Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (34 page)

The automated camera pedestals to the left and refocuses on a wide shot of the table. There’s another camera on the other side of the studio swinging into position for shots of the candidates. Kelly, the policy aide, is next to the camera, as is Rushing. Rushing has his hands clasped in front of him, standing guard.

“We’d like to begin with the candidates’ opening statements,” the moderator announces. “Each will have one minute. By coin flip, Mr. Buell will go first. Mr. Buell?”

Buell clears his throat and looks straight into the camera next to Kelly. I glance up at an overhead monitor to watch his remarks.

“Fellow Texans,” he begins with a smile, “thank you so much for allowing me to come into your homes tonight and share with you a vision for a better, brighter Texas.” He shifts in his seat and awkwardly moves his injured shoulder. “I entered this race, not out of some grand ambition or need for power, but because I see a better path than the one we’re taking.”

A third camera shifts into position and focuses on the Governor. On the screen above me, there’s a split image; Buell talking, the Governor listening.

“As I’ve spent time with so many of you across this wonderful Republic, I’ve talked a lot about how this campaign,” Buell reaches out to the camera, toward the viewers at home, “how
our
campaign, is about Texas values and American idealism.”

On the Governor’s side of the screen, my boss is no longer looking at Buell. He’s focused on the notepad in front of him. He’s writing furiously and shaking his head.

“I’ve told you, I believe as God has blessed me, he has blessed each of you. He has given you the ability to shape your future, to choose your path. I want to be the one who harnesses that capital that exists within every one of you. With your help we can, together, improve the lives of our families and neighbors. We can lift up those who need help without sacrificing that which we’ve worked hard to accumulate.”

The image on the screen above switches back to a single shot of Buell. He’s polished. His double Windsor knotted tie sits perfectly in the space between his starched white collar, a dark suit framing him smartly, save the slight bulge of a bandage on his shoulder. His eyes are gleaming.

“As you pledge your allegiance to the Old Glory of the United States and the Lone Star of Texas at schools and at ballgames, please remember I, Don Carlos Buell – D.C., as my wife calls me – I pledge allegiance to you, the people of this glorious state.”

Three of the four cameras shift again as the moderator thanks Buell. He reminds the audience not to applaud until the debate concludes.

“Now, Governor,” the moderator says. “You have one minute for your opening statement.”

The Governor smiles broadly, thanks the moderator, and locks his eyes on the lens of the camera next to Kelly and Rushing.

“I certainly want to begin by thanking the good people here at KLRU television and the University of Texas for their hospitality. I also want to thank the man sitting next to me for his interest in my job,” the Governor laughs and draws a muted approval from the audience. Buell plays along and smiles.

“The poor man ain’t qualified,” the Governor shakes his head. There’s a surprised murmur from the audience; Buell retains the fake smile. “I’m sorry. It’s true.”

Buell’s smile disappears when he realizes the Governor is foregoing platitudes for a brutal hammering right out of the gate. He obviously wasn’t expecting it. A camera swings into position to capture his reaction on a split screen.

“He’s a wealthy man,” the Governor says. “He is. He’s a successful executive who got filthy stinking rich in the oil fields without ever getting his hands dirty. He might not know petcoke from tar sands if you put them in front of him, but he played the oil game and won.

“Then what does he do?” The Governor shifts away from Buell and points at him. “What does this filthy, stinking rich oil baron do next? He abandons the oil game for the environmentalist wackos who are trying to destroy the energy industry. His company, Naner-whatever-it-is, wants to do away with carbon-based fuel.”

It’s Buell who’s taking notes now. He’s not looking at the Governor. With every word my boss utters, I swear Buell’s pen digs deeper into the paper.

“You have here a man who refuses to dance with the one that brung him. You have a man who wants to undo the very fabric of this great state. What are we without energy?” The Governor slaps his palm on the table, startling Buell and the journalists. He laughs.

