PARKER HOYT STARES and stares at his special phone, waiting to hear back from Munson at Global Strategic Solutions, who quickly agreed to cooperate with his earlier request. In his mind’s eye he can see how this morning will unfold. First, that black ops helicopter from his past company will attack the farmhouse where, almost certainly, the First Lady is hiding out with her father.
Boom.
When that’s done, he’ll leak to the news the report of her missing finger and the ransom demand, conveniently leaving out the second part of the demand, a national weep-fest on television by the President, apologizing for his sins against his frigid wife.
With that whipping up the news media to a froth, eventually some fire department is going to respond to that burning farmhouse and extinguish the blaze. At some point they will find two bodies in the rubble, along with evidence that a propane tank—used to heat the building—had unexpectedly exploded.
Time for them to identify the bodies? Not too long, especially since one will be a female of a certain age, missing part of the pinky on her left hand.
And with more leaks coming from a shocked White House, the narrative will be established: Grace Fuller Tucker, First Lady of the United States, had been kidnapped and held for ransom at this remote farmhouse, owned by her father, and her father had been kidnapped as well.
For who would expect the FBI—in searching for the First Lady, a kidnap victim—to go to a property owned by her father?
And after the payment was made, no doubt the kidnappers went to some place with public internet access to verify the transfer of funds, just as the house exploded.
What a horrible, terrible thing to have happened to the President of the United States.
And as for Munson and the helicopter pilot, well, of course they’ll keep their mouths shut. They were expecting to eliminate a terrorist cell. Mistakes were made. Happens all the time.
There will be a funeral―the First Lady and her poor, dead father, interred together, either back home in Ohio, or if Parker Hoyt has his way, in Arlington National Cemetery. Parker is sure there are rules for who gets interred at Arlington, and he’s also confident he can find a way to either break the rules or get around them.
And a couple of weeks after the funeral, the bighearted and gracious voters of the United States will send Harrison Tucker back to the White House for a second term.
That’s what Parker Hoyt is imagining.
That’s what Parker Hoyt is anticipating.
If only the damn phone would ring.