Authors: Murray McDonald
That was a mistake,
she thought closing the phone.
A stupid mistake
.
She considered calling the photographer back. “How long until we touch down?” she asked, pressing the intercom to the cockpit.
“Ten minutes. We’re on final approach.”
Elsa considered the situation. Sometimes it didn’t pay to show you knew too much. In other situations, it worked in your favor. Not this time, though. The girl sounded nervous.
She had gotten carried away with herself. Taking Drapsmann out had been far easier than she had anticipated, and certainly not worthy of the numerous warnings of how careful to be around him. He had been putty in her hands, all men were. They fell for her warm, welcoming smile, and certainly appreciated her looks. She despised them. Such simple creatures, so basic. And Drapsmann, had proved her right yet again, falling for the sexy bimbo stewardess routine. He was an exceptionally talented killer but his emotions were his weakness. He was a liability, unworthy of being trusted with the importance of what lay ahead. Women were an entirely different story, far more cunning, manipulative, and in general distrusting, particularly of women who looked like Elsa.
Elsa changed quickly. The stewardess outfit wasn’t going to do anything for the photographer. It was imperative they had all copies of the photos, none could survive. After spending the day doing all they could to entice the masses to rise up and protest, it did seem a little strange to be trying to stop the president’s daughter being torn apart by the media and public perception. Elsa, although not fully aware of the plan ahead, was aware of the bigger picture. She could understand why destroying the president would not be in their interests, particularly in the short term. There were many steps to their goal and they had only just begun. Tess Caldwell’s involvement had never been planned and had to be covered, to ensure everything else ran smoothly.
Jodie had played the conversation over and over again in her head.
Not necessary, we have them.
How did they have her details? Even the agencies she had contacted didn’t have her home address. Who were
we?
As the minutes ticked by, she felt increasingly uneasy. She looked across to her camera. The images were going to transform her life. Not only her life, also that of her four-year-old daughter, who lived with her parents in Mexico, who would finally be able to come and be with her. Or her with them. With two million dollars she could live like royalty in Mexico for the rest of her life.
Not necessary, we have them.
Jodie Tyler, real surname Trullijo, was no fool. She had been raised on the tough streets of Ciudad Juarez during some of its most violent times. She was no stranger to dangerous situations and had outlived many of her childhood friends who had succumbed to the gangs and dangers of the streets. She had always been able to sense trouble before it came and her senses were firing on all cylinders. She didn’t like it. She picked up the camera and moved it into her bedroom, retrieving her perfectly sized and easily concealable Glock 43 9mm pistol.
She stopped. Her laptop with a USB flash drive was sitting on her dresser. A car pulled up outside and she rushed to copy the key images from her camera that she was about to sell.
Just in case they try to screw me
, she thought, hiding the USB in her bedside drawer.
The chime of the doorbell had Jodie walking back to answer the door. She checked the peephole. A tall, attractive blonde smiled warmly back at her. Jodie was instantly wary. It was 3.30 a.m. and the woman was perfect—hair, makeup, clothing, everything.
Jodie opened the door slightly, leaving the security chain in place, allowing the door to open no more than four inches.
Elsa listened to an audio feed in her concealed in ear device from two spotters they had across the street. The girl had been under surveillance since before her call. Infrared scopes allowed the men to see everything she did through the flimsy construction of her apartment.
“It looks like she copied some images and put some sort of storage device in her bedroom, maybe in her beside drawer or something like that. The heat signature is weak through the walls,” advised the spotter who had earlier taken his own photos of the president’s daughter, although for a very different reason. It was he who had spotted Jodie and her camera escaping the fire and had followed her, aware she must have taken some good shots.
“Are you going to invite me in?” asked Elsa.
“Where’s the money?” asked Jodie.
Elsa held up a laptop bag. “I’ll do a bank transfer in front of you.”
Jodie eyed as far down the corridor as she could. The woman was alone. Jodie had her Glock 43 at hand and in any event, what the hell was a Barbie doll going to do to her? Jodie could look after herself.
She opened the door, stepping back to allow Elsa to enter. Closing the door behind her and snapping it locked, in case someone else was waiting out of sight.
“Security conscious,” said Elsa. “Clever girl, although you should never have let me in.” She reached into her laptop bag and withdrew a pair of latex gloves.
Jodie didn’t hesitate for a second. Her fighting skills learned on the streets were the equal of any taught in a classroom. She swore they were far better. Not only did they hit for real, if she lost, she lost her life or her chastity, something far more powerful a motivator than a well done from your teacher.
