Payback, page 1
PAYBACK
By Nick Harlow
Copyright © 2022, Nick Harlow
First published in the United States.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in this story are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Books by Nick Harlow
The Race
The Brokered Convention (sequel to The Race)
Hit List
Public Affairs
Endgame
The Girl in the White House
The Deep State Network
The Infinity Code
The End
The 16th Minute
The Ascendant
The Third Trump
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BOOK TWO | CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER ONE
“What a big, steaming pile of horseshit.”
The Chairman of the Republican National Committee stopped and looked up over the crowd of three dozen people at the post-election strategy meeting. “Who said that?”
“I did.” The tall, slender redhead seated at the back of the room stood up.
Chairman Leslie James narrowed his dark eyes at Johanna Bishop, the five-term member of the House of Representatives from Florida. “Congresswoman Bishop, I don’t appreciate the language.”
Too bad. You need to hear this. And someone needs to say it. “And I don’t appreciate you looking at me in that tone of voice. Look, for the last hour and a half I have listened to this... post mortem... which is highly appropriate since we looked dead as we got our asses kicked in the mid-terms last month. Hell, your counterpart probably rolled over and lit up a cigarette after the election.”
Several snickers filled the room. “Young lady!”
“The people in this room are supposed to be strategizing about the next presidential election... but most of you sound like we’ve already lost. That we’ve got no shot.”
James, the veteran chairman who was fifty-five but didn’t look a day over seventy, shrugged. “Well, the polls clearly show—”
Her turquoise eyes widened. “The polls are bullshit!”
“Language!”
“Oh, please. If we had a swear jar in Congress we could pay off the national debt. As for the polls... were they right the last time? Or the time before that?”
“But the Democrats control nearly all the networks, the internet, social media. The voting is rigged... half the country thinks the last Presidential election was stolen. What do you suggest we do?”
“Steal it back!”
A murmur filled the room. The portly Chairman stood, stretched to his height of five-foot-four and shook his head. “We’re Republicans, we play fair.”
Bishop threw up her hands. “And what exactly has that gotten us? Sky high taxes, draconian laws, outrageous energy prices, and a border crossing that spins faster than a New York subway turnstile. When a Republican President issues an executive order, the Democrats are in federal court within hours getting a liberal judge to stop it. When the current guy issues an executive order... crickets. We don’t even try. We bend over and say ahhhh. I’m surprised the Democrats don’t send a jar of Vaseline to every Republican. No, our days of playing fair need to be over. We have to fight fire with napalm. Beat them at their own game. I’m tired of seeing Republicans bring a damn butter knife to a gunfight, especially when the other side has an assault rifle. And the people in this room need to either grow a pair or resign from the committee. That goes for the men, too. Everyone, it’s time to play Cowboys and Democrats.”
The Chairman slammed down his pad. “Well, if you think someone else can run this party better—”
“I’ll bet she can.”
Every head in the room whipped toward the source of the voice, Frank Whitmore. The tall, stocky fifty-year-old Governor of Tennessee who was a former college linebacker got up and moved toward the front of the room, then turned to face the group. “She’s absolutely right. We’ve become too passive. Too many of our Republicans in Washington check their spines in the coat room. And we’ve got too many RINOs. The Democrats are always in lockstep and we’re a damn circular firing squad. We’ve got two years till the election, and we need to fight like never before if we’re ever to win another presidential election in this country again. We do not have a minute to waste. It’s time to get our hands dirty. When they go low, we need to go lower. It’s time to get down in the gutter. Because that’s where the enemy lives.”
The Chairman moved toward him, jaw clenched. “I’ve been Chairman of this party for eight years. I don’t see anyone in this room qualified to do my job.”
The Governor stood his ground and folded his arms. “What’s your job description, Leslie, to lose the White House and ninety percent of mid-term toss-up elections?”
“How dare you!”
“You want someone who can do your job?” The Governor pointed at the redhead. “How about her? She’s obviously got fire in the belly. And I think it’s what we need. Hell, part of today’s agenda is to elect a chairman since your term is up, and... with all due respect... I think it’s time for you to step aside.”
The Congresswoman shook her head. “Governor, I’m flattered you think that highly of me, but I don’t want the job.”
“Fine,” said the Governor. “Then you can be the candidate.”
