Running With The Horde (Book 2): Delusions of Monsters (2 page)

The Past

One mistake
.
One stupid, petty, trashy mistake was going to ruin everything he’d spent his life building. He stared into those familiar eyes with contempt. They were bloodshot with just a hint of yellow around the edges, dulling the usually brilliant green irises. The smoky grime on the mirror of the seedy motel bathroom added just the right touch of dereliction to complete the depressing picture. He looked like a strung-out vampire. But in his defense, it had been a long night.

How did they get those pictures? How could the pictures even exist
?
But they did exist, that was the plain ugly truth of it. He had a choice to make. Give up everything and possibly go to prison or go with the flow and give these people whatever they wanted. His cell phone chirped from the nightstand in the other room. He knew it wasn’t his wife; she couldn’t be bothered to care when it came to his whereabouts. Most likely it was his assistant calling for the twentieth time since he had gone off the grid the night before. An occurrence so utterly unlike him she probably thought he was dead. He resisted the urge to punch the mirror and went to retrieve his phone. If he didn’t check in soon she would send the Secret Service after him and he couldn’t have that.

One mistake
.
It was becoming evident all of those conspiracy kooks weren’t so crazy after all. He had never put much stock in such things before but after last night he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. The existence of a shadowy group with seemingly limitless power that could make him, and anyone else, dance like marionette dolls seemed laughable. But he had proof they were real. They knew things about him. They had contrived things about him. He had worked hard not to have any dirty secrets for people to leverage. Or so he had thought. He threw on his jacket and left the motel room slamming the door behind him in disgust.

Shit, maybe it’s time for a tinfoil hat and a spot on 7
th
and Wilshire with the rest of the loons
.
His head was pounding as he waited in the rain for the taxi to collect him from a street corner in a particularly nasty part of town. He must have been really drunk to think this was the best place to hide for the night, drowning his sorrows with convenience store bourbon. He pulled up his collar to hide his face from the occasional passerby not wanting to be recognized.

Were they watching him even now
?
His furtive glances into the dark alcoves of nearby buildings revealed nothing but still he jumped at every sound. When at last the cab pulled up he was drenched and miserable as he hurried into the backseat. The long slow ride from the eastern part of the city to his luxury apartment on the west side was spent reliving the events from the night before.

Yesterday, like every day before it, had been ridiculously busy. Generally work spilled over into the nighttime hours but last night was a rare exception. Somehow, a small miracle occurred and his schedule was clear of all engagements. Neither he nor his assistant, Harrie remembered planning an open evening but he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Harrie, two staffers, his driver and the intern were all given the night off along with his security detail.

After he heard the last people depart from his general vicinity of the building, he gleefully dimmed the lights of his office, loosened his tie and poured himself a glass of 40 year old scotch he kept stashed in his desk drawer. He moved to the window and spent a few moments lost in the view of Capitol Hill and dreaming of glories yet to come when he was startled by a knock on his door.

              Stifling a curse, he told the knocker to come on in assuming it was some brownnosing staffer trying to make a name for himself by cramming in as many hours as possible. Instead he was surprised to find it was a courier entering his office.

A courier wearing a very elegant uniform like something from the 1940s. The uniform bore the name of a company called Capstone Courier Service. A company he had never heard of which made him panic for a moment with visions of late night assassins from every espionage film he’d ever watched.

The courier stepped boldly into the office and towards the man’s desk as if he owned the place. The man backed up in fear until he felt the heavy glass of the window on his backside. He cringed as he anticipated the courier drawing a pistol to kill him but instead the courier merely smiled and pulled a small, crisp envelope from his vest pocket. “Begging your pardon, Senator Brown, but I have a package for you,” the man said in a soft, polite voice.

              The senator stared at the proffered envelope for a long moment before deciding to take it from the courier.

              “I bid you good evening, Senator, and again, my apologies for the intrusion,” the courier said before turning on his heels and heading back to the door.

              “Wait, how did you get past security?”

              The courier turned back with a slight smile, moonlight making the grease in his pencil-thin moustache glisten in the dim office. “I used my key to the city, gets me anywhere I want to go,” he said with a wink and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Senator Martin “Muddy” Brown was usually a pretty cool customer, a man used to being in control at all times. In spite of his relatively young age, he was a man who made things happen, not a person things happened to. The sudden appearance of a weird looking old-fashioned courier from an unknown company who appeared to have unfettered access to the nation’s capital building left the senator visibly shaken. His immediate thought was to call security but the envelope was a curiosity that couldn’t wait.

Using a letter opener to part the card stock he had a fleeting image of anthrax footage he’d seen on the news but then he chided himself for acting stupid. If the courier had wanted to kill him there were numerous other ways that were far more convenient than using anthrax. The envelope contained no mysterious powder just an expensive looking embossed card containing a short and simple hand-scrawled message.

The Pyramid Scheme was one of those hoity-toity gentleman’s clubs with an ironic name.  To be a member required a small fortune and some serious blue bloodlines. For a non-member to be admitted, even to the supper club, required an invitation from a member. To explore the rooms beyond the supper club required membership and perhaps the donation of one’s first-born child. Though he was not a member the senator had been there on occasion when dealing with one of Washington’s power elite. A group he was quite proud to now be considered a member of at least in presence if not yet financially.

Dick must be someone of considerable importance if he held a membership to the place. He wracked his brain but couldn’t recall ever meeting any ‘Dicks’ in the Washington power circle. The irony of this thought made him chuckle.

