Abuse of Power

33

“What the hell is this?” Jack said, turning to Wickham. “What’s going on?”

“I think you should do as he says. Sit.”

It was like a command to one of his dogs.

Sara looked completely deflated. Jack grabbed her arm and started to back from the table, but Wickham’s bodyguard got up behind them in the doorway and Jack felt the muzzle of a gun against his lower back.

This wasn’t good.

“You and your girlfriend are looking as shy as mail-order brides,” Wickham said with a smile. “Nothing to be afraid of here. We’re the good guys.”

“Is that why I’ve got a gun at my back?”

Now Lawrence Soren smiled. He was about seventy-six years old, with thin blond hair, a pasty-white complexion, and large bulbous blue eyes. Jack had always thought he looked like a former SS officer.

“We have to be cautious,” Soren said. “You’re an unpredictable sort. You’ve certainly proven that over the last several days-if not your entire career. So do be seated. Or, contrary to what the senator says, there will be something to fear.”

Another man stepped in through a doorway behind Soren. He was carrying a Glock 9mm.

Jack and Sara exchanged glances, but what choice did they have? They pulled out chairs and sat, Jack feeling his chest grow tight with tension.

“You need to relax,” Soren said, correctly reading his expression. “All this hatred you hold for me is not healthy. Perhaps if we took the time to discuss the world, we might find we have more in common than you think.”

“I doubt it,” Jack said.

“Oh?” Soren’s thick white brows went up. “Look around you. Here you have a room full of men from all ends of the political spectrum, yet we’ve managed to put aside our differences and come together for a common cause.”

“And what cause is that?”

“Restoring sanity to the world. Surely you can appreciate such a sentiment.”

“Depends on your definition of sanity. Yours no doubt has something to do with preserving the sanctity of your fascist agenda, along with your all-important pocketbook.”

Soren nodded in acquiescence. “There are always concerns about money, of course. We here are men of privilege who have no interest in losing what we’ve earned. Which is why we’ve learned, over the years, to back the winning horses.”

“Meaning what?”

Soren leaned back in his chair. “I think anyone who looks at the world today can clearly see that the Zionists are the cause for all the unrest in the Middle East.”

“ That big lie? You gotta be kidding me.”

“The policies of Israel and the United States are strangling Israel’s neighbors. And it’s obvious to anyone with any intelligence that the Jews rule the world by proxy. Right now, as we speak, preparations are being made to ship plutonium to the Jewish state, out of our very own ports. Here we are, helping the Israelis build their nuclear arsenal while we treat the countries around them, Muslim countries”-he made a point of glancing at Sara-“with complete disrespect, telling their leaders that they’re too unruly and immature to have such weapons of their own.”

“Israel is a democracy and our only ally-”

“And you talk of big lies?” Soren interrupted with a dismissive laugh. “But that discussion is for another time, assuming you have another time. What I’ve just told you is why we, a consortium of concerned citizens, have decided to back the underdog in this race. We’ve begun channeling money and resources into the Hand of Allah in the hope of putting an end to this Zionist stranglehold.”

Jack rose from his chair. “What is wrong with you people?” He turned to Wickham. “Hal, tell me you’re not falling for this racist crap?”

“You’re one to talk about racism,” Soren remarked.

Jack wanted to punch him. Again. He ignored the SOB, continued to stare at Wickham.

The senator shrugged and took a puff off his cigar. “I’m a businessman first, Jack, you know that. These people have control of resources I need. I figure it’s better to make friends with them than to kick ’em in the ass and try to steal it.”

“And commit treason in the process?”

Wickham frowned. “One man’s treason is another man’s revolution.”

“So you lied to me,” Jack said. “You didn’t do a thing with that information we gave you. Haddad and his crew are still out there planning their assault on the Legion of Honor as we speak.”

Wickham said nothing and the gun touched Jack’s back again as a hand on his shoulder forced him down into the chair.

