Chapter Six Tyler
Chapter Six
TYLER
PRESTON PULLS UP a chair to the starched, linen-covered round table set for five in the pint-sized room.
One of three shadows on his heels, I perch nearby, giving myself the best imaginable view.
Neither of us plans a long stint here despite the private setting as Preston feigns settling in.
He is playing his part perfectly with his ‘no fucks given’ demeanor, though I know he’s salivating.
This meeting has been pushed back for almost six months—one hundred and seventy-four days.
For me, it seems I’ve waited a lifetime.
Four of Forbes’s purposefully unlisted sit opposite him, expressions wary.
Their hawk-like attention fixed on the power player feet ahead of me.
Some of the most successful predators in history, their current fate rests in the hands of the man who’s barely spared them a glance since he strode in.
Their worry stems from Preston’s allergy to nepotism and the knowledge that their blue blood carries no weight in his company.
Raised just as regally, Preston rebukes that part of his inheritance.
As far as appearances go, I’m forever considered just another dark-suited guard.
My station and own disposition are not taken into account by any of the swinging dicks here.
If I gave a fuck, I could take offense to being background noise.
For me, it’s just the opposite—my ruse remains perfect camouflage.
My reason for being here has everything to do with their assumption that it’s the man granting their audience they’re answering to and not the pissant at his back.
Only two men in this room know what this meeting is and what it won’t be.
My ease lies in knowing Preston is armed enough to speak for me.
After brief introductions and bullshit niceties—which Preston barely acknowledges—I settle in for the show.
On cue, and less than a minute into napkins being snapped open, the staff brings in catered plates of fast food.
Towels hanging from their coats, they set heaping plates down before filling glasses with dyed sodas.
The four reps openly balk before schooling their expressions too late.
Without reservation, Preston forks a bite of KFC mashed potatoes. “I’ve got two minutes.”
“Psychotropic drugs, namely hallucinogenic,” Joe Hanson begins.
“For those carefully vetted by a physician and psychiatrist, with a prescription,” Preston adds. “Good news is, we’re out of testing and into manufacturing.”
Stunned silence follows.
“Sir, you do understand that making this available would be—”
“Both affordable and proven beneficial to those suffering from PTSD?” Preston cuts in. “Fully aware, since we plan to introduce it within a few months.” He chews slowly. “Not hungry?”
Eyeing each man, Preston bites into a chicken tender, and I can see the inner cringe they’re concealing.
“Understood, sir,” Hanson begins again, deciding he might be the only silver tongue capable of making Preston see reason. “We’re not arguing the science. In fact, we’ve been working closely with—”
“You’re too late,” Preston declares. “We made fucking sure of it,” he adds as Joe’s face reddens. “Sorry, boys. You also won’t be getting inflated prices on any half-baked, low-dose imitation.”
“All due respect,” Thomas Miller cuts in, throat splotched with eczema—a skin condition that only breaks out during times he’s under extreme stress.
“You don’t respect shit, let alone the soldiers who come back in need of our help,” Preston snarks. “But let me give you the benefit of the doubt. Who here has served in the armed forces?”
The silence is damning.
“I suppose next you’re going to try to suggest I stay in my lane?” He shakes his head. “The mental health and care of our soldiers falls within my realm, as does that of our citizens in need of the same.”
“Mr. President, we understand—”
“What’s wrong, boys? Cartels take your fourth house away?
” Preston sneers. “You created an epidemic. We put a stop to it, so what do you do? You give a little aid in cleaning out medicine cabinets while the cartels create a deadlier solution. Now, they’re cleaning up with stronger painkillers,” he spits.
“The bodies are everywhere. Instead of helping with cleanup, you want a piece of our action to stop some of the bleeding for your hedge fund?” He shakes his head.
“If Big Pharma couldn’t spend a cent of the billions milked from a thirty-four-year-old single mother who’s paid three hundred percent more for her insulin to help keep drugs off our streets, why should the government care about your bottom line? ”
They start to fidget.
“Yeah, I guess we’ll have to leave cleanup to our own agencies and soldiers. Tyler?”
