Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure by Tom Abrahams Read Free Book Online

keep unused portions of interviews and we certainly don’t send them out to viewers.”
    “I understand, but I am gonna guess you wouldn’t get rid of that interview. You probably have an unedited copy on your desk alongside other big interviews you don’t want to erase.”
    “Fair enough,” he says. The typing has stopped. “Who did you say you are?”
    “What?” A truck passes by me and I can’t hear.
    “Who are you?”
    “I can’t tell you that yet.”
    “Look, I don’t have time to play games with you. If you have information you think might help me on this story, maybe I can help you. This mysterious stranger act is overdone.”
    “Okay,” I relent, sensing he’s about to hang up on me. “I’m a former TV reporter. I now work in state government, and I may have some information for you. I need to know if Ripley said anything of interest you cut from the story.”
    Silence. Another truck passes me and turns onto MLK. The puff of exhaust from its tailpipe is suffocating. I cough.
    “I can’t let you see the unaired portion,” he says finally. “I could get in trouble for that. I can tell you he rambled on about his son being the key to everything.”
    “His son?”
    “Yes,” he says. He’s typing again. “His son. He kept telling me his son was the real reason behind the shooting. He said his secession website was a convenient cover for the government. It made him an easy scapegoat. His son was the real story and if I could find his son, I could find the real shooter.”
    “Have you talked to his son?” I walk back towards the McDonalds, noticing the large bronze longhorn that sits in front of the façade. I’m not sure how I missed it before. It’s an enormous homage to the UT mascot Bevo.
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because the guy is crazy,” Townsend answers. “He’s a conspiracy theorist and fringe thinker. All the evidence points to him. He’s a loon who’s grasping at straws. I don’t know if he even has a son.”
    “You need to find out,” I tell him. “When you do, you can call me back.”
    “Wait!” he almost shouts at me. “I thought you had information for me. This is a quid-pro-quo thing, right?”
    “Find the son, and I’ll help you.” I stop at the door to the McDonalds, my hand on the handle. “You have my cell from caller ID right?”
    “Yeah, I’ve got it.”
    He hangs up and I find the end of the line at the counter. I need more coffee.
     
    ***
     
    Caracas Maiquetía International Airport is about 15 miles north of the city on the edge of the Caribbean Sea. It was my second trip for the Governor and I’d hoped to get into the city, but my instructions were to meet my contact at the airport and catch the next flight back to Miami and Texas.
    Still groggy from my nap on the flight, I passed by rows of blue cushioned seats at the departure gates lining the international terminal. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass panels that framed the long hallway, I could see the sloping green foothills which separated the coast from the steep Cerro El Avila Mountains.
    I rolled my carry-on past a Duty Free Shop and noticed its shelves were empty. The shop was open, there was an attendant at the cash register, but he had nothing to sell.
    Embargo ?
    I kept moving toward customs.
    After checking through immigration and withdrawing a few thousand Bolivar from an ATM, I found a small Venezuelan Café and sat at an empty table. I watched the people passing by, rolling their luggage along the reflective white floor tile. The large metal lettering on the wall read “Simon Bolivar”, the airport’s official namesake. Bolivar was the George Washington of South America. He’d freed six countries from Spanish rule. His nickname was El Liberator.
    He was a secessionist .
    I’d burned my tongue on a small cup of dark coffee when I felt his tap on my shoulder.
    “ Hola mi amigo ,” he said as I turned to face him. “Hello my friend. My name is Juan Garcia.” My contact