ELIMINATION

By G.W. JACOBS

Behind closed doors in the Washington, DC, area, a secret and powerful group of people decide to make Leland G. Powell the next president of the United States. Powell is a man who has it all. He is a rich self-starter, has a booming import-export business, and can already command audiences with heads of states around the world. However, what this group of people doesn't know is that Mr. Powell has a secret that he will use any means to keep hidden.Powell's secret begins in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Although he doesn't know it, there are seven Asians who have migrated to the United States and know Powell's secret. Powell realizes that if these people saw him, they could derail his bid for the presidency, and Powell will let nothing and no one stand in his way of being elected. To that end, he calls on Jack Reed, a former soldier, to eliminate his problems.As Reed begins to eliminate those who know Powell's secret, he teams up with an FBI agent and one of the people he is supposed to eliminate. Instead of eliminating them, he now is protecting them. From conflicting emotions about how they feel about each other to deciding how to stop Powell's campaign, this group of three risk everything, even their own lives, to put a stop to Powell's candidacy.From California to the nation's capital, Reed and those he is now protecting try to stay one step ahead of those who would eliminate them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886441390

Book preview

Prologue

The Beginning

Lee Powell, businessman extraordinaire, exited the meeting held in a secret location just outside of Washington, DC, and felt ecstatic about what had just transpired. He’d met with the Dharma Group, a group of powerful individuals that included the Speaker of the House of Representatives, the Senate Majority Whip, and about thirty-six leaders from the public and private sectors. They had just agreed to make him the next President of the United States. They loved his approach to business and his fiscal soundness. They loved how he had taken a small import-export company and turned it into one of the financial juggernauts of the twenty-first century. They loved him. They loved his looks, his stature in the community, and the way he commanded respect—even from strangers. Although his politics, especially foreign policy, needed polishing, it was for this reason, they told him, that staff and aides were invented.

Powell understood that. He knew that he was rough around the edges in terms of foreign policy, but no one could compete with him when it came to dealing with financial domestic issues. Even though some of his domestic policies were also ragged around the edges, they could basically stand up to scrutiny because this country needed a jolt of realism. Powell knew that he would be forever indebted to these people, who were about to make him leader of the most powerful country in the free world. But that was okay; he had learned a long time ago that trade-offs were what made the system work.

The last six months that led to this meeting were a whirlwind of activity. It all started when he addressed the Foreign Relations Committee. Because his business was thriving and he had access to foreign heads of state, the committee wanted to know what they could do in the public arena to achieve the same kind of success. That led to another call and meeting from the committee. That in turn led to lunch with members of the House Ways and Means Committee, the budget-writing arm of the House of Representatives, and the Senate Appropriations Committee Chairman; working dinners with every other political action committee chair; and extensive background checks. Word had gotten around that Powell was now a rising star on the American political scene. He had been interviewed by Time Magazine, U.S. News & World Report, and was the subject of several favorable articles by Newsweek. Because he was a newcomer on the political scene, that gave him even more appeal. He didn’t have the reputation that some of the potential candidates had and was not prone to the scandals that seemed to be rocking the legislative and executive branches of government these days. He also didn’t have the baggage that accompanied the usual candidates. No one could attack his voting record on the Hill because he had none. No one could attack him on contributing to any political action campaign because he gave to representatives across the board. No one could attack him on anything except him being new on the political scene.

As he left the Dharma Group to allow them to attend to other affairs, the fresh spring air was turning cool, but it invigorated him. He deeply inhaled the air to help clear out his lungs from the smoke-filled room. First exhaling then inhaling, feeling more confident with each breath he took. He rubbed his face so that his pores could open and let the tar and nicotine and other pollutants contained in a cigarette float away into the cool of the night. Powell walked to his car and noticed a piece of paper on the windshield. Jeffrey, he called, and his driver came rushing to meet him. Powell asked, Jeffrey, what is this?

I don’t know, sir. I was taking care of business and was making my way back to the vehicle as soon as I saw you coming.

Powell read the note and began turning chalky white.

What is it, sir? asked Jeffrey.

Nothing, just get me home.

Yes, sir, replied Jeffrey.