“Thirty seconds,” I clip out.
Preston takes a large sip of Big Red. “Does anyone here have an argument other than whining about what this loss will set you back, besides an upgraded yacht?”
“This isn’t a good look, sir,” Joe states, laced with threat.
“I agree,” Preston bites out. “We should be working together, and yet here I am, facing the cameras while you cower behind placeholders.”
Their faces pale as Preston continues. “Many struggling to survive have no idea what the face of their enemy looks like, while I’ve got your faces imprinted in my mind. I wonder how it would turn out if that were no longer the case.”
I don’t bother to hide my smirk. None of them publicly claims their part in terrorizing the masses by overcharging them for survival.
All of them breathing garbage with the audacity to try to get in on the drugs we made sure they caught wind of.
Thomas runs a fingernail across his neck as Preston continues.
“I’m still settling into Pennsylvania Avenue. Me and the missus are just now getting the last of our boxes unpacked. I won’t take offense if you didn’t bring a housewarming present. But I did arrange something special just for you.”
He pauses.
“I hope you brought your overnight bags.”
“Mr. President—”
“Don’t worry, I’m prepared to give you shelter and protection once your pretty faces make their screen debut, but I hope you don’t mind less square footage.
As of right now”—he feigns checking his watch—“I’m seizing your first, second, and third houses, your ability to dispense medicine, and both the office desk and building you don’t occupy.
” He stands. “Starting with curable cancer. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? ”
Preston presses his napkin to his mouth before tossing it on his plate.
“In case I didn’t make it clear, I’m waging war like a soldier. That’s on all enemies—foreign and domestic. Because I turned down your last-minute contributions when I was running for office, I’ll let you take an educated guess on which column you reside in.”
Terror mars their expressions.
“I was raised a gentleman, but I’m sure you’re aware it’s not polite to decline fare when a host takes the care to offer it.”
“Mr. President—”
“Good thing you’ll have plenty of time to clean your plates while you sit in your new cells for twenty to life.”
In seconds, all four men are cuffed and read their Miranda rights as Preston leaves without a backward glance.
Just after being cuffed, Joe frantically searches the room for an out and, instead, finds my smug expression before I turn on my heels to follow.
As Preston stalks out, I see the illusory tuck of his massive wings before he glides through the door.
* * *
Strolling into the massive control room hours later, my eyes flit to the monitor where Preston exits Marine One, having just landed safely with our First Lady, Molly.
Both smile for the cameras and wave to onlookers as they’re escorted by my most trusted—each handpicked, invisibly inked, and trained by me since the start of Preston’s term.
Every day, Preston becomes more dangerous to those who’ve spent decades in the comfort of their corrupt alliances.
Today is no exception with the takedown of Big Pharma, especially with his bomb drop about knowing a cure for cancer existed.
We’d suspected for years, but only confirmed once Preston took his oath.
Confirmation came from an undercover raid led by Donovan Beekman, my first recruit in the Marines, who requested his ink be bolded once earned.
After Preston was sworn in, he appointed Beekman director of the FBI.
Donovan and his most trusted feathered agents uncovered proof that in the late nineties, scientists discovered a proven method of treating and curing multiple forms of cancer.
Not a cure-all, but enough of a miracle to justify the billions raised and donated in research. The trillions made in treatment costs kept the discovery hidden. The culprits—predictably, those who stood to lose the most.
Although sorting out who was who took months, within an hour, FLEET Media will report over a hundred arrests during Preston’s two-minute lunch.
Within weeks, wrongful death suits alone will bankrupt and dismantle seventy-five percent of the pharmaceutical industry.
With new legislation, no company will monopolize or terrorize US citizens again.
Cancer was big business; the fallout will be catastrophic, with jobs lost, but we intend to use the fortunes stolen by those who profited from medical genocide to ease the weight.
Their gluttonous riches, totaling in the trillions, will soften the blow.
Even with the reps detained, I should still be protecting Preston around the clock. This takedown boosts his ratings to unbelievable levels, but sharpens the bullseye on his back. This has me bristling at the thought of casing a notorious crime family instead of working with my team.