

— The Senator Saga —

The Senator

S.P. Fletcher

S.P. Fletcher

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Copyright © 2020 by S.P. Fletcher.

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ISBN 978-0-399-25677-6

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Cover Image the Property of Jonathan Stigter of Hopefully-Creative

To the people who lost their lives in the West Fertilizer Company explosion.

"Nearly all men can stand adversity but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."

—ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Contents

Chapter 1: What Came Before

Chapter 2: The Oath of Office

Chapter 3: A Lobbyist and a Wall

Chapter 4: The Capitol At Night

Chapter 5: Murder At The Senate

Chapter 6: Cabal in The Cloakroom

Chapter 7: Whiskey in The White House

Chapter 8: The Scottish Bodyguard

Chapter 9: Killing People: I'm Good At It

Chapter 10: Senate Rule XXVI

Chapter 11: Tax Returns

Chapter 12: We're In Trouble

Chapter 13: Don't Trust Anyone

Chapter 14: Revenge Feels Good

Chapter 15: How A Bill Becomes Law

Chapter 16: School Visit

Chapter 17: Mall Fight

Chapter18: $17.09

Chapter 19: New Reality

Chapter 20: What Do You Know

Chapter 21: It's Really Over

Chapter 22: First Flight

Chapter 23: Operation Kidnap

Chapter 24: Interrogation

Chapter 25: The Russian Revealed

Chapter 26: The State of The Union

Chapter 27: A New Beginning

About the Author

# Chapter 1.

What Came Before

i.

It is going to be my last day here.

For a while at least. I mean, sure, there will always be recesses and Christmases and excuses to make it back when the Senate wasn't in session, but it's all not quite the same. Not the same to me anyway.

I smile ruefully, thinking, as I often do, about how many times I came back here to this place when everything went wrong, as it so often did in my life. Even as a child, dirt poor and penniless, I would walk these woods after long days repairing solar energy devices for anyone in town who could afford to toss me a coin. I don't expect to be as regretful as I am about becoming senator-elect for Kentucky.

Such regret shouldn't be possible.

I'd won by a slim margin of fifty votes in one county.

It had been down to the wire all the way. And yet, despite everything, the gruel of the campaign, the insults flung, here I am—Senator-elect Jason Jones—standing knee-deep in a forest on the Appalachian Mountains, waiting one last time to watch the first few sparks of day collide in the sky above me, waiting one last time for all my lingering insecurities and uncertainty to shrug off my shoulders so that I can board my rocketship.

I'm young.

I'm naïve.

I'm still, at my core, that white-trash hick who had only decided to run because everybody else didn't give a fuck. I hesitate when the sharp rays of golden light arrive, thick as headlight beams.

They fracture down through the tree branches and ignite chemically with the eerie, glittering green mist creeping in the foliage around me. As it brushes the caressive underbrush sugared in frost, it sparkles and fills the place with the smell of dew.

It's so quiet, so peaceful.

The only sound that of my breath, exhaled slowly in small white clouds, and, occasionally, a squirrel quick-pattering through the hush.

I remember why I don't want to leave now. Why the idea makes me so physically sick I could puke. I have lived most of my life in Kentucky. More specifically, the beautiful mountainous terrain they refer to as the Appalachians. Our old coal town had been nothing more than a shack of houses roosting on a green spot beside the Kentucky River.

It hadn't been much but it had been home.

And I loved it there.

Beep! Beep! The dark glass square on the thick metal band encircling my left wrist bleeps blue with an alarm. It's dismally succinct. REMINDER: YOUR FLIGHT TO WASHINGTON D.C. DEPARTS IN THREE HOURS. I forgot my wristcomm was programmed with the warning until I have to fumble with the buttons to shut it up again.

It means my time is up.

I can't linger any longer.

Taking a considering minute, I swallow a lungful of air, turn, and shoot forward in a shattering of leaves.

I'm fast and I mean fast.

According to my wristcomm I can run, at my best, around two hundred miles a second. To anyone else, I'm an elusive blur at this speed as I move from tree to tree —which is weird, since I can see every animal stuttering back in the shadows, hear every microscopic drop of water quivering down a spruce, even smell a couple of bears fishing in the river nearby.

How did it happen? (The superpowers thing.) Let's just cut the verbose origin story here and say it involved radioactive chemicals being dumped in a place where they shouldn't have been and me falling into a place where said radioactive chemicals shouldn't have been being dumped.

I mist in out of mossy trees.

Tiny explosions of dirt track my footsteps. I pick up my pace at a summit. I zigzag between two rocks before leaping over a rocky ravine where the water gurgles by below, shining icicle-blue in the frail morning air. I feel my gut drop out before my sneakers screech up a smattering of stones against the other side a split-second later. I turn around. Just so that I can drink in one final gaze over my shoulder at the mountains. They're all flinty and red along the pines. I grin to myself. You've handled worse than this, I think. You can handle this. I waver back into my impressive speed and follow the familiar trail back to my old house.

ii.

The house is pretty much barren.

All of my belongings packed and unpacked at my new house in D.C. Just a crumpled futon and my suitcase, with my suit already laid out, occupy the raised wooden floors. Bill, the handyman I've been noncommittally fucking for the last three years, is no longer asleep on the futon. He's at the kitchen bench when I close the door behind me.

"I thought you left," he says.

"Nah," I reply. "I just went for a run to clear my head before the flight. It's my last day. They don't have the kind of scenery here in D.C." I run a hand through my short brown hair. Its sweat-drenched and starting to itch. "Sorry there's nothing to eat. I literally just sold the place."

"That's alright." His eyes stray down to my crotch. "I have a different idea for breakfast."

I get instantly hard. "We'll have to be quick," I warn. "My flight leaves in a few hours."

He's already kissing my neck. "Have I ever needed long?" My response is lost in a moan as he pulls my pants down around my ankles. I lean back on the kitchen bench. I grip his hair.

He makes loud gulping and gagging sounds on my shaft. Bill has one of the best mouths in Louisville. I would gamble my right arm on it. He looks up at me while bobbing up and down.

"Yeah," he says. I feel his large hand, with thick blunt fingers working my cock. "You like that?"

"Oh fuck yes." I close my eyes and push his head back down on me. "Don't stop."

I let him work on me a bit longer. Just a bit longer until I'm fully hard and my shaft is dripping wet from his lips. I yank him up, turn him against the kitchen bench, bend him over. I whisper against his neck: "Do you want it in you?"

"Get in me." I feel Bill's ass cheeks quiver against my dick. "Jason, fuck me." His eyes are closed. His cheeks are red. "Fuck my ass."

I pull his pants down enough so that I can ease into him. I slide the last few inches in with a sharp grunt. He's still loose from the night before. We're both bent over the kitchen bench. I'm glad at that moment I'm six-foot or it would've been a whole lot harder. "Oh fuck your ass is tight," I grunt. "Oh fuck yes open up for me baby. Yes yes yes!"

"Fuck, I want it! Give it to me! Take me!"

I throw a leg up on the bench and thrust him deep. I feel it in the way his ass quivers madly that I'm right in that spot where he likes it.

"OH JASON OH MAN I'M GONNA – I'M GONNA—"

"YEAH." I pant. "ME TOO. OH FUCCCKKK!"

I bang out every last drop in Bill's ass, gripping both his cheeks as he comes over the kitchen bench. And we both collapse there, in one loud mutual spasm, sweating and heaving together.

Our last time.

"Great," I moan into his back. "Now I have to clean the kitchen bench again."

He only has enough energy to give me a darkly exhausted chuckle. "Come on." He eases off me. "You go shower and I'll help you clean up." I nod and do as he says. When I come back, he's dressed again. I stand by the window, putting on my shirt and suit. The house is spotless.

"I had some stuff in the truck." Bill is putting on a tool belt. "Good luck in D.C. Text me if you're ever back in town and we can do this again."

"Yeah. Sure. I probably won't last long there, anyway. I don't think I'm really senator material. I only ran because it was either me or that other fuckwit that kept fucking us all over."

Bill walks over to me in his white singlet and gives me one final departing kiss. "You know who I vote for these days? Not who has the more experience, who's the best, who I like the most – but the person who is the least likely to fuck me over." I stare at him. I knew that was true. Everybody had voted that way in Kentucky for years, I suppose. But no one ever actually admitted to it. "You're the first one I actually ever voted for because I thought you would make life for people around here better. So you are going to get on that rocketship and you are going to go make a difference like everyone knows you can."

I notice I've been holding my breath. I exhale. "Thanks. I think I needed that."

"I know." He taps me on the side of the cheek. "I'll catch you around..." He smiles ingratiatingly at me and adds briefly: "Senator-elect Jones." And then he's gone, leaving me smiling there alone, and my feet echo on the hardwood as I leave the abandoned place with just my luggage and board a taxi for the airport. When my eyes are half-closed, I know we're close because I hear the sound of bulbous rocketships taking off and landing, their varicoloured ion boosters riffling the air.

The arched gateway we pass under has LOUISVILLE INTERNATIONAL in cheery holographic letters.

I feel strange, stepping into the marble-and-glass world inside the airport.

I pass a couple of security guards at the doors, wearing their signature blue, shockers holstered at their belts. My footsteps ring with a thin resonance on the rigorously polished marble. I squint my eyes and adjust them painfully to the reflective brightness haloing around every surface beside me. It feels to me for some reason like winter, in glass and chrome and polished steel, and mirrors and windows and looming electronic ticketing machines.

Most of one wall is absorbed by glass which gives a view of the airport; a vast open space lighted with blinking pole-lamps, and a few smaller blue domestic transport rocketships, littered over with swarming refuel robots and inspectors.

A crew is getting my one ready to depart.

I give it a second and third look and feel my stomach tighten thinking about being on it when it lifts. Turning away from the giant window, I watch myself walk forward in the mirrored surfaces that are everywhere. A tall man, a broad-shouldered man, still scarred on my back and arms from being beaten by my drunken ass of a father for most of my vacantly miserable childhood. Even after six years of being a District Attorney, my fancy business suit clothes—normal for any lawyer or guy with a desk job—didn't fit quite right, and I still stretched unconsciously, trying to free myself of them.

One of the nine desk clerks behind the sign marked DOMESTIC TRANSPORTS is a little Asian and just my type with a nice tan, barricaded behind a giant marble desk and looking as if he likes being there. "Can I do something for you?"

"My name's Jason Jones. I'm checking in my luggage for the flight to D.C."

He stares at me. The election was fairly recent so I must still be pretty recognizable about town. "Let me just check my records," he hedges, and punches scanning buttons on the glassy surface. Gridded scanner shadows come and go over my face, and I see myself half-reflected, a tipsy shadow in a flurry of racing colours. The pattern finally stabilises and the clerk reads off the names. "Jane, Michael...ah, yes. Jones, Jason, Senator-elect for Kentucky. Is that you?"

I admit it and he starts punching more keys when my name finally lands in his brain. He stops with his hand halfway to a button. "Wait...are you the Jason Jones, sir? That new senator that just beat out the incumbent Republican by fifty votes?"

"It's right there," I say, wearily gesturing at the projected pattern under the glassy surface.

"Why, I thought—I mean everybody took it for granted—that is, I heard—"

"You thought I would lose because all the polls said I would." I grin sourly. "Join the club, kid. So did I." My mouth twitches. It had been hard to believe the result even when the numbers were rolling in on the news feeds. "Can I have my boarding pass now, please?"

"Right away, sir." He punches a button and a chip of blue plastic with circuits extrudes from a slot on the desktop: my boarding pass. "There you go, sir." He hands me the blue chip. "Departure should be in about thirty minutes." He glances at his monitor then back at me. "Are you heading to D.C.?"

"Yeah."

"What's it like there?"

"I don't know. I've never been." I am growing tired of this conversation. But I'm starting to realise that the guy might be into me. He's staring at me with respect, and possibly a little envy. "Are you working for the rest of the day?"

"I'm about to go on my break. Actually," he says. "Could I—could I buy you a drink before you go aboard, Senator Jones?"

So I'm right. He is interested.

And I feel he wants more than just a drink.

"Son, you can do more than that."

iii.

The private lounge is tiny and can barely fit me let alone the two of us. And the kid is loud. I have to put both my hands around his face and mouth as I fuck him so his short little moans won't disturb anyone. It's a quick, rushed, back-alley affair. He's so eager that I really only have to pump his ass a couple of times and he explodes.

"Thanks," he pants. "That was awesome."

"Just like to leave my constituents happy," I grin, listening for anyone. "Coast is clear. Wait five minutes and follow out after me."

I leave him in the lounge room, dazed and satisfied with a brief kiss, and then I'm back in the airport.

The lighted curtains of a café near the gate for my rocketship attracts my attention and I go inside. A few lawyers are drinking coffee at a counter, a family lounging beneath the mirrors on the wall at the far end. Just as I sit down, a rocketship lifts up from its pad, powerful ion engines making the room shudder.

The menu screen in my table is long and varied, and I'm tempted. But I twist the dial to a simple Coca-Cola and spaghetti. A diode atop the little box screen glows green with a little ding! and my order rises, steaming, from the table's service panel. And finally, without distractions, I'm left there to eat my foot and hash over old concerns I would've rather forgotten.

The District Attorney's office here in Louisville would be left in good hands. My protégé was already continuing on all the hard work I'd started.

It was long past the point of being the broken office it had been when I'd first moved in, with paint chipping from the walls and computers that looked like they belonged in the 1980s.

I'm leaving the place in good condition.

I'm sure of it.

So why, then, do I feel so guilty?

After I leave the café, I spend the final minutes waiting beside the cylindrical umbilical stretched like a syringe into my rocketship's side. Then I become aware of someone's gaze, and that's when I see him, standing out beyond all the rocketships, so far away that I'm sure no one could make him out in the distance-dimmed trees.

I'm not surprised.

It's happened before.

I've seen him before. But this time it's not a nightmare and there's no chemical-red cloud of fire engulfing him and my hometown. I edge backward from the window, my own hand instinctively raising itself as if to reach out. Link, my childhood best friend, stands motionless, smiling at me as if wondering why I'm leaving. In half a second, the smile flickers off and is replaced by a startled look of...recognition? We stand frozen, staring at each other while my cue to board is announced.

Then I take a step forward, a rocketship rises up, interrupting our view at the same instant, and, like a mirage—just like that—he is suddenly gone.

He has vanished.

He is nowhere to be found.

I shake my head to get free of myself.

Idiot. Jackass. Link's dead. You know he's dead. You saw him die. You saw him die—

The speakers finally remind me my flight is leaving and, exchanging a brief greeting with the guards at the gate, I present my boarding pass of blue plastic to a stewardess. Then I am stepping into the blue-white lights of the umbilical that hurt my eyes, and the rocketship that looms, bulbous and big-bellied, before me. I just hope I'm not going to regret this move, and becoming a senator, for the rest of my life.

# Chapter 2.

The Oath of Office

i.

The rocketship is definitely a newer class model.

The top level is entirely comprised of a viewing area while below are passenger compartments.

I pass brightly lit interiors and luxurious, cushioned seats, alongside bright and elegant woodwork, partitioned by brushed aluminium doors that whisper aside on cue when I approach. Doors clang, buzzers vibrate lower down in the rocketship, the umbilical telescopes backwards with a hydraulic sigh.

I shut my eyes, not caring.

We only strap in for lift-off, waiting for the rocketship to lift skyward and blast forwards.

Another electronic bell tells us we're all free to head upstairs and sit around the couches and stare out the windows that wrap around the entire hull of the rocketship.

I look back, just once, at the darkening buildings of Louisville. It's all I can stand. Just the effort of forcing myself onto the rocketship makes me feel tired in a way that I have never felt tired before. Passengers collect coffee and sandwiches from the bar. A couple of children pass by my armchair where I'm reading on my pad in front of the clouds tumbling white.

"Hey mister," one little boy asks, tugging at my sleeve. "You're that senator from TV, right?"

I place down my pad, smiling politely.

"Soon to be," I say. "I have to go through orientation and set up my office and then be sworn in."

"What's orientation?"

"It's like a few weeks of school for new senators," I say. "They teach us how to vote and how to set up our offices and things like that. Really boring stuff. Then I'll be sworn in."

"Just like the President?"

"Yep." Ah. The President. President Archibald J. Rook. The billionaire media-mogul. Owner of Rook Telecommunications Inc. and founder of the Racoon News Network. When he declared his candidacy for real two years ago we all thought it was some kind of joke, even most of the Republican Party did. But, like most of my colleagues across the aisle, they quickly lost their balls, and their spines, when the man cut through the Republican ranks during the primaries to become the official nominee.

Suddenly, he was their new best friend.

Surprise, surprise.

It wasn't hard to see how he would win, really. Peddle enough baseless conspiracies theories around on Racoon News feeds and pretty soon no one believes anything. And in party of smarmy dickheads, all trying to charm their way to the top of the ladder, President Rook actually sounded genuine on the campaign trail. Even I had to admit I didn't mind his voice as opposed to the two senators from Texas and Florida who had both nasaled on like bad used-car salesmen. I was glad, at least, that one of the states the Democratic nominee had nabbed right out from under him had been Kentucky in the general election.

"Max!" A motherly woman swoops in to collect the little boy. "I hope you're not pestering this poor man." She turns to me. "I'm so sorry about that. I turn away for one minute and he zips off."

"That's fine," I say. "He was just asking me about the Senate. In fact, I think I have—" I open my brief case and find my business card and one of the cheap Senate pins I carry around everywhere "—there young man. That's my official Senate card. When you're sixteen and you're still interested in politics, give me a call and we'll see about having you as a Senate page one summer."

The kid looks at me in awe. "Mom, look!" He shoves the card towards his mother. "Look he gave me a pin too!"

"I know, sweetheart. That's very cool."

"Can you help put it on?"

"Here, I got it." I say. I kneel down to pin it on proudly and he beams as he looks down on the gold Senate seal winking in the light. "Wow. You look so much like me now it's like looking in a mirror. Now when you turn thirty you can replace me. You better go back with your mother now."

"What do you say, Max?" His mother asks.

"Thank you, Senator Jones!"

"Don't mention it kiddo." I tap him on either side of his shoulders. "Now, make sure you do your homework and get good grades in school."

He nods and scampers back to his family. His mother gives me a commiserating look. I assure her its fine; I'm used to it. The first few days of my campaign were a blur of elementary schools and family picnics in the park. I became so used to seeing kids and little babies gibbering around parents as I talked to them that I kind of missed seeing their cute little faces when it was all over.

I return back to the mundane work of answering emails on my pad for staff assignments that my chief of staff wants approved. When I arrive, I am probably the only senator who is going to have their staff and office fully operational. My chief of staff, Jackie Wallace, is a whiz at that kind of thing and creepily efficient. She knows what I wanted for my breakfast before I did. Before long, I am dozing in the armchair. It's the landing announcement that rouses me back into consciousness again.

And I feel the entire rocketship lean to the side.

Squinting through the curving view panes, I see the needle of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial, a prick of sunset wavering on the tips. There's the Capitol, the Russel and Dirksen Buildings and the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue. My new home. Even though I am tired and ready for bed already, I watch with burning eyes as we sink lower and lower in a forward swoop towards Reagan National. In front of us, rocketships are heading for the landing pads and darting up seconds later with new passengers around the hectic terminal. I collect my briefcase and luggage and walk out with the multiform undulations of departing passengers fluttering around me.

My new car, already purchased and waiting for me, is easy to collect from the dealer. There's only a few hoops to jump through, a couple of forms to initial, and then I'm climbing into the contoured leather interior of the sleek vehicle. It's nothing like the bucket of bolts I'd clung to in Louisville. This thing purrs to life as glass screens along the dash pop on one at a time. I program in the coordinates for my new house and floor it. It's dark in the city. All the buildings and townhouses abuzz with warm yellow light that soaks into the evening.

I weave along a series of looping overpasses, smoothly changing lanes, eyes intently focused on the unfamiliar roads unspooling before me. I find Gray Malkin Street after a few indecipherable glimpses of the windshield map, and slow to a crawl along the sidewalk so that I can duck my head below the windshield tint and scan for Number 15. Thankfully, the house has its addressed displayed beside it in an elegant script on a copper plaque.

It's a regular townhouse, looking like a slice of blue cake with a wide portico and circular landing that fans in front of the building flanked by fleecy hedges. I know I must attract attention as I pull out my luggage and apply my hand to the biometric scanner plate next to the intercom. The door bleeps and I step inside. There's an auto-locking sound behind me as I flick on the lights.

All my furniture has already been moved in. The ceilings are lofty, the rooms airy. It's full of thick shelves and mahogany. As I walk into the house, I voice-command on the netscreen mounted above the fireplace and the timber floor creaks as I slump down onto my sofa to watch a late-edition of the evening news.

A light shower begins and the symphonic rain falling on the slate roof is soothing.

I watch the netscreen with sleep-fuzzed eyes and fall, gradually, peaceably, into a deep sleep.

ii.

When I wake up, I am lying naked in my room. Today is the day. January 3rd. My swearing-in. I'm grateful at least not to be slashed from a fitful coma of sleep like I usually am, by my father's fist colliding drunkenly with my face like a lightning bolt and shattering me awake.

Sometimes I'm not so lucky: I bolt up screaming for Link amid my nightmare shuttering to a halt of me superspeeding through a sunflower field as my town gets blown to smithereens and sends me flailing backwards through the air.

For the past weeks, since December, I'd been bolted away in orientation with fifteen other soon-to-be-senators who were also fresh from their collective victories in the senatorial elections of 2075. They'd let us all sit in the prime front-row, center-aisle location usually occupied by senators heavy with seniority. We'd acted like third-graders on the first day of school, eagerly opening and closing the tops and drawers of the highly polished mahogany desks. In those drawers, clustered behind notepapers and other junk, we found names—some carved by penknife and others in ink—of a dozen or more senators who had once worked from that particular relic. Mine had Kennedy written on the bottom. With the gallery doors bolted shut and floor-level entrances guarded, I'd watched the Senate's most senior Democratic member, seventy-nine-year-old Robert Reid, senior senator for Kentucky for nearly four decades, take the stage.

I was a big fan of his.

He'd been awarded every one of our elective offices: conference secretary, party whip, and floor leader. Until the last election in which we'd lost both houses and the Presidency, he'd also served as Senate president pro tempore—third in line of presidential succession following the vice president and Speaker of the House.

"Welcome all of you to the floor of the United States Senate," he began. "You are sitting on what I consider to be hallowed ground. Make no mistake about it, the office of the United States Senator is the highest political calling in the land." A murmur of nervous laughter came out of a gang of oily-haired Republican senator-elects behind me and then was discretely muffled. I had looked over my shoulder to memorise their faces. They were rapacious, conceited and sharp-eyed. "The pressures on you for the next six years will be intense. You will have to create policies, deal with crises, take care of your constituents who elected you to be a check on the executive and the lower house. Somehow you must find a way to handle committee meetings, breaking news, fundraising, and your duty. Good luck to you all."

Afterwards, I boarded the underground Senate tram to the Beaux-Arts-style Russel Building where my office was. I made my first friend, Earnie, the driver of the tram who had worked at the Capitol for almost sixty-plus years driving congress underground. A senator even wrote a bill to stop it from being turned autonomous so that he could keep his job. Earnie was a wise old black man, with freckles around his nose and cheeks, who knew all the gossip around the Capitol, apparently. I asked him who was the raven-haired senator who had been among those laughing during Senator Reid's speech.

We'd exchanged hateful glances.

"He's a version of you," Earnie laughed. "That was probably Chad Wyatt of Nebraska. He came out of nowhere. Supposed to be this big Republican wiz when it comes to saving money. He's going to be the new Senate majority leader."

"Ha!" I crowed. A spend-thrifty Republican legislator was as laughable as a bull in a china shop. "That's got to burn. He hasn't even been in the senate until before today. Someone must have spread a lot of dark money around for that to happen. So, I guess that means in two years we'll have another seven trillion dollars attached to the deficit and tonnes of useless government spending to sweep up after the midterms."

But that was the way the cookie crumbles. Or democracy. They'd won. We'd lost. There was still indeterminate reporting on the election being interfered with by the Russians hacking but, for now, they would be calling the shots. We had to get used to it. I roll over onto my back, aim my eyes at the ceiling, and listen for the spooky rustle of the tree that scratches against my window. Sometime later—maybe a minute? maybe an hour?—I rally myself to my feet.

The bathroom is marble and polished silver, hanging with fleecy white towels my Legislative Director bought a week earlier as a house-warming present. I'm getting used to the panels. The water in this house can jet out at you so fast until you're gasping under the steam. I dial open my wardrobe. It's got a fancy motorized suit rack. I collect my wristcomm, a signature ruby-red tie, a senate lapel pin, glinting cufflinks, and shrug on a blazer.

A few minutes later, I am dressed to the nines and checking myself out in the mirror. I look myself up and down. Good enough to eat, I think appraisingly. For the swearing-in, you're supposed to have to have a family member or spouse hold the Bible. Since I have neither, Jackie is going to be doing it with me. I'm not bothered. She was pretty much the closest thing I had to a family member anyway. From the corner of the window I watch a black car roll up to my house. It's a nondescript Suburban, the kind of ageless, exorbitant vintage favoured by Capitol Police.

My ride's here.

I sweep all my Senate materials for the day, including my new secure blue datapad with its Senate seal on the back, into my brief case. In a smarting whip of air, I'm down at the front door before someone can press the display panel doorbell.

Senator Harry Hirano, the veteran half-Malaysian and half-American senator from Hawaii, was quickly becoming my closest friend. Since he was heading there, he told me he would give me a lift to the Capitol with his family who were all going to watch him be sworn in again.

"You ready to go?" Harry asks.

"Sure thing." I shut the door. "You know you didn't have to do this. I was happy to drive."

"Hey, it's a big day. You need to arrive in style. And the kids all wanted to meet you. My son thinks you're the coolest guy on the planet."

"Why?"

"You're kind of the talk of the town beating the odds and all. Everyone at his school talks about you because you're on the news all the time. Sorry in advance if he pesters you with questions."

"That's alright," I say.

I squeeze into the car alongside Harry's wife, Laura. His three kids, Peter, Susan and Lucy are in the back of the car, all dressed-up for the event, with two suits up-front. Peter does grill me about what I'm doing first thing after being sworn-in. And I tell him about my anti-corruption bills. The kid is 8 and man does he know his stuff. He makes a barb about 'good luck getting cloture with that issue', causing Harry and me to laugh.

The car slips into a tunnel and I lean back into the cushioned seatback of the chair, my chest ballooning with panic. Deep breath. Breathe out. Semicircular lighting panels stripe overhead until we flicker out into day again and light floods the windows. I'm learning Washington always has this haunted, misty air in the mornings and today is no exception.

"There it is kids," Harry announces. "The Capitol." And even the way he says it, it causes me to chase the building around until I can get a proper view of the towering monolith.

There it is: The United States Capitol.

I had been a nerd about the place ever since I began doing school projects on it in middle-school. Cameras have never quite managed to capture the full majesty and grandeur of it, the glistening pearly white steps, the expansive iron dome that stretches and overflows the windshield. Construction began on September 18, 1793 and finished in 1800. The dome was added later, in 1850, with the Statue of Freedom atop being hoisted onto it in 1863. The Senate was in the left wing and the House of Representatives was in the right. With its five floors, it was a combined total of 16.5 acres, and despite all the pictures and the tours I'd had earlier, I'm still stupefied.

"I'll never get used to working here," I say.

"None of us ever do," Harry assures.

People elbowing each other on the sidewalk point to us eagerly as we loop around to the Russel Building. There rises a collective flutter of excitement and thousands of eyes watch us with fanatical eagerness. A veritable barrage of flashbulbs pop starrily beside us. I know they can't see us through the tint but they must recognise that it's a Senate protection vehicle. We all climb out together and mount the steps. Instead of going straight to the Capitol, we take the tram. Purely for the kids, Harry whispers to me. They apparently didn't get to come to his work that often.

"Morning fellas," says Earnie.

"Morning Earnie," Harry and I say together. Harry ushers his kids and his wife into a compartment, and I take a seat near Earnie.

"You nervous?"

"Not really," I lie. "If you can go through two years of ruthless campaigning for the job I can get sworn in. I actually can't wait to start putting my bills through the committees."

Earnie nods. "Fair enough."

If he doesn't believe me, I'm grateful he doesn't press the matter. The underground panels and lighting on the walls smears past us. I lift my chin and straighten my shoulders. The ride lasts about three minutes but it feels like it only takes fifteen seconds and we're inexorably slowing down at the Capitol underground.

Time to shine.

"Hey," Earnie says as I'm half out of the tram compartment, "Good luck on your first day."

"Thanks," I say. I follow Harry and his family and the rest of the other people swarming up the steps.

iii.

They don't need the senators right away and people are still setting up cameras and the like, so I follow Harry as he tours his family around the Capitol with me scuffing along behind with the kids. Senators tended to be gifted with free reign of the place since we'd been vetted. We kill time in the United States Capitol crypt, a large circular room directly under the rotunda with forty neoclassical Doric columns, lacy chandeliers, and crowned at the perimeter with thirteen statutes from the National Statutory Collection. I'm surprised to discover that Harry might know more than me.

"This gold star in the floor," Harry informs us, "is a marble compass to mark the point where the four quadrants of the District of Columbia meet." Then we follow Harry down to the locked jail-like cell that's padlocked. "This is Washington's Tomb. When he died in 1799, the Capitol was still being built. Both houses passed a resolution to entomb him in the Capitol after it was finished. But he wanted to be buried at Mount Vernon."

"Creepy," remarks Susan.

"If no one's buried here then why is it padlocked," Lucy asks. "What's the point?"

"Security reasons," I say.

We move back through some secret underground halls lined with piping and cables. With the kids moaning, he takes us to the famous Blood Stairs. "In 1890," Harry begins spookily, "Congressman William Preston Taulbee was shot and killed here by journalist Charles Kincaid. And these marks on the marble here are said to be the blood stains from the shooting."

The kids recoil up the steps. "Ew! Dad!" Susan and Lucy moan together. Peter is the only one who awes over the weird stains. "People say you can even see his ghost from time to time," Harry says. "It's true. I heard it from the minority leader."

"You're going to give them nightmares," Laura moans. "Now no one is going to get any sleep."

"I agree with the wife there, Harry."

"Oh, come on. He was from Kentucky, too. Peter thinks its cool."

My wristcomm beeps and I turn over my wrist to find a message from my Chief of Staff to hurry the hell up to the floor. I tell Harry. We all dash back the way we came towards the floor, slipping on the marble. Harry just got re-elected so he's coming with me to get re-sworn in. Laura kisses him good luck.

There would be thirty-three senators being sworn in on the same day—and 54 congressmen and women in the House of Representatives—the first day of the new Congress that is convened in January.

Because there are so many people, each one only gets three or four tickets for family and friends to sit in the gallery, where they can watch the new or re-elected senators take the oath of office from the vice president, three at a time.

Jackie comes storming over to me, dark skin glowing and powdered, obsidian black hair pulled back in a professional ponytail. Like always, not a single stray hair out of place. "Where the hell have you been!" she demands. "I was looking everywhere for you."

"Sorry," I say. "I was with Harry and his family while he took them round the Capitol."

"Nice to meet you," says Harry, "I'm—"

She cuts him off. "Senator from Hawaii. I know who you are." I give him a sorry look. Jackie can be cut-throat ruthless when reprimanding me, but she's the best Chief of Staff I could ever ask for. "You are now a United States Senator after you take that oath today. You can't be sloppy anymore, Jason. Not from this moment."

"I know, Jackie," I say. "I'm sorry for worrying you. You ready to do this?"

Jackie smiles. "Of course."

Harry leans over and whispers, "She's scary."

"I know," I whisper back. "But she's the best."

Within minutes, we all walk out onto the floor together as Harry and I are called to the Vice President. There's a hornets' nest of activity inside.

I pause for a minute, transfixed.

Standing in the chamber's centre aisle, I'm still surprised how human-scale the rectangular room appears, compared with the televised image, or the cavernous House chamber. Measuring 114 feet by 80 feet, and rising two stories, the room accommodates one hundred mahogany desks, with armchairs upholstered in chestnut-brown leather, arranged in four concentric circles. Ironically, Republicans are seated at left and the Democrats on the right. Some idiot stuffed that seating arrangement up.

I crush down the outspoken dark blue carpet with Jackie and Harry. Vice President Mike Pence is standing there with a Bible. I stifle my revulsion. He's one of the oleaginous slimeballs that had campaigned against me in Kentucky.

Too bad for him he really wasted all his money and time recording those ridiculous anti-gay attack ads. We hated each other. I, personally, had nothing against anti-gay former senators, except this one had actively worked over to screw his constituents who elected him. That was crossing a line.

"Vice President," I beam. "This has got to be awkward for you. Ya know, considering you spent all that time on the President's behalf campaigning against me during the midterms."

Jackie elbows me and shakes her head, coughing disapprovingly in the back of her throat. The VP is only a hair's breadth away from me. He just nods solemnly. Briefly, I entertain the idea of putting my hand on his shoulder to see if he freaks out and screams out of the chamber cursing the devil. But I stop. Too many cameras.

"Please raise your right hand and prepare to respond," he begins, unperturbed. I put my hand on the Bible with Harry raising his hand as well. "Do you solemnly swear that you will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that you will be true faith and allegiance to the same; freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that you will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which you are about to enter. So help you god?"

There's something fierce in my eyes.

I don't hesitate.

"I do," I answer.

# Chapter 3.

A Lobbyist and a Wall

i.

After the swearing-in process is all over and I'm still faint with excitement, Harry and I separate so that he and his chief of staff can get to work and I can take the tram back to the Russel Building with Jackie. We had just moved out of our crowded basement office alongside all the other newly elected senators and I'm ecstatic about taking the elevator up with Jackie. I am no longer a senator-elect but an actual senator.

"What are you smiling like an idiot about?"

"Just thinking that I'm not a senator-elect anymore," I admit to her. "I'm a senator."

"That all?" asks Jackie, unimpressed.

Jackie's not one for celebration.

We walk up the steps into my favourite part of the Russel Building. I spin round on the heels of my feet, staring up at the coffered dome and its glazed oculus streaming daylight. There are thick Greek columns here too, except they're above us on the second storey balcony. Wow. It is starting to finally sink in.

I will be working here every day for the next six years. Change is made here.

I can feel it.

The bronze-leaf elevator doors scissor close and we zip upwards. I've walked the corridors long enough now that I no longer need to read the gold, mirrorlike plaques that adorn the walls beside the office doors to find mine. The black and gold plaque declares itself with an admiring twinkle:

SENATOR

JASON JONES

KENTUCKY

SR317

We enter into an office that has the state seal behind the reception desk. Barbara Golding, my personal secretary from my DA days is at her computer, coifed white hair and pearls.

"Morning, Barbs," I say. "Anything for me?"

"Morning, sir. Nothing yet," she assures. "The Minority Leader is waiting in your office. He's here with your committee assignments. He wanted to go over some stuff with you."

"Robert's here already?" I say. "He said he wouldn't be by until twelve!"

I walk into the main area of cubicles and filing cabinets where staffers are on their computers. Everyone stands up as I enter and I'm greeted with applause. I don't know how to respond. I lock up. I thank them. Tell them the fight's not over. That it's just getting started, and then Jackie barks everyone to get back to work. We both open and close the door to my office. Robert is sitting on one of my damasked couches. He is every part the kindly, bespectacled war hero I had grown up reading about in in the news and books.

"Morning, Robert," I say, hanging up my coat. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"No. Thank you," says Robert. "I just came over here to deliver your committee assignments. They've been sent to your inbox." I extract my secure blue pad from my briefcase and open my inbox.

I find the email from Robert:

To: senator@jones.senate.gov

From: sentor@reid.senate.gov

Subject: Committee Assignments

Here are you committee assignments:

\- Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.

\- Senate Foreign Relations Committee.

\- Committee on Armed Services: Subcommittee on Personnel, Subcommittee on Airland, Subcommittee on Emerging Threats and Capabilities, and Subcommittee on Strategic Forces.

\- Committee on Environment and Public Works: Subcommittee on Green Jobs and the New Economy.

\- Senate Judiciary Committee.

\- Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor and Pensions.

Enjoy.

Robert

Committee assignments are arguably the crucial decision facing new senators in the Senate.

A prime committee deal can make or break a senator's career and it was where the bulk of my work would get done. Committees cover just about every area of the US government. The relatively permanent ones that deal with passing legislation are called standing. Joint Committees are ones comprised of members from both the House and the Senate, like the Joint Economic Committee and the Joint Taxation Committee. Select or special committees don't pass legislation, but oversee one particular subject and usually get dissolved after only a short period of time. This would be the first stop of any bill I introduced.

While not every Senate committee has available seats, it looks like I'm being appointed to five based on my expertise and background: Intelligence, Homeland Security, Budget, Judiciary, and Environment and Public Works.

"I thought," explains Robert, "that with your skills as a former prosecutor that these would be best suited for you to start off with. We can shuffle you around later if it becomes too hectic."

"Well, I do like to be kept busy," I say.

"Things aren't going to be easy for us around here for a while," warns Robert. "We might have shortened our minority during the midterms to being within one vote of the majority but the Republicans still control both houses and the Presidency."

Jackie sinks into an armchair opposite Robert. "You've just got to love all that Republican engineering of the electoral-college and good old-fashioned voter suppression."

I am staring out the window at the cars beetling along on Constitutional Avenue. My windows overlook bright green swathes of lawn and cleanly swept tooth-white streets. "When is our first vote on the appropriations bill?"

"In another two hours."

"How's that new Senate majority leader going? The one that looks young enough to be in diapers. I heard a rumour he's putting a bill through to defund anti-terrorist funding for airports."

"I wish I could tell you it was a lie." Robert grits his teeth. "I don't know where they found this Senator Chad Wyatt but he's a pure nut case. I used to think that only my Republican counterpart from West Virginia was his level of crazy." I know he's talking about Republican Senator Bill Nixon, who was the chairman—and therefore my boss—on the Senate Intelligence Committee. "The guy definitely has a few screws loose."

"At least he's not as bad as the Interior Secretary."

"What happened to the Interior Secretary?"

"Didn't you hear yet? One of the reporters said he's just been jailed for beating up his wife," I say. "I know it was a shocker, with him being a known wife-basher and all. Looks like he did it to both ex-wives."

"Well. I better be going," says Robert awkwardly. "I'm having lunch with Cindy and I don't want to be late. I'll see you on the floor at two. Try not to cause too much of an uproar on the first day."

"No promises," I say.

It's an inside joke.

Robert and Senator Buck Rogers, chairman of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee, hadn't wanted me to run in Kentucky. The DSCC were the ones who usually make or break a Senate candidate's campaign. They make a judgement about whether you're a good candidate, whether you campaign well—basically, whether you have a shot at winning. They don't generally put out a press release declaring you a loser; they just make their opinion known to influential politicos. In fact, they endorsed my opponent in the primaries as it was determined I would cause "too much of an uproar in the Senate". They came crawling back when I was the victor, ousting my primary opponent by 70+ points.

Robert leaves.

I gather up my opioid crises bill that I'm going to take to his wackjob Republican counterpart from West Virginia.

"Where are you going?" Jackie asks.

"To see that nutcase Republican colleague of his," I inform her. "I got to start building bridges early, right. I think he'll co-sponsor the opioid crises bill we've been working on."

"Good luck."

I zoom out of the office with papers fluttering in my hands. And that's when I encounter him. The Republican douchebag. Let me clarify, because there are a lot of them, Chad Wyatt of Nebraska. His hair is black, greying at the temples even though he's too young to have grey hair. He must've dyed it or something to make himself look wiser. It's so, so pathetically Republican.

"Senator Jason Jones," he calls out to me. My back stiffens. I think for a moment about making a run for it. Like most Republicans, he has this ingratiating, half-mocking lilt to his voice. The kind of out-of-touch-rich-guy voice that belonged to Saturday morning cartoon villains. The one that immediately tells you Daddy paid for their senate seat in the first place. "I was hoping to catch you."

I turn to face him. "Can I help you with something, Chad?" I'm looking at my wristcomm. "I'm hoping to catch someone before they leave their office for lunch."

"I know," says Chad. "I wanted to just congratulate you on your victory in the midterms." Praise? Something suspicious was afoot. What the hell did he want? You know when Republicans become obsequious that they want something, usually to defund their own constituent's healthcare. "I was hoping to have your name on the Airplane Anti-Terrorism Act." There it is. Republicans are pretty clever about how they title their acts, with most of the bad stuff hidden in the details. "It's an act that'll save us tonnes of money."

"By repealing anti-terrorist funding for protecting airlines," I say, dumb-struck. Is babying these fuckwits going to become my job for the next six years? "In short, you're act can be cited as 'the dumbest fucking idea ever'. You think I was born on crazy creek? Seriously, didn't you go over the bill with your legislative director before you submitted it? It could get people killed."

"But it'll save money," he parrots.

"True." Wow. This guy is really something. "And when there's another 911 you know it's going to be hard to blame it on the Democrats, right? Considering none of us have signed onto it? And you and your friends are the only ones sponsoring this nightmare piece of legislation?"

His eyes flicker like a snake's for a second and then his voice lowers to a deadly volume.

"You'd be wise not to make an enemy of me or—"

"Or what?" I take a step forward. It's satisfying to see him flinch back a step. "Unlike you and your buddies I didn't get here on Daddy's money, Chad. You might be the majority leader now but your party's so full of backstabbers I can't see that lasting for long. If anyone should be watching their back around here...it should be you."

"I – I can make sure a single bill of yours doesn't make it to the floor for a vote."

"Hmmm. Possibly," I say ponderingly. "But no one said a piece of white trash like me would win Kentucky and look how that turned out for you. So good luck."

I stomp away, resisting the urge to punch him through the wall, and leave him standing in the centre of the marble hallway with his jaw ajar. Turns out, I'm as good at making friends here as I was in the DA office back in Louisville. I get on the elevator with a happy thought: if worst comes to worse, and he does stop my bills, I can always break his entitled little neck.

There's an idea that comes to mind.

Problem solved.

ii.

There are four types of legislation in the Senate and House: bills, joint resolutions (S. J. Res), concurrent resolutions (S. Con. Res.), and simple resolutions (S. Res). Bills are designated S. whatever number they introduced as, like S.1, S.2, S.3, you get the drill, and can be either private or public. Bill Nixon of West Virginia had lately shown a little bit of interest in curbing the opioid crises that was spreading rampantly.

Cosponsors aren't necessary but they can give you a huge advantage, especially if they were in the majority, and I was hoping he could work over the Republican side to get it to the floor.

I catch him spiralling down a baroque marble staircase on his way to meet with some intelligence officials. "Senator Nixon! Senator Nixon I need to speak with you!" He pretends not to me hear me and keeps charging down the stairs. I sigh. Republicans. He doesn't see me blur down the stairs, past him, to meet him in the corridor below. I almost scare him half to death. "How did you? Weren't you just up —"

"Senator Nixon," I smile, interrupting his thoughts. "So glad I got to catch you before you left the Russel Building. I was wondering if we could talk about something before you go?"

"Sorry," says Bill. "I have to go."

He tries to dodge past me but I move to stand in his way. "Your office says you have an hour free in your schedule for your lunch break." I raise my eyebrows. "I can talk while you walk to your car or I can keep you here until your lunch break is over and we both have to be on the floor together."

Senator Nixon rolls his eyes. His self-assurance deserts him, then he recovers. "Now I understand how you were able to win a state that we'd held since the 90s. I'll give you the time it takes to get to the car. I have to be somewhere urgently."

"Thanks." I pull out my paper and hand it to him as we walk down the hall together. "Last year the Rook Administration declared the opioid crises a public health emergency but the fund they're using to deal with it only has $57,000 dollars in it. They also have made no room to help to get people access to medication-assisted treatment drugs like buprenorphine or create a federal standard for substance disorder treatment or to reinstate the DEA's authority to go after major pharmaceutical manufacturers and distributors for their role in maintaining the crisis. And they've got no plan for finding a way to cut off the fentanyl supply that's coming directly from China."

"And I suppose you have a plan for that?"

I hand him my datapad with the front page of my bill already expanded on the screen. "The Aggressive Opioid Response Bill," I supply, as we pass a couple of staffers from the Office of Legislative Counsel in the hallway. I have his attention now. Back in the day, we'd been consuming more than 90% of the world's hydrocodone and more than 80% of its oxycodone. Those statistics had more than tripled in the 2070s thanks to protracted governmental incompetence by a certain party. "It provides funding for all these things and includes amending provisions that'll put major distributors—like McKesson, Cardinal Health, and AmerisorceBergen—that saturated your state with $17 billion dollars' worth of opioids and OxyContin permanently out of business."

We pass through the gold-framed glass doors and out into where his waiting car is idling stealthily at the sidewalk. "You got any criminal provisions in there for companies with deceptive marketing practices," he asks me from the open door of his car.

"Twenty-five years for corporate executives that direct their employees to engage in deceptive prescription practices."

"Double it. I'll have my secretary call you so we can work on it further after the Intelligence Committee hearing next week."

"So you'll cosponsor it?"

He nods. "Sure will." I'm taken aback. It must show cause he addresses my stunned expression. "From that surprised look on your face I guess that crazy nutcase Robert told you that I was insane? We've been telling junior senators on both sides that we've been crazy for years." He gives me a sly wink. "Welcome to Washington, Senator Jones. Good to have you on the Intelligence Committee."

"Ah. Thank you, sir." I say awkwardly.

The door snaps shut and he drives off.

iii.

When I get back to my office after voting on my first appropriations bill for the year, I'm confronted with Bobby Nelson, my press secretary slash director of communications because I was too cheap to split the positions. "I got a call from 'Heard on the Hill,'" he says. It's one of the local Capitol Hill gossip columns everyone lived in mortal fear about. "And they said you hooked up with a guy in a private lounge room at Louisville International." I just nod grimly. I don't have any answers. "Well, did you hook up with a guy in a private lounge room at Louisville International before you came to D.C?"

"Do I have to answer?" I hedge.

"Ugh," he says, slumping his shoulders. "You really make me earn my pay check, you know that? I'll just say they're baseless rumours designed to smear your esteemed reputation."

"Sounds good to me."

He peels off to his desk and I step into my office. I'm so beleaguered that I've flung my things onto my couch and shut the door before I notice him. Sitting at my polished mahogany desk, chair turned towards the wall. "Senator Jason Jones of Kentucky." The man spins to face me, tapping his fingers together. "Nice to meet you. Finally."

"Uh. Can I help you?" I venture cautiously.

My fists curl up at my sides.

The man is rat-faced and angular. The smarm is even more apparent when he gets off my chair and starts slinking around my desk, running his fingers across a pinstriped lamp. "It's more about how I can help you," he snarks. "We know you plan to introduce a bill at morning hour this week." Morning Hour was when senators announced new bills and submitted them to the committees for considering. "A 21st Century Glass-Steagal Bill."

I can see where this is going. "We?"

"Kravitz & Cole."

"Wow," I awe. I slump down into my leather armchair as the lobbyist fiddles with my curtains. A lobbyist. The gifts I receive on my first day. Just perfect. "If I'm not mistaken, they're the biggest and most effective lobbying group on the Hill. I must've really ruffled some feathers of some investment bankers if they're desperate enough to send you. You know I think the Republican offices are down the hall."

"But I'm here for you." I laugh. He laughs. He says it like it's a joke, but I can see that his joke is a surface one, and that, at heart, he is deeply serious. Evidently, he wants me to stop. "We want you to drop the bill."

I nod in thoughtful agreement. "And what's in it for me if I do? Drop the bill, I mean."

The lobbyist pulls out a datapad and passes it to me with a cheque on the screen for $25 Million dollars addressed to my re-election campaign. I whistle appreciatively. "That is quite a few zeroes." I hand it back to him. "But I'll decline."

"It's either that or we bury you."

I smile and get up from behind my desk.

"If I'm not mistaken, didn't your lobbying firm lead the last campaign to repeal the original Glass-Steagal Act. The one that helped keep investment banks and commercial banks separate. That helped build America before two financial collapses."

"That was a group effort," he preens.

"Hmm." In a flash: I move at high speed to the lobbyist. In a flash: my hand reaches out and grabs his scrawny neck. In a flash: I yank him across the room. In a flash: I have him pinned against my office wall by the neck, his feet dangling pathetically a foot above the floor, squirming under my hand crushing his throat.

"What! What are you doing—" He looks around my office wildly, trying to scramble upwards on the wall. "Somebody! Somebody help!"

He tries to shout for help but I tighten my fingers, effectively reducing his voice to a strained croak.

"I'm teaching you a little lesson," I say. "When the second financial crash rolled around I watched my friend's parents move them into cars to survive the banks illegally foreclosing on their house you rat. And you know what I did?" He winces and shakes his head. "I watched as my snivelling, weak-kneed, pathetic attorney-generals declined to prosecute while people killed themselves and hooked themselves up to drugs. Now, I don't know what deals you had with my predecessor, but let me be clear, that dog won't hunt here."

"Got it," he says. "I'll take back the message."

"Yes." I whisper. "You will...Lobbyist scum."

With no remorse, I punch him through the wall.

It sounds like a double-barrel shotgun.

BANG!

I lean back as a cloud of plaster and floury dust fills my office and the lobbyist's body explodes into the hallway. People scream and scatter. When the dust clears, they're all looking at the frizzy wires sparking along the edges of the hole in my office wall.

"Oh my god, guys," I babble, horrified. I might have hammed it up a bit too much. "This office is like ancient. He was leaning against the wall and it just collapsed in on him!" The lobbyist is groaning against the wall, sickeningly twisted up. "Can someone check to see if he's alright and call an ambulance to come get him?"

Because, frankly, I don't give a fuck.

# Chapter 4.

### The Capitol At Night

i.

Staffers from other nearby offices gather together and we all circle around in clumps in the hallway to watch the groaning lobbyist be treated by paramedics and wheeled away. I go to my office and retrieve his things.

For extra effect, I snap his datapad cleanly in half, with the cheque for me still on its screen, and drop it to the paramedics as they wheel him away. Get well soon, I say to his bruised and blackened face. One of the more worried staffers orbiting the scene suggests we should get the walls checked. I tell him that we should definitely put that on the list of things to do.

"He fell through the wall?" sputters Jackie. "He looks like he was on the receiving end of a freight-train collision. You sure that's what happened?"

"Sure am," I say.

Jackie crosses her arms and looks me over. "Okay. You want me to say anything to press about the mammoth hole in your wall we're going to have to get patched up?"

"Tell Bobby to come with something snarky that digs at the administration. Something along the lines of, 'Senator Jones is already tearing through walls and it's just his first day'. I'm going to go to my office for a bit of peace and quiet."

"I'll call maintenance."

I return to my office, shut the door and slump into my chair. I grunt, stare resentfully at the giant hole dangling with sparkling wires that opens up on the grand marble hallway. I process it for a comical beat. Not exactly the peace and quiet I really wanted. Desperately needed. Now I'm beginning to regret punching the lobbyist through my wall. Not really. I'm lying to myself. I had enjoyed it way too much. The rest of my day is consumed by working on committee assignments, dodging talk show interviews and the like.

By the time I have finished all that, everyone has left and it's dark outside. I jerk back in surprise when Harry sticks his head through the wall. "Uh. Do you know there's a giant hole in your office?"

"Thought I'd do some renovating," I say. "Felt this office could use just one more window. What are you still doing here so late?"

He holds up and waves two beers. "Thought you might want to come up on the roof. It is kind of a tradition for new senators who have made it through their first day."

"Really?" I'd never heard of it.

"No," shrugs Harry. "I'm the only one with the access code to the roof because I'm friends with the security guard, Mike, that works the night shift. But I don't like drinking alone." He can see I'm not easy to convince. "Come on, the view from the Capitol at night is pretty stunning."

I smile and push back from my desk. "I guess it couldn't hurt for a minute," I relent. Secretly, I do want to see it. "Hold your potato for a second. I'll just get my jacket." His invitation leads me past the neoclassical Doric columns of the Crypt and to a dome-shaped room with iron trusses.

I nearly bump into a metal box on my way towards the stairs to the roof but Harry pulls me back. "Careful there, Kentucky. That giant cable there"—he points to a gigantic anaconda-like cable snaking from a giant metal box—"it's connected to the power cells that control all the lights in the Capitol. It's not insulated that well. You'll get a nasty zap. They've been trying to fix it for years."

"Oh," I say, stepping wide of the metal box with the danger high voltage sign emblazoned warningly on its side. "Thanks for that one."

We climb stairs that zigzag around the interior of the rotunda. After the little opaque red square above the keypad beside the door blinks green from Harry's passcode, the door clunks and we're free to step into the cool, wintry evening air.

Harry and I walk to the thick stone railing that encircles the rotunda.

He's not wrong about the view. In all my born days I have never seen such a thing. Spread out around us I can see the beams of traffic beetling around Constitutional and Pennsylvania Avenue. All the way from the mannerly Supreme Court Chambers to the Russel and Dirksen Buildings. It's a grapy blue night with the lights of the city diamonding beneath a faint dusting of stars.

"Wow. You weren't kidding about the view," I say.

"Told you," says Harry. He hands me a beer. "Show you something I learnt to do in the Army." He grabs the beer and bites the cap off. "My dentist isn't too impressed."

"I'll bet," I say, snapping the cap off mine and taking a swallow. "Guess who I ran into today on my way to talk to the ranking member of the Intelligence Committee?"

"Who?"

"The new Republican Majority Leader. That Chad Wyatt guy from Nebraska."

"Yikes. How did that go?"

"He's all hat and no cattle. He wanted me to cosponsor that bill of his that cuts antiterrorist funding for airlines." Harry grimaces even as I say it. "The man couldn't manage his way out of a paper bag and the shadowy corporations 'deep-state' want him to be a successful majority leader. What were they thinking with him?"