“For what?”
“President.”
Her face tightened as she pointed at her chest. “Me?”
“Yeah, why not? You’ve got a great record, you’re smart, you run unopposed every time in a purple district. You’ve been on TV a lot and have good name recognition. Your husband is a decorated war hero. Hell, you even put out that cookbook to raise money for charity. You’re a kick-ass Betty Crocker. I’ve never heard anyone say a bad thing about you.”
She cocked her head toward the Chairman. “Except about my language.” The crowd chuckled a bit. “But, golly shucks, I’m not sure anyone has gone from the House of Representatives directly to the White House.”
“I know at least one person did. A guy named Lincoln.”
The Chairman moved back to the podium and swung his gavel a few times to get everyone’s attention. “If we can restore decorum and get back to the agenda—”
Whitmore waved him away like he was shooing a fly. “Pffft. Screw decorum. We’re having an important discussion here about the future of our party.”
“I’m running this meeting.”
“Well, if you want to get back to the agenda, why don’t we jump ahead to the election of a chairman. You were unopposed but I’m throwing my hat in the ring. What the hell, I’m term limited out as governor in a couple weeks anyway.” He cocked his head at the redhead. “And I can get some ideas from her. She might be able to tell you how to grow a pair.”
The Chairman stood up, yanked his suit jacket from the back of the chair and stormed toward the door. “You know what? I don’t have to stand for being insulted when I have worked so hard for this party. You can have this job because I resign. And the rest of you better come with me unless you want to go down with the sinking ship.”
“You’re the one who rammed it into the iceberg, L
That one left a mark. He blew out of the room in a huff, slamming the door so hard the clock above it fell off the wall and shattered.
The Governor moved to the front of the room. “Well? Anyone going with him?”
No one moved.
JOHANNA BISHOP SHOOK hands with the members of the committee during the break. She finished a conversation with a former Senator, then looked up to see Governor Whitmore. “Ah, if it isn’t my campaign manager.”
He laughed a bit. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you with that out of the blue. But I also didn’t know you were going to go DEFCON ONE on the Chairman.”
“Well, I’m flattered, and your comments were very kind. And I didn’t know either, but I simply couldn’t take it anymore.”
“I get it. You know, I wasn’t kidding.”
“About what?”
“You running for President.”
“Governor... I think you were just caught up in the moment.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m serious. Look, this party needs an injection of not only new blood, but a different kind of energy. I’ve been looking at our bench, and there’s no one that really thrills me. Too many recycled politicians. Nobody who excites the base. You showed a lot of fire today. America loves a fighter, and you didn’t hesitate to take on a guy who has been the face of the party for years. You can bring that passion to the White House. And don’t dismiss it right away. Did anyone leave after the Chairman walked out?”
“No.”
“That should tell you something. People agree with you. They like people who say what they’re thinking. And bottom line, people are basically sheep who would rather follow than lead. Anyway, think about it. Is your husband here with you?”
“No, he couldn’t get the time off.”
“Well, we need to talk. Have dinner with me and my wife tonight.”
“I’d like that.”
“Then talk to your husband and do some serious thinking before you say no. This isn’t a one-day decision and we do have time. And by the way, stop calling me Governor. It’s Frank.” The Governor looked at his watch. “Anyway, our break’s over so let’s get back in there and try to rebuild the party.”
JOHANNA BISHOP SPENT an hour going over most of her ideas for the group, which were well received. She was encouraged at the support from the rest of the committee, and getting good feedback. But she had saved her biggest request for last. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out the morning edition of the country’s most liberal newspaper, then turned to the wealthiest member of the committee, forty-five-year-old billionaire Dexter Morse, a self-made man who had made a fortune in several businesses. “Mister Morse, I wonder if I could impose on you to donate one dollar to the cause.”
The bald, lean, green-eyed mogul chuckled as did everyone else. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “Is that all you want? I’m getting off cheap today.” He pulled out his wallet and looked inside. “Can you break a twenty?”
She slowly walked toward him, carrying the paper. “I was hoping you’d buy something for us. It’s on sale for a buck.” She placed the newspaper on the table in front of him.
“You want to sell me your morning paper?”
“No, I want you to purchase the company that owns it.”
He cringed. “You want me to buy this rag?”
