Captive-in-Chief Read online

  It didn’t take him more than a second after exiting the liquor store and seeing the bus disappear into the distance to realize that Sandy was indeed still on the bus.

  “Shit!”

  He took the bottle of bourbon out of its brown paper bag, unscrewed the cap and took a long pull, watching the taillights of the bus fade into the night.

  His headache instantly dulled as the warmth of the bourbon slipped achingly down his throat. The taillights erupted into life, a redness enveloping the bus as the evening mist gathered the brake lights’ hue. Joe smiled, good old Sandy.

  He jogged after the bus, another long pull on the bourbon giving him the additional fortitude to make the few hundred yard run. He could hear her howling from two hundred yards. A growl, as he neared, suggested somebody had tried to persuade her to leave the bus.

  The door hissed open.

  “You forgot your dog!” said the driver angry and flustered.

  “No, you forgot me!” said Joe hopping aboard. Sandy instantly calmed on hearing his voice.

  “That dog is dangerous!”

  “Only to assholes.” Joe raised the bourbon bottle and drank to the driver’s health.

  Sandy joined him as he took his seat, hopping up and curling into the window seat.

  An elderly woman sitting opposite looked across as the bus pulled away.

  “I grew up on a farm,” she said, tapping Joe on the elbow to make sure he knew she was talking to him.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” said Joe, not sure where the elderly woman was heading with her story.

  “We had Border Collies, similar to yours,”

  “She’s called Sandy.”

  “Yes, almost exactly like her they were. Smarter than half the farmhands we employed. She played that driver like a fool, howling and growling when you weren’t on the bus. There wasn’t an ounce of menace in that growl, she knew exactly what she was doing, stopping the bus to let you get on. That’s what she was doing!”

  “She is a very smart dog.” Joe winked, closing his eyes. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, certainly not one that could extend to a day and a half.

  “Terrible news about that mayor,” the woman continued, choosing to ignore his attempts to sleep.

  “Yes,” replied Joe, keeping his eyes closed.

  “They reckon there’ll be riots.”

  “Over a mayor?” One eye opened.

  “A black mayor killed by the Klan, you think there won’t be?”

  “Haven’t you heard? It’s got worse,” said a man from behind, entering a conversation Joe didn’t want to have. The elderly woman turned in her seat to face the man.

  Joe looked at his bottle of bourbon. A third was gone already; he had hoped it would last until Washington, he’d be lucky if it lasted to Houston, four hours away unless he slowed down. He took another long pull.

  The man from behind pulled himself to the front of his seat, filling the aisle, so he could talk to them both more easily. Joe reluctantly half turned to face the man, while the elderly woman waited eagerly to hear the latest.

  “One of those officers, you know from last year, that shot that unarmed black boy and wasn’t charged?”

  “Yes,” said the elderly lady.

  “No,” Joe mumbled.

  “A group of young black boys kidnapped him, tied him to the back of their car, and dragged him through the streets. Exactly like the Klan used to do.”

  “Is he okay?” asked the elderly woman with deep concern.

  “I’d imagine he died, and very unpleasantly,” Joe said.

  “Very,” agreed the man. “Although that’s not all. The president announced this afternoon he was adding the group that accepted responsibility for the FBI director’s death, the New Black Panthers Party, to a terrorist list. Supposedly evidence has come to light that they donated money to Al Qaeda back in 2000 via their ties to the Nation of Islam.”

  “What’s Al Qaeda got to do with anything nowadays?” asked the elderly lady.

  Joe didn’t know, but he did know Clay Caldwell enough to know that there was always a reason for what he did. He closed his eyes again, zoning out from the rest of the conversation. His concern was for Clay’s daughter, assuming that was why Clay had called him.

  A year after Clay moved to Florida they had arranged to meet. Both had secretly saved for months and bought tickets to Atlanta unbeknownst to their parents. They reckoned it was halfway for each, and with a cover story of a sleepover at friend’s, it allowed them two days to meet up. At the last minute Maddy, a girl who both of them liked and had known as long as each other, informed Joe she was going too. Initially Joe thought it was cool, although after some probing, he discovered that Maddy had been keeping in touch with Clay a lot more than Joe realized.

  After two of the best days of his life, they parted once again and amazingly managed to keep the meeting secret. With money tight in all of their households, such an extravagance was unthinkable, and more importantly, would be deemed unforgivable. However, not as secret as Clay and Maddy had managed to keep their sexual encounter, until a few months later when Maddy started to show, and exactly nine months to the day after their trip she gave birth to a baby daughter.

  Maddy refused to divulge the father’s name, claiming it was just some boy she had met at the fair. Her father demanded a description, reaching for his gun, supporting Maddy’s refusal to name Clay.

  Shortly after their meeting in Atlanta, Clay’s mother died and he moved once again with his grandparents. Thereafter, all contact was lost, and Clay remained blissfully unaware of his daughter until she was ten, when Joe met him again for the first time in almost eleven years.

