Mike Maden - River of Gods

How would history judge her? She’d asked herself that question a thousand times in recent weeks, then pushed it away before she could answer. It was a vain, stupid question, and the answer would only come long after she was dead, past her caring. But the question kept coming back nonetheless.

So many things hadn’t gone the way she’d planned as president. Drone strikes, a showdown with the Russians, resignation. She had shown resolve, then quit. But that was the deal she had made. The alternative was a shooting war with the Russians and a showdown with Congress. But she couldn’t fight the feeling that she had failed.

No matter how she justified it, she had quit her job, and she had never quit anything in her life. There were still so many things left undone that she might have been able to accomplish had she remained in office. And now she’d put the destiny of her country in the hands of Greyhill and Diele, exactly the kind of career politicians she’d always railed against.

But “What If?” was a fool’s game and she needed to stop playing it. Now.

Myers’s free-range eggs finally arrived, fried hard, along with four triangles of whole-wheat toast. The menu solemnly promised, “Non-GMO, soy-free, vegan, Kosher” foods. No mention of rubbery and burnt. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t hungry anyway.

The one good thing she’d taken away from last year was meeting Pearce. She’d lost the ability to trust very many people, especially after entering politics. But Pearce was definitely one of the good guys, good as his word. That was hard to come by in politics or anywhere else these days.

She’d once felt the same way about Vin Tanner, too.

The only people she knew she could trust with her life were Pearce and, by extension, Ian. As soon as she fled her home, she bought a burner phone with cash, called Ian on the road, told him she needed a perfectly secure method of communicating with him. An hour later, he made the arrangements.

Once secure, Myers explained her situation. Told Ian cryptically she needed some alone time, her first use of coded language in this new adventure. He understood. They decided to go old-school. He sent her a package, indirectly, through third and fourth parties. The package directed her here, to the Glory Box.

Now she was waiting for the next link in the chain. She felt like she was in a cheap spy novel. Felt foolish sitting in this hippie dive at three in the morning with a six-hundred-dollar wig on her head and picking at a plate of rubbery free-range eggs. What was she doing?

She was hiding, of course. And running for her life. At one time, she was the most famous woman in the world. She couldn’t exactly walk around in broad daylight without attracting some attention. But the wig and the tortoiseshell glasses and a dark café full of alternative lifestyles allowed her to hide in plain sight. At least long enough to hear from Ian.

A rusted Subaru Outback with dented door panels and a bent roof rack pulled up to the sidewalk. A tall, thin woman with a buzz cut and neck tattoos pushed through the door. She glanced around the room, looking for somebody, her head on a swivel until her eyes locked on Myers. She marched over to Myers’s booth.

“Are you Margo Denver?”

Ian had given Myers a different name on the previous delivery, but the same pattern. The first letter of the first name had been an M , too.

“Yes.”

The woman’s long, thin fingers fished a padded envelope out of a fringed paisley shoulder bag. Myers noted the black fingernail polish and the sad, large eyes highlighted with blue eye shadow. She handed the envelope to Myers.

“Thank you. Do I owe you anything?”

“Nah. I’m doing this as a favor for Troy.”

“You know Troy Pearce?” Myers asked. Her curiosity got the better of her.

“Yeah. But I haven’t seen him around in a while. He used to come in here at least once a month. Is he okay?”

“He’s been away. On a business trip.”

“For a whole damn year?”

“Something like that.”

“If you talk to him, tell him Sadie said ‘Thanks.’”

“For what? If I may ask.”

“Paid my rent for the year. He’s been a real good friend to me and my kid.”

Meyers motioned to the booth. “Have a seat. Let me buy you breakfast.”

Sadie shook her shaved head. “Can’t. My boy’s asleep in the car. I just ran over here to give you that. I was told I had to deliver it in person exactly at 3:15 a.m. But thanks anyway.” She looked at Meyers’s plate and the half-eaten eggs. “You should try the veggie empañada next time. It’s real good.” She nodded, turned on her boot heel, and left.

Myers watched her climb back into the Subaru and pull away from the curb before opening the envelope.

It was from Ian. Keys. Codes. Instructions.

Relief flooded over her. She was almost there.

Fiero National Campaign Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

7 May

Harry Fowler wanted her. Always had, ever since he’d first laid eyes on her twenty years before. Fiero knew it, too. Didn’t matter. They could still work together, even be friends, which they were. But she was immune to his charms as few women were. That made her all the more desirable to him, of course. But business was business. He poured them each two fingers of his favorite, Bushmills twenty-one-year-old single malt.

As her national campaign manager, Fowler’s job was to consummate her greatest political desire. The next best thing to bedding her, he supposed. Hated telling her today that she wasn’t going to be the next president of the United States, at least not next year. Ruined all kinds of prospects. He handed her a glass.

“Why not wait for 2020?” he asked. He sat in a chair across from her, getting out from behind his desk. The walls were lined with photos of him and all of the politicians he helped get elected over the years, including Fiero.

“I’m not getting any younger. And Greyhill is weak. He can be taken out.”

“He’s bulletproof, I’m telling you. If the election were held today—”

“—he’d win. Yes, yes, I’ve heard it before. Poll after poll. I don’t believe in polls. Opinions can be changed. Look at Bush 41. He had an approval rating of over ninety percent at one time. He couldn’t be beaten either, until he was.”

“Greyhill’s invulnerable right now. He’s continuing everything Myers initiated. The economy’s picking up, thanks to her energy policy. That means the deficit’s inching down without raising taxes, thanks to her budget freeze. And for the first time in a long while we aren’t gearing up for a new ground war. Just exactly where do you expect to find the key to his chastity belt?”

“That’s just it. He isn’t invulnerable. He’s Calvin Coolidge. The do-nothing president.”

“What’s your bumper sticker going to say? ‘Trust Me, Not Your Lying Eyes?’ Everything getting better feels like he’s doing something right to most people.”

Fiero shook her head. “No, that’s not my point. I think I’ve found the issue.”

“Domestic or foreign? You’re perfectly positioned for both.”

“China.”

“Are you kidding? You of all people.” Fowler was referring to a sweetheart deal she helped broker for a Chinese shipping company to lease valuable warehouse space at the Port of Los Angeles last year despite the fact that two of its ships had been seized for smuggling illegal aliens into the country. The Department of Homeland Security had originally blocked the deal, but Fiero had rammed it through with help from across the aisle. Her husband’s offshore business partners were grateful, and showed it. California news media remained characteristically uninterested in these kinds of unpleasant affairs, as far as Fiero was concerned. It was partly due to the fact that she always brought home the bacon. But Fowler suspected there were other reasons, too, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what they were.