Powell pondered the note that he’d just read. Someone knew his secret. Worse yet, that someone was in the country and knew how to reach him. Something had to be done, and done quickly. He had come too far to be turned away from the gate now. As his mind raced toward possible solutions, he knew that he had to get in touch with Jack Reed.

Six months later

Jack Reed huddled under the homemade canopy that sheltered him from the steady rain that fell on this crisp October night. His perch was across the street from Joe Suan Soo’s building and measured about eighty feet in height; however, it provided enough of a downward slope to ensure he could hit his target and safely get away. Jack had already been on the roof for four hours, but he did not twitch, as he knew that soon his prey would be before him. And like the cheetah that stalks the gazelle on the Serengeti, he would be patient and wait for the opportune moment to strike.

His weapon of choice was a modified Springfield .303 with a UNERTL scope. The rifle was good for accuracy up to nine hundred feet. The gun had been modified to pick up heat signatures from live prey. Not only did it detect body heat, it had a built-in night-vision feature. It was a gun that he had custom made, one that was borne out of his experiences of fighting in the jungles of Southeast Asia. His bullet of choice was the hollow-point .22, which was sure to stop an elephant in its tracks. The hollow point made sure that once it penetrated the body, it would destroy everything in its path.

In case he was unable to use his rifle, Reed used a modified MP-54, a 4.4-pound submachine gun made by Heckler & Koch. This gun had a short barrel but held thirty hollow-point rounds for close-quarter use. He used 9mm Hydra-Shok bullets because they were less likely to ricochet and were notorious for destroying any flesh that got in its way. Additionally, it discharged fifteen bullets per second. For a gang fight, you might want something a tad bit better, but for his kind of work, it was more than adequate.

Reed momentarily allowed his mind to return to a time when his very life depended upon him being able to control the very essence of himself. This included breathing and making sure that every muscle was tweaked and primed and only moved when given the command. He remembered those days and nights in the jungle where he had to blend in and become one with the backdrop, lest his own life was taken. Jack continued to call upon his training now to help him ease the frustration of waiting for his prey; because no matter how good you were at waiting, it was still frustrating.

Reed was brought back to the present by the passing of headlights. The driver got out of the car and opened the door. Sighting the figure as he exited the car, Jack recognized the target—Joe Suan Soo. He had been in the United States for five years. He’d done pretty well for himself. But then again, if I went to a country where the government handed me an interest-free loan and gave me all the working capital I needed to engage in a business of my choosing, I think I could do all right myself, Reed thought. But enough of that. Reed was not a political person. He left the debate of divergent philosophical rifts to the politicians. He was a killer—pure and simple. He was a foot soldier. It was his job to do what he was told.

He sighted his target who hadn’t aged much in the past seven years. In fact, looking at him made Reed feel like it was almost last week. He could remember the two of them fighting against their enemies side by side. They had saved each other’s lives a couple of times during his stint in the jungle. Joe had saved his life when their unit converged on a house in the Lappa Valley in Southeast Asia. This house was supposedly owned by General Liam Huang, who was reputed to be the driving force behind the capture and torture of hundreds of native Southeast Asians. He was also the one person, the one important person, who held the key to his country’s wealth and was positioned to become a major player in terms of energy on the planet. The general’s refusal to deal with the U.S. government led to the decision to oust him as the leader and insert their own figurehead.

As they converged upon the house, they were spotted, and the general’s soldiers attacked. It was as if they were waiting for them. Reed was pinned down by enemy fire. He surely thought he was a goner that night. However, from his left came suppressing gunfire that allowed Reed to escape his position and take out the soldiers that pinned him down. Joe had broken formation and came looking for Reed. Joe heard the gunfire, knew that Reed was in trouble, and risked his position—and life—to save Reed’s neck. Reed returned the favor when they were investigating a village and Joe was checking out one of the huts of a supposedly abandoned enemy village at the break of dawn. As Joe made his way to the east side of a hut, the glint of an object bounced in the early morning light. Reed knew it couldn’t be anything but bad news and fired, taking out what turned out to be an enemy soldier. But that was behind him now. The only thing that mattered was the mission now before him.

