Delaware
The man stood on his rear deck watching the river flow slowly, almost lazily, past houses and greenery on its way to the Atlantic Ocean, it’s eventual destination. The day was cold and cloudy; snow flurries danced in the air, never quite touching the ground.
His white hair was combed over his scalp, but his bald spot was still prominent. He wore a thick cable knit sweater with a small, enamel American flag pinned on its left side. Navy blue dress slacks and deck shoes completed his outfit.
He turned his head when he heard the portico door open behind him. His assistant, a petite blonde with perky breasts peeked her head out. An appreciative smile crossed the man’s face. He had always had a thing for blondes.
If only he were 20 years younger.
Hell, 10 years younger.
The assistant’s pouty pink lips held a wide grin. “I’ve brought your tea, sir. And it’s time for your phone call.”
The man nodded in acknowledgement. “Lunch?” he inquired as he crossed the distance from the railing to the door.
“Your wife is bringing it shortly.”
The man had his back to her as he closed and locked the door. “Thank you, Amelia. That will be all for now.”
Amelia flashed another grin before exiting the home library. The man, now seated behind his desk in his leather executive chair, watched the sway of her buttocks in her tight pencil skirt until the door shut behind her. His glance then fell to his desk; he pulled some papers towards him and began shuffling through them.
In 16 days, he would be the most powerful man in the world. 46th in a line of men who had held the office. He looked like those before him, save one: white, and on the other side of 40. He was older than all his predecessors and had perfected both the grandfatherly persona and the folksy schtick.
It almost hadn’t been enough.
But In the end, it was.
16 more days.
If that asshat didn’t fuck it up.
Florida
The Cuban sat at his dining room table, eating a lunch of chicken fricassee over black beans and rice, staring at the two folders to the left of his plate.
The tall guy with the Viking horns, bare chest, and saggy pants was interesting: He was well known in the Southwest circuit and good at repeating what he had read, but the man wasn’t a leader. He was a parrot who followed orders.
He would, however, make an excellent bodyguard.
It was the older white man with the weathered, wrinkled skin and watery blue eyes who caught the Cuban’s attention. The man’s face wore an expression that suggested everyone, and everything had let him down his entire life.
And now America was letting him down as well.
The man who had said he wasn’t afraid to die violently and covered in somebody else’s blood. He had everything to gain and nothing to lose.
If that wasn’t a sign of leadership …
The Cuban chewed his food thoughtfully; he needed a proxy and quickly.
“You won’t be with us at the Capitol,” the suited gentleman said as he sipped his espresso.
The Cuban looked at him through narrowed, suspicious eyes. The two men were at a boardwalk Starbucks, watching the ocean’s waves while the leaves on the palm trees swayed.
“Why not?” he demanded angrily.
“We need you on the ground for phase two.” The man smirked over his plastic cup. “As a consolation prize, we’ll let you pick a field director who will be taking your place. Preferably a member of your group; anyone outside of our circle is too much of a loose cannon.”
“If I don’t show up, it’ll be suspicious to both sides,” the Cuban gritted out.
He was the national leader of a political faction that prided itself on being misogynistic, not racist or supremist.
“Oh, you’ll go to DC. And be arrested on charges of destruction of property and possession of high-capacity firearm magazines.”
The Cuban leapt from his seat, his palms still flat on the table; he towered over his companion. “Have you lost your fucking mind? You know my history! The ammunition guarantees a felony on federal grounds. For me, that means the end of the line!”
The suited gentleman was unperturbed. He lifted his head to look at white, puffy clouds before leveling his gaze on the Cuban again.
“Sit your ass down,” he ordered calmly. “DC is going to ban you from the city; you’ll only be allowed back for court dates and to speak with your lawyers. You need the felony to justify returning on Inauguration Eve.”
The Cuban shook his head, his lips thin. “I can’t afford to risk it. Three strikes … we both know what that means.”
“All charges go away on the 21st.”
The Cuban shook his head as his sunglass-covered eyes studied the Atlantic Ocean. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You’ve been protected for the past two years. The election changes nothing.”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“You don’t have long. Feet will be on the ground tomorrow. I need an answer now.”
The gentleman stood. “Come on, let’s head back to your place. You can cook us lunch while I show you the prospects.”
The Cuban swallowed his food, his forefinger tapping against the picture of the older white man. “This guy. He’ll be the organization’s field director for Wednesday.”
