CHAPTER 7
“What’s the plan?” John asked as the delay for departure stretched out into days. “I thought this whole thing had already been set up.”
“This is not an execution, John,” Manari said as they walked down the hall of the White House. “This is entertainment.”
John’s stomach roiled at the notion.
The mobster continued, “It is not simply enough to kill violent offenders. We need to make an example of them while offering the world audience a means to vicariously satisfy their own violent tendencies.”
“So you believe violence is the solution to violence?”
“Sate the need, Captain, and they won’t go looking for it.”
John regarded the mobster as they walked. He couldn’t tell if the man was serious or not. “Then why the delay?”
“We need to raise the stakes, so to speak.”
They came to the Oval Office doors and the Secret Service agent there allowed the pair to walk right on in. The President sat behind his desk. He looked up, but did not rise. “Your request has been granted,” he said without preamble.
The Italian rubbed his hands together. He stopped upon seeing the President’s sour expression. “Your pious attitude is wasted on me, Mr. President. You are getting 40% of the revenue from the wagering process. People from all around the world are wagering on the outcome of this event. Finally! The United States will once again stand tall in the international community. You won’t be ignored any longer.” He grinned slyly. “Indeed, your own coffers will grow substantially. Imagine what it will do for your economy.”
Still scowling, the President looked over at John. “Are you ready to escort the prisoners to the island?”
John stood straight. “I am.”
“Good. General Carlson wants to have a word with you before you leave, Captain.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Manari shot a suspicious look at John, but said nothing about it. Instead, he said, “We’re giving everyone another twenty-four hours to place their wagers on the outcome. We’ve given odds—Ali has the best odds—and the wagers have been coming in hot and furious. We will be ready to depart in sixteen hours.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
Manari’s leaned across the desk, his eyes boring into the President’s. “Don’t think that the money you gain from this will buy your freedom from us, Mr. President. You still need us. Be a good boy and everyone will be happy.”
“Mr. Manari, I would not be so bold as to make threats to my face.”
The Italian sneered. “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?”
“John,” the President said softly.
John’s instincts kicked in before he even had an opportunity to think about it. He stepped up behind the mobster, just as the man began turning, realizing belatedly of the danger from behind. With a vicious kick to the side of the knee, Manari crumbled like a tower of Jell-O cubes. The man cried out in pain as he fell, but he never made the floor.
John grabbed his wrist and jerked the man upright, twisting the man around and putting his arm in an excruciatingly painful hold. Lifting the man up so he was on his toes, he whispered, “One word and I will break your neck.” He glanced at the President. “Mr. President? What do you want me to do with him?”
“Get him out of here. If he threatens me again, break something.”
“Yes, sir!”
He unceremoniously dragged the mobster from the office and flung him onto the marble floor of the hallway. He said nothing as the man climbed gingerly to his feet. “Both of you will regret this,” he hissed furiously. “My superiors will have both of your hearts cut out—”
“No, they won’t,” John interrupted. “If you tell them about this incident, you will look weak in their eyes. Your bosses don’t care a whit about you, and you know it. We are complying with your demands and that is all they really care about. Outside of that, as long as we don’t kill you, they won’t really care how we treat you.” John cocked his head. “If you want, I am willing to put that theory to the test, right here and now. I suspect you can function with a broken arm just fine.”
Manari snarled, spun and stalked off. One of the guards near the door let out a low chuckle. “Good for you, sir.”
The Captain returned a nod. “Which way to General Carlson?”
“I’ll take you.”
They walked through the halls until they came to a wing where military staff had offices set up. In one of these, John found the General.
“You ready for all of this, Captain?” the General asked.
“I’m not really looking forward to it, but I am ready.”
“I understand. John, the President wants me to make something very clear to you. This mission is very delicate. You are to escort the prisoners to the island, but we want you to stay around and observe the proceedings. The entire world will be watching, but we are uncertain how much of what we will be seeing is fabricated. The Komodo dragons are real enough—and I strongly suggest you don’t get eaten by one. The kids will have to live off the land, and if they don’t get killed by the dragons, they will be most likely die of starvation or disease. These mob organizations are powerful. Many of them have more money than most countries do right now—and that includes us. Keep your eyes open. Any information you can bring back to help us would be greatly appreciated.”
“I’m working for US Intelligence now?”
The older man shrugged. “Jack of all trades, John.”
“What should I expect?”
“The point of this so-called game is to give the world a distraction from all the real world violence in their own neighborhoods—or at least that is the story we’re pitching. We have several goals, one of which is to find a viable means of reducing crime and the criminal population. We are hoping the deaths of these three criminals will help keep down violent crime. It is also a validation of the Ts2 technology. When we have the funding, we will mass produce them and put them all over the country.” He looked uncomfortable. “John, the proposal right now is anytime the Ts2 detects criminal intention, a strike will go on that person’s SIC chip. You know what happens when you get to three. We won’t be arresting criminals any more. Our police will have the authority to summarily execute anyone with three strikes.”
John gaped at the general. “That is outrageous.”
“I know. The proposal predicts that in six months, most criminal activity will have largely dissipated.”
“That’s wishful thinking, sir.”
Carlson sighed. “The logic isn’t based on real evidence or common sense, John. It is a fantasy. Unfortunately, right now, fantasies are all we have to go on. If you, however, can prove that these Ts2 machines are flawed in some way—prove that they are capable of making mistakes—well, that would be grounds to scrap the entire project.”
“Is this an official order, sir?”
“Unfortunately it is not. Your orders are to go and observe. You are not to interfere. You are not to engage any of the mob thugs. You are not to talk to the prisoners.”
“I have doubts as to my ability to carry out those orders, sir.”
The General frowned. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. You must understand, John. If I am scanned by one of those infernal machines, right now, I would most likely be arrested too. The mob has too much invested and too much control over the development of this technology. I can’t believe there isn’t something…some flaw we can exploit before justice becomes nothing more than a joke.”
It was already a joke as far as John was concerned. But he understood the General well enough. He would do the best he could. “Manari won’t want me on the Island. He will expect me to either return to the oil platform or stateside.”
The general sighed. “You need to find a way to stay on the island. They’ve installed cameras everywhere, so even hiding could be problematic.”
“Then I will need some specialized equipment.” John rubbed his chin, thinking. “I need an inside
man, someone I can trust.”
Nodding, the General said, “I anticipated that. You remember Faro English?”
“Trigger?”
“He served with you down in Colombia, didn’t he?”
“Best sharpshooter I’ve ever met,” John admitted. “The guy is lethal with anything that shoots.”
“He is working as a private contractor. We’ve managed to get him assigned to the local chief’s guard detail over there. The chief’s name is Bangor, or something. Faro has no connections to us, and he doesn’t even know that we helped to set him up over there. Ostensibly, he has been hired to protect the old man. In reality, his job is to see to it that the chief doesn’t interfere with the mob’s publicized hunt.”
“You want me to contact Trigger?”
“You are friends. I’m hoping he could outfit you with the necessary equipment to keep you on the Island and out of sight.”
“I understand.”
“Good. I’ll be praying for you, my friend.”
“Thank you, General.”
Sixteen hours later, John walked his prisoners onto a transport plane.