No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) (10 page)

Aspect didn’t waste any time seeking comment. He was the Chicken Little of the talk show world, and people loved it. There was no need to explain his views. His genre was sensational fright inducement, and he knew it. Glen Aspect was a real-life horror ghoul dressed in an immaculate pin-stripe suit.

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CHAPTER 27

B

ob, Phil, and Jerry sat in their usual Thursday night “meeting.” At least that’s what they called it, but it was more of a structured excuse to get away from the wife and kids for awhile, drink beer, and eat chicken wings. They had been doing

the same thing for so long that it had become a habit. Jerry never let a Thursday pass without reminding his fellow members that he held the record for consecutive meetings, which made Bob and Phil eternally regret that they chose the birth of their children over the meeting. Most of all, they regretted that Jerry would do anything to maintain his string of attendance, and they would never be able to steal that badge of pride, no matter what. Jerry could be on life support, and he would still find a way to be there.

Jerry took the opportunity to start the meeting by waving a drumstick covered with Blazing Volcano sauce so hot that it had been rumored to eat the flesh off of unsuspecting hot sauce rookies. He announced, “Let the meeting begin!” and they turned toward the big screen situated at the end of the bar. Their focus was the political news of the day, and they had long since programmed themselves to filter out the information they deemed not worthy of discussion. This Thursday, they chose to focus on reports of the new president, Max Masterson, and his vice-president, Scarlett, who they had privately confessed to each other that they would screw in a heartbeat if their wives wouldn’t find out. They then took a male oath of secrecy by saying in unison, “If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll personally kick your ass.” They each took a prolonged gulp of beer and bit into a wing before reviewing the clips of the day.

“They all make shit up, and they put their slant on whatever you say. The more words you speak, the more they have to twist and misconstrue, and in the end, they can have you spouting nonsense,” announced Jerry as they watched a report from the Bull Network’s Glenda Reasoner that dealt with the new administration’s lack of party loyalty.

“You can say that again,” Bill replied as the televised commentary shifted to talk show hosts Willie Somovich and Glen Aspect, two hosts they loved to hate. “Did you see what they said about our boy Max the other night? That shit about him just sitting up in the Oval Office and not caring about us common folk? If you ask me—”

Jerry cut off Bill before he launched into one of his weekly diatribes.
“He isn’t even in the White House yet. Glenda says that he’s down at the oil spill getting his hands dirty—”
“Would you guys shut the fuck up? I want to see the Special Report.”
Phil resented the fact that he was always the last to speak. By the time they got around to him, he usually had nothing to say, but on this occasion, he was ready. The three turned from their bickering and watched as the president-elect of the United States fell into what looked like floating turds, not once but twice, and came up covered in brown gook. As they watched in rapt amazement, Max approached the camera and flung the slimy mess at the laughing press corps.
“Oh Lord, we’re in for an interesting four years,” said Phil. “What do you mean? I’m going for eight,” replied Jerry.
“Well, if you guys want him in for eight, then I’ll go for twelve,” announced Bob.
Jerry and Phil just shook their heads as Bob, convinced that he had finally one-upped his old buddies, drained the last of his draft with a satisfied gulp.

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CHAPTER 28

T

he Trump Plaza in Jersey City is the jewel of high rise residences in the greater New York metropolitan area. At 55 stories tall, it is the tallest residential building in New Jersey, commanding an unrestricted view of the Statue of Liberty, the

Hudson River, and all of Manhattan. The penthouse condo of the building had been sold back in Trump’s heyday to meet his financial obligations on other projects, purchased by a corporation named PGM, Inc., which existed only to purchase properties in tall buildings in major cities along the eastern seaboard and west coast of the United States. Nobody knew what the initials stood for, and they didn’t care. All transactions, for all ten of the luxurious penthouse residences that PGM had purchased to date, were made by remote wire transfer, and all ten sales were closed without the presence of a single human being. None of the residences were occupied, and their opulent furnishings were only for show.

