by C. G. Cooper
Chapter 6
Camp Spartan, Arrington, TN
5:25 a.m., February 28th
Cal pushed himself through the snowdrift, his quads screaming in protest. The gale slapped him in the face, telling him to turn back. He ignored the pain and ran on toward the rising sun. Sleep had never come after the conversation with Travis, which had ended with Cal flat out refusing to take over as CEO.
“I’m too young. I’ve got a lot going on right now.”
“You don’t think I was too young when your dad died? Come on, Cal, this is your company. It’s time to man up and do what you need to do.”
The memory burned almost as much as the strain. Plumes of white breath trailed behind, mimicking his feelings. Cal had never thought of SSI as his company. Sure, it was his dad’s company, and he was the sole heir, but the company had grown larger than his father probably ever would have imagined. Neil Patel’s division alone easily financed the extracurricular activities Cal and his teams planned daily, off the official record, of course, and there were millions to spare.
Cal knew he was smart. He’d always had the mind to lead, but his heart couldn’t be shackled to a boardroom. He preferred to be where he was, with his men, taking the fight to the enemy. He’d left the Marine Corps, but the Marine still lived in him. I’m a warrior, not a businessman.
Travis was going to Washington and Cal would soon be strapped to a desk, making sales calls, schmoozing with potential clients and reading endless reams of financial reports. The thought made Cal want to gag. Or was it the harsh pace he was pushing, snow caking his feet and calves?
He finally stopped at a small rise overlooking the campus, breathing deeply. It was the company cemetery. Five headstones poked their ivory tops above the snow. Reverently, Cal cleared the white powder from each of the tombstones, reading the inscriptions, remembering the men, his men, who had died on the snow-covered mountain in Wyoming. The others had been buried near their respective families, his good friend Brian Ramirez among them.
The final stone took the most time, not because it was larger; in fact, it was the smallest of the bunch. To Cal it was sacred ground, a place where he’d made a promise not long ago to the beautiful girl who now lay six feet beneath that very spot. His Jessica.
“What should I do, Jess?”
Only the slight wind against his running jacket answered, ruffling his collar. He stood thinking, wondering, hoping the answer would come.
Chapter 7
Rayburn House Office Building, Washington, D.C.
7:46 a.m., February 28th
“Did you get me my job back?” Santos Lockwood stood in front of Congressman McKnight’s desk, his hands behind his back, perspiring despite the frigid temperature Tony always kept.
McKnight didn’t look up from his phone where he was Tweeting a picture he’d taken of the snow on the way into work with the description #snowday attached.
“I’m working on it. How’s your hand? It’s too bad about that shark. Big motherfucker.”
Lockwood tensed. “The doctor stitched it up and it’s healing.” It would take a while to get used to the loss of his pinky and ring finger. Santos winced as he unconsciously flexed his injured appendage. At least McKnight had the courtesy to do it to his non-writing hand.
“Good. I hope it doesn’t come between you and the ladies.”
Lockwood took the mocking, used to it after years of knowing McKnight. The rest of the trip in Mexico had been more of a lesson in threats than a political junket. Every time they’d been alone together, the congressman had made some remark about having his family killed or cutting off his balls. The next second he’d return to his affable self, wining and dining with the real estate developer who’d invited them down to his new resort.
“What do you need me to do until we know?” Santos Lockwood was ready to be away from his unofficial boss. The duplicity was exhausting to be around, not to mention downright dangerous.
McKnight was always careful about what he said in his own office, especially after the recent scandal involving the NSA’s snooping. “Come over to my place tonight and we’ll talk.”
Lockwood nodded and went for the door. Already on thin ice, he was happy just to have something to offer his old friend. He could only imagine what would happen if his usefulness ran out. Lockwood shuddered at the thought, closing the door quietly behind him.
+++
Senator Milton Southgate had been waiting for thirty-seven minutes. He counted down the seconds as he watched sheets of ice blow past the elegantly framed window. A beat before the thirty-eighth minute ticked in Southgate’s head, Secretary of State Geoffrey Dryburgh burst into the room, his wavy red hair curled neatly behind his ears. Loud and boisterous by nature, Dryburgh was not what one would think of as a particularly good candidate for the diplomatic post. What the casual observer didn’t know was that the trim figure with ruddy cheeks, whose family hailed from the hills of Scotland, and was rumored to be a descendant of William Wallace himself, was a certified genius. After graduating with three majors from Harvard, Dryburgh had gone on to become the youngest partner in the history of New York’s prestigious Kleinman, Shauver and Bosch law firm, waging war against corporate America one win after another. But what had made him sort of a folk hero, a man of the people, was that he’d founded and run a popular micro-brewery, Dryburgh Draft, all while rising through the ranks of New York City’s best attorneys.
Cunning and overwhelming in public engagement and election battles, Dryburgh was a natural politician. The self-appointed voice of the working man. His first run for public office had been a dare on a celebratory night thrown by a drunk partner in Dryburgh’s law firm. He’d won in overwhelming fashion, now having worn a path through the New York State House, through the U.S. Senate and his current post. He had the pedigree Southgate needed to use. He also had the smell of the presidency, already being touted as a hopeful should Zimmer not seek re-election.