The suited gentleman ran his eyes quickly over the picture. “Good choice. He’s from our Ozarks region; outspoken and chatty, resonates well with both moderates and extremists. Not overtly racist; he cares more about politics and patriotism than skin color. And he has a boner for the House Speaker. I’ll call him once I return to my hotel.”
The gentleman reached into his inside pocket, pulling out the firearm magazines engraved with the faction’s emblem. He passed them to the Cuban. “Your get-out-of-DC-free card. You’ll be on a 10am flight back home on Wednesday morning.”
“I have to spend the night in jail?” the Cuban frowned.
“Gotta make it look real, buddy boy.”
California
The woman’s eyes critically looked over her outfits trying to choose one for January 6. She needed comfortable, yet cute and chic. Project Allegiance was kicking off, and for once … the woman would be more than a cog in the machine.
She would be the match that sparked a fucking revolution.
Who’s the conspiracy theorist now, bitches?
They had promised her television coverage. What would look good on TV?
With a huff, she left her closet and decided to start with the basics: underwear and toiletries. When she entered her bedroom, her eyes fell on the antique rocking chair placed in a corner of the room, next to the bay window that overlooked the quiet street she lived on.
Her grandmother’s chair. Soon, it would be the woman’s daughter’s chair.
Pulling open her panty drawer, movement in her peripheral vision caught her eye. Brows knitted, she went to the window, impatiently pushed aside the white sheer curtains to see an older model SUV pull to a stop in front of her neighbor’s house; a Hispanic family piled out, causing the woman to fully frown.
What in the hell were Gina and Jorge up to?
She hurried back to her closet, her hand frantically patting the top shelf she couldn’t quite reach; she sighed when her hand grasped her field glasses. She practically ran back to her window, lenses pressed against her eyes.
A heavy-set woman with a baby on her hip and two older children surrounding her was knocking on Gina and Jorge’s front door. The man was hauling suitcases from the rear of the vehicle.
The woman felt her blood beginning to boil; Gina and Jorge Hernandez were fine. They were Americans. The woman didn’t know what these folks were. Or where they came from.
Her city was exactly 20.8 miles from the Mexican border. Practically a front door for immigrants.
Someone had to be vigilant to keep this corner of God’s green earth American-only; the woman decided it would be her.
She was a Patriot. A defender of America.
The field glasses caught sight of the license tag on the SUV: Missouri. Ahhhhh, Jorge had a sister who lived in Branson. Satisfied, the woman tossed the binoculars onto the bed just as the back-porch door opened.
Her husband.
“In here, hon!” she called out.
She looked over her shoulder, flashing her husband of less than a year a quick smile. He leaned his stocky frame against the doorjamb, his arms folded across his chest.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his tone weary and slightly angry.
“Packing for Washington.”
“We discussed this,” he said quietly. “You’re not going! You JUST came back from Arizona. You have a business to run and a husband to feed!”
The woman glanced at the clock on the dresser. “I’m gonna put the turkey breast in soon. The kids will be over in a few hours, and we’ll have a family dinner. You can heat leftovers for two nights. When I come back, I’ll fix you that pork roast you love so much.”
Her head fell as she blindly grabbed two pairs of underwear. She didn’t want her husband to see the lie in her eyes.
The third day of 2021 was the perfect Sunday afternoon: blue skies, white clouds, warm sunshine. The woman was on her back porch, laid back in a wicker chair covered with red, white, and blue cushions.
She loved her country.
She loved her President.
Covered plates containing homemade hamburger patties, spicy kielbasa sausages, and wrapped ears of corn sat on the table beside her. When her husband returned home from a nearby job, they would grill their dinner. The woman was upset her husband was working on the Lord’s Day, but they had no choice.
The business had closed 2020 in the red.
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Again.
Despite the small business loan, despite refinancing the house they had purchased right before their wedding. California was going broke supporting the influx of undocumented immigrants who crossed its borders daily. To make up for the deficit, taxes were being raised. Constantly.
The woman exhaled a loud groan of dissatisfaction at her situation as she retweeted QAnon for the 50th time that day.
“Hello!” an unfamiliar voice called out.
The woman looked up, startled. Her hand automatically reached for her gun, sandwiched between the pillows when the strange man in the navy-blue suit held up his hand. The sun reflected off his sunglasses.
“You don’t want to do that,” he warned. He slightly lifted his wrist to show the gun dangling from his fingers. “It’s loaded, and I’m an expert shot.”
“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?” the woman shouted, no fear in her voice. “My husband is here!”
