Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (41 page)

The phone in Jones’s office wouldn’t stop ringing. Ever since the speech Smith made after his trial, the media wanted a comment on whether Jones would accept the debate. After the first hour, he just told his secretary not to disturb him for the rest of the afternoon. He even had lunch delivered so he wouldn’t have to face the hordes of reporters waiting for him on the steps of his office building.

Jones gave a smug smile, cutting into the grilled fish filet. He knew Smith was just baiting him, trying to lure him out, but Jones was patient. The media frenzy would peter out. He just had to keep himself busy with other matters, which, in the current climate, weren’t hard to find.

A knock on the door broke Jones’s faint concentration on his lunch, and Cindy poked her head inside the office, breaking the seal of quiet from the noisy anteroom where her desk sat.

“Cindy, I told you I did not want to be disturbed,” Smith said.

“I’m sorry, Congressman, but there’s a man here who has been incredibly insistent to see you.”

“Then call security and escort him out.”

“I did, sir… They wouldn’t move him.”

The piece of filet that Jones was cutting through hung open and exposed as steam escaped. Jones set the fork down. “Send him in.”

Cindy nodded, and a few moments later, a man, completely bald and wearing a fine tailored suit, stepped inside. He wore no flag pin on his lapel, but Jones already knew he wasn’t a politician. There was only one reason security hadn’t escorted him out when Cindy called them. This man was from Strydent.

“We need an update,” the man said.

“You need to leave. Now,” Jones answered.

“My client wants progress. They’re not seeing it.”

“You have the audacity to come here? To my office! You tell your client that I will contact them when
I
am ready. Understand?”

The distance between himself and the man was what prompted the courage, but after the first few steps the unwanted guest took, Jones found the foundation of courage shrinking in proportion to his proximity.

“Do you know who I am?” Jones asked. “Did they even tell you?”

The man reached into an inside jacket pocket, and Jones flinched as he pulled out an envelope. He dropped it on Jones’s desk on top of the plate of fish.

“What is this?” Jones asked.

“A push. If my client doesn’t have an update by the end of the week, then I’ll be back. And the next time, it won’t be an envelope I give you.”

Finally, after it seemed that the fish under the envelope had gone cold, the man disappeared, closing the door behind him. The envelope felt thin. Jones tore the top open, and a plane ticket slid out. It bore a departure time of this afternoon to Mexico City.

“Christ.”

Jones tucked the ticket inside his jacket and picked up his phone. “Cindy, I need to speak with the president immediately. Don’t take no for an answer.”

Before Cindy could respond, he hung up. He fell back into his chair and looked at the half-covered salmon on his plate. The knife still rested in the fillet, splitting it in half. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, staring at his uneaten lunch.

The flight was in three hours. Jones knew that he wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything without the president’s support now. The country was screaming for justice for the attacks by Mexico, and the president had inked the declaration of war to appease its appetite.

Jones caught his knee bouncing nervously. He chewed the nail on the end of his thumb. If he were to make the flight by four, then he would have to meet with the president within the hour.

He reached for the receiver hastily and dialed Cindy again. “Cindy… Well, keep trying. I know he’s in town this week for the war meetings…. Good, well, keep me updated. And I also need to speak with Congressman Hunter. Get him on the line for me immediately, but if the president’s office calls back, that takes priority.”

His thumbnail found his teeth once more. A few moments later, the phone rang, and the haggard voice of Congressman Hunter sounded on the other end of the line.

“What is it?” Daniel asked.

“I need you to come with me to Mexico this afternoon. Our flight leaves at four p.m. Be ready. I’ll have a car come and pick you up.”

“I told you we’re done.”

“Listen to me, you sniveling hypocrite. You will be on that plane!”

Jones slammed the receiver back onto its cradle. The ruckus made Cindy peek inside. “Sir?”

“Don’t bother me unless it’s about the president!” Jones said.

Cindy sheepishly closed the door. Jones picked up the plate of fish and flung it across the room, where it splattered on his bookcase. All Jones wanted to do at that moment was rip everything apart. But then he closed his eyes. He drew in three deep, heavy breaths. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart. There was

still a chance. He wasn’t done yet. The phone on his desk rang. “Yes?”

“Sir, the president can meet with you in one hour.”

Jones said nothing. He hung up the phone and walked to the office door but stopped with his hand around the doorknob. The press was still waiting for him outside, and there was no way he could get past the media without any comment.

When he showed his face on the other side of his office door, all of the interns grew quiet. He buttoned the jacket of his suit and brushed past them without a word.

The rush of reporters that swarmed him the moment he stepped out of the building stopped him dead in his tracks. They weren’t going to let him pass without something.

“Congressman! What are you going to do about the debate?”

“Do you have any comment?”

“There has been strong speculation about your relationship with Strydent Chemical. What do you have to say about that?”

Jones raised his hands. “Please, ladies and gentlemen. The comments made by Congressman Smith are nothing more than wounded lashes from someone trying to salvage his career. However, the notion that any of my actions have not been in the best interest of the country are outrageous, and I would happily defend them in any platform that Congressman Smith would like.”