“True regime change is rarely peaceful,” Soren said with affected regret. “We may manage it here in America every four years or so without bloodshed, but all we get for our trouble are the same Zionist puppets with the same policies that are destroying this country and the world. As you know, I had high hopes for our current President, but he’s turned out to be quite a disappointment to all of us on many different levels. So if we’re to succeed in bringing our own vision to fruition, we need to shake things up a bit. The Hand of Allah will help us do that. It’s 1933 all over again. You end the Depression in Germany by firing up the masses, having them reclaim their wealth from the Jews. You end the threat to America’s homeland by scaring the masses, assuring them they will be safe from future attacks if they restore Arab land taken by the Jews.”

“Helluva role model you’ve chosen,” Jack remarked.

“You’re missing the point.”

“No, I’ve got it. Scapegoating works. I experienced that firsthand.”

“This is not scapegoating,” Soren said. “It’s about forging a strategic alliance with someone who can control hundreds of millions of people and billions of dollars in resources. If you took just a moment to listen to him, you’d realize that Faakhir Zuabi is a great visionary and a great leader. And I think our partnership with him will be of benefit to all of us. Including you.”

Jack balked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re a wonderful communicator, Jack. You have a friendly, trustworthy manner about you, but you can be a bulldog when you need to and people respond to it.”

“That’s all in the past, thanks to you.”

“Something that can be easily remedied. What if, in the face of devastation, you were to become the spokesperson for America? Our spokesperson.”

“Wait-you want me to join you?”

Soren shrugged. “It’s either that or die.”

Sara stood now, her eyes blazing. “You wanks are certifiably insane.”

Hearing that expression come from Sara’s mouth shocked Jack nearly as much as anything else he’d heard here.

Soren offered her a patient smile as the bodyguard nudged her back into the chair. “We’re merely pragmatists, my dear. You cannot blame anyone for that.” He looked at Jack again. “So what do you say, my friend. Are you with us or no?”

Jack stared at him, the urge to leap across the table still burning in his gut. “Up yours.”

Soren sighed. “I expected as much. But I had to try.” He rose from his chair and gestured. “Gentlemen, shall we adjourn to the parlor upstairs? I believe Mr. Hatfield and his lovely friend here have an appointment.”

Chairs scraped back around the table, the men all glancing at Jack and Sara as they filed out past the thug with the Glock and disappeared from sight.

Soren, however, stopped just shy of the doorway and turned. “It’s a shame, Jack. You and I have been at odds for so long. Imagine what we could do if we were to come together for a common cause.”

Jack reiterated his earlier words by raising a fist and showing Soren his middle finger.

Soren stood there for a moment, smiling almost sadly, then stepped out of sight.

Now Jack turned his head toward the bodyguard behind him. “Real nice people you associate with. So what now?”

“I believe I can answer that,” a familiar voice said from across the room.

Jack jerked his head around as Adam Swain stepped in through the opposite doorway, accompanied by two more of his men, including the ape with his magic wand, who grinned at Jack as he walked into the room.

Wonderful.

Jack reached under the table and gently squeezed Sara’s hand. It was a signal for her to wait for his move. He had no idea if she’d gotten the message, but she squeezed back firmly and that was good enough.

She hadn’t even flinched when Swain entered.

Good girl, he thought.

Swain said, “It looks as if we’ll be playing another round of touch my pole, old boy. You understand. As a precaution?” He smiled. “But not to worry, we’ll be gentle this time.”

“Now why do I doubt that?” Jack said.

“True enough, but perhaps you’ll be more forthcoming this time. Shall we adjourn to the fog signal building? We’ll have more privacy there.”

Jack and Sara didn’t move.

Swain frowned now, then took his own Glock from under his jacket and waved it at them. “I’m not very good at begging.”

The two slowly got to their feet. Jack had no way of signaling Sara again, so he hoped she was ready for what he was about to do.

The senator’s bodyguard was still behind him and shoved the gun into his back again.

“Move.”

Jack did as he was asked. As soon as he was clear of the chair he kicked back and down, a low Krav Maga blow to the bodyguard’s kneecap. The man grunted but did not go down; Jack hadn’t wanted him to. As the foot came down he was literally standing beside the bodyguard. That brought him right beside the gun-another Glock 9mm. Helped by the momentum of his backward step, Jack ripped it from the bodyguard’s hand by twisting his hand outward, a painful pronating wristlock.