The man chuckled as he made his way up the short staircase and took the seat next to the woman.
“No, he isn’t. The Murphys are conveniently chatting him up about their recurring pool issues.”
He grabbed a bottled water from the cooler beside the woman’s chair. “They told me you were a pistol, but you’re a fucking AR-15.” He extended his hand. “I’m here from the government to talk to you. I have a proposition you may be interested in.”
“I don’t trust the government.” Her eyes held his in a steady gaze.
Wordlessly, the man reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and extracted a card; he passed it to the woman. She snatched it, breaking her gaze only to glance down at it. Her eyes widened and she looked back up at the man.
“What do you want?”
“You’re a fervent supporter of our Commander-in-Chief.”
The woman nodded enthusiastically. “He’s going to save America and it’s true patriots from the left’s tyranny.”
The man arched an eyebrow. “I would have attributed your love to your military service. Duty, honor, valor … all that jazz. Because you were an avid proponent of his predecessor as well.”
“Number 44 was a good choice. He did the country proud. He was surrounded on all sides by snakes, yet they never bit him. This president is the last great one. All our leaders entered the office to fulfill … more than a purpose. A prophecy, almost. And that shitstain Stalinist who STOLE this election knows it.”
The woman shook her head. “EVIL CANNOT WIN!”
“Which is precisely what I want to talk to you about. Life has been a little disappointing, hasn’t it? Despite your best efforts, your military career didn’t quite pan out the way you imagined. You left with a little over five years left to collect your pension.”
“I was PUSHED OUT!” the woman seethed.
“It cost you your first marriage, possibly your children.”
For the first time, the woman seemed taken aback. “My ex and I are working out a custody agreement.”
“But for now, you get dinners twice a week, one weekend a month, and alternate holidays.”
“I’m fine with that. He’s a good father. I have things to keep me busy.”
The man nodded his head understandingly. “Your business. Your involvement with the cause.”
The woman nodded.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the messages on the boards, that you’ve been receiving the emails. January 6 is going to be a big day. The day Project Allegiance comes into play. We want you to participate. We want you to be the spark that lights the bomb that saves America.”
The woman’s eyes widened in fear. “That’s a suicide mission!”
“It’s your chance to put an event into motion that will be discussed for decades … no, centuries to come. It’s your chance to be seen as more than a delusional Karen who overposts and records incoherent vitriol. If you agree to this, you will be a martyr.”
The man leaned in even closer. “You would be the ultimate patriot. People would say your name. YOU would have started the revolution that keeps America great.”
The woman shook her head. “I have children. I have a husband.”
“Who You don’t spend time with. You’re too busy flying cross country to rallies when you aren’t livestreaming.”
The man allowed himself a small smirk. “You are the one that will spur the others on to finish the job you started. You won’t be with them at the victory lap … a lot of them won’t be there either … but you … you will be the reason we do win. You will be the catalyst that leads America from darkness to light.”
The woman’s eyes were trained on his face, her ears fixed on the man’s nearly hypnotic voice. The woman’s lips parted to refuse again, but something different fell from her lips.
“I’ll consider it.”
“Your country is depending upon you.”
With that, the man rose from his chair and headed down the stairs to leave. From the yard, he looked up at her. “I need your answer tomorrow evening by 5 pm. There are others who are more than willing to die on this hill.”
That night, after a casual family dinner, the woman lay with her husband, her eyes staring at the ceiling. She had put her life on the line for her country before. In Iraq, Afghanistan, and Benghazi. And America didn’t appreciate it. Or her.
What was so different about this mission?
She wouldn’t be coming home, that’s what.
But her fellow Patriots would appreciate her sacrifice. They would pick up the flag and continue the good fight.
Her children would miss her, but they had a better life with her ex and their stepmom. Her husband would miss her, but he had the business and possibly her life insurance would help alleviate the debt.
No, she wouldn’t be a part of the world anymore, but she would leave a legacy.
A mark.
The revolution would begin with her, and that was far greater than anything she would leave behind.
She stirred at her husband’s hands roaming her body. She responded to his kisses on her neck. As she prepared to welcome him into her sex, the woman had made up her mind.
She would give her life for her country.
The woman was carefully folding her Pro-President flag into her backpack while her husband scowled at her. “These events are getting increasingly dangerous. I can’t lose you! I don’t want you going!”
“This will be the last one. I promise.”
Washington, DC
The most powerful man in the world gulped his glass of red wine before setting it onto his desk with a slight thud. The sound carried through the phone, which was on speaker.
