Captive-in-Chief (5 page)

President Caldwell looked out across the White House lawn from his private lounge. Blue and red lights streaked though the night sky. The wail of the sirens cut through the reinforced glass that would protect him from just about any conceivable handheld weapon. As expected, the country had reacted to the day’s senseless killings. Protestors had filled the streets, peacefully at first. Then the news had broken.

Three young black men had been executed by a policeman. Not only were they unarmed, they were in handcuffs. The grainy footage had been released at 9.00 p.m. The officer clearly had the men under his control, walking them into an alleyway where he made them kneel, executing them one by one without even a pause, placing his pistol to their foreheads and pulling the trigger.

It had all been verified, except for the identity of the officer, who was unrecognizable in the footage. Whether it was a legitimate officer or a white supremacist in disguise didn’t matter. To the country, and especially the black minority, it was merely another example of a racist cop being protected by the establishment. The location certainly didn’t help in the least: Ferguson, Missouri, the scene of many fierce protests in the previous few years. The peaceful protests erupted into violence.

Clay reread the message on his cell, his latest instructions from his captors, tormentors, controllers…he didn’t know what to call them. Initially he had no idea what it was about. It highlighted a transaction in the New Black Panthers accounts from the year 2000. An innocuous looking transaction that, upon investigation, linked the group to a donation to Al Qaeda prior to 9/11. However, it told Clay far more than that, it told him that it was the group controlling him that without a doubt had killed the FBI director and subsequently the mayor of Atlanta.

He was also fully aware of the implication of affiliating the New Black Panthers with Al Qaeda and the impact it would have on them with regard to the National Defense Authorization Act. An act which he had recently signed once again into force for another year. It’s most controversial points remained in place despite continued concerns for the rights of American citizens.

At the sound of footsteps behind him he turned, closing his cell and placing it in his pocket out of sight.

“Come on, honey, time for bed,” his wife encouraged.

He kissed her on the forehead, looking out across a chaotic cityscape. “I really can’t, not with everything that’s going on out there.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it tonight,” she said, rubbing his back tenderly.

“I know but…I’ll be through shortly.” He wanted to scream that it was all planned, someone was pulling strings, including his, to make it all happen. However, he couldn’t. He looked back out across the flashing nightscape.

Val knew him well enough and departed quietly.

What the hell was happening? What the hell did they want? They were plunging his country into chaos. People’s lives were being put at risk for what? Because he wouldn’t stand up to whoever it was that thought they could control him? American lives would be lost in the riots, and every one of those lives, just like his Chief of Staff, lead Secret Service Agent, and the FBI director, would be on his conscience.

“Mr. President?” Mike, his Secret Service Lead Agent interrupted his thoughts.

“Mike?”

“Just dropped in to say good night, Sir.”

Clay looked at his watch. “What on Earth are you still doing here?”

“There’s a lot to catch up on.”

“Yes,” said Clay quietly, understanding, Mike’s predecessor had fallen afoul of Clay’s controllers when Clay told him about the messages.

“Anyway, I also wanted to let you know that we have increased security given the unrest, and to give you this that was dropped off earlier.” Mike handed over an envelope and with a nod was gone.

Clay waited until he heard Mike’s shoes on the marble steps at the end of the hallway before tearing open the envelope. A photo of his daughter Clara was the first item to come out. Clay looked at his beautiful daughter, a daughter he had never been able to spend real time with. She was tied to a chair, fear etched across her face. A second photo fell to the floor. His younger daughter Tess, the picture taken through the scope of a rifle, literally painting crosshairs on his beloved daughter’s face. Clay’s breath caught and he staggered back and fell into a chair, gasping for oxygen. He checked the envelope for photos of his son, Jack, there were none. Apparently the threats to his daughters were sufficient for his aggressors.

After a few seconds he regained his composure and placed the photos back in the envelope. He had no doubt his beautiful daughters would be killed if he exposed the situation. Even if he did, it wasn’t going to help with what was happening on the streets. The links to his situation were tenuous at best, although he was absolutely convinced they were all inextricably linked. Proving that, however, was an entirely different thing. And proving it in a way that the people would stop rioting would require a whole different level of proof. Coming clean and exposing his situation would not only sign his family’s death warrant, but it wouldn’t stop what was happening. There was nothing to stop him doing all within his power to quell the riots, stop them getting out of control, stop any innocents from being killed. He had time, and Joe was coming to help him.

Joe was coming to help him.