"Who knows," shrugs Harry. "I've stopped trying to figure out why people keep voting for them. I find that it saves a lot of time. So...why did you become a Senator, Jason?"

I nearly choke on my beer. "That's a loaded question. Why did you get into politics?"

"My grandpa, Michael Hirano III. He flew some of the first rocketships when they were phasing out aeroplanes. Helped strongarm better healthcare through the senate for Hawaii."

"Is he still alive?"

"No." He looks down at his beer. "Passed away a couple of years ago unfortunately."

"Sorry to hear about that," I say.

"Your turn. How did the gay white trash senator get into politics?" He's not being insulting. For months, that's what every news feed and newspaper had nicknamed me.

"You ever hear about a little town in Kentucky called Beattyville?" I focus my eyes on the obelisk in the distance as I try to keep down the bad lump that insists on working its way up my throat. "I lived there for eighteen years. I didn't always love living there but I loved the scenery."

"Hey, wait..." Harry frowns. "I remember now... Wasn't there something that happened there? Something to do with a chemical plant...RedCorp or something, wasn't it? There was cooling tank malfunction and it caused a huge explosion that wiped out the town? Over four hundred people."

"449 exactly," I correct.

"You were there." Harry's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. "Like, when the whole place blew up—? I didn't think there were any survivors."

"I nearly didn't survive it and it was very close to being 450 dead. It took me off my feet. The local chemical plant owned by RedCorp was always too close to the town. It was almost smack damn in centre of the town, just a few blocks from my high school. We were told my whole life that it was safe. That nothing could go wrong." I can still remember the boom exploding in my ears. "But we were wrong."

I remember it like it's yesterday.

My drunken father had lolled out of bed in his uniform and gone to work at the plant. My mother, like usual, had snorted a bunch of pills and drunk herself numb before ten o'clock. It was the summer holiday and it would be my first day off from the diner in eight months.

"It started off like any normal day," I say. "My drunken father went to work. My coked-up mother got high. I was having a day off from my two jobs for the first time in eight months. My best friend and I were planning to meet in this sunflower field and go hiking."

That wasn't entirely true. I wanted to meet Link at the sunflower fields that stretch for a full mile beside the old train tracks outside the town because I needed to talk to him. We had slept together the night before and it had been a mistake. He was my best friend. What made it worse was that I enjoyed it so much, too much. Especially wrapping my legs around his waist and pulling him into me. Even though he wouldn't admit it, I knew he'd done it because I was in pain and he wanted to ease it somewhat. Burn away my bad family. My drunken Dad. Drive out fire with fire. His Mom was a scientist at the local laboratory and she'd been out of town for the week.

It had been a perfect day.

That's what still made the memory so haunting. There wasn't a flicker of danger of what was about to come. There were blue-tipped clouds casting patches of moving shadows across the green trees and undulating waves of sunflowers. At this point, no one but Link knew that my body had somehow been transformed and restructured into impenetrable steel by the radioactive chemicals from RedCorp. That's I was faster, stronger, and carrying heightened senses.

"There was a little explosion and I thought that was it." I'm reliving it all. The first explosion. Very Close. Too Close. Close-enough to make the ground shake and the knee-high flowers to jump up towards my face. "But then I realised something else was wrong." I had flash-zoomed with my eagle vision into the red cloud flowing into the sky. I had the baffled sense as if I'd just been thrown forward into the action. My ears had tuned to catch the noise of men shouting and panicking in the distance that it was going to blow. I had whipped forward at blurring speed, shouting "Link!" I would not stop until I had tried to do whatever I could to save the town.

But it didn't matter.

In the end.

For a moment, everything seemed frozen in time. Then an almighty bubbling sound filled my ears as the blood red light raying through my splayed fingers blew me backwards through the air.

"The explosion blew me back before I could help," I say solemnly, looking down at the ground below us. "Apparently, Governor Brown and the great Republican legislature had deregulated the zoning laws in Kentucky. That way they could put a chemical plant right near a densely populated area without anyone being able to stop them."

"Fuck," remarks Harry. "Hope they're not in politics now the idiots."

"I think they all got out," I say knowingly.

I don't add the part about how I hunted them down and killed them. Each and every one of them. Speared Governor Brown with the American flag from his office. The rest of the Democratic and Republican legislators that had signed the bill into law from dark money bribes I had enjoyed. Some I even ripped the hearts right out of their chests with my bare hands.

But I was a bit more theatrical.

Back then.

"The whole town was covered in dangerous fumes from the chemical plant for days. They had to fly water over and everything."

I remembered seconds after the explosion, when I had climbed back to my feet amongst flaming debris and burst through the forest. The town in front of me had been draped in noxious, swirling fog. I should have been able to see the streets, but I couldn't. Everything was blanketed in bright red poison gas. It didn't stop me from running forward. The square loomed before me, barely visible in the clouds of gas. My diner with its pretty awnings. Gone. Blasted to bits. The school. Gone. The only motel in town. Gone. But the dead weren't gone.

They lay where they had collapsed, almost as if they were asleep. Others were badly burnt and charred beyond recognition. My teachers. My classmates. The people I had grown up with. All dead. Suddenly, the memory is gone and I'm whiplashed back to the top of the Capitol with Harry, drinking beer.

I must've been silent for a while.

"That must've been tough," Harry continues on. "Did you have any family there?"

"Two parents," I say. "Both incinerated in the blast. Not that it was much of a loss. My father was an abusive alcoholic and my Mom was so heavily addicted to heroin I doubt she noticed she even had a son who paid the bills half the time. But even them dying didn't send me into politics." The wind lifts a strand of my hair. "I was prosecuting some white-collar criminal and the sentencing guidelines recommended 24 years. The judge gave him only 47 months. And then I saw an image of President Rook on my netscreen in my apartment later that night and I realised it. They just don't give a fuck about us. Any of us. None of them do. And they're accountable to no one."

"Well the Majority Leader from Kentucky that you booted out certainly doesn't think that now," says Harry with a devilish smile. "It's good to have you in the ring. We always need more fighters."

"To the good fights," I say, clinking my bottle with his. "Let's hope that this year we win many of them. Hey, you know what time we're supposed to get the briefing on foreign actor cyber threats from the Director of National Intelligence on Friday?"

"It's going to be about eight." He checks his wristcomm. "Damn. It's nearly nine. I better get going home to Laura and the kids. You're on MSNBC or CNN tomorrow night, hey?"

"Yeah. I'll be going on CNN. My Press Secretary Bobby is completely terrified. He's been arranging it for months and he feels like I'm going to do something crazy."

"Just don't let them steer you with that Democrats are out of touch bullshit." Harry is dead serious. "They're happy to say that while Republicans are the ones that vote to take away their own voters healthcare and kill everyone who votes for them but we're out of touch."

"Thanks," I say. "I'll keep that in mind. See you at the intelligence committee on Friday."

"See you then."

He leaves me alone on the roof.

ii.

Like I told Harry, my first live TV interview is on Thursday. It's right after I've had my first Judiciary Committee meeting to confirm Judge Erik Elliot III from Texas to an appeal circuit. He was the kind of bald, aged rich Republican dick that was common in the American judiciary. You know who I'm talking about. The kind that would give a man accused of campaign finance fraud 47 months when I would be prosecuting for 14 years because he was that much of a whiny wimp. The kind who would consider such a man of living an otherwise blameless life despite the fact he'd swindled American taxpayers out of millions of dollars.

I'd already spent the weekend picking apart his judicial record, including a disgusting opinion saying it was pretty much all right for banks to launder terrorist money because who cares, and late one night I'd found what I suspected. While a district attorney for Williamson County he'd refused to release exculpatory evidence to a teenager's defence team that exonerated him. The evidence was CCTV footage that showed a different man robbing and killing the victim.

When we asked the neighbours they said they turned it over to the lead prosecutor in charge right away. The defence counsel for the kid was on to him, though. They called a pre-trial hearing with the judge and there he gave an award-winning performance, lying that there was no CCTV tape. That no evidence had been excluded. I had watched Judge T.S. Elliot III gulp and sweat on the C-SPAN cameras as I'd grilled him. It had been enjoyable. The police broke in just like I'd timed it to drag him away. A grand jury had just indicted him and he was now heading to prison.

For a very long time.

And he is no longer a judge.

It had made me the talk of the Capitol. Republican strategists that were one cheeseburger away from a heart attack had quickly infected every cable talk show to gasp and clutch their pearls, calling my questioning on the horseshoe an unprecedented outrage. Funny how they didn't mention the now twenty-five-year-old kid Ed Norton who had been in prison since he was sixteen. The kid that had just been released from prison. It's weird, but I liked their crazed faces with their eyes oystered under too much makeup and the way they could act so insulted. They were as mutually horrifying and fascinating as a reality show about rich housewives.

I am getting miked with a panel of people on a glass table while the man at the centre of the table, Ron Lemon, a CNN anchor that had repeatedly said I wouldn't win, shuffles papers around and reads his datapad.

"Well," I say, leaning back away from the sound guy to make eye contact. "So much for never having me on. I thought that was your position on having me on your show."

"The network disagreed after your stunt at judiciary. Apparently, you caused the highest ratings spike C-SPAN has seen in decades," Ron grimaces. He's a thickly-built black man and as gay as me. I'd probably hook up with him if he didn't have that Italian fashion designer boyfriend that was in Forbes and much younger. And if he wasn't a journalist. "And you can't argue with numbers. So, anything planned for this evening that I should prepare myself for?"

"Nah," I deadpan, checking through my phone for missed messages. "I didn't have time to come up with anything. I've been so busy avoiding interviews at more reputable news stations, like Entertainment Tonight and TMZ."

"Shame."

"It was. You sure you got enough glass in this place?" I take a moment to cringe at the crystal cave it looked like we were encased in. "It's like Superman's man cave in here."

"It's the style."

"It's a dumb—" I shut up as Bobby walks over. Both Jackie and Bobby wanted to accompany my first interview to make sure I behaved myself.

"Is he behaving himself?" Bobby asks Don.

"As best as I think he can," shrugs Don.

Bobby turns to me. "Listen," he says, gritting his teeth. "This is your first interview which means whatever you think about doing don't do it. You do anything but act charming and all of us are going to have to deal with a massive shit storm come this weekend. So, you smile, be nice, and do what no one in the continental United States but your staff knows you can do – be friendly."

"We're on in ten," a guy in a headset yells.

"I'm watching you," warns Bobby.

Bobby stalks off to stand in the shadows with Jackie. Ron leans over to whisper to me, "Looks like you're in trouble" as someone counts us down into the segment. I watch a LIVE sign glow red above the cameras and Ron introduces us. "Our next guest has caused shockwaves in Washington this week, tossing out a federal judge and having him arrested." I roll my eyes. Only in Washington would doing your job competently generate the dreaded 'shockwaves'. "Of course, everyone knows who I'm talking about, Senator Jason Jones of Kentucky." The camera turns to me and I smile like an idiot right into the lens.

This is going to be fun.

"Senator Jones, thank you for joining us tonight."

"Thanks, Don," I say, grinning at that camera. "It's so good to be here at Entertainment Tonight. I've always wanted to meet J-Lo."

"You mean CNN," grunts Don.

"I think most viewers at home would agree it's pretty much the same thing." I can see Bobby having an aneurysm in the back of the studio. "But I'm grateful for being invited here."

I have to give props to Ron for being the professional that he is. He continues to smile and carry on with the questions. "You're welcome," he begins, "let me introduce our other panellists." He goes round the table and introduces a woman strategist from the RNC who I know only got her job cause her father was a governor. And another guy from the New York Times, which I didn't think still existed. "Now, Senator Jones, starting with you. Do you think you're actions this week were warranted?"

"Well, Don," I say, "considering that the judge had locked an innocent teenager up for a crime he didn't commit, I would say my actions were warranted. When I was a DA in Louisville I actually made sure the person who had committed the crime was locked up. If there were mistakes, they were never maliciously intended."

"Sorry, if I might just interrupt you there for a moment, senator," says the RNC woman, in an obnoxiously pleasant voice that sounds like glass shattering in my ears. "But it was incredible disrespectful to do that to a judge. You know me, Don, and I'm a moderate, and what I saw in the Judiciary Committee was unacceptable. It hurt the country what you did, Senator Jones."

Wow. This is one strategist who's nuts. "I know," I say. "That poor guy won't be able to screw over minorities from the bench anymore. It's really a shame. I guess I should also be sorry about prosecuting that KKK member too." I smile at her icily. "But I'm not."

The newspaper journalist is about to jump in but I stop him. "I'm sorry," I say, holding up a hand. "But is this how this Dixie shit show is going to go down, Don? You ask me a question and then everyone jumps in with their opinions of the facts?" I turn to the RNC woman. "It's Sarah, right?" She nods. "Listen, no offence Sarah but you only got a job here because your daddy is the governor of Texas and you're screwing the producer of Don's show. Weird that your still on TV since everyone knows your Dad is prolife and yet easily forked over the forty grand to get you an abortion when you got all knocked up as a cheerleader with that black guy's kids."

Sarah's eyes are watery. "How did you—"

"Oh, please," I say. "Like half of fucking America doesn't know. So you can stop with the prolife tweets already clogging up your twitter feed." I am really on a roll now and I'm going in for the kill. Bobby and Jackie are hiding their faces behind their fingers. "You're also a RNC strategist. Your take on whatever I do is always going to be negative so at least have the balls not to bullshit and hide it all behind that moderate bullshit. I could cure cancer and you would literally say I was the antichrist. You are paid to spin everything I do in the negative. In fact, I have no idea why they even pay you a salary to be here." Sarah runs off the news show, sniffling and crying. I look around me at the fancy graphics and glass. "Well, I'm a moderate Don, you know me, but that shit just"—I throw a thumb over my shoulder at the direction in which Sarah fled—"there was just a motherfucking disgrace and against democracy and all the bullshit she just said earlier. Just...is this what the news has become? A bunch of people screaming over the top of each other. I mean is it not possible to fire everyone here and replace them with much better people. Now THAT is the question."

"Well." Ron continues awkwardly at the cameras. "I think we better quickly cut to the commercial break and we'll be right back with more of this scintillating conversation on American politics."

After the interview, Jackie comes over to me. I ask her where Bobby is. She says he went to find a bar to start drinking. "What happened to that chick I scared off the air?" I ask. "What's-her-face."

"The producer and her have both been fired. There was a meeting a few moments ago by the shareholders and they decided they had to go. They were escorted out of the building."

"About to time," I laugh. "Can anyone in this country do their job, Jackie? Or is it only me and my staff that can actually do their job."

"I wish I knew, sir," says Jackie. "Listen I've got to get home to my sons. I'll see you tomorrow morning at work. Try not to cause too many scandals for Bobby to deal with. Any more and I'm afraid that kid will have a nervous collapse."

"I'll try."

Ron walks over to me as I'm going through my datapad for my intelligence committee hearing on Friday. "Hey," says Ron. He's pretty chipper considering I pretty much just denounced him and his entire network on live television. "I don't really feel safe doing this considering you just got my boss fired, but want to get a drink in the bar across the street?" He's in a sleek leather jacket. Before now I've never seen him out of a suit. I've never noticed he actually looks kind of sexy. "My treat."

"Sure," I say. "Why not."

iii.

"You're a dick. You know that, right?"

Ron takes a difficult swallow of his highball and places it back down. He's chosen a pretty swanky place. There's jazzy music floating and tinkling through the chandeliered room from somewhere. I can even see some actors in the back. No one drinking and eating around us seem to pay them any attention. With how expensive the food is in this place they must be regulars.

"I know," I say. I swallow my own highball and drop my glass down with a shiny clack onto the bar as the liquid burns its way down my throat. "But when you ever interview a decent person on this Earth that ever managed to get anything important done give me a call. You, sir, should be thanking me. For the first time in years your show won't have to cater to those crazy nutcases. So you're welcome, for taking that bullet by the way."

"Hey, I'm not saying I'm not thankful," says Ron. "The last RNC strategist we had to fire because he kept saying the Holocaust wasn't real and that Sandyhook was a government conspiracy."

"Ah those pesky little facts." I grimace. "You know, one of these days someone is going to wake up and realise free speech is a lot like smoking. Too much of it can kill ya."

"Yeah, yeah, and I get al that but would it really kill you to, I don't know, lighten up and be a little decent every once and a while?

"Ha! I've tried being decent Ron and let me tell you people just walk all over you." I take another swallow. The room is beginning to spin. "If you ask me, being decent is superiorly overrated. I don't know how I got to here but I can tell you how I didn't get here...by being decent."

Ron laughs. "You're lucky you got elected in Kentucky. I just can't imagine California or some other well-mannered blue district electing you to the Senate with that mouth." His phone bells in his jacket. He scrabbles around, retrieves it, and starts to swab down the little slab of glass. "That would be Roberto. He's wondering what's taking me so long. I suppose I better be heading off."

"Is that the hot fashion designer boyfriend that you're always getting photographed with?"

"The same one." Ron waves down one of the waiters so he can pay the bill for our drinks. "He's got the ass of a bodybuilder and somehow manages to still get us invited to all the good Oscar parties." He shows me the photo of a stallion of a man in nothing but boxers, with wavy brown hair and curly chest hair. "He's waiting for me to come home so he can ride me."

I can't say I'm not jealous. "Lucky you."

"He said you could join...if you want."

Ron gives me a kinky smile. I guess I sort of freeze at this point. He doesn't have time to hear my response, because I am grabbing my jacket and practically dragging him outside to the chauffeured car that the network provides for him. Roberto is in the penthouse apartment. He doesn't waste time. He introduces himself, approaches me, and we start grasping with a hot wet kiss, our tongues dashing in and out of one another's mouths. I can feel his cock stiffening against my effective hard-on in the lycra jockstrap he's got on. "This one kisses good," he smiles, kissing Ron, then me again. "Come to the couch. I've got a drink for you both."

"Wow," I say eagerly. "You don't waste time."

"He is talented," Ron agrees.

I sit on the couch with a shot of whiskey while I watch Ron take of his clothes. I strip to my boxers, sip my whiskey, and watch Ron grip Roberto's hair as he kneels before his magnificent muscled black body. Ron's cock is already half-hard as Roberto pulls it from his boxers. "So the rumours about you being hung weren't wrong." I smirk over my shot of whiskey. "You're next." Roberto winks as he opens his mouth and Ron releases a delicate groan. "That's it cocksucker." Ron is really getting into it. "Show me how much you love having my dick in your mouth, baby. Swirl that tongue." Roberto pulls off before he blows. "Leave some for the guest." He comes over to me and starts to kiss and lick his way down my chest, his stubble rubbing against my abs. "Whoa." I make a fist with his hair and arch my back when he takes my cock in his mouth. "You weren't kidding about him being talented." My eyes were tearing up with the effort to avoid blowing all over Roberto's face.

Ron shrugs. "Told you."

My dick develops in Roberto's mouth the longer his head is bobbing earnestly all over my shaft. Pretty soon my dick is full size, and the girth of it is spreading apart Roberto's jaws impossibly. Ron is squirting his own cock with lube and watching us both hungrily.

We all move to the giant bedroom with plate glass walls canvassing skyscrapers. The sheets are made from the finest red silk. "Damn these sheets are the best," I sigh as I jump up backwards on it and Roberto slinks on next, followed by Ron. He stays sandwiched between us both, working my dick as Ron starts to lap his sweet gap. The whole room gets lost in all of our groans and Roberto's guttural Italian. "Roberto, fuck you're amazing." I gasp, trying to stop myself from blowing too early for the sixth time that night. "Thank you. Your cock better than Republican congressman." I eye Ron suspiciously. He finally comes up for air from Roberto's ass to tell me, "Another story for a different time." I shrug and put my hands back in Roberto's luxuriously wavy hair.

That's when I see Ron's cock hanging down below Roberto's ass and boy is it big now. "Fuck, your cock is huge," I observe.

Ron laughs, his voice deep and smooth. "You're such a white trash country boy." He waves it around. "Come have a taste of it, boy."

"Don't mind if I do." I slink across the bed with a genuine smile and grope his insane shaft. I feel him lightly place one of his large hands on the back of my head, a bit of hesitancy in his actions. His thick black cock tastes salty as I run my tongue and lips along it. He looks down at me as I am kissing and slurping along his cock, moaning, "Oh yeah, that feels really good." I pull back and switch positions with Roberto, who bends over on all fours down with his face on the mattress. Soon Ron is sliding his cock into that amazing Italian ass with one smooth motion. "Damn baby, you really are a dirty little fucker, aren't you?" Roberto bites his lip in pleasure. "Yes sir, yes I am. I'm your dirty little fucker." Ron makes circular motions with his hips as he loosens Roberto up. His slamming forces a groan of agonised pleasure from Roberto's lips each time he thrusts in. "Mind if I come in to your ass?" "Knock yourself out." While Ron is pounding Roberto, I lube up and ease into Ron's ass.

My cock quivers in his tight ass cheeks.

Ron leans back and moans as I inch in gradually. "So the rumours about you being hung weren't wrong. What are you, like eight inches?" I chuckle and grip his neck to steady as I push one final time, the last few inches of the length of me, into his tightest, most sweltering spot. I sigh deeply. He's so deliciously tight. Now we're all piled together with me on the top. I put my hand on Ron's hips and begin unleashing in his ass while he pounds Roberto underneath him.

"Do you like it?" Ron asks me with a lot of heavy breathing in his voice.

"Yes. Much better than the interview," Is all I can say. The feeling of pleasure is making it difficult to get words out. I spank his ass playfully as my dick goes deeper and deeper. Ron has his hand on my right hip, pulling me in deeper still as Roberto is reversing himself furiously onto his own cock. "Oh...Jason, oh, yes, yes...FUCK ME HARD! Just like that!" I'm in balls-deep thrusting mode now. I lean in. "Fuck yes!" Roberto is moaning too. "Yes, give it to us." I hold Ron's shoulders and slam as hard as I can. "Fuck you feel so good!" I can't hold it any longer. My legs start to tremble. "OH. FUCK. GET READY! OH FUCK HERE I COME!" I groan out my load impressively into Ron's thick black ass. Ron releases a similar groan and thrusts his own load into Roberto who explodes over the sheets. When we're all done, we practically collapse on top of each other.

"I think I'll come to CNN more often now," I say.

Ron hits me with a pillow as Roberto laughs.

# Chapter 5.

Murder At The Senate

i.

I slip out of Ron's apartment sometime early in the morning around three a.m.

He and Roberto are still sound asleep in the bed, but I need to get home and change into a fresh suit. I leave him a thanks for last night message scrawled across one of my professional senate business cards. It's a nanochip one that has a rotating senate seal and my name disappearing and reappearing on the cream-coloured electronic cardboard.

It's a crisp Washington morning, a breeze off the water offers the scent of freshly baked toast and coffee, the thrumming buzz and blare of traffic promises a busy day ahead. Heavy purple clouds have stacked the horizon and it's raining by the time I'm inside. The light has an almost underwater quality. After showing my ID badge to the guard at the main entrance of the Russel Building, I place my things on the security conveyor belt to be scanned. There is no one in line at the checkpoint. The building won't officially open to the public for another two hours. There's a few automated cleaningbots roving around the marble corridors but aside from that the building is reflectively spotless and deserted.

I am prepping for the intelligence committee and ruminating about whether or not I should tell Bobby that I slept with Ron Lemon and his boyfriend last night when a woman's ragged scream shatters through the morning silence. It's a raw, horrifying, tearing sound. I whistle so fast into the corridor outside my office that I rattle all the awards and certificates along my walls. I spin round in one of the Russel Building's many intersecting corridors, disorientated, frowning, eyes narrowed, my ears strangling the air for any hint of where the scream came from. Thunder rumbles and cracks far up above me. Rain is sheeting across every window I whip past. Come on, come on. Find where she is. "Someone! Anyone! Help!" This time, I know. I push off from one wall like a bullet, stumbling out at the Russel second storey of the Russel Building rotunda overlooking an encampment of marble arches and the statue of Frederick Hall.

I put a hand on one of the columns to brace myself as I peer over the balustrade. And I find her. The woman who screamed. And now I know why she screamed. Spreadeagled on the floor before her, just about in the centre of the room, directly under the rotunda, soaked in a spreading pool of his own blood, is Senator Bill Nixon of West Virginia. A bloody sneeze covers the face of Frederick Hall. He's been shot once in the head and twice in the heart. But that's not the worst part.

That's written across the wall in his blood:

Socialism will rule.

The right will fall.

Death to capitalism.

Well, that is just great.

Some fucker on Racoon News is going to have a field day with this socialism crap. The idiot has just torpedoed my chances of introducing my universal health bill at morning hour.

Oh, yeah.

They'd also killed Senator Nixon.

ii.

I stare out into the street. I can see through my office window that there are camera crews from all the major networks lining the road. After the forensic techs and the FBI arrived to inspect Senator Nixon's body, it wasn't possible to keep a lid on what had happened any longer. Today's committee meetings had been cancelled. Most of the staff sent home. I was shut into my office with Harry and Jackie, who were all waiting questioning from the FBI agent in charge. The netscreen on my office wall is on the news but with the volume muted, the tape along the bottom scrolling along: BILL NIXON SENATOR FROM WEST VIRGINIA DEAD AT 70.

"They said his secretary found him," says Harry. Jackie is sitting beside him on the couch, watching the netscreen. "That poor woman must be in shock still. Her husband had to come and take her home. She found him just like that."

"What kind of depraved idiot would do that?" Jackie wonders. "I mean, political differences aside, you don't think the message on the wall in his own blood might be a bit...much?"

"You think?" says Harry.

"What I'm wondering about," I cut in. "Is how someone was able to kill someone in the Russel Building rotunda and get out without anyone seeing anything? This building is one of the most secure places in Washington D.C. and it isn't open to the public until eight. So some maniac slipped in, killed Senator Nixon and then slipped up without being stopped at any one of the three security checkpoints that always have guards?"

"Apparently the security cameras were wiped somehow. They even erased the C-SPAN footage in both chambers." Harry shifts uncomfortably on the couch, flings an arm over the back. "So apparently that new cyber security system we just had installed was worth zero dollars."

"I'll say."

There's a grunt at the door and we all look up to see a man in a large coat sticking his head in. "Senator Jones? I'm Director James Hardy of the FBI. I was wondering if I might be able to ask you a few questions about Senator Nixon's death?"

"Oh. Sure." I rise to my feet and shake his hand. "This is the senator from Hawaii, Harry Hirano, and my Chief of Staff, Jackie Wallace." Jackie and Harry both quickly take turns greeting the Director. "What do you want to ask me about?"

"Just a few questions." Director Hardy pulls up a chair and sits down. Another agent follows him in and hovers by the door. Probably his security detail. "So you discovered his body this morning?"

"That's right. I was here early to go over some work for the Select Committee on Intelligence and then I heard a scream. I quickly ran out of my office and followed it to the rotunda. That's where I found his secretary standing over him."

"And was it true you were seen discussing something with him a few days before he died?"

"Yes, that would be right. The opioid crises was crippling both our states. I was trying to get him to cosponsor a bill that would inflict harsher penalties on pharmaceutical companies for illegal prescription practices." I then take a moment and remember the rest. "He said he'd agree if I made the penalties harsher. I did and submitted it to the committee for consideration and that was the last we spoke to each other on the subject."

"Did you see him any other times before he died?" Director Hardy is scribbling all these notes down on a datapad with a stylus.

"I think...Maybe the last intelligence committee hearing?" I speculate. "I wouldn't know exactly, sorry Director, but I am pretty sure it was the last intelligence committee hearing last Tuesday."

"And how did he seem to you?"

"Bill was kind of a weird Republican," I hedge. "He was pretty old-fashioned and stoic. I couldn't really tell what he seemed like most days. I do remember thinking he looked distracted, even for him. But he might've been stressed with all the work. We've been trying to get to the bottom of the Russian interference when President Rook was elected and there are Republican members of the committee continually obstructing our efforts."

"Wasn't he the chairman?"

"Yeah, but he was getting old," I point out. "As hard as he tried, I think it was becoming harder for him to fight the nutcase people in the party when they kept dashing off to Racoon News to complain that the Democrats were the deep state trying to upset democracy." It was sad, when you thought about it. He wasn't the best man but he had at least tried to make the country better. "They said he was going to probably retire after this term."

"Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Senator Nixon?"

"It's possible the President might have wanted him to stop investigating. He's tweeted about it enough times that he wants all the Russian investigations to stop. As for anyone else, no one specific comes to mind. Harry?"

"Sorry," says Harry. "I can't say that I know of anyone, either. For the most part he was pretty much liked by everyone around here. It could've been some protestor but I don't know how some crazy socialist protestor is capable of wiping the security footage of an entire building."

Director Hardy nods and slips his stylus back into the back of his datapad. "That should be all the questions I have for now." He climbs to his feet and holds out a business card to me. "If you think of anything that might be able to help us with our investigation, please don't hesitate to call."

"Thanks." I take it from him. "I will. Any leads as to who could have done this?"

"Unfortunately not now. But I'll keep you apprised of any upcoming developments. Until then, we'll be searching this place from top to bottom. The good news is tomorrow is the weekend so we should be finished combing every inch of this place by Monday with any luck." He leaves and the three of us all look at each other, concerned.

Harry's wristcomm beeps and he looks down at the screen on his left wrist. "Oh you have got to be kidding me," he groans. "No way."

"What?" I demand. "What is it?"

"Guess who was just appointed the new chairman of the intelligence committee?"

"No," I beg. "Not him. Please anyone but—"

" Chad Wyatt of Nebraska." So it turns out that the day could get a lot worse than it already was.

iii.

Despite Senator Nixon's murder, the Senate is soon back to boring routine business as usual after just a couple of weeks. I blamed the speed on the fact that the State of the Union was right around the corner and fast approaching. Because the speech is made to a joint session of Congress, the House and Senate each pass a resolution setting the date, and the Republican Speaker of the House Matt Ryan had already made the formal invitation to President Rook several weeks before Nixon had been murdered. It wasn't like he could rescind the invitation now even though a senator had been murdered. I had been hoping vainly that after the last one this one would get cancelled.

I had been moaning to Harry and Jackie all week about how bad I knew it was going to be.

President Rook being a "very stable genius"—his exact tweet—managed to make some very "unstable" remarks. Those unstable remarks then usually inspired a bunch of neo-Nazis to rally somewhere and kill someone. I had experienced that personally when an old faction of the KKK had reignited after his last State of the Union and killed a single black mother walking home from her job at the hospital in Louisville. My office had prosecuted them all for life sentences. Still didn't change the fact her son ended up in foster care.

"Can't I just say I'm sick?" I tell Jackie in my town house on the night it happens, picking out two ties fastidiously from my automated suit rack and comparing them. "We all know how this is going to go. 'I didn't interfere with the Russians. No collusion, no collusion.' I feel like we shouldn't be encouraging him."

"You have to go," says Jackie. "It's your first State of the Union, Jason. If you're absent the whole entire Press Corps will have a field day hunting you down for dereliction of duty. Racoon News might make a miniseries. Bobby will have a nervous background. And then you'll have the reputation of being one of those senators that overworks his staff and needs to be voted out because he's such an asshole and nobody likes him and he has no friends.

"That escalated quickly," I say.

"All I'm trying to say is...how do I put this gently...? You have to go. Suck it up. I'll be waiting downstairs in the car with Harry. And the tie on the right is the one. We're running late."

I pull a face at her and then I look at the mirror and find that she's right about the tie.

As always Harry's car is waiting for me outside, next to my steps, engine running. It is already dark but the State of the Union doesn't start until nine o'clock. We'll have plenty of time to find our seats. I hope it's not going to be as bad as last year. Please, please, not as bad as last year, nothing to inspire white supremacists. I'm in the back of the car with Harry between Jackie and me.

"Where are Laura and the kids?" I ask.

"Laura's making them stay home to watch it. It's a school night and Peter is sick."

"Aw, damn. That's no good. They probably won't miss much. I think this State of the Union is going to follow a very predictable pattern."

"Me too."

There's the unusually heavy security around the Capitol tonight, police cars, hovercopters and barricades erected around every avenue.

Harry and I and Jackie pile out of the car together. The suits hustle us inside, through the heavy security surrounding the doors, into the corridor, up the lift, and into the House.

The Senate is nothing compared to the House.

It almost looks like a stadium.

I had visited but I hadn't seen so many people and Capitol Police and Secret Service agents milling watchfully around the room. Even in my swearing-in it hadn't been this packed. There are the usual people I hate. Majority Leader Sen. Chad Wyatt. House Speaker Matt Ryan. They're conversing amongst themselves, their hair shining with an extra coat of whatever oil they apply that smells so bad.

I can smell the body spray from where Jackie and I take our seats with Harry.

I'm thinking that it's lucky we got here early when there's a last minute dash for seats. I look around at the people around the room.

The Deputy Sergeant at Arms is addressing the Speaker again, and loudly announcing to all of us the arrival of the Dean of the Diplomatic Corps, the nine severe-looking Supreme Court Justices, the grizzled and exhausted-looking military generals that comprise the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

I don't think it was really fair to put the Joint Chiefs through another State of the Union. In the last one he had gone on a cringing rodomontade about how the military had been doing a poor job at fixing problems before he was president.

On the campaign trail he called them losers.

I check the time on my wristcomm. It's 8:30pm. Where the hell is he? Can we start this already? The Deputy Sergeant at Arms is announcing Vice President Mike Pence. It can't be much longer. That's when the House Sergeant at Arms announces loudly, and with flourish, "Mister Speaker, the President of the United States!"

The applause and cheering begins. I stay in my seat with Harry and start a slow, painful clap while everyone else jumps to their feet. As the roaring continues, President Rook slowly walks up towards the Speaker's rostrum, flanked by members of the Congressional escort committee. I watch him mount the lectern. He, of course, addresses Senator Nixon's death. Those responsible will be brought to justice under fire and fury and the other usual lines he repeats endlessly on Twitter.

How the minutes pass during his State of the Union address, each one an agony.

He finishes with a final line: "Obstructionist tactics used to stall the progress of our great nation will not be tolerated. We can, and must, work together to make America great."

There's a final curtain of applause that closes out the speech. I grow cold as our gazes meet.

I turn to look at Harry. "Why do I feel like that was a threat?"

"Because it was one."

I grow cold as the President and I lock eyes.

He looks away from me first.

iv.

Almost right after the State of the Union we have our first Senate Select Intelligence Committee hearing with our new chairman, Senator Fuckface. Up until then I spent the whole week trying to find ways to get out of going. I even contemplated making a few puerile attempts at trying to break one of my arms. I didn't feel there was much I could do to injure myself. Bullets didn't work and I hadn't broken anything since I'd been covered in radioactive chemicals as a teenager. Consequently, I find myself trudging down the staircases with Harry on Friday to the SCIF. It stands for Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. Basically, it's a room designed to prevent eavesdropping of any kind. We spend around two hours a week speaking to the men and women who lead our seventeen intelligence agencies and be updated on the latest threats to our nation.

I'm putting my cell phone in the cupboard outside the door when Chad Wyatt comes down the stairs.

Harry nudges me and I look up. "Well, well," he sneers. "Guess you're not acting so smug now that I'm the intelligence chairman."

"I'm always smug," I snark back. "Considering how brainless and incompetent your party is, I'm not at all surprised they'd put you in charge. I don't know why they'd leave someone so unintelligent in charge of intelligence, though. Do you even know what intelligence is? Have you seen it before?"

"Watch those snide remarks, Jason," says Chad. "I can easily have you off this committee."

"And how will that work?" Harry joins me by my side. "You need an even number of Republicans and Democrats to issue subpoenas for investigations. And the minority leader isn't going to let you replace him with anyone."

"There are other ways." It's clear Chad is just being theatrical now. Harry's right about that logic. No Democrat would replace me. "I'll see you both inside. Today is going to be special hearing. I think you'll both really enjoy the work we're doing." His mouth hints at a smile as he walks off.

I lean over to Harry as we go in. "I don't like the sound of that," I comment. "When have you ever heard a Republican eager to get anything positive done and not thought 'well something's about to get seriously screwed up and I'm going to have to fix it later'."

Harry gives a lazy shake of his head. "Ain't that the sad truth."

We take our seats in front of a raised dais where there's an intelligence member from the CIA. The guard locks us in and we all start taking notes by hand. I know something's wrong the second I see a new analyst I don't recognise. He looks kind of thin and twiggy, definitely not the type of intelligence veterans I was used to seeing when Senator Nixon was chairman.

"Who the fuck are you?" I nearly terrify the kid out of his oversized suit. "Where's the Director of National Intelligence? Jim Clapper? He's updating us on our cyber security protections to election systems ahead of the 2080 elections." Our election systems were currently under nefarious—and effective—assault from the Russian government. On top of that, Democrats had pretty much broken bones forcing the intelligence services to release their findings. The January assessment had found that "Russian President Oleg Ivanov III ordered an influence campaign in 2072 aimed at the U.S. presidential election. Russia's goals were to undermine public faith in the U.S. democratic process, denigrate Ambassador Cortez, and harm her electability and potential presidency."

Russian agents were still using Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube to spread false and inflammatory information and to stoke divisions that we were still trying to extinguish.

"I – I've been told by the Chairman that he no longer wants to be updated about that," the kid babbles. "Instead I'm supposed to be briefing you on another threat facing America." Oh, this is going to be good. So the safety of the country wasn't a problem? What the hell were we doing there then? We might as well crack a beer and take advantage of the eavesdropping-proof walls by having an orgy. "Today, I'm going to be briefing you on the Homosexual Threat to the United States. Senator Wyatt asked for it."

I open my mouth to protest, but Harry beats me to it. "How about we investigate anything else other than this, like, I don't know—nuclear proliferation? Home-grown terrorism? You know, something that the taxpayers won't be ashamed to learn we're wasting their money on."

"And I thought we already tried to handle the homosexual threat," I say. "And just gave up."

"If you both have a problem you can take it up with the Majority Leader of the Senate." It's so stupid I can see what he's about to say before he adds, like we're beneath him, "Oh wait, that's me. And I say we're doing this. I really don't see any need for us to continue investigating all that Russia business. I've handed it over to Homeland and they've told me they'll take care of it."

Wow.

Really?

"That's what they told us during the midterms." My knuckles are white from forcing myself not to launch across the room and smash his face in. "And they didn't do a damn fucking thing to secure the election systems or the power plants. We only had our asses saved because the Governors in most states stepped up to provide funding." I don't add that it had only been the Democratic governors. The Republican ones hadn't seen Russia in the midterms as an issue.

"You can submit it in writing but for now I'd like to hear what the young man has to say." Chad turns back to where the young analyst from DNI is standing at the podium console. "Go on, young man." Harry and I share infuriated looks with each other as we go through our briefing packets. Great. So now we'd lost the only Republican senator in the whole United States Senate that had actually wanted to figure out if the President was working for the Russians or not.

My job just got a whole lot harder.

# Chapter 6.

Cabal in The Cloakroom

i.

Once through the doors of the SCIF, I storm angrily through the noisy crowds milling in the marble halls of the Senate. Even the cheery young senate pages flock up against the walls in terror to stay clear of me.

I know I look murderous because I am, with every inch of self-control, avoiding the urge to kill the Republican Majority Leader. I pass under ornate marble arches and loops of velvet rope, crossing flinty senate seals lazered into the chequered squares of black and white marble. Bright globes of chandelier light shimmer in the floors. There's a line of portraits that frown down at me as I walk. Hillary Clinton. John McCain. Lyndon B. Johnson. The ole giants of the Senate. I. Can. Not. Believe. This. Is. Happening!

The Senate cloakroom is perhaps the only place in the Capitol where only senators are allowed. Typically, it's fairly abandoned except when we're about to vote on pieces of legislation and today is no exception. I find my Minority Leader Reid filling up his mug in the automated coffee machine that's always operating around the clock.

"There's no way he can do this!" I slam my hand down on a glossy mahogany table after I'm finished telling him what happened in the SCIF, dropping my usual classy and professional demeanour. "He's taking the national security concerns of America and brushing them under the rug like they're not there! I know we're not in the majority in the House or the Senate but there must be something we can do to stop this? I'm not just going to sit on my ass and wait for us to flip the house and the senate in two years."

"I'm sorry," commiserates Robert. "But there's just nothing I can do as Minority Leader while they control the committees. The best you can do is go on CNN or MSNBC and inform the public."

"I don't want to go and bitch on the news!" I say flatly. "I want to be able to just do my job without some incompetent fuckwit fucking it up! Is there any way—anyway at all—that I can hold separate intelligence committees on actual threats to national security without his permission?"

"Unfortunately not with the Intelligence Sub-Committee," he says. "Since it's dealing with classified intelligence the chairman of the committee has to be notified of every meeting. You won't get a single intelligence official through that door without his written permission."

"But—"

"I'm sorry, Jason, but I'm late for a meeting. Right now we're all going to have to do the best that we can. I would try and find some bipartisan issue you can work with him on."

"Robert!" I could strangle him but I'm trying to keep my voice gentle and sincere. There is little point in trying to mask my feelings. "Bipartisanship has been nothing but a myth in this corrupt town for years. I have lived under the reign of these people for thirty years and they have never cared about anyone but themselves."

He starts to turn away. "I'm sure you'll find a way," he assures me. "You're one of the most resourceful senators I've met."

When Robert leaves, I suddenly feel light-headed. So that's it, that's all we're going to do. Just sit on our asses and do nothing.

I sink down into one of the thickly studded leather couches, and rest heavily on my elbow. Bipartisanship. Ha! Yeah, like that's going to happen. Maybe when pigs fly, I think. Ugh. Older, wizened senators made those dumb comments to me and they made me want to punch a hole in the wall. When are people going to clean the earwax out of their ears and get it through their thick skulls? Republicans have never—will never—care about anyone but themselves. There is no spin that can explain away their actions. The truth is they're just from a different time. They never grew up fighting in trailer parks for every breath. And there wasn't anything subjective about my determination I could think of a handful of bills that had ruined people.

All of it introduced by Republicans.

S.900. Introduced by Texas Republican senator Phil Gramm, the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act repealed the financial protections of the Glass-Steagall Act and led to the subprime mortgage financial crises of 2007. S.256. Introduced in the 109th Congress by Iowan Republican senator Chuck Grassley, the Bankruptcy Abuse Prevention and Consumer Protection Act of 2005 exacerbated the financial crises and fleeced millions of Americans by unleashing the predatory practices of credit card companies. But the best development of all was the multiple stabs at repealing the nation's healthcare in H.R.1628.

Sure, Democrats had caved way too easily on some of these fights but most of them had started across the aisle. And people forget that too easily.

My phone buzzes in my inside suit pocket. I take it, inspect the screen ID (...Harry Hirano Calling...), and shove it against my ear. Harry doesn't hesitate to jump in right away. "Well? Is there anything he can do about Chad screwing up the committees?"

"It's, uh, well, it's not looking good for us," I exhale. "In fact, we're screwed. Robert says he can't do anything about the intelligence committee since they all deal with sensitive classified information. We can't even hold our own hearings without permission of the gold old chairman."

"What? But...did you tell him what happened? That he's essentially doing nothing?"

I grip the phone tighter. "What do you think? He still said there's nothing he can do." There's a rustling noise in the background. Is he even listening to what I'm saying? "Where are you? What's that noise I can hear?"

"That would be Peter's Xbox. I'm at the kitchen table cutting food for dinner. Laura has got a big case tomorrow so I'm taking care of things for her." I look at the moulded cornice ceiling above me and lean back with the phone against my head. "How about if we go to the Director of National Intelligence tomorrow ourselves? There must be some way we can get round him. It's not like he can say 'no' if Maxwell Frost forces him to brief us."

I get quiet, then make a sad sighing sound into the phone. "I know." I force myself to sit back up on the couch. "I was thinking I'll head over to his office this afternoon and I'll try and see him. I just can't believe this is happening."

"But we can't stop fighting them."

"No." My forehead scrunches up. "No, we can't. I'll see you tomorrow." I click off my phone and pocket it.

I don't know how long either of us can fight them but we are going to fight them. Even though there is a part of me that just wants someone in the Republican Party to actually give a damn about their own country for once in their lives.

ii.

Behind the counter, Maxwell Frost's office secretary pops out of her chair to try and stop me as I'm charging towards his office. "Sir, I understand what you're saying but you can't go in there. If you do, I'll have to call security and have you escorted out." I look at her, unaffected. I'd really like to see what they could do to stop me. "You know what? Sure thing. You get security, Abigail. But please tell me how you understand about the pressing national security concerns of our nation that no one seems to give a damn about."

I try the imposing panelled door. It's locked. I break the door down. I'm greeted by a trio of generals in army uniforms jumping out of their seats as the door bounces woodenly on the floor. "Your door is broken, Max," I inform. "And I need you to clear out whoever these nice gentlemen are because we need to have a little chat about national security concerns."

"I'm sorry." Abigail purses her lips. "I tried to stop him, Director. I thought the door was locked. I was going to call security to have him escorted off the premises. I can still do that."

"It's fine, Abigail," sighs Director Frost. He finishes scrawling some notes with a stylus onto a datapad and secures it. "Gentleman, I think that briefing will suffice today. Let's meet together again tomorrow to go over those security arrangements for the President's trip." The men pass me as Director Frost gets up and approaches a tray of steaming coffee and pastries that's been left on a low table. "You know if this was the '60s we'd have shot you by now for barging in like you just did."

"If this was the '60s"—I pick up his door and prop it haphazardly against the frame—"we wouldn't be ignoring the fact that the current administration colluded with the Russians to win an election at all costs. We'd be doing something about it." I'm not being particularly vindictive towards Director Frost. In a weird way he's the one person in President Rook's administration I actually like. "I suppose you already know why I'm here?"

His office is comfortably large. Rows of military medals gleam from the top of his bookshelves. His giant console desk is backlit by a tall octagonal window with an airy view of Washington.

"Yes, I do." He stirs some sugar into his coffee. "And I think the Republican Majority Leader is being an idiot playing with national security like this, but I've checked the guidelines. I can't do anything if the chairman of the committee refuses to take an intelligence briefing. Whatever you think I can do, I can't do it."

"Nothing?" I say feebly. "Nothing at all?"

"Don't look so shocked," says Director Frost, returning to his desk. "Unfortunately our government relies on those at the top and in leadership doing their job."

"They're the worst."

Director Frost laughs softly. "Between you and me, and I'll deny it if you tell anyone, I agree with you there." I look at him in surprise. "This is probably the worst administration I've worked for in my whole career in national intelligence." He wipes sweat from his forehead. "I don't think anyone has ever worked for people quite as batshit crazy as the current occupant of the White House."

"Then why don't you quit?" I smile.

He sighs and puts down his mug. "Can you imagine how dangerous that would be for the country if I did and the President replaced me with one of his cronies?" He takes a breath. "The homeland secretary just recommended throwing every black person we could fine in an internment camp and repealing the voting rights act."

"Didn't she used to work for that neo-Nazi group in Mississippi? The one that bombed a church?"

"The same one."

"Was she joking?"

Director Frost shrugs. "Who knows with that lot?" He jerks his head in the direction of the window where I can see the White House. "They're a bunch of media moguls and billionaires that wouldn't have seen a day of hard work in their lives. And they think they, a bunch of spoilt brats who have never cared about anyone but themselves and their investment portfolios, can do a better job than decades of trained military and intelligence personnel who are good at their jobs."

I feel a cold lump of dread rise in my throat. If the director from the office of national intelligence is having difficult with navigating the administration on Russian interference, what hope do I have of ever finding out the truth in the Senate?

"Be honest, do you think I'll ever succeed in getting the government to see that we have to do something about Russian interference?"

Leaning against the desk again, he straightens his dark-red tie and gives me a dead look. "You don't have a chance in hell. The administration is stalling me on every security defence I've tried to have installed. The President somehow believes they helped him win his last election."

My eyebrows pop up.

"Do you know if they did...?"

"No."

I cross my arms and tilt my head. "Would you even tell me if you did?"

"No." He gazes out the window for a moment, then walks around the desk and crosses his arms over his chest in front of me. "But, I can definitely tell you offhandedly that if the director of national intelligence was aware of any active investigations into the President's staff concerning Russian collusion I wouldn't be able to tell you. I would need to confer with the intelligence committee before declassifying anything and releasing it to the public. No matter how urgent."

Ah. I see. I take a deep breath and keep my mouth shut while I'm analysing every word he's saying. He's essentially telling me that I'm not crazy. That those conservative nutjobs on the daytime talk shows can't say President Rook is entirely innocent. Something did happen. Something worth investigating.

"Which, somehow, I don't think is likely to happen anytime soon," I grunt. "Unless the chairman miraculously grows a spine—"

"But. That's not all." Holds his palm in the air. "If such evidence were to exist the person collecting it might hide it as best as possible from the people in power so that it doesn't suddenly disappear or end up in a disinformation campaign by a foreign power or worst...on Racoon News."

Huh? What was I going to do then? And how could I know that he was telling the truth? He might be the grizzled general type, and they slimly tolerated bullshit of any kind, but he'd still been selected by the administration. And if I was learning anything about this administration, it's that they could betray anyone for a quick dollar.

"And what if a United States senator was sitting in the Director of National Intelligence's office and was wondering if he was feeding him a bunch of bullshit on behalf of the administration just to make him think that everything was being taken care of? When it so clearly isn't."

"Unfortunately," he says. "It's a gamble."

"Well, that clears that up," I fume as I get to my feet. "So I'm back to square one again. Thanks for nothing. How does anyone stand working for the President? How do you stand it?"

Director Frost gazes at me in a way I find disconcerting and almost a little bit sad. "I care too much about the United States not to do it. Have a good day, Jason. We'll talk again soon."

iii.

I get back to my townhouse somewhere after nine and slump down on the couch with Racoon News on, limply kicking off my shoes. The lead anchor for the nightly news is some blonde chick. I know her by name. Beverly Burnham. She's bitching about how I'm some radical progressive or something.

"The democrats, or, should I say, the demon-rats, have a new star in their midst!" Her voice trills to a scandalously high volume, it's so absurd that I can't hold back a small chuckle. "It's junior Kentucky senator Jason Jones. This radical leftist wants to give your kids healthcare and send them to college! All with taxpayer dollars!"

"The government is funded through taxpayer dollars!" I yell aloud to the empty apartment, then flip my middle finger out at the netscreen. I don't know how Bobby keeps apace with the nicknames the pundits on the news invent for me. This seems to be the hundredth consecutive time I've appeared on Racoon News's nightly segments; I must be getting extremely popular.

You signed up for this, remember, I think to myself as I go to the kitchen and grill myself a cheese toast. Did I, though? Did I ask to be versing my own country to keep it safe? Did I ask to be fighting the entire United States government and the President to make them see what was right in front of them?

I stare out at the dark kitchen window pensively and go through my datapad while I'm waiting for the cheese to melt and fold around the browning bread. Then I carry it back to the couch and crunch into it. After the long day, the sweet taste of melted butter and sizzling cheese is just what I needed.

I don't know when my eyes close but, before I know it, I am waking sometime later to the electronic chirp that signals that someone is pushing my doorbell panel. A smoky light filters into the room from the iron lamppost outside and I rub my eyes to get a better look of my surroundings. The last embers of the fire I'd built up earlier before drifting off are crumbling to a soft glow in the grate, spiking the room with shadows and softening the gleam of the furniture.

I blink groggily, fuzzily, refusing to believe the notion that it's morning already. It feels like only hours have passed since my head hit the pillow. I peek at my wristcomm. I'm right. It had only been hours. I glare at the door venomously. Then who the hell is at my door at midnight demanding to see me? An assassin? When I open the door, behind it is revealed to be an entourage of Secret Service men I vaguely recognise accompanying the President everywhere.

I tense up, expecting trouble as I examine their coolly grave expressions. "Hello, can I help you gentlemen with anything?" And if it doesn't involve all six of you coming into my townhouse and getting naked with me forget about it, I add to myself darkly.

"The President would like to see you, sir." The lead agent in charge tells me. "Tonight."

# Chapter 7.

Whiskey in The White House

i.

I'm fully awake now. "What? Why?"

"I'm afraid that's for the President to discuss sir, not us." He sounds almost apologetic. "Our only orders are to escort you to the Oval Office so that he can meet with you." He presses his lips together in annoyance. "He said it was in the interest of national security."

Below us by the steps, three cars wait for us, purring. What are the chances he'd miraculously decided to actually be a decent person in the last twenty-four hours? Not likely. It's possible Director Frost notified him about my visit. Yep. That's probably it. I'm such an idiot. Of course he'd tell him. What had I been thinking interrogating him of all people?

"Fine." I sigh as if I'm in pain. "Let me just grab my coat and I'll come deal with whatever this is about." I quickly add thuggishly, "But if you boys are planning to pull an old mobster move and pour concrete over my legs and dump me into the river let me tell you—all six of you—right now: that won't end well for any of you."

"Understood, sir."

I slip on my jacket and pull my shoes back on. My suit is rumpled but who gives a damn at eleven thirty at night. The guards help me into the back of the car and we speed soundlessly through the ghostly streets of Washington that unspool and interweave before us. "We have the package," one agent in front of me is saying over a comm system built into the car. "Inform the house we are back en route. They can expect us any minute."

I focus on the gliding of the car as it speeds along. Buildings and cars pass us at a hypnotic, trancelike pace. I'm not exactly afraid. I mean, left to my own devices I'd easily be able to snap the necks of all six of the men escorting me even if they did try and kill me. But what would I do afterwards? If they are going to try and kill me and I stop them, what would I really be able to do next? Inform Congress? Most of the Republicans in the Senate would assume I made it up and then I'd be the talk of every Racoon News morning show. I suppose I could give Good Morning America a swing.

