Preview of Silentcide 3: Freedom Quest

Prologue
Seattle, Washington
Monday

One clandestine kiss in a closing elevator during the Republican National Convention destroyed his life. Steven Oakley was plunging toward rock bottom. The inevitable crash would be catastrophic, followed by decades of federal incarceration.

The disgraced CEO stood up at the ostentatious conference table and buttoned his Escorial wool suit coat with feigned dignity and control. His signal was clear. This insufferable meeting was over.

The lead attorney mirrored his client’s actions with a practiced smile of reassurance. At $2,400 an hour, the son of a bitch could at least be sincere. “Don’t worry, Steven. Tomorrow’s procedure should be very routine and discreet. We should have you in and out in a few hours.”

The word procedure was euphemistic for the arrest, booking and arraignment on a nineteen-count criminal complaint. Being told not to worry was insulting and condescending. At least the attorney had negotiated a deal allowing him to surrender at the regional FBI office. He would avoid the perp walk with bowed head and handcuffs. Promises were also made about circumventing the media frenzy.

But these small accommodations wouldn’t prevent the twenty-four-hour news cycle from generating more sensational headlines. The press vultures were unrelenting in shredding his reputation’s carcass.

Oakley avoided eye contact with the $11,000-an-hour group of partners, associates and paralegals huddled around the table. A smaller defense team in Washington, DC, watched on a bank of oversized monitors. Their individual roles were unclear. Together, they were draining the initial eight-million-dollar retainer. Their lust for billable hours was insatiable.

Elsewhere, corporate attorneys were ousting him from the company, defending against shareholder lawsuits and struggling to save billions in cancelled defense contracts from several countries. Divorce lawyers were also busy jostling for personal assets. His wife had vowed to leave him penniless. And with any luck, the court would set bail in the low millions.
Steven Oakley strode with faux dignity across the law firm’s marble foyer, endured the indiscreet stares of elevator passengers during the forty-nine-floor descent, and hustled through the ornate lobby. His waiting chauffeur nodded, smiled and held the glass door while popping open an oversized umbrella.

Within three steps, a bitter wind rendered the umbrella useless against the needles of rain. After another step, his calfskin loafer sank into a puddle. By the time he reached the sanctuary of the limousine, his coal-black hair was a matted mess. The leather car seat was saturated. He drained water from his shoe.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” the chauffeur said as he wedged the Bentley Mulsanne into downtown gridlock.

Without acknowledging the apology, Oakley asked, “Did you arrange for the delivery?”

“Of course, sir.”

Knowing the twelve-block ride might consume twenty minutes, the executive scrolled through emails and text messages. Most spewed venom. Two were recurring death threats. He succumbed to morbid curiosity by watching a CNBC video clip on the rear-seat entertainment system. The talking heads trashed him while displaying charts of his company’s collapsing stock price. The market cap had dropped $52 billion.

The chauffeur impeccably timed the prearranged pit stop at the iconic Pike Place Fish Market. As the limo pulled curbside, a young man with an orange bloodstained apron and a backward baseball cap rushed out to deliver a bundle wrapped in white butcher paper.

Ten minutes later, Oakley was inside his penthouse condominium with a commanding view of the Seattle Waterfront. Far below, couples strolled along the piers without a care in the world. Gondolas swung around the 175-foot Ferris wheel. Tourists were exiting the aquarium after hours of fun. They were all oblivious to his crisis.

Oakley unwrapped the package. He smiled for the first time since the scandal broke. Inside were succulent Brussels sprouts, a pound of morel mushrooms and three clusters of king crab legs. He’d fondly remember this decadent meal in prison.

He lifted a Waterford lowball from the china cabinet, dropped in a large square ice cube and poured two generous ounces of Booker’s. The uncut, 121-proof bourbon didn’t have a chance to open up before being guzzled. He welcomed the assault blazing down his throat.

Equally soothing was the steam shower until his mind drifted toward the tryst with US Senator Vickie McLoren. What a disaster! Their high-stakes conspiracy had been flawless. The initial results exceeded expectations, and their ultimate goals were within reach.

But a drunken one-night stand triggered a chain reaction of ruin. The sex – from what he could remember at least – was mediocre at best. What was he thinking? While drying off, he stared at the culprit responsible for the impulsive and errant decision.

Steven Oakley admired his mid-fifties physique. He was in remarkable shape except for chronic sore knees from too many years of jogging and racquetball. Now they were the least of his problems. He slipped into silk pajamas and tied the sash around a cashmere robe.

Returning to the kitchen, he filled a large roasting pan with water, placed it on the stove and turned the gas on high. He poured another whiskey and swirled the amber despondency with his index finger. The storm had passed, the clouds had parted, and the sunset over Elliot Bay was sensational. Golden hues glistened across the water.

As he took a sip, a single drop of blood splashed into the bourbon and spread like gasoline hitting water. After a sniffle, the back of his hand caught the flow. He stuffed a tissue from the kitchen island into his nostril. It was obviously time to adjust the humidifier setting.

He loved this penthouse. The aerospace company purchased it when headquarters were relocated to Arlington, Virginia, to be near the Pentagon, politicians and lobbyists. The local condo’s expenses were justified to accommodate his frequent visits to the Seattle factory, one of the largest buildings in the world. Today, the board of directors issued a thirty-day eviction notice on the condo. No doubt his prison cell would be smaller than the butler’s pantry.

