Nuclear Winter First Strike by Bobby Akart (best fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

Driftwood Key. There was nothing comparable in the area unless he could find a place that happened to be on the Potomac River, which he wouldn’t be able to afford.

He didn’t need a fancy place to hang his hat. He was rarely home thanks to being attached to one of the most prolific travelers to occupy the leadership position in the State Department in many administrations. His place was small but quiet. His refrigerator remained empty except for a handful of condiments and lots of Hurricane Reef beer that he ordered online from their brewery near Miami. It was a little taste of the Keys to go with his dinner of choice, a BBQ chicken pizza made by California Pizza Kitchen.

When he found his way to the local Harris Teeter, his shopping cart screamed bachelor. Red Bull. Pretzels. Several bottles of Jack Daniel’s Honey Barbecue sauce and a few frozen pizzas from California Pizza Kitchen to dip into it. If he was gonna be in town for more than a couple of days, he’d splurge on a box of Entenmann’s doughnuts.

With his horrific eating habits, Peter could’ve easily packed on the pounds. However, he was fortunate to have his father’s genetics and his mother’s love for running. Every morning, without fail, Peter would strap on his Asics running shoes and pound the pavement. He’d set his Apple AirPods in place and pick out a couple of podcasts to listen to. Or he’d select the playlist full of beach songs performed by his favorite country music performers.

Considering the strain placed on his body from traveling coupled with a diet that was more college frat boy than adult journalist, Peter remained well-toned and healthy.

He was exhausted and looked forward to crashing in his own bed for a change. He’d popped open a beer and mindlessly surfed through the cable news channels to see footage of the aftermath of the terrorist attacks. A couple of the networks had created graphics quoting him and even used his picture to put a face with the quotes. It was a proud moment for him, although he couldn’t relish it. He was genuinely glad to be alive.

Once his pizza was ready, he cut it up and poured a small mound of barbecue sauce in the middle of the plate. It was a routine he’d repeated a hundred times during his years in Washington. To some, it might exhibit loneliness. One could easily feel sorry for the young man who’d devoted his life to journalism. For Peter, eating was the least important part of his daily life. He enjoyed being in the thick of international affairs, even if it was as a reporter looking from the outside in.

He was on his third slice when his landline phone rang in the kitchen. Upon his return, he’d checked his voicemails and found numerous messages from television and radio producers hoping to interview him the next day. He didn’t take the time to write them down. The late evening call was unexpected, but most likely a persistent producer. He’d reward them with the first opportunity to score an exclusive.

Peter rose from the couch and headed to the kitchen. As he did, his personal cell phone rang. Then, almost simultaneously, the secure phone assigned to him as a member of the State Department’s embed press pool chirped as well. His tiny condo was filled with a variety of ringing sounds, the most annoying of which was the landline. It, however, was the least important.

Peter raced back around the couch and grabbed the secure cell from State.

“Hello.”

“Peter, it’s Jenna.”

“Hey. Um, wait. How’d you get this number?”

“It doesn’t matter. Listen—”

Peter’s eyes caught a glimpse of the television. He started shouting, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”

“Peter! Peter!” Jenna’s voice was coming through the phone’s receiver.

“Yeah, I’m here. I see it on the news.”

“Listen to me,” she continued.

Peter turned his focus back to his longtime friend. She spoke for a moment, and then he pulled the phone away from his ear. He muttered the only words he could seem to grasp at the moment.

“Oh shit.”

Chapter Thirteen

Saturday, October 19

Driftwood Key

After a long day, Mike and Jessica reached out to Hank by phone. He said he had a bungalow available if they’d like to come have a few mojitos and crash for the night. The childless-by-choice couple readily accepted and were treated to a hearty meal by Phoebe. The rest of the evening was spent on the beach, listening to the bongo drums and the steel drum band while a small bonfire shot flames into the sky near the water’s edge.

Hank was a social cigar smoker. On those rare occasions he was able to dig his toes in the sand and consume an adult beverage, he enjoyed lighting up his favorite cigar—the Island Jim. The torpedo-shaped smoke had been his father’s favorite, and Hank had acquired a taste for them when he used to sneak them out of the humidor as a teen. Shaped like a #2 pencil, the label featured the cartoonish image of a man who seemingly spent his entire life on the beach. Hank liked it for its rich, chocolatey flavor.

“Here’s the thing, Hank,” began Mike. “We don’t have enough warm bodies to beat the streets. Monroe County is not geared up for a murder investigation like this one. Miami-Dade has offered assistance, and of course, the FDLE is chomping at the bit to join in.”

Mike, who rarely smoked cigars, always enjoyed one when he was hanging out with his older brother. He’d always looked up to Hank as a kid and tried his best to hang with the big dogs, as his mother put it, when he was growing up. Seven years younger, Mike emulated many of Hank’s mannerisms and traits although the two men differed in career paths. Mike always wanted to be a cop, and Hank always wanted to be Island Jim. Hank kept a box of Rocky Patel cigars in the humidor for Mike. The Edge, as the