Her Secret Service (Jane Roe 1) by Jason Letts (top novels to read txt) 📕

willing to make. It wasn’t like Oliver cared for Heath personally even after they’d been working together for years, and one day he might even be appreciated for his small role in a historic moment.

The timer and fuse went in last, which after the microphone was turned on would leave a good two-minute lead time until the detonator went off. That would be long enough for the president to exit the building, answer a question or two, and then lights out.

It was hard for Oliver not to be enamored with his vision of the aftermath, and once the microphone casing was resealed and the foam cover replaced he went back to fantasizing about what it would be like when he stepped forward to claim responsibility. Looking perfectly, he would calm the scene by explaining that no more violence would occur.

Turning to his computer, he was sure that he would be arrested quickly, but that was part of the plan. A timer was also set on an upload to the Washington Post website, his special video exposing the president as a treasonous scumbag worthy of extra-judicial dethroning.

People didn’t know about the human experiments the government performed that he had found traces of. Once it all came out, it would take some time, perhaps a year or two, until like Nelson Mandela everyone arrived at the realization that he had not only done the right thing and should be released but deserved to be appointed to the presidency for his bravery and ingenuity.

Oh, he’d be re-elected normally for his second term. Democracy and all that. But the extraordinary circumstances of the moment called for previously unthinkable measures in order to keep the country from devolving into a morally bankrupt shell of its former state. Oliver’s true genius was to recognize the extreme needs of the current moment when no one else did.

The video was an incredible work in itself, one that he let play on a loop in the background. Every so often he’d glance at his screen to see Alex Morrin say something cheesy about John F. Kennedy. That was Lee Harvey Oswald’s mistake, skulking away like a criminal. Oliver Ip took all the responsibility and all of the reward for his actions.

Cringing suddenly, Oliver decided that the video needed some additional tweaking. It just plain didn’t take its target down hard enough. More weight was needed, requiring Oliver to go back through his archive of the president’s clips. Most were from his time on the campaign trail and as a Congressman. When it came to sound bites Morrin gave about things like the need for research or innovations in science, there was an ocean to choose from.

One of Oliver’s more-prized skills was his ability to selectively edit and manipulate footage, and it was child’s play to slice out the bits that made the president sound sinister and domineering. Splicing in a few frames of him scowling or grimacing added to the effect perfectly.

A little window popped up on the screen. He would’ve made much faster progress if he wasn’t constantly being harassed by his exclusive coterie of internet sleuths, whose only purpose in life was to feed him little morsels of information. They were only a hair’s breadth better than the unwashed masses he despised, people who couldn’t be trusted to process information for themselves. Oliver knew that telling them what to think about the news wasn’t enough. He had to make the news.

Once the video was sufficiently condescending and incendiary, he uploaded it into the queue using a special file tag that would make it seem to the Post that it had already been reviewed and approved by the paper’s editors. They wouldn’t be disappointed anyway, as this fit into their usual schemes of gotcha journalism and clickbait.

It grew late and Oliver slumped onto a bare mattress and pillow with no pillowcase, still wearing his suit. He took dressing for the job he wanted, not the one he had, to the extreme and never slept without a jacket and tie on. Plus it saved time in the morning. Smart.

Before shutting his eyes, he took one more long glance around the shadows and dark forms in his dismal apartment, sure that this would be the last day of his life before it became what it always should’ve been. These shabby conditions were unbecoming, degrading even, and a prison cell would be an upgrade considering the purpose of it.

When Oliver left early the next morning for his trip with boom mic case and briefcase in hand, he cared so little about what happened to his apartment that he didn’t bother to close the door on his way out. His first stop was back at the office to meet up with Heath, similarly shedding a black Kia Forte in embarrassing condition that he would never need to drive again.

Prior to entering, Oliver went to the van he knew they’d be taking and switched out the microphone case with his special one. When he saw Heath coming his way, Oliver hastily dumped the original case into the garage’s corner. Like a good placated yeoman, Heath had a happy-go-lucky bounce in his step and a smile under his bald head that seemed disturbingly akin to the Buddha.

“Looks like another day of living the dream flying on Air Force One,” Heath said. Oliver smiled and nodded.

“I thought I’d save you the trouble of checking over the truck. We’re one hundred percent ready,” Oliver said. Heath appeared surprised.

“That’s nice. What’d you do that for?”

Oliver hadn’t been prepared for this question, but he’d never had a moment in his life when he opened his mouth and wasn’t able to produce a passable lie.

“Nobody likes having to work on their birthday, so I thought the least I could do was save you the trouble.”

“It’s not my birthday,” Heath said, laughing.

“Oh, really? I thought that it was. Anyway, consider it a downpayment then.”

“I just want to grab an extra battery pack for the camera. It seems to be sucking