At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (27 page)

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ChAPTER EIGhTY-ONE

he had remained hidden in the craggy rocks for two days, listening to his receiver for updates on the progress of the Masterson riders. his trail bike was concealed under a craggy overhang, and he pulled his camouflage jacket tight around his neck to hold in his body heat. There was no tent, no campfire. his escape would leave no clues that he had been there, and his route had been meticulously planned. he was to shoot once. his target was the front tire of Max Masterson’s harley, shredding the tire to force the crash at the top of the long downhill stretch leaving the canyon. At that point in the road, the rider would be pummeled by the pavement before being propelled into a hundred-foot-deep ravine. There would be no luck this time. he would not miss. his sniper rifle with its silencer attached would rip through the tire from a mile away, and he would ride off in the opposite direction before Masterson hit the pavement.

Through his high-powered binoculars, the assassin saw the first of the riders as they approached. Max rode in front, his features clearly recognizable even at over a mile away. Taking aim, he fired and waited for the tuft of smoke as the bullet found its mark. Then he turned and strapped the powerful rifle to his back, mounted his bike, and rode down the mountain trail.

Max felt the sudden drop as the tire deflated. his body began to launch him over the handlebars, and he reared back while laying the bike down, sparks shooting menacingly as the chrome pipes scraped the pavement. he managed to kneel on the upper part of the bike, the hot pipes burning through his leather pants, but avoided being trapped under the heavy machine that would have spelled certain death. Rachel screamed in terror as he hurtled toward the edge of the chasm beside the road.

From nowhere, a burly tattooed biker zoomed within inches of the edge and tried to pluck Max from the sliding harley seconds before it left the road and launched, smoking, into the canyon below. he missed, and Max went over the edge.

The entourage came to a screeching halt. With a loud boom, the motorcycle came to a sudden stop on the boulders next to the river below. The burly tattooed biker with enormous arms was the first to reach the precipice, and peered over the edge. he suddenly smiled. Perched precariously on a small ledge was Max, looking roughed up but intact.

The biker extended one arm and grasped Max by the shoulder. With one strong pull, he hauled Max back to the edge of the road to the amazed cheers of the entourage. As he panted on his hands and knees, Rachel rushed to him, tears of relief streaking the dust on her face. “Come on,” she exclaimed, “we have an election to win.”

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ChAPTER EIGhTY-TWO

The sound of a harley Davidson motorcycle is unmistakable. When it is joined by a dozen other harleys, the growl of the engines takes on a life of its own. Before they emerged from the shelter of the forest, it was obvious that the Masterson campaign was about to be visited by the visitors they expected, and from the sound that reverberated throughout the canyon, there were a lot of them.

Andrew’s attention was drawn to the sound that was amplified by the rock walls surrounding the clearing. The distant rumble took on the low vibration of the multiple engines, and it was hard to do anything but await the arrival of their visitors. Black specks moving in the distance gained color as they approached, and he could make out details, twenty or more riders, all perched low on chrome chariots. In front, the leader wore black leather pants and leather vest, no shirt or jacket. his rippling muscles revealed a high level of fitness; no paunch or the fleshiness acquired by physical inactivity. On his head was a do-rag in red, white, and blue with stars along the rim. As they approached the makeshift command center, Andrew could make out the leader’s features, and he smiled broadly. A familiar face smiled back.

Max roared to a stop inches from Andrew’s feet. Rachel pulled up next to him, dressed in identical road gear with the exception of a tank top that displayed Max’s image, beneath which was the slogan, “Max. A man running for president.” She displayed it well, her chest pushing Max’s image to prominence above the slogan. his entourage held back, stopping at the perimeter in obvious deference to their leader and companion. he removed his reflective sunglasses and looked at his young assistant from head to toe.

“Did you miss me?”

