The Ascendant Page 34

  Sandy squeezed her soft shoulders and gently kissed her on the nape of her neck.

  “Sage advice, my dear. I’ll try to take it. In the meantime, if you’re patient with me for a while, I may be able to get my mojo back.”

  Judy slid higher up on his body until her breasts rubbed against his chin. “I like a challenge, Sandy. You’ll be my project, how’s that?”

  He laughed. “Just don’t squeal to the tabloids. I don’t want my first term in office being labelled a flop before it even starts!”

  49

  The celebrations lasted for a week. Parties, fund-raising dinners, late night cocktails. Sandy was exhausted.

  In between all the high-fives and drinks, there were endless strategy meetings.

  Rod Crenshaw had laid out the itinerary for the next three months, which would basically take them right up to the eve of the election. And Sandy was well aware that Linc’s campaign would be undergoing the same process.

  Sandy was surrounded by people now whose names he couldn’t remember even just minutes after being introduced. Rod was bringing on new handlers every day, and each of them seemed capable. From what Sandy could recall, their resumes were all strong.

  But all of them seemed like hired guns, experienced with campaigns, but not much beyond that. They were basically professional campaign people, brought in for one purpose: victory. Their claims to fame were congressional races, gubernatorial campaigns, and even as lowly as mayoralty races. Most seemed thrilled to be part of a presidential campaign, which Sandy guessed would be the motherlode if you were a professional campaign whore.

  He was finally back at his own house in Lexington—for the first time in weeks. Campaigning had taken him to several states, as well as non-stop appearances on the cable news networks. It was mind-numbing work, but he had to admit that it had helped to keep his brain sharp. The constant barrage of trick questions thrown his way tested his ability to dance on his feet. And he’d danced well, according to the media.

  Recent polls, however, had shown Linc holding the lead in national counts, by about ten points.

  But that gap had been tightening with each poll taken.

  A point here, a point there—slowly but surely, Sandy was closing the gap. He knew he was at a bit of a disadvantage, as Linc was a nationally-known figure, being a senator. Sandy, on the other hand, was still a comparatively unknown quantity.

  But that was gradually changing, the more that people got to know him. He and Linc were like night and day, and the qualities Sandy was exhibiting on the campaign trail allowed the contrast to stand out. Linc’s message was one of fear and anger—Sandy’s was one of hope and respect. It all depended on what kind of government Americans wanted, and how they wanted to live their lives.

  Linc had continued the message that he’d started his campaign with. He seemed to be a one-trick pony, hammering away at the terrorist attacks that had grabbed the public’s attention in the last few years.

  Even though 9/11 was a long time ago, he not so gently reminded the public of it whenever he had the chance. In his speeches, he pounded away at the Boston Marathon bombings and the Quincy Market slaughter. And, as if that weren’t enough, he emphasized over and over again how the Holy Cross Cathedral had just been a heartbeat away from being the worst sarin gas attack in the history of the world.

  Clearly, his campaign had every intention of making Massachusetts a swing state, one the Republicans could finally steal away from the Democrats. If they won that state and a handful of other traditional Democrat states, the presidency was going to be gift-wrapped for Senator Lincoln Berwick.

  Sandy was determined to prevent that.

  He strolled aimlessly around his house, savoring the comfort of being back in his own space—away from the crowds, reporters, and campaign schmoozers.

  His permanent security team was now up to six, and they were with him all the time, everywhere he went. Tonight, they were posted at all corners of his property. Keeping the spying public and nosy reporters at bay. And, hopefully, anyone who wanted to take a shot at him.

  They’d wanted to post two men inside the house as well, but Sandy refused. He didn’t want the sanctity of his refuge disturbed by strangers, even strangers armed with M15s committed to ensuring his safety. He was only prepared to go so far with this security stuff. He needed his peace once in a while.

  Absent-mindedly, he wandered down to his basement. For a moment, he was taken aback at not seeing his faithful PEP weapon with the flashing red light. It seemed so long ago now that he’d entrusted it in the care of Vito Romano. It felt strange knowing it was no longer standing sentry in that strategic corner of his basement; the corner that saw the disintegration into piles of dust of two intruders who, at the time, had seemed intent on killing him.

  He was still puzzled at discovering that the two men had actually been shooting blanks. That they weren’t there to kill him at all. It had only been theater, designed to scare him.

  Or—designed for a different reason?

  He hadn’t had much time to think about it, but it was indeed strange. If they’d been attempting to scare him, it hadn’t worked. Because, shortly after, Sandy had declared his candidacy for president.

  But perhaps they’d merely intended to deter him from disclosing what he’d learned from that corrupt deputy mayor, Christopher Clark. By that time, Linc’s campaign was well aware of Sandy’s involvement with Clark; his impersonation of a client at the Triple-L sperm bank; and his interference in the attempted terrorist attack at Holy Cross Cathedral. So, he had become a pain in the ass to their agenda.