  By that time Clay was married and expecting what he thought was his first child. His wife was Southern royalty, one of the most wealthy, politically connected families across the Southern States and responsible for numerous senators and governors throughout their history. Staunchly Republican and Christian to the core. A husband who had abandoned an out of wedlock child wasn’t going to go over well, particularly as it seemed they were already planning his political path.

  Despite all of that, Clay had taken leave and secretly visited Maddy and his daughter, Clara. Maddy could see Clay was a man going places and was no fool as to how the revelation that he had a ten-year-old out of wedlock daughter would affect him. She also knew her father would still, after all these years, quite possibly kill Clay, and felt it best the secret remained. With a heavy heart Clay had accepted, though not at the expense of his daughter. She wanted for nothing. Maddy had to explain away her newfound fortune to a lottery win as Clay ensured his daughter lived in the best neighborhood and received the finest education money could buy. He had attended her graduation from both high school and college, and was always there if she ever needed him. The only day he had ever failed her since learning of her existence was the day her mother Maddy was buried. By that time he was running for president, and she understood his presence at the funeral would have raised far too many questions that he couldn’t have answered. As a secret father, he was probably one of the best.

  Joe had last seen Clara shortly before Clay met her for the first time. She had been a pretty child, and from the photos that had been displayed on the news story, an even more beautiful woman. From what Joe had managed to understand from the sketchy news report, she had been bundled into a van off the streets of New York, where she worked at one the city’s most prestigious law firms. The van had later been found burnt out under an overpass with no sign of Clara. The trail ended there.

  The bus slowed, and Joe cracked open his right eye, not wanting to let his fellow passengers know he was awake. The Houston skyline was off in the distance. He opened his left eye. The elderly lady was asleep and a glow from behind suggested the man was reading some type of device. Joe wasn’t up on the latest technology. Smart phones, e-readers, and tablets were words he had heard not really understanding what they meant. Computers, laptops, and cells were about his limi
t.

  Sandy stirred in her seat as the skyline neared, and Joe gave her a reassuring pat. They neared the towering skyscrapers of the downtown area dominating the sprawling city around them, each one taller and prouder than its neighbor, stretching up into the blackness of the night sky.

  Sandy sat bolt upright, staring at the sight ahead. Joe followed her gaze. She was looking towards the base, not at the top of the towers as he was. Joe spotted it, even from miles out, you could see it, the red and blue lights of the emergency services. It wasn’t at the base of one tower, every tower looked as though it was rising from a sea of blue/red.

  It was just before 11.00 p.m.. The rioting had started.

  Joe reached for his bourbon and took a swig as the first sounds of the wailing sirens invaded the bus. He couldn’t remember ever hearing that many at once. He took another pull and finished the bottle. It was going to be a long journey.

  Chapter 9

  President Caldwell looked out across the White House lawn from his private lounge. Blue and red lights streaked though the night sky. The wail of the sirens cut through the reinforced glass that would protect him from just about any conceivable handheld weapon. As expected, the country had reacted to the day’s senseless killings. Protestors had filled the streets, peacefully at first. Then the news had broken.

  Three young black men had been executed by a policeman. Not only were they unarmed, they were in handcuffs. The grainy footage had been released at 9.00 p.m. The officer clearly had the men under his control, walking them into an alleyway where he made them kneel, executing them one by one without even a pause, placing his pistol to their foreheads and pulling the trigger.

  It had all been verified, except for the identity of the officer, who was unrecognizable in the footage. Whether it was a legitimate officer or a white supremacist in disguise didn’t matter. To the country, and especially the black minority, it was merely another example of a racist cop being protected by the establishment. The location certainly didn’t help in the least: Ferguson, Missouri, the scene of many fierce protests in the previous few years. The peaceful protests erupted into violence.

  Clay reread the message on his cell, his latest instructions from his captors, tormentors, controllers…he didn’t know what to call them. Initially he had no idea what it was about. It highlighted a transaction in the New Black Panthers accounts from the year 2000. An innocuous looking transaction that, upon investigation, linked the group to a donation to Al Qaeda prior to 9/11. However, it told Clay far more than that, it told him that it was the group controlling him that without a doubt had killed the FBI director and subsequently the mayor of Atlanta.

  He was also fully aware of the implication of affiliating the New Black Panthers with Al Qaeda and the impact it would have on them with regard to the National Defense Authorization Act. An act which he had recently signed once again into force for another year. It’s most controversial points remained in place despite continued concerns for the rights of American citizens.

  At the sound of footsteps behind him he turned, closing his cell and placing it in his pocket out of sight.

  “Come on, honey, time for bed,” his wife encouraged.

  He kissed her on the forehead, looking out across a chaotic cityscape. “I really can’t, not with everything that’s going on out there.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it tonight,” she said, rubbing his back tenderly.

  “I know but…I’ll be through shortly.” He wanted to scream that it was all planned, someone was pulling strings, including his, to make it all happen. However, he couldn’t. He looked back out across the flashing nightscape.

  Val knew him well enough and departed quietly.

  What the hell was happening? What the hell did they want? They were plunging his country into chaos. People’s lives were being put at risk for what? Because he wouldn’t stand up to whoever it was that thought they could control him? American lives would be lost in the riots, and every one of those lives, just like his Chief of Staff, lead Secret Service Agent, and the FBI director, would be on his conscience.