Joe looked down the length of the bus as it drew to a stop. The view ahead was not good. A police cruiser was blocking the road ahead and stopping all traffic.

“I’ve got a connection to make in thirty minutes!” someone shouted from the back of the bus.

“Me too!” came another shout, and then another.

Sandy barked.

The elderly woman, wakened by the shouting, looked at Joe.

He nodded, she smiled. “Told you, those dogs are cleverer than most folks!”

Joe looked at his empty bottle of bourbon longingly. He could have done with another drink. He stood, dropping the empty bottle on his seat, and walked to the front of the bus.

“How far are we from the station?”

“Not far. It’s a few blocks straight down there,” indicated the driver, pointing directly ahead beyond the police.

Joe whistled. The driver threw him a look, realizing he had been played by the dog back in Corpus Christi, as Sandy stuck to Joe’s side.

“Smart dog.”

“Very,” replied Joe. “Open the door please.”

“I can’t. I can only open the door at a certified stop. It’s for your own safety,” said the driver.

A queue was forming behind Joe when it became apparent the bus wasn’t going to be able to travel any further.

“Open the door, man!” someone shouted.

As more shouts rang out, the driver did the only thing he could; he moved the bus nearer the curb and opened the door. Joe nodded a thank-you and walked off, Sandy by his side.

“When’s your connection?” shouted the old lady to Joe as she stepped from the bus.

“Thirty minutes,” Joe replied without looking back.

“Mine’s twenty,” she said.

Sandy stopped walking and Joe looked back. The old lady was struggling with a case twice her size. Sandy looked at him and then the old lady. Other passengers looked at him, struggling with their own baggage while he had none.

He whistled. Sandy ignored him, staring instead at the old lady.

“Too smart for your own damned good…” he muttered under his breath. He walked back and took the lady’s case from her with ease.

“Come on,” he said huffily as the old lady patted a tail-wagging Sandy.

The bus turned and headed back the way it had come, leaving Joe and twenty of his fellow passengers on the sidewalk. One police cruiser and two cops were the only sign of life ahead. The streets were empty, no traffic, no pedestrians, nobody. The sound of distant sirens filled the emptiness all around them.

“Nobody gets beyond here!” said a policeman when they reached the roadblock.

“We’re going to the bus station a few blocks from here,” explained one of the passengers.

“Not this way you’re not. Nobody’s getting through here.”

“We’ve got buses to catch,” said Joe, stepping forward.

“And we’ve got a city to protect!” replied the cop, referencing himself and his colleague who remained in the cruiser while his younger colleague dealt with the nearly non-existent traffic.

“Not from us,” Joe replied, looking at the rather sorry collection of people around him.

“We’ve got enough to contend with, without worrying about your sorry asses getting mugged, robbed, or worse. It’s crazy in there,” he said, nodding towards downtown.

“We’re only going a few blocks, not downtown. And there’s not a soul there.”

“We’ve got gangs marauding all over the place, operating between here and downtown. This is for your own safety, sir.” The officer placed his hand on his pistol grip.

Joe backed up slightly.

The cop was jumpy and not in a position to be challenged too strongly.

“My connection’s in fifteen minutes!” came an angry shout from behind.

“Calm dow—” Joe was thrust forward, unable to finish his sentence as the group behind him surged forward. Caught by surprise, he was thrust into the face of the young officer, who didn’t hesitate to jump back and draw his weapon.

“Get back now!” he screamed.

The other passengers rushed backwards, leaving Joe alone facing down the cop’s gun barrel.

“No need for that,” Joe said, raising his hands carefully, noting the other cop was heading their way. He was older and from the fact he hadn’t drawn his weapon, far less jumpy than his younger colleague.

“Whoa, what’re you doin’, man? The guy’s unarmed!”

The shout came from behind the roadblock. A small group had rounded the corner and witnessed the young cop with the gun in Joe’s face.

Joe counted as they approached, five in total, all wearing their t-shirts long and baggy, and their jeans somehow able to hold themselves up without the wearers’ assistance. Not a good sign. They were wearing belts and actually using them for the purpose they were intended. Only on this occasion that would probably aid their ability to stash their pistols in the waistband of their jeans. He had to assume all were armed.

“You guys keep walking,” advised the older cop when he reached his colleague’s side.

“What, so you can kill some more innocents?” said one of the group who, from the reaction of the members of his gang, was the leader.

“Lower your weapon, Sam,” said the older cop.

“What because they’re telling me to?” replied the younger cop, keeping his eyes on Joe, not recognizing the extent of the new threat.