After what seems like an eternity, the car finally swings onto a small narrow road flanked by small buildings. We make a left turn towards a black iron gate and pull up to a security checkpoint. A bright square of red light cuts through the vehicle, passing right through me, and the gates scissor apart to allow us through.

I'd never been to the White House before but I'd never imagined it to go anything like this, escorted by a motorcade thundering up to the West Portico Entrance. I get a few moments after being ejected from the vehicle to look around at the sculpted hedges and gardens. Surrounding us is nothing but an oppressive swirling blackness, the kind that looks capable of devouring someone. A disorientating thought dawns on me. They couldn't actually be stupid enough to try and kill me in the White House, could they? Anything was possible.

A tinny buzzer sounds and the solid glass doors swing open. I follow an agent through a vast carpeted foyer as he steers me swiftly down hallways, and past opulent rooms filled with shining gilded chairs and couches while the other tanklike guards follow behind. Finally, we approach the narrow hallway outside the Oval Office.

"You can go right in," the agent says. The way he says it makes me believe it's not a suggestion.

"Cool," I say. "Thanks."

I roll my eyes, twist the polished gold knob, take a deep breath, and step into the Oval Office knowing that I would rather be just about anywhere else. I hear the North Korean prison camps are just great this time of year. Only so much soap-opera teen-drama tactics could have been dreamt up by the same egomaniac who used to run a telecommunications company.

He's standing, staring up at the moon through the three large south-facing windows behind the president's desk, and the fireplace is alive with tendrils of fire. President Rook. He looks exactly as the bloated bag of toxic sludge I've come to watch spew stupid things into a television camera and bedazzle and charm the media.

"Senator Jason Jones." He turns to greet me. "I've been expecting you."

I pretend not to notice him and instead scan the room as if I can't see him. "Oh—" I pull back in shock. "Sorry. I couldn't see you there, Mr President." I shut the door. "I thought you were a traffic cone. You know you really should see a doctor about reversing that Jersey-shore tan." I flop down onto one of his damasked couches, kicking my feet up onto his coffee table. "Any particular reason why you had the Secret Service haul me out of bed at midnight to talk to me?"

"I was hoping we could work together." President Rook steps forward in a businesslike way. "In the spirit of bipartisanship."

"You've got to be kidding me?" I blurt out. "This is, like, a joke, right?"

"No joke. No tricks. I genuinely want to heal the rift between our two parties and get back to the business of helping this country succeed." His crooning has a paternal note to it.

"You have a lot to answer for," I say. "Considering you got your self elected tearing this country apart and have shown no sign of giving a damn in the past three years of your Presidency about the destruction you've caused. Or shred of any type of human decency for that matter. I mean, I'm an asshole but you're on a whole other level, like the Nazi and white-supremacy level. You need to see a psychiatrist."

"And I want to make it right." His eyes are a dark brown, almost black, and devoid of any expression. When he speaks, his voice rings out into the room, slow and musical. Now I'm starting to see how he's such a brilliant con artist. "So, I've decided that I'm not going to pursue repealing the Affordable Care Act."

I stare at him, numb with confusion. "I'm sorry..." I can feel a migraine of fury begin to pound behind my right temple. "Is this the part where I applaud you for not being an asshole when that should have been your default position all along? I just love Republican logic. Thank you for not fucking something up for once, I guess? That's an improvement for you guys." How much prison time do they give you for killing the President again? Is it like a guaranteed ride to the electric chair or would I be able to say he asked for it?

"I wanted to do it as a show of good faith towards you," he drawls. "I want us to work together, Jason. I want us to get good things passed for Kentucky by working together. I know you've been trying to get opioid addiction taken seriously. I'm going to be telling the Republicans in the House and the Senate to fast track it."

Why do I feel like I'm being bribed?

"So you suddenly actually give a damn about the non-Mexican citizens now," I say brazenly. "I'm impressed. It only took you nearly three years to realise the opioid crises was a problem. Your last budget allocated peanuts to the people recuperating from addiction and I think one of your secretaries, the incompetent one – but then again that narrows it down to like only 250 appointments – wanted to scrap the whole thing."

"It's true that my administration has not been the best at addressing issues," he agrees. "But I've turned over a new leaf. I've decided that it's the people that really matter." He shrugs and waves a hand around him. "I think being the President has really changed my world view on things." He flashes me a brilliant smile. "And I've decided it's in my best interests to change."

I cock my head to one side and regard him with mild amusement. "Alright? What's the catch, then?" I challenge. "What's the big plan? At what point does this all become an act? When does the rich investment bank swoop in to collect all the money from the giant tax cut? And you could have announced that at a press conference why the hell did you drag me here?"

"Ah. That. I want you to know that I know you've been fishing around on the intelligence committee." I feel my breath freeze in my lungs. "I know you're not happy with the new Majority Leader's direction on the intelligence committee. I know you've been interrogating my Director of National Intelligence. I suppose all I'm wondering is what exactly it is you're hoping to find?"

"Nothing. I hope." I smile indulgently. "But your campaign did meet with over three hundred Russian officials before the election. And we all know they helped win you that election."

"Most of it was disclosed."

"That we know of," I correct.

President Rook taps his chin and looks pensive. "Interesting? What do you suggest I do to assuage your fears about my ties with Russia?"

"Appoint a Special Counsel."

"Not going to happen."

"Then I suppose we're just going to have to learn not to trust each other," I shrug. "Because you learn in my previous line of work that people who are worried about being investigated generally have something to hide. So, since bribing me hasn't work, I think we should hurry up and get to the part where you threaten me. I'm really looking forward to climbing back into bed."

"Very well. If you don't stop pursuing these childish tactics to hassle my administration, life is going to get very hard for you and your little friends in the Senate. Much harder."

"That's it?" I'm not impressed. "That's all you've got? If I don't stop investigating things with the Russians you'll make things...harder?"

"Yes."

"Alrighty then." I get to my feet. "Good night, Mr President. Good luck with all your evil plans."

"What?" President Rook stammers. He watches me walk to the door with vile fury encased in his beady dark eyes. "You – you can't do this! You have to stop this nonsense!"

"I'll make you a deal." I hold the door open. "I'll stop when you release your tax returns." When I close the door, I hear him shout in anger. The infuriated sound is quickly followed by something crashing musically against the wall, probably a glass. But I don't stop walking out.

ii.

After the lonely scratch of rocks on asphalt signals the Secret Service car's retreat, I lean back against the heavy oak door of my house and take a deep breath. What a feckless coward. He'll make things harder? He could have gone into more details and tried to make it bloodier. I find myself actually feeling sorry for the Russians. If that was the guy they had picked to act as their personal puppet inside the United States they were going to be wanting a refund pretty soon.

I wearily climb the stairs and drop into bed. "Well, that was a waste of time," I grumble to myself. I don't even get to shut my eyes before the alarm on my wristcomm goes off. "Come on. You have got to be fucking with me." The square display doesn't lie. It's time for work already. I force myself to roll over onto my back with my whole body burning for sleep.

Clumsily, I fumble across the room to the bathroom to inspect my face. It's not a pretty sight. It looks like I've been out drinking all night. Next minute, I am showering and brushing my teeth and drinking about eight cups of coffee. My thoughts are still turning over what happened last night in the Oval Office. Did the President just obstruct justice? Did he just try and get me to stop? Why didn't I record anything? I was such an idiot.

At least I know that I'm not crazy.

The President was involved in something. And he knows I'm not the type to be dissuaded by whatever is being insinuated about me by the brainless fuckwits on the morning talk shows. Why else would he go to such great lengths? I beam a quick text to Harry about last night before I get in the car. He only texts me back that we need to talk about it.

I thumb on the ignition and drive through the streets with my car making no noise except for its silvery high-powered whine. I'm grateful for today because it actually allows me to rest my pounding head on the steering wheel in between traffic lights.

Maybe it's because I'm tired or I'm still pissed at the President, but whatever it is, I don't notice the black armoured car crossing the intersection until it crashes into the side of the car. I gasp for breath and grip the wheel as my tyres screech across the intersection, slamming my foot on the breaks. The streets spin around me in a fury. The only thing that stops me is the traffic light pole my car crunches sideways into. I flex my neck on a groan and open my eyes to glance out the windshield, dazed, stars sparking at the edge of my vision.

It's hard to miss the armoured men sauntering across the street to kill me.

iii.

"This is just turning into the worst week of my life." I calmly survey the tanklike men. "Come to Washington D.C. Be a senator. You'll spend your whole term cleaning up other people's messes and have people trying to kill you." There's five of them in total and they're all holstering these thick, bulky looking rifles. My eyes narrow. I recognise the type from one of my cases. Russian military grade. So, the President possibly let his little friends know about our disagreement.

"If I'm going to kick someone's ass, it's going to be to some good music." I flip the radio to a station that is playing Black Betty.

Then, sighing, I kick the door of my car off its hinges. It sails across the street and collides sickeningly with one of the men, collecting him and crushing him against the armoured car. I can tell by the sound of the impact shunting in the side of the armoured vehicle that he's not coming back from that one. The others don't react. They don't even flinch. Someone says something in a low voice and immediately their guns are firing rounds at me. A volley of bullets glitter off my skin. I scan the scene rapidly as I'm marching towards the thugs – most of the bystanders on the street have scattered to safety behind cars and houses.

There's weighty thumps as I throw the men around the intersection. Punches. Groans. It's way too easy. One fires at me until he's out of bullets and then slams a knife at my chest.

As the blade flashes through the air, it, too, fractures into a dozen pieces. The man's eyes bug open in the slit of his mask. I smile. And then jump my knee into his chest with so much force he dents a parked delivery van, crumpling on the ground. Something sweaty and soft makes direct impact with my face, and even I have to wince at the impact sound—crack!—like someone punching a concrete wall with their bare fist. I hear every tiny little splinter of bone as the guy who tried to take me out grips his arm and shrieks. I roll my eyes. Clench his jaw with one hand. Silence him with a clinical twist of his neck.

"You're the best assassin they could afford?" If I'm being honest, I feel a little robbed. "You think they could've forked out the cash for some American hit man. What do we have to do to get jobs back in American hands?"

I hear a shout, and spin.

The last guy alive has his rifle pointed directly at me. He loads it and fires. There's a click and the little square screen on the hammer of the gun flicks red as the gun switches from rifle mode—to rocket rounds. I see the smoke plume around the barrel as a rocket comes towards me. I zip out of the way in slow-motion and have snapped the man's gun into two pieces before he can react. Even before the rocket blows a hole right through the delivery van behind us.

I wrap a hand around his throat and lift him up, my thumb wedged under his chin. "You want to tell me who you guys work for?" I ask pleasantly. "Because if you don't I'm going to assume from all the Russian-model rifles you're using that it's someone high up in the Russian government."

He thrashes and his boots scrape against my suit, but it's useless. He's not going anywhere. When he realises it, he wrenches off his mask. He might be an assassin and the guy who just led a death squad to try and kill me, but he's incredibly good-looking.

Even snarling at me he's hot.

"Why do the bad guys have to be hot?"

"You're not going to live very long Senator Jones." His accent is Russian.

"What do you know," I say. "You do speak English. You wouldn't mind telling me what was up with the shooting at me, would you? I prosecuted a lot of cases in Kentucky so it's kind of hard to keep track of the people who want me dead."

"Sorry. I signed NDA. Long live Mother Russia."

There's a tonal beeping sound on the red belts crossing his shoulders. The little explosives are blinking red. It suddenly accelerates rhythm before I can do anything. "You don't have the—"

The deadly assassin winks and presses a cylindrical device in his hand that looks like a lighter.

The detonation is contained cause my body takes the brunt of it, but it blows the man out of my hand in a puff of fire and blackens my face and hair in the process. I put out a strand that's on fire. I look down at my suit and face. It's sooty and black. I look like I've been playing with fireworks.

"I take it back," I cough, swiping smoke away from my face. "Who the hell are you guys?"

The hot assassin leader is all disgustingly singed and bad-looking now. His blackened body reminds of burnt chicken. I don't why, but that image immediately makes my stomach sink in on itself. I clench my teeth. Breathe through my nose. There are people assembling around the intersection. All concerned. All looking at me. What's going on? Is that the junior senator from Kentucky? Why did these guys shoot at him? Bile rises in my throat and I bite my teeth together to swallow the bitter feeling back down into my stomach. I don't want anyone to film me throwing up.

"Senator Jones." A little girl, holding her phone out to film the whole thing, is peeking out behind a parked car riddled with bullet holes. "Are you alright? That guy just blew up in your face."

"Yeah," I wince. "Just a scratch." Then I remember her phone. "And delete the video. I don't want it ending up on the news."

I sink down onto the sidewalk beside her as the sirens in the distance creep closer and closer. Closing my eyes, I wince against the pain tearing at my chest and rub my hands over my head. I don't have any wounds but there's a constant throb in my head from the explosion. I'm thinking it's probably a good idea to stop moving until the dizzying sensation stops. Despite this fact, my thoughts still arrive, in fiery repetitive bursts.

The Senator who had been leading the Senate Intelligence Committee investigating the President had been shot and killed in the Russel building. His replacement is trying to cover up the President's actions. An hour after I visited the Director of National Intelligence looking for answers, the President dragged me to the White House and tried to talk to me. That had failed. And, not a day later, an armed death-squad had just tried to kill me.

In broad daylight.

So not only am I fucking pissed off, I am pretty fucking sure that the President or someone close to him is trying to have me killed.

Which means they've made their move.

It's time I made mine.

# Chapter 8.

The Scottish Bodyguard

i.

When I get back to the Russel Building, I sit in my office chair and press two icepacks against either side of my face and lean on my elbows. I take deep breaths.

On the other side of my office door, I can hear a bunch of my staffers frantically evading calls from news stations that want to talk to me and turning out senators that have come into my office to figure out what's going on. Several of them are whispering about the menacing pair of guards that are stationed beside my office as a precaution. Someone tried to shoot up the senator today apparently.

The netscreen has a news report on: BREAKING NEWS: JUNIOR SENATOR FROM KENTUCKY ATTACKED. They're showing a street scene. A wrecked car, rammed into a light post. My wrecked car. The one that was a definite write-off.

I went from having a paramedic hassle me with a medscanner and tearing open my suit to Bobby and Jackie showing up and hassling me in the car ride back if I was alright to police detectives hassling me about the dead assassins. And now, I was shirtless and sitting in the air-conditioning, having Director Hardy hassle me about why someone had shot at me.

"It seems," says Director Hardy. "That someone is trying to kill you."

"Ah, you think?" Harry is sitting in the corner on one of my couches. He came rushing over the second he heard I was coming to the office instead of going to the hospital. He briefly threatened to drag me there himself until I told him the paramedics gave me the all clear at the crime scene. "They just sent a small army of guys with military grade weapons and explosives after him! He barely got out of there alive!"

Director Hardy ignores him. "Did you recognise any of the men that attacked you?"

"No." I sigh and lean back in my chair. The icepacks on my face are really starting to help. "But they were dedicated. I'll give them that. One guy blew himself up in front of me so that he wouldn't be alive to give us any information. They were also sporting Russian XM-621 pulse rifles. I recognised the gun from a case of arms trafficking I prosecuted back in Louisville."

"A deadly weapon," Director Hardy agrees. "We're running their faces now through the system to try and get a match. So far, we've only identified one match...a Commander Boris Lumentov." He hands me a datapad with the face of the man who blew himself up in my hands. "He worked for the Kremlin before he went rogue."

"That's the guy who blew himself up." I inspect the list of offences. He's wanted in thirty countries for assault, arson, theft, murder. "We sure the Russians aren't just pulling your leg about him going rogue? They're not the most trustworthy individuals. It's possible they're covering for him."

"The intelligence officials I've spoken to have said as far as they know the Russian government put out a kill order on him a few years ago. So, for once they might actually be telling the truth this time. By the way, how did you kill them all—"

"Shouldn't we be worried about the more immediate concern," Jackie chimes in frantically. "What if these nutcases try and kill him again? He's not high up enough on the seniority level to warrant a senate protection detail."

"I've arranged for them to send over one of their best agents for the job." It's Robert's turn. The Gang of 8, all the top officials in the government, had been briefed on the attempted assassination attempt on my life. The minority leader of our party had asked to join me in my office when the director of the FBI came to visit. "We'll have one person in the house at all times and two guards waiting in a car out the front. He should be safe for now."

"Woah," I say. "I appreciate the sentiment everyone but who says I need a bodyguard?"

They all look at me like I'm nuts.

"Alright. I get it. But, look, they know it's not going to be so easy the next time so they'll probably send an army I can see coming from a mile away. I don't want them to think they've rattled me."

"Jason," says Harry. "We know nothing rattles you, but these guys were serious. You and I know you don't get those weapons into America without having some seriously connected friends in high places. And you can't stay awake for twenty-four hours in the hallway with a shotgun waiting for them to bust the door down. You're going to have to sleep sometime."

I didn't state that I wouldn't need a shotgun or to stay awake. My supersonic hearing would pick up anyone who even stepped foot into the street where my townhouse was. I also didn't want witnesses I would have to evade in order to hunt down the people who had just tried to kill me.

"But I don't want a bodyguard!" I release an agonised moan. "I don't like feeling trapped and constantly guarded every moment of the day! I told myself when I became a senator that I wasn't going to be surrounded with hordes of security. I don't like the feeling of being watched."

"Can Jackie and I have a minute alone with the senator please both of you?" Harry is talking to Robert and Director Hardy. I watch the two of them nod and get up and leave. When the door closes behind them, Harry holds up his hand before I can argue. "Stop. Jackie and I thought you would pull something like this. Which is why we agreed to gang up on you."

"It's not just yourself you have to think of," says Jackie, pressing both hands down on my desk. "If you're a target than anyone else in this office could be hit by a bullet while with you. If you had a security detail that possibility would drop. It would be irresponsible and dangerous if you didn't have a security detail, Jason. For heaven's sake! Someone just tried to KILL you!"

"Plus have you seen your car?" Harry adds. "It's full of bullet holes. There's no way that's going to be fixed in anything less than a couple of months, so you might as well get a free car ride. And, I'd knew you'd object, so I called ahead and we got you assigned one of my old buddies from the Air Force. We flew rocketjets together and he's assured me that he'll stay completely out of your way. The protection squad will stay outside."

I scrutinize the look passing between the both of them. It's clear I'm not going to dissuade them from the idea of having a bodyguard installed with me. Since they didn't know I was bulletproof and hadn't been in any real danger, it did make plausible sense that they were terrified about me being killed. I was going to have to play along and find some way to ditch the detail later.

"Fine," I huff. "I'll agree to a protection detail. I guess it would be reckless not to after what's happened. But I don't want them in the house. I don't need a babysitter."

"That's fair enough."

"I'll grab the Director and the minority leader," says Jackie brightly, opening my office door. "You can come back in, boys. We wore him down. He'll agree to the protection detail like we discussed. I'll just get you all the paperwork he signed for it."

"I didn't sign any paperwork!"

"I forged you signature for you," Jackie snaps back to me as she returns with all the forms to give to the minority leader. "There you go, Robert. He's all good to go. Director, do you want me to show you out of the office?"

"That would be great," says Director Hardy. "Sorry to be meeting like this again, Senator Jones. I'll keep my men posted on the door until the senate protection detail takes over."

As Director Hardy is leaving behind Robert, I make up my mind to ask him the question that's been troubling me since he arrived. "Director, about Senator Nixon's death...have you got any leads as to who was responsible for it? Anything that might point to the murderer?"

Director Hardy regards me sadly. "I'm sorry to say we've reached a dead-end, senator. No one saw anything and all the cameras operating in the area were wiped. We don't know how. None of the guards saw anything. Right now the only people who were here in the Russel Building at the time of his murder were the security officers, you, his secretary, and a few other staffers." He walks to the door and stops in the doorway, remembering something important. "There was also someone else here. A senator from Nebraska. But we checked his alibi and it all checks out."

"What was his alibi?" I ask.

"He was staying late on the floor of the Senate because Senator Mitchell from Texas was filibustering some spending bill thing," Director Hardy informs me dismissively. "It checks out. The Congressional Record shows that the Senate adjourned at around 12:05pm. A couple of clerks confirmed he was there. The medical examiner said the time of death of Senator Nixon was somewhere between ten to eleven at night, so that rules him out as a suspect."

"But wouldn't the guards have found him before then? They usually do hourly sweeps," I argue.

"No. I mean, sure, but that night a couple of guards had called in sick with the flu. Because they were understaffed the guards only made a couple of nightly round. One at eight and the other at ten, and then they waited for the morning guards to take the next shift."

With that, he walks out of the office, leaving Harry and me sitting there.

I don't believe him so I get onto my datapad and check the congressional record. I'm disappointed to find that he's right. Senator Fuckface was there the whole night and the Senate adjourned at 12:05pm. Which meant he couldn't have killed Bill. Damn! I was so hoping for an excuse to kick him through a window. Guess I'm going to have to find another one later down the line.

ii.

I cancel all my committee hearings for the day so that Harry and I can discuss my chat with the President in secret. I tell Jackie that I'm not to be disturbed until Harry leaves. Harry sits back in his chair once I've told him everything. "Wow," he says. "That president of ours is a real piece of work, isn't he? You think he sent the armed death squad after you? Because you refused to back down from investigating whether he was working for the Russians and their tactics?"

"I think it's the best possible answer." I'm flipping through pages on my datapad. "Phone calls between world leaders aren't recorded. It's possible he phoned up President Ivanov III in Russia after I left the White House."

"Then what do we do?"

"You aren't doing anything—"

"Jason, come on. If they tried to kill you then this is serious. Someone either working for the President or close to him is dirty. Since it's probably both this is about the democracy of the United States we're talking about here. Everyone in the Democratic Party has to be fighting."

"And the Republican—oh who am I kidding they won't do anything—yeah, it's just on us. But you're right, Harry. These people did try to kill me. If you start poking your nose around like I did they might just go after you, the wife, and the kids." I know by the way Harry's face crumples with realisation about endangering his children that I can count on him not to do anything stupid. "And we can't have them caught in the crossfire. If I investigate, the worst case is that they blow me up. No one gets hurt. I'm not saying you can't help investigate but for now it has to look like you don't care. If they find out, someone might try and take a shot at you."

"Fair point," says Harry. "But what now? We can't investigate on the committees in the Senate or the House. We're pretty much powerless." He massages his fingers into his brow. "It's almost like, whoever they are, they've already won the game. We've got nothing to fight them with."

"Leave that to me for now." I abruptly stand and walk to the window. "I'm going to have to get creative about that."

iii.

The next few people in my office after Harry leaves for a hearing include Bobby to schedule my appearance on CNN with Ron to discuss the attack on my life, and the head of the senate protection squad with floor plans of my house. As the boss of senate protection, Major Alfred Finegold was in charge of the minutiae of protecting all the senators and their families. He was a serious man. I'd known about him, dimly, because we were suppose to run things by him if we were going to attended crowded events so that he could attach a detail to go with us.

I spend his entire explanation of my detail with my mind churning furiously, turning over alternatives. Finally, I say, carefully, "Do you think I'll have to have this protection detail long. I'm grateful, Alfred. I am. I just kind of feel—what's the word—caged being surrounded by security all the time. I'm sure your men are the best but I don't want to put them in danger, too."

Alfred gives me a wavery smile, but it fades quickly. "Don't worry, senator. It's my job. Our men are among the best-trained in the world. They'll be fine. We'll also have ball-drones rotating the blindspot of the property. They'll be one car positioned outside the house at all ours." He presses down on the Gray Malkin Street outside of my townhouse. "We've had it swept and it's clear for you to return home. Due to the risk assessment, I've advised your press secretary to have your interview here in this building."

"I'm going to the floor in about fifteen minutes to discuss the attack," I say. "Will that be allowed? I won't be long. I just want to assure everyone I'm alive and all. And near-death experiences does wonders for approval ratings." I give him a smile but he doesn't react. "I was joking."

"I know." Alfred points to the guard hovering smoothly in the corner. He's handsome, iron-jawed, neat as a pin. "This is Special Agent Doug Galloway. He'll be accompanying you everywhere from now on. Your chief of staff, your press secretary, and pretty much everyone who works for you told me that you have a penchant for disobeying advice and being a pain in the ass—"

"I've been meaning to fire all of them—"

"—but here's the bottom line: you don't listen to him and we will lock you up in a hotel room away from daylight until we're certain that the threat level has passed." I can tell Alfred isn't messing around by the way he looks me in the eye. Clearly someone has been talking to Jackie. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Fine," I sigh. "I won't do anything without asking him first. I promise."

My new bodyguard steps forward smoothly. "That's good to hear, sir." He holds out his hand for me to shake. "Special Agent Jaxon Galloway. I'll be accompanying ye to the floor today."

I look at him narrowly, feeling considerably surprised and astonished at his presence. He is a thickly built man, with a square face and heavy chin. His nose is small, but aggressive; his eyes, sparkling blue, are overshadowed by heavy eyebrows. I can see them twinkle when he speaks.

"That accent...is it Welsh?"

"Scottish," says Doug. There's something flickering in his dark, honey-coloured eyes but I can't pick it out—a lens of some kind? "Me Pa is from Scotland but me Ma is from the States. I moved ere when I was about fifteen or so. Now, since the boss has updated ye on the protection details, I believe ye wanted to go to the floor?"

I scan Special Agent Galloway up and down, from his luxurious copper hair to the gun on his side. He's surveying me from head to toe. He clenches his jaw—those hot jaw muscles. Damn—the Scottish bodyguard is all muscle.

I cough. "It's, well, that's cool...so...you'll be the agent shadowing me around until we find out who's trying to kill me?"

"That's right. Now, the floor?"

I shake my head free. "Right," I say. "Thank you, Alfred. I promise I'll do as he says. I'll just grab my notes and head to the floor and then back to the office." I cross into the hallway and I'm about five steps when I notice two people following behind us. I pull on Agent Galloway's arm. "I don't want you to be alarmed," I whisper. "But I think we're being followed by two men dressed in suits."

"I know," says Doug. "Those are the other agents that will be attached to yer detail: Jim and Geoffrey. They'll be accompanying us."

They both nod behind us. "Yeah."

"Just checking, I thought we'd accidentally collected a merry band of stalkers. Hope you guys know we're going to have to watch out for all of my adoring fans. They're just everywhere—"

"HEY SENATOR JONES! YOU SUCK!"

I look up to find a group of those flat-earther dickheads that I'd offended a few weeks back in the hallway. For fuck's sake. This is what happens when you let Republicans run education for so long in this country. It was only a matter of time before a mob of idiots like these fuckwits rose up to try and take over the country. But I wasn't supposed to say that because it wasn't politically correct enough. "Uh-oh. It's the flat-earther movement." They're marching towards us with shirts that have THE EARTH IS FLAT: DEAL WITH IT. "Technically, they're still fans but I'm going need you to like Kevin Kostner me out of here or we're going to end up in a riot."

"THERE HE IS! GET HIM!"

The agents in charge fire their guns at the crowd. I notice that they have little square screens on the ends of the guns and that they're switched to STUN. I'm relieved to see little bolts of electricity hit two of the ringleaders and send them convulsing onto the ground. "Gentleman," says Doug. He has his gun out. "I would advise ye no' to come any closer to the senator at this time."

"Why?" A guy spits. "What you gonna do—"

Doug shoots him.

Next second, he's convulsing on the marble floor with some sticky electrical-looking net jumping around his body. "Anyone else want to try?"

They all backup with their protest signs and security helps escort them out of the building. It has to be the worst and quickest political demonstration I've ever seen. "Wow," I comment. "You're not just eye-candy. That was impressive."

"Just for future reference." Doug grits his teeth. "How many people have you pissed off?"

"Let's just start with every Republican in the House and Senate and go from there."

# Chapter 9.

### Killing People: I'm Good At It

i.

I stand at the podium in front of the articulating insect-like C-SPAN cameras and survey the scene of organised chaos on the floor. I can feel the lens scanning my face, catching my every word.

After the applause, I exhaust about fifteen minutes at the lectern informing America that I am "unperturbed" and "undaunted" in my role as a United States Senator. I'm thinking about Senator Nixon's death when I lock eyes with Chad at the conclusion of my speech. "Those that tried to have me killed will not succeed." Someone might have killed him because he was the last good Republican in this place who had actually wanted President Rook to be held accountable.

And it was apparent that the director of the FBI was one of the most incompetent fuckwits in this place, which meant that I was going to have to find the killer myself. But, then again, what else is new? I only get to shake a few hands with other Democratic senators and I'm being whisked away by a phalanx of guards with Doug in front.

Bobby greets us in the hallway near the elevator. "They've nearly finished setting up your the office for the interview with Don."

"Good to hear," I say.

"I just need you to go over these talking points." I scan the datapad rapidly, reading every word carefully. "And then you're good to go. Ron is currently in there going over his notes. Are you sure you're good to do this today? It's only been a few hours since..."

"I'm fine," I say. "I want to send a message to the people who tried to kill me that they won't get away with it. That I'm going to find them and end every single one of them."

The moment I enter my office, I slump into the chair across from Ron to get miked by the group of technicians. "You look pretty calm for someone who was nearly assassinated."

"Yeah, well, it's not that different from having someone strap a bomb to your car. You get all types of assassination attempts when you're a District Attorney. This is no different." There is a comedic grimness to my voice. "Except the gangs in Louisville were far more creative."

"Roberto also asked about you."

"Really?"

"Said you should come over after the interview."

"Can't." I throw a thumb over my shoulder at Doug and his group shadowing me in the corner. "The Minority Leader saddled me with a protection detail after the attack. I can't move anywhere on my own until the nutjobs trying to kill me are caught, or they find out who's trying to do it."

"I don't envy the person who has to go through the list of people that want you dead," says Don, grimacing. "Or the ones that you've ticked off. There's not a computer hard-drive in the world that would hold that many names."

"My new bodyguard said that too."

"We're good to go, Don," says a man behind a bank of monitors. Ron nods and he shuffles around his clutch of papers. "Can I have everyone out of the camera's way please? And we're rolling in five, four, three, two, one...go."

ii.

I sit up straighter on the chair facing Ron. I flatten my shirt and adjust my suit sleeves but don't show any nerves as the interview progresses. I can feel the hot white lights against my neck. We dispense with the usual pleasantries at the start, the media puffery about how grateful he is for the opportunity to interview so soon after the attack.

"So, senator..." Ron leans back on his chair and shuffles his cards. "Describe to me what happened today with the attack."

"Well, Ron, it was a complicated operation of five guys, with guns, trying to kill me." I can tell from the angry glare I get from Bobby across the room that he wants me to give a little more. It's not the frigid response he's looking for. "It was...intense. I was driving to work to the senate at about seven o'clock and, before I knew what had happened, an armoured car came out of nowhere and slammed into my car while I was crossing an intersection."

"Did you see the car coming?"

I shake my head. "I only knew after it had hit me. It was in my blind spot and I was tired. I just heard the crunch and the car spun out of control into a traffic light." I'm trying to be cinematic, tilting my head away in a dramatic fashion to make it look more sincere. I don't know how people struggled to do this. "And when I looked up, I could see five men with guns climbing out of the car."

"And then what happened?"

"I...I suppose I fought them off."

"How?" Crap. I haven't had time to think about a plausible enough cover story to explain this yet.

"When you grow up in a whitetrash town, let's just say you learn a few things from fighting in trailer parks." There, that sounds believable enough and it isn't really false. "I've also been trained to fight since I went to college. I always felt that being a DA I would have to be ready for anything. Today was no different than having a bomb strapped to my car. I'm kind of indifferent to it."

"Can you think of any reason why someone would want you dead," asks Ron. "And why these lengths would be exerted on you."

"I can think of a few." I smile. "Ask any Republican in the Senate. I've been here only a few weeks and I've passed two cybersecurity bills—in a majority Republican Senate." I don't mention that I'd achieved those little victories through blackmailing the senators who had voted on it that I would tell the wives about their little cocaine habit or that they had paid for the secretary's abortion after knocking them up if they didn't. That usually got them on-board. "I'm effective, and someone out there knows it enough to try and stop me."

"Do you think there'll be other attempts?"

I puff out a long-winded sigh. "I suppose there might be. But, to me, I think this attack may have something to do with Russia's interference in our last presidential election."

Ron sits up. "How so?"

"Senator Bill Nixon of West Virginia was killed asking the same questions I've been asking on the intelligence committee—how did Russia achieve what it did and how do we stop them?"

"So, just to be clear here, you think that it's possible that the murder of your colleague here in the Senate a few weeks ago is directly correlative to the attempted assassination on your life today?" Ron is practically waving his pen at me now. "And you think that it's over both of your investigations into the President's ties to Russia and the election interference?"

"I'm sure of it." I pause before delivering my final blow. "Before Bill was killed, we were investigating the President and Russian cyber attacks, and after he was killed...well...the investigations stopped completely and Democrats have been being stonewalled ever since."

"Since when?"

"Since the appointment of Senator Chad Wyatt of Nebraska." There. I'm going to enjoy sitting in my house and watching Senator Fuckface flee the Capitol while being chased by reporters. I'm done playing nice. If anyone wants to fuck with America's democracy then it's going to have to be over my cold dead body.

iii.

I'm silent for most of the car ride back to my townhouse. We're en route westbound on Constitutional Avenue out of Capitol Hill. Doug is sitting in the passenger seat, maintaining a steely professional lookout. I'm making an effort of reading files for the judiciary committee but my eyes keep drifting to the windows. Support vehicles trail behind us, visible through the rear windshield and side mirrors.

"What's taking so long," I ask.

"Security precaution, sir," says Doug. "It won't take that long. I just want to make sure we're extra careful taking none o' the usual routes."

"Oh. Right."

"Won't be long now, sir."

I try not to grump about it but an unintentional huff escapes me as I lean back into the leather seat. When we pull up at No.15 Gray Malkin Street there's a uniformed officer standing guard on my front doorstep, looking entirely out of place in the leafy upmarket avenue. The support vehicles hiss to a stop behind us. I get out with my things and walk towards the house only to nearly collide headfirst with a hovering black ball.

Its single eye scans me up and down and then allows me to pass, rejoining a group of balldrones patrolling the perimeter of my townhouse.

"Sorry," says Doug. "They're designed to be territorial but they'll leave ye alone once they've scanned yer for any potential threats."

"Great."

I press my hand to the door panel and step inside. I'm moving to go through to the kitchen, but Doug stops me on the front mat, "If you wouldn't mind standing here for a minute please, sir." He goes ahead first, leaving me in the hall by the coat rack. I blow a big long sigh, my degree of being pissed off just cranking up a notch.

I track the sound of Doug racking around and exploring the house with my ears. He's in the kitchen—now upstairs—now in the lounge. I've had enough. I step into the lounge while he's checking the windows and fling myself on the couch. "Can I ask what you're doing? Cause I think if they'd planted a bomb it would've gone off by now and we'd both be dead."

"Just making sure that it's all clear, sir."

His doggedness is infuriating.

Doug doesn't bat an eye over my attitude. He calmly continues to go about the business of surveying the photos hooked along the walls that relate to my life and career, most notably a photo outside of the court in Louisville after I'd passed the bar exam.

"Ye got enough awards here?"

"They just give you them when you become a senator. But they look shiny."

He half nods, half shrugs, then turns from me to hide a smile I can see beginning to spread across his face. He scans the wall, feels along the bookshelves...scans the furniture...glances at me...back to checking for bombs.

"Alright," Doug declares brightly. "Yer apartment is bomb free, senator. If you need anything, there's a guard posted outside. I'll be back to pick ye up for work at eight tomorrow."

"You sure you don't want to stay," I say, flicking through channels. "I have leftover Chinese food and some beers in the fridge."

"Maybe some time when I'm not on duty sir," says Doug. "Have a good evening."

Doug heads out before I can say a departing goodbye. I can't tell, but I think as he reaches the door he sneaks a look back at me on the couch. Before I can stop myself I find myself blurring across the room to the big sash windows to watch Doug slip into a support vehicle and drive off.

Who is that man?

# Chapter 10.

Senate Rule XXVI

i.

I take a shower after settling into the silence of the house again. I pad through my clothes and dress myself in a reflective black leather jacket and jeans, angrily resolved. It feels nice to escape out of my suit. Reminds me of my crime-fighting angsty vigilante days, where I spent many nights standing at the tops of buildings, wind in my hair, staring down at the city of Louisville, beating up robbers and rapists in alleyways and ruminating over the meaning of life and being just depressing generally. Called myself a hero and tried to get the whole superhero following but I never had the social media skills to really be noticed.

I honestly thought that those days had been long behind me when I moved to DC.

Guess I was wrong.

My jacket has a thick hood attached that I can flip up over my head. I'll be moving fast once I leave the house at superspeed, but if there are any security cameras I come across, it's better to be safe than sorry. I don't know how, exactly, I'm going to break out of the house with all the guards and the cambots hovering around the townhouse.

I re-read my battered, dog-eared, and highlighted copy of the Senate Manual before I am fully committed to what I'm about to engage in. But the wording is clear, Senate Rule XXVI, paragraph 1, clearly outlines that senate committees and subcommittees are authorized to subpoena witnesses and documents.

But the Intelligence, Foreign Relations, Armed Services, and Judiciary Committees—the ones I sat on—all required authorization by the chair, a committee majority, and would only be issued upon the signature of the chair and the member designated by the chair.

The kicker is that all this shit is controlled by Republicans; I can't go to the Senate Office of Legal Counsel to have someone independently subpoenaed even if I wanted to. There was nothing else I can legally or physically do but the one course of action I'm considering. I wonder if LBJ ever had to do this.

Sighing, I make a list of all the people that I need to either kill or torture for information regarding the President. Borrowing from my prosecutor days, I make a time line on a piece of paper.

I don't know who might have bugged my datapad and laptop and I'm not about to take that risk by giving President Rook the necessary ammunition required to indict me. I start with the facts that I know—I know the chairman of the Rook campaign first met with the Russians in June of 2072. I'll start there and get all the information out of him I can.

Then, I list all the others, aside from the campaign chairman, I will have to interrogate and possibly kill. If necessary. It's apparent that being all fucking nice and cheery and fucking bipartisan has gone out the fucking window. Personal lawyer Michael Conan. Business partner Rick Meadows. Data-mining firm boss Rebekah Mercer.

I want to add the President's idiot sons, Garrett and Ron Jr, but they'll have to remain off the list for now. The others weren't cabinet officials, and that meant they wouldn't be under indomitable levels of security that would be difficult for even me to circumvent. I look at the names written out on the paper darkly and then I zip up my jacket.

Those Republican fucks are about to learn that, out of all the people they could have fucked with, they should have skipped me.

ii.

There's a very specific reason why Louisville was the safest town in America while I was District Attorney. A reason I didn't exactly announce to anyone. Well, I couldn't exactly announce it without being disbarred and then thrown into jail. Or else I would've bragged about it at every opportunity. When I didn't get justice in the courtroom, I sure as hell made sure I got it outside of it. No matter what I had to do. Sure, most of the time they were extreme cases, like the CEO that had slipped off raping his fifteen-year-old daughter on a slim legal technicality. But I feel like this qualifies as one of those extreme cases.

And usually I was such a gladiator in the court room that I slitted the throat of anyone I versed. It's dark at the Washington Mariner by the time I've slipped past the guards in my house. I know the name of the boat, the Extravagance, because I've seen it on television interviews multiple times with Brian Mendez, President's Rook campaign manager, during the campaign back in 2072.

I'm standing above a tower of shipping crates examining every inch of the 414-foot megayacht that even has its own helipad. I'm using my enhanced vision to zoom in close along the lights running around the lip of the ship.

"Doesn't look like anyone's home." I'm thinking aloud to myself, scanning the multiple polished decks. There's a couple of guards but they won't be difficult to dispatch. "What! This asshole has cable! Maybe I should switch teams." I continue to run my eyes over the boat. "This doesn't feel right. Why is the place so deserted? Shouldn't this asshole have like a million staff members—" I cut myself odd mid-sentence when I see why. Wrinkly old Brian Mendez is in the Jacuzzi at the back of the ship, fucking a pair of prostitutes. I jerk my eyes up. "I did not need to see that."

I reluctantly lower my eyes back down to the scene. There's a band of giggly prostitutes sniffing lines of coke on a bar in bikinis and dancing on a multi-coloured dance floor while the two I saw first are pleasuring Brian in the Jacuzzi, their oversized boobs flopping around as they ride him. Oh Brian don't stop—! I shove my hands over my ears so my enhanced hearing won't pick up the noise. "Oh Brian please do." I roll my eyes.

Aw yeah baby! I wait for Brian to finish up with my eyes hidden behind my hands. He pulls himself from the bubbling water, that huge apron of a disgusting stomach drooping before him soaking wet, and slips on a robe a servant hands him. I watch him wade through the crowd of callgirls that are so high they couldn't give a damn. He shrugs them off and ducks into a glass-walled office.

I crack a smile.

Go time.

In a rush that feels like a cinematic whipping pan, I'm suddenly standing on the seamlessly polished stern of the Extravagance. One of the bored guards startles at my appearance out of nowhere. A grunt. He drops at my feet. Guard #2 turns, freezes as I breezily launch him across the mariner into another boat somewhere. Guard #3 jabs his unsteady gun into my back. "Freeze where you are!" I side-eye him. Really? I swallow, a muscle in my jaw hardening, then punch the idiot thug through the boat. I consider checking for more but what is the point?

I slink past the prostitutes and discoing lights and music. The interior of the boat is quiet and just as opulent as the outside. I can see dark bookshelves and netscreens and bars and gilded furniture. I step forward...disgusted...absorbing it all in. How many democracies did he sell out for all this? My ears listen for his voice. He's pacing his office, phone pressed against his head, giving someone hell. Bobby I told you, again, that those end-user certificates are good to go. No one will know where the arms are going. They're untraceable...

He looks up from his computer terminal as my shadow zips around the wall. "Hello?" He pulls his phone away from his ear with the guy on the other end still jabbering away. "Is anyone there?"

I forgot how much fun this was.

Terrifying evil people.

He's looking around the room when—BAM!—I flick him across his desk into the glass wall with a violent gesture. He scrambles frantically around on the floor for his phone, but I pick him up and pin him to the glass wall of his office by the neck.

It's my signature move and it never gets old.

"What the..." Brian tries to shove forward but I pin him back in place. "Who the hell are you?"

I remove my hood. "Why, hello there Mr Mendez," I say. "No doubt you remember me. We met in Washington a few months ago." I pluck the phone nonchalantly out of his hand and hold it up to my ear. "Sorry. You'll have to wait a while before you can massacre some racial minority." I pull the phone away and crush it like it's a tissue.

The screen pops! and spiderwebs.

"What do you want, Senator Jones?"

I smile back. "Let's start with everything."

iii.

"This Russia-collusion hoax the President keeps bitching about. Be honest, how real is it exactly? And, just in case you're wondering, I'll be able to tell if you're lying." I tighten my hold on his neck for reassurance, already sickened from holding his disgustingly paunchy neck against the glass.

Brian wheezes out a shaky breath. "It's real," he replies, teeth clenched. "All of it. And he knows, too. He was masterminding it all. The Russians contacted me early on in the campaign and said they had dirt on the Democratic opponent. We met in the Seychelles. That's where they said they could hack into election machines to ensure we won both the primary and the general."

"Weren't they worried about the FBI and the intelligence agencies?" I frown. "How were they so certain they could pull it off?" He starts to go silent and bounce his gaze around the room, so I slam him up harder against the wall. "Remember the little chat we had about not lying? Focus here, Mendez. I'll ask you again. Nicely. How did they think they could pull it off?"

This time my hand crushing his throat and turning his face blue must work. He pleads for me to stop, begging. "Fine, fine! I'll tell you! President Rook wasn't the only person elected that year. Once we had a majority in both the House and the Senate, they said no one would be able to stop us. It was all fixed. And the Russians picked people who wouldn't vote to stop us."

Ha! I knew it! I quickly stop smiling. Try to keep my elation concealed as I examine him clinically. I don't want to celebrate too early. "I wish I could say I'm surprised that that sack of shit would do something like this but I'm not." I take a deep breath. "You have any evidence to prove this?"

"Are you going to kill me if I give it to you?"

"Tell me what you have and I'll think about it."

"The painting over there." Brian flails an arm in the direction of his wall. "It has a safe behind it. The combination is one-five-four-three."

I scrutinise the painting and Brian. I release him so that he smacks the carpet hard and blur across the room to the Dutch oil painting. I swing it open while Manfort is massaging his throat. It's a clunky old safe and the second I dial the lock: beep! The safe splits in the middle to reveal a glossy black hard-drive with a red circle on it.

"What the hell is this?" I turn with the palm-sized paper thin hard-drive in my hand. "This better have the equivalent of the Nixon tapes on it."

"It is," says Brian, struggling to his feet. "That hard-drive has a list of our playbook from the campaign. The Russians gave it to us. They told us how to handle all the states. Including a list of the ones we needed to campaign so no one would question their hacking of election systems."

"But I'm on the Intelligence Committee," I say. "As far as I've been briefed, the Russians never breached our voter election systems array. The Director of National Intelligence said—"

"Don't you get it!" He spills out. "He was picked by us. The Russians have known him personally for years. He was in debt with a Russian bank the Kremlin had been using. Apparently he liked throwing his money at prostitutes."

"Not Maxwell Frost!" I groan. "I liked him. Don't tell me that son of a bitch is dirty, too. Is there absolutely fucking anyone in this swamp of a city that can be a decent fucking human being for at least one minute while I my back is turned."

"What did you think you were getting when you became a senator, exactly?"

"People who actually gave a fuck about the people they were elected for. Or at least hide the fact that they didn't give a fuck at all a little better." I turn the hard-drive over in my hands, and then look hard at Mendez. "Do you have the names of the people the Russians placed in congress?"

"No. The hard-drive is everything I have. They even did us the favour of decrypting it."

Curious, I think. This is all just a little too easy.

"Shouldn't have told me that." I charge Brian and hoist him up against the glass wall again. Except, this time, I'm exerting so much bone-crushing force with my hand that the glass behind him is splintering like a glacier. It was really enjoyable having the perks of superpowers sometimes. "Thanks for being so helpful Mr Mendez. This is a nice place to start, so I think I'll be going now."

"But, but we had a deal!"

"Yes," I say. "And I don't know if you noticed Mr Mendez, but I'm just as ruthless as you are. I can't have you running off to let the Russians know I'm on to them." I give him a final shove and his body breaks through the wall, snowing glass everywhere. I watched his fat form bounce down multiple decks and land at the very tip of the ship.

He rolls to a halt on the helipad.

Dead.

A lonely gust of wind strokes my face as I look down at his mangled, bloodied body. I permit myself a moment to savour the sight of his fat body squished on that beautiful megayacht of his. In spite of myself, I laugh at it darkly. Rarely in life do you ever get the opportunity to see evil people get what they deserve. Fuck, I forgot how fucking good it felt. After zipping the hard drive into my jacket, I leap out the window, and wheel away into the night.

# Chapter 11.

Tax Returns

i.

The next few weeks that follow Mendez are pretty much a cheery killing spree.

My Kill List gets screwed up because I keep scribbling out names and then adding five more. Mendez is right about following the money trail. I kill the Treasury Secretary Bob Odell first after he gives me President Rook's tax returns. He has the nerve to say to me that the president is under audit while I'm dangling him over the side of the Treasury Department. After I go through the tax returns, I find the President is seriously in debt to a Russian bank called Russo Bank in New York.

I then kill the CEO of the bank Vladimir Alexeev when the Senate goes into recess and I have to travel to New York to do the Night Show circuit with all the comedians. That hadn't gone so well. Since I didn't speak any Russian, I had to interrogate him through Google Translate, and from the weird looks he kept giving me none of my questions were making any sense. I could have bought the app for my phone but they wanted $29 and no interrogation is worth wasting that kind of money on.

I ended up just kicking him out of a window and downloading the contents of his computer onto a drive.

I kill wealthy Republican donor Rebekha Mercer at her mansion by punching her into a wall. She had been a mining heiress that had facilitated the data mining operation of American individuals. She was also one hell of a donator to the RNC. I knew once her stuck-up children started fighting over the inheritance it would hamstring President Rook's re-election finances. Then there's about six or seven other people in between them who just tick me off and get in my way of uncovering the truth. Sitting on a confirmation hearing for the new education secretary, who was apparently very corrupt and unqualified, I learned she owned three megayacths worth around 30 billion each. All three of them were mysteriously found dismantled at the bottom of the ocean a day later.

That had been a nice workout.

But it didn't really do anything because they had insurance. Because of course they did.

I have to move at blurring, wind-whipping speed to effectively sneak back into the house again after I've scoped out Director Frost's house. The last person on my list. The ring leader. It had been too heavily guarded with too much surveillance for me to even get close to him. I was going to have to come up with a Plan B. The agents drinking coffee in the car only see a small line of leaves rip up off the pavement as I pass them by. I shut the window just as a black cambot drone rises up and warily scans my window. Its sensor blinks green and it moves away to continue its sensor sweeps. I lean my forehead on the glass. In all honesty, I want to forget the last hour. Stop this and go straight to bed. Let someone else take care of it. Enjoy one more second of being blissfully ignorant of the fact that I know members of the Senate and the House might be Russian agents.

But I can't.

Not only do I now know that the director of national intelligence is working for the President, it also opens the terrifying possibility that he might be personally transmitting information to the Russian government. Like what? Nuclear codes? Ship deployments? Missile defence systems? He was playing me. Knowing that information is better than not knowing it, but it still stings. I thought he was one of the good guys.

And, though it's happened fairly often in my life, I hate being betrayed.

I heave in a shaky breath and swallow, forcing my next thought. What's on the hard-drive? I unzip it from my jacket and take it to my office. I pop the hard-drive onto the reader on my desk and boot up my computer terminal.

While I'm waiting for the contents of the hard-drive to upload, I take a felt tip pen and roughly underline Director Frost. It would be nice to cross off a few more names on the list tonight, but it's already nearly morning. It'd be too conspicuous to go around Washington killing political celebrities now. A sleek ping informs me that the hard-drive is finished. I tap on the file. Documents begin to bombard the screen. I click through the documents in a vindictive fury. Everything. Mendez wasn't screwing with me. It's all here. The states President Rook won. South Carolina. New Hampshire. Florida. The ones need to seize the Republican nomination and grind out a victory in the general election. The Russians gave the campaign a corresponding game-plan for hacking into the election systems in those states.

Including the timing of the cyber attacks.

Every election system they planned to hack into. It's all here. And they even were helpful enough to give the Rook Campaign advice on how to make it look so no one would believe they could do it. Hearing about it on intelligence briefings is nothing like actually holding physical proof that the President's campaign colluded with a foreign power to get the highest office in the land.

I soak in the glow of the screen. What do I do now? Give it to the Press? What's the point? There had been an onslaught of reporting on President Rook's antics. It made it impossible to believe anything or care about anything. Especially all the not-so-important breaking of the law stuff. Calm down, calm down. Good grief, I was becoming a whiner. I huff out a breath, letting the hair on my forehead flutter, and close my eyes.

Pizza...I need pizza...

And beer. Lots of beer.

This is the kind of news that requires lots of junk food and beer. I dial for pizza and let the guard at the door know that a pizza delivery guy will be popping by. When the door pings, I slump to the door and am shocked by the pizza boy.

"Uh." The pizza-boy is sort of leaning away from the guard on the doorstep with the gun. "Um. I have a delivery for a Mr Jones...?"

"Yeah. That's me," I say. "Come in. Don't worry." I give a reassuring bob to the guard. "I've used that pizza shop before. He's fine."

The pizza boy looks grateful as I let him in and shut the door. "Sorry about that." I head towards the kitchen. "I've got my wallet in the kitchen if you just want to follow me in. How is work going down on that shop? I always see you guys busy."

"Good." He's looking around the house. "We haven't seen you in a while. We were surprised to get your call tonight. We all heard about people trying to kill you on the news, senator."

"Please," I beg, "call me Jason. Everyone else does. And you are—?"

"Andy."

"Nice to meet you, Andy." I rummage around on the kitchen bench for money out of my wallet. "Sorry about the security guys. They're a little paranoid after someone attempted to kill me. I hope they didn't tackle you to the ground."

"Nah. All good." Andy is trying not to look at me. "So you got a boyfriend or a husband here?" I pause and look at him. It's the first time I've noticed that his cock is straining against his uniform trousers.

Hell. Is the pizza boy hitting on me?

The edges of my lips quirk. "No." I try to suppress a bark of laughter. "I'm still single." My gaze skims down his body. Midnight black hair and deep blue eyes. The width of his shoulders and the bulk of his biceps indicates he's definitely in his twenties.

"That's a shame." Andy doesn't seem upset.

I slant a mischievous glance at him. "What about you, Andy? You got anyone?" We're both looking at each other up and down. Slowly. Taking our time. When his gaze meets mine, I wink. "Or are you single as well?"

"Nope. Just me." Andy uncomfortably shifts his pants around. Reaching down, he attempts to discreetly reposition his cock in his pants, trying but failing to hide his swollen length. It's nice to know I'm making an impact. "No boyfriend. Yet. Probably because I'm adventurous." We both forget about the pizza. "I like to let guys do anything they want."

"Anything?" I emphasize, giving Andy an unmistakable 'I want to fuck you' look. "Any chance they need you back at the pizza place any time soon? Like three hours?"

"You're my last delivery for the night."

He shoots, he scores.

I turn and stride towards the living room. "If you want to get fucked, Andy. Follow me."

iii.

Andy's staring at the spot in the kitchen where I stand, and blinking. "You still want to fuck? I don't know about you. But I could use it tonight." I run a hand over the bulge in his trousers, fingers tightening around the prominent head. "And after my day, Andy, I have an urge to fuck you."

