The Gambit (75 page)

The cold air whipped around my coat, and I stood there with my hands deep in my pockets. She said she would be here at 9:15. It felt like it had been so long since we were separated that morning at the lab. People walked by without paying me any attention. They were all on their cellphones, sipping on their coffees or listening to music. They had no idea they were walking past the scientist who helped contribute research to uncovering one of the most dangerous lies in the history of the country, but they would know soon enough.

“Well hey there, stranger!” a delicate voice called from behind.

I turned around to see Emily, with her short, black hair tucked behind an ear. The rest of it whipped against her neck. A smile tugged at her lips, and I walked over and gave her a big hug. After a few seconds, she pulled her head back to look at me. Her eyes darted across my face, and she revealed a perfect grin.

“Hello, Emily,”

“
Em
,” she corrected.

I let out a loud laugh, shaking my head.

“I thought you hated that nickname?”

“It’s starting to grow on me,” she said with a wink and pulled me closer.

“Oh, is it now?” I flirted back. I never felt this kind of chemistry between us before, but wherever it came from, I liked it.

“I believe so.”

“You know what’s crazy?” I asked.

“What?” Her eyebrows quirked.

“This is where you tried to talk me out of testing a second specimen, remember?”

“Oh, did I now?” she said with a wink. “Don’t let that get to your head, Stefan. I ended up helping you with it anyway.”

“I’m glad you did.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, because with me you had a pretty girl to gawk at
and
do the dirty work in the lab.”

“Aha, there’s the Emily I remember—sharp as a knife.”

She looked up at me smiling and let out a laugh.

“So…” She began hesitantly. “What’s going on with your dad?”

“Actually, he is in D.C. with Rachel. She is his goddaughter. They had been talking to each other since the beginning when Owen was framed. She is a journalist, and she has all of our evidence. She is writing the story that will reveal the truth.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “You have
a lot
to tell me.”

“That I do,” I said, releasing her from the hug.

“Who said you could let me go?” she teased. “I’ve missed you.”

Her voice was almost
loving
.

“I’ve missed you too. What happened to you while I was gone? Are you sure someone didn’t kidnap the old you, and replace you with someone else?”

She laughed. “No. Maybe I just realized what was right in front of me. Our atoms never touch, but I felt something just now, when you held me close. That must mean something.”

I glanced down at her with a growing smile.

“Now, is this just a hypothesis, or a theory?”

She slapped my forearm lightly.

“Funny, real funny.”

Her eyes darted across my face again, and she gently bit her lower lip. I got the sense that she was waiting for something, and I leaned in and gave her a kiss. She held it longer than I expected. When we parted, her eyes were glowing.

“What was that?!” she asked, gasping from surprise.

I looked down at her slyly.

“I was testing the hypothesis.”

“Very clever, Stefan,” she chuckled.

“You know, we have to test it thousands of times before it’s a
theory
.”

Her dimples appeared as she pursed her lips, trying to hold back a smile.

“Yes, I know. I think I’m okay with that.”

I gently grabbed her hand, interlacing her fingers in my own.

“So, do you think the FBI is stalking us anymore?” she asked.

“No,” I answered. “They are long gone. In a few days, everyone will know what has been going on the past two years. That’s why I was so excited to see you. I wanted so badly to tell you that our research would be used in Rachel’s article. Our resilience paid off, Em. It
worked
.”

“That’s what two bright minds can do when they break a few laws. You saw past the lie from the beginning, Stefan. I helped because I knew science trumps any sensationalized rumor.”

I gazed into her dark eyes lovingly.

“Thank you, Em,” I said, clutching her hand tighter. “Let’s go inside.”

I wrote the article in less than twenty-four hours. I didn’t need forty-eight. I had all the information I could have ever wanted right at my fingertips. He flew back home on the second, and I knew he would take care of any editorial issues. The finishing touches were his job, not mine. I just compiled a tragic story into an eloquent article. I started all the way back at the beginning, before Black Monday, and went all the way to the end. There were many tears throughout the process…but I had never felt a more satisfying feeling than signing my name at the top when I was finished.