“Two weeks and you’ll have what you want. My job,” he joked as he used a knife and fork to cut through a very tender, very large Porterhouse steak.
“It almost didn’t happen,” Number 46 grumbled as he sipped his tea. He was careful to blow on it heavily so it wouldn’t scorch his tongue.
“Oh, this is all your fault. You should’ve been more patient. No way was anyone who supported me going to believe that they go to bed at 2 am seeing I have this incredibly large margin and wake up at 6 am to you taking the lead. Especially in the traditionally red states! You left me no choice BUT to contest the election.”
“The people have spoken,” Number 46 sipped his tea.
“Half the people have spoken,” the President corrected him as he ate on French fries.
“You needed something to rile your ranks. I gave it to you.”
“You have the heartfelt thanks of a grateful nation,” the President replied sarcastically.
Number 46 shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. I do not understand how you deliberately fuck up the job and STILL have that many people who want to see you for a second term!”
“Because I’m a businessman, not a politician. Business means selling yourself, your goods. It means recognizing every person at the table has some worth. I offer the ones no one sees a little bit of hope and a platform to air their grievances … not bigger paychecks or less taxes.
“By contrast, politicians give empty promises to gain votes and money.”
“I’m offering every American a seat at the table!”
A chuckle from the President. “No, you aren’t. You’re promising to demonize your own tax bracket, which we both know will never happen. In fact, you won’t keep one promise made and that is the downfall of your party. Of both parties.
“Folks hate me because I didn’t make promises. I said I would drain the swamp, which is all my base needed to hear.”
“You waded into that swamp as eagerly as the rest of us,” Number 46 reminded the President.
“It’s Washington. I had to. The only thing that helped me was the failing businesses. My base identifies with that. They’re living either in crippling debt or cyclical poverty. They can’t relate to politicians with multiple houses, six and seven figure salaries, designer clothing. You can’t lift people up, you gotta get down to their level.”
“YOU’RE A FUCKING MILLIONAIRE! You were BORN a millionaire! Who amongst your supporters can relate to THAT?”
“I’m the American Dream come to life. Work hard, and you too can have money and fancy apartments and pretty women. Until the fucking democrats come along and tax your ass until you go broke. THAT’S what they relate to.
“And you have to remember, they grew up with the God of brimstone and punishment. They aren’t progressive. At all. They’re Christian conservatives who believe in Jesus Christ, fair pay for honest work, a good Sunday dinner, and heterosexuality.”
Number 46 mulled over the information. “What’s going to happen at the certification on Wednesday?”
“There will be loss of life, of course. You need a country in chaos. I’ll keep my end of the agreement. And I trust that you’ll keep yours.”
“As soon as I’m sworn in, you’ll be pardoned,” Number 46 confirmed.
“For everything?” the President pressed.
“You will be a free man, my friend,” Number 46 promised.
The President leaned back in his chair, full and reassured. “Have you given more thought to the civil war?”
Number 46 shook his head. “I don’t know about that … the deficit is already out of control thanks to COVID.”
“How else were you going to get that huge ass kickback from Pfizer? You’d better hope no one realizes their headquarters is located in your home state of Delaware.” The President paused to swallow more wine. “My advice? Blame WHO and CDC; they wanted bigger budgets and made sure they got ‘em.”
“BUT it did give us contracts with the pharmaceuticals that promise to bring in significant windfalls,” 46 argued. He paused for a moment. “I’ll see what happens Wednesday before I make a decision anything further.”
“Just let me know; I’ll have my people get in touch with your people.”
The library door opened, and Number 46 smiled at his wife who carried a tray filled with bowls of clam chowder and a plate of lobster rolls.
“I have to go now. Lunch is here.”
“We’ll talk Wednesday, after the excitement. Oh, word of caution: Keep your eyes on that VP of yours. She’s been taking meetings without you.”
Both men hung up their phones.
January 5th
The President quickly read through the bombardment of emails flooding his throwaway account. The messages were all the same: The factions would be in Washington no later than tonight. Everyone would be at the rally ready, willing, and awaiting instructions.
The storm is coming.
He laid his tablet on the breakfast table; his eyes lifted when he saw the silver spout of the coffee urn from his peripheral vision. The First Lady smiled sweetly down at him as she poured him a cup of Columbian coffee.
“Thank you, my dear.” He helped himself to sausage links, fresh fruit, and a warm, buttered biscuit. “How did you sleep?”