A moan escapes Andy's lips. He squeezes his eyes close against the same bolt of lust I can feel ripping through my body. Lighting every nerve. The hell with it. Mendez didn't matter. The President's actions didn't matter.

Tomorrow didn't matter.

For now.

"Oh fuck yes, Senator." Andy crosses to where I am on the couch in four quick strides. He's as eager as a virgin and it's turning me on. "I give an awesome deep-throat. Be prepared."

"I'm prepared." Pulling him close, I slant my mouth over his. Sweep my tongue boldly inside. Frantic, we caress every inch of our bodies we can reach, fumbling our clothes off. "You better prepare your ass cause it's gonna be sore tomorrow, Pizza Boy." Grabbing Andy's hips, I jerk him closer.

The fabric of his pizza uniform teases my nipples. I ground my hips up against him as I drag my lips down his neck, the eager laughter shaking his chest quickly turning into a groan.

"Let me," says Andy.

Andy starts kissing and nipping my warm velvety skin, working his way down my broad chest. He drops to his knees. Flicks his tongue over my stomach. Follows the thin trail of hair until he encounters my boxers. He quickly pushes them down my legs, freeing my dick.

My hard length juts eagerly from a thatch of dark blond hair. For a minute, Andy is struck dumb.

"Sorry. I haven't shaved this week," I say, my voice hoarsened with passion.

Andy grins. "That's fine."

He presses his lips to the head, extracting a groan from me. I expect him to suck it when he opens his mouth, but instead of taking my cock inside, he drags his thick lips along the line of it, moving his tongue over the thick skin.

He's trying to draw out the moment. Savour it. My anticipation. But it's no use.

Grabbing hold of the base, Andy stretches his mouth and takes it inside. Damn! My fist presses against the nap of Andy's neck, urging him to take more. He's grabbing my firm ass with both hands and sinking all the way down the length of me. I can feel myself steeling and hardening in his mouth. He's bobbing up and down, running the sensitive underside with his tongue on each stroke. He's trying to shatter my control.

And it's working.

I tilt my hips forward. "Aw, yeah, suck it, Pizza Boy! Take my cock!"

On the next glide towards me, Andy sucks hard, his cheeks hollowing. Then he slips down on me. All the way down. And swallows, using his throat to stroke the head. A grunt escapes me and I clasp his shoulder, fingers digging into the tendons, as if I needed to hold on to stay on my feet. Which is probably true.

"Does that feel good?" Andy looks up at me with the lower half of his face wet.

My eyes heavy-lidded, I stare down at him. My brown-golden hair sticking to my brow, a slight flush staining my cheeks. Cupping Andy's jaw, I rub the pad of my thumb over his wet lips. "Fuck yes! You must be the hottest Pizza Boy in the entire Washington D.C. area," I murmur huskily. "Do it again. Make sure you get the shaft."

Andy happily complies. A tremor shakes my body. My breaths turn raged. Hard heavy pants fill the room. "Woah, slow down," I gasp, tugging on Andy's hair. He pulls his mouth from my dick.

"I want to blow you all night long," says Andy dreamily. "Make you come over and over."

I brush my warm fingertips against the back of his neck, playing with the hair dampened from sweat. "If that's the case," I say. "Then come up here. And take off those damn boxers so I can fuck you until we both explode."

Hands shaking, Andy tears off his pants and scrambles to his feet as, grasping his upper arm, I turn him towards the couch with him still wearing his cheap cotton pizza uniform shirt. I place a hand between his shoulder blades and push. Bracing his hands on the edge of the couch, Andy bends at the waist and widens his stance to accommodate the full head I have on him.

I love feeling him tremble with pleasure as I draw my palms down his back, the gesture gentle and relaxing at the same time.

I spread his cheeks. I can feel his thighs and ass tightening in anticipation. Startled, Andy glances over his shoulder. I'm crouched behind him, thighs splayed, glistening wet cock arched over my stomach. Andy's eyes widen. His breath catches. Oh yes I needed this. "What are you—?"

Wet velvety heat laps his hole.

"Oh don't stop! Oh yes!" Andy releases a throat-scrapping groan of approval. He sags under my onslaught. His arms shake. In fact, he's juddering all over as I tease his ass, switching between rubbing my thumb and nipping my tongue over his smooth, hairless hole. I lightly spank him as his ass tightens on me. He's close: I can feel it. "Ar—" Andy clenches his jaw. "Senator. Please. I'm going to come. I'm so close."

I don't stop. "Then come for me." I stab my tongue into his ass.

Andy arches his spine. It's too strong, too powerful for him to stop. He throws back his head on a strangled scream and comes. But it doesn't end there. My large hand grasps his hip. While he's still in the aftershocks, I press my rod against him, demanding entry. He arches and flips as I slip in. I feel the sigh as the sting blends with pleasure.

"Yes, yes," he chants, begging for more.

I ease into him. Carefully. Considerately. The length of me fills him slowly. Stretching. Loosening. Hitting every nerve ending. Settling hilt-deep, I pause. I massage his hips.

"Damn, Andy. You're so tight."

"It's been a...while." Andy's struggling to recover his breath. Sweat's pricking along his back. Drips from his hair ink the couch.

I ease back and thrust sharply deep. "You have the most fuckable ass," I growl, slamming him.

"Yes, yes! Senator! Take me!"

He's completely possessed by my deep hard thrusts. My cock aches. Burns. A heavy rode of pure, blazing hot pleasure builds with each determined thrust into Andy, who's gripping the couch with knuckled fists. Taking me. I change angle, hitting that good spot. Sharp. Hard. He's about to come again because his ass is slowly tightening on me. Andy roars my name as he comes, shooting out onto the couch.

"Yes! Give it to me! Give it all!"

I work his dick as I pound him. "Gonna come. Gonna come. Oh fuck here I go. I'm going to blow into your tight Pizza Boy ass! Fucking YES!"

I roar into him. Fire erupting from me. The spasms wracking my cock prolong Andy's climax. Draining me, sapping my strength, leaving me weak. Legs tiring, Andy crumbles to his stomach. He rests his forehead on the armchair of the couch and gasps for breath. I can feel the heavy beat of his pulse echoing in my ears. Dazed, I scrub a hand over my face, smearing wetness across my cheeks. Andy twists around and drops on the couch.

I'm looming above him. My sweat-slicked chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. The rod that had moments ago taken him twice flopping semi-hard between my thighs. A crooked smiles curves my lips as I hold out a hand. "What was your policy again?" I say. "Thirty minutes or its free, right? You lasted like twenty-five."

"Very funny." Andy takes my hand and eases onto his feet. "I'm going to be sore for like a week after that. I should probably get going now."

"Why?" I say. "I have a pizza that I can't eat by myself and a couple of beers in the fridge." Andy smiles and follows me back into the kitchen.

# Chapter 12.

### We're In Trouble

i.

The grease-stained pizza box and half a dozen beers lay littered around the floor in my bedroom. Andy lies sprawled over my side as I flick through the channels on the netscreen in my room with the remote. The kid practically passes out the second his head touches the pillow.

Grinning in amazement, I shake my head.

I can't help but envy him. I can't sleep tonight. Not now. Not with what I've just learnt. The soft sounds of his sleeping breaths against my side are soothing and relaxing, though. It helps clear my head. I can't give the information to the Press because what good will that do?

I can't sneak it to the FBI because if I'm learning anything about Director Hardy, it's that he's an incompetent fuckwit who should be fired the second the next President is elected.

I'm on my back, one arm bent behind my head, the other listlessly pressing the remote. The white bed sheet is twisted over the two of us. I'm flicking through channels when a tape at the bottom of the screen makes me eyes widen.

Brian Mendez Murder Investigation Ongoing.

I know the reporter, Heather Hart, because she's one of the few semi-competent reporters over at MSNBC. "Earlier last week at approximately eleven p.m., authorities were summoned to the megayacht belonging to former Rook campaign chairman Brian Mendez." A helicopter shot shows a sheet covering Mendez's body on the helipad. "Three guards were discovered dead at the scene. It is believed at the time of the incident, Mr Mendez was hosting an orgy that involved illicit substances and many prostitutes." Bands of girls in bikinis can be seen in bath towels being led away from the yacht. Well, you know, at least he got to go out on a high. I bite my tongue so I don't explode into laughter and wake Andy up. "A safe was found emptied but its contents at this present time are unknown. Mr Mendez had clients all over the world that the authorities are now questioning and looking into for possible motives..."

"What – what was that?" Andy says groggily.

"It's nothing." Just a guy I killed. I smooth down his rumpled black hair. "Go back to sleep."

"I will if you come back here."

I smile and lower my lips back to his.

ii.

I'm fastening my cufflinks when Andy emerges from the shower in his rumpled pizza uniform. He's towelling his hair dry while I inspect myself in the mirror and readjust my red tie.

"You clean up nice."

"So do you," I laugh. "Sorry you have to do the walk of shame past the agents. I'd sneak you out back but they have that guarded too." I'm sliding my datapad and briefing books into my brief case. "You should deliver pizzas here more often."

"Something tells me that with those abs you don't exactly eat a lot of it."

I have to admit I like Andy. He's nice. Friendly. When was the last time I met someone like that? Heck, when was the last time I fucked someone like that? Sometimes I forget how much I miss regular people after working in politics. There's the electronic chirp of someone pressing the door panel of my house and we both look up.

"That will be my ride," I say. "Do you need a lift anywhere? I could drop you off."

"No need," Andy assures. "I've got my van. I have to be getting back home anyway. I'm giving my flatmate a ride to college."

"Then let's go." I collect my brief case and jacket and we both walk down to the front door. I open the front door, pause, then step back. Agent Sexy is standing there. Doug Galloway. I don't know why but I feel as if I've been busted or something. "Agent Galloway. Hi. Good morning."

"Ugh...good morning."

Andy just cheerily barrels past me and down the steps with his keys swinging on his fingers. Not a care in the world. "Call me again sometime when you're free," he tells me, walking off to his car. The agents grouped with Doug are good. But they're struggling to maintain their deliberately blank expressions. It's clear what happened last night by the way Andy is limping away.

"Oh come on," I say to Doug and the group of agents indignantly. "Like you all haven't guarded a Republican senator that hasn't snuck in the odd occasional hooker past his wife every now and then when she was out of town."

"It's just progress, sir."

"Progress?"

"Never seen a male senator with the pizza boy before." He opens the car door for me. There's a hint of a smile on his features. "Ah. How time changes and we move forward."

"Well that's what I'm here for," I say. "Breaking barriers and moving America forward one pizza boy at a time. Hope I didn't scar anyone last night. We were only doing it up against the window for a minute."

He coughs. "All good, sir."

I slip into the car and we drive off towards the Russel Building. In the backseat, I'm studying my datapad for information about the new solar energy field we're going to have installed over the Appalachians once the bill passes through the committee. And the desalination plant that uses reverse osmosis that we want to try and get built on the east coast. Both would increase energy and water security and provide thousands of jobs.

Doug is riding shotgun. I can't help but be distracted by his back filling the seat. The way those powerful back muscles move under his jacket as he surveys the streets. I look down back at my datapad, reminding myself that he's my bodyguard and I'm being unprofessional. A phone vibrates from somewhere in the car.

I don't look up from the screen. "It's not me."

Doug fishes around in his jacket. "Sorry." He looks at the screen and declines the call. It does no good. The phone buzzes again.

"You better get that. It sounds important."

He nods his apology, presses the green button, answers... "Special Agent Galloway?" He talks in an embarrassed whisper, maintaining his clockwork lookout routine. "Sorry, luv. I can't talk now. I know, I know. I said I would come and I mean it. I'm trying to work it out now."

I'm not supposed to be listening but I can't help it. I'm curious. I tune my ears so my supersonic hearing can hear the woman on the other end of his line. Her name's Helen. She's tearing up over the fact that he wasn't there at the football game before. I feel a pang of guilt. Was he not there because he was protecting me? Did I do this? I'm also slightly regretful over the fact he has a wife.

"I'm really sorry about it, luv. I have to go. I'll talk to you later." Doug hangs up.

I recoil back into the car and look back down at my datapad and then at the window. Very causal. Like I haven't been eavesdropping at all. At least I know what I'll be doing at five o'clock this Friday. I'll be heading to his son's school so he doesn't miss that soccer game and tick off his wife again. I feel an accusatory pang of guilt. Poor guy. He probably missed the last one because he was shadowing me everywhere.

I get to the Russel Building and Doug follows me up in the elevator. "Sorry about that, earlier."

"Agent Galloway," I scoff. "I'm not one of those hard-assed bastards that's going to try and get you fired just because you got a phone call. I hope you're not in trouble with the wife because you're protecting me." I give him a shy smile. "I couldn't help but overhear. She has your accent."

"Yes," says Doug. "And she's my ex."

FUCK YEAH HE'S SINGLE!

"Oh." I nod noncommittally. The doors open and we enter into my office. A few of my staffers come by for questions on one of my anti-corruption bills and then I shut myself in my office.

Doug stands at his post by my door, watching entrances and exists while frantic routine business rushes on around him. I spend the morning staff meeting going over our legislative agenda with the crew. I enter just as Bobby is telling the people around the table about some hack that happened in the Government Publishing Office and drained some bank accounts of a few hundred thousand dollars. They suspected it might be an inside job. I'd seen the story myself but dismissed it as low down on my priority list. We ended up discussing how they were tracking that down before we got back onto topic.

The first half of my day is committed to the Judiciary Committee hearing for a judge of the 2nd circuit court of appeals. The second half is for the Armed Services Committee meeting. Doug shadows me onto the underground tram where I introduce him to Earnie, who I feel I haven't spoken to in a lifetime.

"Only here a few weeks and already you go and get someone pissed off enough at you they hire a death squad," crows Earnie. "I wonder what happens when you reach my age."

I grin. "Like I could last as long as you Earnie."

"Who's the boyfriend?"

"This is Special Agent Doug Galloway," I say. "Capitol Police assigned him to be my bodyguard until the danger has passed. So if you see any suspicious, ticking packages with my name on it he's the guy to call." Doug just responds with a silence nod of the head, face tight. "And by the way, how's the wife and the grandkids?"

"They're all good, senator." Earnie drives us off down through the underground. "Where are you going today, might I ask?"

"The Dirsken Building. I have a wonderful meeting with a bunch of other senators on the Armed Services committee on an amendment funding free college for veterans at the end of compulsory service." There's some rustling of papers in the cart as I'm shuffling through my notes. I drop one and Doug catches it for me. "It's pretty bipartisan issue so I shouldn't have to break anyone's arm at the meeting over funding."

"That's a nice break for you."

I lean back. "Sure is."

iii.

We arrive at the underground stop, thank Earl, and then—still fast—still energetic—I launch up the stairs to the committee room where the Armed Services Committee meets. Unfortunately, bills don't just pass two bills to become law. As easy as it sounds. They're read twice in whatever house the legislator introduces them, like I did last week on the floor with S.319, and then referred to committee and then subcommittee and then amended and then voted back out to the floor for a vote. It can take weeks, months, or even years.

I take my seat across from a pair of balding Democrats. There's only two people I don't really like on the committee. The Republican senators Clark Mitchell from Texas and Owen Jackson from Ohio.

There last two helpful suggestions at our last meeting had been that someone else should fix a soldier's mouldy houses and that maybe someone should tell them to stop killing themselves. I didn't really blame Orin. He's just a classic case of the wheel is spinning but the hamster is dead.

Everyone sits around the glossy table as Senator Mitchell starts the meeting. "Morning everyone one. I hope by now everyone knows the new staff attorney, Mike Travis." A bullet-headed guy on the end of the table gives us all a brief smile. "And now let's get down to business – S. 319 – the 'Veteran and Family's Health Services Act of 2075'. This act will provide free healthcare for the rest of the life of service members and by extension their families. Now, since I think we've got all the necessary amendments done to it. Anyone object to voting it out of committee and onto a floor this afternoon for a vote?"

Everyone shakes their heads. I'm a little confused. "Really?" I say. "Usually at this point you guys say something along the lines of why do we want more vets stealing money—"

"I have an objection!" Owen Jackson is eighty-nine and has a faulty hearing aid, so he yells all his questions, indignantly, at the top of his lungs.

"Ah, there it is." I deadpan. "Right on time." I know what is coming next.

"Why are we letting these vets skimp on benefits? I mean soon we'll have to pay their houses and their cars. What's next? We'll be paying for their college degrees."

I pause, shoot a deadly glance towards him. Doug must notice this behind us. I chose my next words carefully: "What did you just say?"

"I said why are they skimping on benefits."

"They're not skimping on anything, Orin!" I get up and slam my fists down on the table. A little too hard: we all hear it crack in the middle. "They earned those benefits. Every single one of them. How they choose to use them is entirely up to them. Every day we work in a cushiony office while these men go onto battlefields and die for us. The least we can do is honour that contract they signed when they swore an oath to protect this country and that is to protect and defend their families while they're away. So, if no one else has any stupid questions, might I suggest that we vote this to the floor, Senator Mitchell."

Senator Mitchell looks around and bangs his gavel. "I'll see you all on the floor in an hour."

As I'm leaving after the meeting, I catch the new staff attorney and Senator Mitchell and Senator Jackson laughing, then shooting a look towards me. I nod as I pass out the door. Are they up to something? I'm not sure. This could just be me being paranoid. I continue back down the stairs with Doug to take the tram back to my office before the vote.

# Chapter 13.

### Don't Trust Anyone

i.

Barbara taps lightly on my open office door.

I look up. "I know you're getting ready for the floor, but Harry said he wanted to see you upstairs in his office. And he said that it's urgent." I nod. "Got it." I swing on my jacket. "I'll go see what he wants now, thanks Barbs." As Barbara retreats back to her secretary desk, I steal Jackie by the arm as she's talking to some staff members in the bullpen around my office. "Hey, can you do me a favour?"

"As long as it doesn't involve breaking the law."

"Can you make sure that S.319 is still going ahead today? That nothing's happened."

"That's the Veteran Family's Housing Act that you've been working on, hey? As far as I know we've got the votes but I'll make sure no one's wimped out on us." Jackie opens the binder holding her datapad. "Anyone you're particularly concerned about?"

"I don't know. Maybe background search the new staff attorney on the Veterans Affairs Committee. A Mike Travis? Something tells me he's not just a staff attorney. The committee meeting went a little too well today. I think they're up to something."

"I'll let you know what I find."

"What would I do without you?"

"Get kicked out of office."

"Probably."

Doug and I take the elevator up to Harry's office. I pause at his door, see his assistant looking up from her terminal at me, nodding me in. I knock on the door and get summoned inside.

"Hey," says Harry. "Did you hear what happened to the President's campaign chairman, yesterday night?" He plops a Washington Post down on his desk for me to look at. "I think someone is trying to cover up witnesses. A bit odd that you start poking around about the President's ties overseas and then he ends up dead, don't you think?"

He glances sideways at me to see my reaction, but I'm careful not to give one. I'm careful not to remember my fingers wrapped around his fat neck as I killed him, or the way he begged.

There's a pregnant moment between us. Shit! Does he know I killed him?

I stare at him, exhaling slightly. "Yeah. It is weird. Probably nothing." I grab a piece of paper and write down on it: Don't talk about it. Room could be bugged. Act like it's no big deal. "I'm starting to think it could all be nothing."

"Oh. Yes. Me too." Harry is a bad liar. "I think it is nothing. What have you been up to today?"

I write down on the notebook. Someone dropped this at my house with the mail. It didn't get picked up in the screen. I slide my phone over to him with the downloaded contents of Mendez's hard-drive. He writes back on the notepad. What is it? I write back. It's the election of 2072. The Russians hacked the systems. It's all there. Proof that the Russians really did infiltrate our cybersecurity net. They were altering voter systems.

"I can't keep doing this." Harry walks over and turns on the netscreen, thumbing up the volume so we can't be heard. Then whispers, "That's serious. Are you sure this is what this is?"

"When I was prosecuting cybercrime I saw a lot of similar types of computer systems. I'm certain that's what this is." I thumb through the files. "It's clear as day. They were in contact with the campaign the whole time. They have de-crypted emails. Between the President and members of the campaign working with Russian agents."

"We've, we've got to do something with it!" Harry nearly flips his chair over. "Give it to the FBI or one of the Attorney-Generals or the Intelligence Committee so that they can –"

" – do what, Harry? Sit on it? You and I both know that incompetent fuckwit of an FBI Director, who's lost like two senators, won't be able to use it cause the elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor on him. The justice department is tied because they're a bunch of ball-less lawyers who 'don't want to indict a sitting President'. And the Republicans couldn't give a damn because the Russians are helping them win elections, so that leaves us with...nothing. Maybe the news?"

"Alright, alright. I was just thinking about what we'd do in a democracy. What do you want to do?"

"I..." I lean back in my chair. "Nothing that involves any of the options I mentioned."

"That's all our options."

"Ugh. I know." I rub my forehead, absorbing all the implications. "I think the best case scenario is that I pass it off to the New York Times or the Washington Post. But – I mean even if I did what good would it do? There's been stories on his tax returns, his connection with the Iranians, the Russians, the Italian mob – nothing's made an impact or dented his support. The President would just tweet that it was a #witchunt."

"It's hard for the Republicans to give up a guy that shamelessly does what they all want to do." Harry sighs. "So where does that leave us?"

"Up the river without a paddle."

"So definitely fucked."

"Pretty much."

"I think you're right," he says after a breath. "So we just pretend someone didn't tell you the President is dirty? I think you should drop it to the news and we just wait and see what happens. At least it's out there. It might damage him a bit when he's up for re-election next year."

"Maybe..." I'm thinking on it. "Let me do some more research and then I'll hand it over to the press and let them take it from there. I have some old friends I want to chat to." I have no one to chat too, just more people to kill and more information to steal before I hand it all over.

"I honestly never thought being a United States senator would be like this."

"Me either." We fall into a tense silence together, and then the lights above his door illuminate, indicating it's time to head to the floor to vote on S.319. "To be continued. Let's go do our civic duty." I stop him just as we're about to leave his office. "And remember: no one but you knows about this, Harry. Don't tell anyone."

"You think I'm going to risk a bunch of Russians shooting up my car." He smiles at me to placate my concern. "No chance."

"One more thing," I say. "But you're not going to like it. We can't trust Maxwell Frost. I have it from a confidential source that he's working with the Russians who seems pretty confident. Apparently he has a thing for prostitutes."

"Not him too," says Harry. "Wouldn't it be nice to meet one Republican that could keep his family values to one woman." Laughing together, we head down to the tram with Doug.

ii.

I follow a current of other Senators as we all file into the floor together from the cloakroom and take our seats at our desks. I glance down at the glass screen embedded in my desk that shows other senators logging their attendance. I force myself to maintain a strong poker face despite my nerves. If this works, veterans and their families will never be charged for a medical bill again. If it doesn't...I'm going to be pissed. Since Harry and I are pretty close in seniority, he's only one rung of desks down from me. Doug stands politely to the side, watching me carefully and the chamber.

I know that something has happened when Bobby comes practically running up to me.

"The bill"—He's wheezing and puffing and barely getting any words out he's so winded—"Jackie. She sent me. S.319 that you're about to vote on it's not what you think."

"Woah," I say, sitting him down. "Careful. Deep breaths, Bobby. You look like you're about to pass out. What about S.319? What's wrong with it? Did they do something to it?"

"Ask. The. Clerk."

I turn my attention to the clerk who is shuffling the bill at the front of the room. Doug is leaning forward with renewed interest. I can feel the poisonous gaze of Chad follow me down. He steps in front of me as I'm walking down the steps of the chamber. I can tell by his heartbeats pulsing in my ears that he's nervous.

My gaze narrows. "If you don't want to lose an arm right now, stand the fuck aside, Chad."

"Where are you going?" he says in a bitting tone. "Don't you want to vote on your S.319 bill? You did spend all that hard work on it. It's a fantastic accomplishment. Congratulations, Jason."

"Oh thanks, Chad." I put an arm on his shoulder. "Now I know that you really did somehow fuck with it." I apply a little pressure and he drops. It gives me enough time to skip round him and head to the clerk that has all of the bills.

"Senator Jones how can I—?"

"I want to see S.319," I demand curtly. "The whole bill. Every part of it. Now."

"There's really no need—"

"I'm going to make this clear to you only once." I take a step forward. There's a deadly determined look in my eye. She flinches. "The whole bill. Now. Or I'll be sure, whatever they promised you to screw me over, it won't be worth it. I will ruin your life in so many different ways it will go down into the D.C. history books as legendary."

I expect her to come up with more excuses about the fact that it's too close to the vote, but she doesn't. The trembling clerk hands me over the bill of S.319. I flip through it in a blur. I'm going so fast I almost miss it, written in pen, scrawled on the margin.

Repeal and replace 29AC.

29 AC was the bit of the bill that made it work! Without 29AC the provision giving universal healthcare to veterans would be ineffective, it essentially destroys the whole bill. Not only that, they were replacing a provision that would...repeal the Affordable Care Act. Why? The answer hits me almost immediately. Me. I was pushing this bill. If it fucked vets over then they'd be able to take me down in the next election cycle. It was a hit-job.

I should have understood why they were being so cooperative. I push back the urge to kill them. Every single one of them. I close my eyes and calm myself. My hands begin to shake as I shackle my anger. One thing. They couldn't do this one thing to make the country better. And for soldiers risking their lives.

"Sir, are you alright?" I look over my shoulder at Doug. "You looked like you were going to faint."

"No," I say, my voice strengthening. "Thanks for checking up on me, Doug. I just have to do something quickly." I move past him and head to the back to where Bobby and Harry are.

"What's going on?" Harry asks.

"The bill," I say. "They changed it before it was filed. It's to repeal the Affordable Care Act now. They made the alterations with pen. If they take a vote, with the numbers they have, everyone in America is about to loose their healthcare."

Harry's eyes widen. "Alright. They haven't voted yet, so what's our plan to stop them?

"We can't do anything," says Bobby. "They have the votes." Well, that's helpful, I feel like snapping to him but I keep my mouth shut. "Every way you slice it they still have 53 and we have 49. What are we going to do? Make a couple of senators disappear into thin air or change their minds?"

I smile deviously. "That's exactly what we're going to do." I turn back to take in the faces of the Republican senators clustered around the tiered room. "We only need them to lose six senators and even with the vice president's vote they won't be able to pass it. We lock six in a room and it goes to a vote, and they'll be done."

"Uh...great plan. I'm loving it, but, uh, how are we supposed to get them in a room?"

I immediately release a dejected puff. "I don't know." I look over at Senator Wyatt and suddenly I realize what has to happen. "Alright. This is the plan. The only way they're going to leave the floor is if the dear majority leader beckons them."

"And how do we do that?"

A thrill runs down my spine as I watch Chad on his phone. "His phone," I supply. "It's got to have every Republican senator's phone number on it. We'll find the six most gullible senators in his address book and text that he needs to see them urgently before the vote."

"How do we get his phone?"

"Like this?" I walk up to Chad and accidentally pretend to bump into him. "Sorry about that," I say to him. "Didn't see you there." He looks at me, puzzled, but turns back to the group of senators he's conversing with. I continue out of the floor, wait for Harry and Bobby to join me. I hold up the phone. "See. Got it." I unlock it and starts swiping through his address book. I start to compose a text message. "I'll use Senator Robertson and Senator Lee. They're both not the sharpest knives in the draw. And send!" We watch six senators walk out of the floor and down the hall.

"Where did you tell them to go?"

"His hideaway," I say.

Hideaways are little spare offices senators have in the Capitol so they don't have to travel all the way back to their offices in the Russel and Hart Buildings. I don't know where Chad's is but I'm betting on them leading me straight to it.

"I'll take care of the rest from here." I start following behind the senators.

I almost forget that Doug is shadowing me as I hide behind marble walls, spying on the bald, oozy senators walking straight into the trap. "What are yer doing?" Doug whispers, keeping his voice low. "Is this necessary, sir?"

"Since they're trying to take away healthcare for 53 million Americans, yeah, it is necessary. Stay back." I pull Doug's powerful-looking shoulder away from the wall as one of the senators turns to look back as they enter a room. Wow. He really is ripped under the suit. When I hear the door click shut, I step out into the corridor, beckoning him. "Come on. We have to get back to the floor."

"You know, I might be protecting you but I can't do anything illegal."

"We're not doing anything illegal," I whisper. "We're just teaching them a little lesson."

The noise in the hallways is helpfully scarce. I can hear through the door that the senators are all talking amongst themselves, wondering what the hell is going on. Doug is looking away down the corridor. Now! I grip the door and squeeze the handle until it looks like a squished grey potato.

"Actually," I tell him. "I think I have to go back to the floor now. I forgot something."

Doug blinks. "So what were we following them for if yer weren't going to do anything?"

"Them?" I laugh. "I just wanted to talk to them about some bill markups, but they seem to be busy. Better we hurry back to the floor for the vote. Don't want to be late for this historic day!"

iii.

I hold my breath, watching the screen as the votes are entered in at our desks and tallied. Because there are only 100 senators, taking a vote here is less arduous than in the House. We have three types of votes: voice votes where we call out in unison, roll call where the clerk calls each of our names, and—today's type of vote—a yea-and-nay vote. I hate this type of vote. It's more than a voice vote but less than a roll call. The senators all go up to the clerk to tell them their votes. It's all appears cryptic, with senators signalling thumbs up to the clerk or strolling past the presiding officer's platform registering their vote with the clerks. Electronic chimes fill the cavernous space as we all make our choices.

"The motion is not agreed to."

My lungs explode with relief.

My plan had worked.

It failed. Barely. But it still failed. That would send S.319 back to committee on a vote of 49-51. I see Chad's furious face. He looks like he's about to smash his fists through his Senate desk. It's only when six senators come charging onto the floor too late does he unleash it.

"Where the hell were all of you!" he snarls. "We had a plan. You knew where you were supposed to be. Where the hell did you go?"

"You sent us a text message," whimpers a quaking old senator. "Telling us to meet you at your hideaway. You said it was urgent and that we had to go there immediately."

"What? I never sent a—"

"Oh look!" I slide in seamlessly, holding Chad's phone out for him. "I found your phone Senator Wyatt. You should be much more careful about where you put it." I slide it into his jacket pocket, leaning in to whisper, "You ever try something like that again and I will rip your arms out of their sockets and beat you to death with them. Come after me all you want. That's fine. But you don't dare fuck with the innocent families of this country. I was a prosecutor. If I kill you, I will get off without a sentence or conviction."

I don't let my smile fade until I reach the underground tunnels of the Capitol.

Earnie is patting me on the shoulder when I board the tram. "I heard what they tried to do to you. It wasn't right, Jason." He trails off, just making the sting of what they did worse.

I manage a smile. "It's all right, Earl."

"If it makes you feel any better, I told them the tram broke down so they had to walk back to their offices in the Hart Building."

"That does make me feel better."

I wearily returned, defeated, to my office to pour myself a whisky and stare out across the dark window of my office at the Washington Monument stabbing the sky in the distance. "That new staff attorney, Mike Davis, it was his idea," Jackie later tells me. "He's actually a Republican operative. They were trying to find ways to sneak it in around you. They wanted a way to take you out."

"And they used the vets to do it, knowing I'd be so eager that I'd let my guard down." I shake my head in disgust. "Was there ever a time when this place wasn't like this, Jackie? I feel like I remember a time when people actually went into this job to make the world a better place."

"I don't know what you want me to tell you..."

"Tell me that I'm not wrong. That what I saw today wasn't the real Washington." I take a hard swallow from my tumbler and jingle the ice around. "That the real Washington is full of men Lincoln and Jefferson and FDR and LBJ. Just ordinary men striving towards greatness. Maybe I'm just too idealistic. Maybe they were never really heroes, either. Maybe the were just as bad."

"Go home," says Jackie. "Get some rest. We'll start again tomorrow."

I looked at her sadly. I can tell by her adamant look on her face that she will drag me out of the office herself if she has to. "I think that's actually a good idea." I pick up my brief case with my papers and datapad inside. Fold my jacket around my arm. Drain the last of my whiskey. I put down the glass and turn to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow morning at eight o'clock sharp."

Jackie nods and gives me a pat on the shoulder.

"Doug?" I approach Doug, composing myself, inhaling deeply. "I'm going to head home now. If – if you want to get the team together."

"Sure." He must notice how exhausted I am, because he whispers something into his mic and follows me. I say goodbye to Barbs tapping away at her terminal, push out the reception door, start towards the bank of Russel Building elevators. Doug keeps up with me. Discreet, as always.

"Sorry about your bill, sir."

"Thanks, Doug." I press the down button. "I mean, Agent Galloway. Sorry."

"That's fine, sir. You've had a long day."

I smile. Nod. He's not wrong about that. Ding! Finally: the elevator. We both get on and stand alone in the elevator together. Silence. Suddenly tired, I lean back against the wall. Stare straight ahead.

For the first time that day, I let the revulsion from the Republican's antics overtake me, nearly forcing me to vomit. What lengths will they go to destroy the country? How many people's lives will they ruin until it will be enough? To go after me was fine, but normal everyday Americans...?

I'm not really that surprised. At this point, I'm almost numb to what they do. Inured to it. I do something good. They do something bad. It's almost mechanical at this point. But I think there is a small, tiny corner of myself, a part of myself I've protected, that is still wondering when America stopped being a nation of greatness.

# Chapter 14.

Revenge Feels Good

i.

The journey back across Washington to my townhouse is a long and lonely one.

My eyes close and I rest my head on the glass. I can't get comfortable and eventually I wind up just staring at my reflection in the window. I could use a shave. A storm is starting. People stand outside on the traffic-jammed streets, opening umbrellas and scuttling into doorways to avoid the sudden downpour. A netscreen store that claims to be having a sale is showing the failure of S.319 and the Republicans failed attempts to take me down.

I must look irritated because Doug says from up front, "We'll have you home in no time, sir."

"I've just remembered that I don't have anything for dinner. Do you mind if we stop for something on the way home?"

"Of course, sir."

Back in my house, Doug and I sit and eat Chinese food together on my couch. "I just want you to know"—I stab at a dumpling with my chopsticks—"if you had told me that I couldn't get something to eat, I would've thrown myself out of the moving car and gotten it myself."

Doug smiles. "I had a feeling." Then his face darkens. "Does what happened today on the floor of the Senate happen often for you?"

Oh. Wow. He's actually really worried about me. I must look worse than I feel. "That." I grimace. "I want to say no but...yeah. It happens quite a lot."

For a long moment he's tensely quiet.

"Must make you angry."

"You would think so, and it does, but after so many years of it I've become used to working around them." I try to look chastened, but can't quite manage it. The truth is, as bad as it was, I didn't care at all which spoiled and vicious little rich kid in the Senate tried to fuck me over. I'd kill them all without batting an eye. "They just don't care and I don't expect them to. It's not that I don't want every single one of them voted out of office, because I do, it's just...I don't know...expecting a Republican to be a decent person is like arguing with gravity. But today did cross a line. Veterans are supposed to be off-limits to both parties."

"I never realised how bad they were before today. I knew they were bad but not this bad."

I look down at my beer and try to lighten the mood. "Your tax-dollars at work. Sadly, there are no good, decent men in the Senate anymore," I say, almost fiercely. "But lately I'm starting to wonder if there ever was anyone decent in this job."

"That can't be true, sir." He locks eyes with me. "I'm looking at one of the decent ones right now."

I blush uncomfortably. "Ah...thanks...and you can stop calling me 'sir', Doug. It makes me feel like I should dye my hair grey."

"Sure thing, sir." I look at him. "I mean, Jason."

"There. That wasn't so painful." I chuck my Chinese box down and lean back casually on the couch. "So...tell me about yourself, Doug. You've been following me for weeks now so I feel like I should get to know you better. Or that's how it works in all the bodyguard movies."

Doug suppresses a laugh. "Been streaming a few of them on the netscreen have you?" Doug looks uncomfortable but tells me anyway. "Well, like I said me Dad's from Edenborough and me Ma's from Texas. I grew up between both countries, joined the Air Force, met the wife, had me son, Connor, then got smashed up in a massive rocketjet crash."

"What?" I lean forward. "What happened?"

"A dumb training accident. The damn thing was made by a civilian contractor and it couldn't fly properly to save its life." Doug holds out his arms. "They had to replace almost half of my lung and both my arms and legs with cybernetic replacements." For the first time, I can faintly see the metal veining under his skin. "But they didn't want me flying again so Harry helped get me a job with Capitol Police. Been here ever since."

I wince. "That sounds painful."

"It was," he says. "I had months of surgery and then rehabilitation to get used to my new arms and legs. You've never experience pain until you've been half burned alive." His eyes flicker again and he puts a hand to his ear. "Sorry, senator. I'm just getting a message over my neural chip's encrypted comm line."

I nod. Ah. So he had a neural computer interface chip installed. They were becoming vastly big in the security forces and the upper echelons of the branches of governments and armies around the world. Some opted for retinal lenses instead, but most liked to have an NCI shot into their neck. The 2050 Chip Act endorsed and promoted by the UN prevented someone from being forcibly chipped against their will, but most volunteered.

"Sure thing. I'll let him know. Agent Galloway, out."

"Let me know what?"

"It's good news. That was my boss. He thinks we might be able to lift your protection detail soon. Looks like Director Hardy is homing in on a couple of suspects he believes ordered the men to kill you a few weeks ago."

"Oh. That's good." I hope it's not some innocent person that was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Knowing Hardy he's likely to go after the person who was just licking ice-cream in some shithole European country. Like London. "I have complete faith in the director. But just to be sure maybe you should get some other people at the CIA to investigate as well. Just to be sure."

"You don't like the Director?"

"Is it just me or does he seem to fuck up every investigation he's apart of." I let out an exaggerated sigh. "I mean he hasn't yet found who killed Senator Nixon." I list the investigations with my fingers. "He knew about the Russians interfering in the elections and didn't say anything. Now, someone's tried to kill me and he doesn't have any leads to point him anywhere."

"Yeah," Doug admits. "Most of us over at Capitol Police loathe him, too. After that election screw-up the FBI isn't our favourite friend these days. But I'll deny it if you tell anyone."

"I won't tell if you won't."

"Deal."

We share a small smile. It's nice. We're starting to like each other. Or at least I think we are. "Doug," I begin hesitantly. "If you don't mind me asking, why did you and your wife break up?"

Doug hesitates, as if he's thinking it over. "She found me kissing one of my old mates from the unit," he says finally. "I just didn't realise it at the time that I was gay. When we got married, I mean. I did love her – still love her. Just not enough for us to stay together. She's working through it. It's only been about a year and we have our moments, like the one in the car yesterday."

"That must be tough," I say.

Doug sighs. "It easy but we'll get through it. She stuck by me when I was going through all my operations so I'll wait until she doesn't hate me anymore. Hopefully, it won't be forever."

"I don't think anyone could be mad at you forever, Doug," I say, staring into his eyes. Idiot! Why did I say that? He looks at me. There's something charged in the air between us. I swear both of us are thinking of leaning towards each other, kissing, ripping our suits off. "I. Um. I. We better not keep your ride waiting. And I've got some work to do for the intelligence committee tomorrow, so..."

"Yes. Right." Doug recovers. "Of course. I'll just help you clean all of this up."

"It's fine. I'll take care of it."

I surge forward to grab up the Chinese boxes at the same time as him and our hands touch against each other. We face each other awkwardly, unsure what to do—I'm not sure what to do. I reach across to touch his bearded face meaningfully, and then, slowly, tentatively, I bend forward and kiss him.

At first, he doesn't resist.

Then suddenly he pulls away. The abrupt movement snaps me back to my senses as well, and I let him go. "That was a mistake, wasn't it?" I can't look away from him. "Sorry."

"It was my fault," says Doug. "I shouldn't have done that. It was good, though."

"Very good."

"I better get going. Good night, Senator Jones."

"Night. Agent Galloway."

I open my mouth to say something else but think better of it at the last moment and instead allow Doug to walk out the front door. As much as I want it, I know it's for the best.

ii.

I turn off the lights early so that my bodyguards on the street outside will think I'm asleep. But I sit cross-legged on the floor in my bedroom, encrypting my laptop and searching for the new staff attorney they hired. Mike Davis. I'm angry and I want to vent off steam by bashing someone's face in. Slipping out of the house and avoiding being detected by the hovering balldrones is much easier the second time round.

Soon, I'm leaping from rooftop to rooftop. My phone map guiding me along. When I reach my destination, I swan dive off of a ledge and plummet ten stories to the street below.

I smile as I fall.

It's good to be free.

I snatch hold of a fire escape and smoothly launch myself up onto the roof of Josie's Bar. It's a murky shithole near the shipyards with just the person I'm looking for. When I enter, my stature and demeanour immediately draws attention. I survey the room, making particular note of several large men playing pool in the back. It's mostly occupied by deadbeats in tribal tattoos and multiple piercings that drift in and out of a haze of cigarette smoke. I'm betting that everyone in here is either drunk, wired on crystal meth, or both.

I approach the bartender. Sit at the bar. I order a beer and pass my phone over the circular credit reader embedded into the bar's surface. As the bartender turns to pour after the brassy ping has confirmed the funds transfer, my attention switches to the netscreen above the bar. It's inaudible over the noise, but it's a local news broadcast showing footage of President Rook parading about my failure: PRESIDENT ROOK SLAMS JASON JONES' FAILED MILITARY BILL.

I snicker at the news.

So typical.

There was some twat with a dress so short she was practically flashing the screen talking about how today was a failure and blah, blah. I love it how they seem to forget to mention the politicians who sabotaged the bill. The bartender watches in amazement as I swallow an entire pitcher of Guiness in one gulp. I slam the empty pitcher on the bar. "Another, please."

"Sure thing."

I realise by some snickers in the back corner that I have caught the attention of some of the guys in the back. As I'm downing another pitcher of Guiness a muscled and tattooed guy slides up onto the bar beside me. "Hey handsome."

I briefly look him over. "Sorry. You're not big enough for me." It's amusing to hear his friends crack into laughter at that jab.

"Trust me, I'm big enough." He winks. "I'm Derrick. By the way. And what's a pretty face like you doing in a place like this?"

"I'm waiting for someone."

"Who?"

"Someone I want to settle a score with."

"Why don't you let me buy you a drink first?"

"Sorry," I say. "But I'm drinking alone." I say it with finality and Derrick turns hostile.

"You're not my type anyway." He storms back towards his hysterical friends, trying to save face. I'm turning my attention back to the netscreen, but Derrick can't help adding to his friends. "Dumb faggot..." I'm out of my seat, and on the little thug, in a flash. I lift him by the throat with one hand. His feet dangle helplessly as he tries to dislodge my grip. Then he breaks through the bar window and goes hurtling into the side of a car.

I wince.

That was a bit excessive.

A mob of Derrick's friends charge at me. I toss them all over the bar easily, slamming them with brutal force. This clearly isn't about what Derrick said to me but about my day at the Senate. I'm angry and I want to hit something. And these guys will do. It's over way too soon for me. All of Derrick's friends broken and beaten on the ground.

KA-BLAM!

The bartender fires a warning shotgun in the air, then points the gun at me. "OUT!"

I sigh. Great. Suddenly ashamed, I walk outside and stand by the street lamp. I'm just in time to see who I've been waiting for. Mike Davis. The Republican staff attorney that screwed me over. He's obviously finished up with whatever prostitute he was visiting. He's stumbling out of the escort palace with his suit all rumpled.

His head spins in my direction but I'm gone in a swirl of air before he can see me. He crosses an alleyway, thumbing at his phone for a cab. He doesn't catch me pounce above. Just my shadow. He pauses, looking up for any sign of danger. He catches a flash of movement on his screen.

Ahead: I drop from a vertical pipe in my leather jacket and boots. I'm blocking his way. Mike halts, face-to-face with me, terrified, quaking, unable to form words. "You know, this isn't the Senate so if I were you I'd start running," I suggest helpfully, cracking my knuckles. "I don't have to be nice to you here because there aren't any witnesses."

Mike doesn't need to be told he twice. He turns and takes off to a subway station. He fumbles. Trips. I watch him fall down stairs.

While he's struggling to his feet, I toss him hard against the brick wall. He looks around wildly as—VROOM!—a subway train roars by. When it flickers past, on the other side of the tracks, there's me—stepping out from the shadows. Mike's eyes bug out in horror. He turns to run. I surge across in one movement and pin him against the wall before he can go anywhere.

"I have to admit," I say. "That whole thing with sneaking the bill in on the floor. Pretty clever." I throw him down into the railway tracks. I walk to the side and watch him struggle to his feet again. "So how much did they give you in return, Mike?" I whistle down to where he is in the tracks. "A fancy promotion? A big salary? How much did it take for you to fuck over the soldiers of America?"

"It was...a...position in the defence department."

"Of course it was," I say. "They were going to put you into the defence department? Yeah. That was going to happen."

"I...I...I'm sorry...I shouldn't have done it! It was wrong!"

I hold the bloodied little twerp up to my face. "You're damn right it was wrong!" My sensitive hearing picks up the train coming long before its light bends round the corner of the tunnel behind me. "But thanks for working on the committee."

"I told you already...I...I'm sorry!" Mike is looking at the oncoming train and limping away. "It wasn't even my idea. Senator Mitchell and Jackson. They're the ones you should go after. They wanted to take you down. I just gave them the plan."

"Who do you think I'm paying a visit to next?" Does he think I'm stupid? "I got a long night ahead of me."

The train is clacking closer and closer.

"But...b-bu-but...Aren't you...you going to help me out of here?"

I flip neatly backwards onto the platform. "I don't think I will," I decide. "What is it your Republican bosses like to say to everyday working-class Americans in this country who are barely putting enough food on the table to live? 'You don't do handouts.' You want to be saved, you can do it yourself." I put my hands in my jacket pockets and walk away at a leisurely pace. "And if you die you just weren't working hard enough."

Damn.

That was a good line.

I'll have to remember that one.

"You can't do this—!"

I wince as Mike's screams are cut short beneath the subway train. His body makes a sickening squelchy grinding noise as it goes under the wheels. By the time people are getting out and phoning 911, I've whipped into the night to pay Senator Jackson and Mitchell a visit in the Senate.

iii.

I stand on the top of the Washington Monument overlooking D.C while drops of blood—drip! drip! drip!—trickle down my fingertips. I look at my bloodstained fists solemnly. I found Senator Jackson and Mitchell toasting screwing over the bill in their offices. They had both run towards Senate security to find everyone unconscious.

Laughably, they thought hiding in the SCIF downstairs would somehow stop me. I prised it open as easily as opening a tin can. By now, the Senate guards would be back awake. They would search every room to find both Senator Jackson and Senator Mitchell separately impaled on the rubber gooseneck of a microphone in the Armed Services Committee chamber. I refresh my phone and sure enough, thanks to an encrypted photo of their grisly ends I'd surreptitiously dropped over Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, it's all over the news. It's even trending. I power down the phone and stow it back inside my jacket again. I'm already practicing my sad routine for the cameras tomorrow. How horrible such decent men died like that. They were among the best of us. We had our disagreements, but man I respected them. I honestly do not give a single fuck that they're dead and they deserved it.

I'm going to leave that last one out.

Even though it's how I really feel.

I'm not exactly sure I'm the hero America wants.

But, if I'm sure of anything, it's that, right now, I'm willing to be the villain it desperately needs.

# Chapter 15.

How A Bill Becomes Law

i.

"In light of these unforeseeable and tragic circumstances." Well, not that tragic or unforeseeable. "The deaths of my friends and colleagues Senators Owen Jackson and Clark Mitchell, I have renamed S.319 the 'Jackson and Mitchell Military Bill' in their honour." I can see Senator Wyatt across the Floor chamber as I make me speech, staring daggers at me. I guess he's not used to Democrats using tragic circumstances to further their political goals. Must sting. "After a minute of silence, I invite my learned colleagues to do what these brave and kind-hearted men would have done, and give the men and women in uniform what they are truly owed. Join me now." I bow my head and look at the floor for a few seconds. "Alright." I force myself to keep a straight, sad and serious face. "Mourning over. Let us vote."

Everyone logs their votes into their desk consoles. It's satisfying to see the veto-proof majority number of 60 pop up on the board. Like, I thought, the speech made it impossible for any Republican to oppose the bill.

I'm not ten steps out from the Floor when I encounter a familiar, furious senator blocking my way.

"That was some kind of gall," says Chad. He has some nerve. "Using their deaths like that."

"Like what?" I shrug. "Shamelessly using the death of two Republican senators to get free healthcare funded for the troops and their families. I don't really know who you think you're dealing with, Senator Wyatt, but I'm not one of those pussy Democrats from the past. You don't get to bitch to me about the game being unfair when you made it that way. I just learned to play it as good as you made it. Besides, you should see this as a victory and be proud."

Chad balls his fists. "It'll die in the House."

"Maybe," I say. "But it's a step in the right direction. And do you really think anyone in the House wants to vote no on this thing after their deaths? A bit more media spin and voting no on this will 'defile' their memory."

Doug and his agents join me on the way out. I'm a little too smug so I leave the Floor with a spring in my step. I could just imagine President Rook fuming in the White House right about now. Apparently Mike Davis hadn't reported for work today. I wonder if it's a little too obvious if I hint at needing a new staff attorney. As far as the Washington Post had reported, workers were still trying to literally scrub him out of the subway.

"I know you hated them but try and act a little bit depressed about it." Jackie is charging full stride beside me. "And I hope you have an alibi because knowing that FBI Director he's likely going to think you did it instead of investigating real leads."

"Probably," I sigh. "Oh, here's the Press!"

A gaggle of the usual gossipy reporters that like to cluster around the halls of the Capitol all rush at me for a statement. Since I'm just over six-foot-two, they all stay away from me unless I go to them but today must be different. Today their questions are ones I see coming. "Senator, did you use their deaths to get the military bill through after disagreements in committee!" Another one with a microphone jumps in on top. "Senator, how are you coping with the loss of your colleagues!" Uh.... Lots of Desperate Housewives of New York? "Senator, do you think this murder is connected to Senator Nixon?"

"Guys." I raise my hands. "One at a time. Please. I chose to rename the bill for those senators because they were more dedicated then I was to get the bill passed."

"But, senator, didn't they attempt to destroy the bill in a vote yesterday?"

"No," I say. "There were some minor errors. Thanks to them, now veterans and their families won't be charged for hospital bills. It's an enduring legacy both of them would be proud of."

"Do you think this is the same murderer?"

"In regards to finding the real culprit I have complete faith"—almost no faith—"in Director Hardy of the FBI to hunt down their killers and bring whomever they are to justice. In the meantime, I want to give my thoughts and prayers to the whole Jackson and Mitchell family while they deal with this devastating loss. I'm afraid that's all I have time for today. Have a good one, guys."

I turn away and walk down towards the Senate tram with Jackie.

"The good old 'thoughts and prayers'," she remarks. "Why does that always work?"

"I have no idea." I lean away and whisper to her so Doug hopefully won't overhear. "Is everything arranged for my trip to the elementary school this afternoon? I don't want to make it too late."

"All good," Jackie winks.

ii.

After a Judiciary Committee meeting filled with the dull, boring, unrewarding work of discussing installing restraints on facial-recognition and AI software, I have lunch with Harry in the cafeteria. I shove salad into my mouth while Harry comments that if more Senators get knocked off we won't even have enough to make a quorum. I agree and then he asks if I think the Russians are doing it. I shake my head. If it were the Russians, they'd be knocking us off I remind him.

"Are you making eyes at the bodyguard?"

"What?" I snap back away from gazing at Doug to Harry quickly. "Did I look like I was checking out the bodyguard? I just like to watch him...work."

"Yeah," says Harry slyly. "Nothing more interesting than watching their blank expressions as they clock the room. It helps if you think they have a nice ass." I whack him with my newspaper. "Now that I think about it I probably shouldn't have recommended that the bodyguard that just came out to his misses be assigned to you. You two haven't...you know...have you?"

I give him a deadened stare. "Of course not," I say, squaring my shoulders. "I don't get unprofessional with the people I work with. Everyone else is off limits, though. He's just an...interesting guy. How do you two know each other again? It was the Air Force, right?"

Harry nods. "We also were college roommates when we were studying to be pilots. I was there when they pulled him from his rocketjet. It was pretty grisly. I just thought he'd handle your personality well."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you're kind of anti-social and like to go at things alone. He's the same. I thought he'd kind of get that about you and still jam you into a car before some nutcase could take a shot at you."

I harrumph and let that thought settle.

I don't really want to talk about Harry's throbbingly ruthless and gutting psych evaluation. Especially since it's just turned twelve and I'm only on my third cup of coffee. It's kind of true though. I mean, when I think about it. He does have this solace to him that I don't find in other people. This weird type of calmness. Is that why I can't shake my attraction to him? He's kind of a loner too? There's just something about him that I like over everyone else. I just don't know what it is.

Maybe I just don't want to admit to myself that I've begun to feel, for the first time, that there really is someone out there for me after all. But it's not just that. I feel less thrown when I am with him, and although I can't bring myself to trust this feeling, I don't want to lose it.

Not yet.

So I resolve just to keep my guard up.

iii.

Lincoln High School is on one of the classier sides of D.C. I get shadowed by Doug and his usual gang of agents into a classroom full of kids who are all in the 9th grade. Their heads all rise from their desk consoles when they catch sight of me in my full black suit and ruby-red tie. It's their Political class period and I arranged for their teacher to let them ask me questions.

"Class," says Ms Ainsley. She was the teacher who had asked some weeks earlier if I'd wanted to and I'd finally returned her email. "This is the junior senator from Kentucky, Senator Jones. I want you to give him a warm welcome and your undivided attention while he's in our classroom."

"Good afternoon, Senator Jones." The kids greeting is off key and completely bored. I almost forget that I had been holding a Republican in a headlock an hour earlier over reauthorising the Violence Against Women Act. Why was that always so hard to get done in Congress?

