Washington DC, Washington, Carrabba's Italian Grill, 2019

United States Senator Charles Oswald Marsden, R-Washington State, was in league with the devil. It wasn't a contract he'd entered into lightly. But not blessed with an endless family fortune or the boy-next-door good looks of his political opponents, Charles was forced to be creative when it came to his race for the White House.

The other two front-runners to the Presidency, Former Governor Jason Cross, I-Nebraska; and U.S. Representative Paul Dempsey, D-Rhode Island, had only to flash perfectly white teeth for the cameras; technology somehow hiding the blind ambition in their eyes that was blatantly obvious when a person came face to face with either one of them.

In fact, if the American public could see the truth of what Charles saw in those two they'd run away, screaming "Save us!"

Charles was far older than was considered the average for a presidential candidate. With a ring of hair boarding his bolding head like a clown and cursed to have inherited his father's strange knob-shaped nose, Charles had to be smarter; offer clear cut policies and promises; and had to deliver in order to secure those vital votes.

Had to make choices that sat like arsenic in his gut; had to associate with people who he considered to be of low character.

Just like the snide, sneak of a man sitting across from Charles now, smirking at the power he had over a U.S. senator so close to securing the highest office in the land.

FBI Deputy Director Stanley Marsh, cared only for position and power. He was cold, unfeeling, terrifying really. He rolled a wad of spaghetti around his fork and stuck the entire stack in his wide mouth, chewing loudly and swallowing hard before setting his steely gaze on Charles.

"I would advise you, Marsden, not to mess with me. We were both to benefit from the agreement if you remember… and right now, the way I see it," he pointed the fork at Charles. "Things are looking far peachier for you than they are for me…"

Charles nervously cleared his throat, eyes scanning the quiet restaurant for fear of a rogue reporter or rival candidate listening in; all looking for any reason to topple the great Sen. Charles Marsden.

And by God, the information Stanley Marsh knew would not only topple Charles but would definitely result in the remainder of his life spent behind bars.

Being bum fucked by some guy called Brutus!

He shivered at the thought.

"Look Stanley," he repeated for the 100th time. "Like I explained to you from the start, I haven't the clout to make you director. All I can do is give my recommendation to the powers that be; apply pressure there. Getting the job still requires some effort on your part. Hell, do you think it was easy getting you made deputy? Fox was up for that job! And he didn't go down quietly if you recall!"

After a sip of red wine, Marsh smiled. "Just making sure we still understand each other, Charles. I wouldn't want you getting your crown and then forgetting what's owed. I saved your bacon twice now. And we both have something to lose, if the truth comes out. In fact, you have more to lose than me!"

"And I appreciate it, Stanley. But that doesn't change the fact there is only so much I can do. You'll need to pull a stellar card out of your hat to demonstrate you're the man for the job."

Truthfully, Charles prayed every day Marsh wouldn't succeed as director. The thought of this man in such a powerful position made Charles want to throw his expensive meal up on the floor.

Marsh opened his mouth to speak but was prevented by the buzzing of his phone where it flashed between them on the white tablecloth.

"Excuse me," he said with fake cordiality. "I must take this."

"Certainly."

Charles watched as Marsh lifted the device to his ear.

"Marsh here… "

The change of expression on the deputy director's face made Charles nervous.

"Where?" Marsh asked with obvious excitement, "No shit! And he's in custody? Who captured him?... Well, get me the number of that station. I want to talk to Agent Williams personally."

Marsh grinned wide at the senator as he popped his phone in the top pocket of his shirt. He rose, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair; and slipping it over his slim shoulders.

"Well Charlie, "he beamed, "I may just have the card I need! If the news I've just received is true, you'll also have one less thing to worry about."

He slapped Charles once on the back and left the restaurant with a spring in his step.

The senator shuddered and downed the rest of his wine in one swallow.

…

Arlington, Texas, HQ Three, 2019

"Fuck!"

Archie wasn't sure how many times Williams had used that particular profanity over the last 15 minutes. But he was sure, if he'd been counting, it would top well over 100.

"It was an honest mistake," he said, trying in vain to placate the irate agent. Personally, he couldn't believe the news himself.

A red-faced Williams glared at him. "Do you really think the deputy director of the FBI gives a fuck about honest or not? Jesus Christ! We had him! We had him sitting right in here handcuffed to that fucking chair!"

Williams wildly pointed at said chair before gripping it in both hands and flinging it into the wall with a loud bang.

Archie flinched from where he stood, eyes dropping to once more scan the laptop screen where a wanted poster glared back.

At first, he was sure there'd been a mistake. He even sighed in relief when he saw the picture of the clean-cut boy staring out at him. But his relief was short lived. He had only to picture that face with a few life lines and day-old stubble to know he was looking at a younger version of the man they'd just let free.

Actually, it was the eyes that were the giveaway; large and brown, expressive.

He doesn't look like a killer.

A knock at the door distracted both of them. Archie sighed, opening it to reveal one of the department's young clerks.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt, Chief." She smiled nervously, aware of the tension in the air if not the reason for it.

"Yes, what is it, Angelica?"

"There's a call for Agent Williams."

Red faced, Williams stormed to the door. "Tell whoever it is I'm busy right now! And hold all calls."

The girl's eyes widened in panic and she stuttered, "I'm very sorry but he's insistent. It's a Stanley Marsh?"

She said this as though she didn't know who Stanley Marsh was. But his notoriety was such that the recognition shone clear in her green eyes.

"Fuck!" Williams swore.

What's the expletive count at now?

Archie would have laughed, if it weren't for the implications the whole fiasco would have on his department; and on the career of District Attorney Thomas Martinelli. The police chief didn't particularly care what happened to Williams, although he wouldn't wish himself in the agent's position for anything. Marsh's brutal reputation was legendary.

"Line eight," the girl whispered, before shying away without waiting to be dismissed.

"You can take it in here," Archie told Williams with sympathy. "I'll make sure you aren't disturbed. And I'll check in with Miller. I know the chances are slim, but Snyder may still be riding with him in that patrol car."

"I wouldn't count on it!" Williams huffed, lifting the phone to receive his bashing.