Corruption

Ben Waxston sat behind the wheel of a stolen minivan, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His hands shook as he veered the car sharply to the left. He ignored the shouts of protest from the four men sitting behind him and increased his foot pressure on the gas pedal. Anxiety overwhelmed him; his breathing came out in shallow rasps, his heart pounded against his chest. The daunting task he had been assigned to lead seemed more reckless than ever. This plan had been in the works for two months. Now that it was execution time, he was a nervous wreck. “Slow down, Ben.” Ben cocked his head to the right, toward the passenger seat. A small edge of confidence soothed his apprehension as he glanced at his wife, Jessica. She was a slender, middle aged woman with caramel colored hair tied back in a ponytail and a clear facial complexion. She normally wore dresses and skirts, but tonight her attire consisted of a black sweatshirt and jeans. Ben initially felt a much needed burst of confidence when he glimpsed his wife, heard her speak in that soft, calming voice she had, and saw that small smile upon those lips he had kissed so many times. As he eased his foot slightly off the gas pedal, his confidence was replaced by increased anxiety. She should not be here, thought Ben sourly. Originally, the group had been comprised of Ben and four other men. However, Jessica had wormed her way in the day before the mission was launched. She convinced Grassemer that it was her duty. All those years that she spent caring for her son had prevented her from being part of any mission. Grassemer granted her permission, claiming he was glad that another member would be added to the operation. Grassemer. The very thought of him angered Ben, the man who Ben still blamed for his best friend’s death. Ben could not help but think that a decision made by Grassemer could yet again lead to the death of a loved one. “Destination about a mile ahead,” barked one of the men sitting behind Ben. Squinting into the distance, Ben also spotted their destination. The United States military base was not shrouded by the darkness of the night; it was visible from the two enormous lighted guard towers that lay at the edge of the base. Ben steered to the left, letting the car glide off the road. He then pressed down on the brake pedal, causing the minivan to come to an abrupt halt behind a clump of bushes. Unbuckling his seat belt, Ben turned around to face his four men. “All right, this is it,” said Ben, attempting to steady his voice. “We’ve been planning this assassination for two months. Everyone’s worked too long and hard for anything to get screwed up tonight. We’ve all gone over this plan a hundred times. You all know your roles in this madness. Make sure all your machine guns are fully loaded; we don’t want to corner our target with unloaded weapons. We’ll all walk toward our destination as quietly as possible. Grab all the needed supplies. Try to make as little noise as possible on your way up and on your way down. Strap your machine gun around your neck or over your shoulder so your hands can be free. I’ll go first.” Ben paused. “I have one more thing to say before we depart: only kill the soldiers if necessary. We are here for the sake of one man and him alone. Remember it is the Secretary of Defense, Dick Wilkinson we’re after, not the soldiers. Am I understood?”