"Good morning kids," I say cheerily. "I hear you've all been learning about American government in class this term." A series of silent nods. I continue. "As a senator in the United State's Senate how the government is very important to me. Now, who knows what the Senate's primary goal is as the Upper House?"

A boy shoots his hand into the air at the back of the classroom. "It's responsible for treaties, Supreme Court nominees, and be a deliberative body." I can't say I'm not impressed. It's also in a familiar Scottish accent.

"Yes that's right...?"

"Connor Galloway."

I spin my head to Doug, who stands impassively by the door. "Any relation of yours?"

"That would be me son, sir."

"He's bright." Connor beams brightly in the back of the class. I carry on with my prepared speech. "Yes, Connor, the Senate has been considered the greatest deliberative body in the world. My job does include approving treaties, and writing bills to make the country a better place. Now, any questions for me before the end of school?"

Kid 1: "Why is Connor's dad here?"

"He's a part of my protection detail," I hedge. "Because....recent developments have meant that I'm required to keep him around. It won't be permanent. He shouldn't be required to follow me around much longer. Hopefully."

Kid 2: "My Dad says you're a dick."

This kid is epic! I don't get to ask his name so I can put him down as a senate page because Ms Ainsley quickly demands that he apologize to me. "I tend to get that quite often," I laugh. "When I was at a rally once, someone threw an egg. It hit my press secretary in the face." That gets a round of laughter from everyone.

Kid 3: "Senator Jones, why doesn't the government work anymore with President Rook? It's like he doesn't care."

"What's your name?"

"Maya."

"Well, Maya, it's a complicated answer. The President is supposed to work for everyone even if he disagrees with them. That's what makes being President such a hard job. President Rook is treating everyone badly and he hasn't divested from his media empire or released his tax returns, so we don't know who he's really working for."

"And the stuff with the Russians."

"Yeah." I grimace. "The stuff with the Russians."

"Do you think America will be okay?" Maya asks softly. "After President Rook. It sometimes feels like it never will be."

I only wish I knew.

"If I've learnt anything, Maya, it's never to bet against America. We've been through world wars and famine and recessions. We've always found a way to climb back. It might take some time after President Rook but we'll get there."

"I hope we do."

"Me too."

The bell abruptly drills through the halls with finality and Ms Ainsley launches onto her feet. "Alright, that's the bell. I'll see you all tomorrow where we'll be going over the history of the Capitol. Don't forget your datapads and homework. Everyone thank the Senator."

They all thank me but they're clearly too preoccupied snagging their backpacks and charging out of the classroom. Doug's son comes strolling up to him with his backpack hanging casually on one strap. "You coming down to the field to watch me play today, Dad?"

Doug's eyes bulge.

He's forgotten.

Poor guy.

"I'm—"

I step in. "Yes. He sure is, Connor. I would love to come down and watch the game. I'm sure it's not too much of a security risk?"

"Not really, sir, but—"

"Then it's settled," I say. "We'll meet you down at the field while you get changed into your football gear. And we can watch you smoke the other team. Who are we versing?"

"The Woodchucks."

"Who are we?"

"The Timberwolves."

"We already sound better."

Doug trailed the two of us out of the school looking mortified.

# Chapter 16.

School Visit

i.

I meet Doug's wife. Helen. That meeting is less awkward than I assumed it would be.

But, then again, it probably would have been a lot different if she'd known I'd made out with her ex-husband the other night on the couch. We're chatting too each other casually enough while Connor and his teammates race across the grass field with the football. I'm actually really glad I organised going. I needed to get away from Capitol Hill.

Connor's game is a nice distraction.

I have some conversations with some of the other parents in the stands while I'm there.

They tell me how insane the President is and I grab them by the shoulders and shake them frantically while yelling, 'Somebody gets it!' To my disappointment, the game is over too quickly and Connors team is celebrating their win together after the whistle is blown by the referee. Doug lets a hint of a smile spread up the side of his face, slightly breaking his deliberately blank expression.

"Mom!" Connor yells. "We won!"

"I know, honey. I saw. Nice work."

"Did you see that Senator Jones?"

I hold out my closed fist. "I sure did see that last touchdown you scored. That quarterback didn't even see it coming." He bumps his fist with mine.

"Can I get a ride home with Dad and the Senator, Mom?"

"Oh, sweetie I don't think that's fair to the senator and your father. Your Dad is still working on his protection detail for a few more hours and the senator probably has places to be."

"I don't mind giving him a ride," I say. "I'm not going anywhere important. Just back to my townhouse to get some work done before tomorrow. I don't think there'll be a security risk before we get home. But I'm stopping for pizza to celebrate the victory."

"I'll give you guys some money."

"Don't worry about it." I wave away her offer. "This one's on the house."

ii.

I lick a cone of mint choc-chip ice-cream as we make our way back through the lamp-dark streets of DC. As the highway curves in front of us, I consider whether or not I should pay some more administration officials a visit. I really need talk to Maxwell Frost now that I know for certain that he's dirty. Better I kill him quickly and have him dead then leave him alive so that he can actively pass information on to the Russians.

Not just any type of information either but classified information. The kind only available to the National Security Council and the upper echelons of America's security forces. But...My eyes flicker to Connor, also eating ice-cream. Today had been a nice break for me. I don't really want to ruin it. It's been relaxing to have a nice day for once. One where I'm not forced to kill someone to keep America safe. It feels like a vacation.

Connor soon falls asleep against his window and when we pull up to Doug's ex's house, he's drowsy on his feet up the porch. I wait in the car and examine the house. It's gabled with a wraparound porch. A nice place. A pretty place. I could imagine Doug mowing the yard in the mornings, waving to neighbours, sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee. I could imagine him blissfully happy here.

And, even though it was against my interests, I wanted it for him. To be happy. Here. Again.

I wonder if he's made a mistake coming out to his wife. Maybe he can still be happy with her. They both don't seem like they're moving on. Is it possible he had made a mistake? Maybe I'm overthinking it. They wouldn't have divorced if they both couldn't make it work. I shake my head. I'm growing too attached already.

One problem at a time, I think. First, the country. Second, your love life.

iii.

I don't have to wait long for Doug to sweep the interior of my house again. He's gotten so quick at it that it barely takes more than fifteen minutes before I'm allowed to go into the living room. I toss my things over the back of a chair. "Your son is really good at soccer," I comment. "Did you see how he got that ball round that defender? I was impressed. I thought that goal was awesome."

"Yes," says Doug. Then his expression turns sombre. He seems uncomfortable. "I did. Tell me, sir, you scheduled your school trip because you knew my son's game was on today, didn't you?" Crap. Busted. The guilt does more than stab. It knives into me. Viciously. "Don't worry. I'm not angry with you or anything."

"Oh," I say, straightening up. "I might have overheard you and your wife talking on the phone in the car about the game." I turn to look at the carpet. "His school had been trying to get me to visit for weeks. I finally scheduled a time. I thought it would cover your ass encase you forgot. Protecting a senator that someone is trying to kill can't be helpful to keeping track of things."

"Thanks, Jason."

"Don't mention it."

We're standing across each other in my living room. There's the same live-wire electricity that I felt the other night on the couch. Kiss, kiss, kiss.

My chest suddenly feels tight, restricting my breathing. Caught in his unwavering gaze, I slowly reach out and cup his jaw, his beard from the long hard day bristles against my palm. I intend for the kiss to be soft. Quiet. Comforting. The instant his tongue finds mine, however, that intention dissolves as if it had never been there. Doug treads his fingers into my soft hair, grasps my skull and holds me tight as he slants his mouth harshly over mine. Muscled arms gather around me. Large hands, roughened with calluses, caress my back.

My shoulders sag with relief.

Twisting his head, Doug breaks the kiss and takes a step back. "Wait—"

"No." I lean forward, intent on kissing him again.

"Your suit, idiot." Doug tears my blazer off. Tugs my billowy white shirt and tie. I yank at his shirt collar. Buttons pop. Fabric rips. Flicking the ruined shirt to the floor, I glare at him. "What are you wearing?" He's got on a black jumpsuit that's covered in tiny hexagons that zippers at the front.

"It's nanocomposite body armour." He yanks me closer by my hips, dragging the zipper down. "In case I have to dive in front of you and take a bullet. Now, kiss me."

A slow smile spreads across my shiny wet lips. "Maybe I'll do this first." Taking hold of his thick hard-on, I lower my head, drag his pants down, and open my mouth on his thick length.

"Yes," Doug moans, arching, pressing his cock deeper. I fight back the impulse to gag and stretch my jaw as wide as possible.

I lift my head. "You have one huge cock, Agent Galloway," I say, stroking the length of him. With the other, I palm his balls as he throat-fucks me. I can feel him shudder, gasping for breath. "Like that, do you? Feel good for you?"

"Yes, yes."

Doug reaches for me.

I still his hands. "Wait a minute," I say. "I'm not done down here yet." Increasing the speed, I slide my hand easily up and down the length of his rod slicked by my mouth. I can feel his body drawing tight, muscles flexing, chest heaving. Loud heavy Scottish-accented moans of pleasure are escaping from his parted lips. Driving me wild.

The next instant I have Doug flat on his back upstairs on my bed. He looks shocked. I'm guessing he hasn't been flipped about so effortlessly being his size and all. I pull a bottle of lube from a draw and straddle his thighs. My short golden brown hair is sticking up at odd angles. "There's no way I'm taking you without this," I say, waggling the bottle in one hand while I drizzle generous amounts of clear liquid over the length of him. "I am going to ride you all night."

"Do it." Doug sucks in a breath as I massage the head of his dick. My oiled fingers slip slowly over his thick white skin. "Ride it like a mechanical bull."

I let out a bark of laughter. "Sure thing."

He flashes me a devilish grin that makes me even harder. Before he has the opportunity to do anything, I'm slipping onto his hip and guiding his thick rod into my eager ass. "Oh yes," Doug moans underneath me, eyes drifting close, hand working my dick, holding it steady. I can tell by the way he grabs my hips, fingers digging into the smooth skin, that he's fighting the impulse to slam me down. He's holding still, quivering, letting me take him at my tentative pace.

"That's it. Take me, Jason. Take—"

His words turn into a groan as I slide all the way down. I can feel scorching heat surrounding my ass.

I'm tight. Real tight.

"Fuck me," I gasp, teeth bared. "Fuck me, Doug."

I loom above him. My full lips lowering to his. Excruciatingly. Slowly. I'm gentling kisses along his forehead and down the side of his neck. "If you say so," I whisper huskily into his hair. And then, tightening my ass around Doug's cock, and bracing my arms on his thick chest, I start to ground my hips down.

Doug's eyes start to roll back in his head.

"Oh, fuck, Doug. Your cock feels so good."

I thrust up and down.

I grab my own cock, stroking it. I'm clearly drunk on pleasure. Grabbing my ass, Doug tugs my firm round cheeks apart, extracting a grunt from me. He must be close because reaching further down, he grabs up the lube, slicking his hand with the stuff. Then he slides his oiled fingers along my stretched hole, and works it inside next to his cock on my next downward glide.

I release a screaming moan.

"Yes! That...so...ah...fuck...good." I pound hard on Doug's cock and fingers as I furiously jerk off. Going to blow. Going to blow. Going to—

"That's it, lad!" shouts Doug. "Fucking blow!"

I throw back my head and come, just as Doug blows, shooting his load deep inside me. He bucks madly and I rise up off the bed as he slams and slams and slams his load into me. I sag forward, catching my weight on my elbows. Doug gently pulls his fingers out of me then lifts my hips, pulling his thick length from my body. He can barely catch his breath. "Worth it?"

I laugh lazily and ruffle his hair.

"Definitely worth it."

# Chapter 17.

Mall Fight

i.

Why does it have to be morning already?

I can feel the drowsy morning light sparkling through the glittering green leaves of the tree that scratches at my sash window. Slitting my eyes, I lazily roll over. I can't take my eyes off Doug's naked body. He's sprawled on his back, one arm bent over his head with the other resting on his heavily muscled chest. My wrinkled sheet is twisted up between his legs.

His impressive frame takes over half my bed.

There's the comforting weight of his exposed hair-dusted calf resting up against mine.

I stay motionless in the bed to watch the light gently sequinning the ceiling and just process being in bed next to Doug. I didn't want the morning to arrive. Last night I had refused to think about it. Refused to ruminate the consequences of hooking up with Doug, what that might possibly inflict to his career as a bodyguard. I want to admit to myself that I made a mistake but—No. I won't—I can't—even bring myself to admit that.

Like I said, last night had been worth it.

I let out a long shaky sigh and turn my mind to other matters. Like getting up and heading to the mall to pick up some new clothes before I grow too fond of being in bed with Doug. Gently, careful not to disturb the bed, I slowly sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I bend over, elbows on my knees, and press the heel of my palms into my eyes. No matter how much I wish it otherwise, I can't forget that the country is falling apart. Rolling my shoulders, I collect my phone from the bedside table and begin scrolling the news.

President Rook tweets mock war veteran. President Rook tweets about giant tax cut. President Rook tweets about Jason Jones' Veteran Health care. I manage a smile. This has got to be good. I click the link and scan the screen: @JASONJONES MILITARI HEALTHCARE BILL IS SOOOOO BAD FOR THE COUNTRY AND VETS. MAYBE NEEDS TO BE VOTED OUT...? A wince tightens my brow, compressing my lips. He misspelt military.

That was the President of the United States.

I quickly pull on my boxers and walk to the foot of the bed. My pants, along with my signature ruby-red tie and cufflinks, and Doug's nanoarmour jumpsuit are strewn across the floor. I'm piling it all together when a rustle catches my attention.

"Trying to sneak out of your own house?"

I'm looking into the sexily drowsy face of Doug. He's sitting up on one elbow, his dark brown hair tousled and dishevelled.

"Trying to find your shoes before the rest of your agent friends discover you've slept over." I check under the bed. "We need to come up with a cover story pronto so that they don't fire you."

"Don't worry," says Doug in a light, teasing tone. "I know you're not that kind of senator."

I raise an eyebrow. Before he can catch me, I'm on top of him in a gust—kissing him and pinning him down. "Oh, baby, I am exactly that kind of senator." I smile and move my fingers to smooth his rumpled hair. Breaking the kiss, I pull back a bit. "That neural implant of yours that records everything from your retinal implants...that wasn't on last night, was it? They didn't see us?"

Doug shakes his head. "It dumps to the server every eighteen hours, but I can deactivate it. Which I did right before we did it."

Now I'm interested. "How?"

"There's like an options list that pops up on my retinal implants. I can just select which ones I want with my thoughts. That way no one at Capitol Police can record our intimate moments." He sits up a bit further. "Didn't you have any cops in Louisville that had a neural chip?"

"The police were looking at it but not a lot of the cops wanted it." I kiss him again. "I never really dived too deep into the science of it. They're still experimental." I kiss him another time. "Think we could get it on one more time?"

"You're the senator so what you say goes..."

My faint smile widens and I start kissing down his chest.

ii.

Later that day, my protection entourage with Doug in casual clothes accompanies me through the Washington Day Mall. I have shopping bags full of new suits slung over one shoulder. It's packed with kids and adults weaving through discoing cartoon holograms rotating on cylindrical plinths beside the benches. I wouldn't mind watching a movie but I remind myself I still have to head back into the office to do some work.

"Where are the kids?" I ask Harry. He's decided to come out and do some shopping too.

Harry shrugs. "They all ditched me to go to their friend's houses." He sniffs. "You know I used to be the cool Dad that everyone wanted to hang out with because I was in the Senate. Now they all want to hang out with Barry's Dad because he's in movies. I should've sent them to public school."

"Just get a bouncy castle," I say. "It worked at all my campaign rallies."

"That's not a bad idea." Harry glances over at one of the chain stores we're passing, their retro hologram signs glowing. "Let's go in here. I need to start shopping for Christmas, and Laura sent me out with a school list for the kids."

We go into a colourful store, one of the big department ones that sells everything you could possibly buy. There are Christmas decorations up in it. I can smell strong perfume coming from somewhere. Harry grabs one of the plastic shopping baskets. I do the same and follow him to the video game aisle with Doug and the suits shadowing us both patiently.

"What do you reckon?" he asks.

We're standing in front of the video games.

"I don't know. I have like zero experience shopping for kids. Maybe just get the one with zombies in it?"

"I'd like to get him one that is isn't so violent but all they have are naked chicks and zombies."

"No way." I pick up one and check the back. "They have a video game about the president fending off an alien invasion. You got to get him this one." I add it to his basket.

"The President's Alien Invasion?" Harry is sceptical. "I get the ripped guy with bazookas is the president, but who is the chick in the bikini?"

"Probably the first lady my guess."

We move to other shelves. I find deodorant, toothpaste, floss, shampoo, and all the other things I've been forgetting to restock on because of my hectic schedule at the Senate. The teenager at the counter doesn't even look at us as he swipes everything. We start walking back to the car, but Harry gets distracted by the food court.

"Mmm. That burger smells too good. Let's stop and get something to eat before I pass out. I skipped breakfast."

"Why did you skip breakfast?"

"Wife and I were banging."

"Alright. Lesson learnt. Don't ask questions you don't know the answer too."

I'm picking through a chicken salad with the agents sitting nearby us when I get distracted by a group of men in dark trench coats and backpacks. They're all leering suspiciously around the space, seemingly too uptight to be normal. Not standing together, either. Even more interesting. I text Doug's phone and know the image must go straight to his retinal implants: SCAN THE GUYS IN THE TRENCHCOATS. SUSPICIOUS.

Doug eyes widen.

He and a group of the agents glance at the men around the food court and their backpacks. He texts me back. SCANNED THEM WITH IMPLANT. PACKING GUNS AND EXPLOSIVES. POLICE INBOUND. NEED TO GET YOU BOTH TO SAFETY BEFORE THEY MOVE.

"Screw us," I whisper harshly. "There are hundreds of people here. A bomb introduced to this space will kill millions of people."

Harry opens his jaw. "Bomb? What bomb?" He says it's so loudly that even the guy across from us in the trench coat hears. We all lock eyes for like a minute, and, then, the guy unfolds some kind of collapsible gun from his backpack. "Oh. That guy has the bomb I'm guessing."

"Yeah," I say. "Thanks for letting him know."

"EVERYBODY ON YOUR KNEES!" The terrorist covers the lower half of his face in a black scarf and fires a clattering round into the ceiling. Doug and the agents simultaneously fire their guns at one of the terrorists, dragging Doug and me off down an escalator with the other hordes of screaming people who are running into shops as glass shopfronts are broken and security officers are shot. They're wearing bulletproof shirts that give a digital flicker, like a broken netscreen, as they all flop against the shiny tiles.

"All right. Let's move." Doug's voice is nothing but a rampant growl. "Boss. We're escorting out Senator Jones and Senator Hirano right now. Please be advised, terrorists have prisoners in main food court and appear to be armed with some kind of bomb."

My supersonic hearing can hear a child crying for somewhere up where the terrorists have taken hostages. Who knows what they intend to do with them. "Stop!" I tell Doug, yanking my arm free. "I need to go help these people. We can't leave them to die! They'll be killed!"

"Jason, please, don't do this now—" He turns back to the other agents. "Get Senator Hirano out of here. We'll follow in our car with Senator Jones." Harry gives me an imploring look but he doesn't get to argue with me because he is just as forcibly yanked out alongside the screaming people running away. "Jason, I will stun you and drag your ass back to the car if I have to." A pair of terrorists rush towards us on the upper level of the mall, hoping to get an easy shot in, and Doug guns them. It's just him and me amongst the screaming tide. "Right now, you're my top safety concern."

"No. I'm not," I remind him. "Right now it needs to be the people taken hostage. I don't expect you to do anything, but if you don't let me go I won't be able to help those people."

"And what are you going to do, Jason?" Doug faces me. "Filibuster them to death? You have no military experience or training. You'll get yourself killed trying to stop them—!" From behind Doug there is a quick flash. A terrorist has fired at him. I track the bullet as it crosses the floor of the mall at a crawl, and when it comes close enough for me to see it spinning, I snap in front of him. The bullet zings off my chest, like it is encountering a metal of some kind. Doug looks at me. He saw the bright metal-white spark as it shot off me.

"What the—? How?"

"I am going to try and ignore that filibuster remark you just made."

"JASON! NO!"

Bracing my feet, I launch myself across the mall at the terrorist. For a second, I'm soaring, my feet not touching the floor, and then I slam into Doug's assailant like a cannon shot, sending glass and marble flying as he bursts through the front of a jewellery store.

Doug's just staring, blinking.

Three terrorists open fire on me and the bullets do nothing but glitter off me.

I turn towards where Doug is taking cover and we make eye contact. He's clearly seeing the heavy machine gun fire doing nothing to me. See? Told you I could take them all out with no problem. I wink at him, duck under the heavy barrage of bullets and slam my fist upwards through the upper landing of the mall. Concrete and metal twists up as the three men are blown back.

It's clear as I work my way through the mall that the terrorists have spread out to better vantage points.

As I advance, gunfire roars at me from shattered storefronts on the upper landings and below. There's a yelp of pain as I kick a wooden bench off its bolts into one of the snipers and then nothing. A terrorist snaps a rifle across my face; it shatters and I kick him through a window. I'm about to deal a punishing blow to one but a sharp bang! takes him out first. I whip my gaze down onto the lower levels.

Doug has his gun out and he's following me.

"I'm still your bodyguard!" He shouts. "I hope you know what you're doing up there!"

"I do!"

I knock out the terrorist I'm holding. I jump onto a wall, springing off it, smashing through the window of one of the nearby moving glass bubble elevators. I yank out the two terrorists who occupy it by their collars and stand in the awkward elevator music. I have to think. Take out the terrorists but don't want anyone to see my face. That means I'll have to be fast.

The doors ding.

I exit in a fury.

I launch a haymaker across the face of one of the terrorists and he crashes through a vending machine. The next I throw up through the ceiling. The hostages grouped around the shop are seeing terrorists flying everywhere but I'm moving too quickly for them to get a good look. I spin. I kick.

One of the terrorists tries to take a shot at one of the families. I'm in front of them before he presses down on the trigger. The bullet pings harmlessly off my chest but goes straight through my jacket. "This was my good leather jacket you asshole."

I punch him through one of the nearby support beams.

"You're too late."

I whip my glance across the food court to where a terrorist is pressing a button on the brief case: 00:10...00:09...00:008. Great. A bomb. The leader with the bomb realises I'm walking towards him, raises the weapon. Bullets spark, ricocheting off of me...till the gun goes empty—CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! Leader throws his gun aside, struggling to pull off his backpack, putting his hands in the air.

"I give up! I surrender—"

I punch him in the stomach, folding him down on his knees, coughing.

I then brush him aside, and Doug, having finally caught up to me, whacks him across the face with his gun. "Let me." He looks pointedly at the device. "I'll try and shut it down with a wireless hack." Gibberish scrolls on his retinal implants. He shakes his head in a panic. "Not going to work. I can't deactivate it. It's going to go off."

00:04—00:003—

"I got it."

I collapse the briefcase and smash through the roof. Sparks come off my feet as I land on the metal grating with a large dent and toss the briefcase high into the air. I half raise a hand as a bright orange explosion clouds the blue sky. KABOOOMM! I duck as bits of sizzling hot metal sing overhead and clip the roof. That explosion would have been enough to level the entire building if it had originated in the food court like planned. It would have killed everyone.

That was way too close for comfort.

I'm lost in thought when I hear cheering from below the broken window. The hostages are gathered together, getting to their feet, celebrating being alive. And me. I look down at them—Doug among them, still in awe. They're shaking Doug's hand and clapping him on the back. But I can't hear them. All I can hear are the sirens—coming from every direction at once. When I catch sight of the mass of police cars and ambulances thundering to the mall, I make an exit.

iii.

I'm at my townhouse after texting Harry to let him know I'm all right. The news is reporting that Special Agent Doug Galloway from the Capitol Police helped save the day. I am just an unnamed civilian who helped 'a little'. I only took down thirty-six of them! So typical. I do all the work and someone else gets the credit.

I have to decide by morning what I'm going to do about Doug knowing.

It's not like I'm hiding my powers; I'd once pulled an executive's Ferrari off the road and watched him spin the wheels while I'd just stood there and then, dropping it uncaringly, I proceeded to shove him a subpoena. I glance up at the sash window. Every muscle in my body trembles. A car has stopped on my side of Gray Malkin Street, the noise of tyres popping on gravel warning me.

Moments later a deep familiar voice speaks with the security officer on my doorstop – Doug's voice – and I silently groan.

I recognise the sound of the door's soft click.

"They're saying you saved the day," I say, a note of amusement in my voice. "Nice work."

"They're talking about a medal."

"It would look good on you."

A small silence falls between us.

"Who were they?" I ask.

Doug steps forward. "A group of terrorists connected with ISIS. President will probably have a field day on his immigration policy with this." Just as he says it, my phone whistles that I've received a tweet from the President. "That's probably him now. You going to see what it says?"

"I'll check it later." I shrug. "Right now, I don't really care about what he says. I'm just glad that Harry and you and everyone at the mall is alright. That's all that matters to me. What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be getting debriefed?"

"I came here because I was worried about you," says Doug quietly. "And I want to know how you did it? What the hell are you?"

A loaded question.

Considering our recent ordeal, I'm not surprised he's asking it. Any number of answers flit through my brain. None of them appropriate.

I opt for a simple excuse. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Doug looks at my netscreen. I can tell he's hacking it with his implant. Next minute, the screen fizzes and is replaced with footage of his retinal implants taken from the mall. It's from his point-of-view, as he cranes his head to watch me deflecting bullets and smashing through walls.

"Sometimes even I forget how magnificent I am in battle. Can you burn me a copy of this?"

"Cut the crap."

My spine stiffens.

"I just saw you take machine gun fire and you don't have a scratch on you. How?"

"You should probably go. I have a lot of work for the Senate on Monday to start."

Doug places a hand on my arm as I stride past him. "Please. Jason. Tell me." His warm palm slides across my face. "You can trust me."

"Doug. I can't. Ever," I whisper, cupping his face, lowering my head to kiss his beautifully sculpted mouth. "Please...Don't ask me to."

Doug exhales audibly. "Why?"

"Because..." My chest tightens. His blue eyes are fierce on my face; that muscle in his sculpted jaw quivering. "It's complicated, Doug. Just trust me on this, okay? All you need to know is that there were some people. Some bad people. And that it's all not completely finished. And you knowing about what I am and how I got my powers...it puts you in danger."

A frown line crawls across his brow and sets firmly in place, his teeth disappearing behind his lips. "Jason," he pauses briefly, "I was chosen because I'm used to being in dangerous situations. I can take a bullet if I have to. Because I need to erase that footage of you on my retinal implants. And I can be fired and lose my career so I have to be sure that it's for a good reason."

I lift my thick brows.

I pull away and walk to the sash windows. While we've been speaking, clouds have blocked out most of the sunset. It's raining.

"If I tell you how I became the way I am," I remind him quietly, looking over my shoulder. "You can't tell anyone. Not your superiors. Not your wife. Not Connor. No one can know. If anyone finds out..."

"I won't tell anyone," says Doug quietly. "I promise you. My neural implant is off. Nothing is being recorded. No one will know."

I sigh. "$17.09"

"What?"

"It started with 17 dollars and 9 cents."

I close my eyes...

# Chapter18.

$17.09

i.

15 Years Ago...

When I open them again, I'm back in school on the last day before summer. The day at Beattyville High is dragging painfully on past endurable.

It doesn't help that I'd gone to bed the night before with a throbbing headache after my father had thrown me against the wall in one of his typical rampages. My history teacher, Miss Reason, is talking about the Constitution, the founding of the United States of America, and I couldn't care less. Yes, I know, 1799 was independence, and I bet I will definitely need to know all this for my life to be any less shitty. Looking at the clock on the wall behind the display board doesn't help things. Everyone else is writing notes on their datapads with their styluses.

I'm doodling with my stylus on my datapad, my elbow resting on the desk, staring out the window at the blue sky and lush green mountains. I don't know it, but the summer that is about to begin is one that will change my life forever. Suddenly, Miss Reason coughs.

"What the heck?" she screeches. "Where in blazes is that smoke coming from? Link Mayweather!"

My eyes widen slightly.

Before I can say anything, Miss Reason follows the scarf of smoke to the open window and sticks her head out. "Link!" My best friend, who is smoking out back and I am supposed to be covering for, coughs and wheezes.

"Hey," Link says innocently. "I was just...taking a minute of fresh air. Nice day today, isn't it?"

"Save it," she says curtly. "Get your ass back in here before I give you detention for the whole of summer. You're lucky it's the last day." Link comes scrambling back into the classroom, shooting me an accusatory glance for stuffing up my one job.

"I thought you were going to whistle!" he hisses.

I grind my teeth together loudly. "I thought you would be smart enough not to smoke right next to our classroom window!"

"Lord knows what the hell we're going to find a way to get you through enough classes to graduate." She said the comment blithely, in a no-nonsense sort of way that kind of punctuated her style. Miss Reason returns back to the lesson. She was insistent on keeping our attention on work right until the bell sounded. I was dreading the summer holidays and not having the excuse of school to take a break from working at the diner.

It had been a long day.

Halfway through class, a girl in one of the lower grades had been taken away in an ambulance to the hospital. Link and I had run out and pushed through the crowd to see her vomiting blood over a locker. It wasn't just her that was sick. Last week I'd overheard someone from the football team saying in the boy's locker room that his sister had a miscarriage and the doctors were trying to figure out why.

It seemed to me that everyone in the town was suddenly sick but no one really knew why or flatly just didn't care. At lunch, Link had said the mayor had contacted someone from the CDC and the state governor's office, but I thought the chances of Mayor Hawley getting off his fat ass to do any such thing were slim.

The bell rings and the doorway is soon engulfed with cheering students dashing for their lockers before Miss Reason can say, breathlessly, "Remember that history essay is worth fifty percent of your grade and it's due in the third week back so I expect you to make a start on it!" Then she turned towards me. "Mr Jones. Stay behind, please."

My lips twitch. Great. Everyone else was leaving but me. "Go ahead," I tell Link. "I'll catch up."

He leaves me, heading through the door along with everyone else and, sulking, I drag myself to Miss Reason's desk at the front of the room.

"I just wanted to congratulate you on Link's latest exam." Miss Reason turns her console around to face me: it's covered in all types of programming gibberish. "Know what this is, Jason?"

I peer at her screen.

"A computer virus?" I scowl faintly.

Whoa, not good. She knows.

"Yes." Miss Reason taps a few buttons. "It's an incredibly sophisticated computer virus, actually. With a few stroke of your console keyboard it could get Link and you a hundred percent on your last exam. Know anything about that?"

"Maybe we just followed your advice and studied hard, like you said?"

"Well, I would hope so. None of our security software identified it and a friend of mine from the Pentagon said it was made by someone with an extensive understanding of malware programming. Even he had trouble identifying it."

I steel myself. She can't prove that it was me. If she had, I'd be speaking to the cops right now.

"Well." I cross my arms. "Last time I checked it was a crime so if the authorities aren't here I guess the real author can't be traced."

Miss Reason lips twitch into a smile. "You want to know the really funny thing about this virus? It was on your desk and Link's but it was only activated on Link's. Your console had the virus, but the key-code to activated it never occurred during the exam. Which tells me your smart."

"I'm not that smart," I cut in abruptly.

"Oh, I'm not giving up on you that easily Jason." Miss Reason relaxes a little. "But you're not living up to your full potential. You've failed to turn in the last three assignments for me. Which is why, I'm making your essay worth 75% the final grade, but a long with the history report, I'm assigning you a personal essay. About the kind of person you want to be. Because if people like you, Jason, saw what they could accomplish and how far they could go if they tried, the world would be a much better place to live in. Trust me on that."

I nearly want to scream at her.

"I don't know if you noticed it or not but I'm not going anywhere, Miss Reason," I argue, scoffing at the idea. "This is Beattyville. No hospital. Nearest college a 60 mile drive away. No one accomplishes anything. We all work and then some Goldman Sachs banker screws us all out of our life savings, and then we work some more, and then we work some more, and then we die of drugs or drunk driving. That's just how it is."

"But, every one and a while, someone does." She shoves her desk close. "The personal essay is due the same day. Have a great summer."

"You too," I say, just to be polite.

Returning to my locker, I stand with Link and file books away as he hysterically panics about the virus I developed. I explain to him she can't trace it but that she think's I'm 'not living up to my potential', whatever that means. The high school parking lot is pretty much deserted by the time we climb into Link's old solar power truck.

It's a relief to watch the square bulk of our rundown school slip away in the side-view mirror as Link drives us away.

"She's kind of right."

I stare at him as hard as I can, eyes wide.

"What do you mean?" I exclaim, horrified that he's taking the teacher's side over me.

"What I mean is," Link chides diplomatically, seeing my stare, "is that out of all of us in school you're probably the only one with a shot of getting out of here, Jase. You're probably going to go to one of those Ivy League Colleges and become President or something. Everyone talks about it."

I am totally confused.

"They do?"

Link nods. "I'm surprised you never hear about it," he says, steering us down towards my street. "Like that time when you covered for Mason Florrick when he was going to get expelled or helped talk Sarah Jensen's mom out of the parking ticket that cop was going to give her."

"Anyone would have done that."

"Not anyone."

I shrug at Link. I don't know what to say. I look out the window and we fall into a small silence as the radio sings out into the open.

I spy the domineering shape of RedCorp 's chemical plant that employs over half the town. "Hey, you ever think that maybe it wasn't the best idea to put a chemical plant that deals with explosive chemicals right next to a town full of people?" Link shrugs, screeches to a halt outside my derelict and dilapidated house. It was always a pain to see it up close with the weeds growing over the mailbox and the holes in the roof. "You need me to come in with you to get the fishing pole or you good on your own?"

"Nah." I shut the door. "I'm good. I'll be right out." I charge up the steps, shove my key into the lock, and fight the door to get into the house. It's missing a bolt so it regularly dragged across the wood floor. I realize too late that I've stepped into a really bad porn movie. There's beer bottles all over the house and the trash can is overflowing again. White powder on the coffee table. And dear old Dad is drilling Mom in the ass on the floor. With actual porn playing on our screechy netscreen.

"OH YES KIP! FUCK ME!"

"OH YEAH KAREN BABY TAKE MY COCK!"

My eyes widen, and I inhale sharply in shock.

I'm going to need so much therapy when I'm older. So much. "I'm just going out to fish with Link." I barely have enough time to race to my room and grab my fishing pole and race back. They don't even look up from what they're doing. I can tell they must be way too high to even hear me.

"Wait," Dad says while I'm about to cross the threshold into freedom. "Make sure you bring home some fucking dinner for us, will you?"

"Yes, sir," I sigh.

Link notices my pale and horrified face as I slide weakly into the seat next to him. I'm shivering and cringing so badly I can feel my shoulders creeping up past my head.

"What was that noise—"

"Just drive," I order abruptly.

ii.

"They were fucking on the floor?"

"Yep."

We are walking up the bright green grassy hills of a parcel of land that swoops down towards the Kentucky River where we like to fish.

Link laughs, a huge guffaw. "That is so funny."

"It is not." I shove his shoulder. "They were snorting pills again. I saw the powder on the coffee table. Would it kill them to take a break for a day from the stuff. I just want to get to the lake and fish for an hour and forget about them."

Link's eyes light up. "Sounds good to me."

After stepping down through the trees to the river and casting out our lines, we spend a lazy hour contentedly trying to catch something. We have no such luck. I remark to Link that it's weird we can't catch anything; it was rare for one of us to return home without at least catching one fish. I end up half-committedly skimming pebbles by the shore, wondering where the fish have scampered off to. When the last stone from the pile I've exhausted gently falls into the water with a dissatisfying plop, Link finally caves. I dust pebbles and grit from the seat of my jeans and we start trekking back through the thick woods to Link's truck.

"I always catch something," Link remarks.

"I know," I agree. "It's weird for one of us to not catch something. I wonder what happened."

"It doesn't make any sense—ah!" Link pulls his ankle out of a stream he's stepped into by accident as we climb over a mossy log. His ankle is blistering and red. "What the hell—?"

"What happened?" I crane around the log to see what's happened and my eyes trail to his blistered leg. "What did you do to your ankle?"

"I just stepped into that puddle right there. Don't go near it! I think there's something in the water." Link leans heavily on a tree. "Don't suppose you have a medkit with you, do you?"

I take off my backpack and rummage through the contents. "I do." I pull out my antibacterial spray and dispense some on his ankle, then I switch on my dermoscanner and wand its blue light back and forth on his leg until the skin regrows. "That should do it. Feel any better?"

"Yeah." Link straightens. "Much. Thanks. What the hell is this stuff?" He looks down at the puddle and pokes the milky liquid swirling in it with a stick. We both watch in horror as the twig nearly completely disintegrates in the water. "It's like acid or something. What's it doing in the forest?"

"Do you smell something?" I say, sniffing the air. "It smells like...dead fish? It's coming from..." I turn and start cresting the hill, pushing aside ferns as Link charges after me. "Whoa." I resist the urge to vomit when I stumble towards a small stream literally swarming with dead fish, rotten, and fly-swollen. Some of them are flopping about.

"They look like they've been poisoned or something." Link and I exchange glances. He kneels near the fish and pulls out a small cap. "I'm going to take a sample from the water and see if I can have it tested. Might be why the fish are starting to dart off from the river."

"That's not a bad idea."

While he does that I gaze out from my position behind the trees at a complex variety of buildings rising before us on the other side of the river. Parts of it are huge with tall, frail conical towers standing against the clear blue sky. Surrounded by giant ellipsoid and spheroid tanks. There are pipes connecting the buildings all over, obviously a plant of some kind. My shoulders tense.

"Link," I say. "What's that over there?"

"Oh you're probably used to seeing it from a different angle in town," says Link, crouched by the water. "That's RedCorp's Chemical plant." The same one my father works for. The same one that has a hydropower station to run its facilities. The same one that might be responsible for everyone getting sick in town now that I think about it.

Realisation is dawning, and it's dawning very fast.

"Oh no," I whisper.

iii.

To keep a long story short, Link got his mother, a scientist at one of the nearby labs, to test the water sample we collected in her spare time. She found water was contaminated with some type of substance that she couldn't identify and that the lab testing equipment couldn't label.

The first thing we did was contact the water treatment plant to try and warn them that the water coming in from the Kentucky River and being pumped to Beattyville might be contaminated. After ten minutes, it became pretty clear to the two of us that the plant manager, Mike, wasn't going to believe either of us. Either that or someone was paying him to ignore the fact that the water wasn't safe. After that, we tried asking RedCorp about a potential breach in the tanks that was leaking into the river. That was a mistake. Someone must have had a word with Dad: the day after I tried to tell the company he came home and gave me a black eye and bloody lip for stirring up trouble.

When someone broke into Link's Mom's work and trashed all her computers and work, we both knew what we were onto was serious. It was too much of a coincidence. Someone clearly knew something was wrong and didn't want it getting out.

"You don't think they don't want someone to find out because they're doing it on purpose, do you?" I'm sitting on the floor of Link's room, tossing a baseball up in the air. His Mom had said I could stay the night while she worked late.

Link is lying on his back in his bed, scrolling through his datapad. "I don't think so." Link has a webpage up on his datapad. "It says here the chemical that RedCorp processes at the facility from their nuclear plants only costs on average seventeen dollars and nine cents to dispose of. No one would illegally dump for a price that small."

For him, I nod. "Sure. Right." But I'm whitetrash in a way that Link will never be. Beattyville, Kentucky wasn't New York, New York. I'd seen bankers come to the town and illegally foreclose on people's houses during the last financial crises. If something bad happens here, no one usually finds out about it, and if it doesn't affect them they rarely ever care about it. Who would give a fuck about our shithole town if a giant company was poisoning the drinking water?

No one.

And RedCorp probably already knew that.

"I'm going to break in to the chemical plant," I announce. "We have to get to the bottom of what's going on and the answer has to be somewhere in that plant, Link. Then we're going to expose them to the world. Force them to clean up the river."

"Are you insane!" Link jumps up on his bed. "How are we going to do that?"

I explain that I overheard Dad talking about the CEO Mr Red coming down from New York to visit the plant next month.

"If he's visiting, it's either because he knows someone's sniffing around about problems or someone's going to tell him there's a big one. If anyone knows something, he will," I say. "And if we get him on camera saying he knows about the plant, we can send it to every news outlet in the country and hope it changes something."

"I suppose you've got some way of actually pulling off this entire caper?"

"Actually? I do."

It takes three weeks to plan and execute. I steal two old work uniforms from my Dad's closet that no longer fit and then I have to sneak my Dad's badge out from his clothes when he's blackout drunk on the couch, copy it, and clip it to the uniforms. That had been the most frightening thing about the plan. If he caught me messing with his ID, it was likely he'd either shoot or beat me to a bloody pulp. In the meantime, I worked at the diner and the small theatre in town, acting as if I've given up on the potential water crises.

A few times I caught sight of an unmarked car outside on the street. I knew I wasn't being paranoid to assume someone, possibly from RedCorp, was watching us. What we did. Where we went. Who we went with. There was always a sparkly black Mercedes hovering on the street corner. A stupid move, considering no one in the town made nearly enough to afford a Mercedes.

Whoever it belonged to they didn't hang around long. By the third week, realising that I'm dropping it, the car is suddenly gone. They must have reported that Link and I had stopped trying to investigate why everyone was getting sick in the town. We'd told everyone we know to use bottled water, but it was only a matter of time before someone tried contacting the Governor.

The only hitch happens the day before Mr Red is due to arrive to inspect the plant.

I'm walking back home to our shitty house after work when I notice a car parked on the sidewalk. I pause. A feeling of dread chills me right down my spine. It's not a Mercedes. This car is clearly someone else's. A fancy hummer, with a hot guy in a skin-tight black tee braced against the side. Clearly, this is someone my dear old father has gotten wrapped up with.

Dammit! Not again!

I force open the door to the house and already realise its way too quiet. I can't even hear my Mom's snoring from the hall. "Good afternoon there, son," says a voice on the sofa, making me jump and raise my fists. It's not my father. It's a man with a bad fake tan in a tracksuit.

Leaning against the wall with him is a racketeer-type goon with blue tattoos snaking up his ripped biceps.

I rack my brain, trying to think if I remember him from anywhere. He's wearing the type of tracksuit rappers wear in music videos; a thick, gold chain encircles his bull-like throat, and in his big hands he continually twirls and twists a cap. As he sits there smiling at me and saying nothing, making me feel uncomfortable, I'm still very certain I've never seen him anywhere before in my life.

But from the bad fake tan and the tracksuit and the Jersey-accent I would have to guess either he's a lone shark or drug dealer.

Probably both.

"I'm sorry to intrude but we knocked several times and no one answered and well...it was mighty hot outside." Pleasant. Oversweet. Nefarious. "I'm Mr Dollar and this here"—gesturing to Muscles—"is my associate, Mr Tiny."

"Uh." This is awkward. "Nice to meet you. Can I help you two with anything?"

"Just a matter o' business," he answers. "We're looking for your father, Jason. Know where he might be at this present time?"

I didn't tell him my name.

How does he know my name?

I shrug. "No."

"That's a mighty shame." Mr Dollar gives me a long, searching look. "Know when he'll be back?"

"No..." I shake my head, my voice trembling a little. My face turns hot. I'm feeling a lot like a kid sitting in the principal's office. "After his shift at the chemical plant he usually disappears for a couple of days out of town." Apparently gambling. "It might not be until his next shift in a week."

"Look here, Jason," says Mr Dollar, sighing. "You seem like a good kid. You wouldn't lie to me to protect your Dad, would you?"

"No. That's all I know."

"Here's the thing, Jason. I have a problem. A really big one. With your father." Get in line, I think. You're hardly the first. "I'm holding sixty grand of your Dad's paper for him –"

"Sixty grand!"

"– and I'm done with putting up with it." He leans forward slightly. "Listen, your Dad wants to gamble his shirt on how some morons race dumb horses that's on him. But, just between you and me, son, I've met a lot a lowlifes in my life but your father – " Mr Dollar whistles—"he's got to take the cake." Ticking off offences with his fingers. "Months late on repayments, doesn't return my calls, makes plans to meet me today then doesn't show. You know how long I waited for your deadbeat dad to show?"

I shake my head.

"Two and a half hours." He gives me a high voltage glare, snarling with affront. "And afterwards I had to drive all the way across town to this cockroach infested trailer park of a neighbourhood." He inspects, with some disgust, I note, the shabby and uncouth surroundings he's being forced to inhabit. How much I would love to wipe that filthy look off his face, feel his blood spattering across my knuckles.

I can't help myself.

"I'm just wondering what exactly you thought would happen when you leant money to a notorious alcoholic?" I say it with more aplomb than I feel. Mr Dollar hesitates for a fraction of second. Something dark glitters in his eyes and I know by the way they narrow that I've made a huge mistake. He snaps his fingers and, without warning, I'm lifted from my feet by Mr Tiny and held in place against the wall.

"Alright," I grunt, embarrassed and breathless from hitting the wall. "Shouldn't have said that. You can put me back down now. I get it."

Mr Dollar crisply gives an exasperated relenting gesture to Mr Tiny, who drops me sideways onto the floor with a suppressed bark so that I'm staring directly at Mr Dollar's shiny sneakers. I choke on a cough as I try to get my breath back.

"I'm going to make this very clear to you, Jason." He crouches down beside me. "I want your father and if I don't get him I'm going to come back here and next time I won't be so accommodating to you and your mother."

"Fine," I grimace, feeling hot and cold at the same time, feeling sick. "You've delivered your message. I'll let you know if he drops by. Now get out of my house."

Mr Dollar retreats to the door with Mr Tiny stomping out. "Remember," he says at the threshold, with a twitch of a sinister smile. His graciousness, his manners never failing. "About what I said. Find your father for me or I will make sure it's you and your mom I'm coming after."

I take a few calming breaths on the floor while I clutch at my aching ribs. I lay there until I'm sure I hear the hummer squeal off and I'm certain that I'm safe. Get up. Tonight is the night you break into RedCorp's chemical plant. You can't panic about it today. I climb back to my feet, all confident and calm, but I'm quietly seething.

Dad just can't help himself.

I clench my eyes at the kitchen sink in fury as I look out at the overgrown and muddy yard behind our house. I can feel my blood pulsing in my ears. I want to kill him! I want to beat him to death! I want to strangle him! I want to watch the light leave his eyes. Fuck, I hated that man so much.

I just want it to be fucking over already.

I really didn't get it. Life.

It was like it was all one big cruel joke.

How some people had to slave their lives away, work their fingers to the bone, break their backs, just for the tinniest, littlest speck of happiness and yet the bankers and billionaire's children get happiness handed to them on a silver platter at birth, along with trust funds and guaranteed spots at Ivy League Colleges and all the money they could shower with.

And here I am, day after day, in a small forlorn and forgotten back alley of the rust belt, fighting to keep us out of poverty, fighting to keep the bank away from the house, fighting to stop Dad from gambling away his pay check on horses and drugs while he bashed my head in on a regular basis. Suck it up, Jones, I tell myself forcefully. That's the way things are. Life isn't fair. It's never been that way. You just have to swallow it down and deal with it.

I go to my bedroom and get out my Dad's old uniforms I've had stowed away for the past week and the ID badge. I tap out a text to Link: You all good to pick me up. I don't get the chance to put my phone down on the bed before it chimes again: MOM JUST LEFT. ON MY WAY.

I might not be able to do anything about life, but RedCorp wasn't going to poison our town.

Not if we had anything to say about it.

iv.

The first stage of the plan went off without a hitch. We spent a few moments on a hill scoping out the enormous facility, going over the blueprints we'd stolen from the local city planner's office. The guards didn't look twice at us as we had our IDs scanned and rolled through the industrial security gate. We hid in one of the janitor's closets close to the boardrooms and waited. I knew we had pretty much free run of the place after seven, since the executive suites were cleared of staff by then.

"They're coming up!"

I'm camouflaging my phone behind the pot plant in the corner of the boardroom with it on record while Link is lookout. I'd called Link and left it on so we could also listen in on their conversation and record it at the same time. Sure enough, we hear the elevator ding. I duck inside the janitor's closet with Link just in time.

From the small open crack of the door, I see the CEO of RedCorp strutting towards the boardroom. I'll never forget seeing him the first time.

He wears a full red debonair suit with a red cigar that has an elegant serpent's tail of red smoke. They're specially made and supposed to be some sort of a statement.

Damien Red.

He's surrounded by a group of iron-jawed security guards and some personal assistants. They shut themselves into the office and immediately we start hearing voices on Link's phone. The plant manager is showing Mr Red some kind of presentation on the display board.

"Look at this data! I know you can't really understand it, but these are really good numbers from a productivity standpoint." The plant manager is blubbering. "But...uh...Mr Red...about your last stipulations for the worker's hours. We think sixty seven hour shifts might be a little too hard."

Link and I exchange horrified looks.

He wanted people handling dangerous chemicals to be sleep-deprived? Was the guy insane? Someone was going to get killed!

"I understand your position," says Mr Red. His voice isn't full of aristocratic smugness like I expect it to sound like. It's soft, almost genuinely understanding. "But, as you know, my company has many branches and if this plant does not deliver I may have to cut your job and everyone's here. So I need those job hours or this place will have to be shut down."

"But, sir—"

"I'd like to move on to the more important matters at hand." We hear Mr Red stepping around the conference table to the window. "I hear that two teenage boys were recently spotted poking around our facilities. What do they know?"

I slowly turn my eyes to Link and find his are still on the phone in his palm, listening carefully.

"It doesn't matter. We took care of it."

"It doesn't matter?" Mr Red spits aggressively, continuing. "And yet, as far as I'm aware, these two boys not only went to you but also to the water treatment plant of the town as well. How do you know you took care of it? I want specifics."

"One of the boy's father works at the plant here. We understand he's a notorious alcoholic that regular beats his son after work."

"The boy who came to see you?"

"We told him the boy was stirring up trouble and he was later seen limping around town." I can feel my pulse thundering. They riled up Dad on purpose so he'd try to beat me. Maybe even kill me..."We also made sure the lab results of the water sample that was tested were wiped from a nearby lab that was testing the water for chemicals." The plant manager makes it all sound so easy. "We monitored them for the rest of the time and it appears they've both dropped the issue and forgotten about it. But sir, with how much it takes to get rid of the chemicals from the nuclear plant, only $17.09, surely we should re-examine our disposal processes."

"Our current disposal process is fine."

"But, sir, if the boys are right and the chemicals have leaked into the Kentucky River then where we're dumping them might be draining into the town's water supply. Someone from the government—most likely the Centres for Disease Control—will come looking for answers and the company will be liable. We could be the next Flint, Michigan and your company might be liquidated."

"I own the government," Mr Red reminds him. "No one will come looking. Do you think anyone cares about this whitetrash shithole? No. We save money by dumping our waste here."

"Only $17.09."

"Do you have a problem with that?" Mr Red sounds furious now. "Do you think my mother built this company by not saving every penny where she could? Every dollar we save puts us a mile ahead of the competition. You think the rules that apply to everyone else apply to us? They don't. That's how we win. Every time. And if you have that kind of backward thinking, I will find someone else to run this plant and ensure you never find a job in this industry ever again anywhere in the world."

Is he serious?

What a piece of work.

I don't know what sickens me more. The fact that he thinks he'll get away with it or the fact that we both know he's right. Most of the local government officials had been receiving shovels of campaign finances from RedCorp for years.

"I'm sorry, sir. You're right," the plant manager replies diffidently, backtracking. "You will be pleased to know our next shipment of chemicals is due to leave for the dumping ground tonight. Is there anything else you wish to discuss tonight before your flight back to New York?"

"No." Mr Red turns and we hear a door open. "But make sure I don't hear about those two teenagers again, or I might be forced to replace you with someone better." Link and I both wait until we're certain that everyone has left the floor before we go and collect my phone from the boardroom.

"Jason," Link says gently. "About your Dad..."

"Forget about it," I say grimly. I'm watching Mr Red get into his Mercedes and drive off out through the plant security gates. "I'm fine. Really. We've got more important things to worry about now. We have to get down to the garage and follow that van to RedCorp's illegal dumping site. It might be our only chance."

"Are you kidding? We need to get out of here. You heard what that guy said. We get any more involved and we might as well zip each other up in body bags and jump into the Kentucky River ourselves."

"Link, I..." I briefly consider taking Link's advice, being sensible and running home. But even before the idea fully forms, I dismiss it because it stirs some raw emotion inside of me, unleashes a sense of guilt that takes my by surprise. "I...I can't. I wish I could, but I can't. It's our town, Link. They're going to kill everybody if more chemicals get dumped at that site. You go home if you want to but I have to follow this through."

Link sighs. "You owe me one for this."

Half an hour later, Link and I are creeping into the underground garage filled with enormous, high-tech bright red turbotrucks. The place is pretty much deserted except for one being loaded with vats covered in radioactive symbols by this automated claw thing that picks them up and carefully places them on a racking system inside.

"That must be the turbotruck that's taking all the waste to be dumped tonight," I whisper to Link, keeping low behind a stack of drums.

"What do we do now? By the time we leave the plant there's no way we'll catch up to it and once they see my truck they'll probably just avoid the drop all together and return back."

"Let me think..." I have it. "I need to get into the back of that truck. Don't give me that look. You're right. I can tell you the streets we're passing by opening the GPS on my phone and you can follow behind us at a distance." Link is making disapproving noises in the back of his throat. "Link it's the only way. You can't drive these roads with the lights on the truck off. It's the only way we'll be able to follow them."

I move to head towards the back of the turbotruck when the last vat is loaded and no one is looking, but Link clasps my arm. I pause and he looks at me nervously, warily. "Be careful."

