Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best finance books of all time .TXT) 📗

I didn’t see Steve, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here. He had that strict sense of duty to country that might overcome distaste. No Kenyons in sight either. This was a relief. I didn’t know if I was a good enough actress to look them in the eye and pretend I didn’t know they were consorting with terrorists and murderers. I still couldn’t get over the idea that poor old Muir was a conspirator, too. I tried to picture him hunched over his computer plotting the trajectory that would take out an embassy, but I couldn’t picture him at all. He was that bland.

I climbed on stage and found that someone had moved my keyboard to the very back of the stage, almost out of sight behind a couple of amplifiers. I thought it was odd, but was grateful. This was a bigger crowd than I was used to playing for and I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything.

Despite, or maybe because of the cold, the crowd didn’t need much of our pre-rally warm-up to reach near frenzy for the arrival of the big-wigs in long, dark limos. They were exactly on time. It wasn’t like bigwigs, but perhaps we were all slaves to Fox News and the President’s schedule. I tensed when Flynn mounted the stand, but he didn’t seem to notice me ensconced behind my keyboard at the back of the action and I was able to relax. I studied him, trying to find the evil lurking beneath his saintly exterior. No sign of Dag, which was a huge relief, whether he was a mad plotter or not.

The colors were presented to the sound of a single bugler playing The Star Spangled Banner. The crisp cold gave each note a clarity that brought tears to my eyes and made the hand over my heart more than a peer pressure induced gesture. In the bold, bright light Old Glory rose on the new flagpole, the breeze whipping it straight. Red, white and blue against the night sky brought a collective sigh from the audience. The music faded into the night and everyone sat down.

It was time for the hot air. The political speeches passed surprisingly fast, like everyone was set on fast forward. It was odd, but I didn’t dwell on it. Lee Greenwood stepped forward and it was time to make some music. In concert with my boys, I keyed the opening notes of I’m Proud to be an American, the song that had become the rallying cry for the whole war.

Something about the intense cold, brilliant light and heightened emotion brought it all into sharper focus, giving everything a clarity and precision that cut through preoccupation like a Ginzu knife. It was as if my mind had unconsciously been taking notes, and now began sending questions for my conscious mind to ponder.

Questions like, why were the lights angled to cause pain if the audience didn’t look directly towards the bandstand?

Why was the memorial pig not in the lime light? All I could see was the very end of its muzzle. The base and rear were completely shrouded in darkness.

The angle of the barrel was odd, too. Shouldn’t it be pointing up more, rather than straight down the channel created by the facing bleachers?

Thinking of bleachers, why were they facing each other, instead of the bandstand?

I kept singing and playing on cue, but my mind was a vulture circling the scene before finally settling on Flynn.

He looked relaxed. Too relaxed. He looked at his watch, then at the rear of the pig. So I looked at the rear of the pig. Couldn’t see squat with the dark glasses on, but I looked. My hands faltered on the keyboard. No one seemed to notice. Only the words mattered.

I’m proud to be an American.

Flynn was as proud of this country as anyone I knew. It didn’t fit for him to throw in with terrorists. Could he be Dag’s pawn? That sure fit. Dag was a toe rag.

I frowned into the shadow, hitting about half the keys I was supposed to, and found I could see the dark outline of the pig if I took care not to look into a spotlight. That’s when I saw a flicker of movement so slight I wondered if I’d imagined it. Okay, so someone was back there. Made sense. Someone had to unveil the pig.

—going to be something happen today, possibly tonight. It might involve embassies—

—schematics that determined weak spots—

—look right at it and not know what it was—

—second shot heard round the world?

I tensed and just stopped myself from hitting a wrong note. My hands quit moving as my mind sped along the track of clues strewn right and left and added in what Kel had told me, mixed with what I’d learned from war watching.

Artillery was hard to defend against, almost impossible, in fact, unless you stopped it before launch.

Power brokering.

Shots heard round the world.

I couldn’t get that phrase out of my head.

Not while staring at a pig with a potentially big bang.

If it was pointed in the right direction.

Was it?

I did a mental survey, added in the north and south.

If I was right, the pig was pointed right at the capitol building where most of our government was assembling right now.

No. It couldn’t be, could it? No one would be insane enough to fire this little piggie from the park.

Not when we were at war.

Surely they weren’t that crazy?

I looked at Flynn and caught him looking at his pig. That’s when I knew, don’t ask me how, that he was that crazy. They were going to fire the pig. If they succeeded, the shot would be heard round the world. It might be heard on the moon.

As if he heard me thinking, he looked my way and I knew that he knew I knew.

He wasn’t just trying to limit the whole of Congress’s terms, he’d been part of the attempts on my life.

I arched