Game Changer Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Douglas E. Richards

  Published by Paragon Press, 2016

  E-mail the author at [email protected]

  Friend him on Facebook at Douglas E. Richards Author

  Visit the author’s website at www.douglaserichards.com

  All rights reserved. With the exception of excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.

  First Edition

  GAME

  CHANGER

  Douglas E. Richards

  PART 1

  Revenge

  “In each of us there is another whom we do not know.”

  —Carl Jung, Swiss psychiatrist and founder of analytical psychology

  “Our unconscious brains steer our behavior. But how do our brains come to be the way they are? Why are there differences between us? To answer this we need to look one level deeper to how our brains get built. And that begins with our genes. The genes you come to the table with can have an enormous influence on your behavior. Consider this: about half of the population carries a particular set of genes. And if you have these genes your chances of committing a violent crime go up by eight hundred and eighty-two percent! The overwhelming majority of prisoners carry these genes, as does almost everyone on death row. So we can’t presume that everyone is coming to the table equally equipped in terms of drives and behaviors.

  “By the way, we summarize this set of genes as the Y chromosome. If you’re a carrier, we call you a male.”

  —David Eagleman, Neuroscientist, Baylor College of Medicine

  1

  Kevin Quinn straightened the shimmering lapels of his black tux and gazed in revulsion and hatred toward the man who was dying, thirty feet or so away from him.

  Quinn noted that while the man had but minutes left to live, he appeared unshaken. In command. Totally at ease.

  Of course he did.

  He was the most charming president since Bill Clinton. Smooth, warm, friendly. Like the highest functioning psychopaths everywhere, he could fake sincerity with absolute brilliance, plan spontaneity down to the millimeter.

  And he was in the center of throngs of adoring millionaires and billionaires, who were almost sexually aroused to be mingling with someone with more power and prestige than themselves. Titans of entertainment and industry, each wanting favors, and access, and the opportunity to hobnob with the most powerful man on Earth.

  A man who would finish dying, right in front of them, in a matter of minutes.

  They couldn’t see that it was happening, of course. For very good reason. Because Kevin Quinn hadn’t begun killing him yet.

  Quinn took a deep breath and adjusted the receiver in his ear that was picking up every word the president said. Every smug, misleading, charming, manipulative word uttered by Matthew Davinroy, President of the United States, and one of the most despicable monsters who had ever lived.

  The mansion they were in, one of many in the wealthy municipality of Princeton, New Jersey, was situated on some of the most tranquil and scenic land on the East Coast, and encompassed thirteen thousand square feet of opulence. Chandeliers, Greek statues, fountains, marble, and fine oil paintings. Filled with men and women in the most expensive attire and wearing the most expensive jewelry.

  An eclectic mix of aromas fought for dominance within the manor. Expensive perfumes and aftershaves clashed with the smell of caviar and other high-end hors d’oeuvres, continually sent around by a catering staff whose membership had been modified on this particular night. Most were seasoned waiters who had been part of the staff for years. These men and woman were in awe of the proceedings and would have paid for the privilege of being in a room with the president and numerous accomplished and famous others, even to do nothing but empty their bedpans.

  But one was a Secret Service agent, wearing the same outfit as the other caterers, who had drawn a short straw, and who tried to accept being relegated to the president’s personal order-taker and waiter with as much good humor as he could manage.

  The buzz of conversation from dozens of small groups around the vast living room, with enough square footage to rival a small home, was ever-present, along with the clinking of cocktail glasses and crystal goblets containing fine wine and champagne.

  President Davinroy was at his most charming, as he always was at these fundraising events, making sure no partygoer would regret the massive amounts of money they had donated to be there. A gala such as this being held on a Sunday night was unusual, but was dictated by the president’s schedule. Most of those in attendance would have skipped their mother’s funeral to be there, so this wasn’t a hardship.

  The president was currently surrounded by six men and women he had blessed with his presence, and would continue to bless for five or ten minutes before moving on to work the room further. Each group he joined waited patiently for their turn, and in each he held court like a queen bee in the center of a frenzy of sycophantic drones.

  Just hearing Davinroy’s syrupy voice made Quinn sick to his stomach. He clenched his fists and fought to weather the rage that stabbed at his insides.

  With a monumental effort of will, he managed to calm himself once again. He had to be relaxed and unemotional. Dispassionate. A president hadn’t been successfully assassinated since Kennedy, and there was a reason for this. It wasn’t an easy task.

  He approached Jeffrey Gallup, who was standing as casually as he could near the bar, scanning the room at all times for possible threats. Quinn nodded at him. “I’m going to switch assignments with you for the next hour or so,” he said. “You man the outside front, and I’ll handle the bar.”

  Gallup shot him a disapproving look, which Quinn knew he had earned. He should have called in the switch while still outside. By walking in and basically touching Gallup on the shoulder, like he was a tag-team wrestler and not a bodyguard, he had left the outside front of the mansion unwatched for several minutes. Since Quinn was the man’s superior, Gallup didn’t say what was on his mind. Instead, he walked briskly to the door and out to take up his new post.