“It’s only a dollar. That is literally the asking price. For that you get the newsroom, the printing press, everything.”
“And, let me guess... whoever buys it has to assume the debt.”
“Ah, you already know there’s a catch. That’s why you’re such a successful businessman, Mister Morse. Yes, there’s debt.”
“And are you going to tell me what it is?”
“Sure. Three hundred twenty million. And change.”
“And change. Right.” Morse smiled and shook his head as a few whistles filled the room. “Congresswoman, I did not get where I am today by purchasing black holes.”
“I understand that. By the way, I read about you on the plane today. Is it true your net worth is fourteen billion dollars?”
He shrugged. “Give or take.”
“So here’s my question for you: how many lobsters can you eat in your lifetime?”
He furrowed his brow. “Huh?”
“I was just wondering... if a person could get along just as well on thirteen billion... and change... than fourteen billion. I assume one wouldn’t need food stamps.”
He laughed a bit. “Okay, you’ve made your point. But still, why would I be throwing away three hundred million?”
“Because you wouldn’t be throwing it away and what we would get in return is worth far more. This newspaper is a thorn in our side and sets the tone for every network. Each morning the people that run the liberal networks look at the front page and that’s what they decide to cover. If you own the paper and let us help you run it, we can fire the biased people on staff and replace them with actual journalists who can promote our agenda in a very subtle manner. Oh, and we especially need great headline writers too.”
The billionaire folded his sinewy arms and slowly nodded. “That... actually... makes sense.”
She flashed a big smile at him. “So... lobsters, Mister Morse?”
JOHANNA BISHOP WEAVED her way through the empty tables to the restaurant’s private room. The place was closed for the season, but apparently Whitmore knew the owner who opened up the place just for him since he wanted something totally private. She found the Governor and his wife already seated at a small table.
He got up to greet her. “Johanna, thanks for coming.” He gestured toward his wife. “This is my better half, Sylvia.”
The petite blue-eyed blonde who looked to be about forty stood and extended her hand. “Pleashah to meet ya’ll. Ah’ve heard so much about you.”
Johanna shook her hand. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Whitmore.”
The woman waved her hand. “Pffft. We’re not formal with our friends. And my friends call me Sly.”
“Sly?”
“It was a character back on that TV show Dallas, and my parents were big fans. She was J.R. Ewing’s secretary. Sorta short for Sylvia, which I hate. Anyway, it stuck.”
“It also fits her personality,” said Whitmore.
She playfully slapped his arm. “Ya’ll hush.”
Johanna grabbed a chair and they all took a seat. “Okay, Sly it is. I love your accent.”
“Ah don’t have an accent. You do.”
Johanna couldn’t help but laugh.
Whitmore smiled. “I may be the governor, but she runs everything.”
Sly leaned forward. “So, Frank told me his idea. Y’all would be a great candidate.”
“Well, I’m flattered and I need to do a lot of thinking on this. Of course I have to talk with my husband.”
“Oh, please. I don’t talk to Frank before I make a decision. Anyway, he shared some of your suggestions, and I’m really impressed.”
The chef arrived, welcomed them and handed out the menus, then left the room and closed the door.
Johanna opened the menu. “So, what’s good here?”
“Everything,” said Sly. “But tonight I think red meat is appropriate.” She closed the menu and placed it on the table. “Ribeye for me. Rare and bloody.”
JOHANNA SIPPED HER coffee and leaned back after a fabulous dinner.
And some incredible ideas.
It actually could work.
And while Whitmore would be running the party, it was clear Sly was the power behind the throne.
“Well, I must say I’m more interested in doing this than I was before I got here.”
“Excellent,” said Whitmore.
Sly nodded as she turned to her husband. “While her strategy is excellent, we need The Devil on this one to put us over the top and leave nothing to chance.”
Johanna furrowed her brow. “Excuse me?”
Whitmore turned to his wife. “I think you’re right, considering all the shit the Democrats pulled on us.”
Johanna waved her hands back and forth across her face. “Okay, guys, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s this devil thing?”
Whitmore cocked his head at his wife. “The Devil is one of her friends. I don’t even know who it is. But this person is the most ruthless, conniving, clever political operative. Specializing in dirty tricks. Someone who is capable of pure evil. Hence, referred to as The Devil.”
