by Ice Newton
Will Gannon's greed be the death of him... or make him a national hero?
|I leaped from the train, bones cushioned by soft, grassy soil. Checked the USB drive couched in my shoe's sole.
Relieved, I suddenly sensed thirst. Feebly, I rose to cross the meadow. At the homestead there would be water and more.
I'm Gannon Steppe. For the right price I can make stuff go away- or be brought home.
E.g.: the single surviving documentation that the front runner for the Presidency was involved in supporting militant activity targeting races other than Aryan, a truth uncovered during my stint as a white nationalist. He was circumspect (had to be), but all it takes is one slip, one offbeat rally attendance, one careless displacement of his hood... my necktie cam did the rest. Copies were destroyed during the home invasion preceding my fugitive status. I barely escaped with my life (and drive).
Gunshots. I rolled on the ground, glad the tree line was within range. Returned fire with my Beretta M9. Taking advantage of the consequent respite, I bolted for forest cover.
Shots going the opposite way- my hirers.
An influential watchdog group who would move to nip the malignant candidacy in its bud.
At the gate I was met by my contact, led through a humongous clearing to a magnificent country house.
The hand-off was in an ornate study.
The boss bade me follow him into a stylish stateroom. Refreshments?
That's when reality struck.
Around the conference table were seated a party bearing distinctly Asian features. The one at the head smiled thinly at me, speaking in a clipped accent:
"Ever been to North Korea, Mr. Steppe?"
"You'll be spending inordinate time there soon."
He gazed down at the flash drive he clasped, with its priceless leverage.
"How thrilling to hold a US President in your fingers."