At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (23 page)

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ChAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Three days after their tense meeting, Secretary of Intelligence Jason Bland waited patiently in the reception area of the White house for the president’s helicopter to arrive. Blythe had spent his weekend at Camp David drinking and drugging and raving about everything, but nothing in particular. The cabinet members who he had summoned to discuss matters of great importance had conducted meetings without Blythe’s involvement, and were relieved when Marine One lifted off with the incumbent president stowed inside. They had accomplished little.

Security was tight, as it typically is, but in recent days, terrorist activity had been increasing beyond the comfort zone. The terrorist surveillance system was massive. A gargantuan computer monitored all activity of interest, defined by the algorithms and protocols designed to detect threats against the United States. As of 3:00 a.m., internet communications signaled that an “event” was imminent, and Bland intended to brief the president on security at locations that were deemed to be possible targets..

After he took this appointment to head the Department of Intelligence, he spent months of sleepless nights in his cavernous office in Langley, Virginia, worrying that monitoring wasn’t good enough. It seemed as if the main job of his agency had become the guarding of nuclear material throughout the world and keeping it from falling into the hands of terrorists. That was compounded by the insurmountable task of keeping that same nuclear material from crossing the borders to be used as a nuclear “dirty” bomb. Constructing the bomb inside the U.S. had long been considered a standard aspect of al-Qaeda training, and it was a priority surveillance issue for the agents who reported from remote areas in Pakistan.

Within the previous two weeks, there had been four security breaches at nuclear facilities in Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Russia. There was an unverified report that nuclear material had been removed from a facility in Kazakhstan, and with the shoddy record keeping in that facility, nothing could be verified. Reports indicated that an undetermined amount of fissionable material had been transported from there by an underpaid shift worker, who had delivered it into the waiting hands of a man with Middle-Eastern features for payment in American dollars and an assortment of kitchen appliances.

As he processed this recent information for presentation to the president upon his arrival, the sound of an elevator got his attention. Suddenly, four Secret Service agents entered the room, did a quick scan, and took their positions in concealed booths adjacent to the Oval Office. In walked the president with his trusty golden retriever, Buddy, at his side. Buddy sniffed each object in the room and resumed his position at Blythe’s side.

“Mr. Bland, what can I do for you?” The president had obviously
AT RISK OF WINNING

been visiting the wet bar on Air Force Two, and his breath lent an aroma of gin and tonic to the antiques in the room.
“Mr. President, I came here to—”
“Mr. Bland, how is our little surveillance going?”
“Sir, which surveillance?”
“You know.”
he leaned back in his chair and put both feet, caked with mud, on his desk.
“Mr. President, we are presently engaged in active surveillance of terrorists in Pakistan and Kazakhstan who have gained access to nuclear material, and we are—”
“Mr. Bland.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want to know, and I want to know now, how our little surveillance of Max Masterson is going, and I want to hear all of the sordid details.”
“Mr. President, we have assigned a team of agents to Mr. Masterson, and he seems to be traveling the country by plane filming political advertisements. he has his girlfriend with him, and she flies the plane when he isn’t waiting in line at commercial airports making a spectacle of himself. I don’t know what else to tell you at this point.”
Blythe rose and rocked behind the desk, his red eyes and red face betraying his state of intoxication and anger. “I told you weeks ago that I wanted dirt!” his hand rose and a pen launched across the room in the intelligence secretary’s direction. The veteran martialarts expert and former Navy Seal snapped it out of the air when it propelled within arm’s reach and discreetly slid it inside his sport coat without making a scene.
“I’m giving you, the FBI, and the Secret Service a deadline. I want a complete report. I want to know if he has warts on his testicles, and I want to know by this time tomorrow!” The president slumped back into his chair, and Bland took the opportunity to extract himself from hostile territory.
“Yes, sir, you will have a report in the morning,” he said as he backed out of the Oval Office.

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ChAPTER SIXTY-EIGhT

The seaplane had two occupants. Rachel was the pilot, and Max was copilot, but she flew the plane as she had done for him on many occasions. The Beech 18 was originally designed to carry ten passengers, but Max had converted the passenger area into a flying Winnebago, complete with queen-sized bed, kitchen, and entertainment center. The twin engines were capable of carrying a 2550-pound load, and although a jet was much quieter and faster, the sense of adventure they felt when escaping D.C. from the water was unmatched by more modern transportation. They could land where they wanted, and by flying at low altitudes, their coming and going was seldom noticed. There were no air traffic controllers and no runway delays to slow their flights.

