At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (26 page)

“Ah hope ya’ll don’t mind,” Buddy announced upon emerging from his cluttered office, “but one of mah duties as airport manager and the regional FAA official is to report all plane mishaps. The local news is sending a crew over to do an interview of you and the little lady here, and I told them that they could use mah office to conduct the interview. I imagine there will be a contingent of politicians from Tallahassee right behind them wanting to get their picture taken with ya’ll, considerin’ it’s an election year. They sounded real excited about it, considerin’ that you are runnin’ fer president and all.”

Max turned to Rachel, panic-stricken. “What do we do now? We have to get out of here.”
Rachel gave Buddy her best annoyed look and began scanning the airport for possible escape vehicles. At the end of the runway was a Beechcraft Premier III, the most advanced single-pilot business jet in the world, its sleek outline looking very odd in its present setting. She was already envious of the pilot, who could be seen going through his preflight checklist. From the look of things, he appeared to be flying without passengers, although it could hold four adults. “Come on!” exclaimed Rachel, grabbing Max by the hand and propelling him with a lurch toward the door.
Max turned to see Buddy mouthing words with a surprised look. The sound of the idling jet drowned out his voice, but he was certain that he was using colorful language to express his disappointment at the lost opportunity to be the center of attention in his quiet corner of the universe. Max wondered how Buddy would explain their departure when the press and the politicians converged on him, but sprinted behind Rachel toward possible escape.
Rachel arrived first and could be seen talking to a large man adorned with three thick gold chain necklaces, a Dale Earnhardt ball cap, and a tank top that prominently advertised “Lou, the King of Barbecue” across his chest. Beneath the slogan was a cartoon pig wearing a chef ’s hat and apron, holding a spatula. The man inside the costume was Lou, himself. Lou Sossman was nationally known among aficionados of good barbeque as the entrepreneur who franchised a chain of barbeque stands throughout America. his success

AT RISK OF WINNING

came from catering to the customer’s choice of the best from Texas, Kansas, and two recipes from North Carolina, depending on whether the customer preferred east Carolina or west Carolina barbeque. his trip to north Florida came as the result of a rumored new recipe that he planned to test-market in his popular Quincy location.

As Max came to a stop next to Rachel, he and Lou simultaneously exclaimed, “You’re him!”—Max from his recognition of Lou from his many TV commercials and billboards that seemed to sprout spontaneously from lonely hillsides, and Lou from his obvious surprise at running into a presidential candidate on a rural airstrip that sprouted tufts of grass from cracks in the runway.

Rachel had already explained their predicament to Lou, and he was sizing them up with great amusement. “Turn around,” said Lou with a high-pitched chuckle. Max and Rachel spun in unison to see a caravan of press vans and black official-looking cars roaring into the chain-link fenced parking lot. A considerable cloud of dust rolled in behind them. “Get in,” hollered Lou. “I could use the company, and I can fly you faster to Kansas City than anyone in this pretty baby.”

As they taxied down the runway, the radio crackled with Buddy’s perplexed voice, “Now Lou, I ain’t cleared you ta take off yet, dammit!”

“Sorry, Buddy, I’ll leave you some free coupons the next time I’m in town,” Lou replied, and with a “Yeehaw,” Lou’s plane achieved escape velocity and banked north toward freedom.

By the time the Beechcraft touched down at Kansas City International Airport, Max and Rachel had eaten more barbecue and learned more about the difference between Lou’s trademarked recipes than anyone has a right to know. Lou had been touring his franchises solo for too long, and his constant bravado made Rachel privately weigh the benefits of flying against bumping silently along in an old truck on a country road. She admired Max’s ability to fall asleep at any opportunity, which he accomplished even in the presence of a commanding personality like Lou, but she was able to finally fly in one of the most technologically advanced flying machines on the public market. The trade-off was, in her mind, a good one. Max could extract himself from the conversation, and she could learn to fly a jet most pilots have never seen outside of a glossy magazine.