Joe Suan Soo exited the car and looked around. His apartment complex stood seventeen stories high and was situated in one of the ritziest parts of town. He occupied the fifteenth floor with a view of the city that most people would kill for. He’d done well in the import-export business. Every night as he exited his car and stood before his dwelling, a surge of pride overtook him, and he couldn’t help thinking to himself what a great country America was. He couldn’t help but be proud of what he had accomplished since coming to the States. He had come to this country with nothing, and now here he stood, a wealthy man. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that all he had came at a price. The price was giving up what had been his life at home. The price had been giving up family and friends to make a better life for himself someplace else. But now he had made America his home. There were those who had come over with him and they had vowed to remain in contact, but they didn’t. He was sure that they, like he, had their own lives to manage.

A twinge of regret hit Joe Suan Soo. At that moment, he longed to be in the company of his fellow countrymen. He longed for the camaraderie they shared. He was now glad that five years had taken the edge off his former life. He could now come and go as he pleased. He didn’t have to worry about being shot at or stepping on some land mine as he walked through the jungle villages. Yes, living in America and Southeast Asia was as different as night and day; as different as this weather that seemingly changed from day to day. But given his druthers, he would not change a thing. He accepted his fate and cherished every moment that he was here. He realized that some might call him soft, but there was no need to be hard when the worst enemy was that of industrial espionage. Yes, he had to admit, life was good.

Joe had several choices of occupations to tackle when he first came to America. He used his knowledge of imports and exports to launch his business. With the weight of the government behind him, Joe had a steady stream of business, and it only grew each year he was in operation. He was extremely pleased with his career decision. This in turn led him to him being placed on several committees and boards in the city and state. He was becoming an influential person in the community, and his stature continued to grow. While he regretted not maintaining contact with his comrades as each of them promised, Joe began to suspect that there something even greater in his future. As they learned back home, sometimes sacrifices had to be made. And the things they sacrificed weren’t always of their choosing. To keep growing, one had to be willing to make the hard choices. And Joe felt that he was the one who could make the hard choices and live with the consequences.

Reed sighted Joe in the scope, his finger gently caressing the trigger of the rifle. Joe came into focus. Reed lined him up in the crosshairs. Perfect, he thought. As he prepared to take the shot, the wind began to pick up. If the wind doesn’t die down, I might not be able to make this shot. As if reading his mind, the wind increased in intensity. What the hell is going on here? asked Reed. This is uncanny. If this wind doesn’t ease up, a week of planning will go down the drain. But just as quickly as the wind surged, it died down, and Reed spotted Joe with his head down entering the building. Okay, thought Reed, we just wait. According to my reports, he’s due to come out of the building around 6:30 a.m. Reed looked at his watch—seven hours from now. That would make thirteen hours on the roof. Two hours before Joe left—just to be sure that he kept his routine—and four hours before Joe arrived to ensure that things were status quo before the actual kill. He could handle the additional seven hours. But anything outside of that was conflicting with his accuracy; because no matter how good you are, the mind begins to play tricks on you. Sooner or later, the pressure of being up all night and trying to control the body eventually took its toll on you.

Reed released his grip on the trigger and lowered the rifle when he thought he saw a movement at the front of the building. Quickly, he sighted on the doorway and couldn’t believe his luck. There was Joe Suan Soo coming out of the lobby in some kind of a rush, apparently trying to flag down his driver before he left. Reed quickly surveyed the area and saw no one else around, just Joe with his head down to avoid the rain. Reed sighted him again, but something told him to wait. Reed learned long ago to listen to that voice inside his head. Not only was it his constant companion, sometimes it was the only companion he had for a while. Reed saw Joe approach the car. The driver got out and exchanged words with Joe. Joe reached in, and Reed began to mumble under his breath, thinking he’d again lost his opportunity. But then Joe stood up, carrying a briefcase, and turned to walk toward his building. Breathing a sigh of relief, Reed sighted his target, inhaled, and let a silenced shot fly through the night.

True to his craft and skill, the bullet hit Joe in the back of the head, the Hydra-Shok bullet doing exactly what it was designed to do—exploding and shattering his brain, rendering him dead instantly. The driver, in an apparent daze, stood immobilized as Reed swiftly and deftly packed his rifle. Three down, six more to go, he thought as he carefully and quietly slipped off the roof.