“He wants to ‘harness the capital within you’? Right! He’ll harness it only if it’s carbon free, renewable, and pledges allegiance to global-warming, environmentalist wackos.”

Kelly’s smirking. The camera to his right slides into its new position. Kelly shifts his stance next to the camera so as not to get run over by the robot.

Rushing isn’t there anymore. There’s a different ranger standing there. He’s taller than Rushing with short hair, looks military. I don’t recognize him, but something about him seems uncomfortably familiar.

My phone buzzes. A third call from George. I don’t answer it.

I’m at the back edge of the studio, so I easily work my way closer to Kelly and that ranger. As I get closer, maybe thirty feet away, I notice the ranger’s jaw is bruised, and he has a gash on the back of his nearly shaved head.

From twenty feet I can tell he’s not a ranger. There’s no earpiece. Then I see it.

On his hand.

Semper
Fi
.

***

I’m fifteen feet from Crockett, in the darkened rear of the studio. He doesn’t see me. He’s too focused on his target.

My phone buzzes again. This time George leaves a text:

Jackson
.
It’s
urgent
.
Charlie
was
playing
two
sides
.

I take the bait and reply.

What
do
u
mean
2
sides
?

I look back toward Crockett. He’s biding his time.

i
listened
to
tape
when
she
died
.
was
able
to
understand
her
last
words
.

I text back:
So
?

An immediate response:
she
said
she
quit
buell
.
he
wanted
you
dead
.
she
was
working
for
governor
.

I text:
r
u
sure
?

George responds:
yes
.
exact
words
: “
i
quit
buell
.
he
wanted
to
kill
you
.
i
flipped
to
your
boss
.
be
careful
.
trust
.”
exact
words
.

I think back to the series of unsent messages in her email. There were a bunch of them sent under a coded name, the last of which she never acknowledged.

Buell was looking for her.

There was another series sent after I’d ditched her on my way to the airport under the mission
Wilted
Rose
.

She was no longer
Yellow
Rose
. She’d flipped. She was working for the Governor at the end. George was right.

If that was the case, if she’d flipped and Crockett was working with her, it was the Governor who wanted Ripley dead. It was the Governor and Sir Spencer who tipped her off to our whereabouts in West Texas.

It means the Governor isn’t Crockett’s target.

It’s Buell.

Thx
. I send a final text to George and slip the phone back into my pocket.

If the target is Buell, and he wanted me dead, why do I care if Crockett kills him? It’s a fair question. In good conscience, I can’t let it happen. I’ve got to stop it.

I look back toward the spot where I’d spent the first part of the debate. My backpack is on the floor, against the wall. There is nothing in there that can help me.

Back to Crockett. He’s not moving.

What
happened
to
Rushing
?

There’s not much time. Crockett could go off at any time. I slip back to grab my backpack and out a side door at the rear of the studio.

Buell’s voice is echoing down the empty hallway through the speakers in the ceiling.

“This state needs a lot more than the promise of a better future. We need to undertake the sacrifices that will make it happen. The Governor likes to talk. He doesn’t act.”

The hallway leads back toward the lobby. From there, another hallway leads to the Governor’s green room. I walk quickly toward the end of the hall and push open the door with my shoulder. Rushing is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room staring straight at me. He has two bullet holes in his chest. I rush over to him, knowing there’s no point.

“Rushing?” I touch his shoulder. He’s limp. I open his jacket and find his shoulder holster empty.

Think
,
Jackson
.
Think
!

I’m distracted by the belief that I’m staring at a dead ringer for Tim Roth when it hits me.

In Quentin Tarantino’s movie
Reservoir
Dogs
, Tim Roth’s character Mr. Orange is an undercover cop. He carries two weapons, a revolver in his pocket and a Beretta 950 .25 Jetfire in an ankle holster.

I check Rushing’s ankle.
Bingo
! He’s holstered a Glock 36 with six rounds in stack magazine. I start to tuck it in the front of my jeans when three blasts explode above my head. I shrink to the floor and look up. It’s the ceiling speaker.