Rachel Flores — 11-02-2016

It was similar to the feeling you had when you finished a good book, like as if I were mentally parting with the pieces of the story that comprised it. It felt like a funeral, but I knew better. This wasn’t the end of the story…it was the beginning. If my article spread like wildfire, then there would be nothing the government could do to stop it. It was our first amendment right, and I utilized it the best I could. Perhaps, it would be enough to save the election.

Ian came to pick up the article midday on the second. If what he told me was correct, then the article was published two days ago on the third. I prayed that it was being read and taken seriously. If people treated it like they did a tabloid, we wouldn’t get very far. I hoped the reputation of the New York Times would help.

I wasn’t granted a bond. I would be stuck here indefinitely. I passed the hours sleeping and reading. Mainly though, I thought about
him
. I talked to my mother before I fell asleep every night, and every morning when I woke. I called on their strength to get me through this dark time in my life. I was locked up for twenty-three hours a day, and that was how it would be until Ian found a way out for me, if he ever was able to.

I could rot in this prison for all I cared. As long as my article
worked
, I would be fine. That was all that mattered to me, and I realized that further when I wrote the article. Regardless of what happened, the world would remember the cover story of the New York Times on November 3
rd
, 2016. I authored it, I lived it. It was a part of me, a part of
my
story.

I knew it was just past noon because we were at recreation. The one hour of the day we were able to do something other than sit in our cells. Briana was right—a
‘Barbie doll’
like me wouldn’t do well in prison. I almost got beat up my second day out on the quad. So now, I would watch TV in the rec room. Or, I would do exercises on the far side of the quad. Anything to stay away from the larger, more muscular women. Today, I was almost finished with a puzzle in the game room. There was a foosball table, a TV, and many board games and puzzles. The older inmates hung out in here. They didn’t get near the more violent ones.

Orange was all I saw nowadays. On myself, and on others. I could have never seen the color again and I would have been perfectly happy. I read two books in the past three days, but nothing seemed to pass the time well enough. I sat upright and placed the different pieces in their correct spots, and the picture began to form. It was a cheetah. Now, all I had left to do were the edges.

“Isn’t that the same girl named Rachel?” I heard someone ask. My forehead scrunched up because I rarely interacted with the other inmates. I had no desire to.

“Yes, it is,” an older inmate I knew as Betty replied. I didn’t talk to her much, but she was kind enough to befriend me at lunch and dinner. I wasn’t trying to make friends in here, but whatever protection I could get, I would take.

“Go get her!” the other voice urged. The rec-room was two rooms connected by a short hallway. The TV and couches were in one room, and all the games in the other. I saw Betty walking down the hall, and immediately my heart raced. Betty seemed harmless, but from what I had already seen in this prison, that could change in a second.

She stopped a foot away from the table and glanced down at my puzzle.

“Take a break. You need to see this.”

“Why?” I asked, startled.

“Just trust me. Remember the story you told me at dinner about why you are in here?”

My eyes grew wide, and my heart fluttered. She didn’t need to say more. I pushed myself up from the table and I followed her down the hall. I could hear a man’s voice on the TV. When we rounded the corner, I saw three other female inmates surrounding the TV.

“Make some room,” Betty demanded as we approached.

“Is that really her name?” one of them asked, glancing at me.

“Yes,” Betty answered for me. “Look, Rachel…”

The anchor’s voice was finally clear.