  As well, Linc might have suspected that Sandy knew about the rape and death of Monica Hartwell decades ago. A skeleton that could not possibly be allowed resurrection if Linc had any hope of becoming president.

  But, whatever the intent was of the commando action scenes in Sandy’s house, the two men had paid with their lives. And nothing had happened since.

  Sandy still had regrets that he’d allowed the Pulsed Energy Weapon out of his sight, but he knew Vito was right. He couldn’t take the chance on being caught with the most advanced prototype of the directed energy weapons he’d been working on at the Lincoln Laboratory. The damn things were classified, and he’d broken several laws by having a miniaturized version of one of them in his house without clearance. Vito was a wise man.

  But, it bothered him that he trusted the man so much.

  Vito was second in command of one of the nation’s most successful and brutal crime families, and next in line to be Godfather. Now, here he was, in possession of one of the most secret weapons in existence, as well as being the phantom organizer and financier of Sandy’s campaign.

  Sandy wondered how his life could have spiralled so out of control that this was the kind of person he now trusted. How had this happened? And, so fast?

  But Vito had been with him every step of the way. Saved his life, provided assistance whenever Sandy needed help to pursue his mission of vengeance. And then, wisely, had counseled Sandy to pursue vengeance in a different way, a more civilized way. To defeat Linc in a way that would hurt him the most. At the polls.

  The kind of vengeance that would do the most good for the country, and provide Sandy with the best salvation possible.

  It would give him closure.

  Whereas, allowing the election of a man who personified evil would only give him a lifetime of sleepless nights.

  Linc’s campaign messages were disturbing, and Sandy knew the man would be dangerous if he ever won the White House. Particularly since Sandy knew that the Quincy attack that killed his family had been engineered by the man’s campaign. And, they’d almost succeeded in doing it again at the cathedral.

  Sandy knew deep down in his soul that sitting idly on the sidelines watching such a man become president would condemn him to years of regret and an even stronger need for reveng
e.

  He thought back to the altercation at the cathedral, and shuddered when he considered what might have happened if he hadn’t intervened. An intervention only made possible by the information he and Vito had extracted from the terrified deputy mayor.

  Sandy muttered a few curse words under his breath as he remembered back to that moment in the Cosa Nostra safe house. The moment Vito declared that the sleazy fat man was dead, despite his heroic efforts at trying to revive him.

  The same sleazy fat man who still haunted Sandy. The dead man that he’d convinced himself he’d seen alive in the adoring crowd a few long weeks ago. Swaying along with the masses, five rows from the front.

  50

  Vito loved his bullet-proof Cadillac Escalade. Specially equipped to protect him in the manner that he deserved to be protected. As the next in line to assume the mantle of Godfather of one of the most powerful and sophisticated crime families in the United States, he was precious merchandise.

  Crime had changed over the years, and Vito chuckled to himself as he thought back to the stories he’d heard of the old days. The executions in broad daylight, the heads of horses placed strategically in the beds of traitors, the broken kneecaps, the kisses on the cheeks of those chosen to die.

  And Hollywood always glorified the violence, almost romanticized it, if that was at all possible.

  Nowadays, the Cosa Nostra was just big business, like any other big business. They had their fingers into virtually everything, and they only used violence when there was no other way. It had been recognized by the young up-and-comers that power was no longer achieved through the barrel of a gun. In fact, just the mere threat of violence was usually enough in today’s world, particularly when the targets knew who it was that was doing the threatening.

  The industries that the Mob had their fingers into would shock the average American. Products that they shopped for every single day in supermarkets and big box stores, were providing dividends to the people the public knew only as the scum portrayed in movies like Goodfellas.

  But the most important product that the Cosa Nostra invested in, in this brave new world, was politics. It was recognized that nothing could be accomplished by gangsters in respectable businesses if they didn’t have power through politics.

  Legislation that could favor their needs in tax laws, and the relaxation of regulations governing everything from transportation to construction, had to be influenced. The only way to influence that was to have the right people in all the right places.

  From municipal politics all the way up to the senate and beyond.

  And beyond was where the Cosa Nostra had their sights. Now it was finally possible. For real.

  It was thought to be real back in the ’60s, but that hadn’t worked out the way they’d hoped. Not enough leverage, not enough control. The candidate simply took the Mob’s help, took their money, and then turned on them.

  Not this time. The Cosa Nostra was populated with smart business people now, not the thugs of the past. Although, at times, thuggishness was still needed. More importantly, though, clever manipulation was the tonic that paid the best dividends.

  Vito declared out loud, to no one in particular, even though two of his associates were sitting in the passenger cabin of the SUV with him, “Tonight we salute our ancestors. Once in a while, they were right.”

  Polite and patronizing laughter filled the cabin, until Vito raised his authoritative hand in a signal that meant, simply, “Shut the hell up.”

  Vito sat in silence as the SUV moved its way through the evening traffic of Baltimore, Maryland, towards a destination on the outskirts of the city. Kind of out in the countryside as it deserved to be, because, it was after all, a golf course. Aptly named Scenic Acres Country Club. Beautiful scenery that Vito would have enjoyed at any other time. But, not this evening, because scenery wasn’t on his mind tonight.