"Don't worry," I assure him. "I will."

And so that decision to try and save the town that night was how it all began for me. I didn't know—back then—that my actions that night would lead me to today. Thinking back on it, I knew I might die but I never thought I'd wake up being able to smash a concrete wall with my bare hands or storm through bullets. At the time, if I thought anything at all, I guess I kind of just thought that it was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. There was no second choice for me.

Link stays lookout while I successfully stow away into the back of the giant truck behind some vats.

I remember kneeling, hugging my knees to my chest, and the huge grumbling truck groaning forward out of the plant. I find myself wishing I'd thought this through earlier, but it's too late for regrets now. Inside the container, it is dark and red-lighted. Keeping steady against all the rocking, I finally get the chance for a closer look. Rows and rows of the vats stamped with [CHEMICAL X] on their sides are in some sort of electronic restraint system. The lights all glow red next to the vats, showing that they're occupied.

My heart is punching its way through my ribs, so hard I think I'll wake up with bruises.

We move slowly among the mountains, crawling on six huge, spidery wheels. Since the din is barely audible in the thickly armoured cargo hold, the clankings and motor noises transmitting through the wheels of the great vehicle are the only sounds I can make out. Once and a while, in a sudden quiet, a wheel thumps violently, throwing me around.

I'd tense, expecting for the drivers to climb out of the tubelike cabin and inspect the noise, but the truck plunges on through the untwinkling night.

Its wheels clanging and bouncing.

Its headlights glaring ahead.

We brake a couple of times, and I glance out the small industrial portholes along the container, but don't recognize my surroundings as familiar. It's clearly somewhere deep in the forest. The trees are tall and big. There are lots of ferns and I can't see far past the headlights. It's recently cleared to fit the truck, that's hard to reach for anyone. I text Link GPS updates as he follows along in the truck. When the truck emits a distinctive, painfully-high squeal and we come to a grinding halt, I know we've arrived at the illegal dumpsite.

Frantically looking around, I search for something to use as weapon. I spot a wrench that must be for repairing the restraints holding the vats in place. My fingers quickly wrap around its handle as I hear the men pressing a code into the keypad in the back. The guards are lowering the ramp and opening the doors when one takes a wrench to the head.

The other tries to reach for his gun but I tackle him to the ground by the waist, rolling, tumbling through the dirt, sending it skittering across the forest floor. I taste blood as he kicks me in the face and stuns me with a punch. When I've got my bearings, the guard is standing in front of me with his gun again. I know he's going to pull the trigger, but Link's truck honks it's horn, bouncing through the ferns and thick foliage before the guard can react, and I see him go white-faced as he slaps the front of the truck and flies into a tree trunk.

Link rolls down the window. "You alright?"

I hold a thumb up and slump back.

When I've got my vision back, I follow Link to what must be a massive ditch in the ground full of glowing red liquid. "They call it Chemical X on the vats." I tell him. "This must be what's leaking into the water supply and making everyone sick. They dump it here, it rains, and it sinks into the river down there. And they bribe the water treatment plant to look the other way, so no one notices."

"And everyone gets sick," Link finishes.

"And everyone gets sick," I repeat. "We have to get this truck out of here. And fast."

"I can't drive a truck—"

"I'll handle it," I say, climbing into the luxurious cabin of the truck with its bank of consoles. "One of Dad's friends from the plant taught me how to drive. You follow in the truck. Since 2030, most of these have an auto-drive. It should do most of the work. Stay a bit behind me so I'll know if anyone is following. We'll have to take this somewhere."

"Um, Jase, where are we going to take a truck full of radioactive chemical waste?"

"I don't know," I snap. "Let's just get it out of here, hide it, and then we can think about it. At least then it won't be in the town's water supply."

Link relents and soon we're on the road winding round the mountain.

I know something's wrong when there's large squeal of tyres and Link's car is replaced in the rear camera monitor mounted on the back of the track by two sleek red vehicles. My phone rings a second later from Link. "Jason, some idiots came out of nowhere. I think they're from the plant. Those security guards must have called for help."

I hit speakerphone and sit the phone up on the bank of consoles. "What?" I grip the steering wheel as the armoured red cars bump into the truck, throwing me forward in the seat. "Dammit! They're trying to run me off the road! Where are you?"

"I hit a fence." I can hear him reversing on the phone. "It's going to take me a while to catch up."

"I'm crossing Oak Bridge now—"

I gnash my teeth, swerve the truck hard against one of the red armoured cars. BANG! They must be plated because it barely does anything. We come round the corner fighting each other for the road, slipping, skidding, braking furiously, and I can see the smattering of lights lining the sides of Oak Bridge in front of us. Suddenly the van is decimated with bullet fire and I wince as I feel something in my side. I don't need to look down to know I've been hit. My hand reflexively presses into something wet and sticky.

The road is fuzzy.

I've been shot bad.

I'm looking down, so it's too late to look up and see the convoy of red armoured vehicles in front of me with armed red guards sporting heavy guns.

It happens so fast.

I feel myself twisting the wheel of the truck and the sound of bullets filling the air. The truck can't take it. It buckles at the middle and I feel the whole thing leave the ground. At the speed I'm going, it flips a few times, everything rolling around in the cabin. The gold sparks flashing in front of me. I hear Link shouting my name on the phone. Then the bridge is gone and I'm falling through the air into the water below. The next part is hard to follow. I remember distantly fighting my seatbelt off as the water piled in the windows. I try to swim but my bullet wound makes it too hard and I'm too tired. I swim hard in those last few minutes but it isn't enough. My hands begin to move softly, weakly. My last breath bubbling.

I can't do anything.

I'm too exhausted.

A drowse of rest falls over my tense heart as I drift down backwards in the water, suddenly strangely restful. All I can remember is the blue light, so bright in the night. And the Chemical X leaking in a red cloud. A crack of lightning hitting the water. And then the darkness swallows me whole, and those strangely beautiful and terrible moments pass by into the hush of eternity...

v.

It's dark, and very cold, but I can't wake up.

I overhear doctors talking about my injuries. A broken wrist, sprained ankle, broken ribs. It was such a shame he was so depressed that he killed himself. I want to shout at them that I'm not dead. That I didn't kill myself. I want to wake up. I'm just as alive as they are. I know I have to get out of there, some way. I wonder if I am dead, I think.

Somewhere, deep down, I know it's more than that. That the dull scorching shocks crystalizing through my body, mending my bones with sickening crunches—snap! Snap! Snap!—is the reason I can't wake up. The reason why I can only wincingly twitch my fingers.

I don't know how long I lie there.

On my cold metallic-feeling bed, listening to people bustling around me—hearing them, wanting to let them know that I can hear them, and yet somehow unable to make so much as a sound.

Next minute, a paranoiac buzzing fills my ears. It's just there. Right on the threshold of my hearing, growing louder every second. I can't block it out. My eyes snap open and all I can see is white. It's everywhere. It surrounds me. I'm looking into the filaments of a buzzy light bulb. Like I'm pressed right up against it. There are all these colours. My gaze spins around the room, eyes wide, zooming in on the anatomy posters until my vision returns to normal. What happened? I'd been at home, doing homework—no, I drove a truck full of radioactive chemicals off a bridge.

That's what happened.

I shake my head.

I can't remember...

...don't want to remember...

And that's when my memory comes back. Violently. I sit up, gasping for breath. I'm on an autopsy table. In a morgue. I'm naked but when I look down my bullet wound is gone like it never existed. I manage to struggle to my feet, my head aching as things lens in and out of focus. There's a half-finished autopsy report on my body open on a desk on the other side of the room. The reason is suicide. I roll my eyes at that one.

"Yeah right..." I stop suddenly, spinning round to glare at the door as it softly clicks.

It is opening.

I just stare at it, can't do anything.

A young male doctor walks in. He's thin, looks tall even to me. His hair is blonde and it is cut so short so it almost stands up. We lock eyes with each other. I don't flinch. He can stare as much as he likes. It's not as if I'm going to be hanging around here for much longer.

It is hard to describe what happens next.

My body goes all blurry as if I am going to disappear or something and I'm at the young doctor, pinning him against the wall by the throat. I know what has happened. I've moved at the speed of sound.

"I'm guessing RedCorp already got to you about the autopsy report." I pick it up with one hand and flick through it. "Suicide and yet I'm missing three bullets from the other night."

"They-they threatened my kid!" The doctor says. "I – I had to. I'm sorry."

I drop him back down onto the tiles. "You don't have to worry. I'm not going to hurt you, buddy" I say. "But I need you to make sure you do something for me...?"

"Declan."

"Declan," I repeat, grabbing him by both shoulders. "I need you to make sure you tell whatever thug that threatened you that my family wanted the body cremated. That you watched the body burn yourself. You gave me back in an old coffee tin and that was the end of it."

Declan nods. "Anything else?"

"Pants." I look down. "I need pants."

It's hard to describe what I feel making my way back to my house. I don't take the bus or call Link. I run. I know I can do it. It grows into no big deal after I get the hang of it, but after a few miles I have to stop speeding and listen to my brain screaming at my eyes that what they're seeing is wrong. It can't be happening. But each time I stop to blink several times and look around at my surroundings, I've travelled miles.

I'm fast for some reason now.

I wonder what it looks like?

I mean, is there like a blur of clothes or maybe some flash of electricity. That would look cool. Or is it just like one minute I'm there and the next I'm not? Look away and you miss me. The Chemical X in the RedCorp truck. It had to have something to do with the Chemical X.

I don't have time to think about it.

When I whistle to a halt on the sidewalk in front of my house, windblown, disorientated, trying to get my bearings, I encounter Mr Dollar and his goons walking up to my front door. Except, this time, Mr Tiny has a baseball bat.

"Get away from my house!"

"Jason, my boy!" says Mr Dollar, greeting me with a overly sweet smile. "We were just looking for you. Haven't seen your Dad have you?"

I step onto the lawn. "I'll tell you one more time." I grit my teeth. "Get away from my house."

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, son." Mr Dollar motions for Mr Tiny to head towards me. I'm weirdly not scared. Something inside of me is stronger, tougher. I can feel it.

Mr Tiny and I march up to each other and meet each other halfway. Mr Tiny swing his bat. It smashes into pieces against my face. I don't hear anything as I grab hold of his muscled neck and snap it with a bright crack. The other goon I hadn't met the last time comes after me with a gun. The bullets just ping off me.

I whistle across the road at him with so much force that I kill him on impact. Mr Dollar takes off in the car, the coward. But I catch up to him. I blur forward. I'm in front of him. Standing feet apart in the centre of the road. He doesn't have time to stop. His car crunches around me like it's nothing but foil. I punch my hand through his windshield. I rip him through the glass and fling him across the road. "Wait, kid, I didn't mean anything I said!" He says, scrabbling backwards on his elbows. I didn't expect to see him scared would make me feel as good as it does. "You – you have to believe me! It was just business!"

"I know." I grab him by the neck. Lift him up above the ground. "So is this." With griseous ease, I jerk my wrist to the side and snap his neck.

You might think that it was weird no one every pointed out that I had just killed three people on our street but that sort of thing happened almost daily. I had a little too much afterwards fabricating evidence with the fake car crash but after that was done, I finally made it back to Link's house.

I stood on the porch of his Mom's house, tapping my boots while I glanced around the street.

"Jason!" Link's holding the door. "I thought you were dead! My Mom says they found a body that matched your description." He flings himself at me and gives me a bear hug. "You feel different."

"I think something happened when I was in the water with those chemicals," I tell him. "Can I come in and lie down in your room? I woke up in the morgue. I'm feeling a little traumatized."

"I know. I saw you. I watched the truck go off the bridge, Jase. It was bad. The guards were all waiting for you with guns. You were outmatched."

"I do remember." I'm scowling. "I was there when I drove the truck off the bridge, remember? I - I was trying to get out of the truck. I got stuck and there was water and then there was a flash...I don't remember what happened after that."

"You should have died." Link closes his gaping mouth. "Why didn't you?"

He helps me up to his room so I can lie on the bed and tell him about what I remember from the water, what happened when I woke up in the morgue. "You stopped a car with your body!" Link doesn't believe me. "And you killed your Dad's bookie with your bare hands. Whoa. Not a great start to your new superhero life."

"Eh. He was a scumbag. But it was the chemicals, right?" I'm starting to panic. "It has to be. It'll probably wear off. I thought they said it was from a power plant. I should've died if it was really radioactive."

"I don't know..." Link gets me a fresh pair of clothes to shower and change into. He lets me crawl into bed. I hear someone show up at his door. It might be my Dad demanding, in his drunken and obscene way, to know where I am.

"Was that my Dad?" I ask him when he gets back to his room. "Was he looking for me?"

"Yeah," says Link, rubbing the back of his neck evasively. "He seems pretty angry this time for you skipping out. I think you should stay here a couple of days before going back. He's pretty mad at you. I don't want him beating you to death when he's drunk after I thought you were dead." He gives me a wavering smile, trying to cheer me up a bit. I smile back a little.

"He's such an asshole." I roll back on the bed and rub my forehead, tearing up. "I'm sorry my family is such trash, Link. I really am. I wish it wasn't the case. I don't do it often because it's such a pointless waste of energy, but sometimes I wonder what our life would be like if the financial crises hadn't gutted us."

"Hey, you still turned out pretty good."

I nod but he can tell I'm not entirely convinced. Then, for what reason I don't know, I feel his lips being pressed against mine. It's so shocking that I don't know how to react. And then, I band my arm around his neck and pull him closer. I know he's fucked chicks before in the back of a car so this is a shock. "Link—" He places a finger to my lips. "Shhhh. Let me do this." He rips my shirt off, my pants, my boxers. Once I feel the huge head of his cock nuzzling my hole, I ease onto him with a low, grateful sigh. I wrap my arms around his neck, rub my cheek against his and gasp out, "Fuck me, Link. Just take my ass. Do it."

"You know when you start hooking up with actual gay guys they're going to be disappointing."

There's a smile in his voice.

I lift my gaze and move my hips on him. "Really? You feel kind of small."

A second later a low, suffocated moan rumbles deep in my chest as Link rams inside me so hard and fast, I nearly black out.

"Oh, fuck yeah! I take it back!" I arch my body up to meet his savage thrusts, feeling him harden inside of me. I gasp, open-mouthed, kissing him as he grunts in me, my ass vibrating wildly as the thrill of it goes through every part of me.

He flips me on my knees, grabs my shoulders, and starts wrecking my hole. "I want to be clear that this a one time thing but fuck this ass!"

In between my grunting whimpers, I drag in a harsh breath and shout: "AW SHIT! YES! YEAH! OH FUCKING COME INSIDE ME LINK! GIVE ME THAT FUCKING LOAD!"

"OH YEAH I'M GOING TO! I'M GOING TO GIVE YOU GIVE YOU MY MOTHERFUCKING LOAD AHHHH—I'M FUCKING COMING IN YOU!"

"FILL ME!"

And he is.

He's flooding me.

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

Link's voice is rough, breathless as I look up to see his neck veining as I feel him load me. Oh fuck don't stop. Pump me! I grip the sheets as we both drag out exploding together. I reverse my ass on his cock fully and for a few minutes we lie there, twitching and rattling from the intensity.

"Wow," I manage finally.

"This didn't happen," he mutters with his face on down on the pillow beside me. "I don't want you getting all horny on me every time we hang out now or our fishing trips are going to get awkward."

I laugh, hugging him. "Agreed."

I have a nightmare about the bridge that night. There's water everywhere and I can't breathe. I wake up with a start. Hot and cold. I'm shivering. My head still hurts. It is pulsing with all the noises I can hear. There's a movie playing in the house next door. A car cruising on the street below, the driver tapping the side of the door with his hand. I wonder how far I will have to go before it is peaceful again. Then I hear something else. Someone moving in a room nearby. There are footsteps outside Link's room and I reactively whoosh forward to hide behind the door, expecting his mother, Katherine, to check up on us but she just walks past. The door doesn't open. Someone moves on the other side of the bed. I can just make out Link. The streetlights are shining through a crack in the curtains on his bedroom windows. He rolls over and looks at me.

"You have a nightmare about last night?"

I shake my head. Not because it wasn't a bad dream. I just don't need him worrying about me.

"It's alright," I say. "It was nothing."

He is waiting for me to say something more elaborate, to explain what is wrong. I could give him a list. The fact that we just slept together and we're supposed to be best friends would be somewhere near the start. It feels like I've crossed a red line or something and I already feel guilty about it. I suppose he's thinking nothing of it, letting me sleep in his bed. Probably thought I would want it. Or, maybe he wanted it. I don't know. At least the bed can fit the two of us.

I ease back down on the pillows, roll over without thinking and nearly fall out of the bed.

"Hey, come here," Link says in the darkness. "Damn you're so stubborn sometimes." He moves out towards me, reaches out and pulls me closer to him. "Turn around."

I do what he says. I can feel his soothing warmth against my body, through my shirt, his legs pulling up, twisting with mine. His arm gently bands around my waist. It is nice. I calm down. I can do this. Just for tonight. Maybe I even need this.

Whatever, I shut my eyes.

I don't have any more nightmares.

vi.

You'd think I would have recovered from our confrontation with RedCorp by the end of the summer, but I was still nervous about returning to school. Not wanting anyone from RedCorp to investigate too closely whether I had truly stayed dead, I kept my head down and tried not to be spotted around town, but I was still paranoid for the first three weeks after the start of the school.

RedCorp had really made its point by filing me full of bullets. Message, like, received. In my head the domineering shadow of the chemical plant right next to the town became associated to that horrific time I lay iced up and unable to move on the cold morgue table, and I couldn't escape the rush of panic that started every time I looked at it.

But I was also having the most fun I'd ever had in my life at the same time.

Instead of sitting miserably in my room, shoving a pillow over my head and trying to tune out the sound of my parents fucking or snorting pills, I was racing Link in his truck through the forest to see how fast I could go. We joked around a lot, filming videos on our smartphones of me speeding in a blur through the forest and me bicep-curling Link's truck.

It takes me fifty-five minutes to cut through the mountain to RedCorp's illegal dumpsite. Ducking into the trees and away from the highway to hide from hikers and cars really slows me down. Link wanted to come with me but I talked him out of it; if we encountered anymore thugs who were willing to shoot up a couple of teenagers it was better that the person who was bulletproof went.

I didn't add that I was in a real murderous, neck-snapping mood.

Two things catch my attention as I explode out of a furry cluster of ferns and thorns at the edge of the clearing. One: the trees in the vicinity have been significantly cut down to make room for something. Two: the ditch full of the red-glowing radioactive stuff—the Chemical X that had somehow facilitated my transformation—is empty.

Someone's been cleaning up evidence.

I stay close to the thick cover of the tree belt as my eyes rake the field quickly. Link and I had discussed this precaution while I was planning my trip, in case someone from RedCorp had thought to lay a trap. From where I stand, I know it will only take me just the smallest fraction of a second to disappear safely away into the trees. In a few minutes I could be miles up the side of the mountain and beyond the reach of anyone.

Instead of sticking around, I spin and really jet for the trees, suddenly spooked.

Once I cross an empty two-lane freeway and another dense army of trees, I slow to a relatively leisurely place, content that I've put enough distance between myself and the illegal dumpsite.

Link is waiting for me where we agreed to meet up. Near the old train tracks and sunflower fields outside of town on Route 9 that stretches for an undulating mile to the pines. I spy him sitting on a white barn fence, only a few feet from under the tree where his truck is parked.

I drop down out of a spruce tree and appear at his side in a rustling wind, breathless.

"The illegal dumpsite," I pant, gasping in a panicked lungful of air, "it's all gone. Someone – people from RedCorp – I don't know who – they've cleaned it all up. I couldn't find any trace of it."

"You sure? All of it?"

I pull myself up onto the barn fence next to him. "I did a quick circuit to see if I could find a second site but I think they've flown the coop."

We look at each other for a few horrified, long-seeming seconds. I have nothing more to report, and it doesn't look like Link has any other questions to ask me, either.

Finally Link sighs and says, "Now we know why the readings in the town water supply have gone back to normal. Do you think that they've completely stopped?"

"I don't know," I frown, my expression unclear. "But at least we can be fairly sure they've packed up their illegal dumping operation. I followed a truck from the chemical plant last night. It went all the way to the state border. If they are illegally dumping, it's not in Kentucky anymore."

"I guess driving that truck off that bridge really scared the shit out of Damien Red," Link reasons, breaking into a sly grin.

I can't help but smile gingerly too.

I don't exactly feel proud of that night.

"Yeah," I say. "So I suppose it kind of worked. Aside from the whole getting shot to pieces and being covered in radioactive waste. One hell of a way to spend our summer vacation."

"That reminds me"—Link rummages in his jacket for a bit—"ah! Here it is. Miss Reason wanted me to give this to you. She just missed you before you took off. You're lucky, actually. She nearly saw you speeding off into the forest." He's holding out my personal essay. It has an A+ on it in red marker.

"Oh. Thanks." I take it from him and cradle it in my hands. I didn't think it was that good.

"Can I ask what you wrote about?"

"Just stuff." He gives me a look so I roll my eyes and tell him. "As much as I hate to admit it, I think she might be right. I think I just can't afford not be involved anymore in the big decisions affecting our town. Just look at what RedCorp did. It's like no one in the government cares anymore, and they'll let anyone kill us for the right price."

"Certainly true." Link looks down at his phone. "I got to get going. I have to get back to the Tackle Shop before my lunch break ends and I get fired. You need a lift into town or you good?"

"I'm good," I say. "I'll take the scenic route. Your truck isn't as fast as me anyway."

"Don't bash the truck, please. Before you were fast that truck got us to school and work and parties thank you very much."

I laugh. "I'll see you later."

He drives off, leaving me sitting there on the fence by myself. I take a deep breath, enjoying being overwhelmed by stillness—the kind of stillness that belongs only to the mountains, and trees, and the undulating meadows besprinkled with flowers. Maybe that's why the noise travels so quickly to my ears. A bang. Not far away. I kind of, I don't know what I do. Suddenly I'm in the middle of the waist-high sunflowers, alert, every muscle tense. I see the fire at the RedCorp chemical plant the same time the words "LINK!" form on my lips and I'm blown backwards in a bright red flash.

It just blew up. The chemical plant. There's no time to fathom it—I blast forward in an unreasoning rush through the underbrush and towards the town. Ahead of me looms a poisonous, sparkling red gas cloud about a hundred feet high.

I'm standing amongst a sea of bodies, all dead, all people I know, now spread out on the ground as if they're asleep. But the only pulsing heart I detect is my own, raging in my chest.

My hands fly into my hair.

I can't breathe. I want everything to stop, just stop. No. This can't be happening.

Dead.

They're dead.

They're all dead.

"No. Oh no, no, no," I whisper, raking my hands through my hair, pressing my fingers against my temples, as I stagger through the fog. The uncanny, unnatural quiet. "Link!"

I find him slumped over in his truck. I pull him free and take him through the woods surrounding the town in a cyclonic blast of air. He wakes up in my arms to the whooshing sound of my running as I'm cutting through the forest to the hospital.

"Jason," he moans. "My Mom—"

"Don't talk," I say. "She's not at your house. I passed it on the way into town and her car wasn't there. Save your strength. I can still get you to the hospital."

"Jason," wheezes Link, coughing up a mouthful of bright red blood onto his lips. "I'm dead. I'm not going to last much longer. It's too late for me. You have to know about the other night. I—I shouldn't have done it. I just – you were in pain and I—"

"It's alright," I say. "I know. I was going to say the same thing to you. You're my best friend first. It was a mistake. Let's just pretend it didn't happen and go back to being best friends."

"I hope you fall in love one day Jason and you get the family you always wanted," coughs Link. "Promise me that you will find that life."

"I – I promise."

"Tell my Mom that I love her."

"Link, just hold on! I'm nearly there! I only have another mile to go." He weighs as much as an empty cardboard box but the feeling in my chest is strangling air out of my lungs. "I can save you! Just stay with me! Don't go to sleep!"

"Never forget how strong you are..."

He just smiles at me and closes his eyes.

Later, I would return home to find Mom dead in her room from the chemical fumes. Our house, being out of town, had been spared being impacted by the blast, but not out of range from the toxic chemical cloud from the plant. There was no big fanfare over the death of my entire town. The President didn't show up. The major news networks cared for about an hour and a half.

I had been right.

No one did care.

I stayed long enough for Link's funeral. Then I packed a bag, took one last look over my shoulder at Beattyville, Kentucky, and I shot away into the mountains. Never returning to that small, shabby town where I grew up ever again.

# Chapter 19

New Reality

i.

Thinking about the sound of the explosion booming in my ears jerks me back to reality with Doug in my living room.

When I turn my gaze away from the rain thrusting down across the street and off my portico, my eyes are haunted. "They killed an entire town." I feel my throat hoarsen. "Because they didn't want to pay seventeen dollars and nine cents. They killed 449 people just for that. For a measly seventeen dollars and nine cents. All my childhood friends and Link. They killed them all."

I take conscious breaths, trying to stay calm.

My chest is heaving.

Although my eyes are open, my mind is still back there, in the nightmare of the explosion, of wandering through a ghost town in a red haze full of my dead friends, and is slow to grasp that I'm safely in the present.

Doug swallows. His frame is rigid, his eyes fierce on my face. "I remember hearing about that on the news when I was getting ready for basic training. They said it was an accident...It wasn't an accident, was it?"

My eyes fall from his and I study the parquet floor, shrugging. I've already told him too much. "Who knows? The report said that it was but I never really believed it. The illegal dump site when I later went back to visit it was cleared as if nothing had ever been there. The good news is that we spooked them good enough by stealing the truck. It looked like RedCorp had cleared out of Kentucky for good."

"Did yer friend make it?"

"No." I suck in a small, painful breath. "They, um, tried to save him but he was too far gone. I see his mother every now and then in Louisville. She was one of the lucky ones who was out of town at the time the explosion happened."

"What did ye do, then?" he asks hoarsely.

"I spent a few weary and lonely weeks walking the streets of Louisville. I couldn't go back to the town after everything that had happened. I broke into a few banks to steal some gold. I bought an apartment and took some computer and forensic accounting courses to figure out how to hide it when I turned it into cash." I don't describe to him the great time where I was barely able to drag myself around, so heavy in the heart with loneliness and longing. "Then, one day, I befriended a local prosecutor and decided to go to law school. He kind of made my life look like a cakewalk. Then President Rook started stacking all the courts with fuckwits and I knew I had to come to DC or we'd really be in trouble."

"And here we are."

"Yes," I say, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "Here we are." I give him a sad smile. "Now you know the full story about me."

He's watching me, not saying anything.

"Are you alright?" I try in the end.

"Did ye kill those three senators?"

"That's all you want to know?"

"Did ye?"

My heart jumps. I look up. He's staring at me, waiting for an answer. I wrap my arms against my chest. "Ehhh." I wince guiltily. There's really no point in trying to schmooze him over. He's too smart for that. "I might have killed Clark Mitchell and Owen Jackson but I didn't kill Nixon. Don't know who that was. That one was weird. Oh, don't be so judgemental, Doug, they had it coming. I always said I was coming to DC to reach people across the aisle. By killing them."

We drop into silence.

"Oh, I can't believe this!" Doug shoves a hand viciously through his hair and exhales in disbelief. "Wait." There's a thoughtful pause. "Did you kill that campaign chairman as well? That Mendez guy?" My low disgruntled groan is all the confirmation he needs. "Is there anyone else I should know about that yer've killed? That actually makes a lot of sense. I'm surprised no one's figured it out. So that lobbyist that fell through yer office wall...he was punched wasn't he?"

"Sure was. He came in trying to bribe me." I twist my fingers together. "So, are you going to tell on me or am I good? You look good. So we're good. Right? I mean no need to run off to the police and get me jailed or anything."

Doug sighs. "Only because I think ye're in the right this one time."

"I—" I blink, startled, not entirely sure how not to appear too happy about him letting me off the hook. "Thank you." There. That sounded like enough. Didn't want to appear too unapologetic.

My weakened knees fail and I sit down on the edge of one of my sofas, relieved.

"I need a drink."

I'm gone in a blur.

Doug hears me opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen. Not a few seconds later, I'm back in a stinging gust of air with two tumblers of whisky and ice balls. I hand one to Doug as I slump on the couch beside him. "I'm not going to get used to that." Doug takes a sip. "Whoa! That's good."

"Only the good stuff." I look down into my glass. "I'm sorry that you have to know." My eyes burn. "I've never told anyone that story before about my life..." I link my fingers with his. "It's kind of nice to get it off my chest. But if you do tell anyone I will actually have to kill you."

Doug's lips quirk. "Good to know."

"So..." I glance around my townhouse, suddenly bored and turned on. "Since that's all sorted and we're good. Want me to bang you against every surface in the house? I think we've sorted all the heavy emotional stuff for today. I'm exhausted."

"Yer unbelievable." Doug drains his glass and sets it down, cupping my nape and running his fingers through my soft hair. "But hell fucking yeah I want to bang like mad." Tipping back my head, I open my lips for a lush wet kiss as he climbs on top of me, pushing me down on the couch.

ii.

I savour his minty taste as I attack his clothes. I push my hands up beneath his shirt and yank it over his head. "Get naked. Now."

He pulls his pants off for me.

Abruptly, I wrench him by the waist and haul him up against me. "I'm going to fuck your ass so hard and good," I rasp into his ear, nipping it, "that you'll be sitting on an ice-pack for weeks!"

"As long as ye don't fuck me through a wall, I'm happy." He kisses me furiously. "And ye got any beers in this place?" I grip him, blur over to the kitchen bench, wipe my papers aside and place him on it, opening the bridge and cracking him a beer. He's naked and spread out for me.

"You're going to need this while I go down on you." I open the cap of a beer for myself and down it and then start sucking his cock. "Oh fuck, Doug, this cock. It's so good." He drinks his beer looking at me between his legs.

I whip off my own clothes so that we're both naked while corkscrewing my hand around his delectable length. He's already so wet.

"Oh fuck Jason—"

Doug's hands knuckle around the kitchen island when my lips return to his massive dome. I drag my tongue up and down the sides of his shaft, not breaking eye contact. He's shivering all over.

Doug grips my hair. "Suck it."

Fisting his hilt, I go all the way down, hollowing my cheeks. It was driving him crazy. "Oh...fuck...yes...Jason...hard...and deep. Take every inch of me, baby. All of it." His hand grips my silky hair roughly, massaging and pulling as I jerk myself. His cock is veining heavily in my mouth as he swells. I play with his hard nipples on each downward spear of my tongue, skimming my hands up and down his hairy abs.

"Oh baby I fucking love your fucking cock!" I gag over his thick shaft, mumbling my words. I place a kiss along his inner thigh and a push a hand between his legs that part shamelessly. "You're so wet for me I can feel you." Lifting my head, I give him a kinky smile, then, grapping his thighs, I roughly jerk him to my extended tongue—

"OH FUCKING YES YES YES!"

Doug is straining hard as he feels me tongue-fucking that tight, swollen hole of his. His head falls back and he's rasping for breath.

I don't stop. I pin his restless body as I twist my head to the side and run my tongue in circles around his entrance, lapping his hole as his breathing quickens and his writhes.

"That feels so good."

Doug is moaning about the fingers I've pushed into him, curving and stroking.

"Open for me, baby," I coax gently. "That's it. Oh, yeah. You feel so tight and wet."

His tender spot is pulsing around my fingers. I know if I'm not careful I'm going to make him spurt all over the kitchen island. I stretch over the top of him, rubbing spit on my hard rod, I ram into him with one fierce thrust, sinking all the way.

We both gasp in low, primitive sounds.

Doug is clenching around me, relishing the feel of me inside him as I ground my hips against his. My gaze is riveted to his face. It's startlingly intense. I can feel his hands raking up and down the muscles of my back, digging into my thighs.

He eyes dare me. "Take me."

"You're on."

Tightening my arms around him, I start thrashing into him like mad. The sound of our short, impactful grunts fill my house as I bury my face into his neck, glancing down to watch my thick rod plunging in and out of his stretched pink hole. We're dripping with sweat. "I'm so hard in you...I can feel your ass tightening me...oh this feeling is so good...yeah baby slide back on my dick. That's right. Take it deep for me!"

"BLOW IN ME!" Doug orders harshly. "AW I'M SO CLOSE, JASON! BLOW IN ME!"

I accelerate my rhythmic thrusting. "YEAH? YOU FUCKING WANT ME?"

"YES! YES I FUCKING WANT YE!"

I cup his hips, lifting him off the kitchen island so I can really drive deeper into him.

That does the trick.

His eyes widen. "OH FUCK YES! DON'T FUCKING STOP! OH FUCK! OH FUCCCKK!" He's gritting his teeth. I can feel his amazingly tight ass tightening completely on me. He's trying to hold off until I catch up to where he is.

"Ah, Highlander!" I grind my hips into him in long, hard thrusts. "I'm destroying this ass!"

"GO!"

"AHHHH!" I come long and hard as he shoots. I really destroy his ass towards the end as I watch him flounder around on my kitchen island, arch his back, and blow. I pound into Doug, dragging him out as he convulses around my steel.

Then I fall, laughing, against him on the kitchen island that is big enough for two of us.

My whole body is glistening with sweat.

I'm tingling all over.

I have no idea how long we lay there like that, exhausted, our hands skimming over each other. We both clinked beers and take long swallows.

"Ye're calling me Highlander now?"

"I just thought of it in the moment, but I actually kind of like it now," I tease, roaming my hands down his biceps. "I think I'm going to make that your new nickname. It can be like your sexy alter ego." Hopping down from the kitchen island, I pull him upright and sidle close so I can kiss him.

Doug pulls me back by the hips and grins, cupping my face in his hands.

"Round 2?"

"You know me so well," I sigh.

Grinning, I carry him over my shoulder up to my bedroom and toss him on the bed.

iii.

I destroy Doug's ass five more times. Then I dragged him to the bathroom and watched him slip into a foamy bubble bath using that sensual, seductive grace that turned me on so much. He spent another hour with his back bowed, lowering himself on my rod, sloshing and splashing the water as he bounced on me. We both couldn't stop. The searing pleasure was too addictive. After showering together, we crawl into the sheets and watch the last half of a new's show reporting on the terrorist attack at the mall.

Doug suddenly chuckles.

"What? What's so funny?"

"I was just wondering about stuff." Doug smiles. "Like how I have no idea how I ended up here like this, with ye. One day I'm protecting a hot-ass junior senator from Kentucky, and the next I'm naked in bed with him watching TV."

"Does it matter as long as you're happy?"

He runs a hand through his thick hair and rolls lazily over onto his stomach. "No. I'm good. It must have been hard on you. Having a childhood like that. With yer father and mother. I get now why ye're so strong. It makes sense."

"It wasn't all bad." I shrug. "I think if things had been different they would have been better parents. They did the best they could. We were really gutted by the financial crisis of 2045. So, knowing that, I can kind of forgive them a little for who they were."

"Ye're very unaffected by things, you know that. Ye're like some kind of tank."

"Eh. I just don't like whining. Life's tough. Sometimes you've just got to suck it up and get on with it. Or else it'll keep you down."

"Do ye have to do it?" asks Doug. "Kill people?"

"I care too much about this country not to do it! I took an oath to defend this country against enemies foreign and domestic. That oath means more to me than anything in the world. I have to. Until I know the country is safe."

Doug reaches out for me and rests his hand against my face. "Ye know if ye're not careful I think I might have to fall in love with ye. What will the conservative media say about ye then?"

I freeze, my heart racing.

"You don't want to fall in love with someone like me," I inform him stoically.

"Oh?" says Doug archly. "Why not?"

I don't like the way this conversation is going, but know better then to let it show on my face. Instead, I gently pry his fingers away from mine. "Because," I say. "I'll break your heart before you realise you want to break mine, Doug. Not intentionally. Never intentionally. It's just who I am."

He ponders that for a minute. "Do you think that's maybe because you never really gave it a shot?"

"I don't know." I bump his shoulder. "But right now I'm a little busy protecting the country from those nutcases." I motion carelessly to the netscreen. President Rook is at the White House holding a press conference. "These guys are bad guys. That's why I told them they shouldn't be bringing them in the country. Told you."

"Do you really have to kill them?" Doug grimaces. "It sounds a bit excessive. Isn't there some other possible way? Aren't you on the Intelligence Committee?"

I bite my lip. "Yeah, but it's pointless. Since they have the majority, they control what does or doesn't get subpoenaed. And Senator Asshole, the current chairman, doesn't want to get to the bottom of the Russian connections that nutcase in the White House has. And the Iranians. And the Saudi Arabians. And the Italian mob."

"Is it getting ye anywhere, though?"

"When I killed Brian Mendez he confirmed to me that Rook's campaign worked with the Russians." I look over him fiercely. "As far as I can tell, Rook's probably working for them still. According to him, Rook was the tip of the iceberg. He wasn't the endgame. Just the start of something."

His eyes burn into me. "Did he tell ye what?"

"That was all he knew. Afterwards, I just threw him out the window. He did let it slip to me that the Director of National Intelligence Maxwell Frost was known to the Russians and working for them. Apparently he has a thing for prostitutes."

"And I'm guessing the reason he's not dead is because...?"

"His security detail." I sit further up in bed. "I don't want to injure them in the process of getting to him. They'll lose their lives to protect him and I don't want that. I haven't figured out a way to get access to him without hurting his detail."

"How sure are ye that he's working fer the Russians?"

"I can't think of why Mendez would want to lie? I doubt it was to send me on a wild goose chase. He wasn't the kind of man who had that kind of dedication to do that. He was trying his best to stay alive, so I'm fairly convinced the information he was giving to me was accurate."

"Mmmmm," he hums, ruminating it over. "What if I told ye that I could get access to him?"

"Whoa." I raise my hands. "Doug, I'm not getting you involved in this. That neural implant thing in your head. I don't trust it. I'm betting they can track your whereabouts from a mile away."

"I'm not going to be there," scoffs Doug carelessly. "What do ye think I am? Stupid. I know I can't be there. But ye're hugely unprepared. This isn't someone from President Rook's campaign. Ye're going after the top official in the US government here. Ye're going to need help if ye want to pull it off."

"I usually just kind of like to wing it."

"Well, that might have been how ye do things before but ye can't 'just kind of wing it' with these guys. They'll all have neural implants, they'll be trained soldiers who have military experience, and if they get spooked by ye they'll call in an armada of rocketjets and hovercopters to stop ye." Hovercopters had replaced helicopters in the last ten years when ion technology had similarly obsoleted airplanes with rocketships. As far as I knew, Capitol Police and the Secret Service had a small fleet of them at their beck and call in emergencies.

Apparently, I'm not wrong.

"Alright, you've got my attention."

"You're going to need tech. Military-grade tech that can jam neural implant frequencies if necessary. Also, if you're going to stay ahead of these guys, you need to get yourself some nanocomposite body armour."

"The body armour sounds like a bit much." My stomach turns at the idea of running around almost naked with everything swinging around. "I'm strictly a leather jacket and frayed jeans type of superhero thanks very much. I don't really fancy the idea of some catsuit riding up on the family jewels when I'm roundhouse kicking a guy through a car. And it's just too...gay for me."

Doug rolls his eyes.

"I should have put this a different way. That leather jacket and those jeans you wear: easy for anyone with a neural plant to scan and then backtrack what kind it is and where it was bought. Then it's only a matter of time until it's traced back to a certain junior senator from Kentucky with a nasty temper."

"Alright, alright, you've won me over. I'll let you help with the plan." The idea is still cutting at my insides. I didn't like having accomplice who could turn on me in the tough, darker moments. That was why I'd never had a sidekick. "Why do you want to help with the plan, anyway?"

"If what you're saying is true, and the entire intelligence network of the United States of America is compromised and the Republicans have both chambers of congress, they have to be stopped. Somehow. Someway. I don't like it, but like you said, I care too much about this country to let innocent people suffer for it."

"It's just us?"

Doug nods grimly. "It's just us."

"But until then..."

I yank his lips down to mine and kiss him and we don't stop for the rest of the night.

# Chapter 20.

What Do You Know

i.

"This whole world's gone mad."

For a brief moment, I look up. I've been half-listening to Jackie and Bobby's commentary on the news in my office while I'm running my red pen through my universal healthcare bill—the "Medicare for All Act of 2075"—before I hand it to a clerk at the presiding officer's desk and think over what kind of badass speech I'll give to introduce it on the first reading: It's time Americans actually got healthcare for fucking once...

My Veteran Healthcare Bill—S.319—had been read in the House of Representatives this morning, and was likely going to have its second reading and then be offered up for amendments sometime next week. Considering it's universal single-payer healthcare this time, I expect it'll get a concurrent referral to multiple committees and then be bottled up, with the Republican chairmen just ignoring it, which happens often. I expect I'll probably have to go round the senate with a discharge petition, which is when a senator goes around and gets a majority of senators to vote a bill out of committee.

With a Republican majority, it didn't seem like that's going to be easy to get either.

I have a headache just thinking about it.

It's infuriating being in the minority, unable to call committee hearings, unable to get legislation through committees, and almost always having them defeated on the floor. The best we could do was filibuster things and force a cloture vote by refusing to consent to proceed to a vote, which even then only requires sixty votes and with the vice president is easily achievable for them. The only benefit is that once a cloture motion is filed to end debate, it can't be voted on at all until an intervening Senate day passes.

At least this bill would be going to the Committee on Finance first and I had some democratic colleagues there that were tough.

I shuffle some papers around on my mahogany desk, move my datapad aside, and get distracted by the other bill on my desk, the Opioid Crisis Accountability Act of 2075 that I had been working on with Senator Nixon before I'd found him dead in the rotunda. With him gone, I was fighting off first degree amendments to the bill, second-degree amendments to those amendments, substitute amendment to replace the entirety of those original amendments, amendments to substitute changes to those substitute amendments, and en bloc amendments that would bring all those amendments together into a single amendment.

I had to give the pharmaceutical companies credit. They were rolling out the cash on the other Republican senators to try and get them to stop me. One or two amendments I agreed with, but I'd run a thick pen through the latest round of second-degree amendments and scribbled fuck off Martha.

That was Martha Langdon.

Junior senator from Tennessee who had become the chairwoman of the Committee on Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions after his death and was working on reviewing the bill. And by 'review' I mean trying to 'gut' it over my cold dead body. She was one of those delightfully racist southerners. With coiffed hair big enough to hit a doorframe and annoying perky attitude when it came to screwing over the constituents in her state. Fun fact: she was also Miss Tennessee with a home economics degree.

I did kind of envy Republicans.

Here I was, a doctor of laws, a district attorney, and Martha only had a measly home economics degree that essentially meant she was just a qualified cocksucker and she breezed to becoming a senator. Sometimes I think us Dems worked too hard. Rumour has it, though, that she only got appointed to her position cause she fucked the governor of her state. Knowing how loose those Christians can be, I would have to believe those rumours.

I sigh aloud, shaking my head. "I know, Jackie. Who would take a bunch of innocent people hostage in a mall? It put everyone in danger."

"You should be grateful that your Capitol police bodyguard and his friends got you and Senator Hirano out of there in time," says Bobby. "If they hadn't acted so fast you could've both been shot. Two senators being taken hostage by ISIS would've garnered lots of attention for their base."

"Careful there," I tell Bobby dryly. "You sounded for a minute liked you'd rather work for them as a press secretary than me."

"And avoid the joys of getting you interviews after you've tweeted how the press are all a bunch of incompetent fuckwits who pander to Nazis?" Bobby inhales with mock-horror. "Never!"

"It is a bit weird." I rub a hand over my forehead as the news follows on with the report that the police are currently interrogating the only surviving terrorist from the attack. "I came back from the intelligence committee and, as far as we know, they completely slipped through our radar."

"How?" Jackie interjects. "Doesn't the CIA and the NSA monitor phone calls and messages and emails for terrorist connection."

"Not that we like to advertise that too loudly but yeah. Apparently, the terrorists kept their devices ghost chipped. They couldn't be tracked. They got radicalized by a crazy neighbour that was pretty chipper about blowing people up. Mix that explosive combination with the fact that any jumped-up asshole can get an AR-15 from Wall Mart and you have yourself a problem."

"How is that bill coming, by the way?"

"It's on the calendar," I grunt. "Along with the 450 other things in this country I have to fix." I look up from my datapad. "Sometimes I wonder why the Russians fucking bothered. I mean, a country that doesn't develop a universal system of healthcare for its citizens and let's terrorists buy in bulk as many machine guns as they want can't be much of a threat to them. They all could've just asked for logins and passwords to our nukes and we would've probably just handed them over straight away."

"Look, here comes the President."

All of us swivel our heads to the netscreen to listen to President Rook rant on and on and on. "You know, before I was President this sort of thing happened all the time." The three of us shoot exhausted glares between ourselves. "And that's why I will always make sure that I stop these bad guys. Unlike former Presidents." His nostrils flare. "And now we will cause fire and destruction on our enemies and stop them."

"Sometimes," I sigh through my nose, "I kind of like how he makes everything seem so simple and easy. If only he lived in reality."

"And wasn't so fucking racist."

"That'd be nice too."

ii.

It's Tuesday so Harry and I both take the elevator down to the SCIF where Maxwell Frost will be bringing the Select Committee on Intelligence up to date on the Washington Mall Attack. Or, as I like to call it, Reason No.8675 why mentally unstable people shouldn't be able to get their hands on military grade assault weapons.

I'd been avoiding Maxwell Frost since I found out that he had a thing for underage prostitutes that the Russians knew about. I'd been grumbling aloud in my office all week about how the Republican Party, the party of family values, always had so many creeps in it. There was Dennis Hastert, Speaker of the House. He turned out to be a child sex offender. Then there was that other Republican who pretty much threw his wife under the bus on Racoon News when they got caught illegally handling his campaign finances. Talk about degrading the sanctity of marriage.

I'd been ruminating over snappy one-liners to say to him, but when we get to the SCIF, and are locked inside, the best I can come up with to greet him is, "Were any of the terrorists underage and were they prostitutes?" I give him an accusing glare. He sweats but, to his credit, recovers smoothly in front of the other senators.

"Uh. No." Maxwell Frost fidgets with his papers. "As far as we know, they got radicalised online by a wing of ISIS. Not an uncommon thing these days unfortunately. We're currently interrogating the leader as to where they got the explosive."

"Didn't Senator Jones's personal bodyguard have a neural implant? Did we recover any footage when he was taking the mall?"

My stomach turns.

That's the pasty ginger-haired Republican senator from Oklahoma, Jonah Brownhill. I knew him because he was famous among Democrats for trying to get us to co-sponsor his anti-abortion bills. Despite the fact that he comically reverses himself every time he knocks up a secretary or barely legal cheerleader. Out of all of us, he held the record for most abortions paid for in cash in a row, about six by last count. But he is the shrewdest Republican on the committee.

I know, right?

He's the smartest.

The system is broken.

"No," Director Frost says at last with a disappointed sigh, at the same moment I breathe a little sigh of relief. Doug had kept his word. I could trust him. "The terrorists hacked all the surveillance cameras. Somehow they were able to wipe out Agent Galloway's video feed during the attack. We think they must've had surveillance jamming equipment hidden in the mall."

"Aren't we lucky that Senator Jones and Senator Hirano's protection detail were there when they were. Or else it could've been much worse."

"What's the matter, Chad?" I counter. "Jealous that it was my bodyguard and not yours that saved the day? You know they want to give him a medal for all his hard work and he invited me."

"I just think it's a little convenient that his retinal implants stopped working at the same time that the attack happened. Cameras seem to be failing all over the place around here."

I roll my eyes, shrug it off, but my face tightens when I flick my attention back to Director Frost. I'm a little worried. What did he mean by that? Does he suspect something? That Doug erased the footage on purpose for me? How could he know? Yet maybe...maybe he could...?

I throw aside my concerns as the briefing picks up speed and I have to focus more closely. Most of the next few hours of the briefing in the SCIF are absorbed in carefully leafing through the details of the attack and new nuclear developments in North Korea. I can't help but think it would be a favour to the world if they all accidentally nuked themselves, but it's the photos of the bomb fragments on the roof that resulted from the explosion that I'm most intrigued by.

That's weird...

I'm going through photos of the guns and the weapons and something isn't making any sense—especially the analysis about the bomb fragments that were recovered. I study the trail of unrecognisable junk spread around the rooftop.

"Director?" I hold up a photograph. "This bomb fragment. The analysis here is wrong. I've seen one of these before. It's a Russian K130 briefcase bomb. It was too sophisticated to be ISIS. It had security sensor jamming equipment so that the mall security scanners would think it was empty when they first walked in. We've never seen ISIS able to replicate tech that sophisticated before."

Director Frost takes the photograph from me. "You have to be mistaken, Senator," he tells me. "We confirmed it was a homemade ISIS bomb with stolen C4 wired to a timer. We had the bomb analysed by five different experts."

"Oh." I squint at the photo. "Maybe I was wrong, then." I'm too tired to argue, too tired to remind him that I've prosecuted numerous international crime cases when I was DA in Louisville. No one had to learn more about the operation of a bomb then the lawyer that had to explain it to a jury.

Harry is on the other side of the SCIF, watching our exchange intently. When the briefing's over, I find he's waiting further down the corridor for me to catch up. "What were you talking to Maxwell about?"

"That device that exploded at the mall," I say. "It wasn't made by ISIS. I'm certain."

"Maybe you just got it wrong?" Harry suggests.

Downplaying the morning's events, I shake my head viciously and dive in. "I'm not. I know bombs intimately from a white supremacist case I worked way back as a junior prosecutor. I had to prove that a bomb built by a neo-Nazi was the bomb that had blown up a church full of black kids. I did it by comparing it to a Russian K130 briefcase bomb and a handful of other bombs with the expert in the witness box to eliminate each one."

Harry grimaces. "Why would the Director lie?"

"Because he's trying to protect his real boss from being exposed," I say with cold surety, tapping the button on the elevator and waiting for the light to illuminate. "I should've known that attack while we were there was too convenient. Harry, would the director of national intelligence be able to get access to our itinerary and protection schedules?"

"Probably." He picks up on my thinking, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Listen, Jase, I know you said that guy can't be trusted but do you really think he'd try and have us killed?"

I step into the gilded elevator. "That's one theory. It might be just a coincidence. I think that us being there and being killed would have been a nice benefit. If anything, I think it actually might be something else. You didn't hear this from me but Bobby has a man inside MSNBC that says they got Rook's tax returns."

"What! When?"

"Last night," I say nonchalantly. "Someone slipped them to them anonymously. It's going on the air tonight on Heather Hart's show."

Harry leans back against the elevator wall, stunned. "And you think the Russians arranged the attack so it would give him some kind of a smokescreen for when the story hits tonight?"

I nod. "No one capitalizes on terrorist attacks better than Rook. He spins this all into the Democrats being too soft on terror and those tax returns will deflect right off of him."

"And Director Frost is covering it up? Why would he do that?" Harry growls. I've never heard Harry sound so angry. On second thought. I now wish I hadn't told him because if I don't kill the Director then he might. "That would make him a traitor to the country. We've got to go to the minority leader. Robert has to know about this."

"It's no point, Harry," I mumble, feeling frustration crackle in my head. "I can't exactly prove that's what they're doing. And, even if I can, they can't do anything. Like I said, we're not in power. We just have to batten down the hatches and ride this storm out until the election next year."

"But you're one of the best attorneys we have in the Senate." Harry huffs out a frustrated sound. "Can't we sue them for something? Anything? I mean, the guy is still making money off of his media empire that he hasn't divested from. Oh, that reminds me, I have some help I need. You'll like it. It's in your area of expertise."

"My favourite."

I follow him to his office.

iii.

I dip a French fry through some ketchup and crunch into it. Harry bought me up lunch and a chocolate milkshake when he could see my interest waning. I take my time, glancing up and down the pages of legal notes I've made for my brief. "So to go over it one more time"—I take a one-handed bite of my cheeseburger—"the education department has refused to forgive your student loans even though you all got screwed over by a bunch of for-profit-colleges in Hawaii?"

I look up to meet the concerned gazes of the Hawaiian college students all huddled on different items of furniture around my office, and feel my chest tighten protectively as it did back when I was prosecutor as they all nod together.

I feel for them. It had been going on for several decades now. Every time you prosecuted one another seemed to spring up somewhere. Hundreds of thousands of innocent kids would borrow federal student loans to attend for-profit colleges that promised high-paying jobs and a long and fulfilling career. It was often always a scam. A scam that would leave kids with thousands of dollars in debt, damaged credit, and depleted access to further student aid.

To shield them, the Higher Education Act and the Department of Education regulations allowed a student to cancel their student loans on the basis of their school's misconduct using this thing called borrowers defence. The Department of Education had a process to review and adjudicate the claims of students. The previous Democratic administration had even developed a full-time borrower defence unit.

"Yeah," a boy grunts. "That DeFraud lady is a complete bitch. She had security toss us out."

Well, that was blunt enough.

And sadly true.

Betty DeFraud was the new education secretary. An heiress with too much money for her own good, her confirmation had been a mess. It was so bad it was even parodied on Saturday Night Live.

Like the rest of President Rook's cronies, she had then proceeded to gut the agency she was in charge of so it was easier for her family to make money. Since Rook's administration she had claimed she was taking a "pause" to re-evaluate the prior administration's actions. That had included undoing several Democratic administration policy memos which were designed to protect student loan borrowers.

"Can't argue with that," I agree.

One girl with a spill of long dark hair picks at a thread on her brightly coloured sweater. "Do you think we have a case, Senator Jones?"