Another explosion of questions bombarded him, but Jones’s comment was enough to grant him passage through the blockade of bodies. He ignored the microphones and cameras jammed in his face and headed straight for his car, which his driver had ready on the side of the road.

Jones knew that the airwaves and social media outlets were going wild with his comments. He just hoped that the president would see them before Jones made it to the White House to meet him. It could buy him some credibility—and some leverage to try and pull the president out of the war.

***

The dark circles under the president’s eyes were a product of his sleepless week. Jones could feel his weariness. The president sat behind the desk with a slight hunch.

“They made the first move, Jones,” the president said.

“I understand, sir. And no one doubts your retaliation.”

“They left me no choice.”

Jones noticed the president seemed to be talking to himself more than to anyone else. If the president was this war weary, then now was the time to strike.

“Sir, perhaps I could help,” Jones said.

The president’s eyes found him on the couch. He was broken, a wounded animal looking for an escape. The president might as well just have broken down and begged on his hands and knees right then and there.

“Let me go to Mexico. Before all of this happened, I had been in talks with General Gallo for the purposes of establishing an alliance,” Jones said.

“Well, it didn’t work.” The words were harsh. The president’s face twisted in anger and doubt.

“I know, Mr. President. However, both we and the Mexican government know that this war isn’t one either side can afford. Let me finish what I started.”

“And what if the outcome isn’t desirable?”

“Then the blame is on me, Mr. President. I will take full responsibility for what happened. You’ll have your scapegoat if I fail.”

It was all on the line now. This was the only way Jones could convince the president to back his visit. And if he had the power of the Oval Office behind him for his talk with Gallo, it could shift the weight of negotiations back in his favor.

“It’s on you, Jones. Everything.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“I’ll phone the Mexican president that you’ll be there this evening.”

Jones said nothing else. He was hanging on by a thread. There wasn’t any room for error now. Everything was riding on this trip. The execution had to be flawless. Mistakes wouldn’t just mean the end of his career, they meant the end of his life.

***

Daniel slammed the empty liquor bottle down next to its peers and almost slid out of the airline chair. Jones kept yelling something at him, but he just ignored him. If Jones wanted him here, then there wasn’t any way he was going sober.

“Don’t let him have any more,” Jones said, motioning to one of his security detail.

“I don’t think you have the majority vote for that proposition, Congressman,” Daniel replied.

“And get him some coffee.”

The guard cleared off Daniel’s tray, and when he went to remove the rest of the unopened bottles, Daniel grabbed the guard’s wrist.

“Don’t. Touch. It,” Daniel said.

His teeth were gritted, the liquid courage the four tiny bottles of whiskey had given him on prime display. The security guard looked over to Jones, who shook his head. Daniel felt the guard pull back his arm slightly, and he released him.

“Run along now, little doggy,” Daniel said.

“It’s easy to act brave when you don’t have the coherence to zip up your fly,” Jones said.

Daniel twisted the cap off another one of the whiskeys but paused before putting it to his lips. The smell was starting to get to him. He’d never been much of a drinker, but the past few days had caused him to swim in it.

“What the hell happened to you?” Jones asked.

“What? Don’t like your handiwork?”

“I didn’t do this to you, Daniel. You did.”

Daniel snatched the rest of the whiskey bottles and moved to the back of the plane, away from Jones. He didn’t have to sit there and listen to Jones, of all people, berate him about morals. Who was he to judge? Jones had done more backstabbing vile actions in one year than Daniel had done in his entire life. And if drinking was what Daniel needed to do in order to get past all the shit pilling up around him, then so be it.

But when Daniel twisted off the cap to the next bottle of whiskey he was about to down, it stopped abruptly a few inches before reaching his lips. The sharp, oaky smell flew into his nostrils, beckoning him to drink it, but he couldn’t. Not now. Because for some reason, his son popped into his mind, and in his liquor-soaked state, he couldn’t remember the boy’s birthday.

He squinted his eyes shut, trying hard to sort through the corrupted files of data still stored in his mind. He knew it was in May, but he couldn’t remember the date. It was toward the end of the month.
The twenty-fifth? No, that wasn’t it. What was it? What was it? What was it?

The tiny whiskey bottle wobbled in his hand. Some of the brown liquid spilled over on to his pant leg, but Daniel didn’t notice. All he could feel was the swelling of tears in his eyes and the lump growing in his throat. He dropped the bottle, and it spilled onto the carpet.

All of the things he’d done were for his family. That’s what he had told himself during every decision he made. But for the past few weeks, his family had been the scapegoat for his cowardice, not the foundation of courage. And now he was drinking away the memories of the same family he’d vowed to protect, to keep safe.

Daniel clutched his arms around his body, hugging himself as the waves of sobs left him. He didn’t bother keeping them quiet. He didn’t care if Jones heard him. He didn’t care what the security detail would think. It didn’t matter that he would have puffy eyes when standing face to face with the Mexican president and his vicious dog of a general. He couldn’t remember his own son’s birthday.