In the weeks leading up to the inauguration, there was a flurry of activity in each of the units, as men disguised as movers brought large, innocuous looking boxes into the buildings. They had the proper credentials to present upon request, and their activities were never questioned by the management. The movers had the keycards necessary to enter the building, and another key card gave them access to the penthouse floors, which were inaccessible by anyone not possessing the electronic key. The total time that the units were occupied was approximately two hours, during which the workers installed ice-making machines and carefully connected them to the power supply. Inside each icemaker was a carefully engineered device of mass destruction: a tritium-enhanced, super EMP bomb.

It wasn’t a bomb in the conventional way. An Electromagnetic Pulse device did not produce a structure and people-destroying explosion. The EMP bomb was designed to emit gamma rays in a concentrated discharge. The effect of it’s detonation was to save those people and buildings, but take away all of the pillars of living in a technological society. Gamma rays emitted from the sun have disrupted electronics and communications on earth. The EMP produced gamma rays in a much shorter burst. At levels much higher than the indiscriminate gamma radiation produced by solar flares, the device was capable of crashing the grid and plunging a city into darkness in less than a minute, and paralyzing all modern transportation. If used in the intended way, the bomb could be pointed in the direction of a target city, sparing civilization outside of the target area.

In his briefing with Adam Pryor weeks prior to the incident, Darkhorse was given the details of his mission. “You know why we own those high-rises?” Pryor now inquired.

“No sir, I don’t care. After this is over, I’ll disappear like I always do, and you can do whatever you do, and we can all part ways. I just do my job. You pay me. It’s as simple as that.”

Darkhorse had spent a lifetime guarding his identity from everyone. He had never maintained a lasting relationship, not even a casual friendship. He liked it that way.
If they don’t know you, they can’t get to you
, he thought, and that more than anything guaranteed his continued existence.

He didn’t trust Pryor to leave him alone and alive after it was over, and he had carefully devised his exit strategy. He would be gone before the bombs were detonated, and he would be in a place where nobody would look, even if they knew he was involved. His only contact was Pryor himself, and this power whore would never give him up.

Pryor was proud of his plan, and despite his assassin’s aloof response, he outlined the details. “I am going to run Masterson out of office and regain control. I don’t want to kill a lot of people to do it, but there will be collateral damage. Survival of the fittest. You understand that, don’t you?” He turned his back to pour himself a drink but continued to watch Darkhorse in the mirror above the bar. Pryor continued to speak as he watched his hired gun shift uneasily and scan the room for available exits. There was something about this conversation that was becoming very creepy, and he wasn’t about to remain any longer than necessary.

“You do understand,” Pryor continued. “I know you do. The people who maintain my lifestyle are counting on you to understand. I managed to get my hands on eleven weapons that this country has never seen before. Homeland Security intercepted them a few years ago in a container load down at the docks of the international seaport at Port Everglades. They were shipped from the Ukraine by way of Germany. Terrorists bought them up when the Soviet Union collapsed. I hear they paid for them with crappy cars and kitchen appliances.” He laughed as Darkhorse stared.

“It turns out that the Soviets had improvised an EMP bomb that doesn’t nuke a city like conventional nukes. They modified them to take out all of the electronics and shut down the grid. They have some kind of cone inside that lets us direct gamma radiation in any way we want, and I’m about to take out all of the electronics and shut down the power anywhere inside the blast area. Hell, if I could find out how to get one of these babies up six miles, I could take out the whole country. But I don’t want to do that.”

