before turning and closing the door behind him. Alone in my room, my heart began to race. I knew it was the beginning of the end and a part of me was afraid. The other part couldn’t wait to get it over with.
62
SYDNEY TYLER
I departed the train on the next stop, mostly feeling numb after witnessing Clive Williams’s death on national television. The wailing and crying from the people on the train echoed behind me, still ringing in my ears as I left the platform. I felt claustrophobic, being confined in the train car with so many people in mourning. I doubted they were mourning, though, but more shocked at witnessing the live execution of someone on television. I knew him personally and had a hard time dealing with how I felt, knowing what could potentially happen. It felt like a nightmare that I could not wake from.
The times we are in, I thought as I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and walked quickly through the myriad of people at the station. I had no idea where I was going, having never been in this part of Chicago or her outskirts, but I felt like moving was the only option I had to try and regain my sanity.
My mind raced, along with my heart, as images of Clive's murder flashed through my mind. He was such a gentle person, it was hard to believe that he died in such a horrific manner, to be gunned down for everyone to see. And what about Bradley, I thought, did he see it to? I hoped not, but even if he hadn't seen it, he surely knew about Clive's death by now. How could he not?
Snaking my way through the dense crowd in the station, I kept an eye on the time. The clock, hanging above the Eastern exit of the station, read 4:45 p.m.. Most people were still at work, but sometime within the next fifteen minutes, the floodgates were going to open and the already crowded streets were going to get worse.
Shoving the exit doors open with both hands, my heels clacking against the tiled floors, I pushed my way outside. Several dozen taxis waited, and as I walked towards the closest one, I felt a hand reach out and grab me.
"Sydney," a man's voice said as I turned to face the person stopping me. My eyes widened with fear as I realized who it was.
"What do you want?" I asked. My heart leaping into my throat.
"I just wanted to talk," Jeff said casually. Jeff and I were once an item, before he led me to become one of President Fulton's puppets. Not long after becoming one of Fulton’s subjects, things dissolved between Jeff and me. How he found me was anyone's guess.
"Now's not a great time," I said, cringing at the way he looked at me.
He eyes darted from side to side, creeping me out as I watched him reach into his coat pocket and pull out a small, electronic device. "Fine," he replied, "but you need to warn someone and get this to them." He reached out to me, holding the device in a shaky hand.
"What is it?" I asked, not wanting to touch it.
"The only thing that will save us," he replied shoving it forcibly into my open palm. Behind me, Sirens blasted and car horns wailed, drawing my attention to the commotion. When I turned around, Jeff was gone, but the device in my hand remained. What the hell, I thought as I looked at it. I wanted to be done with conspiracies and coverups, to find a hole in the wall to live of the rest of my days, but this kind of shit always seemed to find me. I shoved the device into my purse, walked to the first taxi I came to, and opened the door.
"Where to?" The driver asked as I scooted across the backseat.
I looked up, making eye contact with him through the rearview mirror, "to the closest library," I answered, "and hurry."
63
PETER DRAKE
Don't answer that, don't answer that, don't answer that. The words kept coming at me with fierce desperation. Sitting next to my public defender felt worse than any sentencing for a murder charge would ever bring. The fat, dopey attorney looked like he was about to shit his pants as the detective sitting across from us glared at him with enough indignation that I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
But I didn't care what the future was going to be. Frankly, I just wanted to get it the hell over with.
"You know, Mr. Calloway, you're making this more difficult than it needs to be," the detective who identified himself as Stephen Walsh said. He leaned back in his seat, his arms behind his head as if he was lounging on a beach in the Caribbean. I wondered how much of it was a façade, and how much of his personality was scared shitless at the fact he was sitting across from someone like me.
"I have to insist, I need time with my client in order to establish our defense before I can condone further questioning," David Calloway replied. I’m surprised he has something to say other than “Don't answer that,” I thought with a smile.
The detective looked at me as a smirk spread on my lips. "Something funny, asshole?" He asked.
I almost expected my attorney to tell me not to answer the question, but after a few seconds of silence, I decided to answer on my own. "I'm just wondering how much longer before you two start kissing," I answered, "with all the googly eyes you keep making towards each other."
