The gaggle of reporters standing before the podium lobbed questions at McArthur.
His disheveled, blood-splattered appearance had everyone on edge.
The senator stared straight ahead, tears coursing down his cheeks, cutting clean lines through speckles of blood. His salt-and-pepper hair stood on end, streaks of crimson staining sections of it.
Both of his hands were stuffed in his pockets, concealing what he went there to do.
Murdock stood just behind the group of reporters, watching with amusement as they tried to coax answers out of McArthur.
If not for the rage twisting Murdock’s stomach, he would have laughed. It had been months since something had struck him as funny.
He looked down at his left hand, glowering at the stump where the ring finger should have been. The pain-ridden memory of its removal slithered into his mind before he could push it back down.
The cell he’d been held in was closer to a root cellar than a jail. No windows. The dank air didn’t circulate. Murdock reeked of sweat and blood and despair. What day was it? How long had he been there? His toenails were getting long.
Murdock didn’t know the man standing before him, but he assumed that he was about to meet his new torturer. It was only later that Murdock would learn his name: Adeeb Azizi. Born and raised in Afghanistan. Educated in America.
He was short and thin. Bearded. Intelligent, cold eyes, that were much like Murdock’s. His teeth were straight and white, creating a dichotomy with his disheveled clothing and hair.
And right then, during their first session, he held out a dull knife to Murdock.
“Remove a finger,” he’d said. His English was impeccable, his accent slight. It was Murdock’s first hint that this man had travelled beyond the cave system he inhabited.
“What?” Murdock didn’t want to take the blade. Nothing good could come of it. If he had more strength, he would have snatched it away and plunged it straight into the man’s neck. It had been days since they’d fed him. He could barely stand.
“Any finger. Your choice.”
Murdock’s blood pressure rose. He shifted on the dirt floor.
The man knocked on the rusted, metal door behind him. It opened, and two more men came in.
Both had AK-47s.
One held a machete.
The door closed behind them.
Murdock swallowed bile that rose in his throat. He tried to focus on the man’s mind, but the drugs coursing through his system kept him in check. They dosed him every few hours, never allowing him to regain his faculties.
The man knelt in front of Murdock. “I want us to be friends. Friends help each other. My colleagues want to take your hand.” He gestured to the machete.
Murdock’s cracked lips quivered.
“But I’ve convinced them to settle for a finger. They’ve agreed, but only if you remove it yourself.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve even negotiated another allowance—you get to choose which finger.”
He tossed the knife onto the dirt between Murdock’s feet.
They all stared at the blade for several seconds before the machete-armed guard took a step forward. The glee on his face as he lifted the miniature sword told Murdock what would happen next.
With a trembling hand, he grabbed the knife. What finger would he need the least?
Murdock pulled himself back to the present. His teeth ground as he turned his attention back to the senator.
The press conference was for a congressman announcing some new bill about a matter of little consequence. Murdock had something a little juicier in mind.
Upon their arrival, McArthur had walked to the podium and pushed the congressman out of the way. The angered representative had tried to shove his way back to the microphone, but stopped himself when he saw the blood in McArthur’s hair. The dumbfounded looks on everyone’s faces at that moment had almost made Murdock smile.
Almost.
Murdock looked at a female reporter directly in front of him. She wore a pantsuit that was less than flattering to her wide frame. Murdock focused on her, letting the other whispers in his mind fall away.
This idiot is committing career suicide. I need to get this in to Tommy before Fox runs with it.
Shaking his head, Murdock turned his attention back to McArthur. The reporter thought the senator was committing career suicide. He planned to give her a bigger story. His career would be the least of everyone’s concerns soon.
Murdock tilted his head back, letting the warmth of the sun wash over his face. So much time in a dirt and stone cell had given him a greater appreciation for the outdoors. Even the miserable, humid heat wave sweeping through the region wasn’t an annoyance to him.
A few other cameramen ran over and recorded the events, whispering confused questions to their colleagues. They framed the senator against the backdrop of the Capitol building, setting an iconic image for the audience at home.
All the better to help drive Murdock’s message home.
McArthur’s throat worked as he looked over the small crowd before him.
Random passersby meandered over, drawn by the light on the cameras like moths to a flame.
Murdock finally grinned. This was going better than he could have hoped. The smile felt foreign. Uncomfortable.
He let it grow.
It was time to watch America burn. Time to light the kindling.
McArthur cleared his throat. "I've done terrible things in my years in the senate. It’s time I atoned for my sins. I’ve abandoned our soldiers and agents to torment and murder. I’ve ordered the torture of our enemies. My actions have led to the deaths of thousands of innocents. Today, I repay my debts. Today is judgment day." Fresh tears welled in his eyes. "Senator McArthur sat on a wall; Senator McArthur had a great fall. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put McArthur back together again."
The reporters murmured confused questions to each other.
McArthur pulled his hands from his pockets. They looked as if they’d been dipped in a bucket of red paint.
He gripped a .38 in his right hand. It shook violently as he slowly raised it until the end of the barrel rested against his temple.
The crowd of reporters exploded as they implored him to put the gun down. Bystanders in the back fled, dragging along their families and crying out for help. Someone ran toward the podium, pleading for the senator to hand the pistol over.
Murdock and McArthur stared at one another over the heads of the reporters.
“Burn, baby, burn,” they said in unison.
McArthur pulled the trigger.