3 Thank God it's Monday

  Thank God it’s Monday

  Jake Monday Series Book 3

  By Robert Michael

  © 2013 Robert Michael

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  INFINITE WORD PRESS

  Broken Arrow, Oklahoma

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1 | Dancing in the Dark

  Chapter 2 | Out of the Mouths of Babes

  Chapter 3 | Tender is the Night

  Chapter 4 | Born in the USA

  Chapter 5 | No Sunshine When She’s Gone

  Chapter 6 | Wings like Eagles

  ∞

  Chapter 7 | Apocalypse Later

  Chapter 8 | With or Without You

  Chapter 9 | Natural Born Killer

  ∞

  Chapter 10 | The Man Behind the Curtain

  Chapter 11 | A Monday Kind of Love

  ∞

  Chapter 12 | BFF

  ∞

  Chapter 13 | Gunpowder & Lead

  ∞

  Chapter 14 | Strong & Courageous

  ∞

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Chapter 1

  Dancing in the Dark

  He held the cigar in his hand delicately, rolling it with his fingertips, feeling the moist tobacco leaves sticking to the pads of his fingers. He stared at the man across from him. The man was a weasel: a well-heeled, Southern blue-blood, third generation politician.

  “I am sure you understand that I cannot allow you to demand this of me,” the blue-blood was saying, not looking him in the eye. The “gentleman” was toying with the pathetic little salad on the plate before him.

  He said nothing back. He merely allowed the gentle clatter of white-haired ladies in summer dresses and men in colorful blazers to continue in the background as they cut their measly portions of steak or lobster into bite-size pieces. The polite buzz of hushed conversation was interrupted only by the occasional peal of laughter, or the guffaw of some gentleman as he brought a cloth napkin to his mouth to hide his mirth.

  He sighed. He knew Senator Matthew Charles Rodman, the fourth of his name and Speaker of the House, would eventually crack. They all did. The Speaker would see it his way.

  He arched his eyebrows.

  “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Speaker.”

  He leaned forward, his eyes roaming the audience. Probably scared of a reporter.

  “Yes. Please do,” he said.

  These southern gentlemen were all the same—all politeness. Even when they were stabbing you in the back.

  “Do you think that I jest?”

  Rodman frowned, his brows furrowing.

  “Why no,” Rodman sputtered. “I just. I think that it is highly unusual that you would meet me here in South Carolina on the auspices of discussing a new agreement to build oil rigs off the coast and then accost me with some conspiracy to overthrow our government,” Rodman said, his voice a harsh whisper.

  He smiled and stared at his cigar.

  “Would you have come otherwise?” he asked.

  “Of course not. If not for the credentials of your corporations, I would not have agreed to meet you at all since you would not even divulge your name,” Rodman countered.

  “Names carry such power, don’t they,” he mused, still staring at the swirl on the label of the cigar he held.

  As he put it in his mouth and nibbled at the end, he drew Speaker Matthew Rodman’s eyes to his own.

  “You already know who I truly am, do you not?”

  Rodman looked nervous. He would not repeat the monikers he had been given: The Mystery Man, or The Man Behind the Curtain.

  “Yes, of course. Your reputation precedes you, sir.”

  He smirked, his large cheeks turning up to the right.

  “Yes. I suppose it does. Why do you think that is, Mr. Speaker?”

  He watched as the Speaker of the House searched for the right answer. His lip twitched and his eyes darted around the room as he thought out the puzzle. He seemed almost desperate to get the answer correct.

  “Power. Money. Reputation,” Rodman answered.

  “All these are true, yes. But, there is more. Something you miss that is the most important part,” he said, leaning forward.

  “Yes, what is that?” Rodman asked. The Speaker’s demeanor demonstrated his boredom with this game. The man known as the Mystery Man was determined to wake Rodman up.

  “I will tell you a story. It will help you to understand. You see, there once lived a man who loved his wife very much. Although they were very poor, he swore that he would give her the best the world could offer. He worked hard every day, but after ten years of worshipping the ground upon which she walked, the man could not even provide for her. They lost their house, they had no food, and soon they were begging on the streets. Do you know this story?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “I have heard similar ones, of course, but not this one. Go on,” Rodman requested. He seemed interested now.

  “You are so kind, thank you. Well, one day while this husband and wife were on the streets begging for scraps of food and money to sustain themselves, a rich man walked by. Even under her grubby clothes, lack of nutrition and infrequent washings, the wife was a regal beauty. Everyone said so and they were sad that her husband could not support her. This rich man took one glimpse of her and offered her his home, his food, and his bed.” He paused for effect. “Do you know what the wife said?”

  “I suppose she went to live with him, eat his food, and satisfy his desires. That would be a proper ending, I would think.”

  He shook his head.

  “No. You miss the point, my friend. Maybe I did not make it clear. These two, the husband and the wife, they loved each other and love has a funny way of skewing things, don’t you think?”