"I think you have a good one." I press PRINT on the document I've been working on in my datapad and head over to my office printer. "This should be enough, I think..." Ten minutes later, I count out all 62 pages of the brief, shuffle it together in a folder, and bring it back over to the students. "My staff collected all your personal information and I've assembled a brief to file for declaratory and injunctive relief on the issue—"

"You're finished already!" Harry surveys me, eyes bright with awe. "We've only been here three hours and you wrote a sixty-two paged brief?" He yanks the papers out of my hands and scrutinizes every line greedily:

Jason Jones

154 Russel Senate Office Building, Washington D.C. 20510

Attorney for Plaintiffs

UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

Hawaii Students,

Plaintiffs,

v.

UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION,

400 Maryland Avenue, S.W.

Washington, D.C. 20202

and

BETTY DEFRAUD, in her official capacity as Secretary of the United States Department of Education,

Defendants.

Case No.

CLASS ACTION COMPLAINT

FOR DECLARATORY AND INJUNCTIVE RELIEF

(Class Action)

(Administrative Procedural Act)
INTRODUCTION

1. This lawsuit challenges the Department's summary and unlawful rescission of a final agency regulation known as the "Borrower Defense Rule" (the "Rule") that was designed to hold abusive postsecondary institutions accountable for their misconduct and to relieve their students from federal loan indebtedness incurred as a result of that misconduct.

PRAYER FOR RELIEF

WHEREFORE, Plaintiffs respectfully request that this Court enter a judgment in their favor and grant the following relief:

A. Certify the class and sub-class as defined in paragraphs 371-372, pursuant to Rule 23 of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure;

B. Declare that the Department's refusal to grant individual borrower defense claims submitted by members of the class is unlawful;

C. Declare that the Department's refusal to deny individual borrower defense claims submitted by members of the class is unlawful;

D. Declare that named Plaintiffs and members of the class are entitled to a decision on their pending individual borrower defense assertions;

E. Vacate the Department's policy of refusing to grant borrower defenses;

F. Compel the Department to grant class members' individual borrower defense assertions if they are eligible for a borrower defense;

G. Compel the Department to deny class members' individual borrower defense assertions if they are not eligible for a borrower defense;

H. Compel the Department to notify class members of their borrower defense decisions;

I. Order the Department to place class members' loans in stopped collection status until their borrower defense is granted or denied;

J. Retain jurisdiction as appropriate;

K. Award reasonable costs and attorneys' fees as authorized by law; and

L. Grant such further relief as may be just and proper.

Respectfully submitted,

By: /s/ Jason Jones

Jason Jones (DC Bar No. 4832989028)

Junior Senator for Kentucky

154 Russel Senate Office Building,

Washington DC. 20510

"Wait..." One of the students looks up after finishing glancing over the lawsuit. "You want to represent us in court? To get out student loans cancelled. Can you actually do that? I thought attorneys could only practice in states where they were registered members of that state's bar."

"I took the DC bar when I came here a couple of months ago." I spin round in my office chair gleefully. "I thought it might be handy to be able to file lawsuits. I forgot what a rush it is." I check my wristcomm. "If you leave now, you should make it to the court registry before it closes. Just split the filing costs, all the paperwork's attached, and I'll drag them into court to eviscerate them."

"Told you," Harry brags, giving his voters his usual megawatt smile. "Aside from being completely ruthless and scary sometimes, isn't he the best?" He throws opens my office door. "Let's head to the court, kids, to get those loans cancelled! We can stop for pizza on the way back." Like little ducklings, I watch the group of Hawaii students march after Harry as he troops out through the usually daily chaos of my staffers.

"Thank you, Senator Jones!" I remind him.

I hear his reply echo from the hallway and I shake my head, smiling.

iv.

It isn't hard for me to beat the lawyer the Education Department sends out to verse me. I slice his arguments with a few well-chosen words; I attack every point vociferously with objections; I punch holes in all his key facts. At the end of the trial, he's so badly outmatched by me that he's suffocating on his own words.

It doesn't surprise me that at the end of the trial we get a 57-page legal opinion from the U.S. District Judge Randolph Moss that the Education Department's Rationale "is arbitrary and capricious". I stand on the steps of the court, in the fresh mid-morning sun, shining in front of the cameras with the students.

"Today is a victory." I wait for a dramatic pause as cameras flash and microphones crown me. "It is a victory for every family defrauded by a predatory for-profit school and a total rejection of President Rook and Betty DeFraud's agenda to cheat students and taxpayers." There. That was sure to earn me a few mean retaliatory tweets from the big man in the White House.

Doug drives me back to the Russel Building with Harry while I thumb through emails on my BlackBerry.

"Thanks for doing that for me," says Harry. "It really meant a lot to those kids."

"Huh?" I've been looking intensely at my glowing BlackBerry screen, a little too eagerly awaiting the President's tweet. "Oh, that. Hey, don't mention it. I would've done the same for Kentucky if I hadn't already done it last year before I was elected."

"You miss it, don't you? Being a lawyer?"

Everyday I'm out of the courtroom, I think.

"Sometimes," I hedge. "I miss some things, like the Federal Rules of Evidence. I miss being able to take down the bad guys. Sometimes you feel powerless being in the Senate. I never had that feeling when I was in a courtroom. It's nice to get it back for a bit. I really needed it."

"It's only cause you've probably lived through the worst Presidency," says Harry. "It doesn't always feel like that. Trust me."

"I hope so."

My BlackBerry message alert chimes:

Jackie: Are you near a netscreen?

Me: No. Why? We're just coming back from the District Court. We'll be back at Russel in another twenty minutes. What's going on?

Jackie: The FBI Director just called us. They're at the Russian embassy. They traced down the guy that ordered the hit on you. He's hold up in the embassy.

Me: What?!!

"Doug," I say. "Change of plans. Take us to 2650 Wisconsin Avenue. Straight away."

"Right away, sir." Doug gives a command to the support vehicles over his neural implant. The cars all seamlessly change direction with us.

Harry straightens up in his seat. "Why are we going there? Who just texted you?"

"Jackie. She just got word from the FBI that the guy that tried to order a hit on me took off towards the Russian embassy. They're in a standoff with the guards there right now. Apparently, they're nearly going to rip open the gates." We turn towards the impressive square block that takes up a whole block. The building is surrounded by an intricately wrought, ten-foot high, black iron fence.

We stop and park a fair way back from the embassy but not before I get a glimpse of what is just up ahead. There are FBI vehicles, armoured vans, SWAT teams, the flashing red and blue lights of police squad cars, more cars, a hovercopter, lots and lots of people.

"Wait"—Doug puts a hand over the chest of our driver—"I'm getting interference from the building. Something's not right in there."

I'm about to ask him what's wrong, but then I hear it, too, with my own supersonic hearing—the familiar beeping pulse that starts out slow, and then faster and faster, until it's a single, fatal note that sings our doom. Another bomb, I think. How could there possibly be another bomb? What is this? Bomb Week? "Reverse back! Reverse back! They just sent an alert out on all frequencies. They've just detected a—"

His dark honey eyes reflect my own emerging terrified realization, but then all I can see in them is fire and the world shatters into flames.

# Chapter 21.

### It's Really Over

i.

For a moment or two later there is the only the dull, bruising shock of the blast.

There is no immediately harmful impact until our car crushes against the wall. Everything around us is all furred under this heavy layer of dust. Harry, surprisingly, is the first one checking my pulse as we all come back around. I assume there will be more screaming and shouting through the dense smog of debris but it's all as silent as a grave.

"Is everyone alive back there?" Doug turns round in his seat. He's got a cut on his forehead.

"We're good." My voice cracks. "How about everyone else closer to the explosion?"

"Ambulance is on its way."

I notice how he doesn't say anything about anyone being dead or alive. When the windshield clears, I see the embassy cascading in on itself and trees on fire. I pop open the car door and step out. A distant, inhuman scream reaches down to us through the smoke. I take one glance at the FBI hovercopter that was earlier hovering near the embassy. It's now coiling through the sky.

I feel Doug walking up behind me.

"Go," he says.

"Distract Harry for me," I tell him.

I'm grateful that I don't have to argue with him this time. He does what I ask.

When I'm sure Harry and the other agents are preoccupied, I launch myself up with an incredible circus leap and grab onto one of the hovercopter's landing skids. I can hear alarms blaring red in the cockpit as the thing spirals; it's ions flickering. With an almighty roar, I punch my arm into it's closed door, digging my fingers into the metal, rip it completely off with a deafening metal shriek.

"Parties over, boys," I call out above the din of engines guttering. "You got to ditch this ride."

"The controls aren't responding!" A visored pilot informs me. His co-pilot has been knocked out hard by the blast. "If we don't get to a safe place it'll bring us down into civilians."

Then it's the worst sound I can hear.

It's the sound of the other ion engine failing.

The whole craft tilts roughly, swinging down, nearly sending me careening out the open door into the screaming wind. The thing is coming apart, piece by piece, in bloodcurdling metallic screeches. The conscious pilot gets slapped hard against the side of the cockpit. His head slacks forward. Shit! I know he's out cold for the rest of the ride. I reach forward and grab the controls with both hands, steering us down towards the river.

When we're close enough to the ground, I unclip the two pilots and hold them on my shoulders.

"I hope this ends well," I mutter to myself.

My eyes find the ground.

I use the side of the hovercopter as a springboard and leap out. My red tie and charred suit blazer flutter freely in the wind for a second and, with a silvery whoosh, I'm safely on the ground with the two pilots, windblown, stumbling slightly. Phew! Safe. Famous last words, those. I am putting both the pilots on a park bench when my gaze snaps up to watch the hovercopter skid through the reflecting pool, throwing up plumes of water on a scatter of people.

It's not going to stop!

I see a flock of Asian tourists eagerly taking photos together with their datapads and phones in front of the Lincoln Memorial. My eyes bulge. Not the tourists! Their backs are turned. They're going to be hit. The air rushes around me and then I'm in front of the hovercopter, seamlessly catching its snub nose. It barrels into me, kicking up water in its wake. Man, is this thing heavy. My blood humming with adrenaline, I stomp my feet in deeper, grunting, and the hovercopter screeches to a gravelly halt just as the back of my heels touch the other end of the pool.

I lean my head up against the metal of the hovercopter, releasing an exhausted laugh.

Am I seriously laughing right now?

Why am I laughing?

I really wasn't getting paid enough.

I'm still panting heavily from the strain of stopping the hovercopter with my bare hands when someone taps me on the shoulder.

I stand there, surprised as anything to see an eager Asian father in knee socks with a gaggle of kids thrusting out his datapad towards my chest so I can take a picture of his family. I raise an eyebrow. I'm guessing he can't speak English cause he's making lots of eager, violent hand gestures towards his smiling wife and kids. I resist the urge to tell him to piss off and exasperatedly indicate for him to get in closer with his wife.

"Everybody say cheese!"

I wait until I've got them all lined up on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and thumb the flash.

ii.

"Where did you go? And why are you wet?"

Because I had to take like eighty photos!

When I superspeed the streets back to the site of the explosion, not long after calling the ambulance for the hovercopter pilots, I collide into Harry and Doug and the rest of our suits who are observing fire department hovercopters hosing down the fiery remains of the Russian embassy.

I'm still finding glass in my hair.

"I was helping someone," I say hesitantly. It isn't that much of a lie. "Did they find any survivors or the guy they were chasing in the embassy? Do we know if any agents were killed?"

Huge fissures in the building disclose the pictures and furnishings, mangled and twisted by the blast, dim and dusty with ash. Staring hard, I see that the rest of the embassy that has survived the blast is blackened and roofless, doorways and windows empty, walls sagging so dangerously no one dares approach them.

"Ten are critical." Doug stands there shaking his head gravely. "They caught some pieces of the gate. They're undergoing surgery right now. A handful of others were quick enough to duck behind the barricade to avoid the blast. It's mostly broken arms and ribs. It nearly took out half of the FBI."

"Has anyone seen Director Hardy?" I ask.

I feel a little sick clutch of fear thinking about him being dead. Remembering the shock of the blast. Sure, I thought he was incompetent but it wasn't like I wanted to see the guy blown to smithereens. He kind of had an adorable hopelessness to him that grew on you after a short while.

As a bonus, his hopeless detective skills also meant that he hadn't been able to figure out that I'd killed nearly half of Congress by now.

"I'm right here," Director Hardy answers gruffly from behind. He's limping up to where we're all gathered. "I was just getting checked by some paramedics and briefing the press. Fancy seeing you two senators down here."

"My Chief of Staff texted me and said you guys were in some kind of a standoff," I say. "I thought we'd come check it out on our way back from the court house. I have to admit I didn't think she meant it so literally, with the guns and the bomb and everything. She said it had something to do with the guys that tried to assassinate me."

"Yes. I was just about to call you," he tells us. "The guy responsible for the assassination attempt on your life was just pulled from the rubble of the embassy a few moments ago."

"Alive?" I gasp.

"Oh." Director Hardy is taken back. "No. He was singed to a crisp. Barely recognisable. Sorry, that sounded misleading for a second there. But the good news is that looks like you won't need your protection detail at your house anymore."

I look at Doug and then back at Director Hardy. I am stunned. After what seems an eternity I realise my jaw is hanging involuntarily ajar and I close it quickly, hoping the others haven't noticed my disappointment. "Wow. That's..." I can't find the words to celebrate..."Great."

iii.

I'm not foolish enough to think it's over. But I put in a good show for Director Hardy so that he thinks that I do. I go to his office, read the files, learn what he knows. The man who blew up the embassy, and himself, was General Anton Belikvov an ex-Russian Army General. Right-hand man to President Ivanov in Russia before his son was killed in a shootout with American forces in Syria some time ago. Ever since then he'd been recruiting other soldiers from Russia who wanted to make America suffer. He'd been missing for years now and the Russian government was currently claiming no involvement in my assassination attempt. They'd released a statement condemning the embassy attack but I am starting to wonder if they arranged it.

It would be a neat way to tidy up a big mess.

The current theory on why he and his merry band of nutjobs tried to assassinate me was that they thought I might be a complication for Russia or something. I'd given interviews during the midterms about how it was unacceptable that the Russians be permitted to interfere in our elections, and when I was appointed to the intelligence committee I grew into a serious threat. I'd asked Director Hardy if they had been behind the death of Senator Nixon. He told me and Harry that the FBI thought it might have been one of the lower level staffers who had a grudge.

I didn't believe for a second that Russia didn't know about General Belikov and his misfits.

If anything, they were probably a small cell of soldiers the Russian President could dispatch and avoid taking responsibility for at a moment's notice. That sounded more plausible. I thought there excuse was typical for them. "I didn't know how that Plutonium-210 got into that defectors neck. Don't look at me. Nothing to do with it."

Even though I'm exhausted, I let Bobby drag me through the drudgery of the interview circuit on the days following. I'm not just selling my performance to Director Hardy. I want Director Frost, Russia, and President Rook to all think that I've given up. That they've won. I sit at glass tables on seven different networks as interviewers make me go over and over what I saw, felt, did, everything.

I talk about how grateful I will be now I know there will no longer be a need for agents to be stationed outside my door with machine guns.

"This can't be how they intended for it to end," Harry tells me in my office at the end of the week. "It's too easy. I know they want to pull your Senate protection detail but I think you should make the case for keeping it, Jase. I think those bastards probably faked their deaths so they could take an easy shot at you. I'm high enough on the seniority that I have a detail. The kid's wouldn't mind. We could make up the fold-out couch for you."

"And interrupt Peter's Xbox time?" I'm genuinely touched that he's worried about me. "It's alright, Harry. For once, I think Director Hardy might be right about this one. The Russians had ample opportunity to take me out even with my Senate detail and they haven't. Either I've fallen off their radar or that guy really was a rogue actor."

"Do you think that's likely?"

Slowly, I suck in a breath.

I am starting to wonder about it.

There's something not entirely right about all of this, something that I just can't figure out. Back when I was a prosecutor, I could always tell fairly accurately by looking through a case file and crime scene photos when something didn't add up right, when there was a part of the case missing, and this is one of those times.

It all feels a little too perfect.

"I used to be so sure, but now...I just don't see even the Russians blowing up an embassy full of their own people, including innocent civilians, to hide a couple of soldiers. This general guy was trained. He and his buddies could've just killed themselves to avoid interrogation if they really felt there was no way out. This feels more like someone...panicked and wanted to ensure that, under no circumstances, were they captured and interrogated."

"What do you mean?" says Harry.

"I mean it feels too shadowy to be the Russians. It starting to feel like someone wants us to think it's the Russians."

"Maybe you're just turning into me. I don't feel like I can trust anything anymore," he says. "Since that last election I feel like I haven't been able to let my guard down, like there's an attack coming from all sides at once. I guess I was foolish to think we ever resolved the Cold War with the Russians. All we ever did was hit pause."

"It's what they wanted to do," I assure him. "That's how they work. They wanted to get at us. Make us so paranoid we wouldn't answer the doorbell or go outside. I'll be sensible, I promise. But I'm not going to let them make me live my life like I'm scared to go outside."

"Maybe you should be like a bit. The Russians did send an armed death squad to come all the way over here and kill you."

"Don't worry," I say. "I'll lock the doors."

# Chapter 22.

### First Flight

i.

It feels good to be free again, to walk home to my townhouse on Friday and not see a guard with a gun on my doorstep. And in the house it's just me. No stealthy armoured cars, no ball drones hovering along my windows, no suits. Just me. I'm finally free. I keep saying it over and over in my head.

I mean sure, the Russians are probably, definitely, still after me but it's nice that I won't have to worry about hiding my powers around the suits anymore.

The living room is empty, then I'm there, dialling on the stereo. I turn on some upbeat music, and there's the skirring noise of my speed again, this time to my room to ditch my suit clothes. Next I have some fun, I whip back down to the kitchen in my boxers. Then to the laundry, the hallway, the top of the staircase banister. I'm blurring all over the place dancing freely.

I get an encrypted text on my phone while I'm downing beers. Meet me at this address tomorrow. Run. Don't take a car. You can't be tracked.

I'm gone early in the morning, as per instructions, zooming down as fast as a jet towards the private address Doug gave me. Apparently, despite being taken off my security detail he doesn't believe the danger's passed either. I stop in a whirl of dust to admire a grand log house that looks more like a cabin than a house. It has a beautiful stone chimney. Beside it, dwarfing it, a large red barn. No cameras see me walk inside. I'm quiet. Swift. The barn is brightly lit. It's empty save for a single stealthy black hovercopter under the floor of the barn that's held in place by a magnetic stanchion crouched underneath it.

Doug is tapping on a blue-glowing lectern console in grease-stained clothing, sighing to himself. "I've already run that diagnostic! I just want to know why the ion engine is cutting out!"

I look at Doug. So this is what he's being so secretive about. I've barely been able to talk to him all week since his boss officially had me sign the paperwork disbanding the detail on me.

I walk up to him. "What are you up to, Highlander?"

"Aw I'm trying to get this damn thing to fly again." His voice gets garbled in his Scottish accent so even with my enhanced hearing I lose just about most of what he says. "You make sure you weren't followed to this place?"

"I have my encrypted phone on me and I was moving too fast to be seen."

"Ah! Got it!"

The hovercopter gives a content whine and the ions on its side glow from black to red.

"Where did you get it?" I ask.

"It's been a pet project of mine for a few years now. It's an old Air Force one. Not as current as the latest ones but it's got one hell of a stealth system. Perfect for kidnapping the Director of National Intelligence next weekend."

My jaw flexes. "Next weekend?"

Doug nods, wipes a rag over his forehead, and starts unplugging some hoses from the nose of the ship. "I overheard from some Secret Service agents talking to the boss." He uses a wrench to secure the panel back into place. "He's heading to a golf course this weekend outside of town. He'll be accompanied by three armoured cars. They'll be tracking him by satellite during the trip."

"So how do we get at him?"

"How do you get at him you mean?"

"Yeah," I say. "That."

"Easy." He snaps the panel shut. "We're going to train you up so that you can kidnap a high-level cabinet official without being taken out by one of the toughest security forces in the world. But, first, want to come up for a ride?"

ii.

Ten minutes later, I'm clanging up the ramp that folds down out of the back of the hovercopter.

The control consoles take up the front section, complete with two pilot chairs. It's separated from the small cargo area in the back by this thick webbing material we have to duck under. Built into the armrests are an assortment of buttons I don't dare touch as I plop deeply into my oyster-coloured seat. Doug types in a code on his armrest. The screens and switches around me respond by glowing to life with an abundance of readouts and dials. He grips hold of these two joysticks on his chair, flicking buttons.

The barn door cranks open and the magnetic stanchion folds away.

"This thing is safe, right?"

"Eh. You're indestructible, so if it crashes again you won't have too much to worry about."

He's right but it doesn't bring me any comfort.

There's a soft whirring sound, that rises several degrees in pitch as the ion engines warm up, and then we rise, without a jar or tremor, slowly at first, and then more swiftly as we curve out through the open barn, until I catch sight of the ground sinking rapidly beneath the slatted window, and Doug's house shrinking smaller and smaller, until it looks like a small speck amongst the green.

I grip my armrests.

Doug looks at me. "You don't like flying?"

"Not a lot." My eyes are closed. "Flying and my stomach haven't really ever agreed with each other."

"Let me get this straight." Doug is keeping the hovercopter steady in the air. "You can run what? Sixty or eighty miles? But you can't stand flying?"

"That's because it's all on the ground. I just don't like not having something under my feet. It's not a height thing it's just a feeling of being in the air."

Doug's eyes glitter darkly. "Well, hold on, then."

"Don't even think about—"

I get cut off as the hovercopter executes a breathless dive right down through the blue sky. I can see the ground rushing towards us and then Doug pulls us up, spinning us round in a deft aerial manoeuvre. I'm more worried that his laughing at my horrified scream will get us killed then his flying.

He's clearly done this before.

I glare at him. "I'm going to punch you through a wall later when we get back to the ground."

"Check this out first." Doug presses a button on the dash in front of him. "Stealth shield. The whole hovercopter is completely invisible. Once you grab the Director and get him to the hovercopter, we'll be home free just about."

It's impressive.

I can't deny that.

"You really sure you want to be apart of this, Doug?" Doug looks at me, startled, but I keep going. "You have your family to think about. If you get caught, it's likely you'd never see Connor again. I don't want you to be in danger."

"I told you before," says Doug. "I'm all in."

"Then promise me something."

"What?"

"If they catch us and we're found out you have to tell them that I threatened your family," I say quietly. "I'll make a paper trail later so it looks more authentic to back you up. I'll make the threats look so real that even the best prosecutor in the world won't be able to convict you."

"Jason..."

"Please? I can't involve you otherwise, Doug. This fight is my fight. I'm not going to involve you unless I know I can get you out of it if I have to."

"Fine." He nods, agreeing with me. "I'll do it. But let's not jump to the worst scenario just yet. We've got a lot of work to do before we even get that far."

We don't return back until late.

And I suddenly feel tired.

The sky is saturated in this rosy, glistening pink colour. The strange thing is I don't actually want the sun to set. I want it to stay right on the horizon. Not above it. Not below it. Just right on it. It's like some sort of movie I could watch for hours. It reminds me of the sunsets on the mountains back home. Thoughts of speeding through the murky forests of the Appalachians suddenly fills me up. I can't stop them. I screw up my eyes.

I want to be back there.

"You alright there, Senator." He's grinning at me. "See? I can come up with sexy nicknames for you too." His forehead suddenly creases when he sees my face. "You're not still thinking about putting me in danger again are you? Because if you are we've already been over this a thousand times—"

"It's not that," I assure him. "I'm just thinking about how much I miss Kentucky. The sunsets and sunrises on the Appalachian Mountains are beautiful. When the sun rises, the whole place just fills with this bright gold and red light. I used to run the trails every morning to watch it."

"You miss it a lot, don't you?"

"Yeah but I'm needed here." I sigh and let my eyes close in contentment, resting my head back against the headrest. "And, let's face it, without me the Democrats would be walked all over by the Republicans. They need me. Bad."

Doug laughs gently. "Yes they do." He bumps my shoulder with his over the tiny aisle of space that separate our seats. "We all need you." He taps at an opaque square plastic on the control dash screen. "It's getting late. Do you want to stay the night? I'll make you something good. And I have a spare tooth brush."

I'm about to tell him that I have to get back home and finish some work for the foreign services committee, but he's giving me this pleading look and I can't handle the thought of him being disappointed. Why not? I can have one night off. It's only one night. I'll catch up tomorrow.

"Sure," I say. "But I'm picking the movie."

iii.

We don't wake up again until late. And I still feel tired. But I feel good, real good. Probably because, after spaghetti last night, and three really bad action movies with so many dismemberments I lost count, we started doing it hard-core on the couch. Then the windows. Then the bear rug in front of the fireplace. And we didn't stop. Doug has his head against my shoulder. We're in his huge double bed.

I watch him wake up. He sees me watching him and kisses me gently on the lips.

"Morning Senator," he says.

"Morning Highlander," I say back.

He chuckles his Scottish laugh. I think we'll be doing it again for another few hours but he sits up, swings his legs out of the bed. I can see that his ass still has my red hand impression from where I spanked him the other night.

"You should come back here so I can spank your other ass cheek," I say.

"I've got to go and get us something to eat." Doug looks back at me sexily before he leaves the room. He goes into another room down the hall. It must be the bathroom, I can hear water running.

Glad for the privacy he has given me, I lie back in the bed, looking around the room at all of his personal things. A thick bookshelf. A thick tartan rug at the foot of the bed. A rustic stone fireplace. A collection of kilts. Sofa and lamp in the corner. A netscreen cord spread messily to a socket on a low set of drawers. Family photos of Connor and the green mountains of Scotland on walls that look like logs. Inquisitive: I surge forward in a whispery gust, picking up a silver-framed photo of Doug with Connor saddled on his shoulders in the same motion. Then I forget all about where I am for the moment, because I am distracted by how genuinely happy they look.

The smiles they both have.

I feel strange because it seems familiar to me in a haunting, uncomfortable way. My parents had loved me like this once. Once: I was loved. We'd had family camping trips, gone fishing on the Kentucky River. But that had all happened in a different, blurry lifetime. I didn't know what good it did to dwell on all the extinct possibilities now.

Could I ever have something like this?

Maybe?

Probably not, though.

Not after my childhood.

I wouldn't even know where to start.

Hesitantly, I place the frame back down on the shelf. I can hear Doug humming cheerily away as he cooks something delicious downstairs.

My throat is dry.

I'm starving.

I pause, then whisper downstairs.

I'm suddenly in the kitchen, scaring him to death.

"Don't do that!" Doug nearly has a heart-attack when he sees me at the marble island of his upmarket kitchen. He's naked except for a bright green kilt. "We're going to have to install a no speeding rule in my house from now on. You'll wear out all the new floors."

I sniff the delicious buttery smell wafting from the omelette he's cooking, ignoring him. He's sprinkling cheese, some green herb, and vegetables into the goldenly sizzling mixture. "Mmmm. What are you making? It smells good."

"Just an omelette," says Doug, deftly flipping the omelette over in the pan. "Should be right up. You want some coffee?" I nod and he pours a cup of it and hangs me the mug to dump sugar in.

"Oh, look—! President Rook is about to get us all caught up in World War III."

I hold up the Washington Post to show that it's an article about the President fighting with Iran again for no reason. I start reading through the newspaper while he finishes cooking. Read the job ads, the arts section, the foreign policy section on the global arms trade. Doug drops the finished omelette on a plate in front of me. It's under a tent-pile of buttered toast. I fold up the newspaper straight away, get up, follow him to the couch. Doug sits down on the sofa and picks up the remote, starts flicking through the channels, turning the sound up loud on the news.

The omelette and the coffee are really good.

So I now know Doug can cook, too.

For a short while there's only the clinking of our forks on the plates as we drain our mugs and wolf down breakfast. The eggs are perfectly moist with the toast just the right amount of crunchy. I get distracted halfway when I look away and see a bladder-looking instrument sitting in one of his armchairs, buried from view by blankets.

"Are those...bagpipes?" I ask.

Doug nods, not looking away from the netscreen. "Sure are. Family heirloom. They've been in the family since World War II."

I'm intrigued.

"Can you play them?"

Doug snorts. "Can I play them? Of course I can! Why? You want a demonstration?"

"Maybe," I say uneasily.

I wasn't exactly fond of the bagpipes.

They'd always been a little too screechy for my enhanced hearing.

"Wait here," says Doug, finishing up his breakfast and dumping his plate in the kitchen sink. "You're in for a treat."

I laugh and grimace at the same time. "I said maybe!" I call after him.

Whether I want to hear it or not, I sit on the couch as Doug plays the bagpipes. He's switched kilts now. He's got on a red one with knee-high socks, some kind of sash, and then this hat with a pompom on the top of it.

I let him show-off though because he looks sexy as fuck in all the Scottish gear.

"What do you think?"

"I think"—I kneel down in front of his kilt—"that you should keep playing while I go down on you."

He grins. "Marching orders received."

He starts blowing on the bagpipes again and I pull his massive rod free from the red kilt.

I usually get it on to heavy metal or rock so it's a change of pace having cheery bagpipes piping above my head as I run my tongue and lips up along Doug's thick cock. He's gazing all dreamily down at me as he pants out noises. They start out as clear tunes that gradually weaken into just wheezes as I start really going down on his shaft. In the end, the bagpipe gets tossed to the side and he starts fucking my face furiously.

"Aw, fuck, I'm going to come in your mouth!"

"Do it you bagpipes-playing-Highlander!"

He closes his eyes, looks up.

The final groan gets caught in his throat and then he releases it. My eyes water.

"I want to pound you in that kilt," I announce. "For some messed up reason it's turning me on."

"Hey, don't mock the power of the kilt."

He gets down on his knees, leans against the couch, and I slide warily into him. "Ah! That damn kilt is going to make me blow so quick!"

It's true.

I'm only a couple of thrusts in and I'm getting a rhythm and I already have to blow.

"Oh yes! Slam that ass!"

I spank his other ass cheek. I have both hands gripping his massive wide hips. From the low growls he's making he doesn't mind what I'm doing. I grind my hips into him, go deep, pull back. Oh fuck his ass is so good! I'm fucking a guy in a skirt essentially and I'm so turned on for some reason. That does it. I pull him back, kiss his neck so I'm pounding his ass upright on the floor.

"Aw fuck here I go! Aw fuck here it is! AHHHH!" I release a final shudder and we slump together.

"Told you," Doug teases. "Don't underestimate the sexual power of the kilt. It does things to people. Even the superpowered ones."

I laugh and roll off him.

"You mind if I have a shower?"

"Go for it."

I have a shower in Doug's sleek bathroom, a hot one, and just stand there for ages under the hot water. Then I get out and dress into a borrowed red sweater and jeans from Doug, and walk out to find him standing over a thick armoured case the size of a person on top of the coffee table.

"What's that?" I ask abruptly.

"This"—Doug presses a series of numbers on a panel that causes the case to separate open—" is your very own nanocomposite body armour. You don't want to know what I had to do to get this, but you're welcome." He pulls the red suit out of the gel foam and holds it out to me. "Try it on."

I wrinkle my nose. "Seriously? I am not wearing that. I wouldn't be caught dead in that get-up."

Doug frowns a little. "C'mon," he coaxes. "Stop being such a wimp. You've never even tried it on. You'll feel better after you've worn it and gotten used to the feel of it, and I have to show you how to use it before we kidnap Director Frost next weekend or you'll stuff it up."

I purse my lips, considering.

"Fine."

I take it from him, still feeling kind of grossed-out over the synthetic material.

It's strangely not hard to zip up. Once I'm done, lights illuminate throughout the suit twice and then the suit goes dark again. "It's just bio-scanning you." Doug assures me. "From now on, it's only going to work for you." I look down to a loading square screen on the cuff, like it's actually in the fabric or something. I don't recognise what it's saying—BIOSCAN 57% COMPLETE.

"Now, the Pentagon don't tell us exactly what the stuff is that they make these things out of but they're nearly indestructible." Doug is tapping on things on a datapad. "If you do get hit by rocket launcher on the weekend you should be fine, but the suit is a nice backup."

"It's actually not that bad." I throw an air punch, like a boxer facing an imaginary opponent. The suit follows my move without any resistance.

The next addition to the suit is a thick utility belt that Doug helps clip on my waist. He's got my suit wirelessly connected to his datapad to do some stuff but I'm too busy admiring myself in one of his hallway mirrors to care. It's blue, gray, and red with fingerless gloves—that's a nice touch.

"Duck over here for a minute, Jase. I want to show you how the suit works."

I do as he says.

He shows me the list of options I can scroll along down the cuff of the suit. The nanoarmour is woven with state-of-the-art electronic textiles. It's basically one big giant smartphone. The gloves can be charged to electrocute people; I can kill them or knock them unconscious depending on the voltage. There's a list of other features that I love: camo-mode, fire-shield, GPS location.

I only have to tap my thigh a couple of times and I can even change the colours on the suit.

"What you want to do before you grab Director Frost is press this option here—interference." He demonstrates and then winces as he taps the underside of my forearm again. "See how it works? It disrupts any one with a brain chip from interfacing wirelessly. It'll also knock out their communication with any nearby hovercopters or drones patrolling the area. It only stings for a second so they'll recover quick. They'll also have suits so don't waste time. You have to make sure you touch the back of their necks and not their suits when you zap them unconscious."

"What about my face?" I ask.

"See those lights on the neckline. The suit has identification blocking software. Anyone gets a look at you and the suit will hide your features with a filter. You'll look like a Picasso painting." He fishes around for a bit in the giant cases, produces a box containing this earpiece-type thing. It's got a wide protuberance that sticks out a few centimetres, following along my cheekbone. "Instead of retinal lenses I got you this. It's called an opton. The holodisplay screen will allow you to scan things the way I do with my neural implant."

I look around the room.

A holographic miniscreen flickers on over my right eye, followed immediately after by readouts on everything from the furniture to Doug as I sweep my gaze around the living room. It can squeeze information out of anything within my complete line of sight, identify targets and friends, record footage, and splice into security doors. It will also turn into a targeting reticule to match the specs of any weapon I pick up. (Allegedly.)

"Woah," I say. "So you see this every day?"

"Pretty much," he says. "I don't have it running 24-7 though." He holds up my suit cuff. "The one downside is the interface is connected to your suit, so to go through the menu you'll have to scroll using your suit interface on either electrocuff."

My brain struggles to process everything he's telling me. All I really want to do is go outside and karate chop some trees in the red suit with the silver eagle on its chest. "Uh-huh," I mumble, whacking the air with karate chops. "When can I go outside and test this thing out. I want to take down some trees and see how this thing goes."

"I'm surprised your attention span has lasted this long," Doug sighs. "Go ahead. Knock yourself out. Just make sure it's not any of the trees near my house. And be careful not to damage—"

"You're the best!"

I'm gone in half a second before he can finish. "HIYAHH!" Next minute, there's a mighty crashing noise outside of his house as I take down my first victim.

# Chapter 23.

### Operation Kidnap

i.

I'm not sure if it's the nanoarmour, Doug's involvement, or the hovercopter rides, but everything starts to get better. I stop feeling so bad about his plan or his ideas. He even gives me a few lessons on the fighting styles favoured by the Secret Service. I insist on using my speed to best him in all those fights. Of course.

He disapproves of that.

You can't count on being able to blur away from danger all the time. You have to know how to handle yourself without your powers.

That usually ends up with me fighting him.

Then us doing it hardcore in his hovercopter.

I carry on work in the Senate without anyone realising I am spending most of my hours on the Foreign Services Committee thinking about kidnapping the Director of National Intelligence. About the questions I've been burning to ask him. Namely, how he could betray the country he had spent his life serving.

I wasn't sure we'd get away with it. Harry and Jackie are the worst. I thought at one stage I'd start yelling at them to mind their own business when they kept asking questions about why I was acting so distracted in the office.

There is one saving grace—kind of—The State of the Union is coming back around and also the President's re-election year. I was looking forward more to the latter more than the former. At least it kept everyone scrambling and off my back. After the last one, where President Rook and I had been pretty much just glared at each other for a full five minutes after the speech, I am about as excited at the prospect of attending another one as receiving a violent kick in the front teeth. There was also a betting pool starting up in the Senate for which senator was most likely to toss their name into the ring for the Democratic Primary.

At the current estimates, just the ones I had overhead in committee hearings, about fifty democratic politicians were considering whether or not to toss their hat into the ring to be on the Democratic ticket to take on President Rook in the general election in 2076.

My bets were on Kamala Harrison. She was California's Attorney-General. We'd both won our elections in last year's midterm and had a knack for completely dismantling witnesses at committee hearings. She'd even been my criminal law professor back at Yale once. She'd also been one of the few prosecutors who had actually gone after the banks after the financial crash of 2045.

I look around for Harry on the Friday before the weekend where I intended to kidnap Director Frost, and find him sitting at one of the studded leather couches in the Senate Cloakroom, studying a Floor speech on his datapad.

I grab a coffee and join him.

"You know," says Harry, lowering his datapad to drink his own coffee. "I think that you should run for President in the Democratic Primary."

I think this through, shuddering. "Yeah." My gaze darkens. "Because me as President would go down so well. I would find it hard not to atomise Russia off the face of the Earth after all the bullshit they've caused. I don't even know why any sane person would want that job anyway. You're basically just a giant punching bag for the masses. Maybe you should run for President."

"Ha! I'm not crazy. I only want someone else other than the current nutjob having it."

"What are you two kids fighting about now?" Kamala drops down into one of the armchairs beside the two couches we're on.

"About which one of us should run for President," I say. "Maybe you should give it a whack."

"Yeah, Kamala," Harry agrees, jumping in. "You'd be made for the debate stage. I've already got your slogan for you, 'vote for me or we all die'."

"Oh that's a good one." Kamala kicks off her heels and tosses her briefcase up on the table. "You want to be my VP? You'd be great on the campaign trail with all that charm. You could do all the work and I could just kick my feet up. Besides, I heard that Robert might run."

"Really?" I don't mean to say it like that, but, at that moment, I am too impatient to care. Part of me is alarmed. Everyone knew the senior senator from Kentucky had already run twice in primaries and lost. He got stuff done in the Senate but for some reason he just didn't really connect with a huge audience outside of our state.

I don't like the idea of him being disappointed again by losing.

"Yeah." Kamala consults her phone as she scrolls through a list of memos. "I just passed one of his staffers on the way back from an interview with MSNBC and she said he was thinking it over. I don't know how likely it is that he'll run."

I slump back into my chair, frustrated. "And I suppose the junior senator from Kentucky will be the one to talk him out of it," I grumble. "I love Robert, but he's lost the last two primaries. And if he runs again and loses a third time no one in Kentucky will ever live it down."

"He's seventy-two," interjects Harry. "I don't think you have to worry about him running that much, Jase. I heard a rumour that Governor of California"—Harry raises his eyebrows pointedly in Kamala's direction—"is considering launching an exploratory committee to run for—"

"It's false," Kamala cuts in. "I spoke to him last night. He was considering it but with the kids starting high school and another baby about to be born, he's happy to stay Governor for now. He's also focusing on turning over the electrical grid to renewables. We're currently running on ninety-five and he wants to get us to a hundred."

Now I raise an eyebrow. "What I have to wonder about," I begin, suspicious-eyed, "Is why you were talking to the Governor at all about whether or not he was running for President?"

This time, Harry looks up and grins. "Yeah. That is a little suspicious, Kamala. Almost like you were sussing out the competition."

Kamala shrugs. "I might be considering the idea of launching a late entry into the race after the State of the Union. Have you guys decided on who you're going to take as guests?"

"Did she just pivot on us, Jason?" Harry asks me.

"I think she just did, Harry."

"You better watch that, Kamala. Pivoting is the first step to presidential campaigning. Before long you won't be able to answer a single answer truthfully without pivoting to something else."

Kamala playfully whacks him with a Washington Post on the table and he flinches away. "Oh, shut it," she scoffs. "I'm serious about the invitation thing. Robert says he wants the names of our guests before the end of the weekend so Capitol Police can vet everyone attending."

"I think I'm just going to skip this one," I say. "And TiVo it so that I can fast forward to all the good crazy bits later. And the one person I want to brings is going to be working the perimeter for the whole night."

"You mean the hot Scottish bodyguard?"

"How did you...?"

"Harry blabbed to everyone."

"Of course he did," I sigh, shaking my head. "I thought I told you we were keeping it a secret so that he didn't get fired. The Capitol Police tend to look down on their agents shacking up with the guys they're supposed to be protecting."

Harry scoffs, laughing. "Aw trust me, with this administration, there's no way they're going to fire an ex-Air Force veteran. There's so much corruption you can pretty much break any law you want and get away with it right now. I've been thinking instead of stopping the corruption we should start dealing in it. That's why I've started illegally trading in stocks."

"Tell me how that goes," I say. "I just can't believe they're making us go to this thing again. Where the hell is he going to find a success story amongst the gun violence peaking, the human rights scandals, the stealing of money to fund his personal golf courses, the ongoing corruption investigations. I mean, where is the silver lining?"

"International relations with Russia have never been better," Harry counters.

I sigh. "That one doesn't count."

"Any plans for the weekend?"

I answer warily. "Nah. I think I'm just going to curl up on the couch with some briefing books and try and not think about the State of the Union"—there's the sound of the bell interrupting me as the Senate is called into session—"and hopefully I'll break my leg before then..." I trail off into a pause as we all get up and head into the Floor.

I'm hoping I don't appear too strained.

The last thing I want is Harry or Kamala starting to grow suspicious about my weekend plans. And the last thing I want is for them to be able to even slightly hint at where I'm really going to be...

ii.

I sit in the back of Doug's hovercopter in my ruby-red nanoarmour as it blades stealthily through the night sky. Above the subtle whirr of the ions, there is a console on the roof above the aisle of back seats playing the evening news.

"President Rook's State of the Union will be televised live across the nation at seven o'clock. The President will be expected to address a range of issues from immigration to healthcare and national security. Our anchors will be on the air live with a panel of experts giving you a rundown of the President's talking points..."

"Can you believe I have to go to this again," I grumble, biting into a sandwich Doug has made for the kidnapping trip. It's good. Ham, cheese, and tomato with lots of pepper. "They're acting on the news like it'll be the next Gettysburg Address. The last one I went to I felt like I needed to wash my eyes out with bleach afterwards it was so cringe-worthy."

"Just ditch it. I doubt it's going to raise any eyebrows if one senator is mysteriously absent." Doug flicks a switch above him and returns his hands to the task of piloting the hovercopter. "Alfred had us running drills all week for the President and I found myself thinking, 'if someone takes a shot at this guy I'm actually going to have to dive in front of him'. I'm actually going to have to risk my life for this Russian plant."

"Can't," I say between mouthfuls of food. "Robert got wind of my plan to ditch and threatened to make me do all the Democratic press conferences for the next three months, so I caved."

"That doesn't sound like you."

"I also thought it would look suspicious if Director Frost's disappears and I'm missing. It'll cover me better if I'm there with you."

"Probably better"—an alarm on the glowing instrument board beeps twice—"speaking of, we're coming up on the Director's convoy now."

I climb to my feet and move to a boxy rectangular screen the size of a small table telescoping up automatically from the floor of the hovercopter. It illuminates and a collection of pixels condense to form an image of the terrain beneath us. I've now got a holographic overview of a six-car military convoy, moving like a sinister serpent through the trees. The car holding Director Frost is illuminated in a fiery red.

My eyes narrow.

Got you.

"Copy that," I reply, the lower half of my suit soaking in blue light from the terminal. "How far are they from the bridge?"

"Only a few miles. You better get going."

I study the screen. "Agreed. I'll see you in a few minutes. You want to open the ramp for me?"

"Opening her up for you, Senator."

I clench my fists as the slanted metal ramp of the hovercopter pistons open. Stinging gale force winds begin blasting in through the back, pushing my hair back, and rattling and snapping at everything. I expect to be more nervous, but I've practiced this so many times with Doug that those nerves I'm expecting to feel aren't there anymore.

I'm beyond ready for this.

My blood is boiling for it.

Leaning forward, I can see the headlights of the cars moving in an orderly pattern towards us.

At this height, they look just like ants.

I press my suit's cuff interface to activate the holoscreen over my eye. I can now clearly make out Director Frost in the car. He's talking on his phone and shuffling papers around.

I take a step forward. "I'll see you in a minute."

"Remember," Doug reminds me warningly. "Be ready for anything down there. These guys have top-notch military training."

"Oh, c'mon. I was born ready for—!" I lose my footing before I can finish my last word and clownishly slam, bounce, and toss myself out the back of the hovercopter into the night sky.

Doug's holding back a snicker over my crackling comm link line. "Are you alright there, Mr Smooth Exit?"

My cheeks flame. "Fine! Got to focus now! You're breaking up! Bye!"

I watch the hovercopter's stealth mode engage as it roars past me, its entire fuselage glimmering with reflective panels until I can't distinguish it from the inky night sky. I turn as I fall, now dropping straight down with my arms by my sides.

I pull some EMP discs out of my utility belt about halfway and throw them precisely at the last two cars on the convoy. THUNK! THUNK! I hear them mount to the roof of the vehicles, sending a sonic ripple through them, stopping them in their tracks.

When I land, taking out a tree, I slip forward through the underbrush until I'm right next to the cars. They've all stopped together.

A collection of suits all get out. Some have their guns already drawn. I hear them pointing to the car and scratching their heads about what happened. They're trying to gun the ignition again but it's useless. One of the suits is climbing onto the roof of the car. He spots the EMP disc mounted to it. I can see the look in his eyes.

"Get the Director out of here! Now—!"

They all wince collectively as I tap the INTERFERENCE icon on my suit's cuff.

I know I have fifteen minutes before their neural chips will reengage. If I'm lucky.

The four cars left in the convoy squeal forward and burn rubber away from me. With a burst of speed, I'm after them. I spring from the branch of a tree and land lightly on the roof of the car on the back of the convoy. I heave hard on its back wheel, twisting it sideways so the entire thing comes clean off the bolts. I somersault back into the darkness of the forest as it sparks along the ground to a skidding halt.

They're not messing around now.

I can feel the tickle of bullets.

A suit is on a machine gun at the back of the convoy blindly firing into the night, his face lighting up behind the stuttering white flashes. Another loud explosion that splatters fire across a cluster of trees close to me informs me that another suit is now tossing grenades into the trees.

I emerge behind the car, flip onto its roof and snap the machine gun in half like its plastic, then electrocute the suit unconscious by the neck with a single touch. The car swerves and bumps over the road as the suits inside try to throw me off. Ping! Ping! The suits within bellow war cries and blast metal in my direction. I can't help but chuckle a little cause they seem a bit ridiculous. Like, I know they're doing their job and all but what noise is that? I ignore them, flip over the roof, flinging another EMP disc onto its hood. Another sonic ripple completely kills the engine.

Nodding with satisfaction, I speed up to the last two remaining cars.

I check the timer on my suit cuff. Nine minutes left until their neural chips reboot. Nine minutes until a squadron of hovercopter's armed with who knows what comes roaring after me. Nine minutes until the Director gets away from me...

The cars are on the girded bridge over the valley. Just in time. I leap out in front of the two armoured cars before they can brake, punching my fist into the centre of the bonnet of the first car so that it flips over my head and strikes the pavement face down with a squeal of bending metal. The other car with Director Frost scrabbling around in a panic tries to reverse but i whip towards it, lifting its rear bumper off the ground so the wheels just spin.

It's going nowhere.

I rip the front doors off.

The suits, naturally, fire shots into my face. I dispatch them both neatly, hurling them against the car. I rip Director Frost door off. I make sure to deactivate my identity filter that's been keeping my face obscured from the suits.

"You!" He breathes. "What are you—"

A cluster of narrow, flat-bodied missiles blaze down from the sky. The blasts rock the bridge, vaporising chunks of the road. I cartwheeled out of the way within heartbeats, my lips pulled back into a scowl, but it is too late. The Air Force hovercopters have already rocketed past, the whine of their engines climbing as they circle back around for another shot at me.

"Jason, it's now or never!"

I watch Doug's hovercopter come out of stealth mode as it spears down through the clouds, it's wispy ion exhaust trailing. Bright varicoloured flares fill the sky from its missile pods. They seem to have some radar-cancelling effect because the next set of rattling shots from the Air Force hovercopter's underslung machine guns miss me by miles.

I return to the Director and pull him, struggling, fighting, kicking, squirming out of his seat.

"You'll be executed for this! You're a traitor!"

"Oh, give me a break," I say. "You're the last person who gets to call me a traitor. I know you've been working for the Russians for months now."

The look he gives me is priceless as I zap him out cold with my electrocuffs for good measure—I don't want him to try anything funny. I start running for the edge of the bridge, launching myself at top speed just at the same moment as Doug's hovercopter swoops under, skidding and scrabbling into the back with Director Frost.

"We're in!" I say. "Get us out of here!"

I hear the sound of the two hovercopters closing in on us, back fast. They're blasting everything from missiles to bullets; their throaty engines a consistent reminder. I get some cuffs on Director Frost and pull the rollercoaster-like restraint down around his shoulders. Missiles explode here and there outside, wobbling me.

"What's taking so long?" I shout.

"I have to give the stealth system time to charge!" Doug steers us to the side: I grab an overhead rack to stop from tripping over. "Just need a few seconds—ah! Got it!" I hear a collection of missiles shrooming loudly out of missile pods from somewhere, but our hovercopter is re-cloaking, and Doug is boosting us high up to avoid being caught in their blast cloud—KA-BOOM!

I wince back from the bright orange flash that fills the interior of the ship.

I smile at Doug. "Nice flying."

"Thanks," he laughs weakly. "Now, let's get the hell away from here before the entire army turns up to hunt us down."

I nod and puff out of a sigh of relief.

"Sounds like a plan."

iii.

"Rise and shine, Director!"

I throw a bucket of water on his face and he shivers awake with a loud indignant cry. If he wasn't bound to a chair, he'd probably attack me. Once we landed last night, we hid the hovercopter under the floor of the barn again and tied him up. After that, we locked him in to sleep it off overnight under a motion camera.

"Senator Jason Jones," Director Frost moans. "What a wonderful and unexpected surprise."

# Chapter 24.

Interrogation

i.

Director Frost might be in a dripping wet suit and tied to a chair, but he's pretty calm. That's impressive since I know he's seen me take out the six cars on his convoy and survive being shot at with bullets and hovercopter missiles. Maybe he's had time to process it seeing as he's a veteran intelligence officer, or maybe he's suspected I was somehow involved with all the mysterious deaths in the Rook Administration all along and just couldn't prove it.

Now he knows.

"You know, the funny thing is that I suspected you were the one behind all the strange cabinet secretary deaths from the start." Director Frost coughs out a dry chuckle. "The problem was I couldn't prove any of it. You being under a 24/7 protection detail ruled you out as a possibility. But I guess now we know how you were able to slip by them. That was quite impressive what you did last night."

I run a hand through my hair and sigh.

"Thank you," I say. "I try my best."

"How can you do all that?"

I don't say anything. I just pick up a cup of coffee I've had resting on a shelf in the barn and take an awkwardly loud slurp, watching him.

"You know...I wouldn't mind a coffee."

"Traitors don't get coffee!" I snap.

"I am wondering how you figured out that I was working for the Russians." Director Frost leans back on his chair. "I was pretty sure I had you wrapped around my finger when we last spoke in my office. Thought you'd completely bought my story about me investigating on my own."

"Brian Mendez was very talkative."

"Ah, so it was you who killed him?"

"Duh."

"The President and I thought it was the Russians tying up loose ends. He was always a little too easy to be bribed Mendez. We all thought he would start blabbing to someone soon enough."

"Lucky me," I say grimly. "He was kind enough to let me know that you had a little thing for underage prostitutes and that the Russians were holding it over you."

"So that question at the intelligence committee hearing the other day was about me?"

"Well, was he wrong?"

Director Frost shrugs. "I got a craving for them when I was stationed in Hanoi during my time in the Navy. Ever since, I've travelled, discreetly, of course, to Indonesia and the Philippines where I've enjoyed myself quite a bit actually. You find that the local younger population can be very...accommodating." Something inside me shrivels up the way he says it. "Especially when gifted with the right monetary incentive."

I make a disgusted face. "I don't need to know details, thanks," I spit out. I feel like I'm going to throw up. "But what I do need to know is every tiny little thing you told the Russians."

"And why would I do that?" says Director Frost pragmatically. "If I tell you what I told them then you'll no longer have any incentive to keep me alive? I think I'll just sit tight and wait for the entire country's intelligence and military personnel to come and rescue me. It can't be long. You'll probably have—what?—seventy-four hours until you're busted and arrested, probably shot."

Again I don't say anything.

I just listen, watch, stunned.

I lean over him. "You know what? I used to like you. I used to think you were the one man with integrity in the Rook Administration—"

"Oh, grow up," Director Frost scoffs. "You think anyone in these jobs are men of integrity? You think you're above it all? So high and mighty standing there and lecturing me when you're the one who's killing people to achieve what you want? Take a look in the mirror sometime, Senator. You might see me one day."

"Don't you dare even try and equate what I'm doing with what you've done," I say angrily. "I'm not doing it to save my own neck, pal. I didn't betray my country. I didn't dishonour the oath I took and throw away everything I stood for. I don't even get how someone just throws away thirty years of commended military and intelligence service like it means nothing at all to them. You served in a war! You helped rescue foreign dissidents who were going to be executed by their governments! Didn't betraying any of that matter to you!"

"I did it to protect my wife and kids!"

I almost choke on my own laughter. "Did you? Oh, well, that makes everything all right then. That's not nearly a good enough excuse. If you really cared about them none of this would've happened in the first place. And you screwed your family over at the same time when you decided to screw over the country they lived in."

Director Frost twists his head away from me.

I don't have the capacity to talk about it anymore. Not without killing him. How can he tell me that? How can he mean that?

"Look, Jason, it got complicated..."

"Like I said earlier, not good enough," I tell him. "But I've had enough of this conversation. I didn't kidnap you so that we could debate morals. I want you to tell me everything you told the Russians, every little word. Including any records you have stored and the location of those records."

