VP or not to be...

by Sara Branmore, Beesville Books

Genres: Thrillers; Political Thrillers; political thriller

Synopsis

Proofreader Callie Braxton makes an accidental discovery: Newly-elected President Dean Kirk has mere days left to live.

Can President Kirk dodge more assassination attempts?

His VP, Steve Hancock, is driven to take major action—before it's too late.

Amid assassination plots and an affair, Hancock faces the wrath of his lover's revenge.

Will the ultimate master plan to end President Kirk's life succeed? Or will Steve Hancock finally win the race—the ultimate race of all—to save the U.S.A. from destroying itself?

 

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Release date: December 10, 2021

Publisher: Beesville Books

Print pages: 235

Content advisory: light sexual situations, none explicit.

Sample

PROLOGUE

Friday, May 20, 2016

“It doesn’t look good, does it?” President Osborn stated as a matter of fact. Marci smiled at the framed photo she held in her hands – a favorite of hers. It was taken on Inauguration Day, January 20, 2009. Her husband, Benson, was sworn in that day, as the first African-American and 44^th President of the United States. His closely cut black hair was noticeably losing ground to the grays.

“What doesn’t look good, Ben?” questioned Marci. “I think gray hair suits you.”

Ben continued watching the news, unaware of Marci’s comment. Aiming the TV remote like a pistol at the flat screen, he agitatedly changed the channels between Fox News, Glenn Beck, and MSNBC.

“If Fox and Beck continue hammering at us, Hillary Cranston and whomever she chooses for running mate won’t stand a chance, six months from now.”

Marci gently replaced the photo on the mantelpiece. “Oh, that doesn’t look good,” she acknowledged. “Well, you do have a plan in place, don’t you?”

*   *   *

Tuesday, November 8, 2016 – a little before midnight

“Ladies and gentlemen, the last of the polling stations have closed. It’s an overwhelming winning vote for Dean Kirk, and his running mate, Steve Hancock, as Vice President! The Republicans have spoken!” cheered Neil Cavino from Fox News.

“I’ve heard enough,” Marci said. “I’m going to bed.”

Ben smiled inwardly. He picked up his private cell phone and conference-called his “go-to guys.”

“As expected, Kirk won handily,” he spoke softly. “Now we have to wait for him to be sworn in. I’m assuming you guys have the plans in place? I don’t want to know the details. I need to be able to say honestly that I don’t know anything about it — if it hits the fan.”

“We’ve been working on it. It will be set in motion in mid-January,” returned one of the guy’s voices on the other end.

“Good.” Ben pushed the “end” button on his phone. He climbed the stairs to the private quarters. He checked on his girls, to say goodnight. It had been a long day and the whole family was tired out. Even though the Democrats lost, he still had a slight spring in his step. He closed the bedroom door and he and Marci called it a night.

He’d gotten used to living in this grand old White House.

Pity it was time to leave. My work is not done.

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

Friday, May 26, 2017

Callie Braxton sat at her nondescript office desk at Albright Publishing in Bethesda, Maryland. Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Lang, owned the joint.

She preferred to have her desk face the doorway so it was positioned a good two feet away from the farthest wall, allowing just enough room behind it for her to swivel out of her favorite banker’s chair that she’d brought from home. The plain white painted room was a tiny ten foot by ten foot square with an eight foot ceiling. The room’s perimeter was boxed in by the usual vacuum cleaner scuffed baseboards. It was grounded by boring brown carpet tiles, office grade.

While working at her desk, the poor illumination from a solitary overhead old round fluorescent light, hidden by an inverted umbrella shaped shade, was helped greatly by a modern multi-positional contraption of an LED desk lamp. On the doorway wall to her right hung an old seascape painting left by the previous owners. The wall directly opposite her desk housed a closet enclosed by white painted wooden louvered doors. It held hostage coats, cleaning supplies, and office sundries - and a black cube: her tiny refrigerator. To the right of the closet the drywall suffered from the door knob’s constant crater-forming dings, due to the door stop being broken.

On the wall directly behind her was a dry erase white board and a calendar. The adjacent wall to her right contained the one and only window, dressed with a puny white plastic horizontal mini blind, in dire need of dusting. The window overlooked the rear parking lot, but never let the sun shine in. The behemoth of a new multi-story glass and concrete office building was responsible for that. In fact, Callie thought it amusing just how out of place the company office looked from across the street. Really, it was the other way around - the skyscrapers to its left and the one behind - now they were the ones out of place, she thought.

Albright Publishing made lots of money in the old white clapboard house whose curved topped wooden front entrance door, attic vent, and window shutters were painted a dark hunter green. The roof line of the gabled front office bump-out curved gracefully over the front door, creating a Hansel and Gretel effect to the old home-cum-office. The roof was new, however. Brown asphalt shingles. Not very imaginative - but business-like. Montgomery Lane had many similar old homes interspersed across both sides of the two-lane road that had escaped the demolition wrecking ball, and had been happily converted into workplaces. “Less waste in the landfill,” the sellers would sing - all the way to the bank.

It seemed that everyone and his brother’s uncle these days were submitting manuscripts, hoping to get their big break, submitting them the “old fashioned way.” Haven’t they heard of Amazon’s Kindle, she thought? They can do it themselves, if they took the time. But however the books were produced, they nevertheless needed proofreading. The work paid her bills and kept her brain occupied. Just as well these writers keep on writin’. Not only did she love her job, she earned pretty good money doing it, and she learned a lot from the authors too.

Callie glanced out the window as her boss, Jane Worthington, pulled up in her black SUV. A tiny figure clad in a white sheath of a dress stepped onto the tarmac. Her long brown hair fell forward over her shoulders as she reached into the back seat to retrieve a parcel. Friday donuts? Callie joked to herself. Yeah, right.

She subconsciously felt ungainly around Jane - at 5’8” Callie was hardly a giant, but Jane’s waif-like 5’3” figure made her feel awkward. It’s my boobs, Callie thought. They’re too big. Not that Greg ever complains… A self-conscious glance in the wall mirror near her desk reflected a pretty face, framed with long blonde hair, parted slightly off center. She maintained her slim figure. Today she wore a tight black short skirt topped with a loosely tucked-in white linen blouse. A pair of dangling turquoise and silver earrings, a gift from her husband Greg, completed a look that was understated, yet elegant. Greg thought Callie was a knockout. That’s all that mattered in the end, right?