The sun burst through the bedside window at 7:15 AM. Jason rolled over in the bed with an ache in his left arm that he hand’t felt for months. Mira put him through the ringer on the combat course and the bruise on his right shoulder gave testament to the fifty rounds from the 338 Lapua. It proved he wasn’t quite in the shape he had once been in, however, he still made the shot. Forty out of fifty rounds were placed on their mark at a thousand yards. Jason couldn’t remember the last time he had shot so well. If The Judge wanted him to be a sniper, he believed he could fit the bill. His performance was sure to gain him a spot on the team.
Jason rose from the bed and made his way to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. Standing in front of the mirror, Jason took a long look at the scars and his disfigured arm. There was a four inch gouge in his forearm where part of the muscle was so badly damaged that they had to remove it. His shoulder was severally disfigured from all the damage that the shrapnel had done. It took four surgeries to give him back even partial motion in his arm. He lifted it as high as he could and winced from the sharp pain from the stress he had put on it sparing with Mira the day before. A smile came across his face. The Judge was right. Mira was good. If she hadn’t been controlling herself, she could have easily ended his life in short order as they sparred on the combat course.
He thought about what The Judge had planned for him. The skills that he had proven where going to get him exactly what The Judge had envisioned. Jason smiled, got himself dressed, and left his apartment to begin his daily two mile run. When he returned to his home, he found the front door ajar. Moving slowly into the doorway he found a elderly man dressed in a black suit sitting in his recliner.
“Who are you?”
“Mr. Cannon, my name’s John. The Judge sent me here to bring you up to speed.”
“Up to speed on what?”
The man stood and walked to Jason’s kitchen table and opened a briefcase that he had placed on the far end. “Mr Cannon come have a seat.”
Jason walked around the far side of the table and sat down. The man pulled a photo from the case and slid it across the table in front of Jason. “I know you recognize this man.”
Jason looked down at a photo of Michael Hussan, the current Democratic President. “The Prseident?” he said.
“Thats right. Do you know who he really is?”
Jason shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
“Mr. Hussan’s real name is Almir Mahmud. Everything you’ve read about this guy has been made up by the people who put him here.” He slid another photo in front of Jason. “He’s the son of an Islamic extremist by the name of Ismah Mahmud. He’s top ranking in Hezbollah and was an instrument in the bombing of the US embassy in Beirut in 1983. Almir Mahmud was sent to the US in the ’80s to go to school under the name of Michael Hussan. A citizen of the US who never really existed. US social security number, birth certificate, the works. He went to Princeton, got his degree, went to law school at Harvard, and has worked his way into politics by the support of the socialist groups that, we believe brought him here.”
“How did he get his US papers in the first place?”
“Corruption in our government has been a problem for the last fifty years, Mr. Cannon. It’s really not that hard.” He gathered the photographs and put them away. “Jason, you ever wonder why this administration won’t make a decision on border security, or why they refuse to label a crime by a islamic terrorist anything other than workplace violence?”
“Yeah.”
“We believe that Mr. Mahmud and his group of US terrorist have infiltrated our government and are planning on overtaking us and turning us into a state of Islam. That’s where you come in.
Stories From the Mind of a King 