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ChAPTER SEVENTY-EIGhT

Where is he? You assured me two days ago that he would be here on time and ready to go, and the only way I have to track his whereabouts is to look at that map!” Staffman had been berating Andrew for the past two hours, and the abuse was taking on the tone of a street fight.

“he’ll be here. he won’t fly commercial, won’t spend the money on a private flight, and when he called from Kansas City, he said he and Rachel were going to get here the American way, whatever that is. Judging from the speed at which he’s traveling, he must be driving across the plains. he seems to be stopping in small towns along the way, but they aren’t campaign appearances that we set up. I haven’t seen any news reports since he left Kansas City.” Andrew was getting nervous, but Max made everyone nervous. he did everything on his schedule and in his way.

While other candidates were attending political appearances and making speeches, Max did whatever he chose, much to the consternation of the people who worked for him. This time, though, his habit of falling off the radar screen was giving them fits. Andrew had been trying to contact him on his communicator, but it had been turned off since the press had obtained his private number. They had tried to change it time after time, but a day would pass and the information was mysteriously back in their possession. The last call from the press had prompted Max to toss the device into a cypress swamp, and although it was waterproof, it was no longer attached to its owner. Andrew had no way to speak with him until he showed, if he showed at all. “I thought that Max was being tracked by satellite by his communicator, but since he cut me off, I don’t know how they are tracking him now. That map on the grid is current, and it shows that he will be here in about an hour. Then we’ll hike up to the staging area if he can say his piece, and then it’s off to the Oregon coast for another visual backdrop for his next sound bite.”

Bill looked weary. he hadn’t slept well for days. he longed for his memory-foam mattress and his own bedroom. “I meant that Max and the video crew will do that while I sit here at eight thousand feet. Did you know that you can get pleasantly drunk on one beer at this altitude? I plan to test that theory with this here bottle of brandy,” he drawled while waving the amber spirits in front of the video cam. “I’ve got to tell you, Andrew, this campaign is wearing me out. I need to be back in Washington polling delegates, not here in the middle of nowhere wondering if he’s going to show.” Staffman was ready to return to the familiar cocoon of his office. he feared the unknown and the unpredictable, and Max, by design and behavior, set off all of the anxiety he could handle. Andrew had youth and optimism to get him through his day. Staffman needed his coffee served in his cup, the way he had come to expect it, everything as it had been for the past forty years. Predictable.

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ChAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

he had been on assignment for two days now, ordered to set up his observation station at the curve in the road where the highway to Aspen passes between two fissured granite bluffs. he answered to his superiors in Washington and had been in deep cover for so long that he had almost forgotten his true purpose for being there. he had been trained as a sniper in advance of his first mission to Kuwait, parachuting in from high altitude at night when the moon was at its ebb and the Iraqis were celebrating their recent conquest of their fellow nation. he had been in and out before sunrise, his prey dispatched silently in a pink spray of blood. Since then, his training was narrowed toward one objective—to kill without a trace, his victim dying without a forensic road map back to the cause of death. he considered himself a professional, but he was only a lackey doing what they wanted, whenever it was requested, wherever he had to be.

Max and Rachel sat in the backseat of Lou’s limo, unsure of where they were headed. They needed to traverse the eight-hundred-mile expanse of prairie and mountain terrain in two days, and they weren’t going to make it on foot nor risk their safety by using public transportation. his campaign stops were becoming more dangerous each day. They had managed to make it this far by providence, but for the moment, they lacked the link to their destination. They were waiting, strategizing about the next step. Max continued to stare out the window deep in thought, willing a solution to their predicament. he had promised to be there, and he kept his promises, not only to the people he met but to the people he chose to represent.

“What do we do now, smart guy?” Rachel was snuggling close to him, pressing her breast against his arm and resting her head on his shoulder. She was weary from the trip, while Max seemed refreshed from his nap.

Lou had directed the driver to take them to his Kansas City franchise. When they arrived at the restaurant, a group of adoring fans of Lou the King of Barbeque stood cheering at the limo’s arrival. When they pulled to the curb, Max leaped out. “I know you’re disappointed to see a guy running for president standing here instead of my good friend Lou, but can anyone tell me how I can get to Aspen by the day after tomorrow?”