Muddy glanced down at his Rolex and was shocked to see it was already 10 past eight. Though the club was only a mile away he would need to leave immediately and run to make it by the requested time. He shot the rest of his scotch in one greedy gulp, grabbed his jacket and dashed out the door. Thoughts of security breaches and mysterious couriers all but forgotten.

By the time the elevator chimed his arrival to the first floor Muddy was having some serious second thoughts about running to the club. He cursed himself for sending his driver home as he stomped through the lobby. He wasn’t going to run, that was stupid. A sitting U.S. senator didn’t run for anyone unless it was an election year. He would call a cab instead. If being a few minutes late became an issue then good old Dick could go fuck himself. He hadn’t made the short list for his party’s next crop of presidential candidates by acting like a fool.

But when he exited the Capitol building he found a town car waiting. The driver holding a sign bearing his name. This again gave him pause to slow down as he approached the waiting driver.
Who was this guy, Dick?
He eyeballed the driver as the man moved to open the back door for him. Was this the same man with the goofball courier costume? But, no, the driver had no pencil-thin mustache. He stopped beside the open door and locked eyes with the driver until the man spoke. “The Pyramid Scheme, correct, Senator Brown?” he asked.

“That’s correct,” Muddy replied tersely, feeling way out of his element.

“Then we’d best be leaving, Senator, I believe your appointment is imminent.”

Senator Muddy Brown continued standing where he was by the open car door. The sense of things spinning out of his control growing stronger by the second. His internal alarm bells were urging him not to get in the car but he tuned them out with a huff and got in anyway. It was the Pyramid Scheme for crying out loud. “Very good, sir,” the driver said before shutting the door. Ten seconds later they were zipping down H Street and he was on his way to meet Dick.

Two linebacker-sized doormen pulled open the doors as Senator Brown stepped into the plush foyer of the Pyramid Scheme and approached the tiny and perfectly coifed maître d. “8:30 appointment with, um, Dick, please,” Muddy said quietly.

He expected an aggrieved pause or smart-ass comment about Dick’s name but the host reacted immediately and quite seriously. “Of course, Senator, if you would follow me please.”

The man led him through the cavernous supper club while Muddy scanned the people in the room hoping to catch an early glimpse of Dick. But he was shocked when the maître d continued all the way through the supper club to a waiting doorway leading to the rooms in the back making the entire affair even more curious.

              Down a long narrow intimately lit hallway they walked. Muddy’s leather soles making an elegant racket on the gleaming marble floor. Private doors of dark polished wood flanked the hallway on both sides, each with its own name. The Jungle Room, the Apollo Room and the Red Room were just a few of them. Each room succeeding to further the irony of the place and build intrigue in the senator’s mind as to what type of lurid business was being conducted behind each one. The journey ended at room simply titled; The Room. And this was where the maître d paused, smiled at Muddy, gave a slight bow and returned the way he had come.

              “Should I just knock?” he asked the man’s receding form but the tiny maître d didn’t even turn around. Muddy turned back to the door, smoothed his brown hair into place and gave the door a confident double tap.

             
“It’s open,” a casual sounding male voice called through the door.

              Muddy hadn’t been this nervous since his first sortie into Iraqi airspace. He turned the brass knob and the well-oiled door opened easily in front of him. The room was bright but sparsely furnished with only a small table for two sitting on rough-hewn hardwood flooring and surrounded by unadorned dark red walls. There were no windows. On the table was a plain manila folder and an open can of diet root beer. Two wooden chairs adorned each side of the table. One chair was empty and the other was occupied by a slim balding man of middling years. He was sitting with his chair angled out, right leg over the left knee, elbow on the table. His khaki pants and purple polo shirt looked new and pressed but cheap like they had just been purchased off the shelves of the nearest box store.

              Muddy took a hesitant step inside the room, “Are you Dick?” he asked.

              “I am,” the man said with a deep chuckle. “Not what you were expecting I take it? Have a seat,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he gestured to the other chair.

              His legs moved him against his will over to the open chair where he lowered himself down until his butt hit the wooden seat. His hands rested firmly on the small tabletop, palms down as if he was trying to maintain his balance. Something was very wrong here. He could sense it vibrating through his chest.

              “So, wh-who are you?” He stammered wincing at how pathetic he sounded to his own ears.

              “Ha! We covered this already, Muddy, is it okay I call you that?” He asked in a way that inferred he didn’t care what the answer was. “I’m Dick!”

              Muddy took a deep breath as Dick continued to stare at him with a bemused expression of absolute indifference as if Muddy were a rodeo clown instead of a three-term Unites States Senator. He started to feel the telltale throb of the large vein in his temple. This usually served as a warning that Mount Saint Muddy was about to blow. His temper was a thing of legend in his home state of Alabama. This was not a good thing. Muddy knew it and would usually focus on breathing deeply until he calmed down. This time he didn’t because his temper was having the positive effect of crushing the self-doubt he’d felt upon entering the room.

              “Okay, DICK, just what in the fuck do you want with me? I don’t have time to waste fucking around with a stranger in a shitty room inside a shitty pretentious club,” he hissed the words out through clenched teeth, over enunciating each syllable

              “Whoa, whoa, whoa, there senator, slow your roll, partner. I’m just messing with you. Besides I happen to know you
do
have time to fuck around with me. I cleared your calendar. You were scheduled for not one, not two, but three fundraisers tonight. My, you politicians live such interesting lives,” he chuckled again.