“Max, you have been on the missing list for three days! We had no idea where you disappeared to or how you were going to get here.”
Bill Staffman appeared, holding a very thick roast-beef sandwich in his right hand and a cold beer in his left. Max grabbed the beer and downed it in one large draw to the applause of the other riders. They took that as an excuse to share the bounty, and dismounted in unison.
The advance team had set up a large tent and, to avoid making the forty-three-mile trip into town, had brought a generator, gas grill, and refrigerator to defer the thought that they were roughing it in the Rockies. Inside the tent was another cooler that held the cold beers, and they helped themselves.
Staffman greeted Max with a snarl. “You could have let us know what was happening. The only notice I had of your arrival was that damn monitor that the network has posted for everyone to see. I still don’t understand how, but they know where you are at any given moment,” he said before tearing into the sandwich.
As Bill chewed, Max addressed Andrew. “I ran into a bit of trouble on the road,” he said, ignoring the tone of authority from his senior advisor. “I blew a tire and had to lay the bike down outside of Aspen. I almost had to hitch a ride on Rachel’s granny seat to get here. She wouldn’t let me ride again until I told her that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.” he looked over at Rachel, who smiled and blushed slightly, her tanned features darkening.
“Are you hurt?” Andrew looked at the scuffed and torn leather of Max’s right pants leg and was alarmed to see dried blood along the edge.
he recalled the momentary terror of the incident—the bullet ripping through the tire, laying the bike down, riding the bike on its side and skidding. he had prayed that it wouldn’t begin the flip that would pin him to the road and carve the skin off of the side that met the pavement. he’d managed to stay on top of the spinning metal until just before it left the road and came to a stop at the bottom of the ravine. If he hadn’t jumped off the bike at the last second, the Masterson campaign would be planning his funeral.
Max ignored the request for a damage report, and continued. “Just bad luck, with a little help from whoever wants me out of the race. I saw a bullet hit my front tire.”
As his staff looked at him in horror, the bikers cheered loudly. They had witnessed a clear act of bravery by one of their own and shoved their hero to the front of the group. Woody Fixton was a weekend warrior who owned the local harley Davidson dealership and had spent his life repairing and riding between stints as a rebel from society. he was an avid Max Masterson fan and spent much of his leisure time sizing up his hero over the internet. he had been at the right place to save Max from certain death, and he would carry that pride to his dying breath. The crowd clapped as Woody smilingly accepted a beer poured over his bald head.
Max shook Woody’s hand gratefully and continued. “I flatted at Glenwood Canyon and I had to lay the bike down. It was a total loss, but these folks were kind enough to supply me with this mighty ride.” Max stood to the side so that they could admire the harley Davidson, a classic 1972 Shovelhead, stripped down and tricked out. The blue paint job blended into white and red, with the presidential seal on the side of the gas tank.
Staffman recovered from the shocking news first. “I told you someone was trying to kill you. It’s now a verified fact. I’ll prepare a press release and make a public statement.”
“The hell you will.”
“But I’m your campaign spokesman. That’s what I’m supposed to do.” Bill looked like a little boy who had just been told he couldn’t have that cookie before dinner.
“Think about it, Bill. Andrew, you too. If I am in the crosshairs of some assassin’s gun, whoever wants me dead only took one shot. They wanted it to look like an accident. They saw my bike go down on a mountain highway in the middle of nowhere, and they think I’m dead. Nobody has heard from me in days, so they assume that they accomplished what they set out to do. My bet is that they will show their hand by announcing my demise before you do. The longer we remain silent, the better chance we have of finding out who is behind all of this.”
“But Max,” replied Andrew, “Postlewaite has been calling me from Washington demanding to know what’s happening, and until this very moment, we had no idea that an assassination attempt had been made—”
Max cut him off in mid-sentence. “Don’t use that word. Assassination. I hate that word. To me, it means that someone shot his ass down in front of the nation. That word is banned from our vocabulary. It should only be used for dead presidents, and the rumor of my untimely demise is highly exaggerated,” Max said, paraphrasing Mark Twain. Max’s words met with applause from the bikers, who enjoyed his bravado and were observing the exchange from the shade of the tent canopy. Max grinned in an attempt to disarm the profound concern displayed on the faces of his staffers.
“Will you quit worrying? I’m fine. Nobody is going to mess with us while my friends are here to protect us.” All heads turned at the sound of multiple bullets being cocked into their chambers. The entourage was armed to the teeth, and they took almost as much pride in their weapons as they did in their harleys.
“As your representative of the Max for President chapter of Boulder, Colorado, I’m pleased to announce that your future head honcho is better protected than that idiot who will soon be leaving the White house!” The speech came from a potbellied man with a gray ponytail sprouting from the back of his mostly bald head. They cheered and held their beers in one hand and weapons in the other high above their heads for all to see.
“I rejected the Secret Service because they cramped my style. I didn’t want to be surrounded by black suits and sunglasses 24/7. Without you guys to save me, Rachel would still be trying to retrieve my corpse from the bottom of that ravine. Thank you for all of your help. You saved my life.”