Jodie lashed out and caught a thoroughly unsuspecting Elsa with a left-handed jab to the chin, quickly followed by a kick to her kneecap. Elsa crashed to the floor, her laptop bag sliding out of reach. Jodie was going for a gun.
Elsa had just killed one of the world’s top assassins with ease and was getting her ass handed to her by a two-bit photographer. Her smile returned, although with none of the warmth.
“No se mueve, puta!”
shouted Jodie in her native Spanish, aiming her Glock 43 at Elsa.
The arrival of Tess Caldwell was an emotional homecoming. Her initial anger at being pulled from college instantly dissipated when news of the full horror of what had happened after her departure from the Fox Pomona was broken to her. Inconsolable at her actions, it had taken a sedative to calm her to the point she could tell her father what she had done. He listened in horror to her confessions, shoving the man from the chopper and directing the Marine to angle the flare more towards the rooftop to keep the people back.
When Tess finally slept, President Caldwell walked to the Oval Office. “Ramona, could you please ask the Attorney General to join me?” he said in a daze as he walked past her.
“And good morning to you too, Mr. President,” she huffed, picking up the phone.
“Yes, good morning,” he replied absently, shutting the Oval Office door firmly behind himself.
A mountain of papers lay on his desk. He needed a new Chief of Staff but that was a call that would have to wait. At a knock on his door, Bill Miller, his Homeland Security Advisor, walked in.
“We’ve got varying witness statements from last night,” he said without preamble. “It appears nobody really knows what happened. A lot of rumors with no substance or evidence to back them up. Tess is in the clear.”
Clay shook his head. “She corroborated everything to me herself. I’ve got the AG heading over to talk about handing herself in.”
“Whoa! What the hell are you talking about? I’m telling you the investigation has ruled it an accident. Nobody is to blame, it’s a tragedy. We have no evidence to suggest otherwise.”
“I’ve just told you otherwise.”
“No you didn’t!”
“Sorry?”
“You told me your daughter told you otherwise, your daughter who is currently under the influence of numerous prescription drugs that will mean anything she said is not admissible as evidence. So in effect you have not told me otherwise. I am telling you there was a tragic accident last night in Pomona. We need you to speak to the nation, mourn with them, not throw your daughter at them as a villain.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Mr. President. With everything else our nation is facing, whether Tess takes the blame or not makes no difference. Those people are still dead and the people will accept it either as an accident or as an outcome of rioting, which it was. If not for the rioting, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”
“So the rioters take the blame?” asked the president angrily.
“It was an accident, nobody meant for it to happen.”
“What was an accident?” asked the Attorney General, entering the Oval Office.
“The fire at the Fox Pomona,” said Bill, staring at Clay. The AG was a by the book guy and as straight as they came. If the president repeated his daughter’s confession, there was no chance of containing the situation.
“Yes, tragic. I’ve just finished reading the report, a tragic accident,” agreed the AG.
“Bill, would you give us a few minutes?” asked Clay.
“Mr. President, I really need to speak to you urgently,” said Bill.
“Not now, Bill,” Clay snapped.
Bill took his time collecting his papers, giving the president as much time as possible to reconsider his decision. Eventually, and with some assistance in lifting his papers, he was ushered out of the office.
Ramona glared at him when he refused to leave the area and hovered near her desk.
“You do know I’m allowed to be here,” he said as she continued to scowl at his presence.
“Allowed and needing to be are two different things,” she countered. After five minutes, Bill couldn’t take it anymore. “Can you let me know when he’s free?”
Ramona opened the old fashioned diary on her desk and ran her finger down a page, switched to another page and ran her finger down that one.
“Okay, okay,” said Bill. “I get it, he’s not got any free time in his diary. Can you let him know I need to speak to him?”
“You just did.”
“Again, there’s a lot going on!”
“There’s always a lot going on!” she replied ending the conversation, making it clear it was time for him to leave.
No sooner had Bill left the area when the AG exited the Oval Office in a hurry. Ramona rose to run through the president’s diary with him as they did each morning, but was met by a closing door. Whatever had happened with the AG had not gone well.
Ramona put out her hand and caught the door mid-swing.
The president was already stomping back to his desk when she entered.
“Mr. President, is everything okay?”
Clay looked at her, frustration burning in his soul. Everything around him was falling apart, nothing made sense, he was losing control, but she stood there, a rock amidst the chaos around them. He could always rely on Ramona.
“I’m sorry, please close the door and come in.”