As the seaplane slowly lifted off over the large expanse of water ahead, Max reflected on the ways his life had become complicated since his announcement. he never had the same level of anonymity of normal folks, but one never misses what one never had, so that didn’t affect him much. It was the constant pushing that intruded. The paparazzi had always been a sporadic interruption for him, but now they were everywhere 24/7, and he couldn’t devise enough ways to elude them. It seemed like they had some kind of radar that knew where he was at any given moment, and it was making him wonder if he was becoming paranoid. When he was a private citizen, he could go for a walk without worrying about some photographer shooting a picture of him before he had showered that day, but now . . .

As Rachel piloted the plane southward, she thought of their first meeting. It was her idea—maybe. Maybe not. he had that attitude in everything he did, she recalled, and in the years since their first encounter on a dive boat in Belize, Max Masterson had maintained that nonchalance, even during the three days they were together offshore. Every diver needs a dive buddy. Solo divers get paired up with other solos, and the dive guide gleefully matched Max and Rachel for the entire three-day excursion on the world’s second-largest great barrier reef.

For the first two days on the boat, Rachel managed to resist Max’s piercing eyes and charming smile, but when he talked, her resistance gradually eroded. They were with each other continuously from sunrise until sunset and a little beyond. Max didn’t engage in small talk or the flirtations that countless young men before him had tried on her without success. he fascinated her with the story of being there as an escape from Washington society and the shallow social climbers who jumped at the chance to have their photo taken on his arm.

he told her that his father had trained him to run for president and about the lifetime of wisdom he had inherited. When he spoke, she believed he would accomplish his goal. Rachel, on the other hand, had come to Belize for a more personal goal—to lose her virginity. By the time they disembarked at the end of the third day, she had accomplished her goal, and Max had accomplished his—he had found his perfect match.

For appearance sake, Max had purposely kept Rachel away from the lights of the cameras, choosing to keep her to himself as his father had instructed him to do. To place her in the public light was equivalent to surrendering her personal diary to strangers, and he zealously protected her from the dark side of public life. She was always close, though. her passions for flying and driving classic sports cars were fulfilled by her chauffeuring and piloting duties that took them on frequent adventures. She was not one to hold back from enjoying those aspects of life that keep a person from growing old, and Max supplied Rachel with the means to experience passion to its fullest extent.

As they made their way south over Virginia, he turned to Rachel, who was intent on navigating their course. her focus was a major reason why he had never sought his pilot’s license. his mind was the type that could focus on one thing at a time, and he could absorb himself in that effort to the point where nothing could distract him. A pilot, on the other hand, had to absorb multiple stimuli and coordinate them to maximum effect. Neglect fuel consumption, and you run out of fuel. headwinds and tailwinds could send you miles off course.

There were too many things to know and know well. She did it so well that, in that environment, he was hers. It was best that he left the navigating to Rachel and concentrated on the myriad of ever-changing factors that his latest effort entailed. he had embarked on a most imprecise course.

In the afternoon glow reflecting off the water below, he could see every crease in her face, but in his mind, she was flawless. She was his girl, his lover, his chauffeur, and his confidante, and in the years that he had known her since their chance meeting in Belize, they’d had adventures that others only dream about. he liked her spirit, her determination, and her love of the high-risk activities that they shared when he could get away. She conformed to no conventional image of a woman that he knew of, and the more time they spent in each other’s company, the more complete their connection became.

She steered the plane toward a small island in the middle of a lake in north Georgia, where they would spend the night. The sun was setting, and the seaplane was not equipped with the night navigation devices that modern navigators relied upon. They were better suited for short hops from island to island than across long stretches of the country, and Rachel carefully gauged their airtime. As the orange glow of the sun began to move behind the cypress trees that lined the lake, she carefully and expertly landed the plane on the smooth water. Max dropped anchor as the plane gingerly bumped up against the small island, and they jumped out to explore before the darkness lured them back into the comfortable living room of the sleeping quarters.

When they returned to the plane, a satellite communicator blinked red in the dim interior of the cabin. Max picked up the device and pushed a button that immediately broadcast the image of Luke Postlewaite.

