Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 27

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Neither am I,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re valuable right now. You’ve got some cachet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” he picks up the Starbucks and slurps the last of the coffee, “you have a lot of information. Information which people don’t want made public. Right? So, as long as that information remains right where it is, in that banged up head of yours, you remain valuable.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Oh no,” says the Governor. “I agree you’re loyal. But, you know, loyalty is relative.”

  “So...”

  “Don’t poke the bear, Jackson.” The Governor sits back and smiles, chuckles. “Don’t poke the bear.”

  “I understand sir.”

  A nurse appears in the doorway behind the Governor carrying a bedpan.

  “Excuse me,” she says. “I’m sorry Governor, but I need a little privacy with Jackson here.”

  He stands from his seat and bows to the nurse, who moves to my bedside.

  “Good to see you awake, Jackson,” she says. “My name is Nurse Helen. Do you think you can stand and go to the bathroom?”

  I nod.

  “Do you need those sunglasses?” she asks. “I can take them from you.”

  “I’m finished with them.” I look at the Governor as nurse Helen slips them off of my face, blinking at the light as my eyes readjust. “Governor, sir, thanks for coming by. I really appreciate how loyal you are to all of us on your staff.”

  “My pleasure,” he says and turns to leave. “I’ll be keeping an eye on your recovery.”

  “I’ll keep you posted I’m sure, sir.”

  The Governor leaves the room, his boots clicking down the hall. Nurse Helen is checking the fluids in the bag next to the bed.

  “Can I make a phone call from the phone here?” I ask her, gesturing to the one on the table next to the Governor’s empty Starbucks cup. Nurse Helen nods and hands me the cordless receiver.

  I dial a series of numbers and listen to it ring a couple of times.

  “Hello?” answers a tired, worn out sounding voice.

  “Is this George Townsend?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Who is this?” He must not recognize my gravelly voice.

  “It’s Jackson Quick.”

  “Jackson?” His voice perks up. “How are you? Where are you?”

  “I’m in the hospital. I’m calling to give you the okay.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I have to admit something.”

  “What?”

  “We’re going with it tonight. I couldn’t wait anymore. Not with what happened at the debate last night.”

  “Well, you might wanna hold off for a few more hours.”

  “Why?” He sounds skeptical, ready to argue.

  “I’ve got something that will supplement the video you already have.” I look over to the glasses next to me on the bed. They’re still recording.

  EPILOGUE

  “Some people look at me and see a certain swagger, which in Texas is called ‘walking’.”

  --George W. Bush, 43rd President of the United States

  The yellow-walled Gibson lounge at Maggie Mae’s in Austin is almost empty. It’s me and maybe twenty others listening to Birdlegg and The Tight Fit Blues Band. Birdlegg’s in his fedora, dancing around the front of the small stage. The three piece band behind him is keeping time, riffing with his unpredictable phrasing.

  His long sleeve white shirt is soaked through with sweat, a too thin tie flapping back and forth across his shoulders. He tips the fedora back on his head, eyes closed. Birdlegg feels the music.

  Tuesday nights aren’t big on Sixth Street. For most of the few who venture out, they’re a way to help bridge the gap between Saturday and Thursday. For me it’s safer to be out on a night with fewer people to watch. From the high backed chair in the corner, I can keep everything and everyone in front of me.

  The club soda I have been nursing for the last hour sweats on the side table next to the chair. I don’t really want to be here. I wouldn’t have picked Birdlegg, as good as he is, to entertain me, but I had to get outside.

  My new apartment is nice enough, but the four walls felt smaller today than they did yesterday or last Tuesday.

  I picked Maggie Mae’s because of the privacy in the Lounge, because I haven’t been here in a month, and because it reminds me of Charlie.

  The bar is named for a nineteenth century prostitute who was known to pleasure her clients before fleecing them. She worked in Liverpool at a place called The American Bar. Eventually she was caught and sent to a penal colony in Australia.

  At least that’s what it says on the bar’s website.

  My club soda is flat. Most of the ice has melted. I catch a sliver between my teeth and flip it around on my tongue before it melts. I raise my hand and the waitress waves back. She’s helping somebody near the stage. It’ll be a minute.

  Birdlegg pulls out his mouth harp and starts blowing. He could go for three or four minutes like this, with his harmonica wailing, crying almost to the rhythm of the drums. The bass and six string are silent while Birdlegg eases up to the microphone and works his hands back and forth. The small crowd claps and hoots their approval.

  For me, Stevie Ray Vaughan recorded the definitive version of the song. Ray Charles was good too. Birdlegg equals them both with his passion.

  His eyes are squeezed shut against the beads of sweat streaming from his dark face. Against the light, the droplets look like sequins. He’s possessed and his bandmates nod their heads in approval.

  I almost miss the waitress standing next to me, a beer in her hand.

  “This is for you,” she says and replaces my club soda with the mug.

  “I didn’t order that.” I rub the ache in my right shoulder.

  “I know,” she whines through her onyx nose ring. “Some British dude bought it for you. He asked me to bring it over.”

  Past the waitress, on the far side of the lounge, near the stage, Sir Spencer is perched forward on a small stool. Between his legs and Oxfords is a cane, his left foot tapping to the rhythm of the blues. He smiles at me, his teeth glowing against the stage lights.

  I look back at the waitress. She’s shifted her weight to one hip, clearly impatient.

  “Okay,” I relent. “I’ll take the beer.”

  She rolls her eyes, slaps a cocktail napkin on the table next to me and follows it with the mug. The head sloshes over the rim and dissolves into the napkin.