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ChAPTER EIGhTY-ThREE

The Secret Service has one primary purpose. From the time of McKinley’s assassination, they had been entrusted to protect the president and those around him. After the shooting of Bobby Kennedy in the 1968 presidential race, those duties were expanded to protect candidates as well, and a team of Secret Service protection was assigned to each of the major vote-getters in the race. After the primaries, Max was offered Secret Service protection, but declined, wary that the Secret Service was under the jurisdiction of his father’s longtime nemesis, Adam Pryor, director of homeland Security. Pryor held a much-publicized disdain for anyone remotely connected with the Masterson campaign, but extended the offer of protection out of obligation.

Max reasoned that by accepting their help, he was attracting attention that made him more of a target, and he would be treated like a prisoner. Pryor would have been pleased if he got his ass shot off after rejecting his halfhearted offer, but still, he couldn’t let that influence him. his life would be changed from that of a free soul without a firm agenda to a series of planned public appearances with advance teams to sweep for bombs at the next planned stop. he disliked the idea that he would never be alone again, followed and surrounded by a faceless sea of dark-suited and sunglassed bodyguards who talked into their lapels.

Then came the apoplectic call from Postlewaite. “Max, you are trying my patience,” he bellowed. “I am an old man. It’s not nice to abuse the elderly.” Postlewaite’s flair for understatement barely contained the fury in his voice. “I have the FBI, the Secret Service, homeland Security, and the CIA here in my office, and they’re telling me that someone has been taking shots at you, and I’m the last to know! I’ve seen photos of your wrecked motorcycle and hear stories that you’re out West somewhere. I can even go online and track your movements on a virtual map, which can zoom in on you from a satellite, but I haven’t had a call from you.”

Luke Postlewaite sat in the study at Fairlane with Intelligence Secretary Jason Bland, homeland Security Director Adam Pryor, and FBI Director Betty Swift. The videoconference was planned for 10:00 a.m. Pacific Time, and Andrew had placed the call faithfully at the appointed time, excited that he was witnessing a behind-the-scenes event that is privy to only a select few.

Max and his staff sat in the tent in the mountain park, still dressed in biker clothes. The entourage looked more like participants at a bike rally than members of a political campaign.

All of the representatives of the intelligence community wore black, which matched their grim expressions. Max remained calm, but immediately fixated on the steely eyes of Pryor, whose face was contorted into a permanent scowl. “Living proof that the older you get, the more your wrinkles reflect what your thoughts are,” thought Max.

“Mr. Masterson, you are in grave danger.” Pryor took the lead, owing to his substantial seniority over his companions. Even though they rode to the Masterson estate in the same motorcade, they rode in separate limousines, reflecting the unspoken competition between their government agencies.

Max chose not to respond to Pryor, waiting for someone else to volunteer more information. There was a long silence as they waited for him to speak.

Postlewaite took the cue to step in. “Max, I know how you feel about crowds, and, I especially appreciate your zealous regard for your privacy . . .” he looked at Pryor, who suddenly began examining the artwork in the room. “But we need to talk this out. I made a promise to the senator to get you through this campaign, but I can’t do that if you are lying on a slab in a morgue someplace. All your potential gone . . .” his eyes became distant as he slipped into the past.