“Senator Southgate, I’m sorry I’m so late. I know how much you appreciate punctuality.” Dryburgh always threw in a bit of a Scottish twinge when he was putting on a show. He liked to say that America was his home, but Scotland was his mother.
“I understand you’re a very busy man, Mr. Secretary. Thank you for coming.” Southgate hid his displeasure well, knowing that he needed Dryburgh’s full attention.
“Come on, Senator, can’t you call me Geoff? You’re twice my senior at least!” The Secretary of State laughed at his own joke while the stoic Senator bit back the bile in his throat. He’d never liked Geoffrey Dryburgh, but he was open-minded enough to know that the younger generation enjoyed the show the Scot loved to put on.
“Only if you call me Milton.”
“You’ve got a deal, Milton. Now, what was so urgent that we both had to come out in this God awful snow?”
“Why don’t we have a seat and I’ll fill you in?”
Secretary of State Geoffrey Dryburgh was an ambitious man. He’d fought his way up the ladder and meant to stay there. His first run for office had been a dare. Now politics was his life, the best game he’d ever played.
Never having spent any private time with the Senate Majority Leader, he’d been intrigued by the senator’s invitation. Everyone in Washington knew Milton Southgate was a goodie-two-shoes, always worried about appearances and doing the right thing. This ran in sharp contrast to Dryburgh’s public image. He was known as a high flying, some would even say flamboyant, pauper turned politician who wasn’t afraid to get in shouting matches.
Dryburgh had money he’d earned by hard work and toil, and he wasn’t afraid to flaunt it, much to the dismay of frugal stalwarts like Sen. Southgate. Privy to secrets most Americans would be shocked to hear, Geoffrey Dryburgh was a man in the know. He’d made it his business to be intimate with every detail of every case he’d ever taken on. He still knew the recipe and process for the wide variety of beers being made by his famous micro-brewery. That being said, nothing had prepared him for th
e story Senator Southgate methodically laid before him.
“And you’re sure about this?”
Southgate nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid so. I have my own people looking into it.”
“Why can’t you tell me where the information came from? If they told you, they told someone else. I’d hate for this to get out.”
“My source assured me that I am the only one who knows. Now, let’s talk about how we can contain the situation.”
+++
Congressman Antonio McKnight scrolled through his phone, jumping from one social media app to another. He’d made it his business from day one in office to stay at the forefront of any technology that could bolster his image. The Republican Party was failing to capture young and minority voters, but McKnight was part of the new breed. Young, handsome, and into many of the things twenty-somethings were into, namely being online 24/7. Other than the former president, he had the most online followers of any U.S. politician.
He wasn’t married, so his nights were filled with cocktail parties and discreet liaisons. Early on he’d learned to keep his private life private. Despite his near constant use of technology, McKnight was diligent about security. If the last four years had taught him anything, it was that you never knew who was watching or listening. More than one cocky politician had seen years of work wiped away by a hacked cell phone or laptop.
The phone on his desk chirped. McKnight tapped the speaker button without looking up. “What’s up?” the congressman asked his secretary, a middle aged woman named Linda, who was a better gatekeeper than a six foot six Samoan.
“Sir, Senator Southgate is on the line for you.”
“Patch him through.”
“Yes, sir.”
Seconds later the call connected. “Are you there, Senator?”
“Good morning, Antonio.”
“Good morning.”
“I called to tell you that the investigation is progressing on our end.”
McKnight leaned back in his chair, smiling at the ceiling. “That’s good to hear.”
An extended moment of silence. “Congressman, as I told you before, I will take care of this personally and I would appreciate your…discretion until we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”
“Not a problem. The last thing I want is to get in the middle of your business. If you need anything, please let me know.”
“I will.”
The line went dead. McKnight knew the old man was by the book, but he was positively giddy that the senator had moved so quickly. He’d made a good decision taking it right to the top.
McKnight silently congratulated himself, diverting his attention back to his last post that had already been shared on the web by over 100 followers in less than five minutes.
Chapter 8
Springfield, Virginia
11:15 a.m., February 28th
“Stevie, you want me to make you anything for breakfast?” came the call from the kitchen.
Former FBI special agent Steve Stricklin, sweat-soaked, struggled to finish his last pull-up. “Sausage and eggs!”
While Stricklin hated the fact that he still lived at home, he couldn’t complain about his mother’s cooking. The widow waited on her only son hand and foot.
He nimbly dropped from the doorjamb pull-up bar onto the eighties era burnt orange carpet, flexing his six pack in the mirror. A couple jabs and a sweeping hook later, Stricklin grabbed his olive drab T-shirt, one of the last remnants of his time in the Marine Corps, and wiped his face.
In the last two months he’d had plenty of time to work out. He estimated that he’d put on at least five pounds of muscle, cutting his body fat to an acceptable eight percent.
After getting kicked out of the FBI in December, quietly of course, Stricklin had at first taken his sorrows to the bottle, stewing in his misery on the lower level of his mother’s modest brick split level home. That had lasted for close to a month. Then something clicked. Overnight Stricklin gave up alcohol and refocused.