Chapter 1

Two days after eliminating Joe Suan Soo, Reed left his two-bedroom flat at 5:00 a.m. to engage in his daily ritual—a five-mile run. This was a good time for him. The traffic was light enough that it allowed him almost exclusive use of the streets and park, and it also gave him the heads-up if someone was following him. His time in the jungle had made him extra cautious—some would even say to the point of being paranoid. Reed just thought there was nothing wrong with being careful. When he did run, his goal was not to attain fifteen miles but to control himself. His goal was to make sure that each day saw a reduction in his time to run the five miles, as well as in controlling his cardiovascular system. It was extremely beneficial on long stakeouts. It allowed him to control his breathing and the sweat that would form if he were not in control. In sum, it allowed him to continue to do what he did best—wait.

Up the street he went at a steady yet brisk pace. He crossed Constitution Avenue and began to pick up steam. Steady, steady, he kept reminding himself as he made his way to the park. The park wasn’t grand by any stretch of the imagination. However, the city was kind enough to put in a running/walking trail lined with mile markers that allowed him to keep track of how far he had traveled. Additionally, the city was kind enough to grade the trail in several places that gave him a very good cardiovascular workout.

The one thing he could not get excited about was the landscaping. To most people, it would be considered good, even exquisite, but greenery didn’t excite him anymore. At one time he would have enjoyed the still perfectly manicured green grass that lent perfect balance to the trees that were now beginning to turn colors as summer gave way to fall. Prior to his time in the service, he would have enjoyed watching the flowers as they bloomed in the morning and closed at night. Yes, he would have enjoyed watching the petals as they stretched and turned, trying to suck up what little was left of the autumn sun. However, his time spent in the jungles slowly seared his conscious about appreciating any of the beauty that nature had to bring. In the jungles, he learned that behind the luscious flowers lay danger. The flowers, while pretty, were also dangerous. Some could incapacitate a man, while others could kill a man. It was all about deception.

Jack increased his speed, still controlling his pulse. As his brain continued to release the endorphins into his system, he thought, Man, this feels good. Faster and faster he began to run—releasing more endorphins and still managing to control his pulse. Under control. That’s the key—you’ve got to be under control. As he completed the course and left the park, Jack looked at his watch. One minute longer than his last time. One reason he didn’t like running after a mission was that it slowed him down. It took a day or two to get the waiting kinks out of your body. But tomorrow would be a better day.

Jack continued jogging lightly as part of his cooldown. He wound up at the corner newsstand where old man Moore had run the stand for as long as he could remember. After exchanging pleasantries, Jack picked up his copy of the Daily News. He would miss old man Moore when he died because it would signal the end of another era. Just as the pay phone was a symbol of a bygone era, soon the corner newspaper stand would join it. People had options now. They could have the paper delivered or they could pick it up from some metallic machine that couldn’t say hi to you to save your life. People were also now choosing to get their news from the Internet. Yes, he would miss this symbol of American living as it moved off the scene. He would also look for the article about Joe later. He had one more errand to run but couldn’t do it until 8:30, when all the post offices opened. Until then, he would get cleaned up, have breakfast, and get on with his day.

Reed went to the post office and checked his box. Sure enough, there was a package for him. He took the package, stuck it inside his breast coat pocket, and made his way back home. He really didn’t have a need for a home address since he didn’t receive much mail there. The only personal mail he received was from his handler who informed him of where his next mission would take place—and this came to his post office box. At home, he had the usual complement of credit card bills and other bills to help keep up the appearance of him being who he said he was. It was all about deception. Rather than people seeing what they actually saw, they merely saw what they wanted—or expected to see. It was all about deception.

Reed opened the door to his sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment. In the living area, a sofa and coffee table, along with a flat-screen television to keep him updated on world events, made up his furnishings. A dinette set that sat four made up his eating area. He had a full-size bed. His meagerly decorated apartment supplied his needs but did not allow him to become trapped by the furnishings of living in the twenty-first century.

