Scion (44 page)

Jack crossed the small room and sat staring at the column. The alcohol had dumbed his senses, he wasn’t thinking straight. He was missing something obvious. He must be.

Daylight hit him like a sledgehammer. The small room took the full brunt of the sun’s early morning reveille. Jack covered his eyes desperately but the ache in his brain failed to dissipate. It wasn’t the light. The memories of the previous night came flooding back. The beer and the whisky had taken their toll. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and certainly wasn’t used to drinking anything like the quantities that had so easily slipped down in the past.

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the column, just as he had been when the fatigue and alcohol had ended any chance of uncovering the secret. He stood up unsteadily; the pounding in his head was going to take some getting used to. Hangovers had been a thing of the past. The President of the United States did not drink to excess and did not gamble - just two of the long list of his previous behaviors that were absolutely forbidden in his current office.
Forbidden is perhaps too strong a word
, thought Jack,
‘not expected’ is perhaps more accurate.
The expectation levels of a president were, to say the least, extraordinary. The expectations of a president who had lost a wife were inconceivable. He had to be strong at all times, even by her graveside. Weakness was not an option. Bollocks, it was all bollocks. His strength had never been doubted. It was exactly why he was where he was. After years of poor leadership, the country had been desperate for a strong and capable leader to take control. General Jack King, former Army chief of staff and former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, offered that in spades. Jack was exactly what the country had craved, a politician who they could believe in, a man of his word, a man who put his country and its strength above all else. The Republican nomination was secured even before Super Tuesday, with every other candidate unwilling to add to the humiliating defeats they had already suffered at the hands of the country’s clear favorite.

With debt spiraling, unemployment out of control and what seemed no end to the downturn, Jack King had won the 2012 election by one of the clearest margins in modern history.

Jack was ready. His presidency was going to be one of legend, one of resolve. He was going to turn the country around in four years. In and out. That was his motto throughout his military career. Hit the problem hard and fast. He had promised his wife just that. His country had needed him and he couldn’t say no. Four years was all he needed.

That was until the day of his inauguration and the revelation that was about to be bestowed on the new president, America’s Trust.

Chapter 3

Wednesday 1
st
July 2015

Washington D.C.

When the key turned in the lock at 4:00 a.m., Tom Butler knew he was about to die. After his arrest by the FBI, he had been marched into the local office and watched as the lead female agent had gesticulated wildly on the phone. When she had ended the obviously angry exchange, she had subsequently kicked a wastepaper basket clear across the room. “Put him in a fucking cell!” she had shouted before storming out of the building. Tom knew then he was in trouble. The tentacles of The Trust had reached far deeper than he thought possible.

The door opened to reveal two immaculately dressed men in suits, one standing well over six feet in height while the other barely cleared five feet.

“Mr. Butler?” the smaller of the two asked.

Tom feigned tiredness and nodded sluggishly, rising slowly from the narrow bench that doubled as a bed.

“How can I help you, Agent?” asked Tom stretching and yawning.

“Special Agent Wen Chan. There’s been a terrible mistake but I’m pleased to say it’s been resolved,” smiled Chan.

“Excellent, so I’m free to go?” asked Tom, knowing it was the last thing they planned for him.

“Yes, Mr. Butler,” replied the other agent.

Tom smiled. “And I suppose you’re Agent John Smith!” said Tom, referencing the man’s European features versus Chan’s Asian heritage. Wen and Chan were the two most popular first and last names in China and the equivalent of Western society’s ‘John Smith’.

The American agent smiled and nodded. They knew Tom Butler would not fall for their bullshit cover story but the show wasn’t for Tom Butler, the show was for the FBI.

“So what’s the plan guys, get me out and offer me a lift home?”

Chan nodded.

“Airline ticket bought in my name and a look-a-like to use my passport and make the trip? I’m guessing South America or South East Asia?” added Tom, shaking his head. He knew exactly how effective the plan would be.

Smith smiled. “Quit stalling and start walking!”

“Hmm, I think I’ll just hang out here, thanks.”

“I would advise against that, Mr. Butler,” countered Chan sinisterly.

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” laughed Tom.

Chan’s sinister smile didn’t waver. “No, we’ll simply extend our area of operation. Who knows what you may have divulged to that pretty little niece of yours?”

Tom’s anger exploded and he charged across the room. Before he reached Chan, Smith’s massive hands grabbed him and held him back.

“Let’s just calm it down,” Smith suggested to both Chan and Tom. “Creating a scene does none of us any favors.”

Tom struggled against Smith’s grasp but soon realized it was futile. The man was like a rock, a solid mass of muscle covered his already inflated frame.

“Stay the fuck away from her!” hissed Tom as he accepted his fate.

“All you need to do is walk out of here a happy bunny and she’ll be fine, that’s a promise,” offered Smith in a conciliatory manner.

Tom nodded his head in acceptance and followed Chan out of the room. The sight of the three men would have raised some sniggers during the day, a real small, medium and large offering. Each stood a good head taller than the next. Tom at 6 feet had never felt taller while Chan led the way and never smaller when Smith took over as they neared the front door of the all but empty Washington field office.

“Smile for the camera!” whispered Chan as they neared the door that would lead them to the main entrance.

Tom was finding it hard enough to take his last few steps, never mind throw a smile to the inanimate cameras that followed and recorded their every move as they walked silently in a death march towards his last breath.

“Special Agent Chan!” came a shout from behind. One of the few FBI agents on duty at 4:00 a.m. stopped them all in their tracks.

Tom turned and noticed Chan’s hand move slowly and carefully towards the bump on the inside of his jacket. Chan refused to look back.

