Page 82 of The Captive Missing

“That’s a good thing.” Clay shrugged. “The less eyes the better.”

“And who are you? Someone important.”

“I’m the President of the Militia.” Clay smiled then. “Now it’s my turn.”

“Alright.”

Val paused as the door to the office was pushed open and Connie came in. She set down two plates that overflowed with ham sandwiches and hot baked French Fries. Val’s mouth salivated and before she had finished uttering the words thank you, her hands were gripping the flaky soft croissant. In between bites, she answered Clay’s barrage of questions.

“What has your experience been like with the underground? Have you had any issues? Has anyone pressured you for anything? Made you uncomfortable?”

“No.” Val blinked. “You run the underground? Why?”

“Ever heard of the Bill of Rights?”

“No.” Val watched Clay’s expression shift from momentary surprise to an accepting nod.

“Well, it’s a document which is supposed to guarantee all people born in this country a few things: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Captives don’t really get the last two very much do they?”

“No.”

“I’m sort of a stickler for freedom.” Clay reached for a pen, rolled it absently between his fingers. “Our government has gotten bloated, corrupt. Did you know that half of the military are captives now? Half.”

“Okay.” Val wasn’t sure where this was going.

“Can you imagine what would happen if they were all suddenly set free?”

“We would be left pretty vulnerable,” Val considered, mind working as she watched Clay’s calculating face.

“Not if there was another force ready to take their place.”

“Your force.” Val narrowed her eyes at him. “The men outside with all the guns. The ones who follow you.”

Clay leaned back in his chair and lifted one arm, indicating the map just behind his head. Without turning to look at it, he explained that each pin was a holding that belonged to the Militia. A parcel of land, a business, an apartment building. Their membership was in the millions, trained, ready, like-minded.

They valued the Constitution, the Bill of Rights and were strict in their interpretation of freedom for all. Val listened to him talk, saw the passion that sparked in his eyes and the power that vibrated there, too. He had to be highly intelligent, patient and organized in order to have reached the height upon which he now sat. So what was his end game? And what did it have to do with her?

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Val asked.

“I want to show you something.”

Pulling open a desk drawer, Clay grabbed up a remote control and flicked on one of the television screens. He clicked through a variety of options, then selected a video that had a picture of Jason frozen in the middle of speaking.

For the next ten minutes, Val watched a speech given by her husband. It had taken place some weeks ago, perhaps a month even. He stood in a perfectly pressed suit, hands gripping either side of a podium on a stage in front of an audience of thousands. Each time he paused for breath, the crowd thundered their applause, howling and yelling in agreement.

He spoke of ending the captive industry, he spoke of securing equal rights for all, he spoke of dreams, pure dreams, and making them into reality. Towards the end of the speech, the fervor of the crowd rose to the point of drowning him out. He stood there, staring out at them, nodding his head. The camera swept away from him then and panned out over the arena. It was filled to the brim with people.

Clay shut the television off and the screen faded to black.

“Your husband-” Clay shook his head a bit, a sly smile working at his mouth. “Has a certain something about him.”

“You want Jason to join the Militia?” Val asked. “He’s no soldier.”

“No, he’s not a soldier. He’s a leader of men.” Clay’s eyes became fierce, she could feel the passion with which he spoke. “When he talks, people listen. Hundreds of thousands of people, from all sorts of backgrounds.”

“What do you want from him?”

“There’s a senate seat opening up in Texas,” Clay explained. “He should run for office.”

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