Closing the door, he went to the kitchen table, where he laid the envelope. After pouring himself a tomato juice cocktail, he read the information on his next targets. This is interesting, thought Reed. The usual protocol is one package every two weeks. Now I have two. Oh well, let’s see who these are. Mya Seouk Kwong and Huang Phan Nguyen. Nguyen is a restaurateur in a suburb outside of Detroit, Michigan, and Kwong is a tour guide in a town outside of Memphis Tennessee. Maybe I’ll take Kwong first. He has a house that sits off deep in the woods. Jack thought that shouldn’t be surprising. He simply traded one jungle for another. But at the same time, it was a little disturbing. Most Asians, when they came to the States, usually migrated to the major cities. I’m no urban planner, thought Jack, but I wouldn’t exactly classify Memphis as a major city. You could probably nuke it off the map and it wouldn’t be missed—except for maybe Beale Street.

The second thing that bothered him was that Kwong was a tour guide, which was a code name for a huntsman. That too was an odd offshoot from what Asians usually did when they came here. That probably meant that this assignment would be a little tougher than the others. Jack found himself wondering about the man’s clientele. Would they miss him when he was no longer available? What would be their response to his absence? Well, he thought, that doesn’t matter, because in a couple of weeks, his clients would have to find another guide; this one will be permanently unavailable.

Chapter 2

Roanoke, Virginia

Leland G. Powell looked at the file in front of him. Ya Wen, Ibu Chen, Ho Lee Chok, Bosu Ai, and Sua Che Cheok. The last of the Indonesian rebels. Things were moving quickly now, and he could no longer follow his two-week timetable for the elimination of these gentlemen. Reed needed to take care of these men as soon as possible. As he sealed the envelope, Powell could not believe that the last vestige of him even being in Southeast Asia seven years ago was about to be erased. Seven years of living in fear that the very secret he tried so hard to protect could be blown if the few men who saw him then could see him now.

Powell was standing at the threshold of greatness. His import-export business had made him a fortune. It had given him a lifestyle that far exceeded the dreams of this son of working-class parents. But Powell wanted more than wealth. He wanted to turn that wealth into power. Initially, he didn’t know how to do that, but he soon learned how by enmeshing himself within the Washington, DC, power structure. He had dinners with senators, judges and their clerks, and members of the House of Representatives. Not just any senator or representative, but those who had history; those who were making history; and those who, in his opinion, were in DC to stay. He looked at the incoming freshman classes and attached himself to those he thought had potential and promise. He wined and dined them and made significant contributions to their campaigns. And the next thing you knew, he had the ears of the most influential people in Congress.

It didn’t stop there. He was invited to dinner parties and gatherings at the state house. He came into contact with heads of state. This was good for business as it allowed him to expand his business, as well as the contacts he had made. He could go into almost any country in the world, call on the leaders of that country, and have his call answered personally. For all that he had accomplished, never in his wildest dreams did he ever dream of standing on the threshold of becoming President of the United States. Yes, life was good.

He needed to make sure it stayed good. That was why he called on Mark Rice, an investigator with a reputation for doing anything to make a buck. In addition to pursuing the almighty dollar, another strong attribute that Rice possessed was keeping his mouth shut. He was discreet and extremely effective. That’s why he constantly had people vying for his services. Powell had to pay nearly double to get him, because in Powell’s mind, his agenda was more important than those who wanted Rice to track down people who were missing, more often than not by choice, or those whose pride was wounded because their significant other had a romantic interlude or two on the side. There were more important things in the world than having to worry about such petty and trivial matters.

At first, the investigator told him he had to wait, but when presented with the option of having his fee doubled, he quickly found a vacancy in his schedule. And he was well worth the fee he charged. Powell himself tried doing a search on the net but only came up with one of the rebels—Joe Suan Soo. He hired a couple of investigators, but to no avail. The way Rice was able to gather information made you think he slept with it under his pillow. Yes, he was good, but soon he would have to go the way of those he found. If no one else would, this investigator would put together the pieces. He would see that those he was charged with finding were either dead or missing. And if he made the mistake of personally inquiring about them, he could lead the authorities back to me, and that could not be done. Or he could try to further enrich himself, and I don’t pay blackmail to anyone. Yes, as good as he was, unfortunately, Mark Rice would have to go. Powell needed to make sure that every trail that could lead to him would be erased.

