Hunters Matt Rogers (best inspirational books .TXT) 📖

returned to his duties without another word.

Nelson wanted to laugh.

Wanted to cry.

Wanted to go through every emotion under the sun, and relish in it, at the beauty of this world.

Look at you, he thought to himself. Look where you are. The most prestigious office in the country. Rubbing shoulders with titans. You are a titan. Look what you’ve done with your life.

He realised he never allowed himself to feel satisfaction. That would have to change going forward. He deserved reward and respite for his hard work, day in and day out, on matters that would grind most men down from the sheer stress.

This isn’t you, a smaller voice said in his head. This is the Bodhi.

So if it was hitting him, that meant it was hitting—

He said, ‘How much longer?’

The personal assistant didn’t take his eyes off his screen. ‘There’s been an unexpected delay in … the previous meeting. Just a couple more minutes, sir.’

It was odd, but Nelson didn’t care.

The assistant could have gotten up, crossed the room, and slapped him full in the face, and it wouldn’t have fazed him.

This drug. This beautiful drug.

He could never have enough of it.

He fixated on the grandiflora roses, let their pink glow resonate through him, and he didn’t realise ten minutes had passed until the assistant waved a hand across his line of sight, seizing his attention.

Nelson said, ‘What?’

‘He’s ready for you.’

Nelson checked his watch.

7:12.

Late. Very unlike the President he knew.

Again, he didn’t care.

If he had suspicions, he didn’t acknowledge them.

He should have.

He went through into the Oval Office and realised the President wasn’t alone. The man was on his knees on the thick carpet with the Seal of the President of the United States beneath him. Two brutish men in tailored suits stood over him. One of them had a handful of the President’s grey hair, almost pulling the follicles from the scalp, keeping him upright.

Nelson’s internal panic alarm would have gone off if he wasn’t at the peak of a Bodhi trip. Even still, he was terrified, but he kept himself composed and tried to regain order. ‘Get your hands off him now.’

One of the brutes gave a sardonic smile, flashing white veneers. His hair had receded into a widow’s peak above his thick skull, and he’d crudely shaved it into a buzzcut. His hands were massive, his fingers thick and calloused.

He raised an eyebrow at Nelson. ‘Oh, you think you’re in charge?’

Silence.

Nelson felt his heart pounding in his chest.

The brute yanked the President’s head up, so he grew taller on his knees. The President’s pupils were swollen. Saliva coated his lips. His face was a kaleidoscope of emotion. He seemed to understand the predicament he was in, but the Bodhi kept overriding his fear. He bounced between ecstatic and horrified. He was physically useless, though. The dose had been too strong.

The brute jerked the President’s hair again, making him wince. ‘You think even he’s in charge?’

‘Of course he’s in charge,’ Nelson said. ‘So I suggest—’

‘Shut the door.’

Nelson’s stomach knotted. He said, ‘You’re Secret Service?’

‘No,’ the guy said. ‘Now do as I say.’

Bodhi shoots you to the moon, but it also makes you compliant.

Nelson just wanted this to be over.

He turned around and closed the door, making eye contact for a split second with the wide-eyed assistant as it swung shut.

The assistant had known all along.

He’d fed Nelson to the wolves.

The one who hadn’t talked yet crossed the room, grabbed Nelson by the back of his neck, and forced him down to his knees. Then he dragged him one-handed across the carpet, throwing him in a heap beside the President.

The talkative brute paced back and forth in front of them. ‘You fucked up, Devin.’

Through the shimmering haze of Bodhi, Nelson said, ‘So you know my name. What’s yours?’

The first step of surviving interrogation: humanise yourself to your captors.

Get to know them. Make them realise you’re not something to be used and discarded. You’re a living, breathing thing.

The talkative brute said, ‘Opal.’

Speaking for the first time, the silent one said, ‘Topaz.’

Nelson said, ‘Those aren’t your names.’

‘They’re our callsigns,’ Opal said. ‘We’re the new wave.’

‘The new wave of what?’

‘Black operatives who know what they’re doing,’ Opal said. ‘You’re an outdated relic, Devin. We kept you and your rapidly disintegrating division around until we were happy to decommission you.’ His fist still white-knuckled around a tuft of the President’s hair, Opal looked down at the man with contempt. ‘Looks like you accelerated the timeline, you naughty boy.’

The Oval Office glowed.

Fighting against the lure of dopamine, Nelson clenched his teeth before he said, ‘There’s been a misunderstanding. Someone drugged us.’

Opal gave a thuggish smile. ‘Who could it possibly have been?’

Nelson’s fear became something physical, visceral.

He started to hyperventilate.

With beads of sweat dotting his forehead, he said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘You do know,’ Opal said. ‘You drugged the President of the United States.’

Nelson gazed down at the carpet between his knees.

Opal regarded the President with derision. ‘Unfortunately this stupid puppet is a public figure, so we need to keep him around.’ He lifted his stare to Nelson, who returned it. ‘As for you…’

Nelson said, ‘Do you know who I am? What I’ve done? What I know? You don’t want to make the wrong call here.’

‘I know who you are,’ Opal said. ‘But who’s going to miss you?’

The Bodhi made Nelson reminisce on a career spent in servitude of his country, tackling the dirty work that kept the lights on and the population blissfully unaware. That sort of work required complete devotion. It left neither the time nor the mental capacity for a family. Nelson hadn’t wanted to come home and lie to his wife each night about what he did, so he never found one.

The Bodhi brought him to the objective conclusion.

‘No one,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ Opal said. ‘I’m not the one who made the bad call.’

Topaz walked over, spun Nelson around like he weighed fifty pounds, and locked him up in a rear naked choke. The man’s forearm was like concrete. Nelson felt his