  The senator raised his head.

  “Of course. Yes, indeed. Love can be quite powerful.”

  “Well, they had a special kind of love. When the rich man made his offer, he expected the same thing you did. She would go with him. She was homeless. She had lice and sores on her arms. Yet, a light shone in her beautiful eyes and her indomitable spirit buoyed her.” He lifted his chin to demonstrate his story. “She looked him straight in the eyes and said with dignity and defiance, ‘I will not come with you because I truly believe in my husband. Someday he will bring me the moon, we will rule a kingdom, and be kind to all who will accept our rule. I do not need your food, your home, or your bed. I have my husband. ’” He settled back in the plush dining chair a smug smile playing on his face. “Now, do you see?”

  The Senator from South Carolina shook his head with a deep frown.

  “No. I do not,” he admitted.

  “Faith, Mr. Speaker. She had faith. And that is what I have. It is what compels others to fear me. It is also why they follow me. For a man with great faith and convictions will always trump the man or woman of little faith, of muddled allegiances, or of self-delusion.”

  “How does that relate to what we are discussing?”

  “You
must have faith in me. I will prevail in this endeavor I have outlined. I am positive that I will have your support and that you will play the role that I have set before you.”

  “How can you be so sure?” the senator asked, his voice betraying his doubt.

  The Mystery Man glanced around the room. The people here held power, sway over the masses. They were executives, owners of large corporations, real estate moguls, and old money. These people intimidated the Speaker. Not their money or power, the possibility that someone here might overhear what would be considered treason.

  “No matter what these people gathered here may think,” he said, indicating the table to their left where a middle-aged executive leaned over to whisper in the ear of someone that was obviously not his wife, “this world is currently in unfit hands. It needs to be wrested from their grasp and given to people who truly know how to rule.”

  To his credit, Rodman was incredulous.

  “Is it not enough to control the heads of state in almost every country in the world?”

  He smirked, his eyebrows rising in appreciation.

  “To put it bluntly: no,” he replied. He leaned forward again, his voice lowering and his anger simmering just under the surface. “Politicians have become incompetent, unreliable, rebellious, greedy, and lose touch with who is really in control. Power corrupts them, wealth pampers them, and fame galvanizes them to follow what they think is their own path.”

  “Then, you are saying you do not control them, is that what I am hearing,” Rodman said. The Speaker of the House was brave, but stupid. He foolishly still believed in the institutions of democracy, capitalism, and honor.

  “Control is a matter of perspective. Our interest lies in a complete overhaul of every government. Not just Uncle Sam. We need to restore balance now. The world has grown too big for its britches, as you like to say down here in South Carolina. We are no longer satisfied with sitting in the shadows and playing puppeteers. It is time to reveal the true and rightful rulers of this world.”

  The Speaker scoffed.

  “I cannot believe I am sitting here listening to this hogwash.”

  He was not offended by this. It would seem like crazy talk to just about any sane human being. Even more so to someone who had grown up as gentry, a form of the ruling class. Fathers, grandfathers, and uncles who wore three piece suits and smoked cigars and discussed national concerns. Mothers, grandmothers, and aunts who maintained a sense of class, dressing richly, throwing extravagant social events, and hanging from their men’s arms while propping them up from behind, a hidden strength and power.

  “I am hearing what you are saying, Mr. Speaker. You are telling me that you do not have faith in me,” he said, biting the end of the cigar with his front teeth.

  “Essentially, yes.”

  A deep frown played at his features.

  “I am sorry you feel that way, Mr. Speaker. I will remember your defiance,” he responded. He got up, his weight making the chair groan in complaint. He dropped his white cloth napkin to his plate. He had not eaten at all.

  “Wait,” Rodman pleaded.

  He raised his eyebrows and turned to the Speaker of the House with chagrin.

  “I, uh. I just need to wrap my mind around this. I need more time.”

  “Of course. It is quite a bit to swallow, I will admit. Time is fleeting, Mr. Rodman. I need a commitment. I will give you twenty-four hours.”

  Matthew Charles Rodman the fourth looked confused.

  “Aren’t you afraid I will expose your plan?”

  He laughed without humor.

  “Mr. Speaker, you cannot betray me. Your family will never forgive you.”

  “My family? But, they are...”

  “In Barbados? Not anymore, no.” He shook his head with mock sympathy. He noted the look of a mixture of fear and hate crawl its way across the Speaker’s features. It was amusing to him to watch the effects of so much privilege, entitlement, and invulnerability be completely smashed against the rocks of reality and true power.

  Someone always worked for someone else. One should never assume they were at the top of the food chain. He understood this truth as much as any of his closest associates.

  “I cannot be bullied, sir. Do you not know who I am?” His voice began to rise and people started to notice.

  He allowed as many eyes as possible to swim their way before answering.