“Meh,” she replied in heavily accented English. “I’ll be glad to get out of here.”
The President gave her a half-smile. “It hasn’t been that horrible. We’re both getting 50% of the royalties from the tell-all books; foreign investors are wanting pieces of our properties. And I even did some good on the US foreign relations front.”
“But you’ll just be remembered for being a goon and a buffoon. I’m just a blow-up doll! I wanted … more from this.” His wife stared morosely into her cup of milky jasmine tea.
“Fuck ‘em,” the President said with a scoff. “Famous or infamous, who cares? Either way, they’ll remember our names.”
****
The Cuban entered his hotel room, looking around briefly before tossing his backpack onto the queen-sized bed. He was still miffed that he wouldn’t be on the ground with the others tomorrow, but it made sense. Anyone arrested at the Capitol would have federal charges against them. The organization didn’t have enough people on the inside of that particular government agency.
The Cuban couldn’t afford the risk. The movement couldn’t afford it.
He was staring out the window, down at the nearly empty streets, when a knock on the hotel door startled him. He glanced at his watch, then moved swiftly to the door.
MPD wasn’t due to arrive until later.
He peered out the peephole, then knocked twice upon the door.
Two knocks from the other side of the door in response. “Allegiance,” a gruff voice whispered.
The Cuban unlocked the door, then opened it. A tall, stocky white man with weathered skin, pale blue eyes, and a very familiar red hat entered. The two men sized each other up.
“I was told to come to this room, “ the visitor said. His eyes darted around the space.
The Cuban flashed a bright smile. “Mr. Field Director! Welcome. Come, let’s begin with the training. My time is … limited.”
*****
The VP-Elect sat across from the Senate Majority Leader, her eyes holding his as they sipped coffee and made nice with each other. They both had something the other wanted; enmity and animosity had to be put on hold.
“You’ve reviewed the proposal?” The Senator’s beady eyes held the VP-Elect’s gaze.
The woman nodded. “I have,” she said as she swallowed the hot, sugared beverage. “I’m agreeable to it if we can modify a few things.”
The Senator’s eyes narrowed. “What things?”
Before she could respond, the VP-Elect’s phone rang. With an apologetic frown, she reached over to dig in her purse, which sat on the floor. Her frown deepened when she read her caller ID. She answered it, keeping the phone to her ear.
“46!” she greeted in a cheery tone. “It’s early. Is anything the matter?”
“I’m not sure,” Number 46 said slowly. “I’m curious as to why you flew you to DC yesterday for a meeting with the Senate Majority Leader this morning and didn’t bother to tell me about it.”
The woman’s eyes widened as her face fell. How does he know?
“It’s just a routine meeting; you know, showing me the ropes.”
A derisive chuckle from Number 46. The VP-Elect felt a coldness spread through her belly.
“Ropes? Have you forgotten that I held your position once? Or that you yourself are a Senator? I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but I’m two steps ahead of you, young lady. Now, excuse yourself from that fucking meeting and get your ass on the next flight back to California or you’ll never remove “elect’” from your title.”
“I don’t think I agree with your tone of voice, sir,” the VP-Elect said slowly. The Majority Leader was watching her carefully. She knew the man would back out of the deal in a heartbeat if he even thought someone else knew about it.
“Leave now, or my first act on my first day in office will be to charge your ass with treason.”
Number 46 disconnected the call.
***********
The woman sat in the window seat of a filled-to-capacity airplane. She felt adrenaline flood her body as she took in the sea of red hats and flags. A sense of belonging engulfed her, as it did every time she was surrounded by her fellow patriots.
She overheard excited chatter and saw folks taking selfies. There were a few livestreams with promises to right the wrongs. She smiled as she texted her husband to let him know that wheels were up, and she was headed to be a part of history. She then quickly retweeted some posts and replied to a few well-wishers.
Godspeed.
The woman looked up at as her seatmate settled in next to her. They politely smiled at each other; he opened his book, she reached into her backpack to pull out her flag. She wrapped it around her, needing its warmth and reassurance.
“Headed to the rally?” her seatmate asked.
The woman looked over and saw the book resting in his lap.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m excited, but do you really think it’s going to make a difference though?”
“It will. Tomorrow will be just the beginning.”
The man studied her appraisingly. “What do you think will happen?” he said tentatively.
The woman stared at him, her eyes searching his face.
“Those who have pledged their allegiance will be led from darkness to light,” she replied before staring out at clouds.