No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) by Mark E Becker Page A
Authors: Mark E Becker
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They each took a prolonged gulp of beer and bit into a wing before reviewing the clips of the day.
“They all make shit up, and they put their slant on whatever you say. The more words you speak, the more they have to twist and misconstrue, and in the end, they can have you spouting nonsense,” announced Jerry as they watched a report from the Bull Network’s Glenda Reasoner that dealt with the new administration’s lack of party loyalty.
“You can say that again,” Bill replied as the televised commentary shifted to talk show hosts Willie Somovich and Glen Aspect, two hosts they loved to hate. “Did you see what they said about our boy Max the other night? That shit about him just sitting up in the Oval Office and not caring about us common folk? If you ask me—”
Jerry cut off Bill before he launched into one of his weekly diatribes.
“He isn’t even in the White House yet. Glenda says that he’s down at the oil spill getting his hands dirty—”
“Would you guys shut the fuck up? I want to see the Special Report.”
Phil resented the fact that he was always the last to speak. By the time they got around to him, he usually had nothing to say, but on this occasion, he was ready. The three turned from their bickering and watched as the president-elect of the United States fell into what looked like floating turds, not once but twice, and came up covered in brown gook. As they watched in rapt amazement, Max approached the camera and flung the slimy mess at the laughing press corps.
“Oh Lord, we’re in for an interesting four years,” said Phil. “What do you mean? I’m going for eight,” replied Jerry.
“Well, if you guys want him in for eight, then I’ll go for twelve,” announced Bob.
Jerry and Phil just shook their heads as Bob, convinced that he had finally one-upped his old buddies, drained the last of his draft with a satisfied gulp.
u
CHAPTER 28
T
he Trump Plaza in Jersey City is the jewel of high rise residences in the greater New York metropolitan area. At 55 stories tall, it is the tallest residential building in New Jersey, commanding an unrestricted view of the Statue of Liberty, the
Hudson River, and all of Manhattan. The penthouse condo of the building had been sold back in Trump’s heyday to meet his financial obligations on other projects, purchased by a corporation named PGM, Inc., which existed only to purchase properties in tall buildings in major cities along the eastern seaboard and west coast of the United States. Nobody knew what the initials stood for, and they didn’t care. All transactions, for all ten of the luxurious penthouse residences that PGM had purchased to date, were made by remote wire transfer, and all ten sales were closed without the presence of a single human being. None of the residences were occupied, and their opulent furnishings were only for show.
In the weeks leading up to the inauguration, there was a flurry of activity in each of the units, as men disguised as movers brought large, innocuous looking boxes into the buildings. They had the proper credentials to present upon request, and their activities were never questioned by the management. The movers had the keycards necessary to enter the building, and another key card gave them access to the penthouse floors, which were inaccessible by anyone not possessing the electronic key. The total time that the units were occupied was approximately two hours, during which the workers installed ice-making machines and carefully connected them to the power supply. Inside each icemaker was a carefully engineered device of mass destruction: a tritium-enhanced, super EMP bomb.
It wasn’t a bomb in the conventional way. An Electromagnetic Pulse device did not produce a structure and people-destroying explosion. The EMP bomb was designed to emit gamma rays in a concentrated discharge. The effect of it’s detonation was to save those people and buildings, but take away all of the pillars of living in a
“They all make shit up, and they put their slant on whatever you say. The more words you speak, the more they have to twist and misconstrue, and in the end, they can have you spouting nonsense,” announced Jerry as they watched a report from the Bull Network’s Glenda Reasoner that dealt with the new administration’s lack of party loyalty.
“You can say that again,” Bill replied as the televised commentary shifted to talk show hosts Willie Somovich and Glen Aspect, two hosts they loved to hate. “Did you see what they said about our boy Max the other night? That shit about him just sitting up in the Oval Office and not caring about us common folk? If you ask me—”
Jerry cut off Bill before he launched into one of his weekly diatribes.
“He isn’t even in the White House yet. Glenda says that he’s down at the oil spill getting his hands dirty—”
“Would you guys shut the fuck up? I want to see the Special Report.”
Phil resented the fact that he was always the last to speak. By the time they got around to him, he usually had nothing to say, but on this occasion, he was ready. The three turned from their bickering and watched as the president-elect of the United States fell into what looked like floating turds, not once but twice, and came up covered in brown gook. As they watched in rapt amazement, Max approached the camera and flung the slimy mess at the laughing press corps.
“Oh Lord, we’re in for an interesting four years,” said Phil. “What do you mean? I’m going for eight,” replied Jerry.
“Well, if you guys want him in for eight, then I’ll go for twelve,” announced Bob.
Jerry and Phil just shook their heads as Bob, convinced that he had finally one-upped his old buddies, drained the last of his draft with a satisfied gulp.
u
CHAPTER 28
T
he Trump Plaza in Jersey City is the jewel of high rise residences in the greater New York metropolitan area. At 55 stories tall, it is the tallest residential building in New Jersey, commanding an unrestricted view of the Statue of Liberty, the
Hudson River, and all of Manhattan. The penthouse condo of the building had been sold back in Trump’s heyday to meet his financial obligations on other projects, purchased by a corporation named PGM, Inc., which existed only to purchase properties in tall buildings in major cities along the eastern seaboard and west coast of the United States. Nobody knew what the initials stood for, and they didn’t care. All transactions, for all ten of the luxurious penthouse residences that PGM had purchased to date, were made by remote wire transfer, and all ten sales were closed without the presence of a single human being. None of the residences were occupied, and their opulent furnishings were only for show.
In the weeks leading up to the inauguration, there was a flurry of activity in each of the units, as men disguised as movers brought large, innocuous looking boxes into the buildings. They had the proper credentials to present upon request, and their activities were never questioned by the management. The movers had the keycards necessary to enter the building, and another key card gave them access to the penthouse floors, which were inaccessible by anyone not possessing the electronic key. The total time that the units were occupied was approximately two hours, during which the workers installed ice-making machines and carefully connected them to the power supply. Inside each icemaker was a carefully engineered device of mass destruction: a tritium-enhanced, super EMP bomb.
It wasn’t a bomb in the conventional way. An Electromagnetic Pulse device did not produce a structure and people-destroying explosion. The EMP bomb was designed to emit gamma rays in a concentrated discharge. The effect of it’s detonation was to save those people and buildings, but take away all of the pillars of living in a
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