  The last time I drank a tap beer in a bar, my life fell into a rabbit hole. Sir Spencer was the Mad Hatter. Maybe he was the Cheshire Cat.

  The audience claps their approval. Birdlegg steps back to the drums and grabs a bottle of water. Sir Spencer presses against his cane to stand. He seems older, more tired than the man who’s been harassing me since that last cursed beer.

  He finds his way to the chair next to me and eases into it. His legs crossed at the ankles, he rests the cane between his legs, leaning on it.

  “Jackson,” he says, “how are you my good man?”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?” He arches his eyebrows. “Not a ringing endorsement of your life at the present, is it?”

  “It is what it is.”

  He hands me a folded copy of the Austin American-Statesman. He’s probably the only person who reads newsprint anymore.

  The headline reads Governor Vows to Fight, Despite Video Evidence. A secondary above-the-fold article proclaims Governor’s Connections to Big Oil Questioned.

  “Turn the page,” Sir Spencer says dryly. “There’s more of your handiwork.”

  More articles fill page 3A: Investigators Looking For Video Source, Reporter Won’t Divulge; District Attorney: Evidence Points To Bloody Conspiracy; Governor, Energy Execs Could Face Multiple Federal Charges; Secessionist Suspect Ripley Cleared Of All Charges, Released From Custody.

  I hand back the newspaper without bothering to r
ead the articles’ contents. I get the gist. It’s not complicated. I’m a target, and everyone’s aiming at me.

  “I surmise you are burdened with a great deal of worry,” he says, leaning back and adjusting the cane, which he uses to point to the crowd around us. “Any of these people could be your undoing. Anyone, at any time really, could be the one looking for you. You cannot be certain when they’ll find you. You’ll become a man constantly on the run. You’ll never rest.”

  He’s repeating what I’ve been telling myself for the last month. It could come at any time. My end.

  “The Governor is none too pleased with his current predicament. He has nasty friends, as you are already well aware. I can fix that,” he says, as though he’s got the cure, the antidote that will return my world to what it was. “I can ensure your safety.”

  “So you say,” I look at the beer, the foam almost gone. “How can you be sure?”

  He leans forward again and rubs his palms on the handle of the cane. “I have a great deal of influence. When I choose to wield it, the influence can benefit any number of causes.”

  “So,” I ask, leaning toward him, “who are you?”

  He laughs. “I am part of that power which both eternally wills evil and eternally works good.”

  A deal with the devil to extend my life.

  What options do I have?

  “You have skills I find of high value, Jackson,” he presses. “You could supplement my efforts to…”

  “To what?”

  “To make the world a better place.” His face is earnest, no hint of the sarcasm I’d expect.

  “Seriously?”

  “With all seriousness, my good man,” he nods. “With all seriousness. I do what is necessary. I believe you said that once, didn’t you?”

  This is a sales job. This is Darth Vader trying to persuade Luke to join him on the dark side. There’s no other choice. Maybe he does do what he does for good, in the grand scheme of things.

  I reach for the mug on the table and grip the handle. It tastes warm. Not bitter. Over the rim of the glass, Sir Spencer smiles broadly. He’s definitely the Cheshire Cat.

  “I think…” I have him hanging on my answer with that smile.

  “Yes?” he says, almost too eagerly.

  “I think I’ll take my chances.” I set the beer down on the table. “I’ve gotten this far on my own.”

  His eyes study mine. Sir Spencer miscalculated, I can see it in the twitch of his brow, the almost imperceptible change in his smile.

  I stand and sarcastically genuflect. This is where I climb back out of the hole.

  “You know you won’t last long by yourself,” he warns. “I cannot protect you. There are too many who want you dead.”

  I want to tell him where to get off. I want to tell him he’s wrong and I can handle this, that I’ll survive without his hellish arrangement. I don’t.

  Instead, I smile a ridiculous grin, turn my back on Sir Spencer and walk out. Slipping in a pair of earbuds, I press play on my iPod. The music starts. I carefully adjust the 9mm tucked into my waistband underneath my untucked shirt.

  I am alone. Again. As it should be.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First and foremost I must thank my beautiful wife and children for their support, encouragement, and unshakable belief in me.

  My appreciation also extends to Michael, Anthony, and the team at Post Hill Press in New York and Nashville for their confidence in my work and their tireless efforts to put these stories into the hands of readers.

  I have to give a big high-five to my editor, Felicia A. Sullivan. She took on this book despite an already difficult workload and improved both its content and flow. Her efforts were invaluable.

  Equally priceless is the help I’ve received from so many wonderful authors: Steven Konkoly, Graham Brown, Bob Morris, Lisa Brackmann, Richard Stephenson, and others. They’ve provided a guiding light along an arduous path.

  I could not have written the prologue without the expert help of the good folks at snipercentral.com. They provided wonderful technical assistance.

  Dr. Scott Tinker and Dr. Matt Laudon were very patient in answering my questions about nano science. Their clear explanations of the complicated, wide-reaching field were critical to the book’s plot.

  Thanks are due my trusty beta-readers: Tim Heller, Gina Graff, Curt Sullivant, and Steven Konkoly. They are fearless souls who waded through typos and omissions, continuity errors and redundancy, to give me outstanding constructive criticism.

  My appreciation also extends to my parents, Sanders and Jeanne, my sister Penny and brother Steven, and my in-laws, Don and Linda Eaker, for their undying support and shameless promotion of my work.

  Other works by Tom Abrahams:

  Sedition

  Allegiance

  www.tomabrahamsbooks.com