  Quinn could feel the eyes of any number of partygoers lingering on him with great interest, which was common, and many didn’t even bother to look away and pretend they weren’t staring when he turned in their direction. When one was in direct proximity to the president, there were two facets to the experience that were irresistible. One was the opportunity to see and interact with the president, First Lady, and other celebrities. And the other was the opportunity to pick out and watch the swarm of trusty Secret Service agents, square-jawed, clean-cut Dudley Do-Right types straight out of central casting, who tried to blend in but who had no real hope of doing so.

  For many women, sleeping with a Secret Service agent on the president’s detail was a trophy that carried as much prestige as bagging the head of a mythical creature did for Hercules, and for years an endless stream of beautiful women threw themselves at him like confetti at a wedding.

  His eyes moistened briefly as he thought of the one woman remarkable enough to have immunized him from any temptation those trying to bed him might have posed. A woman who had stolen his heart and his mind, making the thought of sex with the most beautiful and acrobatic of women seem bland and pointless by comparison. Nicole. The woman who had become his wife.

  President Davinroy was standing beside his own wife, Anne, quite a celebrity in her own right, as
was typical of First Ladies throughout history. She was wearing a glimmering emerald-green gown and looked to be enjoying herself. Was even she aware of what a monster she had married? Quinn thought it was impossible that she didn’t suspect. But also impossible that she did.

  Quinn forced himself to pretend to do his job, scanning the crowd for a possible assassin. And he found one, but only for an instant, when his own reflection materialized in a facet of a stunning crystal chandelier, and disappeared just as quickly. He was six-one, with short black hair and striking blue eyes, and he had been told he had a warm and inviting smile, although it had been so many days since he had displayed any lighthearted emotions that he wasn’t sure he was still capable of them.

  Finally, fifteen minutes after Quinn had assumed duty at the bar, the president ordered a drink from Special Agent Dan Oakland, who was wearing the same black vest and bow tie worn by the legitimate catering staff. Oakland worked his way through a number of groupings of partygoers and to the bar, where he delivered the order to the bartender, nodded at Quinn, and then shuffled off into the center of the crowd. He would hold his position there until Quinn indicated that he had blessed the cocktail and it was time to deliver it back to the president.

  Davinroy had ordered something called a Portuguese Nectar Vector, a recent addition to the canon of alcoholic beverages with which Quinn was not familiar. The bartender mixed the drink and filled a cocktail glass under Quinn’s watchful eye, and then, as he had been instructed, poured the excess into a separate glass, placing both on a tray and handing it to the Secret Service agent.

  Quinn took a healthy drink from the bright blue liquid in the second glass, something that wasn’t an absolute requirement, or deterrent, but which many agents preferred to do as an added precaution. After this was complete, while the bartender busied himself preparing the cocktails ordered by those currently encircling Davinroy, Quinn dropped an almost invisible tablet into the blue liquid in the first glass, which instantly dissolved, releasing its payload of cyanide into Davinroy’s drink.

  Live by the sword, die by the sword, you psychopathic asshole, thought Quinn triumphantly. There was no more fitting way for this abomination to die. Poetic justice.

  Quinn nodded at the bartender and waited the few minutes it took the man to finish mixing a colorful collection of cocktails in glasses of various sizes, including one with a paper umbrella emerging, which he added to the tray that held Davinroy’s beverage.

  Quinn motioned Dan Oakland over to pick up the tray as hatred began to consume him once again, growing as ravenously as a magic beanstalk.

  Quinn had used a new form of cyanide that was a thousand times more potent than any of its predecessors. Within seconds of the president’s first sip, he would experience seizures, followed quickly by cardiac arrest and death.

  Quinn only had one regret. While Davinroy’s death would be painful, it would not be painful enough. And it would come far too quickly.

  But this could not be helped.

  As the agent carried the tray back toward the president, Quinn did something that he knew was a minor miracle.

  He remembered.

  2

  There was a time—five short weeks earlier, to be exact—that Quinn had had relatively positive feelings toward Matthew Davinroy. True, their politics could not be further apart, but Quinn had thought the current president was as good a man as any politician ever was. Self-serving and narcissistic, sure, but peel away the glad-handing, the lies, and the unfair attacks on fellow politicians, and Quinn felt certain that deep down, despite his misguided policies, Davinroy was well meaning and wanted the best for his country.

  But this had all changed, profoundly, five weeks earlier, as had Quinn’s life. His world had been shattered, destroyed, by a man with no conscience or remorse.

  The Davinroy family had owned a retreat in the Catskill Mountains for generations, a little over a hundred miles from Manhattan. For two weeks every summer since the president had taken office five years earlier, the resort was closed down, at least to paying customers, and it became the exclusive vacation destination for Davinroy and hundreds of guests, free of charge.

  Like salmon drawn irresistibly to their spawning grounds, like Bush Senior to Kennebunkport, Bush Junior to his Texas ranch, and Barack Obama to Martha’s Vineyard, Matthew Davinroy returned to the Catskill Mountains each and every year, like clockwork.