"Or what? You'll torture me? You did read the report released by the Senate's Select Committee on Intelligence right? The report that found that the CIA's detention and interrogation programs were pretty much ineffective and pointless?"

"Well, yes, but we're about to get another chance to see if they're right." I hiss forward and wrap my hand around his throat, lifting him in the air, chair and all, so that he starts choking. "I want to know what their plans are. I want to know what their endgame is. How many people inside the government are compromised? What are the names of the members of Congress who are working with the Russians? What do they have on the President that makes him so easy to control?"

"What don't they have on him," Director Frost gasps. "He's been in debt to them for years. Borrowed a whole bunch of money back in the 40s and 50s to keep Racoon News afloat."

I give him a sidelong look. "Everyone knows about his money problems. I want to know what else they've got so I can take him down."

"Fine! Fine! I'll tell you! There's a...a...a...sex tape." And that's when I accidentally drop him—

ii.

It takes me a minute to realize he's talking about the sex tape. The one the news has been speculating about for three years but I haven't believed existed until just now.

"It's real?" I say, righting his chair with my boot.

"Yep."

I tap my fingers together cagily.

"Have you seen it?"

"Parts of it," he admits reluctantly. "It involves the president, urinating prostitutes, sniffing of urine-soaked cocaine and him being bound, gagged, and ridden like mad. Juicy stuff."

I make a face. "Aw, god." Ugh. Now I'm definitely going to be sick. "Again, I don't need to know the details. Jeez, what is wrong with you perverts! Why can't you people just use handcuffs like the rest of us? Moving away from the president's kinky sex life, where would I find this sex tape? If the average American doesn't care about the Constitution anymore they might actually wake up and give a fuck if there's a steamy sex tape out there for everyone to see."

"I don't know."

I'm unconvinced. "If you seen it then you know where parts of it are I'm guessing."

"At home," he says. "On my personal computer. It's in a document marked WORK STUFF. The president originally had me hunting it down to destroy it, but I couldn't find the original."

"What are the nuclear codes under?" I ask. "TAX RETURNS?"

"You know...you won't stop them."

"Excuse me?"

"The Russians."

"And why won't I stop them...?"

"You think you're clever." Director Frost laughs. "The Russian president, Vladimir Ivanov, he's miles ahead of you or anyone in the US, son. Soon, their plans will be complete and they'll have control of not just the executive, but the legislature and the judiciary as well. They'll be unstoppable."

"And you're okay with that?"

"I'm tired of weaklings leading America. Let's just put it that way. I would be working for them even if they weren't threatening to expose me."

"Have ya looked at what Ivanov's done to Russia?" I can't keep the sarcastic bite out of my voice. "How does a great leader tank his entire country's economy overnight? He's been sanctioned by so many different countries that his people can barely breathe without being taxed for it." My gaze is unwavering and smug. "So, tell me, again, how the hell that guy is the strong one here? Admit it, you got played and you got played good by the weakest man on Earth. Some Director of National Intelligence you turned out to be."

"At least I'm not a fag from the whitetrash side of tracks pretending to be better than his cocaine-sniffing parents—"

I just feel my fist flying towards him.

iii.

There must have been noise.

The sound of my right fist whooshing furiously through the air towards his chest. His organs liquefying as his body is splintered with a supersonic shockwave equal to that of a speeding rocketjet. I don't hear anything, just watch his body fly backwards through the barn, slowly, right in front of me. There's a grotesquely smug smile on his face. And when it all finishes I know I have killed him. That he is dead.

Everything is still.

Everything is silent.

Then Doug is there. I suppose he came running out of the house when he heard the sound of Director Frost smashing hard against the back of his barn. He doesn't say anything. He just looks at the crumpled form of Director Frost, then goes over and checks the body. He's got a glassy look in his eye and his neck is broken.

"Is he dead?" I ask.

Doug nods. "As a doornail."

"He was baiting me, wasn't he? He wanted me to kill him so I couldn't get information out of him?"

"I expect that was the plan, yes. It's okay, Jase. He knew how to push your buttons."

"Did you get the recording?"

"Every word," says Doug. "You can tape it with a note to the body when you dump it somewhere near where we took him. It'll at least give someone a heads-up that he's a traitor. Everything about you has been masked. Not even the best computer experts in the world will be able to decipher it. They'll never find you."

"He said that there's a bigger plan and that it's going to be complete soon, Doug." I'm staring at the body. "What do I do now?"

He puts his hands on my shoulders, looks me straight in the eye. "You go home. You get some sleep. You've been running on adrenaline for the last year. We'll decide what to do after the State of the Union tomorrow."

But I can't think of the State of the Union.

Director Frost was the last person to kill on the list I'd compiled after the Russians failed to assassinate me. And, now that he's dead, and there's an even bigger plan unfolding involving the Russian president, what else do I do?

# Chapter 25.

The Russian Revealed

i.

I cross Director Maxwell Frost off the Kill List I'd compiled with a thick marker. I'm at the desk in my mahogany-panelled townhouse office. It feels like a lifetime ago I'd sat down at this desk, almost six months ago now, and made the list of names of people I needed to kill to keep the United States safe from Russia. Staring at the names of the people I've killed...Brian Mendez. Bob Odell...It all feels maddeningly pointless.

I haven't stopped anything.

If anything, I've only delayed them a little. Killing Director Frost was supposed to end it all. I was certain he was the main leader.

Who else could there be?

Soon their plan will be complete...

Director Frost's last words to me echo in my thoughts. I can't help but shiver.

In a violent gesture, I crumple up my Kill List and throw it into the crackling fire across the room. I watch the fire catch around the scrunched edges, slowly, and then all at once. The words dissolving into the flames. Spread around my desk is the file of evidence I've collected on President Rook. Pages of tax returns intermingle with newspaper clippings and photos of various Russian oligarchs and businessman from journalist reports.

Over a year.

I'd worked for over a year carefully and thoroughly finding this evidence like I was preparing the biggest brief to take down the biggest criminal I'd ever versed and, now, what do I have—? Only a promise that the Russians have bigger future plans and no way to stop them! I'd broken into Director Frost's house the other night after I'd dumped his body to steal the president's sex tape. I'd only watched the first thirty seconds, since I then spent the next ten minutes following just flat out losing the contents of my breakfast. So not only am I now thoroughly convinced President Rook needs to be impeached, but I am also fairly certain that he needs to be publicly burnt at the stake as well.

The State of the Union is only a couple of hours away and I'm still in my boxers.

I can't be bothered dragging myself upstairs to get ready. After a short while showering, shaving, pulling out my finest suit and red tie, I had started moving slower and slower, and then gradually stopped all together in my office when I was rifling around in drawers for my favourite cufflinks.

The idea of attending had sounded stupid to begin with, and I'd only been forcing myself to go out of guilt that I wouldn't be carrying out my responsibilities as a senator. But with the Russians still plotting and planning from somewhere in the shadows of the government, that concern seemed really fucking inconsequential right about now. I'm about to text Jackie and Harry and tell them that I won't be able to make it to the Capitol when the doorbell chimes.

I don't bother getting clothes on.

When I answer the door in my boxers, Doug is standing there on my front steps. He's dressed up for the night in his suit with his gun at his hip, looking like he'll take a bullet for anyone.

"There you are. I was worried about you. One of my agents assigned to your wing said you hadn't checked in yet." He looks down my body to my boxers. "Not that I'm not loving the view here, but why aren't you dressed?"

"I'm not going, Highlander." I sag against the open door. "I'm a failure. I failed. I was supposed to take out the main Russian ringleader within the government and now I know there are more of them and that their plan is still in motion. I'm too depressed to drive all that way and hear that idiot rant and rave for a full couple of hours."

"Come on," he says, pushing me inside. "You're going to let one little setback get you down? That's not like the sexiest junior senator from Kentucky with the greatest ass that I know."

"Speaking of"—I pull his hips towards me and press my lips to his—"how much trouble will you get in if you take the night off and play hooky?"

Doug leans away from me, squinting in thought. "Most important day of the year at the Capitol...let me think...I'm pretty sure I'll be fired and never hired by anyone ever again." He spins me around by my shoulders and pushes me strongly towards the stairs, ignoring my grumbles. "Go on. Get changed. You'll be better once you're seated with Harry in the House and you're both making digs about President Rook's speech."

I perk up a bit. That didn't sound so bad when he put it like that. I wouldn't really mind that kind of a night if I got to make fun of the president with Harry. Maybe I could actually stand a night like that. "Fine...I'll be right back."

I whip up the stairs.

"I'll be waiting in the car!"

ii.

I have to crowd into Doug's black Suburban with four other Capitol Police officers who all look completely pissed about picking me up. I guess I'm not the only one who's late. "Remind me again why we had to stop here to pick up your boyfriend? Alfred is going to have our nuts for this," one of the agents in the back moans.

I stare at Doug. "He knows?"

I'm amazed.

"Everyone knows," the agent in the back answers for him. "I bet you thought you were being sneaky when all the next door neighbours and us in the support vehicles down in the street could hear you two smashing for hours." The other agents all grunt in agreement. "And you're lucky there's so much corruption and law breaking from the administration or you'd both probably be facing professional misconduct investigations."

"Thanks for covering for us," I grin.

Doug smiles, jams on the power, and we speed off through the traffic. Since there are barricades and police cars and sniffer dogs and bomb robots, the traffic around the Capitol is excruciatingly sluggish by the time we arrive on Constitutional Avenue. There are hovercopters buzzing around the Capitol, their underslung lights slicing over the roads. After fifteen minutes waiting in a traffic jam, I lose patience and have Doug drop me off at the Russel Building so I can take the tram to the Capitol. I head to my office where Jackie and Tommie are all dressed up for the night, waiting for me to show up and join them.

"You took your sweet time," Jackie says as I walk through the door of my office. "I've tried to text you fifteen times. Why haven't you texted back?"

"Sorry," I say. "I wasn't feeling well. I was going to skip tonight. It took Doug practically dragging me behind the car to get me here." I swallow a deep breath. "You guys ready to go and get this over and done with? I just want to go to bed."

"With the Scottish bodyguard?"

"You guys know too?" I exclaim.

Bobby snickers and stares at his phone. "I think even the Senate pages know. Face it, Jason, you're not exactly subtle about things." He looks up from the glowing screen. "The Senate tram is here, Jackie. President Rook is about fifteen minutes out. We should probably head over now before everyone starts stampeding for seats. I don't want to get crushed like last time."

"You guys go ahead." I open my office door. "I'll catch the last one. I've just got to finish some last-minute marking changes to a bill I want to make."

"Can't it wait till tomorrow?" Jackie asks.

I shake my head. "I'll be quick, I promise. I just want to get a start on the next day. I'll be right behind you. Tell Earnie I'll be on the next one."

They leave and the door locks behind them.

I close my office door and pour myself a whiskey. I can see news trucks and police officers crowding the streets below my windows. Ignoring them and all the commotion, I open a file on my computer and get to work. I know I'm running late when I hear the sound of the sirens approaching. I put the folder I'm working on away in my desk, shut down my computer, pack up, and head out the office. As I'm going past Barbara's desk, I accidentally shoulder off a stack of papers she had perched precariously on the corner for recycling. I look at the mess of paper spread out over the floor. I can clean it up after the State of the Union.

No, I sigh. Better do it now.

I start slowly stacking the random printings back into the recycling tray. I'm almost halfway done when I come across an old Congressional Record. I had teased Barbs about printing this out. Why print it out when you could access it with no hassle online? She'd said she didn't like that everything was so digital these days. She could hardly read the font on the datapads they were so small. I look at the date on the screen. It's the day in the Senate before Senator Nixon was killed.

That's odd...

I don't even think about it.

I'm in my office.

Quick as thought, I click on my datapad and search through the Congressional Record for the date of Senator Nixon's death. I only have to look at the time stamp and compare it to the paper copy in my hand to be sure.

Memory engulfs me.

I realise then that my mind has started dashing back into the previous year. I am searching, delving, remembering and when it all sinks in, I'm not worried about attending the State of The Union anymore. Once my head stops spinning, making determined darts back into the events of Senator Nixon's death, it all becomes clear.

So that's how they did it.

I remain frozen for some minutes, probably ten, when suddenly a frightful, hideous terror seizes and strikes me so hard that my datapad, slipping from my sweaty hands, falls to the ground with a musical shatter. I whisper out of the room with the noiselessness of a phantom. I need to get to the tram and tell Doug what I now know.

iii.

When I get to the Senate Underground, Earnie is fighting with a group of muscly suits I don't recognise. "I don't care what you've got in the crate, pal! I'm waiting for the junior senator from Kentucky and that's that!" I frown. What sort of agents are these guys? What are they talking about? What office do they belong to? All members of Capitol Police and the Secret Service were supposed to be stationed in position by now, waiting for the president to arrive. They certainly weren't people from Doug's troop that I knew of. What are they doing trying to get on the tram with a crate, now, fifteen minutes before the president starts speaking?

They look friendly enough, but when I squint my eyes I see the dry, block-jawed face of the blonde agent in charge. I stare. It's Senator Wyatt's protection detail agent! Something is wrong, something is really wrong.

One of the guys in the back is reaching inside his jacket. I can hear the threat in his voice. I know already how this ends for Earnie. Fortunately for him, there's no way in hell that I'm about to let that happen.

Their argument with Earnie is abruptly broken by a thud—the suit that was about to shoot Earnie groans and crumples to the floor in a dead faint. I knocked him out cold with a single swipe to the shoulder. All their eyes are on me now.

"Jason, what the hell are you doing!" Earnie's eyes swell in shock. "You just attacked a Secret Service agent!"

I raise my fist, readying myself to smack the suits around. "They're not Secret Service, Earnie."

I probably should've told Earnie to hide because he has to dive behind the instrument board of the Senate tram as the suits start firing at me. I spin up through the air, wheeling my boot hard into the jaw of one of the suits. With a few, darting sharp punches, I have them all unconscious by the time Earnie raises his shaking head above the tram.

"What the hell? Those guys just tried to kill us!"

Without missing a beat, I shrug. "Yeah. Welcome to the club, Earnie. It happens all the time." I rip the lid off the crate. "Now, what were these idiots trying to force you to transport—oh...That's not good." Earnie joins me at my side to look down into the silver crate.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Bombs," I say. "Enough to level the entire Russel Building. Maybe even the Capitol." I pick one of the bombs up. It's the size and shape of a volleyball, easily portable, with an activation light in the centre. I don't recognise the design. I'm sure it's a little something cooked up by the Russians. Was this their plan?

"There have been guys moving these crates around all day!" Earnie exclaims. "I thought they held weapons or something. I saw a bunch earlier today when they were going over the security protocols with me. Jason, they can't be planning to blow the Capitol up can they? How is this happening? Aren't there metal detectors!"

"We can't trust anyone right now," I say. "We don't know who in security might be compromised. I pick up my phone and dial for Bobby. "Bobby? It's Jason. I need you to grab Jackie and whoever you can and get them as far away from the Capitol as you can. Don't cause a fuss. Do it quietly."

"Why boss?" Bobby's voice crackles on the other end of the line. I can barely hear above the chatter in the House Chamber.

"Listen, I don't have time to explain! Just do what I say! Can you see Doug anywhere?"

"No...I don't think so. Sorry."

I groan. "Never mind. I'll text him and hope he picks up. Make sure you get Jackie and Harry out of there. Promise me, Bobby."

"I promise, boss. I'll make something up if I have to. I'll get them out."

I hang up and frantically text Doug to tell him about Chad being the murderer and the bombs in the Capitol. Who knows how much time we had until they decided to light the place up? When President Rook arrived? When he was standing at the teleprompter? Halfway through his speech?

"Shouldn't we be, ah, like, pulling the fire alarm or something here?" Earnie shouts. "I mean, they are going to blow everyone up!"

"We can't do that," I say. "See this bomb. No wiring mechanism. Which means it's probably remotely detonated. Someone could be hiding somewhere with a trigger, and the last thing we need is to give them the excuse to detonate the bombs early. They must be waiting for something special if they've been bringing them in all afternoon and haven't done anything yet."

"Oh..."

"Dammit," I curse. "I can't reach Doug. He's not texting back or picking up his phone. He must have muted his messages for the event." I turn to Bobby. "Did you see where the guards were taking the bombs today?"

"Um...If I would have to guess I would say they were taking the bombs to the supports under the Capitol. They were around in that general area."

I grip him by the shoulders urgently.

"And how do I get there?"

"Take my keycard." Earnie unclips a platinum card from his belt, shoving it at me. "It'll get you past the armoured door and down into the area. But, Jason, shouldn't we call someone. Those guys all have machine guns. You'll be killed."

I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, indicating the unconscious suits twice my size. "I'll be fine," I assure him. "But I need you to do me a favour. Get to the Capitol. Find Doug. He'll be somewhere in the House Chamber. Tell him what's going on. Tell him that we think there's a guy with a detonator somewhere that he has to find."

Earnie powers on the tram. "Good luck." In the half a minute it takes for him to look up again I have already shot down into the tunnels.

# Chapter 26.

The State of The Union

i.

I don't waste time. I race through the maze of halls and underground arches of the Capitol at blurring speed, blood pounding.

The walls here are faced with stone, smooth and almost polished-looking. I have a strong feeling that if I don't stop the Russians even I might not survive an explosion of this magnitude. Helplessly, I stop and spin, feeling sick. I can hear the ecstatic crowd above in the House Chamber, but I can't find the door leading down into the supports under the Capitol.

I try listening for something but I can scarcely hear anything. My mind is burning with one thought. To hurt the people that want to kill all of my friends upstairs in the House.

If I don't stop them in time...images of my destroyed hometown flicker through my head.

No. I won't let it happen again.

I close my eyes, take deep, soothing breaths, tune my ears for something...

...I hear it. The crackle of static...

...Nothing out of the ordinary here...boys nearly done with the latest round of explosives...will let you know...My eyes snap open. I turn right and redouble my speed, the air blurring and shuddering furiously around me in the hazy light of cobwebbed bulbs.

The two guards standing watch by the thickly armoured door don't hear me arrive. One randomly flies ten feet backward, his head snapping against the wall with a bone-cracking snap! The other sees his rifle knocked away. I enjoy the look on his face, as he turns sharply around, searching for who snatched it, and I feel a flare of satisfaction as I kick him hard into the stones. For good measure, I twist his machine gun into a pretzel. Then, swiping Earnie's keycard over the lock reader, I stare hard down into the pitch-black abyss behind the door, my night-vision straining to see anything. A cold wind blows.

It is obvious that I'm doing a very dangerous thing. There are a lot of them in here, banded together in working clusters for miles throughout the beams and pillars. Anyone of them could just as easily detonate the lot if they discover me.

But there is no other way.

I let out a long breath I don't realise I've been holding, and then I snarl down into the darkness.

ii.

"How many more of these do we have to place before we can get the hell out of here?"

"Don't know. Can't be many more."

I poke my head out from a pillar, so I can get better look at the group of guys in body armour tapping buttons on the metallic ball bombs and pressing them into place on pillars and support beams. They have a veritable army down here.

I stop and press my back up against the bone-cold marble.

This was it all along, I think, my breath cutting in my throat. The Russian's bigger plan. This is it. This is really it. Blow up the Capitol. But with the president who was working for them in it? That doesn't make any sense. They'll kill him as well. My heartbeats are pulsing too quick to count. Somehow, I have to force myself my deadlocked muscles to move, to take them all out before they can finish planting all the explosives.

And I can't lose.

My sharpened senses are painfully aware of every noise in that room, but they can't tell me how this will end. Faster than a human, I skirr forward, slipping in out of slender pillar shadows. The soldier furthest away from the group just feels my hand on his shoulder as I wrench him sideways into the darkness.

I grab another soldier by the neck and—with a hideous cry of pain—throw him into the roof so that little marble dust splinters rain down. I glide amongst the pillars with taunting ease, breaking bones and smashing faces in. But I don't get nearly enough time to take out the small army. About three seconds later while punching out the lights on a soldier that had tried to shoot me, I hear a familiar commanding voice fill the air followed by lazy footfalls of expensive Italian shoes.

"Stop!"

I turn around.

There he is. Senator Chad Wyatt. The traitor. I get ready to spring at him. I know I will rip his heart straight out of his chest. As he's walking towards me in the hazy light, I notice he's holding onto something, there's some square thing in his hand—my eyes widen—the detonator! "That's right, Jason," he says casually, waving it around with his thumb inches from the trigger. "You so much as move or try and pull any of that superspeed crap and I will blow everyone in the Capitol into tiny little pieces."

I find my tongue. "And what? Kill yourself? I doubt it, Chad. Let's just be honest, there's no way you're that much of a believer."

He gives me a smile, a sly and predatory smile.

Everything happens at once.

Fingers brush past me.

A soldier sneaking up behind me adheres something to the side of my neck. I lash out at him with a growl, slapping him straight through one of the marble arches. I try to rip it off while whooshing forward towards the detonator Chad's holding in his hand, but the thing on my neck sparks.

I'm paralysed. That's all I know. I'm paralysed and I don't know why. My fist is stuck in its misty form as I try to blur forward to punch Chad in his stupid face. And that's when the pain starts.

I would've screamed if I could.

There is a noise coming from somewhere. I can't tell where. It loudens in my ears to a roar. It hurts. My brain is screaming. I can't think of anything else. The pain is everywhere. I stare at Chad. His face is twisted in a sneer and he's mouthing something at one of the soldiers, or maybe he's saying it. I don't know. All I can hear is the noise and the metal shrieking sound of my body possibly shattering into pieces. I try to ignore it, press my palms to me ears, but the noise is rattling every bone in my body. My skull is going to explode.

I can't think, can't speak. The floor is dropping away from me. I feel myself slumping, falling, and I never feel when I hit the ground.

iii.

I wake up slowly into dead quiet.

I struggle to open my eyes. My throat feels sore, as if I've been screaming. When I turn my head to look around even that little motion hurts. I can barely make out bars in the dim light. I'm in a cell. A big cell, in a pillared room with lacy chandeliers. I'm not in a cell. I'm in the Crypt, below the Capitol rotunda.

The same one I visited with Harry before I was sworn in at the start of last year.

Swooning, I stagger to the metal bars.

"Ah!" Chad says, with a satisfied smile. "You're awake. Finally. For a moment there I was worried we might have killed you. It would be a shame for you to miss the show." I ignore him, get a firm grip on the bars, readying to yank the entire thing apart and rip his throat out. "Before you think about ripping those bars, remember that little device that's on your neck." It sparks again and shocks me to the floor. Grunting, I scrabble back up.

An ache rises in my chest.

"You killed Senator Nixon."

"You're not as stupid as I thought. How did you figure it out?"

I take a deep, wary breath. "I remembered my press secretary telling me there was a hack at the Government Publishing Office. A couple of bank accounts were drowned of thousands of dollars. I thought nothing of it at the time, but I'm betting that wasn't their main objective." I pull out a paper Congressional Record from my pocket. "Since 2025, following early cyberattacks, the Congressional Record is automatically uploaded upon adjournment of the Senate." I point to the time on the paper version: 10:45pm. "My secretary likes to print out the paper version of the Congressional Record after each Senate day, which she did before you had the chance to hack in and change the time from 10:45pm to 12:05pm ruling you out as a suspect by putting you outside of the time of death. With all the C-SPAN cameras wiped along with security footage, you looked like you were in the Senate the whole time."

"But you're forgetting about the clerks."

"What about them?" I say. "They were going to screw Americans out of their health care. Why wouldn't they provide you with an alibi? And the only two other people there that day were Owen Jackson and Clark Mitchell. Both of who would hardly pay any attention to you slipping away."

"Too bad they're both dead."

The suits that are standing behind Chad snicker together. Well, screw you guys, too. They probably know by now that I killed them. "Yeah." I see no reason why I should conceal the fact, even from him. "Shame they didn't mention anything to me before I impaled them both on microphones."

To my delight, Chad flinches slightly.

"Oh. Well. We didn't like them much anyway."

"We?" I repeat. There is no astonishment on my face. I'm not so much surprised as vaguely, whimsically amused. "You're working with the Russians? Why? Why would you do that? You know they tend to kill people once they're done using them to get what they want, right?"

Chad smiles delightedly, as if I've proven some long-held suspicion he's had about me. "Oh, little junior Senator Jason Jones. Such a tenderness of heart you have. Always wondering why people do bad things. It's not that complicated, really." He starts striding along the bars of my cell. "I was born here on purpose. My Russian parents had planned for me to grow up and subvert America from the inside. The Russians also offered me money and job security in exchange for America. I've never really liked democracy that much anyway."

"That's pretty fucking complicated," I spit aggressively. "What is it with you Russians and hating democracy so much?"

"What is with you Americans and loving it so much? You let your news anchors run wild on their cable television stations. They destroy people's lives and falsely debase their characters on Racoon News while claiming they are offering the conservative view while brainwashing people. It's quite funny, actually, how stupid Americans are. Most red Republican states are below the poverty line and yet, every year, those people who are dying vote for them again and again and again."

It might be the truth and I can't think of anything to combat it so I change subjects.

"But why blow everyone up?"

"Think about it, Jason. Be smart. What exactly happens in the event that everyone in both houses of Congress are killed...?"

I wait, unmoving.

I turn my head in his direction so quickly my head spins. "The Presidential Succession Act!"

"Now you're getting there," Chad says, his face turning spiteful. " 'Congress shall by Law, provide for the Case of Removal, Death, Resignation or Inability, both of the President and Vice President, declaring what Officer shall act accordingly, until the Disability be removed or a President shall be elected'." His dark eyes fill mine as he leans in close, our lips almost touching. "And guess who's the Designated Survivor for this State of the Union? But do you also know what happens to all the seats of those dead Senators and Congressman?"

"I suppose," I begin shakily, "that they'll either be appointed by the governor of the states or chosen by special election."

So the strategy finally made sense. Mendez had only been partly right. There wasn't, specifically, any Russian members in Congress when I'd killed him, because that had been the plan all along—replace every member in Congress with a loyal Russian operative. Why not? You didn't have to be born in America to be a member of the House or Senate. It would be easy for them.

"Bingo," he says. "Except the men and women in those seats selected will all be Russian operatives, completely loyal to Mother Russia. From there, the Russians and President Wyatt will help bring a new era of peace to our two nations."

"You won't get away with this!"

"Why? You actually think your Republican friends in the states will stop us?"

"Oh. Right. You will definitely get away with this. But why kill Nixon early? Why not just wait until it was time to strike? You had both houses of Congress. The only reason why you would have to kill him early is if he..." I almost smile. So everything hadn't gone as smoothly as they'd wanted. "It didn't work, did it," I say carefully. "You thought all Republicans would go along with your little evil plans but Nixon was different, wasn't he? He wasn't going to take Russian interference in the election in America lightly. He was also the chairman of the intelligence committee. One of the few people placed within the federal government that could figure out what you were up to and stop you. And you couldn't have that."

"No. We couldn't." Chad's voice betrays a hint of annoyance. "A shame, really. He could've been a powerful ally. He'd never have to worry about losing his Senate race ever again."

I look at him in horror. "So now what? You're just going to blow the Capitol up." He doesn't answer. He just shrugs nonchalantly, completely unfazed. "You'll kill thousands of innocent people! Not to mention the president who's working for you. You ever think that might be a bit of an overkill?"

"That idiot," Chad scoffs bitterly. "We've wanted him dead for the last four years! Worst investment we ever made. He has such a big mouth we have to make sure he doesn't go and blurt the whole plan out on Racoon News. It'll be much easier for all of us once he's dead."

"Aw shame," I say with a bit of light teasing. "I was actually starting to get used to White Supremacy Wednesdays at the White House."

We both look down the hall as we hear it booming through the halls. It's a sound I've been dreading. I know there's no chance I can stall Chad any longer. If Earnie hasn't found Doug by now then we're all screwed.

"Ladies and gentleman, The President of the United States!"

I stare at Chad with fiery dread. I know the disturbing smile spreading across his face too well. But even as my breath freezes, I can't help but question why I'm trying to fight it with that immobilizing device still on my neck. Nothing I do will help anyway. It's up to Doug now.

"Sorry," says Chad, walking away. "I'd love to stick around but you know how it is. I have a hovercopter to catch."

I lean closer to the bars. "I'm going to kill you once I get out of here," I say dangerously. "I hope you know that."

"I doubt it."

He turns to the two guards, nodding indifferently at me. One presses something on a wristcomm. I flinch before it happens, feeling the device on my neck reactivate, and suddenly the ear-splitting pain is back again. I collapse in a heap on the floor. What the hell is this thing? From the floor of the cell, I get one last look at Chad's turned back as my vision fuzzes with the shocks to my body.

It's going to happen again.

I'm going to faint soon unless I can get this device off my neck. I try to move my fingers towards it but my arm jerks. It won't stop. And then Doug is there, like a badass Highlander.

"Jason! Jason! What's going on?"

"The thing on my neck." I grunt. "Shoot it."

I feel a bullet hit the device perfectly on his first try. The pain stops. I yank the remainder of the circuits and little small disc off my neck, breathing gratefully. Finally. I climb back to my feet. I can feel my strength returning.

Oh boy.

It's payback time.

"What was that?" asks Doug. "Are you alright? Earnie found me ten minutes ago. I tracked you through the security cameras up here."

"Never better." I smile. "Now stand back from these bars because I have a senator to kill." He ducks to the side. I punch the cell door and a gritty explosion fills up the Crypt as I step free.

"That was a bit of an overkill, wasn't it?"

"I'm in a hurry," I say, shaken. "Chad's got the detonator on him and he's going to blow the whole place up if I don't get to him before he takes off in his hovercopter. That's when he'll blow it up."

"The Secret Service and Capitol Police are working on disarming the bombs now but we might not finish it in time." I look at him. Somehow, I kind of always knew he'd come through for me in the end. "Well, what are you doing standing around staring at me for"—he indicates frantically down the hall—"get after him!"

"I...I just...realise I love you," I murmur.

"Love you too but, seriously, not the time."

"I am so going to bang you all night later if we survive this." I kiss him, grab his hand and squeeze it hard, and then I'm gone in a razoring gust as I sprint off to avenge Senator Nixon's death. I can't help but think that if I don't stop the Russians then everything he died for will have been in vain.

iii.

The hovercopter has already risen too high by the time I've reached the lawn. There's no way for me to reach it, even by jumping. I just need to be a little bit higher. Maybe...I look around for something to jump off of. I spring up the steps, the top of the rotunda and smash through the back of the hovercopter. Alarms start sounding as I take out two of the engines in the process. Chad is sitting in a white leather seat, sipping wine, celebrating. He sprays it all out over the floor.

"How are you still alive!"

"Surprise." I smile. "You know how difficult to kill someone like me can be." I look down at the detonator on the seat next to him. We both do. He dives for it. I move faster than I can think. Faster than I've ever moved before. I tackle him and throw him out of the back of the hovercopter, aiming for the top of the rotunda of the Capitol.

It's so fast that one minute we're in the hovercopter together; the next, we're inside the rotunda. Chad gets up and scrambles around.

"Looking for this?" I hold up the detonator in my hand. A sudden blaze of light fills the room. I feel the fire at my back as the hovercopter behind us crashes onto the Capitol lawn. The boom of the explosion shakes the whole building. Cries ring out from the House Chamber. People are starting to evacuate, along with the President. I get a simple kind of pleasure watching Chad's face crumple as I wrap my fingers around the detonator and squeeze it into a piece of squished plastic. "Oops." I let the pieces fall down at my feet. "Good luck blowing everyone up in the Capitol now."

He tries to run for it.

I grab him by the collar and launch him against the domed wall of the rotunda.

I walk towards where he is wiping blood off of his face. "You know, America's democracy isn't perfect. You got that right. And, yeah, there's a lot about it I would change, but we'll do a hell of a lot better without people like you screwing with it, so don't bet against us. We'll always find a way to somehow come through in the end."

Chad laughs and smiles at me through his cracked, blood-stained teeth.

"You have no idea how much they have planned for this country. You can't stop them. They'll get to you eventually. They'll find a way. The clock is ticking. This is so much more than just one country. It's the start."

I roll my eyes. "Oh whatever."

I swing my leg round into the side of his face, expecting it to send him flying off the top of the Capitol and to end it all, but something stops me...Chad is holding my leg inches from his face. "What the hell?" I exert more force—enough to shatter a wall—but I can't budge his hand an inch. My teeth grind together. "How are you doing that—?"

"Cybernetic implants." He grabs my boot and launches me across the dome onto the main lookout. I dust rubble off my blazer and get to my feet as he lands on the balustrade of the dome. "Some time ago now Russia upgraded my body with improvements for my mission in America. Luckily, it should come in handy for killing bothersome junior senators from Kentucky."

How did Russia get that technology? I think furiously. As far as we were aware, the world was a long way from building soldiers with this kind of strength.

I rub sweat off my face. "Just imagine what your government could achieve if didn't spend all its money on toys for once."

"At least it will help end your life."

"Not likely. I'm from Kentucky, bitch."

He snarls and lunges for me. I flip backwards onto the stone balustrade. I punch, deflect, kick. We parry around the dome of the Capitol, our fists blurring furiously at each other. One strike comes close to my face: I can feel the air coming off his fist as it passes just inches from my nose. Chad's clearly been trained by someone good, really good. I can feel myself growing weaker trying to keep up. I'm still drained from being tortured in the Crypt earlier. I'm cartwheeling out of the way from one of his lunges when he sees an opening and strikes me lethally—the punch connects hard with my raised forearm and sends me flying through the dome. I get out one frantic moment of breath before I'm snowed under by rubble. Fighting the pain, I pull myself free of the roof wreckage and open my eyes to look around.

As I scramble forward, all I can think is—thunk! I bump up hard against something metal and square. I am trying to heave myself up with it when I find the sign I passed the first time Harry took me up here. My eyes search the box until I find what I'm looking for. It's a crazy idea but it might just work, and it's not like I have a lot of other cards to play.

"Even with all that strength you're so easy to defeat." Chad is making a speech as he walks forward to kill me. Give me strength. "Face it, Jason. You were always too weak to be in politics. You never belonged here. Now, you're just going to join all those dead people in that little shithole you crawled out of."

Panting, I push myself to my feet.

"Take your best shot, pal," I breathe, glaring at him through my sweat-drenched hair.

He smiles and rushes me, fist raised. Just as quickly, I rip the large electrified cable out of its box with both hands. I spin around. I use all my strength to catch Chad as he's sailing towards me, pinning him against the metal dome. "Noooooo!" He sparks and shouts as electricity flares like lightning along his limbs. I jam the sparking cable against him harder with all my might. After a few horrible minutes, bright light rays through the dome and throws me back hard against the wall again, and as I collapse in a heap on the floor I already know I'll be taking ice baths for a week.

Suddenly, there is the sound of boots clanging up the rotunda stairs and I'm surrounded by Capitol Police, and Doug and Harry. "Looks like I'm going to need a new suit and the Republicans are going to need a new majority leader," I say, indicating Chad's corpse. He has a giant hole through his chest where the cable burnt straight through him and his eyes are open in shock. For once, that smug expression he always wore is no longer on his face.

The small group of guards with their guns drawn stare at me with confused, rapt expressions. "Yeah," Harry agrees. "I don't think he's surviving having a giant hole burnt right through his ribcage. So, he was really working with the Russians to kill us all."

"Yep."

"What the hell do we do now?"

"Don't know." I shrug. "But impeaching the president might be a start."

# Chapter 27.

A New Beginning

i.

Soon after the State of The Union President Rook was impeached. The Republicans couldn't come up with excuses fast enough to halt his impeachment once a depraved sex tape infected the net, and, well, with their own re-elections on the line, they caved. The SDNY had launched an investigation after they received a brief anonymously mailed to them from the former District Attorney of Kentucky, full of President Rook's tax returns and his unsavoury dealings. The brief laid out, in detail, how the President of the United States solicited a foreign government for help in attacking the United States of America.

The documents attached also revealed that he had originally struck that deal with Russia in return for them clearing his outstanding and potentially crippling debts to one of their state-owned banks. It meant that I was one of the few Americans unsurprised to see FBI agents subsequently arrest the president minutes after he was impeached.

He was indicted on ninety-seven charges.

Ouch.

Since it was determined that Russia had been funding and enabling his corporation Rook Telecommunications Inc., Racoon News, such a shame, was shut down.

The rest of his company was shuttered and liquidated by the US government. The Rook Family were left with nothing, not even a single clothing line to their name, and all three of his children serving in the White House, his two sons and his daughter, were awarded controversially reduced sentences of ten years for agreeing to flip on their scumbag of a father. Extraordinarily, he tried to pin it on them as their idea. I think he was looking for more time.

Kamala ended up running against the only unimpeached and unprosecuted official in the Rook Administration—the Transportation Secretary—and beating him with 98% of the vote in the 2077 election. I invited Doug's son and his ex-wife as my guests to her inauguration. We all stood around on the steps, freezing together, watching Kamala be sworn in with her family.

Doug was busy as a new agent of the Secret Service assigned to the President.

The Republicans lost all their elections in the House and the Senate. They paid the price for their spinelessness when it came to the Russians and I was glad. The Governor mansions and state legislatures across the country all flipped blue.

The first thing President Harrison did was install a bipartisan commission to review the cyber-attacks and holes in America's cybersecurity infrastructure, including the attack at the State of The Union.

Since I was considered singularly responsible for thwarting the attack that night, I was the one who got forced to testify for thirteen and a half hours in front of the Red Web Commission members. Lucky me.

Even though I was familiar with commissions of this type, I was still nervous walking up Capitol Hill that day. Everyone had read about the investigations into the Roosevelt and Bush administration's failure to predict the attacks on Pearl Harbor and the Twin Towers. But it was one thing to read about it and another thing to be a main—maybe the main—character.

Segments of my uneasy testimony were circulating for almost five weeks on all the major channels. Why did you follow Senator Wyatt up to the Capitol rotunda that night? I went to confront him about finding a Congressional Record from the night Nixon died that had a different time stamp than the digital one. And he confessed to you that he killed Senator Nixon? Yes. He said that Nixon had been trying to stop the Russians when he uncovered that their ultimate goal was replacing every member of Congress with a Russian operative. As I spoke, the nation watched me tell the story under the fever-hot lights.

I spoke of how I had been trying to find Senator Nixon's killer and how I had suspected a traitor had existed somewhere high up in the United States' government. I didn't know who so the only other person I had told of my suspicions was the junior senator from Hawaii, Harry Hirano. I spoke of the president dragging me to the White House in the middle of the night to try and stop my investigating, which I hadn't divulged to anyone for fear that I wouldn't be believed, and Senator Wyatt's acts to distract the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence from Russian interference. I said things I didn't know I needed to say after spending such a long time hunting after the Russians, alone, for almost two years.

Some thirteen hours and forty-five minutes into my testimony, towards the end of the dreary event, Bill Rice, a prosecutor appointed to the commission, asked me a final question: "In your statement to the FBI you stated that, before you killed him, he told you that, and I quote, "this is only the beginning, you have no idea what's coming." What do you think Senator Wyatt meant by that?"

"I believe he meant what he said," I had said to the room crowded with reporters. "I think the average American here really needs to understand what happened and be angry about it. Russia attacked us. Heck, they didn't just attack us they turned us against each other. For three years they made me believe like I was crazy and deranged for wanting to investigate because that's what they do, even though I could feel in my gut and see with my own two eyes what the president was doing was clearly wrong and against the oath of office. Hell, his daughter used her position in the office to sell her shoes at the fucking G-20. But the Russians were effective in making me believe that I was somehow wrong. They were effective and they nearly won."

"But they didn't."

"Only because we got lucky this time," I reminded him. "We might not be so lucky next time."

"What do you suppose America does?"

"Aside from the obvious media regulation laws to prevent disinformation? Laws that contain pecuniary and criminal penalties for disobedience. Laws that actually hold Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, and Google to account for their actions if they want to operate in the jurisdiction of the United States? They will try this again, and when they do we will have to do what all Americans do best...We will have to fight."

And eventually, I walked away from the commission with cameras sparking around me. There was an eruption of applause as I took the tram back to the Russel Building with Earnie passing me a six-pack from behind his tram console.

After I spoke, I was the talk of Capitol Hill again. So much for keeping a low profile.

I caught bits and pieces of the discussions when I passed staffers in the halls about whether or not I made it all up, but I ignored them. I knew after the Commission that it was inevitable. Racoon News had been destroyed and disinformation laws were sweeping into effect across the country, but there were still going to be holdouts. People who wouldn't believe the facts just because they could. I was going to have to learn to live with that.

Every other senator before me had.

Pundits who had been calling me a traitor for years were now calling my testimony 'incredible' and 'awe-inspiring'. Typical. The Nazis lose and they knew all along that they were the bad guys.

Harry had a little more fun than I did, swaggering up to Capitol Hill and bragging about saving the day. He had spent almost six hours of his testimony describing how he had barrelled into the Capitol rotunda like a movie star, kicked the door down, and taken out the bad guys.

None of which was true, but it did make a good story.

Doug and I had both sat on the couch and laughed hysterically together at that part of the story. I got about nine apology texts from Laura twenty minutes later, informing me that he wouldn't shut up.

Inasmuch as it could, life was returning to normal on Capitol Hill. Democrats had the Senate, the House, the Presidency, and were passing bills into law so fast that the clerks couldn't keep up. One of the many benefits of Senator Wyatt being dead, aside from, you know, him selling us out to the Russians and all, was that Robert got to be majority leader and he was no longer obstructing any of my bills. But Russia was never far from my mind, especially when I became the ranking member on the intelligence committee and started receiving classified briefings on Russia's reaction to their plans imploding on the night of the State of The Union. We all knew we'd had to pay them back eventually, but no one knew how.

Not even me.

ii.

The rose is perfect and pink. A single bee buzzes around its stem. Others like it glisten amid the green denseness of the thickly leaved shrubs surrounding the Oval Office. Even from inside, I can smell its perfume drenching the air.

I had spent the morning walking through the blooming greens, purples, blues and reds of the Rose Garden; had felt the ripe mid-morning sun pour its warmth onto the gardens, lawns, and hedges. The tour had been a cover story for the real meeting that I was attending.

President Harrison is leaning against her imposing Truman Desk, in her customary grey pantsuit that she usually wore around the Senate. I was glad that, as serious as she was as President of the United States, she was still Kamala, the woman who had once made daily jokes and teased Harry and me while in the Senate. I was worried that our friendship might get effectively cut off once she was elected but that hadn't happened.

Harry and I had been invited to sit with her and a collection of other intelligence officials and generals who were discussing Russia. About two days earlier the Red Web Commission Report had dropped on the shelves and online. It was sold-out in most bookstores. I gave Doug's son mine so that he wouldn't have to wait. I got a whole chapter dedicated to my actions. Reporters from CBS Evening News had already come knocking. So had MSNBC and the New York Times and the Washington Post. I told them all no comment. According to Bobby they were all still crowding around my office waiting to ambush me.

It looked like I was going to have to hide in Harry's office for the rest of the year.

"I'll confront him at the G-20 in the Netherlands," President Harrison says. "The Russians know. I'll be able to have a public summit and a private little chat with our little dictator."

So that's what the meeting is about. The Press had been speculating for nearly a year and a half over when Kamala and President Ivanov would have their much-anticipated face-to-face. I would be lying if I said I hadn't languished over that same question at length as well, but that meant it was only going to be a few months away.

It felt too soon.

"I want you there with me."

It takes me a moment to realise she's talking about me. I don't entirely know what to say. "Who? Me? Why? You don't need to have a United States Senator on the trip."

"You did stop the attack that night and I think it would be important to have you there. I want to rub it in his face that he didn't win and having the senator responsible will definitely get under his skin. The decision is up to you of course. You don't have to—"

"I'll do it," I say. "I want to look him in the eyes for what he did. I'll come with you. I've also never been on Air Force One before. Might give me a chance to check it out. Might be a nice holiday."

There's a small chuckle around the room.

"Then it's settled."

The meeting wraps up with a few minor details and then everyone leaves.

President Harrison asks me to stay behind. I do and wait for the door to close on the last person. "I thought you should know this from me." She brings me a datapad. "President Rook. I mean ex-president Rook wants to see you. He sent through a written request to me. I know you have an Independence Day BBQ to get to. I have a car ready to take you if you want to make the visit. He apparently has information for you."

I sigh. "And he won't give it to anyone else?"

"Yep."

"Should be fun though."

"Try not to gloat too much."

iii.

I had visited many prisons back when I was DA for Kentucky. None of the visits had the level of security or intensity as this. I wait at a table in a small windowless room as Archibald Rook, CEO of nothing, is brought through the door in his orange jumpsuit and handcuff chains. I can't say that I don't smile at the sight of seeing him so miserable.

"Well, well, Archie," I begin. "This must be pretty embarrassing for you. No company, no fortune, no Racoon News. How ever are you going to get out of prison this time when you don't have money to make the charges disappear?"

President Rook smiles at me. "Yeah. Keep that smug attitude, Senator Jones. I'll be out of the slammer in six months. Tops. I helped install most of those Supreme Court fuckers. My lawyer is appealing to the Supreme Court and once it's there – oh, boy, baby I am home free! Just you wait!"

"Oh, you haven't heard...?"

"Heard what?"

"Three of the nine Supreme Court Justices have all had horrible accidents. Very tragic. They've all died." It's more fun than I could ever imagine watching his face lose its grin. "Justice Smith had a horrible car accident." I am flashing back to last week when I tossed Justice Smith's car off a cliff. "Justice Quinto house was destroyed by a gas truck that crashed into it." Stealing and tossing a gas truck into his house had been no small feat but I'd accomplished it, though I had to get rid of the camera footage from his house afterwards. "And a light pole fell and speared old Justice Robertson in his study." His end had been particularly grisly: he'd written an opinion allowing coalmining companies to opt out of paying health insurance to miners who suffered black lung back in Kentucky. "So very sad it all was."

I'm clearly not upset.

"Justice Robertson was a great friend to my company," President Rook says darkly.

"Well, he did considered corporations to be legally people so that's not much of a surprise," I say, sinking back into my chair. "But the good news is that with a majority Democratic Senate and with me on the Senate Judiciary Committee, you can rest your pretty little head knowing their replacements will be installed long before your appeal begins."

"Meaning that they'll be a six to three ratio on the court and I'll be convicted."

"Well, that too." I get up to leave. "That reminds me – President Harrison said you had information you wanted to give me and no one else?"

"The Russians know about you."

I straighten. "Know what about me?"

"They know what happened that night all those years ago in Beattyville when you were a teenager. They know what you are. They know what you can do. You can't stay hidden forever."

I study him quietly for a few seconds. For once, I don't think he's lying. I look at the cameras and access my nanoarmour's electrocuff that peeks out from under my suit. I press a few buttons and the security camera's lights blink off and their heads hang themselves. I grab him by the neck and lift him up until he's choking in front of me. "Do I look like I'm hiding, Archie?" I raise an eyebrow. "You tell the Russians that if they want me I'll be in the United States Capitol working for my state. You tell them that if they ever try and screw with America again I can and will kill everyone they care about and save them for last." I launch him against the back wall and the cameras blink back on as I'm walking away. I pause and turn at the door, watching him collect himself from the floor. "You really always were just a pathetic little bully."

iii.

I am dreading this more than any speech I'd given on the floor of the Senate.

My staff, the Secret Service, and Helen had known that Doug and I were officially dating for months now, but Connor was a different story. My idea, not his. I didn't know how long Doug and I would last in an actual relationship, and I hadn't wanted to complicate his family life if we didn't work out.

The White House car drops me off at Doug's ex-wife's house after I've finished with the President. There are already other cars assembled along the sides of the street and parked on the bright emerald lawns. The smell of barbeque is in the air.

As I smooth a hand over my hair at the door and check that the bright blue sweater I'd chosen is as threadless as it had been ten minutes ago, I realize I am stalling. I scold myself and knock.

"Jason! We've been waiting for you!" Helen smiles. "Come in, come in. Everyone's out back!"

I had come to respect Doug's ex-wife even more after we'd told her about us. I can't imagine it was easy seeing her former husband move on with the junior senator from Kentucky, and also conceal her worry that the RNC might get wind of my new boyfriend and his son and start attacking them. I assured her that I would destroy in lawsuits the first person to try and go anywhere near them. As it happened, someone had. He was still missing.

Doug is waiting by a small cluster of his work friends from the Secret Service when I go out the back, flipping burgers and sausages.

"The apron makes you look hot, Highlander," I say, kissing him on the cheek.

He throws an arm around my shoulder, handing me a beer. "Thanks, Senator. Have a beer. You've met some of the guys from the White House."

He introduces me to the group of broad-shouldered agents, looking unfamiliar to me in colourful tees and shorts. Harry and Laura and their kids soon show up with salads. I keep my eye on Connor.

He's on a swinging chair in the corner of the yard, away from the other kids in the pool with water guns, still engrossed in my abused copy of the Red Web Commission Report. He'd just come out of the pool and gone straight back to it.

I know Doug and I probably won't have any better chance to get him alone.

I nudge Doug's shoulder. "Come on. Let's get this over and done with while he's alone."

He follows my gaze, winking. "It's now or never. He probably won't mind."

We both walk over to Connor.

"Before ye both start," Connor interrupts me as I'm opening my mouth to give him my carefully prepared speech. "I know you too are dating. I'm fine with it. I'm happy for ye two. I only have one request." His face grows serious, mimicking his father's serious type of expression almost comically. "That ye both keep it down upstairs when I sleep over. Last time I visited and you snuck over I could hear ye both moaning and banging against the walls till five in the morning."

"Wow." I don't entirely know how to recover. "That's embarrassing. But deal. You sure you don't have any questions for us?"

"Yuck," Connor grimaces. "No, way. Ye can rest assured that I don' want to know anything about what ye two get up to. At all. I'm just going to get something to eat and pretend ye didn't ask me that." He walks off with a spring in his step and leaves the two of us there, stunned.

"Told ye he'd be fine with us," says Doug, wrapping an arm over my shoulder so we can watch Connor return to his mother and friends together. "All that worrying fer nothing. Come on, I'll get ye something to eat."

"I'm a little disappointed I didn't get to use my speech. I've been working on it for months..." I trail off as we head over to the picnic tables together. I'm smiling, laughing, and blissfully happy. Maybe I could give this family thing a try. Maybe it wasn't going to be so hard for me after all...

iv.

I had reread the intelligence report fifteen times in total since receiving it. Just that one line: Our intelligence reports from inside the Russian Government indicate that President Ivanov III is very eager to meet the United States Junior Democratic Senator Jason Jones. I had thought about it for hours on end in the SCIF and out of it.

It wasn't a secret that President Ivanov wanted to meet me. Considering the billions of dollars he wasted on President Rook, I would want to know who ruined my carefully planned operation too. President Harrison had declassified it only just a week ago. I sit in my chair staring at it for a long time, until a discrete knock at the half-open door disturbs my concentration.

"Sorry," says Harry, opening the door. "I'm waiting for you down on the floor to introduce our Medicare For All bill. We're saving it for you to come down and submit it yourself—" He stops himself when he sees the way I look. "You're not still going over that report again, are you?"

I'm distracted, staring out the window across the landscape of Washington D.C. "This isn't going to be easy is it Harry? Undoing what they did to us? All the damage they've caused. Can we even go back to the way we were after the last few years?"

Harry studies me for a bit.

He doesn't lie to me.

"I don't know, Jason. I honestly don't know." He places my Medicare for All Bill on my desk. "But I do know how we don't let them win. We pick ourselves up and we carry on. That and Kamala said you need to get your ass down to the floor because the optics of this are looking hella bad."

That brings my smile back.

"Better not keep the President waiting," I say lightly. We take Earnie's tram to the Capitol. I sit at my desk. While people are talking on the floor, I open the desk and trace my hand along the names of former senators etched into the hard wood, including Kennedy.

I'm not sure whether any of these senators wrestled—like I did—with whether democracy had been worth it in America, whether their time in the Senate ever demonstrated to them that we had made the right choice for the people when our Thirteen Colonies rose up and declared independence from Great Britain on July 4, 1776, and kicked off the American Revolutionary War.

Only a short time afterwards the American Civil War tore the country apart. After the life I've lived, after the elected officials who ruined my town and killed my friends and family, I've come to increasingly wonder at the point of it all.

To me, it seems democracy too easily falls prey to men of greed and power.

That was the common strain, wasn't it? Mussolini. Hitler. President Rook. They were all peacefully elected by the people. Maybe it's stupid for me to even think like this, after I fought the Russians so hard to protect it with all my might. But call me foolish, call me naive – there had to be an important reason why the Declaration of Independence and Abraham Lincoln spoke about all men being created equal, no man left behind, and all that other hopey-changey shit that I usually can't stomach, and that's also why I still refuse to believe that it was all for nothing.

And—maybe it is a futile cause to believe in a system that is such a gamble, to trust the people, to hope that good, honest and decent men will one day rise to find themselves seated at the very desk in the Senate that I now occupy, and who will add their names to the list at the bottom of the drawer alongside mine, but – even if it is – I'm glad it is a noble one.

Whether I am right to believe in America like this—the way that Alexander Hamilton and George Washington saw it—I can't hope to determine.

I'll leave that part for history to judge.

I think we'll be alright.

After all, we had been through a lot worse.

I wait until I hear the Presiding Officer call my name. "The Chair recognizes the junior senator from the state of Kentucky." I rise to the podium to submit my bill for the great state of Kentucky.

I am Jason Jones.

And I am a United States Senator.

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

S.P. Fletcher is the author of the Senator Saga. The three-book series about a superpowered junior senator from Kentucky. He currently resides in West, Texas with his two dogs. He can be reached on Twitter at @SPFletcher1 and email at spfletcher979@gmail.com