The chat with the AG had been as useless as his chat with Bill. Neither man, two of his most trusted and highest ranking law enforcement advisors, were willing to act on his information. He could understand Bill, the AG was another matter. He was the most straight-laced son of a bitch he knew and would happily have you arrested on felony charges for taking a staple home from the office.
Someone else to add to Joe’s list to check,
he thought.
“Mr. President, you need a new Chief of Staff,” Ramona said.
“I know, I know.”
“It’s too much for one man…”
“Yes, Ramona,” he said. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“Somebody you can trust with your life and your family’s lives.”
Joe
, thought Clay, the one man in the world he could rely on. And thanks to Clay, the one man in the world that could never have the job. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t regret that. He chastised himself; he didn’t have time for regrets. Joe was coming, he’d help. Clay had no idea how, but he knew that even simply being there, he would help.
Joe walked Sandy across the road to a wooded area to stretch her legs during their one hour layover in Mobile, Alabama. Once across the road, Sandy raced ahead into the undergrowth, her nose pulling her deeper and deeper into the woods. Joe stood and soaked in the heat of the sun by the roadside, a welcome respite from the air-conditioned coach. His throat was dry. He took a long pull on his bourbon. It failed to relieve the artificially induced dry throat but relieved other parts.
“Bit early for that, son,” said a man that appeared to his left.
An elderly black man, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and white tie stood by his side.
“Pastor,” nodded Joe. He had eaten in more churches than he cared to remember and recognized a pastor, reverend, or a man of God when he saw them.
“Lovely dog.”
“The best,” agreed Joe.
“And the drink?”
“It helps me forget.”
“Forget what, my son?”
“Things no man should have to remember,” said Joe quietly.
“I understand. Perhaps God—”
“There was no God where I was, couldn’t have been. No God would let what I saw happen.”
“Surely you could get help. I know the administrator at the VA, there are programs—”
Joe shrugged. “Dishonorable discharge, not an option.”
The pastor didn’t take a step back, but emotionally and effectively without moving, he did exactly that. Just as everyone had ever done. Joe Kelly was a pariah, dishonorably discharged for cowardice. Not that anyone ever asked, conversation tended to simply stop.
“People do the strangest things in the heat of battle. Until we’re there, we don’t know how we’d react,” said the pastor.
Joe whistled for Sandy, who came bounding out of the undergrowth and stopped at his side, her tail wagging wildly.
“At least you have a loyal friend.”
“I had one back then, or I thought I had. You never know…” Joe paused, the memories too painful in his current semi-sober state. He took another long pull of his bourbon, and smiled at how the pastor had already written him off. It was always the same, the truth about his past ended any concern. Mistrust and questioning took over. What had he really done? In many states, a dishonorable discharge was deemed equivalent to a felony conviction.
“Come on, Sandy,” said Joe, walking back across the road, Sandy sticking to his leg like glue.
The pastor, Joe noted, had simply turned and carried on walking, his halfhearted attempt to save Joe having been already forgotten.
Joe boarded the bus and walked back towards his seat. The young man from earlier was in Sandy’s seat and Joe sighed. “I’m so not in the mood for any bullshit.”
“I’ve got a ticket for this seat, I’ve paid for it, and have just spent four hours on the floor,” protested the young man, showing the ticket again to Joe.
Joe looked at Sandy, who appeared to understand and sat leaning against Joe’s seat. He took his seat and Sandy lay at his feet.
“She’s letting you have it,” he told the extremely nervous young man. It had taken all of his courage to take his seat, particularly as he had not noticed how big Joe was until he had been standing over him.
“She is?”
“If she wants it back, you’re moving.”
The young man nodded eagerly as the coach’s engine fired into life and they pulled away.
“Terrible news, isn’t it” said the young man, clearly wanting to end the silence that had fallen between him and Joe.
“The rioting, not really, this country is on the brink,” said Joe cynically.
“No, the fire at the Fox Pomona. Over a hundred dead and the president’s daughter was there.”
“Was she killed?”
“No, no, she’s fine. She was pulled out before the fire started. They’re saying it was started by rival gangs. The president’s going to address the nation later today. They’re saying it’s a major announcement.”
Joe took a long pull on his bourbon, not long enough as he reached the end of his bottle. He sucked every last drop, dropping the empty bottle on his lap. What the hell was he getting involved in? Whatever it was, he needed to have his wits about him. He eyed his fresh bottle of bourbon in the seat pocket in front of him. He just needed to take the edge off. He reached forward, and Sandy shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. Joe looked down as she looked up. “You’re worse than a wife,” he said, leaving the bourbon where it was.