  The election of a president was on his mind tonight.

  He glanced out the window as he thought back over his history with the two people he had a rendezvous with at Scenic Acres. Well, they didn’t know he had a rendezvous with them, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t that kind of rendezvous.

  He looked at his watch. Just a few minutes until they arrived at the lookout point that gazed down over the clubhouse. They’d be about three hundred yards away, but basically invisible. His SUV was black, the sun would have almost set behind him at the time of the rendezvous, creating visual blindness in his direction, and, hell, what he would be doing was invisible as well. So, a nice relaxing adventure tonight.

  To be sure, though, just in case, his two bodyguards and the driver were armed to the teeth with firepower that local authorities would be helpless against. As well, there was that lovely bullet-proof feature that the Escalade brought to the party.

  The SUV arrived at its destination. The driver backed up as close to the edge of the cliff as he could, and aimed the rear of the vehicle in the direction of the vast circular driveway that majestically adorned the front of the clubhouse down in the valley.

  Vito glanced at his watch again, and pulled a phone out of his suit pocket. Laid the phone on his lap and adjusted the knot of his red silk tie. He almost always wore red ties. They made a statement that no other color could make, in his view. Red was his signature.

  “Now we wait,” again uttered to no one in particular.

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  Vito answered on the first ring.

  “Five minutes? They’ll be leaving together? Okay. Is the valet bringing the car around? Make and color?” Vito hung up, opened the door, and signalled to the driver to pop the lift gate.

  He walked around to the back of the Escalade and crawled into the cargo area, making sure not to bump the ominous, but understated, machine that was mounted innocently on its telescopic tripod.

  He edged himself to the back of the Pulsed Energy Projectile and hit the power button. He was happy that Sandy had given him such a thorough demonstration down in his basement of how the machine functioned. Vito marvelled at how easy it was to operate such a high-tech weapon. Sandy had designed it so well that even a trained chimp could figure it out.

  He picked up a pair of binoculars and focused them in on the front promenade of the Scenic Acres clubhouse.

  There they were—laughing, clapping, high-fiving. Happy as pigs in shit.

  A man and a woman—two people who thought they had the world by the tail. And, until tonight, they certainly did.

  A white Lincoln Continental pulled up and the valet jumped out. Handed the keys to a driver, who then held the rear doors open for his two happy passengers.

  Vito twisted the neck of the PEP and levelled it in the direction of the Lincoln. Looked through the scope, adjusted the focus, and locked in the image of the vehicle into the photo memory of the directed energy weapon.

  The way Vito understood it, from what Sandy had explained to him, the energy of the PEP would now be sent only to that one object, the white Lincoln with its three occupants. Invisibly and silently. Nothing else in the general vicinity of the car would be touched.

  Vito made the sign of the cross, raised the binoculars to his eyes for the last time, and pushed the activation button.

  He watched in morbid fascination as the white luxury vehicle and its occupants transformed, instantly, into a large, but harmless, column of dust.

  51

  Vito was relaxing over a cup of coffee in the back room of a café. He used this private room once in a while, just for those special meetings that needed more of an intimate touch.

  He pulled out his phone and checked for messages. There were several, but one in particular he’d been expecting.

  Sandy had avoided contact with him since the campaign started, but Vito knew he wouldn’t be able to resist getting in touch once the news hit about the two top campaign organizers for Senato
r Berwick.

  Vito chuckled and shoved his phone back in his pocket.

  Sandy was demanding a meeting and Vito knew why.

  Well, it could wait a day or so—the best strategy was to leave Sandy dangling from a branch for a little while longer. Let the news prey on his mind a little. He was already putty in Vito’s hands, but he’d be jelly after the next news was splashed.

  News that Vito was intent on creating today, in this very café.

  He reflected over the last couple of days.

  The media had gone into a feeding frenzy, trying frantically to report on the strange disappearances of Meagan Whitfield and Bob Stone. It was the only story that was being covered, considering that they were the highest profile officials in Berwick’s campaign.

  Yet, no one had any answers. Both the local Baltimore police and the FBI were investigating, but, there was nothing to investigate.

  A car with a driver and two passengers had disappeared into thin air, in front of the horrified eyes of a few dozen people lounging around in front of the country club.

  The media outlets managed to force themselves onto the scene within mere minutes after the strange phenomena occurred, and interviewed countless witnesses.

  All of them told basically the same story: “They got into the car, and then—they were just gone.”

  The usual experts were called in by the cable news networks—experts who scrambled to come up with some kind of explanation.

  Spontaneous combustion was the most common theory, ridiculous as it sounded, because there had been no reports of flames, smoke, or heat.

  Just a big pile of dust on the circular driveway where the car had once been.

  The closest anyone got to the truth was a retired general, who surmised that it might have been some kind of laser weapon. The PEP wasn’t technically a laser, of course, but his guess had been the closest.