How Much?

310.

We are cruising at 41,050 feet just over 500 mph. Goldson, Mustang and Sharkey are sleeping comfortably in the full-tilt, padded, extra-wide seats. The Senator and I are talking over steaming mugs of fresh coffee when I get a com call from Drysdale. Back at the Buccaneer he and The Queen have been flirting with sleep depravation searching the confiscated computer found in Goldson's room. Drysdale also had the police presence to follow up on the status of Anton Bartowski as he entered the local general hospital's ER for surgery. He provides a rapid-fire two-point update as I walk down the aisle towards the head for privacy; "Bartowski was heavily sedated but I think once he is out of surgery he will talk to save his hide," he reports, "and, even more importantly, The Queen is currently unlocking a cloud document from Goldson's personal cache that she thinks might be what we're looking for."

"Outstanding, please let me know the minute she has the goods," I answer, looking at my watch to determine ETA in Orlando, our new destination. "Did Bartowski say anything that I might use to coerce Hartaugh to sing?"

"Negative, sorry."

"Might not be necessary, great job you two, keep at the cloud file."

I cup a handful of ice cold water and splash my face. Instantly I feel a thousand nerve fibers jump to attention, including I sense, a far away echo from those in my arm and leg. I look in the mirror and see a pair of weary eyes stare back at me with concern. I, too, am feeling the familiar sensation of being up way too long without sleep. "Hang in there cowboy, this rodeo is about to get into some serious shit-kickin', just gimme eight solid seconds." Working a end-game strategy I take another round of cold water to the mug and dry off with a 'yippee-ki-yay.'

I return to my seat next to Hartaugh. He is fading fast.

"Do you want to tell me about Bartowski or should we wait until he fires the first shot."

Never in my career have I seen such a deeply terrified look on the face of a politician. This guy has lied more times than the recently removed and humiliated faux president, has made a career of misinformation, hypocrisy and hate speech. He is a profound fraud, a racist of monumental proportions and a known - and proud - supremacist. The depth of my disgust for this man is bottomless. I am actually enjoying this.

"What in Heaven's name are you talking about?" He drawls.

"You saw him on the gurney back at The Buccaneer after he took one of my nines in the gut. As he was bleeding out he spilled the rest to one of our agents."

"About exactly what, sir?"

"About the big scam with Goldson and Sharkey," I say, going for broke.

He is silent for a tell-tale moment as he mulls his rapidly diminishing options.

I hear Drysdale's voice in my earbud, "Smoking gun in hand."

He looks me square in the eye, still considering a way out of the felony mess that ahould end his
career in shame and humiliation - and if I have my say - quite possibly with the remainder of his days in a cell with a guy named Bubba.

"How much do you want?"