He was a former FBI agent, experienced in internal affairs investigations. Lucky for Stricklin that the Bureau had turned into a model of political correctness and allowed him to leave quietly, even providing a decent recommendation letter. It helped that Stricklin had experience manipulating situations where he had to cover his own ass, a fact that his superiors took into account before his dismissal. No one wanted him as their enemy, or so he thought.
If only things had gone differently. One day he was in the middle of the biggest investigation of his life, and then, just like that, his uncle, a popular congressman from Louisiana, was shot right in front of him. He didn’t remember much after that. He never knew whether the alcohol or the blow to the back of his head had more to do with that, but he woke up on the steps of the Hoover Building (FBI headquarters), a group of administrative assistants pointing and taking his picture. That was a bad day. His superiors linked him to the crime, with the help of certain unnamed witnesses, thus ending his FBI career.
Stricklin didn’t blame himself. He never did. Once again he’d been the victim of events outside of his control. Sure, he’d conducted an investigation outside his official duties, but he thought his initiative would be awarded, not condemned. They’d even made him sign paperwork promising to never divulge the information he’d already uncovered.
Bullshit. That piece of paper had held his tongue for a month, but his ego wouldn’t let it go. In his mind, there was one person responsible for his fall. One man who’d plagued his career in the Marine Corps and in the FBI. Every other idiot called the man a hero. He knew better. His nemesis was one of the “unnamed sources” that led to his disgrace. He knew that now. The same man torpedoed him as a platoon commander during his time in the Marines, making him look like an idiot in front of company and battalion commanders.
Stricklin walked over to his desk, eyes resting on the oversized cork board, papers pinned neatly in groups. Smack dab in the middle was a picture of his nemesis, a man who had ruined his life, an enemy whose name made Stricklin’s blood boil. It was so unfair, but the tide would turn soon. Revenge would be sweet. And the best part? Stricklin sneered. Cal Stokes didn’t even know he was coming.
+++
Camp Spartan, Arrington, TN
Daniel Briggs, a former Marine sniper, and Cal’s right hand, adjusted the tie holding his blond ponytail. “What did you decide?”
Cal stared out the snow-encrusted window in his living room. “I don’t know.”
“When does Travis need to know?”
“He didn’t say, but I’m sure he wants my answer soon.”
The man who SSI operators called Snake Eyes stood up and walked to the window. “It’s not all bad. Maybe it’s time for a break. We’ve been running pretty hard.”
Cal and Daniel had forged a deep friendship over the preceding year. Rarely apart, the two Marines had planned and conducted countless operations on American soil. Sometimes they talked about it, how much their new profession was like a kid being given anything he wanted. They had the assets to do more than most federal agencies.
To the warriors, it was the best of both worlds: play with guns and take care of the good ‘ol U.S. of A. While Cal was more brash in his approach, the always stoic Daniel, Bible ever in hand, kept the train from derailing. He was the buffer to Cal’s rage, the calming influence.
Cal knew his weaknesses, his short temper, an inability to keep his mouth shut, and countless others. That was what bothered him about Travis’s ultimatum. Not only was Cal the last person who wanted to run a large corporation, he was also introspective enough to know that his personality would not lend itself well to the daily grind of a CEO.
“I don’t know what he’s thinking. You couldn’t pay me enough to work in D.C.,” said Cal.
“Even if Brandon asked you?”
“He’s knows better than to ask me. Seriously, the only thing worse than me running SSI would be working on Capitol Hill.”
Daniel couldn
’t disagree. He probably knew Cal better than anyone. Cal’s disdain for politicians could almost be compared to his hatred for terrorists and criminals.
“Could Dunn run the company?” Todd Dunn was SSI’s head of internal security, and played a similar role for Travis Haden that Daniel did for Cal.
“No, I asked. Dunn’s probably not the right fit anyway. He’s too good at what he does.”
Daniel felt for his friend. He knew Cal’s sense of duty would probably win over. It was his company after all. “I don’t see a way out, Cal.”
Cal huffed, shoulders slumping. He didn’t want to let his cousin down, let alone the employees of SSI, but…
Cal’s head snapped up, eyes bright. “I have an idea. Come on.”
Daniel turned in surprise, Cal already slipping his arms into the well-worn cold weather coat. “Where are we going?”
Cal grinned. “I think I found a way out.”
Shaking his head at his boss’s attitude swing, the sniper followed Cal out the door.
Cal opened the conference door without knocking. Travis, Marge Haines, Todd Dunn, Neil Patel and Dr. Higgins were in the middle of a heated debate. Travis looked up, annoyance clearly etched in his scowl. “Do you ever knock?”
“Sometimes. Hey, I know how we can both get what we want.”
“What are you talking about? Are you trying to weasel your way out again?”
Cal ignored the jab. “Look, I know you think I’m the obvious choice to take over for you, but I don’t think you’ve thought it through.”
Travis raised his hand. “How many times do we have to talk about this, Cal? This is your company. We’ve got a lot of good people counting on us. Do you want to let them down?”
“Of course not. That’s why I don’t think I’m the right fit.”