“I’ve been trying to reach you. Where the hell are you, in the middle of a swamp or something? It irritates me that you don’t think enough of your elders to confide—”

“What is it, Luke?” he interrupted.
“Your latest jog has people talking. huffington is running around trying to gather support for the idea that you aren’t fit to be president, and everyone he talks to is calling him an asshole. That just makes him madder. You should have seen him at the Press Club. he looked like a bantam rooster, strutting around and cussing you out for embarrassing him. The only footage he had of you was you calling him an asshole, so the network ran it,” Luke confided.
“Well, what did he expect? he got in my face, and was being his arrogant self, and I just said what first came to mind. Besides, he is an asshole,” Max replied.
“Max, you know I’m your biggest supporter, and I love you and Rachel to death, but be careful out there. Somehow, they know where you are and where you’re headed, and I’m worried that the crazies will be hunting for you.”
“Listen, don’t worry about me. I have the cutest pilot in the world right here, and she doubles as my bodyguard.” Rachel had discarded her clothes and was buried beneath a mink comforter he had brought to cover the bed. She giggled as he stroked the arch of her foot with a snowy-egret feather he’d found on the walk around the shore of the island. her toes curled.
“Luke, I have to go. I’ll see you and Andrew Friday at the beach house. I’ll get the seafood, but bring me four Taco Bell beef burritos so I can do some bartering in Eastpoint. Last time I went, that was good for two pounds of grouper and as many Bulldozers as I could eat.” Max tapped a button on the console, and it went dark.

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ChAPTER SIXTY-NINE

When I gave up being reverent, it was the turning point in my life. It defined me, somehow.”
Rachel laughed. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t think anyone is better than me, and I don’t think they’re
any worse. When I meet a billionaire, I think, ‘how did he or she get
to the pinnacle? I can learn from this person.’ But they’re no better
than me. They’re different, and maybe a little lucky, but that can just
be a matter of being in the right place and the right time. The difference between us is that they were there at that exact moment, and
I wasn’t. Not yet anyway, but soon.” he got a faraway look, his face
reflecting the last shimmer of the turquoise water as the sun dove
slowly behind the palm trees on the shore. On the sand at the edge of
the lagoon, a light danced to the far side. Soon, the shoreline began to
resemble a black cutout in front of a pastel-colored painting, and he
turned to face her. he was still nude, and she was equally bare. “I’ll say you’re no worse. Maybe even a little better in most respects.” She grinned impishly. her eyes were transfixed between his legs. he definitely needed more attention. She motioned for him to
lay with her.
he was still restless. It happened whenever his brain was on overdrive. When he was like this, sex was the only distraction that, if you
could call it a distraction, was capable of rescuing him from that turgid state. he ran his finger up the outside of her leg, and she turned
to him. They melted together, their tanned bodies still slick from tanning lotion and a day in the sun.
hours later, he awoke, still inside her, feeling the wetness and
warmth of that familiar place. The slow swelling became an urgent
hardness once again, and he took up where he had left off. She awoke,
feeling the pressure, the slick friction of his insistent member pressing against her. Wave after wave pulsed through her. Feeling her response, he quickened his strokes, and she arched her back, her hands
clawing his muscular back.
“That’s it! Ohmigod! Yes! Yes!” They spoke in unison, each saying
the same words as each nerve fired in languid ecstasy. As their heart
rates slowly returned to normal, they spooned together, the heat of
their intercourse melting each curve of their bodies into one. Rachel
snuggled in his arms, and Max’s mind began to move on to business
and obligation.
They had traveled by seaplane to escape the paparazzi and the
press, and they basked in the illusion that they were alone for the
moment, secure in his beach hideaway, Anchor house, on the coast
of the Florida Panhandle. he planned to meet with Luke and Andrew later in the day to deal with the serious issues of running for
president, but for now, the feeling of being away from the turmoil and
attention was refreshing. he stepped from the bed and unlatched the
Key West‒style shutter that covered the windows of the bedroom and threw them open. As he leaned forward on the window sill, still nude,
he inhaled the salt air and took in the tropical landscape of the yard. Two dunes covered with sea oats stood between the house and
the Gulf of Mexico. Deep in the cover of a thicket of palmetto palms
adjacent to the walkway to the beach, a lone figure lay camouflaged
in the mottled shadows of the thicket. he focused his sights upon his
target, who was unaware that his solitary foray onto the veranda was
exposing more than his nudity to the morning sun. From this vantage
point, which he had maintained since shortly after midnight, he had
a perfect shot.
Sensing movement in the yard, Max turned toward the end of
the veranda. Before he could withdraw into the semidarkness of the
room, he heard the continuous clicking sounds of a digital camera,
followed by, “Thanks, Mr. Masterson. Thanks for my kids, too. See
you in the funny papers.” The photographer emerged from the palmetto and hurdled over the coleus plants lining the fence. As Max
watched helplessly, he sprinted around the dunes and was gone.