Oscar Byrd sat behind his desk, stewing. He was supposed to have lunch at the Country Club with some Afghan journalists but he didn’t want to. The food and drinks were incredible but that didn’t matter.
He really hated John Parker. All of Oscar’s plans had backfired. Now all his people were sidelined. He really hated that. And he really hated John Parker.
But things had changed since Susan’s phone call. That had taken the cake. Now Susan, Trevor and Jim didn’t matter. To him, it was all about Parker. Oscar figured he could still swing Susan into Columbia but now he had a new mission in life— destroy John Parker.
As he sipped his whiskey and soda he thought about the government ‘intern.’ Whatever the reason for her assignment in Mexico she was still a federal employee. And from what he’d heard she had gone far beyond her job description.
Byrd set down his drink and began making phone calls. He called in favors he’d stashed back for years. He called in favors from people that had almost forgotten about him.
Four hours later he heard from one source. Evidently the ’intern’ and Mr. Parker were in Ohio. After a bit of further prying he found out where. Not that it mattered. He had nobody in the region to keep tabs on them.
Oscar poured himself another drink and thought hard. He needed a big break. John Parker was responsible for losing two of his best, most loyal reporters. And he was taking away what Oscar had already given to Susan. The phone rang and he answered.
“Hello Mr. Byrd.“ It was Crystal, the secretary he’d hired two years ago straight out of high school. “A Mr. Hunter is here to see you.“
Oscar paused. Hunter was a crackpot, but a rich crackpot. He’d made billions in the transportation business by selling prepaid repair cards at truck stops. Then he’d cashed out and devoted everything to hunting ‘alien relics.’
Now he called himself Abraham Hunter for reasons completely unknown. He was a mystery at best but he was also a great source for Media Content whenever they needed something a bit far out. He was a crackpot. And now he was here.
The door burst open and a middle aged man in a long black trench coat strode in swinging a walking stick. In a single fluid movement he set his top hat and gloves on Oscar’s desk then dropped into a chair. Leaning forward he stared into the bloodshot eyes and said. “Tell me what you know about Mechanicsburg, Ohio.”