None of this would have mattered if the townspeople from the village had minded their business. Seven years ago, he was in a village outside Rangoon, south of India and west of Thailand. He’d just returned from Myanmar on business. He’d done well in controlling his predilection. But every now and then, he could hear it calling his name, telling him, I know you want to give in to me. Yes, he’d done well, until one night he took a drive to escape the demon calling his name and wound up in some backward village. Starting to feel peaceful, he walked through the countryside and stumbled upon a lagoon, when she came along. Her coal-black eyes carefully picked their way through the underbrush. Her long, jet-black hair was bouncing off the moonlight and casting a seemingly surreal shadow around her. She was the prettiest thing you’d ever want to see—and only seven years old. Just the right age. Fresh and pure. As hard as he might, he could not control himself. The demons started screaming his name and coaxed him up to her. He stroked her hair. She flinched at each caress of his hand. Then he moved in on her. She tried to get away, but she was no match for him. He brought her close to him, forced open her legs, and had his way with her. The families, he thought, were crazy for allowing their daughters to wander in the night.

Being there that night, having his way with her seemingly unleashed all of the demons that he had managed to hold back. For the next week, he delayed his departure back to the States and was able to get one girl a night. He was feeling pretty good until the last night that he was in the village when he got caught—literally with his pants down—and almost lost his life. The girl’s older brother, who had been on patrol, returned to the village and heard about what was happening with the girls of the village. The brother was part of an insurrection group of twenty rebels fighting to take back their country. Nine were in the village that night: Sua Che Cheok, Joe Suan Soo, Mya Seouk Kwong, Ibu Chen, Huang Phan Nguyen, Ho Lee Chok, Jhn Lee Hu, Ya Wen, and Bosu Ai. Two of the ringleaders were about to take his jewels and feed them to the pigs they raised when an American soldier appeared seemingly out of nowhere and began talking to the insurgents as if they knew each other. If it hadn’t been for that GI, whose name he later discovered was Jack Reed, he would not be standing here today.

Powell had profusely thanked Reed for coming to his rescue. Powell’s curiosity led him to wanting to discuss how Reed happened to pass along at the right moment. Powell discovered that Reed and the insurgents were fighting together. When told that there was no mention of this war in the papers back home, Reed cut Powell a look that could slice out his very tongue if he continued to press the issue.

Upon returning to the States, Powell discovered through his contacts on the Armed Services Committee that the war in which Reed and the insurgents were fighting was part of an illegal war. There was no press coverage in the States because no one knew that they were at war. This was one of those operations where the U.S. supplied training and provided some of its specialized skills when it came to toppling governments that were opposed to them or where the U.S. propped up governments that were friendly to them and there was something of value about the land or the location of the country. Powell used his resources to track down Reed. As luck would have it, Reed’s tour was nearly over, and through an intermediary, he made Reed an offer to work for him. Initially Reed refused. But being the persistent person he was, Powell made contact with Reed. Again Reed told him no. Shortly thereafter, someone leaked the story of an alleged war to the press, and Reed’s name was specifically mentioned. Reed’s value as an undercover special ops commando had gone out the window. This time, Reed agreed to freelance for him.

Powell had no idea at the time that he would need a man with Reed’s skills, but something told him to secure his services. As usual, that something was right. It turned out that Reed was not in favor of the war, but being the good soldier that he was, he took part in it any way. It also turned out that Reed appeared to have some psychopathic tendencies. You never knew when you could use a person with his skills in your service. He could turn out to be the exact person Powell was looking for.

Powell began consulting with committees, and soon his voice was being heard. His ideas were over the top, yet they appeared to appeal to the masses. People were tired of the standard party lines. They were tired of being lied to and offered the same old solutions. Soon, there was talk of him being the party’s nominee for the White House within the DC circles. Powell yearned for power but never thought his quest would take him to the White House. President Powell. Yes, that had a nice ring to it.

Powell formed an exploratory committee to test the waters for a run. Everything came back favorably. His popularity in the polls was soaring. He had the backing of the most influential people in Washington. He was middle-aged, wealthy, and attractive, à la JFK. For some reason, he still couldn’t understand why this country was so enamored with that family; but if being in that mold would help him to achieve his ends, so be it. The incumbent president was struggling in the popularity polls because he couldn’t keep his johnson to himself. In a land where the people condoned alternative lifestyles and tolerated bestiality, it was still a no-no for a sitting President to have an affair. Go figure.

