3 Thank God it's Monday by Robert Michael Page B

the tests. Yet he still had a convoy of
consortium five-v’s following him into the packed press room. It amazed him the
depth of the corruption. He saw several looks of recognition and they nodded. Like
they were all in on this. They knew who he was. He was fooling no one.
    He wondered for a moment how this could have happened. The
Agency was an elite group of men that were dedicated. He did not understand how
they could be involved in a conspiracy to kill the man they were sworn to
protect. He felt sorry for his father for the first time in over a decade.
    Jake squeezed into the room. Gentle pushing, awkward smiles
and the press of bodies was unavoidable. Camera equipment, men in ties and
women in heels vied for room, for line of sight, and for front row status. He
could smell hair gel, dry cleaning chemicals, and chewing gum. His stomach
lurched. He had not eaten. The chemicals in his system still corrupted his
bloodstream. His head pounded. He tried to concentrate. One lapse would mean
that the programming would overcome his barriers.
    Now that he was this close, he had no idea of how to proceed.
The plan had been to follow protocol until he could assess his opportunities. He
glanced around the room. He recognized some of the agents. They were studiously
ignoring him.
    He pulled out the recorder from his jacket pocket. It was
larger than most. That was because it was also a retractable stiletto, though a
short one. The length did not matter. It only needed to be three to four inches
to reach the heart. Razor thin and less than two inches deep to slice the
jugular or carotid (but messy). A thin wire could kill silently and quickly. Exsanguination
would take less than ten seconds.
    The device he held was designed to be somewhere between a
stiletto and a dirk, actually. Its base was thicker, but without the stiletto’s
triangular configuration. Still, it was a puncture weapon, not a slicing weapon.
The dirk needed to be placed with almost surgical precision.
    The typical human heart was less than three inches across. Easy
target to miss. Especially on someone who was large.
    He thought of these things, oddly comforting statistics he
processed without effort, like a baseball player considering a curve ball in
the half second it took to travel from the pitcher’s hand to the plate.
    Meanwhile, he watched with heavy-lidded eyes the congested
room. He wondered what his next move should be. No matter what he did, it would
be akin to suicide. And, where would he go? He knew he had to do something to
stop them. If he failed to murder his father, then surely they had someone else
prepared to do the deed and then somehow pin it on Jake. And if he went through
with it, then what? Dead, of course. Which explained the nods. They were not
just going along, they were preparing for target practice. It was their turn to
play hero.
    How were they going to explain letting him in, though? It
was obvious. Someone was already lined up to take the fall. Maybe Randy, the
new guy or Howard Ettle, the veteran. Both were on service. Neither had seen
him. The deviousness of the entire operation was almost inspiring.
    “It was confirmed to be the Hezbollah,” one correspondent
shared with another. They both nodded. Jake tried to shut out the buzz of conversation,
the constant rustling.
    Jake understood that an embassy had been attacked. People
had died.
    It was strange to him. People died every day. Children died
of disease and malnutrition. Women died from abuse and neglect. Young people
died from drug overdoses. Mothers died in childbirth.
    They did not get a press conference. The President did not
speak for them. Yet, attack a building designated as American property on
foreign soil and the press came out in droves, the President prepared a speech,
and people threw their arms up in rage and despair.
    Jake was prone to bouts of irony.
    Then, it came to him. He knew what he needed to do and how
he would do it. The room was chaotic enough that it