THE NEXT DAY. CASTLE CASTRO (SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA). 12:15 PM PST. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 2025.
When they had
finished the meal, Carlucci asked, “Aren’t you afraid of being
killed?”
“Sure, isn’t
everyone?” Castro looked surprised at the question. “But I’m in
about as safe a place as I could be—after that guy sneaked in we
did some serious purging, and I not only know how he got in, I know
a few other ways he could have. Those are all plugged now, and my
best people are going to be looking, all the time, for people who
are trying to find new ones. Meanwhile, the tribes in the area just
took another ass-kicking, and the Tempers and Provis are both
promising to reinforce you. For the moment, we have them on the
run.”
“And about the
Constitutional issues?”
“You’re not going to
disarm me, or even try, because you’re not crazy. And if you think
I’m hard to deal with, wait’ll you try Bambi.”
“Actually, your
daughter and I have always gotten along.”
Castro shrugged.
“Ever tried to tell her no?”
“Uh, no, she’s always
been right.”
“As long as you keep
believing that, you’ll be fine.” He stood. “Dave, I really did just
want to have lunch with you and work on developing a friendship. I
know there wasn’t much business to do today, except to agree to be
civil about whatever either of us has to do later on. You’re
welcome for the help in smashing the tribes and, while I’m not
going to comply with your court order, I will try not to rub your
nose in my defiance any more than necessary. I need to run to
another meeting, which I will not enjoy nearly as much as this, so
before you go, I have to hurry up and cover just one more thing on
my agenda.” He handed him a thick manila envelope. “This is
everything, absolutely everything, from our investigation of that
Daybreaker that broke in and threatened me. I’ll send you updates
regularly. Keep it on file.”
“Life
insurance?”
“Sort of. More like
revenge insurance. I don’t think anyone will fuck with me
successfully, but if they do, I want something or someone to be on
their tail. You strike me as the type that doesn’t give up a
pursuit, Mister Carlucci.”
Returning to his
suite, Harrison Castro reflected that if Carlucci had asked, he’d
probably have admitted the surprising truth: aside from his rage at
having a bunch of mind-controlled bush hippies trying to order him
around, aside from finally grasping that the tribes would always be
more dangerous to him than the Federal government, aside from his
unwillingness to see people he despised slaughter people he
respected, there was an overriding consideration: he had discovered
that he didn’t want to overthrow the
Constitution, or put the Feds out of business, or anything else
he’d been saying he wanted since . . . jeez,
since the Clinton Administration. Pure case of being careful what
you wish for.
He just needed to
change his shirt before his meeting with his tech advisors; he knew
his perfect valet would have everything laid out on the
bed.
Inside his suite, he
opened the bedroom door and found his valet lying on his back,
blood pooling around him, his throat slashed open. He had half a
moment to think not again and
it can’t be as the bag of feathers went
over his head, and he did manage to kick his opponent in the shin
this time, and shoulder him against the wall, but neither made the
man—the same one? Castro wondered,
through the rising panic of not being able to get enough
air—neither made him—let go.
Let go. Castro fought the man, his grip, the bag,
everything, with all he had, but the man was forcing Castro’s hands
behind his back. Castro twisted and turned, jumped and jerked, but
nothing freed him. It was even more impossible to breathe in here
than it had been last time, and he was swiftly running out of air.
Tasting bitter shame, he tapped the man, signaling that he would
talk.
The man grabbed his
little fingers and pressed them the wrong way. Castro tried to gasp
for air, involuntarily, and only pulled in a few feathers that set
him trying to cough with air that he didn’t have. The terrible
pressure on his wrists drove him forward, and then to the side,
stumbling on something slick.
His bound hands were
forced upward behind him, and the cuffs were tied to
something.
He knew where he was,
now, but it did him no good.
His bound hands were
tied to the showerhead behind him. The man turned the shower on,
all the way hot. Scalding water poured over and through the cloth
bag, into the feathers, blocking his last fresh air; smothering,
drowning, and cooking him in the water, steam, and feathers;
turning his cough into wracking spasms. The feathers held the hot
water against his scalp and face, burning the soft flesh deep red.
After far too long the darkness of the bag merged into the darkness
of his mind.