  “I know who you are, Mr. Speaker. I also know that you pretend at power and have none, even within the pathetic thing you call the American Government. If I were more uncouth, I would spit upon the institution that has grown to weed here.”

  Fear, anger, and humiliation played at Rodman’s features. He could tell the Speaker was torn.

  “What do you want?” he asked, his voice pained and compliant.

  “Everything.”

  Chapter 2

  Out of the Mouths of Babes

  Jake sat on the couch drinking a Dr. Pepper and watching CNN. Hallie and her sister Sarah were on a bench outside watching their daughters play together in the sandbox. Macy seemed normal. Whatever normal was to a young child. Jake was still wrapping his mind around being a father. He liked it so far, but it still stunned him at certain moments.

  He felt guilty when she would ask him to read to her before bedtime. It felt like something he should do every night, yet he had missed doing it for two years. He also felt guilty when, during the reading, his mind would wander to lockets, ancient coins, dragons, and corpses.

  His nightmares were populated by them. No amount of tenderness from Hallie, no amount of time spent with the sweet human being that was his daughter could ever erase his guilt.

  He was sick of feeling sorry for himself, though. He had begun to adjust to his new life.

  They had been in Denver now for three days. The laceration on his calf had healed. He had heard nothing from Lars or Violet. He was fairly certain Lars had survived. He did not want another death on his hands, but he was also grateful for the feeling of safety. A nagging sensation reminded him to not get too comfortable.

  Perhaps it would be good to leave soon. Kyle Evers had called on the burner phone yesterday. “Just checking in,” he had said. Jake knew better. Their time was running out and Kyle’s patience was thin. He had given them a ton of rope in the past. Jake understood him better than he did himself. They were fortunate to still have their jobs.

  Which was the other issue: what were they going to do when Jake discovered why he had been brainwashed and who was behind it? Jake assumed that Hallie had a better idea than he did.

  The girls came crashing through the living room, giggling, their sand-covered feet and hands leaving tracks as they raced to the guest bathroom down the hall.

  Jake smiled despite himself.

  Then he saw Hallie’s face as she came in, her sister’s arm draped over her shoulder.

  He had seen her cry a bunch lately. He was not sure if it was indicative of her normal moods, or just a “female thing”, but he felt an urge to set things right to get it to stop. When he saw her cry, he cringed inside. Not because he could not brook weakness; he just felt compelled to help her. He supposed this was an example of just one fault in his wiring that he had in common with every human with half a heart.

  He knew it was borderline chauvinistic, terribly demeaning, and unnecessarily protective. Despite this, Jake fought the urge to either punch someone to right the wrong or hold her to make it better. Most men called that feeling “love.”

  Hallie could protect herself. She did not need defending. She did not need to be coddled. She did not need his pity or sympathy. She needed him to care, to listen, and most of all, she needed to cry. It was that simple. It had been a major breakthrough when he finally figured that out. He simply could not control the urge to help.

  “Jake. Come console your wife,” Sarah gently scolded him.

  “No. It’s alright. I will be alright,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  Sarah
widened her eyes and shrugged.

  Hallie sobbed.

  “It was the girls,” she said, wiping her face with her hand.

  “What about them? They seemed fine when they came rushing in here,” Jake noted.

  Sarah looked at her with understanding and turned Hallie towards by her shoulders.

  “If you need Macy to stay here, she can. Clarissa loves having her here. They can share her room. Clarissa has always wanted a sister. With Peter gone, she gets lonely.”

  “We can’t impose on you like that,” Hallie said.

  Sarah shook her head.

  “No problem at all, Hallie. You need something solved. I understand,” she looked at Jake then. He shrugged.

  “What happened?” he asked again. He was confused.

  Sarah looked grim. She glanced at Hallie and back to him as Hallie began to cry and sniffle again.

  “Macy told Clarissa she did not want to go back home because her Mommy might shoot someone,” Sarah explained.

  “She said it like it was no big deal!” Hallie moaned.

  Jake understood guilt. He could see it written in her posture, the pain in her eyes.

  He got up and joined them in the foyer.

  “She is young, dear. It is no big deal. She watches cop shows all the time. Mommy’s a cop.”

  “That doesn’t make it right!”

  “You were protecting her. You did everything right. You are a fantastic mother, Hallie.”

  “Fantastic mothers don’t shoot people in front of their daughters! No child should ever have to see that,” she cried, burying her head in Jake’s chest and sobbing.

  Sarah stood nearby, her cheeks wet with tears. She held a tissue in her hands, wringing it.

  “She will be safe here,” Sarah declared.

  Jake looked past Hallie’s head, stroking her hair.

  “None of us will be safe until I put a stop to this,” Jake said, determination and anger tingeing his voice.

  “Make it stop,” Hallie pleaded.

  “I will,” Jake promised.

  Macy and Clarissa came back through the room, giggling. They stopped and Jake heard Clarissa whisper to Macy, “Your mom’s crying? What happened?”