  “Mr. President?” Mike, his Secret Service Lead Agent interrupted his thoughts.

  “Mike?”

  “Just dropped in to say good night, Sir.”

  Clay looked at his watch. “What on Earth are you still doing here?”

  “There’s a lot to catch up on.”

  “Yes,” said Clay quietly, understanding, Mike’s predecessor had fallen afoul of Clay’s controllers when Clay told him about the messages.

  “Anyway, I also wanted to let you know that we have increased security given the unrest, and to give you this that was dropped off earlier.” Mike handed over an envelope and with a nod was gone.

  Clay waited until he heard Mike’s shoes on the marble steps at the end of the hallway before tearing open the envelope. A photo of his daughter Clara was the first item to come out. Clay looked at his beautiful daughter, a daughter he had never been able to spend real time with. She was tied to a chair, fear etched across her face. A second photo fell to the floor. His younger daughter Tess, the picture taken through the scope of a rifle, literally painting crosshairs on his beloved daughter’s face. Clay’s breath caught and he staggered back and fell into a chair, gasping for oxygen. He checked the envelope for photos of his son, Jack, there were none. Apparently the threats to his daughters were sufficient for his aggressors.

  After a few seconds he regained his composure and placed the photos back in the envelope. He had no doubt his beautiful daughters would be killed if he exposed the situation. Even if he did, it wasn’t going to help with what was happening on the streets. The links to his situation were tenuous at best, although he was absolutely convinced they were all inextricably linked. Proving that, however, was an entirely different thing. And proving it in a way that the people would stop rioting would require a whole different level of proof. Coming clean and exposing his situation would not only sign his family’s death warrant, but it wouldn’t stop what was happening. There was nothing to stop him doing all within his power to quell the riots, stop them getting out of control, stop any innocents from being killed. He had time, and Joe was coming to help him.

  Joe was coming to help him.

  Chapter 10

  Joe looked down the length of the bus as it drew to a stop. The view ahead was not good. A police cruiser was blocking the road ahead and stopping all traffic.

  “I’ve got a connection to make in thirty minutes!” someone shouted from the back of the bus.

  “Me too!” came another shout, and then another.

  Sandy barked.

  The elderly woman, wakened by the shouting, looked at Joe.

  He nodded, she smiled. “Told you, those dogs are cleverer than most folks!”

  Joe looked at his empty bottle of bourbon longingly. He could have done with another drink. He stood, dropping the empty bottle on his seat, and walked to the front of the bus.

  “How far are we from the station?”

  “Not far. It’s a few blocks straight down there,” indicated the driver, pointing directly ahead beyond the police.

  Joe whistled. The driver threw him a look, realizing he had been played by the dog back in Corpus Christi, as Sandy stuck to Joe’s side.

  “Smart dog.”

  “Very,” replied Joe. “Open the door please.”

  “I can’t. I can only open the door at a certified stop. It’s for your own safety,” said the driver.

  A queue was forming behind Joe when it became apparent the bus wasn’t going to be able to travel any further.

  “Open the door, man!” someone shouted.

  As more shouts rang out, the driver did the only thing he could; he moved the bus nearer the curb and opened the door. Joe nodded a thank-you and walked off, Sandy by his side.

  “When’s your connection?” shouted the old lady to Joe as she stepped from the bus.

  “Thirty minutes,” Joe replied without looking bac
k.

  “Mine’s twenty,” she said.

  Sandy stopped walking and Joe looked back. The old lady was struggling with a case twice her size. Sandy looked at him and then the old lady. Other passengers looked at him, struggling with their own baggage while he had none.

  He whistled. Sandy ignored him, staring instead at the old lady.

  “Too smart for your own damned good…” he muttered under his breath. He walked back and took the lady’s case from her with ease.

  “Come on,” he said huffily as the old lady patted a tail-wagging Sandy.

  The bus turned and headed back the way it had come, leaving Joe and twenty of his fellow passengers on the sidewalk. One police cruiser and two cops were the only sign of life ahead. The streets were empty, no traffic, no pedestrians, nobody. The sound of distant sirens filled the emptiness all around them.

  “Nobody gets beyond here!” said a policeman when they reached the roadblock.

  “We’re going to the bus station a few blocks from here,” explained one of the passengers.

  “Not this way you’re not. Nobody’s getting through here.”

  “We’ve got buses to catch,” said Joe, stepping forward.

  “And we’ve got a city to protect!” replied the cop, referencing himself and his colleague who remained in the cruiser while his younger colleague dealt with the nearly non-existent traffic.

  “Not from us,” Joe replied, looking at the rather sorry collection of people around him.

  “We’ve got enough to contend with, without worrying about your sorry asses getting mugged, robbed, or worse. It’s crazy in there,” he said, nodding towards downtown.

  “We’re only going a few blocks, not downtown. And there’s not a soul there.”

  “We’ve got gangs marauding all over the place, operating between here and downtown. This is for your own safety, sir.” The officer placed his hand on his pistol grip.