Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (29 page)

The Governor inhales and wipes his mouth again. He leans back and studies me for a moment. He laughs heartily. I glance at The Saint. He's smiling, lips pressed together.

"We know that, son," the Governor says. He reaches over and slaps my knee. "I'm playing with you. We know you're clean. That's why Sir Spencer over here let you go. He knew you were telling the truth."

"Sir Spencer?"

"Sir Spencer Thomas," answers The Saint. "S-T. St. The Saint."

"You're a knight?" I ask, confused. "What is a knight doing with the Governor?"

"I'm with whoever will have me."

"Kinda like your Charlie girl there, Jackson." More laughter from the comical Governor. "Gun for hire. That's what we've got here. A whole bunch of guns for hire."

"So," I say, my eyes closed to visualize the flow chart in my head, "The Saint…uh...Sir Spencer works for you. Charlie works, I mean worked, for Buell. The Pickle people work for the oil companies? Ripley worked for everybody?"

"I'd say that sums it up," the Governor says. "Wouldn't you say that sums it up, Spence?"

"
Sir
Spencer," he shoots back. "No need to be
too
familiar Governor. We are, after all, bound by financial considerations as opposed to ideology. But yes, I would say young Jackson here has a rudimentary understanding of the
who
. Now he needs to understand the
why
."

"Well," the Governor says, "that's a bit more complicated isn't it? Ahh, the drinks!"

I turn to see Sally Anne approaching us with a white porcelain cup and saucer in one hand and a thin glass fizzing with ice and Diet Dr. Pepper in the other.

"Thank you, Sally Anne." The Governor takes the saucer in both hands before pulling the steaming cup to his mouth. "Hot. Like I like it." He winks at her and she hands me my drink with a smile.

The Governor blows on the coffee. I take a sip of the soda, catching a small piece of ice under my tongue.

"Anything else?" the pretty woman asks, briefly looking each of us in the eyes. We shake our heads and she returns to the wet bar. All of us watch her leave.

"Mmmm," he says before blowing on the coffee again. "Like I like it."

“The
why
then?” I ask.

“Yes,” the Governor answers, his head nodding quickly up and down. He places the saucer and cup on the small polished walnut end table at the end of the sofa. “The
why
!” He makes air quotes with his fingers and adjusts his tie again. “This is a complex operation into which you’ve mixed yourself, Jackson. It’s got many…moving parts.”

“Elaborate,” I cut in. “Please.”

“Those iPods, they contained financial information; bank accounts, routing numbers, that sort of thing. A bit of information regarding the progress of our little project over at Rice. You know that don’t you?”

“I thought I saw bank numbers on the iPod in Alaska. The contact there dropped it.”

“She told me,” says the Governor. “That’s what got this whole ball of wax rolling so quickly downhill.”

“What do you mean?” I glance at George. He’s still sleeping.

“That contact was concerned about your trustworthiness,” he says, picking up the coffee and taking a sip. “I assured her you were clueless, but she demanded some certainty.”

“Given her financial stake in the matter,” adds Sir Spencer, “we felt obliged to comply with her request.”

“So, without your knowledge,” the Governor says, “we had your apartment searched. That’s when we found the downloaded code numbers and the iPod synchronization data.”

“I didn’t—”The Governor puts up his hand to stop me.

“I know you saved the codes,” he says. “No big deal. They really mean nothing.”

“They’re significant Texas dates. That has to mean something.”

The Governor takes another sip of coffee while exchanging a look with Sir Spencer. He takes a second longer draw of the hot liquid and slowly puts it back on the side table.

“Regardless,” he says, “we had to know for certain if you were the one who synched the device. That’s where my friend Sir Spencer enters the picture more clearly.”

“That’s why you drugged, kidnapped, and tortured me?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it
torture
,” corrected Sir Spencer. “It was merely the employment of enhanced interrogation techniques.”

“No,” I argue, “you went all
Zero
Dark
Thirty
on me.”

“I guess that would make you Jessica Chastain,” laughs the Governor, pointing at Sir Spencer. “But yes. That is why we felt the need to question you under duress.”