Powell thought he had really come along at the right time. Aside from the president’s brush with infidelity, the country was heading into a recession. Powell touted his business acumen and how that would help the country get back on its feet and become the dominant power it had historically been. The platform worked. People and endorsements began flocking to his camp. In business, one learned there was never such a thing as a shoo-in, but if there was one, Powell’s presidency was it. His approval ratings were reaching atmospheric proportions in the polls. Even the way those around him dealt with him was different. The senators and representatives, those he called upon and helped boost their sagging campaigns, treated him with a certain deference, as if he were already President of the United States.

Everything was going along just great until he saw that note on his car. If he hadn’t been in such great shape, it would have given him a heart attack. He had to find out if the author of that note was really in town. Asking around Capitol Hill, he received wind of some kind of special arrangement that had been made with a group of insurgent rebels from Southeast Asia who were being granted specialized visas by the government. He went to the Chairman of the Armed Services Committee, Senator Robert Atwood, and asked if he’d heard of such an arrangement. Senator Atwood told him in the strictest of confidence that nine rebels from the Lappa Valley who assisted the U.S. in taking back their country were indeed being allowed to expeditiously become citizens of the U.S. When asked if there was anything that could be done to rescind the arrangement, Powell was told there was nothing because agreements were already in place. When Powell played the patriot card, Senator Atwood said there were no greater patriots than these fellows who risked their very lives and the lives of their families to assist the U.S. government; the least the government could do was expedite their way to citizenship.

A plan was forming in Powell’s mind. Since he could not have the agreements rescinded, he would have to systematically eliminate the Asians. He could not have anyone knowing what happened in that jungle. If there was one thing the public would not tolerate, it was a man who preferred to have sex with children than with adults. Those self-righteous pricks couldn’t understand that the children wanted it. If you’d open your eyes, you could tell how much they wanted it by the way they squirmed in your lap, intentionally trying to get you excited. You could tell by how they rubbed up against you; their tight little bodies screaming, Take me now. If people only knew how they just came and melted into your arms, signaling they were yours for the taking, they would understand. Yeah, they wanted it, and they knew just how to let you know.

At times, Powell couldn’t believe that he actually thought like that. The rational side of Powell thought he’d made pretty good progress in keeping his demons in check. But every now and then, he needed to touch the skin of one so young, one so tender, to make him feel alive again. Yes, he’d done well. And the few times he fell off the wagon, that was okay because every man has a vice or two. He felt himself rising as the memories of that time in the jungle excited him. One by one, those young native girls with their long, flowing black hair, their perfectly tight and firm bodies—and he’d been the one to deflower them. Powell grinned. You’ve been good. You deserve a little pleasure in this life.

The presidential campaign had been stressful on him, much more stressful than he thought possible. The late hours. The lack of sleep. The sporadic eating. And when he felt that much stress, he knew it was time to release the pressure. Yes, it’s about time, because every man has a vice. There’s no use denying it. You just address your vice and move on. If people don’t understand it, then you don’t associate with those people outside of doing business with them. Don’t beat yourself up over it; just enjoy it. And tonight, he thought, he would enjoy his vice as he looked toward the bed and saw the eight-year-old girl bound and gagged, struggling against the ropes that held her—just waiting for him to do his bidding.

Chapter 3

Between Bartlett and Somerville, Tennessee, ran State Highway 64, one of the oldest highways built in Tennessee. Also between Bartlett and Somerville was a small town named Oakland. Oakland was located about twenty minutes east of Memphis. Oakland was caught between the late nineteenth century and the early twentieth century. It still had grocery stores where people ran up tabs. People still recognized you and dealt with you by whose child you were. Along with its run-down shacks and shanties, new subdivisions were springing up on either side of the highway and along the arterial roads that branched off Highway 64. The highway, which used to run two lanes in either direction, now ran four lanes. Now that the highway ran through the town, it brought with it a promise of prosperity.

The prosperity came as people fled from the grit and grime of the city of Memphis and relocated in Oakland. Those who fled the city and bought housing in Oakland added to the tax base, which increased the city’s coffers. Some would say that the sprawl of Memphis was the downfall of Oakland. With Memphis’s soaring crime rate, those who were mobile were able to make the daily trek from Oakland to Memphis. But those who left Memphis also brought with them the problems they tried to leave behind. The fleeing residents were pursuing goals and promises of a better life, yet could not come to grips with the fact that some of them were taking with them the problems they tried to leave behind—in the form of their children.

