the miles of pine trees pass by outside the limousine window as if that was all the explanation that was needed.
9
Jason Brill couldn’t believe how bad it smelled. And he wasn’t even thinking about the rotting chicken guts. It was the stink inside the limousine that challenged his gag reflex and brought him close to upchucking his own lunch.
Jesus! The entire limousine smelled like vomit despite having all the windows rolled down. Yet he tried not to look away from the senator, tried not to look repulsed.
Marek handed Senator Allen another wet towel. “I not get stench out for weeks,” the limo driver said, shaking his head and not bothering to hide his disgust. Then he climbed into the front seat totally unaware of the senator looking up and staring at the back of the driver’s head like that was exactly where he’d like to shoot a poisoned dart.
Jason refrained from helping, other than offering to hold a discarded towel or two. Unlike Marek, he knew when to sit back and shut up. He knew that the navy suit was probably toast. Instead of focusing on the smell, he concentrated on what had happened. Jason couldn’t help thinking that asshole Sidel knew exactly what he was doing when he took them all up the catwalk that overlooked the holding tank with his “magic feedstock.”
Whatever his intention, it didn’t matter. What Jason would never forget was that Sidel had laughed like some fucking frat boy when Senator Allen started puking over the railing, yelling not to worry, they could break that down, too, with the rest of the “magic” garbage. Jason used to teach guys bigger than Sidel a lesson with an elbow to the kidneys and a fist to the throat. It seemed cleaner and more fair than the way the senator insisted things be done. And all Jason could think at the time was, “Thank God there weren’t any media around.”
Sidel had gone too far. After everything the senator had done for him the man should be licking the vomit off Senator Allen’s Italian-leather shoes, not pointing and laughing. Jason had never understood the connection between the two men. He knew they had both attended Florida State University at the same time, but he couldn’t imagine them being friends even as young men. They seemed too different. Sidel had been a linebacker for the Seminoles while Senator Allen headed the debate club. And yet there appeared to be a strong allegiance, at least on the senator’s part.
Allegiance, unrelenting loyalty, Jason certainly understood. The whole concept was one he had had to learn the hard way. He came from people who trusted no one, who knew how to steal and cheat and lie so well they didn’t realize there were boundaries. Jason supposed it wasn’t much different than politicians. No wonder he had been attracted to D.C. when he was old enough to buy a motorcycle—a sleek, powerful Yamaha—and drive as far away as possible. He got a job as a courier and muscled his cycle around the capital, squeezing in and out of traffic, pushing the limits, breaking a few rules. But then he banged up himself and his bike when he darted in front of a black SUV.
Jason still delivered the bloodstained package despite three broken ribs and a badly bruised knee. The SUV owner, some hotshot foreign diplomat, threatened to have Jason’s license pulled. Didn’t matter, the bike was busted up worse than Jason. He figured he was out of business.
Three days later he got a message from the courier service that the recipient of his last delivery wanted to meet him. Immediately Jason thought he was fucked, another asshole upset about the blood, or maybe there had been something important inside that got crushed. He never imagined that the recipient had heard the rumors about Jason’s heroic delivery and actually wanted to offer him a job. Senator John Quincy Allen told Jason he reminded the senator of himself when he was a young man. Evidently it was something good because less than two years later Jason Brill
9
Jason Brill couldn’t believe how bad it smelled. And he wasn’t even thinking about the rotting chicken guts. It was the stink inside the limousine that challenged his gag reflex and brought him close to upchucking his own lunch.
Jesus! The entire limousine smelled like vomit despite having all the windows rolled down. Yet he tried not to look away from the senator, tried not to look repulsed.
Marek handed Senator Allen another wet towel. “I not get stench out for weeks,” the limo driver said, shaking his head and not bothering to hide his disgust. Then he climbed into the front seat totally unaware of the senator looking up and staring at the back of the driver’s head like that was exactly where he’d like to shoot a poisoned dart.
Jason refrained from helping, other than offering to hold a discarded towel or two. Unlike Marek, he knew when to sit back and shut up. He knew that the navy suit was probably toast. Instead of focusing on the smell, he concentrated on what had happened. Jason couldn’t help thinking that asshole Sidel knew exactly what he was doing when he took them all up the catwalk that overlooked the holding tank with his “magic feedstock.”
Whatever his intention, it didn’t matter. What Jason would never forget was that Sidel had laughed like some fucking frat boy when Senator Allen started puking over the railing, yelling not to worry, they could break that down, too, with the rest of the “magic” garbage. Jason used to teach guys bigger than Sidel a lesson with an elbow to the kidneys and a fist to the throat. It seemed cleaner and more fair than the way the senator insisted things be done. And all Jason could think at the time was, “Thank God there weren’t any media around.”
Sidel had gone too far. After everything the senator had done for him the man should be licking the vomit off Senator Allen’s Italian-leather shoes, not pointing and laughing. Jason had never understood the connection between the two men. He knew they had both attended Florida State University at the same time, but he couldn’t imagine them being friends even as young men. They seemed too different. Sidel had been a linebacker for the Seminoles while Senator Allen headed the debate club. And yet there appeared to be a strong allegiance, at least on the senator’s part.
Allegiance, unrelenting loyalty, Jason certainly understood. The whole concept was one he had had to learn the hard way. He came from people who trusted no one, who knew how to steal and cheat and lie so well they didn’t realize there were boundaries. Jason supposed it wasn’t much different than politicians. No wonder he had been attracted to D.C. when he was old enough to buy a motorcycle—a sleek, powerful Yamaha—and drive as far away as possible. He got a job as a courier and muscled his cycle around the capital, squeezing in and out of traffic, pushing the limits, breaking a few rules. But then he banged up himself and his bike when he darted in front of a black SUV.
Jason still delivered the bloodstained package despite three broken ribs and a badly bruised knee. The SUV owner, some hotshot foreign diplomat, threatened to have Jason’s license pulled. Didn’t matter, the bike was busted up worse than Jason. He figured he was out of business.
Three days later he got a message from the courier service that the recipient of his last delivery wanted to meet him. Immediately Jason thought he was fucked, another asshole upset about the blood, or maybe there had been something important inside that got crushed. He never imagined that the recipient had heard the rumors about Jason’s heroic delivery and actually wanted to offer him a job. Senator John Quincy Allen told Jason he reminded the senator of himself when he was a young man. Evidently it was something good because less than two years later Jason Brill
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