The detective’s nonchalant attitude shifted suddenly, as he leaned forward and his face reddened with rage. "Oh, yeah—you are funny. How about I put my boot up your ass and let you kiss that?"
I rolled
my eyes visibly. His tough guy attitude was boring me to death.
"Detective, please give us twenty-four hours for me to get everything in order with my client. I assure you, by that time we will be ready for the interrogation, and he will answer all your questions," David said meekly.
Detective Walsh looked at me, his eyes narrowing in the slits. "Fine," he sighed, "meet me outside, Mr. Calloway. We need to talk."
Both men shuffled papers and cradled them in their hands as they exited the interrogation room. The tension between them was thick enough you could cut it like butter with a hot knife. The thought made me think of all the ways I would like to cut Detective Walsh. That was the good thing about being left in silence, alone with my thoughts. I got to relish the idea of taking his life if I ever got the opportunity.
64
DAVID CALLOWAY
As I stepped out of the interrogation room, following Detective Walsh, I expected a bit of professionalism and comeradery. What I experienced instead was rather unsettling. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, turning quickly to face me. I had no more than closed the door behind me and released the doorknob before he began berating me.
"I'm doing my job, which is to represent my client's best interests," I replied, “I thought what I was doing was obvious.”
Detective Walsh scoffed and shoved his hands into his pockets, coming away with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "You know what I think you're doing?" he asked as he shoved a cigarette into his mouth and lit it. He took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke in twin pillars through his nostrils as he put the pack back into his pocket. "I think you’re fucking over our department. The son of a bitch in that room right there used to be a cop, but he's a murdering piece of shit, and that reflects poorly on our department. So, why don’t you do your job and let justice be served. Get him to answer our questions, let us back him into a corner he can’t get out of, and let’s nail this asshole for what he's done." Detective Walsh took another long drag from his cigarette, and the smell of it was nauseating. I detected the faint scent of tobacco laced with marijuana. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but I couldn’t imagine how the detective expected to be at the top of his game if his mind wasn't all there.
"I am doing my job, and I understand where you're coming from, but I'm stuck within the bounds of the law and I can’t do whatever it is you want me to do," I replied. “Besides, I was appointed by the court as a favor to Chief Tomlinson.” My briefcase grew heavy in my sweaty palm as I held it there, nervous that Walsh was about berate me again. Instead, he chuckled softly, choking on the smoke as he inhaled it.
"All you public defenders are the same, man. You get appointed by the court to defend people who can't afford a real attorney, and you think you’re going to save the whole freaking world with the law. Let me tell you something, Mr. Calloway, I don’t give a rat’s ass about any false sense of obligation that you have with your job. What I care about is that justice is served for the loss of life the man in that room is responsible for. Would you like to see the pictures, the burnt corpse of a man with a wife and kids at home that will never see him again? Should I paint a better picture for you by showing you the pictures of the corpse that no one can say goodbye to properly because it will be a closed-casket funeral?" Walsh spat his words at me with indignation and contempt.
I wanted to say no. I wanted to say anything to keep from having to look at the images that I would inevitably have to see while representing Peter Drake in this case. But I couldn't say anything due to the lump growing in my throat. Detective Walsh is right. If Peter Drake did do those things, he is the closest thing to a monster I will ever see, I thought. "That doesn't change the fact that I have to do my job," I said, partially under my breath, but he heard me nonetheless.
With his hands on his hips, and cigarette hanging from his lips, he said, "Look at you, man, you’re a fat, sixty-two-year-old man with no real prospects for a better career than the one you have now and I doubt you have a spine to stand up for yourself, much less someone else. What kind of track record do you have in keeping these types of people from going to prison?"
His question caught me off guard and I struggled for a response, thinking back to the two years I've served as a public defender and all the cases I've taken part in. In every case for a murder suspect, the outcome had always been the same. But I didn't have to say so before he responded.
"Exactly," he said with a smirk. With that, Detective Walsh turned around and walked away, leaving me to contemplate my future.
65
CALEB FULTON
A light knock at my door drew my attention from the last few pages of the Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. "Come in," I said, just loud enough to be heard through the walls. I placed the bookmark back into the book and set it on the end table next to me before rolling my wheelchair towards the door.
