Shoot by Kieran Crowley Read Free Book Online Page B

U NITE
.
    “Well, shoot,” Dodge said in her fake folksy tone. “If the election had not been rigged and stolen with voter fraud by all those illegal aliens, I would be in office now—not that mongrel Moslem foreigner. The enemies of our great nation are helped by traitors, who would tear down our precious freedoms, such as the right to bear arms, the right to self-govern and freedom from taxes.”
    “Are you referring to Speaker of the House, Percy Chesterfield?” the moderator asked her.
    “He is one of many but his treason is more painful because he pretends to be one of us,” said Dodge. “Well, shoot! First he is
with
us, then he is
against
us.”
    “That’s right!” piped up another voice.
    The camera turned to a husky bearded guy with long scraggly hair, wearing full camouflage shirt, vest and jacket. It did not help him blend into the TV studio. The banner below his long beard said T EA P ARTY BLOGGER C LAYTON L ITTLETON . Who the hell was this guy?
    “The pretender president is in league with Chesterfield and the other RINOs and false patriots who are unwilling to do what is necessary to bring down this godless, foreign occupation of sacred Christian America,” Littleton said. “It is past time we resorted to Second Amendment measures to take back our country and restore it to one nation under God, so that
real
Americans can rule once more.” Dodge nodded her agreement.
    This was interesting. Two people on a major TV network like FAX—run by owner of the
New York Mail
Trevor Todd, openly calling an elected official a traitor and suggesting he be shot because of his political views.
    In America.
    Iraq and Afghanistan are very different from the US in a lot of ways. But the weird thing about coming home after so long was how similar they had become. It was beginning to look like I couldn’t escape the Cult of the Sacred Gun; ruthless, dedicated madmen who worshipped weapons and ached to kill with a sexual fervor stoked by their mullahs and their own movies and TV shows.
    I guzzled the rest of my too-sweet near-beer and poured a glass of arak. My father, and probably my mother, were in New York and had not even called me. Typical. I tried other news channels. My father’s fight with the conservative talk show host was all over the tube but was quickly replaced by BREAKING NEWS segments about the senator.
    “To recap, for those of you just tuning in,” one anchor intoned. “The
New York Daily Press
website is reporting exclusively that Senator Richard Hard—uh… Hardstein, is dead of an apparent heart attack inside his Manhattan home. We have been unable to confirm that so far but a large number of police and emergency workers have arrived at Hardstein’s home, as you can see from this live shot.”
    The scene was chaotic, with a crowd held back by cops and TV cameras and press and, in the middle, one really pissed-off redhead.

11
    Two araks later, my cellphone rang.
    I answered without looking for the caller ID—always a mistake.
    “Yeah?”
    “Francis?”
    “Mom?”
    My mother was the only one who ever called me that.
    “Hi.”
    The last time I spoke to my parents was a few weeks earlier, after national stories ran about how I was involved in a massacre of civilians in Afghanistan. They weren’t true. Before that, they hadn’t spoken to me for most of the past decade—ever since I enlisted after the 9-11 attacks. They never called me or responded to my calls. Three could play at that game.
    “Nice to hear from you, Mom,” I said casually. “How are you and Dad doing? Enjoying the summer? Any vacation plans?”
    “Well, yes, actually, we’re here in New York.”
    “Really? You should have called in advance so I could have taken some time off and shown you the town.”
    “We would never put you to that trouble, Francis. Um… How are you?”
    “You mean other than being a baby-killer and a tool of the corporate-fascist war machine?”
    “Your father was upset. When the later