Darkhorse stood up to leave.
“No, don’t go. I haven’t got to the good part yet.” Pryor moved toward Darkhorse, intending to grab his arm. When he saw the menacing look that his advance had provoked, he backed off and continued talking. “Do you know what will happen when these things go off? I’m not talking big mushroom clouds and destruction here. I am just going to take all of society away for awhile.”
Darkhorse became curious long enough to delay his departure. “What do you mean by that?”
Pryor giggled with glee, and Darkhorse realized that this megalomaniac’s sole purpose in life was mayhem of unprecedented proportions. He hadn’t signed on to become one of the world’s most reviled mass exterminators, but it was too late to back away from the plan.
“I am going to shut down the grid. I am going to fry all of their electronics. Everything they take for granted will cease to exist. No cell phones. No satellites in geostationary orbit to transmit signals of any kind. No TV. No heat. No refrigeration except Mother Nature. No transportation. You won’t be able to take a cab or ride the subway. A city of twenty-five million people all hoofing it around, looking for a bicycle or a horse. After they eat up all of the food, they will be looking for their next meal. They don’t store more than a few days of food in Manhattan, and the hoarders and panicky city-dwellers will panic
en masse.” Pryor took a long sip of scotch, cleared his throat, and glared at his newly attentive audience.
“
All of them. There will be chaos.”
Darkhorse was silent, running the resulting chain reaction of events through his head.
New York would die in the darkness, and the mass exodus would begin.

“To test my little project, I have a little surprise in store for our new president,” Pryor concluded.
“Can I go now?” Darkhorse was raring to get out of the room.
“Yes. I’m sending you to Washington to deliver a package for me, and I don’t want you to be late,” he replied.
“Listen, Pryor, as long as you pay me in full and on time, I don’t care about your mystery and your grand plans. Personally, I don’t understand why you don’t just take him out.” Darkhorse brought his grimacing face within inches of Pryor. The intrusion into his space was enough to cause the madman to take two steps backward before responding.
“That didn’t work very well for you during the campaign, and now you expect to assassinate the most protected person in the world. Were you planning on using a slingshot this time? Maybe you’ll hide up on some grassy knoll and shoot at him this time? Pryor was becoming more abusive as he drank, but he was far from losing control. Now that he’s in office, surely you realize that I don’t want to make a martyr out of Max Masterson…” He spat the name in disgust. “He is the symbol of the future that those idiots, the voters. attached their dreams to. If I eliminate Masterson, his legacy will live on. Can’t have that…not that…”
Darkhorse wanted to respond, but chose to bite his tongue and wait out the tirade as he had done in the past. It was a survival technique.
“Just watch what happens when I detonate this package on Inauguration Day, and our new president gets whisked away for his own protection. Just see the American people turn on him. You’ll see. You’ll…see.” He drew out the words for emphasis.
Pryor’s blood pressure was rising, his face flushed and perspiration formed on his forehead and cheeks. He had no intention of revealing all of the details of the plan to anyone, especially the one person who could implicate him in years of mayhem directed at his enemies. He would have his revenge, and it would be in a humiliation more public than a mere assassination. He sought to extinguish the hope for the future that Max had created, and in doing so, he would preserve the status quo.

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CHAPTER 29

M

y boy,” began Luke Postlewaite, Max’s long-time mentor, “I used to be a hippie back in the ‘60’s, and I had long hair for awhile until I tried to find a job. Then I realized that all of those firebrand radicals were mostly unemployed, and I

had to cut it. Now, I don’t have anything to prove to anybody, so I try to grow it long. All I can grow now is a silver ponytail that looks like it came off roadkill.”

Luke had come to Fairlane to congratulate Max on his spectacular win, but he had a more important purpose for his visit. The Masterson estate had been built to the exacting specifications of Max’s father, and there was a long-hidden secret in the basement that Max would find extremely valuable in his new job. But for now, Luke chose to warm his stockinged feet on the hearth of the massive stone fireplace and tell stories while sipping his favorite brandy. The senator had wisely stocked the wine cellar with kegs of Napoleon brandy, thinking wisely that supplying his old friend with his favorite vice would bring him to visit more often. It was more than Postlewaite could consume in a lifetime.

Postlewaite was rapidly becoming inebriated. His tolerance for alcohol had declined with age, and what used to happen only after three snifters could now be accomplished with one. He swirled the amber liquid and downed the last of it, then he brought his story to a close. “Max, back in those days, we didn’t drink much. Smoked a lot of pot back in those days. The trouble with that was that it made me horny.” He smiled at the memories that came back to him after more than half a century, dredged from a place in his mind that was timeless. He was twenty again, if only for a moment, reminiscing about the freedom of youth in the late 1960’s. “Come to think of it, everything made me horny.”