As the door opened, I saw one of my aides, Samuel Montgomery, peer inside. "President Fulton, do you have a few minutes?"
I nodded. "Of course," I replied, "is everything, all right?"
Samuel stepped into my office and walked towards me, extending his hand for me to shake it. "Yes, sir, I'm doing very well." I ignored his hand and gestured for him to take a seat because I hated looking up at people from my wheelchair.
"What is it I can do for you?" I asked, curious as to what would bring him to my office in this hour.
He inhaled sharply as he sat on the couch, looking nervous as his eyes darted from side to side, seeming to scan the room. "Sir, I'm just curious why you're putting all your trust into General Lettum?"
I smirked, realizing his question was one that many of those under my employment were probably wondering. "Hatred is an important emotion," I answered, "and knowing how to harness hatred is a skill that can be the greatest weapon of all. His people betrayed him, and despite the fact he was a broken man who lost a great battle, I showed him mercy and in doing so found common ground with. I won't go into the details, but over the course of two years of visiting him regularly, we created a bond that I'm proud of. I can understand why some people might not see General Lettum in the same way I see him, but I know I can trust that man because, if I couldn't, he wouldn't be here. He would have disappeared from that prison, never to be seen or heard from again."
Samuel shifted uncomfortably in front of me, wringing his hands and clenching his jaws as if he was fighting back wanting to say something he knew I wouldn’t want to hear.
"Is there anything else?" I asked.
"It's just . . ." Samuel started, before biting his lip.
"Go on," I insisted.
"It's just that he is an odd, frightening man and he makes me nervous," Samuel finally said.
I chuckled under my breath. "Yeah? Well, that’s what thirty-years in hell will do to a man."
66
PRESIDENT HARRISON
"Speak to me," I said as I stepped into the Command Center’s briefing room. Three of my five top officials were standing at attention, waiting for me to arrive. "And skip the pleasantries, fellas, we don't have that kind of time."
The three officials each took a seat on the other side of the table. General Mathis was the first to speak. "The codes are accurate, sir. How anyone could have access to the codes created almost half a century ago—and for them still be viable—is amazing. Unfortunately, the nukes have to be activated before these codes can be used. Otherwise, my suggestion would be a preemptive strike.”
"Do you two agree?" I asked, pointing to the other two generals seated next to Mathis.
They looked at each other and nodded. "We do," General Vasquez said.
I paced the room. The nervous energy created by having the tools to save the world, but not the means to use them yet grated on my nerves. "How soon after deployment will we know the nukes have launched?"
General Mathis cleared his throat before speaking. "Within fifteen seconds of liftoff, sir. We will have visual indications via satellite images. We are alr
eady tied into the feed and are searching for evidence of liftoff as we speak."
"Fifteen seconds, huh? That doesn’t leave much time for us to act, considering the known silos are within one-thousand miles of where we’re standing.”
The three men before me shifted nervously in their seats. "It is a narrow window, sir, but we will do everything in our power to ensure we take control of his bombs and direct them where you tell us to," General Mathis said. “By our calculations, detonation over the Atlantic Ocean will have the least impact on the environment. An above land detonation will be devastating, to say the least.”
"I appreciate that, General, because I already have a target in mind," I said as I pulled back a chair and took a seat.
The man had a look on his face that suggested he had a question that he did not want to ask.
"I’ll make this as simple as possible. Once the nukes have been activated, I want you to take control of them and send them straight to Caleb Fulton's presidential mansion in Chicago," I said, slapping my hand on the table for effect. "I want to blow that monster off the map."
I watched as the three generals looked at each other. The nervous expressions on their faces said that they did not agree with my plan, but I knew they would not disobey my order, no matter how much they did not agree with it. "Sir, there will be many lives lost, not just President Fulton's," General Vasquez said.
I knew he was right, but when choosing between your people and your enemy's people, it seemed like an easy choice to make. I had to look out for my own. "Thank you for the lesson, General, but I'm aware of that fact. Regardless, you have your orders and I expect them to be carried out. Any questions?"