Free Sabotage by Dale Wiley Page B

said what the president wanted to say, only with less volume and fewer curse words. “He saved lives in those places. I don’t know what you can do but trust it for now. Hundreds of people were saved.”
    “And we can’t even tell people about it, tell them he was a hero again,” said the president. “I think that’s a bunch of bullshit.”
    “We need to keep this guy around. Maybe he’ll talk to Miller. Even if it’s a hoax, we can point to the lives that were saved.”
    Damn, time was short. Where was that speech? The president looked down at the computer in front of him and saw the latest carnage. He felt like he’d done nothing to stop it.
    “Check your screens,” said the press secretary, trying to rally. “Howell is sending over a draft.” The aides looked at the screen. The president, who was not technologically gifted, was given an old-fashioned printed copy.
    Jones got a call on her secure cell, and she stepped toward the hall to take it. The others pored over the words that the press room devised. It was trite, and the uneasy looks on the faces of those in the room gave the sense that no one liked the speech’s direction.
    The president was the last to finish. His face gave it away. He exploded, glaring at Sanders. “Fucking awful. Awful and hollow. There’s nothing here! I’ve got to speak in fourteen minutes, and I’d be better off reading the ingredients off a cereal box. Tell them they have ten minutes to get me something better.”
    Jones was still on the phone as she came back in. She looked ashen. She finally cut the speaker off. “I’m with the president. I’ll talk with him and get back to you.” She shook her head and disconnected the call.
    “We just got word,” she said almost breathlessly. “Once the president announced that he was speaking, our new enemy announced they will be making a presentation at the same time.”
    “Who,” the president glared, “is ‘they’?”
    “The terrorists, Mr. President.”
    The president said nothing. He threw his briefing papers high in the air and let them settle down over the room like confetti. He stood up and walked away, kicking his chair out from under him so it would surely fall behind him and topple loudly.
    He was bound to speak. They had set a time. To change that time would appear weak and disorganized. But not one soul would be watching him when the enemy would be saying something at the same time. That sounded more interesting, even to him.
    America’s best option at this point appeared to be a man most famous for half-nude cell phone photos. God save us, he thought as he went to collect himself.

 
     

     

Twenty
     
     
    T hey were closing in on the 405. Joey would need to know fairly soon which way he wanted them to go. He wanted to have the driver pull off the freeway and stop, but he didn’t want some jank-ass cop pulling up to see if he could help. Better to just keep heading even if they needed to turn around eventually.
    Becky was sighing loudly, which only made Joey more determined to take his fucking time. This was some shit, and he was going to deal with it like a motherfucking monastery ninja from a Kung Fu movie. Let her sigh up all the oxygen on the planet. He focused.
    “Look, I get you taken care of. But I’m protecting us both here.”
    Becky knew this was probably true, but she just didn’t want to be happy about it. She looked like she was about ready to cry and talk a whole lot, so Joey held up a hand.
    “I gots to call my boy. Give me a minute.”
    “I thought you said we couldn’t use a phone.”
    “Not our normal ones. That shit’s traceable. But I got it.”
    Joey remembered there was a drug phone in the limo. His people kept one phone in each limo for ordering whatever they needed: weed, hash, molly, yayo. That phone was bought at Costco or sumshit, and it wouldn’t be traceable to him. He knew Raylon’s cell phone number. It could be plugged into a thousand speed dials, and he would