The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga (5 page)

"Well, this one needs to be different, then.
 
This one needs to have real authority, real power."
 
The President leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin in thought.
 
He ignored the banter as the Cabinet argued how best to proceed.
 

He could feel Jayne watching him.
 
He’d never defied her before, let alone in public.
 
Ever.
 
Her very presence was intoxicating and commanded him to obey.
 

President Barron refused to look at her.
 
He refused to remember the pleasure that she provided.
 
Her naked body flashed unbidden through his mind.

With a newfound resolve and strength of will, he slammed the door shut on his memories.
 
He was the President of the United States and by God he was going to start acting like it.
 
Jayne and Reginald had played their game—they’d played him for a fool and nearly broken him.
 
Now it was his turn.

"I'm going to appoint someone to marshal the agency security forces into one unit.
 
This person shall report directly to me, will be loyal to me, and will answer only to me.
 
If we have to, we’ll create a standing army of civilian forces.
 
That should get us around the posse comitatus laws and keep our burgeoning population of Constitutional scholars at bay.”

Jayne slipped her hand over his leg.
 
He felt her fingers encroach on his groin.
 
He began to feel heat in his stomach work its way south.
 
"Love, gathering all these forces, finding someone to lead them, vetting that person… It will take so…"
 
Her hand squeezed, “…long."

The President leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
 
Dear God, she’s amazing.
 
How could she send such waves of ecstasy through his body with a single touch like that?
 
He had to still have some of her drug cocktail in his system.
 
No woman should have that kind of power over a man—especially not the President.
 
His eyes flew open.

"I don't care how long it takes, it's going to happen."
 
He reached down and gently removed her fingers.
 
"I want you to come up with a list of names—get the vetting process going."

"But, I think the military should—"

"I'm the one who makes these decisions, Jayne."
 
He turned his attention back to the rest of the room and made to stand.
 

The Secretary Brooks spoke quickly:
 
“Sir, I have a few more items for your attention…”

"They can wait.
 
This needs to take top priority.
 
We have a lot going on, people," the President said in a not unkind voice, "but in a way, Jayne's right.
 
We've got to secure the homefront first.
 
The North Koreans don't seem to be advancing at the moment—thanks to our Vice President.
 
The flu doesn't seem completely out of hand yet,” he said with a nod to Director Mills.
 
“So let’s focus on securing the homefront, keeping the population from killing each other, and providing food and medicine.
 
Then we'll worry about the flu, and then we'll worry about North Korea—and China."

He turned to look at Jayne and saw that same mask of anger disappear from her face.
 
She smiled sweetly.
 
"Of course, Mr. President.”
 

Oh, I'm going to regret this later, I can feel it.

C
HAPTER
3

C
HAD
WOKE
WITH
A
start to someone pounding on his cell door.
 
He'd been dreaming of the past, when his family had still been alive—when he’d been happy.
 
He dreamed of high school and football practice and the senior prom—Becky Melton, the big mum he’d made for her, and the fun they’d had post-dance.
 
He dreamed of Texas.

Russian voices on the other side of the door announced the first of his meager daily rations.
 
The door opened and Chad blinked in the light.
 
He saw the silhouette of a man before him who held a tray containing his next meal.
 
Another man stood behind him in the hallway, a Kalashnikov rifle in his hands.
 

Chad didn't speak a word of Russian, but he’d heard them to talk to each other over the past week of his incarceration.
 
He’d come to understand the tall lanky one was Yuri and the shorter, stockier one with the red beard was Boris.
 
They both had suspicious eyes and cold stares.
 
They were soldiers, that much was clear.
 
Chad was far outside his element—that much was even clearer as they dropped the platter of gruel and bread on the floor with disdain.

They had nothing to fear from him, bound as he was by cable ties at his wrists and beaten half-senseless almost daily since his arrival.
 
They saw him only as a resource, worth a millions of rubles—or whatever passed for currency in post-Pandemic Russia.

Yuri mumbled something and Boris snickered in the hallway.
 
The two watched for an expression or any reaction.
 
It was a tiresome game.
 
Chad stared at the floor without moving.
 
They both laughed.
 
Boris slammed the door behind them as they left, their laughter a muted echo in the hallway.

Chad’s stomach betrayed him and protested loudly.
 
He had been living off what he hoped was oatmeal and stale bread for a week.
 
Three times a day, morning, noon, and night.
 
At least, he thought it was morning, noon, and night.
 
They’d taken his watch and his cell had no clock.

The room in which he’d been kept had no light or window, either.
 
Only a dim beam that appeared under the door, poorly set in its frame penetrated the perpetual darkness of his cell.
 
His prison.
 

Along one wall of the cell was a musty cot.
 
It really wasn't all that uncomfortable—he’d slept in far worse conditions while working as a CDC field agent up in Glacier National Park.
 
