county road. Eventually the pavement ended, but the road continued. Perez picked up his cell phone and thumb-dialed a number. The call went nowhere. He checked the display. No bars. Damn it! Perez speeded up. According to his odometer he was less than a mile away and a few minutes early. There was a rise ahead. Got to be just over the hill , he thought.
Ricardo Perez began the descent and immediately slowed. He saw smoke rising from the road ahead. “What the fuck!”
He crept forward barely above five miles an hour. A car, or what was left of it, was smoldering. It looked as if it had stood at ground zero for a high-explosive attack.
Perez stopped short. He checked his watch. He was a minute early. Did the person he was supposed to meet have an accident? “Shit!” He was going to be in serious trouble when he got back home.
The young gangbanger took his gun out of the glove compartment and cautiously stepped out of his car.
“Anyone there?” he yelled. It was a useless call into the cold air. No one could have possibly survived such an explosion and fire.
An accident? There were no skid marks. Perez walked around to the front of the car. The driver hadn’t hit anything. The driver? Perez looked in the wreckage. The skeletal corpse of a man was burned beyond recognition. The stench made him pull away.
It was too much for him. Perez broke into a full run back to his car. He had to get away. This was no accident. Then…
Ricardo Perez couldn’t intellectualize the blinding flash. It was too sudden; too unexpected. It simply happened. It was followed by a blast of raw energy and skin-searing heat. Perez was at his top speed, but the force of the explosion hurtled him a dozen yards back into the lifeless dirt of the Montana high desert.
Eleven
Washington, D.C.
Christine Slocum hadn’t wasted a moment to invest herself in her new job. She was an excellent writer with a full command of history and a talent for working “closely” with others. Her credentials were impeccable: a Smith College graduate with honors, work at Associated Press and MSNBC, and a short stint with Congressman Teddy Lodge. Rumor had it that she’d served Lodge in more ways than one. After meeting the young beauty, Duke Patrick hoped he’d be as fortunate. But right now, it was all about work.
“This asinine succession proposal of Taylor’s. I want to know how we can defeat it,” Patrick barked from his desk.
Christine crossed behind him to read over his shoulder. She leaned close enough to him that he could smell the understated but inviting scent of her Calvin Klein Euphoria floral fragrance, an inviting combination of orchid, lotus, violet, and amber. She pointed at a line in the proposed amendment, rose up and offered her first commentary.
“It won’t be the first time it’s changed,” she said displaying her knowledge.“It started with Article II, Section 1, of the Constitution, then the Presidential Succession Act of 1792, The First Presidential Succession Act of 1886, the Presidential Succession Act of 1947, and more recently the Twenty-fifth Amendment.”
“Christ!” he said turning into her full body. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“I eat history up,” she explained. “Always have. A real history junkie.”
“Aderly was right about you.”
“Senator Aderly?”
“Yes.”
“But I’ve never met him.”
“Apparently your reputation precedes you,” Patrick said, taking in her extraordinary figure.
She recognized the look and the intent. “Then I hope I live up to your expectations,” she added, turning quickly and circling his desk.
“So, unlike the present law, the succession line went from the president to the vice president, then onto the secretary of state, followed by the secretary of the treasury, the secretary of war, and the rest of the cabinet.”
“I really had no idea.” That was obvious.
A similar, but more dignified conversation was underway in Attorney General Eve Goldman’s
Ricardo Perez began the descent and immediately slowed. He saw smoke rising from the road ahead. “What the fuck!”
He crept forward barely above five miles an hour. A car, or what was left of it, was smoldering. It looked as if it had stood at ground zero for a high-explosive attack.
Perez stopped short. He checked his watch. He was a minute early. Did the person he was supposed to meet have an accident? “Shit!” He was going to be in serious trouble when he got back home.
The young gangbanger took his gun out of the glove compartment and cautiously stepped out of his car.
“Anyone there?” he yelled. It was a useless call into the cold air. No one could have possibly survived such an explosion and fire.
An accident? There were no skid marks. Perez walked around to the front of the car. The driver hadn’t hit anything. The driver? Perez looked in the wreckage. The skeletal corpse of a man was burned beyond recognition. The stench made him pull away.
It was too much for him. Perez broke into a full run back to his car. He had to get away. This was no accident. Then…
Ricardo Perez couldn’t intellectualize the blinding flash. It was too sudden; too unexpected. It simply happened. It was followed by a blast of raw energy and skin-searing heat. Perez was at his top speed, but the force of the explosion hurtled him a dozen yards back into the lifeless dirt of the Montana high desert.
Eleven
Washington, D.C.
Christine Slocum hadn’t wasted a moment to invest herself in her new job. She was an excellent writer with a full command of history and a talent for working “closely” with others. Her credentials were impeccable: a Smith College graduate with honors, work at Associated Press and MSNBC, and a short stint with Congressman Teddy Lodge. Rumor had it that she’d served Lodge in more ways than one. After meeting the young beauty, Duke Patrick hoped he’d be as fortunate. But right now, it was all about work.
“This asinine succession proposal of Taylor’s. I want to know how we can defeat it,” Patrick barked from his desk.
Christine crossed behind him to read over his shoulder. She leaned close enough to him that he could smell the understated but inviting scent of her Calvin Klein Euphoria floral fragrance, an inviting combination of orchid, lotus, violet, and amber. She pointed at a line in the proposed amendment, rose up and offered her first commentary.
“It won’t be the first time it’s changed,” she said displaying her knowledge.“It started with Article II, Section 1, of the Constitution, then the Presidential Succession Act of 1792, The First Presidential Succession Act of 1886, the Presidential Succession Act of 1947, and more recently the Twenty-fifth Amendment.”
“Christ!” he said turning into her full body. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“I eat history up,” she explained. “Always have. A real history junkie.”
“Aderly was right about you.”
“Senator Aderly?”
“Yes.”
“But I’ve never met him.”
“Apparently your reputation precedes you,” Patrick said, taking in her extraordinary figure.
She recognized the look and the intent. “Then I hope I live up to your expectations,” she added, turning quickly and circling his desk.
“So, unlike the present law, the succession line went from the president to the vice president, then onto the secretary of state, followed by the secretary of the treasury, the secretary of war, and the rest of the cabinet.”
“I really had no idea.” That was obvious.
A similar, but more dignified conversation was underway in Attorney General Eve Goldman’s
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