“Yes?” he asked, shouting behind him towards the onrushing agent, his hand nearly touching the handgrip of his pistol.

“You left your ID card when you signed out, Mr. Butler.”

Tom watched as Chan spun and in the blink of an eye, removed his hand from his pistol grip and held it out to the helpful agent who placed his ID safely in it. The movements, Butler noticed, were exceptionally fast and left the helpful agent blissfully unaware of Chan’s previously deadly intent towards him.

As the agent walked away, Tom couldn’t resist. “Tsk, tsk, imagine leaving your fake ID behind,” he chided quietly.

“Who said it was fake?” questioned Chan so straight-faced that Tom realized he had seriously underestimated his foe.

The final door buzzed open and the coolness of the early Spring morning flooded into the vast entrance hallway. Tom looked around, desperate to scream for help but unwilling to sacrifice his niece. He knew it was likely to be an empty threat. They knew she had nothing whatsoever to do with his work but it was a threat he nonetheless took seriously. She was the only person on the planet they could have used against him. The fact they knew that was more than enough to make him take his fate with as much dignity as he could possibly muster.

He could see the car sitting waiting for them. Its engine was running and a third agent, or whatever the hell they were, was ready and waiting behind the wheel. Just a few steps and the sidewalk separated him from his imminent death. The moment he was in the car, they’d probably put a small caliber gun to his head and end it quickly. The last thing they’d want was a struggle or a fight in a confined space.

He recognized the National Building Museum directly ahead as he stepped outside. He’d never had a chance to visit but had always wanted to. Another thing to add to the quickly filling list of things he had always wished he had done. With each step, it seemed he had done less and less with his life. He tried to remain strong. He thought of the people through the ages being marched proudly to their deaths. Fighting for what they believed in, dying for their cause.
Fucking idiots
, he thought angrily while trying to remain ramrod straight and defiant to the last.

As he neared the top step, his resolve began to waver. Less than ten yards separated him from the ominous black car, its engine humming in the silence of the night while its tail lights emitted a bloody glow that cut through the early morning haze. Agent Smith stretched out and guided Tom down the stairs, his powerful hand bearing more weight than either he or Tom would acknowledge. As Smith helped Tom, Chan raced ahead and opened the rear door. There was no interior light. Great care had been taken to ensure the light had been extinguished. Another sign that Tom’s fate was imminent.

As they neared the car, Smith’s hand moved from near Tom’s waist to his head, gently guiding it lower and lower as he maneuvered Tom into the back seat.

***

“What the fuck do you mean he’s been released?!” screamed Special Agent Jane Swanson.

She hung up in disgust and punched the steering wheel in frustration. She wasn’t interested in listening to the agent’s groveling bullshit of an excuse. He should have fucking well checked with her. She was a rising star but a blighted one. Her anger issues were legendary, as was her profanity. Her ability to solve cases and get her man was surpassed only by her ability to piss off every member of her team and most of the command structure. Luckily for her, she was hated slightly less than she was feared.

She had been promoted and demoted with regularity and was in a current positive trend - the promotions outweighed the demotions. There was very little doubt that her successes were all that stood between her and the unemployment queue. She was a handful and a loud one, but she was also usually the smartest and quickest in the room. Conformity was most definitely not her strong suit. A trait the FBI craved in 99% of its agents, the 1% being the acceptable tolerance of brilliance. There was no disputing Jane’s brilliance; it was just whether one day her behavior would outshine it. When that day came, she and the FBI would part company, more than likely, not amicably.

She floored the accelerator and her Audi RS4 station wagon exploded to life. The 450bhp of power bit down into the four-wheel drive train and powered the family size car as though it were an Indie racecar. Jane Swanson loved the wolf in sheep’s clothing and the RS4 rocketed in a matter of seconds to over 100 mph. The roads, at 4:00 a.m., were empty. She hit the switch and ignited her blue strobes just in case, and had the added security of knowing the ceramic brakes would ensure she stopped quicker than she accelerated, should the need arise.

The RS4 wasn’t cheap, but with no plans for marriage or kids and an inheritance from her grandparents burning a hole in her pockets, she had taken one look and thought what the hell? If ever a car had been built for Jane, it was the RS4. They were just meant to be together.

She called the office back. The adrenaline rush from the acceleration had calmed her mood.

“Don’t let them leave before I get there!” she demanded.

“They’ve already gone. One of the agents had left his ID and I just gave it back to them as they left the building,” offered the helpful agent nervously.

“Shit!” she yelled, more in frustration than anger. “I’m heading East on G, were they pointed North or South on 4
th
?”

“North in a Chrysler 300,” replied the agent, watching the car pull away on the CCTV system that covered every inch of the building and its perimeter. “Jesus!” screamed the agent jumping out of his seat.

***

Tom was forced in beside the smiling Chan, his hand resting close to the pistol that he had so nearly utilized just moments earlier. As the door shut behind him, Tom feared the worst and sucked up every piece of courage his body could muster, which was very little. The front door opened and the large frame of Smith folded itself into the cramped front seat.

No sooner had the door closed, the car began to glide away from the curb. Smith swiveled around in his seat and facing Tom, revealed a small, almost ludicrously sized pistol poking out of his right hand. Of course, in Chan’s hand, the gun would have looked almost normal. In Smith’s hand, the small .22 caliber pistol just looked wrong. However, at close quarters, it was an excellent kill weapon, causing only a small entry wound, no exit wound and enough power in the bullet to rattle around in the brain cavity ensuring a fairly quick and painless death. Tom knew he wouldn’t even bleed much. The heart would just stop pumping and the blood would remain in situ. As clean a kill as you could get with a gun.