“…In remembrance of Guy Fawkes Day, every November 5
th
, people across the country and the globe protest political corruption. In years previous, it has primarily been in Washington, D.C., and many other capital cities around the world. Today is different. Many believe it is due to the article published by the New York Times two days ago regarding the framing of Owen Marina for the bombs at Georgetown, and Viktor Ivankov for the events that took place on Black Monday. Once again, here is an aerial view of what is going on in Times Square. Tens of thousands have shown up to protest, shutting down city streets, and we are getting reports in from Washington, Miami, Los Angeles, Chicago. These protests are nationwide…”

My mouth was agape. I covered it with my hand in disbelief of what I saw. There were
thousands
of people chanting in the streets. I saw signs that read,
Free Rachel Flores
. My eyes began to glisten, and I choked back a cry. There were others, one which read,
Viktor is a Hero. Owen is a Hero.
I saw another,
With One Lie Our Freedom Dies
.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The tears streamed down my face as I witnessed this moment. The passion in the voices of the people was unreal, all standing up for us at the same time. The article worked. People
knew
.

The camera zoomed in, and I saw a woman holding a huge white sign.

She Saved Us.

I couldn’t silence my cries any longer. That sign was about
me
. If only they could have come along for the journey I had been on and felt the pain. Then, maybe, they would realize that I didn’t save them at all. We saved ourselves. I was just like them. I just knew what I had to do, and I did it. Owen was the
real
hero of this story, and maybe now his effort wouldn’t be forgotten. Maybe they would
remember
.

I stood at the edge of my office, looking down at the crowd of thousands in awe. Emotion welled up inside of me, and I covered my mouth in shock. The floor to ceiling glass gave our office a perfect view of the protests below. The signs were about everything that was in the article, from freeing Rachel, to hailing Viktor and Owen as heroes. It was what they deserved. After what our government put them through, it was more than necessary. Owen gave his life for his party, and this story.

We could hear the echoes of the voices below, and the photographers in my office were shooting through the windows, and using the roof access to document this moment in history. I knew when I signed my signature approving Rachel’s article to be published, it would galvanize the masses into action.

Nothing had been written so truthful in decades. I read it dozens of times. It made me cry. Rachel’s writing was so
raw
—it was a beautiful, yet tragic story. It not only told the series of events that led up to Owen’s death, it touched the hearts of those who read it. Stefan had the same reaction. He called me up shouting in joy.

The election was in three days, and I was nervous on whether or not we could still beat the democrats. With their chairwoman exposed as the most villainous figure in Washington, I didn’t see how that would be possible. Although Owen’s party hadn’t won yet, I felt like I could finally breathe. Rachel was still in jail, and unfortunately, there was nothing I could do at the moment about that. I just hoped she had access to a TV, so she could see what came about after her article. In all my years, I had never seen anything like
this
. Today would go down in history as the day when our country finally woke up. Owen and his party helped provide the initial push towards change, and it was somewhat like a spark. Rachel, what she did with her article, was like pouring gasoline and causing a blaze.

Veronica was dead, and the people involved would soon be held accountable for their treason. The American People wouldn’t settle for anything less, and I was damn proud to have been a part of this. The people
knew
, and that truth was priceless.

Emilio would be proud. I knew he would be if he was here, to see the effect his daughter had at such a young age.

“Ian,” Sharon called from behind me. Her head popped in between the crack in my office door.

“What is it?” I asked.

She made a confused face and shrugged her shoulders.

“I mean, I can send it to your voicemail if you want. She doesn’t speak good English.”

“What is it regarding?”

“Well, she claims to have met Owen during his journey. She said something about a picture.”

Although the article was already published, this intrigued me. I figured I would give the lady a chance. Given the popularity of the article, people had been calling en masse to our office. They ranged from people who went to school with Owen, worked in his office, or knew him when he was a child. This though, made me wonder enough to want to speak to the woman.

“Send it to my line,” I said.

Sharon nodded her head, and her poufy, blonde curls bounced as she did so.

I walked over to my desk and let out a long exhale. I hadn’t felt this relieved since I found out Rachel was still alive and well.

Line four flashed red, and I picked it up.

“Ian Westlake,” I said.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Westlake,” a woman responded on the other end. Her oriental accent was extremely heavy like Sharon described.

“Hello there. You mentioned to my assistant that you had a picture of Owen during his journey?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“What is your name, my dear?”

“My name is Laura Vang, and I meet Owen three weeks ago.”