“You passed.” The Governor gives me a thumbs up. “You clearly didn’t know anything about the computer synch. We quickly determined it was your dearly beloved.”

“Charlie?”

“Yes,” says the Governor, his tone becoming more serious. “The more we vetted her, the less we could find about her.”

“That,” adds Sir Spencer, “and on the night I
kidnapped
you, she left the bar with a known soldier-of-fortune.”

“Crockett.”

“Yes, Crockett,” says Sir Spencer. “Most assuredly a
nomme
de
guerre
, as was Charlotte Corday, we assume.”

“It was,” I say.

“When our people put Charlie and Crockett together,” the Governor went on, “we put together she was the one who’d lifted the financial information. We also know she shot Buell.”

“Wait,” I shake my head. “She worked for Buell. She said that before she died. Why would she shoot him?”

“Sympathy,” says the Governor. “It worked too. Buell’s favorability rating is through the roof. Our own internal polling has him with a commanding, though not insurmountable, lead among independent voters.”

“You digress,” counsels Sir Spencer.

“Right,” the Governor says. “We told our partners in the energy business you were clean. They didn’t buy it.”

“Why?”

“Because you hopped right over to Charlie’s place after Sir Spencer left you in your apartment,” the Governor explains. “They figured the two of you must be in cahoots.”

“That’s why the Pickle guys were trying to kill me? They think I was working for Buell too?”

“Let’s clarify,” says Sir Spencer. “They are trying to kill you. They couldn’t be sure as to your loyalty. We could not convince them otherwise. I could only guide you along the way and try to watch over you.”

“What’s the money for?” I ask. “Why was Charlie interested in the information on the iPod?”

“Charlie and Crockett were working for Buell,” the Governor says. “And through her connections, she was able to get a job working for me. Double agent, Mata Hari kinda stuff. When she found out you were a courier for me, she latched on to you.”

“And the money?”

“The money, which was not in small amounts, was payment for my help,” the Governor gives Sir Spencer a look that tells me he’s measuring his words.

“Help for what?”

“Survival.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You know Buell and his Nanergetix company are working on a more efficient fuel. That fuel is made better by enhancements on the molecular level.”

“You mean on the nanoscale,” I correct him.

“You’re right,” the Governor smiles at me and looks to Sir Spencer. “He really is a smart cookie. I did good in picking you, Jackson. Yes, the nanoscale. That’s more microscopically accurate.”

“Did
well
,” corrects Sir Spencer. “You did well in picking him.”

“Whatever,” shrugs the Governor. “Better fuel is ultimately
not
what our energy companies want. If every gallon of the nano-enhanced fuel goes farther, the profits go south. We’re talking way south.”

“So…?” I lean in, wanting him to get to the point.

“So,” he says, “they paid me money to prevent that from happening. As the Governor of the energy capital of the world, I have a little influence. I have resources. Texas has its advantages.”

“Ripley.”

“Bingo!” The Governor points at me. “Dr. Ripley. He was the ticket. I knew he could figure out a way to magically undo whatever enhancements Buell created. And when the federal government tells the energy companies to use the Nanergetix creation in their refining process, we could, here in Texas, add our own little juju to the mix.”

“They paid you to find Ripley?”

“They paid me to find Ripley, to keep the mad scientist on a leash, and to keep Texas friendly toward their industry.”

“Which Buell would not do should he become Governor,” I conclude.

“Correct!”

“But our friend Ripley became unpredictable,” Sir Spencer says. “He grew increasingly nervous about what it was we were asking of him. It became unbearable, apparently, when Mr. Buell learned of our effort. He tried to undermine us.”

“He tried to flip Ripley into a turncoat,” the Governor says. “We told Ripley to play along, to make Buell’s folks believe he was flipping. They weren’t convinced of his allegiance. They concocted that plan to have Charlie shoot Buell. It not only got him the sympathy vote, it also put Ripley on notice when they framed his dad.”

“You couldn’t do anything? You’re the Governor.”