At the same moment, Sara took hold of the edge of the dining table and, with a loud grunt and a heave, flipped it sideways, sending dishes and whiskey glasses and ashtrays flying.

Swain and his men ducked the debris as Swain fired a shot in Sara’s direction. But the bullet went wild and she dove to the floor, behind the table. Meanwhile, Jack had continued turning the man’s wrist until he was on the floor, on his back. Jack stomped on his face and ripped the laser pointer from the bodyguard’s breast pocket.

Another shot flew past Sara, who snatched one of the ashtrays from the floor. She stood and hurled it hard at the gunman’s head. It hit his mouth hard and he fell back against the wall, spitting blood.

Flicking the laser pointer on, Jack shone its penetrating red beam directly into Swain’s eyes, blinding him, then squeezed off two quick shots as he grabbed hold of Sara’s forearm and spun her toward the door. “Go! Let’s go!”

They moved together into the foyer and burst through the main doorway onto the concourse and into the cold night air.

“The boats,” Jack said. “We have to get to the boats.”

They took off running, but the dock was on the other side of the concourse and they had several yards of cement to traverse before they’d reach it.

Halfway across they heard a shot, a bullet scorching the cement behind them. Jack jerked Sara sideways and glanced over his shoulder. The shot seemed to have come from on high, and as he looked up toward the lighthouse, he saw shadowy movement; one of Swain’s thugs was stationed up there.

The thug squeezed off shot after shot but the fog made it difficult for him to see. Jack and Sara dropped behind the cistern in the center of the concourse, using it for cover. They kept their heads low as bullets pinged around them mercilessly.

“You all right?” Jack asked.

She nodded.

The foghorn building stood several feet behind them. “I’m gonna give you cover,” Jack said. “Get into that shack as quickly as you can. I think there’s a door on the other side that’ll lead down to the dock. Get to the white Novurania next to the dinghies, and get it started.”

“What about you?”

“If I’m not along in about thirty seconds or so, get the hell back to shore and contact a friend of mine at the Shoreside Marina. Tony Antiniori. Can you remember that?”

“Yes, yes. Who is he?”

“The only one I can trust at this point.”

Another shot echoed through the fog. They ducked as the front door of the Victorian flew open and Swain and two of his men strode purposefully onto the concourse.

“There’s nowhere to go, Jack! You spend five minutes in that water and we’ll be carving an ice sculpture out of you just for the fun of it. You might as well give it up.”

“On the count of three,” Jack whispered to Sara. “One, two, three — ”

Jack and Sara jumped to their feet simultaneously, Sara zigzagging for the shack behind them, Jack flashing the laser pointer again and opening fire, taking down one of the thugs as Swain and another gunman dove for low ground.

The guy in the lighthouse tower started firing again, and Jack returned several shots before ducking back behind the cistern.

Sara slammed through the door behind him.

Jack checked his magazine, saw that he had just a few more rounds, then mentally counted to three again and jumped to his feet. He headed for the foghorn building, firing indiscriminately as he ran. Just as he reached the door, a bullet clipped his shoulder and he stumbled forward.

Shots splintered wood above him as Jack gripped the door frame and yanked himself inside, pulling the door shut behind him as he grasped his shoulder and collapsed onto one knee.

“Could’ve been worse,” he said, feeling the edges of the wound through his torn shirt.

The room was full of machinery, pneumatic pumps that once powered the foghorns. Now that the system was electronic, they were no longer needed.

Still clutching his shoulder Jack called out. “Sara?”

No answer. But the door on the opposite side of the shack was hanging open and that was a good sign. She was probably down to the dock by now, and that was where Jack needed to be.

Wincing against the pain, he grabbed a piece of machinery and pushed himself to his feet, the room swaying slightly as he stood. He knew that Swain and his goons would be bursting through that door any second now, so he steeled himself and worked his way around the maze of machinery to the rear, moving as quickly as his body would carry him.

He heard the rip of an outboard motor and knew that Sara had made it to the RIB.

He was picking up speed as Sara’s scream ripped the air. He crashed through the doorway, running toward the white picket railing that overlooked the dock.

By the time he reached it, one of Swain’s thugs had dragged Sara to the dock and was pulling her toward the Luhrs, the ugly black barrel of a gun pressed against her head.