  Naturally, the Secret Service came along, but twice as many as were needed. Each special agent was on duty for half of the stay, and for the other half was free to enjoy the resort as a guest.

  Prior to this scheduled vacation, the president had invited all in attendance to bring their spouses for some R & R, a magnanimous gesture sure to earn him the undying thanks and loyalty of all involved. He had insisted that Quinn bring Nicole along, since she warranted an invitation on two accounts. Not only was she the wife of a man prepared to give his life to protect Davinroy’s, she was also one of the president’s most valued and trusted civilian advisors. In fact, Quinn had first met her during one of her frequent visits to the White House, and they had fallen in love soon thereafter.

  Nicole was perfect, and Quinn considered himself the luckiest man alive. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but her joyous personality was infectious and she brightened every room she entered like a living supernova. She was bright, funny, and full of life. Fun loving and adventurous, with an innate kindness and compassion that was unparalleled. He had quickly become so fiercely in love with this woman that at times it almost scared him.

  And they were expecting their first child! A baby girl. Nicole was eight months pregnant, and Quinn was giddy over the prospect of starting a family with a woman who would be as amazing a mother as she was a wife—and this from a man who had never had an interest in marriage or children.

  Quinn had seized upon the opportunity to have one last vacation with Nicole before their first child—whom they would name Hailey—made her grand entrance. So they had taken Davinroy up on his offer, but only after Quinn had made sure there was a hospital with a maternity ward close enough to the resort to suit their needs should tiny Hailey decide to arrive early.

  Nestled inside the nearly six thousand square miles that comprised the Catskill Mountains, Davinroy’s lodge was ideal. The accommodations were spacious and modern, but blended in with the surroundings. Guests were surrounded by old-growth forest and had access to a private lake on-site. In addition to boating, fishing, horseback riding, and hiking, recreational options included downhill skiing and zip-lining, just a short excursion away—not that either of these last two activities would be on the agenda for a woman deep into her last trimester, but there would still be plenty of fun to be had.

  Nicole had seemed more anxious about the trip than excited, but Quinn decided this was understandable given her circumstances. Once they were there, he was certain they would have a wonderful time.

  But on the very first night, the vacation Quinn was so certain would be a dream became twisted into the ultimate nightmare. This was the night that his cell phone had issued a piercing alarm, impossible to ignore.

  Yet he had ignored it.

  Sleep had somehow managed to cling to him and seal him inside like an impenetrable coating of shrink-wrap.

  When Nicole had become pregnant, he had gotten her an elegant gold bracelet with sensors and an emergency electronic beacon hidden inside. If she pressed the bracelet in a certain way it would broadcast an alarm to his phone, along with her location. If she ever fainted or lost consciousness, not unheard of for a pregnant woman to do, the sensors would somehow know she wasn’t simply sleeping and his phone would also sound the alarm. She felt silly wearing such a device, but he had teased her that she shouldn’t have married a Secret Service agent if she was troubled by a man with protective instincts.

  But now that her personal alarm had been triggered, this same man was failing to respond. Only the knowledge that Nicole needed him urgently—buried deep within h
is sleeping brain—had finally managed to unleash enough adrenaline for him to shake off his unnaturally deep, coma-like slumber, and this only after the alarm had blared for a full ten minutes.

  Where was she? And what had caused her to sound the alarm?

  His panic grew by the second, so much so that it became a struggle for him to even breathe. His imagination ran wild. Even the thought of her in jeopardy was unbearable, tying his stomach into knots.

  What happened next was a nightmare without end, so earth-shatteringly awful that even though he could only reconstruct bits and pieces of the horror, these memories, spotty and incomplete, were utterly devastating.

  He had stumbled through dense areas of trees and undergrowth for almost a mile, to a location deep in the woods, far from any hiking or recreational routes. There was a structure hidden within a thicket of trees and brush, the appearance and size of which he couldn’t recall.

  As Quinn moved toward the structure, which his phone indicated now housed his wife, a scream of pain suddenly escaped from inside and pierced the darkness.

  His heart leaped to his throat.

  The scream had to have come from Nicole.

  The door was locked, but somehow he gained entry. How, he couldn’t recall. He remembered being outside in a panic, and then being inside, but he had no recollection of the transition between these two realities. And despite the massive quantities of adrenaline coursing through his veins and his prolonged journey there, he still felt sluggish, still unable to fully remove the yoke of sleep.

  The rest of his memories were jumbled together in a haze, evoking little clarity but immense rage and horror. He had flashes of the President of the United States delivering several savage blows to his wife’s skull with a wrought iron fireplace poker. He had images of her hazel eyes, filled with anguish and horror, suddenly rolling up into her head, their light extinguished, never again to sparkle brightly in a dazzling display of intelligence and optimism. And images of his wife’s lifeless body collapsing onto the bed she had been standing beside, her hands and ankles cuffed together.