There were many nights that he had slept on the ground with only a rock for a pillow as he chased down some elusive prey.
 
Here, he had a real pillow, a filthy—but soft—cotton sheet, and a blanket.
 
In the other corner of the room sat a 5 gallon bucket—his toilet.
 
He’d not yet begun to get used to the smell of his own waste, but he had little say in the matter.

Chad shuffled across the room and picked up the tray with hands that trembled.
 
The last bloodletting had been especially draining.
 
He leaned against the bare, cinderblock wall and sighed.
 
By his best guess and the strength of the light that had flooded the hallway behind the Russians when they’d entered, this was his morning meal.
 
That would mean
…he thought for a moment and looked around.
 
Day seven.
 
No, it must be day eight by now.

Over a week in this shit hole.

He clumsily spooned slop into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
 
At least his hands had been bound in front of him this time, so he could feed himself.

He'd been here more than a week and no one had come for him.
 
Chad didn't think that he was outside the country, so he couldn’t figure out why Captain Alston and the Rangers hadn’t found him yet.
 
He closed his eyes and prayed that someone was still looking for him.
 

Once again, he let his mind settle into the game—more of a morning ritual—of trying to figure out where he was.
 
It helped pass the time and he hoped would let him retain a grip on his sanity.
 
After all, there was nothing else for him to do when he wasn’t being used as a pincushion by the Russian doctor.

He tore off a chunk of stale bread and was grateful that the poor lighting did not allow him to see any mold.
 
He popped it in his mouth and chewed, adding some of the oatmeal to give it moisture.
 

He thought of the sheer contempt on the faces of his captors.
 
They obviously had no respect for his abilities to escape.
 
That was fine by him, because it was the truth.
 
He had no formal training for situations like this.
 
He’d never served that way—the closest thing he'd ever come to being in the military was when he’d shot some North Koreans during his escape from Glacier National Park.
 

That was not a happy thought.
 
He continued to mull over the facts and possibilities in his head as he polished off his unappetizing gruel.
 
A little bit of cinnamon would have been a Godsend.
 
He used the last bit of bread to mop up the dregs and pushed the empty platter back toward the door.

If the pattern held true, the Russians would soon come back and drag him away to their laboratory.
 
He flexed his arms, feeling the soreness in both elbows.
 
After all the blood they had taken from him over the past few days, escape was simply not possible.
 
He felt winded just standing up.
 
Yet he felt compelled to try something.

The first few days he'd been in a complete panic, thrashing about the room, not sleeping—trying to find anything that would help him claw his way out.
 
There'd been nothing.
 
On the fourth day he'd come to the conclusion that he was simply trapped and his physical abilities were going to continue to drain as they took more and more blood from him.
 
He decided then and there that he had to use his mind.
 

In some respects, he almost felt stronger than when he had been tossed unceremoniously into the room for the first time.
 
He felt more in control, at least.
 
Whatever they did to his body, they could do nothing to his mind.
 
So he spent his time thinking.
 
Planning.
 
Trying to puzzle out where he was, what they wanted, and how to get out.

Breaking free from his restraints was the key.
 
He hoped that he would soon be able to do just that.
 
Every time the Russians pulled him out of his cell to take his blood, Yuri removed the cable ties from Chad’s wrists.
 
And every day, Boris would lazily slap on a new cable tie.
 
At first, Chad had resisted mightily and wasted an inordinate amount of energy trying to keep them from locking his wrists together.
 
After a day or two of this, he’d quickly realized that Russian complacency was going to be the key to his freedom.
 
He stopped resisting.
 
They had been suspicious and placed the zip ties even tighter.
 
But last night had been a breakthrough.

He looked down at his wrists in the dim light of the room and could see the shadows of his forearms as he rotated his wrists inside the cable tie.
 
Boris had gotten been and had not put it on as tight as before.
 
He smiled to himself in the darkness.
 
They were getting used to the fact that he was broken, that he had been completely cowed.
 

He had abandoned his failed hunger strike a few days ago and decided to eat the gruel and stale bread that they tossed in his direction.
 
They no longer pointed rifles at him when he moved about.
 
He kept his shoulders hunched and stared at the floor whenever they walked him around.
 
He offered no resistance at all.
 
He watched his wrists rotate in the cable tie restraints again.
 
At last, his play-acting was about to pay off.

Slowly, Chad pulled his arms to his sides and began to extend his elbows back beyond his body, feeling the tension that his separating wrists imparted to the thin plastic cable tie.
 
He nodded to himself.
 
Just like Captain Alston had told him.
 
He was confident that if he pulled his arms back with enough force and speed, he would be able to snap the cable tie.

Okay, but then what?
 
I'm still trapped in this damn room.
 
And Yuri always has Boris with his rifle.
 
So…