Primary Valor by Jack Mars (booksvooks TXT) 📗

thinline. It was something like a smile. Any second, she could open that mouthwide, and there would be rows of serrated teeth, like a shark, or a monster.

“We decide when you go home,” thatmouth said. “We even decide where your home is. You see, you belong to us now. Youwere given away, like a bag of used clothes. Like trash. No one wanted youanymore. So now we decide how much value you have.”

They stared across the bars ateach other for another long moment.

What could this possibly mean? Shewasn’t trash. No one wanted to throw her away. Her mother loved her. Her fatherhad loved her.

She hadn’t seen her father in along time. He had died and now he was gone. But that didn’t mean… anything.

Charlotte held her sore right handwith her left. As she watched, the woman opened a slot at the bottom of thecage and slid the plate inside. Now the hamburger was inside the cage.

“Enjoy that burger, 21. It reallyis very good. I had one earlier. Eat it all, if you can. There’s somethinginside it to help you get back to sleep. This is a long trip we’re on. We’veonly just gotten started, and I imagine you would like to escape from this fora little while. The burger will help you, and it won’t hurt you a bit.”

She stood and looked down atCharlotte again.

“It’s been a pleasure to meet you,21.”

* * *

She woke some time later, but it was different this time.

She couldn’t make her eyes focus. She had emerged from adeep darkness, and now there was light all around, but none of it made sense. Shecouldn’t force it to resolve into anything.

She couldn’t feel her senses. She couldn’t think. Her life was being decided by strangeand scary people. She could notresist anything. She could not say anything. Shedid not speak at all.

Who are they?

What do they want?

She was out of the cage now, and on her feet.

Was she hallucinating?

A plane. I was on a plane.

Some men stood around her. They were large men, and theyall seemed to have the same facial features, which was to say no facialfeatures. They were just blank, scrubbed out, as if they did not have faces atall.

One of the blurry faces spoke to her.

“Don’t worry,” it said. “Be a good girl. Don’t resist.”

Suddenly, the darksurrounded her again. But this new darkness was different. It was not sleep. It wasthe dark of blindness. It was the kind of darknessthe condemned man experiences when he is putagainst the wall to be shot.

They had covered her head with a black hood or sack.

She stood, not moving, as someone cinched the hood tight. Shecouldn’t breathe! For a moment, her heart raced in her chest. But then she feltherself sinking again. She would fall, but someone was holding her up.

One of the mencarried her. She felt herself become like some boneless deep sea creature, ajellyfish. Her breathing slowed down, her heart was barelybeating, her muscles became limp, and her body was slung over someone’sshoulder.

She knew it was theend. Thewoman who hit her had been lying. They weren’t taking her anywhere. There wasno new home. It was pointless lying, not for any kind of gain, but because that’swhat people did. They just lied for no reason.

Soon she would be killed. There would be no explanation ofanything—just confusion, this deep darkness, and then death.

CHAPTER FOUR

March 26, 2006

10:15 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

The offices of Richmond, Baker, Hancock and Pearl

K Street, Washington, DC

 

 

Politics is war by other means.

Don Morris liked to remind himselfof this whenever he found himself in places like this one. He walked side byside down a wide corridor with his old friend, the United States Representativefrom North Carolina, and current House Minority Leader, William Ryan. Thecarpet beneath their feet was deep pile and dark blue. There was hardly a soundanywhere.

Bill Ryan was tall and handsome,with graying hair. He carried himself with ruler straight posture, and hislarge jaw jutted forward as they walked. Even though it was Sunday morning—orperhaps because it was—he wore a sharp blue business suit, black shoes polishedand shining.

Don, in contrast, was morecasually dressed in khakis and a blue dress shirt with an open collar. He wasn’there to supplicate for the Special Response Team budget today. He was herebecause Bill had asked him for a favor.

“Here” was the headquarters of alobbying firm, in the K Street neighborhood that was ground zero for lobbyistsand special interests of all kinds. The American Heritage Center. Pro-lifers. TheWorld Bank. If they had an axe to grind, they were around here somewhere.

A late-middle-aged woman with grayhair, wearing a dark red sweater and slacks, moved ahead of them, walkingquickly and with purpose. Don knew the type—they were everywhere here inWashington. The long-time executive assistant, a consummate professional, ableto juggle dozens of facts, appointments, problems, and issues in her head,while simultaneously riding herd on a mob of young staffers.

A woman like this could run theshow herself, of course, but she was born too soon. She had probably startedout in life fetching coffee for overconfident young Republicans with slickhaircuts and their feet up on the desk. Today, on this disaster of a Sundaymorning, she was here at work, the most trusted employee of a very powerfulman, on a day when his world was falling apart.

The woman reached a set of widedouble doors at the end of the hall, opened them, and turned to wave Don andBill in.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “this isMr. Richmond’s office. Please don’t hesitate to alert me if you need anythingwhile you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Don said.

The doors opened into a hugecorner office. The ceilings were high and ornate, with crown moldings and anintricate center light fixture. A gleaming oak desk ruled on the far side ofthe room. Behind it was a long row of windows, giving a panoramic view ofWashington Circle at the confluence of K Street and Pennsylvania Avenue,several stories below. Sunday morning traffic, sparse by DC standards, racedsilently in each direction. It was springtime, and along the concreteboulevards, the trees were in bloom. The man who occupied this office