“Because your finger’s on the trigger and you’ve got the safety off!” said Joe, looking down the barrel of the pistol.

The gang swaggered towards them.

“Put your gun down now,” whispered the older cop angrily.

Sam refused. “He came at me!” he said defiantly, staring at Joe, oblivious to what was happening around him.

“What you say we help this old dude out?” asked the gang leader as his group surrounded Joe and the cops.

“Move along guys,” the older cop urged. “I won’t ask you again.”

The gang leader pulled out his piece, it was quickly followed by his four friends doing the same. He held it gangster style, aiming it at the young cop. The older cop had drawn his weapon as well, aiming it at the gang leader.

“We ‘aint standin’ ‘round while you off another innocent!” preached the leader, gesticulating with his piece in true gangland style.

Joe stood in the middle, gun barrels all around him. He nudged Sandy with his leg, indicating for her to move away. She stayed where she was, unlike the other passengers, who had moved back even further as the situation deteriorated.

“Everyone, please remain calm,” Joe said. Whether his better senses were dulled by the bottle of bourbon or whether instinct took over, Joe wasn’t really sure. He hadn’t been in a situation like this one for many years yet it felt somehow…nostalgic. He smiled, and to those around him probably looked utterly insane.

Fight or flight?
Flight wasn’t an option. He was surrounded, although only one of the seven pistols were aimed at him. The odds were looking up. His hands were already raised, another plus. He looked directly into the eyes of the cop facing him; panic filled them. He had finally realized the situation he and his partner were in. Joe winked, the cop blinked, and Joe moved. He swept his hand down and with one fast and quick flick of his wrist, removed the young cop’s pistol and pointed it back at him.

“Whoa, old dude’s got moves!” said the gang leader, bouncing up and down with excitement.

“Dang, bro. That was some serious ninja shit!” said another gang member.

The older cop knew he had lost control. His gun swung between the gang leader and Joe. The younger cop was pleading with Joe, his eyes saying more than any words could ever convey.

“Would you guys mind if we made a move?” Joe asked the gang leader. “We’ve got buses to catch.”

“Are you kidding me!” shouted the older cop.

Joe looked around to the other passengers, only ten remained, the others having decided to get completely out of the area.

“You’re going nowhere!” commanded the older cop, aiming his pistol firmly at Joe.

The gang moved all their attention to the older cop, all five of their weapons directed at him.

“You go get your bus, man,” said the leader. “We’ll deal with these dudes. Two less killer cops will do everybody some good.”

The gang leader stepped over to the younger cop and placed his gun on his temple addressing the older cop. “Put the gun down, or your partner here won’t be your partner no more.”

The older cop lowered his weapon although refused to relinquish it.

“We got this,” said the gang leader ominously.

“Do me a favor, wait until we’re out of the way before you do anything?” asked Joe, nodding towards his fellow passengers.

“We’ve got some teaching to do before we do anything like that. Don’t worry, these bitches won’t be bothering you no more.”

Joe waved for the remaining passengers to start walking, and they did so nervously, giving the gang and the police officers a wide berth. The elderly lady looked down at her case.

“I’ll be right behind you,” said Joe. “I’m going to help these young gentlemen. Go ahead, quickly,” he urged, “you’re gonna miss your buses.”

Joe stepped across to the older cop as the passengers scurried away, reaching out to take his pistol from him. The older cop pulled his hand away. Joe looked at him.

“Give it up,” he said.

“They’re going to kill us!” the cop pleaded.

Joe shrugged. The gang leader laughed along with the rest of the gang.

Joe spun round and punched the gang leader full force in the mouth. All had relaxed their stance, assuming Joe was on their side and the cops were disarmed. Hands began to rise, their pistols moving towards Joe. Sandy launched herself at one gang member, her teeth digging deep into his gun hand while Joe spun and dealt with another. A crushing roundhouse caught him on the chin and sent him crashing onto the sidewalk. The older cop, on a wink from Joe, brought his weapon up to bear.

“Put the guns down!” He leveled his weapon at the two remaining gang members before they had a chance to aim their pistols. With their leader on the ground missing numerous teeth and another two writhing in agony, they did as commanded.

Joe tossed the younger cop his pistol, picked up the elderly lady’s suitcase, whistled for Sandy, and walked after the group of passengers.

“Hey!” shouted the younger cop.

“Don’t mention it,” said Joe with a wave, not bothering to look back. He had a bus to catch.