The story so far:
Marty Bish had come to understand a few things in the half hour since he’d woken dry-mouthed and woozy in his own bed. The first was evident. He was under strict surveillance. The bastards didn’t even try to hide themselves. That alone made him more nervous than the alternative. The curb outside his home was flanked with two black Expeditions, windows tinted to a impenetrable black. After stuffing the manila folder with five years of federally-punishable lies into the furthest reach of his closet, Marty pulled a chair up to the draped window of his upstairs bedroom and watched. ****. They aren’t even trying to conceal themselves.
The second notion that occurred to Marty was that there weren’t many options for his escape. Not just to escape his home without a tail; they’ve been in, out and all around so far as he could tell. But how to escape the grasp of the O.C.D. and Mr. Blue Eyes himself. Marty was a bonafide scam artist. Always had been, and likely always would be. Was it worth the trade? The certainty of many years behind federal prison bars as opposed to being the puppet of this **** government group? And what choice did he have really?
Marty watched the two s.u.v.’s that sat fat and gaudy in front of his house. What is it that they want me to do exactly? Rally a non-existent nation of beggars and bums by way of blogging? Smack the repulsive politics of Boxwood all over the internet and beg for a rise from the audience? Somehow organize a…what…? Demonstration? Marty highly doubted it. It was a laughable idea. These guys were far too pushy and covert to demand he gather a group of freaking homeless protesters. No, there was plan, Marty had been selected and now they were going to push him into a corner and force him to do as they bid. Marty wasn’t accustomed to being under someone’s thumb. The more he regarded the two S.U.V.‘s outside, the more infuriated he became. Furthermore, the answer to his initial question of the day;
Prison or Puppet?
finally had an answer. Neither.
Marty left his post by the window, knowing full well the bastards weren’t going anywhere. He’d had the sudden and sickening realization that they probably had surveillance cameras and bugs all over his house. Who knows how long this had been in the works? There was little use in trying to find any of the little electronic trespassers either. Best bet…get the hell out of the house.
Then...find someone that could help him get out of this **** predicament.
Marty could not say he’d ever had a lot of companionship in his life, by way of friends or family. There just weren’t many of either to go around for him, and frankly that was the way he liked it. There was, however, one man that Marty thought he could trust. The only problem was, he wasn’t easy to find.
Marty had to get out of the house. He needed access to a secure computer, at least five hours time to make the necessary communications and absolutely no eyes watching him.
He didn't have a choice. Marty, knowing pinpoint sized camera eyes were likely following his every move, made his way to his office and into the slim closet in the corner of the room. He reached up and searched with the tips of his fingers. Bingo! The metal box with the lift latch was still in place, on the upper shelf, behind a short stack of folded golf shirts.
Marty licked his lips, lifted the latch and breathed a sigh of relief. His gun was untouched and loaded. He crammed it into the waist band of his pants, grabbed a grey sport jacket from a hanger and headed back up the stairs, to his chair by the window.
All right fellas. No more sitting on your asses. Time to work for your living.