William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

Sure enough, Loving heard shots ringing out behind him. He ducked but continued moving, low to the ground. Those two men had major-league firepower. Pretty Boy was still firing his automatic weapon, not that he really knew how to use it. Most of his shots were flying a foot over Loving’s head. He obviously thought that if he just fired often enough, the law of averages would eventually give him a hit. A killer who trained on Nintendo rather than the firing range. Pathetic.

But still potentially lethal.

Loving kept running at top speed. What else could he do? And for that matter, how many times now had he been reduced to turning tail and running? How many times had he allowed himself to become the hunted, racing away from people who were trying to kill him? He couldn’t stay lucky forever. As soon as he got out of here, he was going to turn the tables. Go after the hunters. It was the only way he could come out of this case alive. As soon as he was safe, he would start planning his attack. The best defense is a good offense. So that’s what he would do. As soon as this parking lot emptied out into the street. Just as soon as the parking lot—

Loving put on the brakes, stopping his forward momentum as best he could. But he still had to hold up his hands to prevent himself from crashing headfirst into the brick wall.

The brick wall.

This parking lot didn’t empty into the street. It was a dead end.

Loving whirled around, ready for action. But there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. He was trapped.

Feodor stepped quietly forward, gun poised. Like the pro he was, he showed no trace of emotion. He didn’t have to. Loving could feel the pleasure emanating from him.

“It would seem,” he said, with a thick German accent, “that this merry chase has come to an end. You have been a worthy opponent. But now our revels are ended. Go with peace.”

Loving backed against the wall. He had nowhere to maneuver. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon not go at all.”

“Alas, regrettably, that is not a choice.” Feodor raised a gun. It was smaller than the one he had brandished before, but all the more terrifying as a result. He held the gun so close to Loving’s chest he couldn’t possibly miss. And then he fired.

47

In the dim light of the conference room, the television flickered with a blue glow. All at once, the screen flooded with a white light so intense it was momentarily blinding, then faded and resolved into a sienna-tinted head shot of Thaddeus Roush. The voice-over narration was delivered by the warm, crisp voice of a well-known wrestler–turned-actor–turned politician.

“He said he’d be there for the poor, the oppressed, the under-privileged.” The camera began a steady zoom toward Roush’s eyes. “He said he’d be there for those in need, for those who seek justice. Equal justice.” By this time, Roush’s huge eyes were all that remained visible. “But when it mattered, he wasn’t even there for his own child.” A hideous, dissonant, cringe-inducing organ chord sounded, followed by the growing black-and-white image of two fetuses expanding out of Roush’s enormous eyeballs and merging into a single horrific image.

All at once, the screen went white again, and the musical sound track was replaced by the sound of a baby crying. Then two babies crying, then three. Soon the speakers were rattling with the titanic sound of so many unhappy babies.

“Every year,” the somber voice continued, “almost two million parents choose to have their own babies killed before they are even born. Thaddeus Roush was one of them. Do you really want him on the Supreme Court?”

Ben turned off the set.

“That’s just disgusting.”

Christina was slumped in a chair munching on a tuna fish sandwich. “Better than the last one. It managed to squeeze in gay bars, orgies, and abortions, all in thirty seconds.”

“Where are these coming from? Who’s paying for them?”

“Someone with a lot of money. A new PAC formed just to oppose the Roush nomination. Gina Carraway is calling her media contacts, trying to track its funding. But what does it matter what the names are? It’s some right-wing group with loads of cash.”

“I wish I understood better how people can raise so much money so quickly.”

“I wish you did, too. Especially if you’re going to run for reelection.” She looked up. “And you are going to run for reelection, aren’t you?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Knowing you. For a long time.”

“So you know I’m hungry for power?”

“I know you can’t resist a professional challenge. The chance to be in a position to help people.” She paused. “Even if you’d be better off if you didn’t.”

“You’re saying you don’t want me to run?”

“Not at all. You should do what you feel called to do. All I’m saying is…” She finished the sandwich and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I think you’re an incredible attorney, and getting more incredible all the time. You belong in the courtroom. It’s your highest and best working environment, the place where you can make the greatest contribution. The political arena is fine, I guess. And I certainly don’t blame you for accepting the governor’s appointment—who wouldn’t? But it isn’t really you.” She sat up and brushed the crumbs off her dress. “At least I don’t think it is. Am I wrong?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind whether to run or not.”

“And I don’t mean to pressure you.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “As long as I’m not pressuring you, wanna set a date for our wedding?”

“Christina—”

She held up her hands. “That was a joke, Ben. A joke.”

Gina Carraway entered the room, her cell phone glued to her ear. “No, sir. What I’m asking is that you exert your considerable influence to help finance a counteroffensive.” She stood by the table and paused. “We’re looking for three million dollars.” Pause. “I know it’s a lot of money, sir. That’s why we called you.” More pause. Carraway flipped her clipboard and scanned her address list while simultaneously carrying on a conversation. “If we don’t, sir, the Christian Congregation is going to choose the next Supreme Court justice. Is that better?”

She looked up at Christina, shrugged. Christina made a slashing gesture with a thumb across her throat. Carraway shook her head and pointed a finger toward her open mouth, making a gagging face. Christina pulled an imaginary wallet out of her back pocket and started counting out the dough. Carraway gave her a big nod and two thumbs up.

Ben marveled at how an entire detailed conversation could take place without a word being uttered.

“Yes, sir, I know the party will appreciate your contribution and sacrifice.” Pause. “Well, no, the party can’t officially endorse the nominee. He’s a Republican.” More pausing. “No, the Republicans aren’t endorsing him now, either. But despite rumors to that effect, the President hasn’t asked him to withdraw.” Pause. Pause. Mild drumming of fingernails. “Well, not yet, anyway.”

She switched the phone to her other ear. “Yes, sir. We need three million dollars just to get this off the ground.” The voice on the other end of the line was so loud Ben could hear it clear across the room. “Yes, that’s still a lot of money. But it’s less than the Republicans spent the first day after Roush got out of committee.” Pause pause pause. “Yes sir, I know nobody knew this latest revelation until after the committee vote, and doesn’t that seem a little suspicious to you? Like maybe someone was holding the silver bullet and saving it until they were sure it was necessary? Don’t you think—” Carraway winced, then pulled the phone away from her ear and shut it off.