Right place, right time.
That was the truth when Young looked objectively at all the facts and the way everything had played out. He received the nod for vice president when Conrad Michaels went looking for a running mate who could win a few extra votes as opposed to losing them. Young possessed dashing good looks—dark complexion, strong jaw line, sparkling blue eyes, a megawatt smile, and a smooth voice that commanded attention—and a political record that was more centrist than activist. And when pressed about the matter in an exploratory interview with Michaels’s aides, Young admitted he had no aspirations of ever becoming president. All those factors combined to make him the perfect vice presidential candidate.
But that seemed like ages ago in political time.
Young had changed along with his aspirations. The waters of discontent went from stirred to thrashing waves. Over the final six months of Michaels’s life, Young had grown ill thinking about the possibility of remaining as the president’s “yes man” for another term. Even though he saw the power he could wield from his position to keep Michaels in check and mitigate any policy missteps regarding terrorism in the Middle East, Young yearned to trade his behind-the-scenes role for a more prominent one. Perhaps playing second fiddle awakened a desire he never realized he had. Whatever the reason for his newfound drive to become president, Young felt invigorated and hopeful about the future of the country.
As Young was pondering the coming months and what he would do in his first hundred days in office, his cell phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize. He’d adopted a policy of ignoring calls from numbers he didn’t have entered into his contact list. With the swipe of his finger, he sent the caller straight to voicemail. His secretary could transcribe the message for him later. Seconds later, a text message appeared on the phone’s screen:
check under your desk
Young furrowed his brow and wondered who the mystery caller was. Nevertheless, he groped beneath his desk, feeling around until he came upon a smooth piece of paper. He knelt down and looked at the object: a white envelope, taped tightly to the bottom of the center drawer.
What’s this?
He tore open the envelope and dug out a letter that had been folded several times. Fold by fold, Young slowly returned the paper to its original size before reading it.
Questions abound. The American people deserve to know the truth about what happened that day.
Beneath it was a website address along with a login code. Young pecked the address into the appropriate location at the top of his web browser. Moments later, a black screen appeared with a white box in the center, presumably for the code. After keying in the password, Young waited for the website to materialize. Once the site loaded, the same words written on the note were also posted at the top of the page. In the center was a video still obscured only by a universal play symbol.
Young furrowed his brow and dragged his mouse on top of the image before clicking. A split second later, the video went full screen and started to play.
The image appeared shaky and looked to be shot from the viewpoint of someone running through the woods. The image grew steadier as the person behind the camera found a place to rest and presumably hide. However, the shot swept across a stretch of woods. Almost immediately, Young recognized the location and cringed. He knew what he was about to see.
Depicted on camera was Young along with Brady Hawk talking with a bedraggled Conrad Michaels. Thirty seconds later, Michaels was shown slitting his wrist and bleeding before the screen faded to black.
Anybody who watched the images on the screen would have a mountain of questions, given that the official narrative of Conrad Michaels’s death was that of a heart attack. But Michaels obviously died another way. So, why lie about it? Why keep the truth from the American people? What drove Michaels to do this? Did he have mental health issues? Was he under the influence of drugs? Was he coerced? Threatened? And why did the vice president and some other man just let it happen without calling for help in a reasonable amount of time?
That was just the beginning of the questions the media and public would be asking if they watched the final minutes of Conrad Michaels’s life. A video like this would certainly erode the people’s trust in him along with his chances of winning the presidency.
Young’s phone buzzed, alerting him to another text message from the mysterious caller.
That wasn’t natural causes from a heart attack. Ready to talk?
Young wasn’t ready to talk because the American people weren’t ready to hear the truth, though he doubted they ever would be. Their attempts to sweep Michaels’s death under the rug had suddenly become an October surprise in December—and one of his own making.
Young only wanted to make the video—and the person behind it—simply go away.
CHAPTER 6
HAWK ONLY HAD TO WAIT six hours for J.D. Blunt to show up at the Dallas Executive Airport with his jet prepped for the long flight to Morocco. During that time, Hawk and Alex tried to comfort Gayle by exuding confidence in their ability to get her husband back from Al Hasib. Hawk also discussed with Alex the best way to handle any forthcoming negotiations with the terrorists. Without knowing the full extent of their demands, they decided such an exercise was futile, especially since the possibilities seemed too numerous to reach any consensus approach.
When Blunt’s plane landed, he lumbered down the stairs, using his cane to steady himself. He grimaced with each step and