A pained sigh escaped his tight lips. Why had he allowed greed to rob him of his pinnacle of success?

Without warning, blood gushed from the open nostril. He pinched his nose, leaned back and grabbed more Kleenex. Nausea rumbled. Vision blurred. The room spun as an explosion ruptured his brain. As his knees buckled, he flailed to prevent a collapse. Gallons of boiling water cascaded as he crashed, scalding the scream from his gaping mouth.

With raw fingers as pink as crab claws, he yanked the cell phone from the robe.

Upside down. Wrong side. Excruciating pain. Password rejected. Panic. Hit Emergency Call.

“911, what’s your emergency? … Hello, this is 911. Is anyone there? … Hello?”

***

Washington, District of Columbia

A diamond bracelet slid across Vickie McLoren’s wrist as she pulled back the curtain, revealing the Washington Monument a few blocks away. Glorious. When she first saw the obelisk as a teen, this tribute to the nation’s first president was inspirational. Over four decades, that inspiration evolved into aspiration and then an obsession. She was going to be the first female president of the United States. The goal was assured.

Two weeks ago, the dream died.

As the curtain closed, McLoren pivoted back into the primary bedroom of the George Washington Presidential Suite at the Willard InterContinental. The historic hotel – nicknamed Residence of Presidents and located in the shadow of the White House – had been her epicenter of power. After becoming the Republican presidential nominee, a torrent of big donors, politicians, dignitaries, ambassadors, and even heads of state came here to kiss her ring. Most would have kissed her ass if she weren’t such a lady.

This had once been her throne. Now the three-room, two-bath suite was her gilded cage.

McLoren grabbed another panettone shortbread from the dinner tray and cursed as crumbs sprinkled across her Christian Dior suit. Before climbing back onto the king-size bed, she adjusted the tight gray wool around the waist. She felt bloated. Let’s be honest, girl, you’re getting fat. Too many calories on the campaign trail, from fine cuisine to fast food to rural cooking in church basements.

Why had she even bothered to maintain her exalted dress code today? The only visitors expected were room service and the rotation of US Marshals. They monitored her house arrest 24/7. The US Attorney General had assigned the Marshals because of their neutrality. The FBI, Secret Service and Capitol Police faced intense political and media attacks for not stopping McLoren’s “alleged” crimes.

One unannounced visitor stopped by a few hours ago. Her former campaign manager, designated chief of staff, and loyal friend since grad school dropped off two boxes hidden during the FBI raids. Written in black ink on top were the words “For US Senator Vickie McLoren – PERSONAL.”

Technically, McLoren maintained that title until the Senate Select Committee on Ethics delivered its findings. Then the entire chamber – a group of divisive politicians who couldn’t agree on the virtues of motherhood, apple pie or puppies – would vote unanimously for expulsion. They had bipartisan disdain and condemnation for poisoning four of their congressional colleagues.

If she resigned, the ethics report might not go public. But senatorial grandstanding was inconsequential compared to the attorney general’s intentions. He had vowed to pursue charges for the three murders of US senators plus the attempted murder of another, all in the first degree. Even worse were the domestic terrorism charges for the staged Russian missile attack at the National Mall during her campaign rally. The maximum penalty was death.

Vickie McLoren felt flushed. Armpits damp. Her skin ablaze.

Damn hot flashes. When is this shit going to end?

She raced to the thermostat and turned it down to 65°. As she yanked off her dress, the zipper caught in the ankle monitor. While hopping on one foot, she got dizzy and stumbled back to bed. After gasps for breath, a few sips of water and another shortbread for sugar, she felt reasonably better.

The unopened boxes loomed beside her. She knew what was inside. One held diaries and logs chronicling every day since McLoren announced her presidential bid. The other contained news stories of major milestones and events. The collection was going to be the foundation of a ghostwritten memoir titled Becoming Madam President. The publishing company had already rescinded its seven-figure book deal.

Wanting to relive her glory, she opened a box and immediately regretted the impulse. On top was the Washington Post headline from two weeks ago: “Conspiracy to Steal White House.” A snot-nosed cub reporter from Des Moines had written the sensational article after unraveling the plot. Featured above the fold was a grainy photo of the senator kissing Steven Oakley in a closing elevator.

McLoren spat at the image of her accomplice. “Bastard!” she seethed. “You said the plan was foolproof. Who’s the fool …”

Excruciating stomach pain stopped the rant. “Oh my God!” With sweaty palms, she clutched her extended abdomen. The fetal position was defenseless against the torment. Rapid heartbeats pounded in her ears.

“Ethan! Help! Help me!” Her yell became a whimper. “Please.” She cursed the inattentive marshal in the next room.

Desperate, she tried standing but collapsed. Her organs were ablaze. Her body was chilled. She wanted to scream again, but terror and bloody froth waterboarded her throat. While crawling toward the door, red splotches ravaged her arms. The bolts of agony were unbearable.

She reached up for the door handle but failed to grasp it. Her hand was convulsing. With final determination, she grabbed the handle and headbutted the door. Lying on the other side was the marshal.

His lifeless eyes were open.