Somehow the promise of a brighter and better tomorrow was never fulfilled, as the automotive traffic brought with it another kind of traffic—snow, blow, coke crack, and weed, all of which equaled one fate: death. It was a death that claimed its share of adults, but mostly it claimed the young of Oakland. Dreams were shattered, homes were broken, and lives destroyed. People couldn’t understand this double-edged sword. But there it was; along with the promise of a better life came the reality of death for this city seemingly caught between heaven and hell.

Branching off the main highway were the arterial roads that seemed to lead into no-man’s-land—especially if you were not from the area. There were plenty of winding gravel roads that seemed to go on forever if you missed your turn. These were the roads that Mya Seouk Kwong, now known as Jake, took every time he left Oakland heading toward Bartlett, Memphis, or Somerville, which was the county seat of Fayette County.

When Jake first settled into the area, he didn’t know what to expect. After the U.S. government had given him his choice of places to live, his comrades in arms ventured to live in the more exciting places. However, he was tired of the killing and the watching over his shoulder and just wanted to enjoy life. His survival skills in the jungle made the transition to tour guide unbelievably easy. Tennessee had plenty of lakes and natural forests where an experienced guide could make a decent living. Unlike his comrades, he was married. His first goal was to look out for the welfare of his wife.

He had lost his only child, a daughter, to the ravages of injustice while at home. Some monster had taken her virtue from her, all while she was only seven years old. Not only did he take her virtue, but the virtue of six other girls. For a week, that monster preyed upon the children of their village. But one night they caught him. They were going to make him pay, and pay well, for what he did to their children. They were getting ready to string him up. Well, actually, they were going to gut him and stick his genitals in his mouth, feed what was left of them to the pigs, and spread the word as a warning to other foreigners who might be tempted to prey on their children, when an American soldier, one of the comrades, intervened, and the monster’s life was spared.

It had been seven years, yet he still knew every feature of the man who had violated his daughter and ruined his family. His daughter, Lin Seouk Kwong, then took her life because she could not bear to live with the shame of what had happened to her. He would never forget that man, and if he happened to come across him while in America, that man would have hell to pay.

Jake hoped that his wife would be able to forgive him for feeling as he did. She always spoke to him of the need of letting go and letting things work themselves out on their own. Even as she lay on her deathbed, she only spoke of love and forgiveness. Pangs of guilt began to plague Jake as he thought about his wife and daughter. His wife had died two years ago of ovarian cancer. One day she was strong as an ox; the next, she was on her back, unable to do anything. If there was any justice to this, it was that she went quickly. The cancer spread through her body like wildfire. By the time she saw a doctor, she was already at stage 3. Even though they performed surgery, along with chemotherapy, the doctors had done all they could do. The rest would be up to Ping Lee. But apparently, that was not enough.

She was gone two months after the surgery. Now, he was alone in this strange country. No wife and no child. Seeing his wife die had taken a lot out of him. In fact, he had spent the past year trying to recover his zeal for life that had faded when Ping Lee died. Jake even picked up a new hobby—carpentry. He had become quite good at it, building everything from sunrooms to garages. The campers he guided on expeditions had come to like him and knew of his outdoors and carpentry skills. His customers provided Jake with a steady source of income, although money was the last thing he needed. Jake was now embarking upon another project—this time a tool shed for himself. His tool collection had outgrown his garage.

As he mapped out his project, he realized he was short on lumber and decided he felt like driving. He would make the trek into Somerville rather than wait until morning to shop in Bartlett. His next scheduled expedition was a week out; that would give him plenty of time to finish the shed before going back to work.

Jake hopped into his pickup truck and drove to Jimmy’s Lumber Shop. Jake knew he could have shopped at the giant warehouses that had begun springing up, but he preferred the intimacy of doing business with someone who was in the same boat as he. After exchanging pleasantries, ordering his material, and setting up a delivery date, Jake went over to Manny’s Donut shop, intending to quell the urge for something sweet that began to creep up on him. Manny was different from Jimmy in that Manny tried to cater to both old