“Right,” answers the Governor. “As though I’m going to stick my nose into the attempted assassination of my political rival. I do anything of the sort, and it looks terrible.”

“That’s really why Charlie shot Buell,” I surmise. “It was about the nanotech stuff more than the politics.”

“C’mon now, Jackson,” laughs the Governor. “You’re smarter than that. Everything’s about politics. Everything.”

My life is upside down because I delivered iPods to energy executives. One of them thought I saw something I shouldn’t have seen, and the rest of it unraveled from there.

I was collateral damage. The Governor didn’t care about the danger into which he might be throwing me. Here he sits in a private jet, smugly sipping his Bailey’s and coffee, telling me about politics.

Everything
is
about
politics
.

“So,” I tilt my head and lean in to the Governor, “this is about the money.”

“Excuse me?”

I can’t tell if he didn’t hear me or he’s offended by the inference.

“This is about the money,” I repeat. “What’s the money for? I mean it has to be millions, right? What’s your plan?”

“You need to speak up, Jackson,” he says, rubbing his left palm on the leather arm of the sofa. “I thought you said millions.”

“I did.”

“Try billions, son.” He leans in, his face inches from mine. I can see his eyes studying mine, like he’s looking for fear. “It’s billions. I don’t play for pennies.”

My mind races back to the discussion we had over pizza, the one about secession: “
If
you
talk
to
some
financial
gurus
,
they’ll
tell
you
that
we
can’t
survive
without
the
billions
that
the
federal
government
gives
us
.
But
that
isn’t
true
.
All
it
takes
is
the
start
-
up
capital
.
We
need
a
few
billion
to
get
going
.”

That’s the end game. He wants Texas to secede and he’s using big oil money to do it.

***

Blair Loxley stood over me, taunting me, after a single hit sent me to the ground. He was buoyed by the cheers from his friends, their ring around us shrinking as I stood and regained my balance.

It was a sucker punch, launched into my chest as I extended my hand to shake on the fight. I should’ve known better. I thought, with the crowd, he’d stray from his guerrilla tactics. I was wrong.

He circled around me, hunched over, his fists balled tight in front of him. His face was red, his eyes narrowed and focused. He was as ready to end this as I was.

“C’mon, Jacktard,” he spat. “Take a swing. I dare you.”

I stepped back, and was pushed forward by one of his friends. Loxley swung at me as I neared him, but I ducked and he missed. His momentum carried him to my side and I lunged into him, knocking him to the ground. I was on top of him for a moment and managed a couple of quick jabs to his gut before he shoved me off of him.

“Get him!” yelled one of his friends.

“Throttle him!” screamed another.

We both got to our feet at the same time. I looked into his eyes again. They weren’t as focused. There was doubt. In front of all of his friends, could he beat me? Would he be humiliated?

“Throttle me?” I said between heaving breaths. “You gonna throttle me,
stooge
?”

That drew snickers from a couple of people in the circle around us.

“Dude,” somebody said. “You gonna let that fly, Loxley?”

Loxley looked past me to whoever it was that challenged him and charged at me with his arms wide open. I dropped to my back and kicked up my legs as he got to me. He tripped and flew past me into the circle, sliding face first into the grass.

I rolled over and jumped onto his back, straddling him. With one hand on the back of his head, I pressed the left side of his face against the ground. With the other, I pulled his left arm back at an uncomfortable angle. I was essentially lying on top of him, my chest pressed against the back of his neck.

Within an instant, I’d gotten the upper hand. The circle was backing up, widening as Loxley whimpered and struggled against me. I could hear the mumbling in the crowd. Nobody was cheering Loxley.

I leaned in closer to Loxley’s ear. I could hear him struggling to breathe through his mouth.

“This ends now,” I whispered. “You don’t mess with me anymore. Do you understand?” I tugged on his left arm and he let out a muffled wail.

“Let him up!” someone said. “You’re hurting him.”

I ignored the call for mercy.

“It ends now,” I repeated, more loudly. “Do you understand?”

Another tug. Another cry.

“You win dude!” Someone else in the crowd. “You got him! It’s over.”