The crowd was silent, stunned by the unexpected appearance of Max and Rachel. Lou stayed inside the limo behind mirrored glass, not wanting to interrupt the impromptu exchange and delighted that he was about to get all the free publicity a presidential candidate can generate. I do believe that Max just made me another million in sales, he predicted.

A biker wearing an American flag do-rag stepped forward and removed his sunglasses. “Max, er . . . Mr. President, er . . . Dammit, you just stepped into harley Davidson country, and my friends and I would be proud to lend you a couple of my favorite bikes to make the trip. hell, we’ll do the ride with ya. Whaddaya say, Max?”

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ChAPTER EIGhTY

Max and his newfound friends left Kansas City harley Davidson in a loud and colorful rally. The harley’s unmistakable roar was multiplied by thirty, and then by one hundred as word of Max’s arrival reverberated through the close-knit biker community. The eight-hundred-mile trip across prairie land to the Rockies would take two full days, but the riders planned to stop for the night before the mountain phase of the ride. Rachel rode in wing formation while Max took the lead. Their bikes were fresh off the assembly line at the Kansas City harley Davidson plant, and in exchange for video for promotional purposes, Max and Rachel got another free ride.

The route across the prairie was windy but warm, and it was exhilarating to get out of the crowds and into the wide open. As the sun began to set on the distant mountain range, the colors lit up the sky with orange and yellow hues, then purple and pink as the last vestiges of the day settled behind the horizon. They set up camp outside of the small town of Seibert, the only source of food and fuel for many miles. While dinner cooked over an open fire, Max and Rachel slipped away and lay on a blanket in the tall grass.

“Why have you been so quiet today? I know when you get in these moods that something is up,” she whispered, as the sunset gave way to a sky full of stars, bright enough to illuminate everything around them.

“I have been thinking about why I’m doing this.”
“You mean, riding a harley, a jet, a pickup truck, a seaplane, and the barbecue king’s jet, just to get to Aspen . . . when you could have just booked a flight?”
Max’s face took on a puzzled look. his mode of transportation hadn’t occupied one moment of his thoughts. “No, this gets me out with the real people, and it keeps them focused on me. Everywhere we go, they recognize me. I mean, it’s not like they didn’t know what I look like before I ran, but they look at me now with hope. I’m beginning to take this whole thing more seriously. I don’t have any answers, and I don’t have a lifetime in politics, but they come to me with their fears and their dreams, all wanting me to make the fears go away and their dreams to come true somehow.”
Max’s appearance on the political scene struck a chord with conservatives and liberals alike, but mostly, he had the unwavering support of average people struggling to make a living and raise a family. This segment of the American public was a vastly diverse group who looked at politics in the same way they viewed the task of buying a used car or treating warts. They didn’t like it, had no patience for it, and most of all, they avoided it every opportunity. They wouldn’t attend a political fund-raiser unless the organizers were serving free beer, and if they did, they wouldn’t part with any of their hard-earned cash. Max was different. his campaign was mostly self-funded, but the bulk of his political contributions came in small increments from average people: families who felt that they had to do something, and who desperately craved having someone to believe in.
he lay next to Rachel, looking at the stars. It seemed reverent to gaze in silence. They held hands, and the evening chill made them pull the blanket closer. In the morning, they hadn’t moved from their seclusion, spooning tightly.

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After a predawn breakfast of bacon and eggs washed down with coffee strong enough to take the paint off a park bench, they set out in the early mist of morning. Riding into the mountains earlier would have been unwise, as the passes remain treacherous until the sun has evaporated the dew. The sun was just coming across the prairie as they entered the mountain stage of the trip. Near Glenwood Canyon, the road began winding through the reddish rock walls along the Colorado River, and their pace slowed. Partly, the riders slowed to adapt to the slick, winding road, but the better explanation was that, after a long ride through the featureless landscape of the vast prairie, it was time to absorb the oasis-like beauty of the place.