Gunshots
!

I’m too late.

There are screams from inside the studio before I rush back down the hall. The ceiling speakers amplify the cries, creating a cocoon of audible pain around me.

Before I pull open the studio doors, they explode outward, the patrician crowd climbing over itself to get out of the line of fire. I push my way inside, the Glock 36 comfortable in my hands. The automatic safety is off.

The crowd parts in time for me to see Don Carlos Buell’s head snap back and recoil forward. Crockett is maybe five feet from him. The Governor is sitting with his hands up, surrendering to the man he hired.

Crockett steps to the Governor, points the gun straight at his head and says something I can’t hear through the chaos. The Governor squeezes his eyes shut and clasps his hands above his head, pleading. This was not part of his plan.

Without thinking I yell across the studio, “Crockett! Crockett!” I level the Glock, and load the chamber in one seamless move.

The Governor opens his eyes and looks toward me, a look of fear and confusion on his pale face. Crockett, his weapon still pressed against the Governor’s forehead, turns and the bullet rips into his chest, below his neck.

The force of the .45 caliber bullet spins him to the left, opening him up and widening my target. I take two steps toward him, the Glock still level and squeeze the trigger again.

The second bullet finds the center of his chest. A third tattoos him right beneath his left eye and he falls back onto the table. His limp body slides onto the floor in a heap.

The Governor is frozen, his hands still above his head. He’s whimpering. The two journalists and the moderator are hiding under the table. I take another step toward them and there’s a fourth gunshot. Next to my backpack strap, the slam of a baseball bat powers into my back, followed immediately by a hot, searing pain in my right shoulder. My arm goes numb and I drop the Glock.

“Drop your weapon!” somebody shouts from behind me.

To my right there’s a ranger with his weapon aimed at me. With my left hand I reach to grab my right shoulder.

“Do what he says!” says the ranger. “Drop your weapon! Get your hands up!”

They
think
I
shot
Buell
?

“I dropped my gun!” I yell. “I can’t raise my right arm.”

“You hit him,” says the ranger I can see. He’s moving toward me carefully, barking at what must be another ranger behind me. “He’s hit.”

I’ve been shot, I discover. That’s what’s wrong with my arm.

“Governor!” I yell as I drop to the floor, hitting my bad knee. “Tell them who I am. Tell them who I am!”

I roll onto my back and try to keep focus. The pain is intense. It burns like an iron is pressed against my shoulder.

“He’s okay,” the Governor says as the fog rolls over me. “He’s okay. He saved my life.”

Somebody calls for a paramedic. Someone else talks about casualties, about the shooter, Buell, and two rangers being down. A police officer is hurt too. The thickening fog of pain and exhaustion takes over and I black out.

For the second time in a week I wake up in a hospital bed. The television hanging from the ceiling is tuned to cable news. I sense someone sitting next to my bed, and hear them slurping a drink.

“H-hello?” My throat is dry. I swallow against what feels like sandpaper.

The figure next to me turns his attention from the television. My eyes have trouble adjusting to the bright fluorescent light, but even through the slits of my eyes I can tell it’s the Governor when he speaks.

“Howdy Jackson!” he drawls. “You sure took one for the team. I owe you, you know.”

There’s a dull throbbing in my right shoulder, my head hurts, my bad knee aches, and there’s an intravenous line leading into my wrist from a bag hanging next to the bed.

“You’re a lot more than I bargained for, son,” he says. “I mean, wow, right? I was sure that nut was gonna kill me.” He stops to take a slurp from a Starbucks cup.

“You knew him,” I say accusingly. The rasp in my voice makes the words sound foreign.

“I knew who?” The Governor tilts his head and arches his eyebrows. He sets the cup on the small table next to the bed.

“The shooter.” I clear my throat. “His name was Crockett. You knew him.”