Death Card. Nick L. Sacco

She turned her attention back to Elliott.

      “I think I speak for everyone here,” he said, waving an arm above the murmuring crowd. “This is a complete violation of the First Amendment to the Constitution. Since when does the government of the United States decide it’s going to change one of our most basic and important freedoms?”

      Elliott crossed his hands in front of him, calmly awaiting a response. A chilled silence fell over the room as the other reporters waited for an answer.

      Donna Koontz let out a deep sigh of frustration. “Since right now,” she snapped back with anger. Turning to one of the black-suited men behind her, she shrugged her head toward Elliott. The man hopped off the stage and crossed the distance to the still-standing reporter in less than two seconds. As the other reporters watched in horror, the black suited man pulled a handgun from his concealed shoulder holster, and in one swift, practiced motion, raised his arm and blasted a nine-millimeter bullet into the forehead of Phillip Elliott.

      The discharge of the gun in the small space of the tent sounded as though a cannon had been fired. There was a surreal moment of time as Maggie watched Elliott’s head jerk backward violently before his body crumpled to the floor.

      Some of the reporters who had served as combat correspondents in danger zones immediately took cover. Others jumped from their seats and tried to flee, but the exits were already blocked by the dark-suited men.

      “Get down,” Charlie yelled, dragging Maggie below the seats beside him as the room erupted into cries and screams. He held a protective arm across her shoulders as Maggie’s mind tried to comprehend the violence she had just witnessed.

      “GET BACK IN YOUR SEATS!” the men in black suits began ordering the terrified reporters. Charlie looked around cautiously before taking his seat and then guiding Maggie up beside him.

      The acid stench of gunpowder filled the air. All the seats around the dead body of Phillip Elliot had emptied. A cloud of blue smoke lazily floated above the room. One of the black suits began wrestling away a cell phone from a tall thin woman who was trying to record a video of the carnage.

      “Quiet, please. Quiet, please,” Donna Koontz, said, as if directing a class of second-graders. “Please take your seats. Anyone else who attempts to take any cell phone pictures or video will be arrested,” she said, leaning across the podium.

      Calmly, and, as if unaffected by what had just happened, Koontz moved in front of the podium to tower above the crowd of terrified press officials.

      “This ain’t your daddy’s government anymore,” she said sternly, her dark eyes taking in everyone in the audience. “The old ways, well, they just aren’t working anymore, so the President, his staff, and the American people are going in a new direction. The president wants everyone to jump on board and help him build a new nation,” Koontz said cheerfully with a forced, toothy smile.

      “However,” she continued, arms now crossed, the smile gone and an air of foreboding in her voice, “do not underestimate the determination of our president and his new staff to reach our goals and lead our nation toward a new future. Dissension will not be tolerated and that’s the truth,” Koontz snapped.

      She turned and began to walk toward the curtain of the tent when she suddenly stopped and turned back, as if just remembering something. “I’m sorry, y’all, but in the excitement, I failed to tell you that all electronic communications – you know, cell, telephone, television, and Internet – are suspended for 48 hours. It’s what y’all might call a news blackout. Tomorrow at noon the president is gonna address the nation. Don’t miss it. Trust me, it’s gonna be exciting! Don’t forget your new guidelines,” she said, pointing to a pile of the red-covered books on the stage. “You’re gonna need ‘em.”

      A small-statured, wimpish man met Koontz as she strode out of the tent. “Ms. Koontz,” her aide said, shaking, “what about . . . you know . . . him.” He nodded the way she had come, to where Elliott’s body lay.

      Koontz stopped to adjust an earring before answering, “Send flowers to Mrs. Elliot,” she said, smoothing the front of her jacket. “Then have her killed, too,” she replied coldly.

      As if on cue, four of the black suits surrounded the press secretary, and the group began to walk away together.

      “But, Ms. Koontz,” the aide stuttered loudly, pointing toward the tent. “How do we handle . . . him?”

      Without breaking stride, Koontz yelled over her shoulder, “They’re called landfills, Andrew,” and continued walking, leaving her assistant behind.

      Maggie was in complete shock. Shaking and fighting off panic, she turned to Charlie in disbelief. As she looked up into his eyes, she saw that his face was a mask of fear and confusion. “Oh my God, Maggie. Let’s get out of here, NOW!” he said, pulling her close for a second, and then turning to leave.

       Chapter 3

      

      Some of the reporters walked to the podium, carefully picking up the red books like they were poisonous snakes. Some wept, some whispered among themselves; but most just stood in shocked disbelief.

      Charlie briefly left Maggie’s side and snatched two of the books from the stage. Putting his arm around her, he guided her out of the tent entrance and into the night. It seemed that the number of security and military people had tripled during the press conference.

      After parking Maggie’s car in a nearby fast food restaurant parking lot, Maggie and Charlie silently drove away from the Capitol in Charlie’s vehicle, the sights and smells of the press conference execution repeating in their minds like a clip from a horror movie. With a white-knuckled fist, Charlie squeezed the steering wheel of his older, black Saab, his right hand clenched on the gearshift between the seats.

      At one point Maggie turned on the car radio, but all the stations simply played a loop of the same three Bee Gees songs. No DJ to be found, no jingles, no commercials. Some stations, off the air, simply played static. She tried her cell phone, but there was no signal. When she tried to call the service carrier, an automated voice instructed her to try again later due to unexpected high call volume.

      Tossing her useless cell phone into her purse, Maggie finally broke the silence. “What the fuck is going on? They just murdered someone in the middle of a press conference, Charlie. Shouldn’t we be doing something?”

      Charlie drove another block without responding. He guided his car onto a side street and stopped. He rubbed his temples, eyes closed, pulling his thoughts together. “A government has to control the press, Maggie, to control the people. Whatever this new government plan is, they want to make sure the public hears only what President Barakat wants them to hear, and nothing else.”

      “I’m not a big history person, Charlie,” Maggie said, turning in her seat to face him, “I never have been. You, however, are quite the historian. What do you think is happening? Because, frankly, I’m scared shitless.”

      He turned and reached across the seat for Maggie’s hand. “I had a social science teacher in high school named Mr. Renkin. He said, ‘Never trust a government that is critical of, or wants to control, the press.’”

      He paused to look out the driver’s window. “What we witnessed tonight, Maggie,” he said, pounding the steering wheel with his fist, “screams of Stalinism. We just saw a news reporter, a human being, get his head blown off simply because he questioned a government official.”

      “But they can’t do this, Charlie,” Maggie pleaded. “It’s a crime. We just had front row seats to a murder. The American public isn’t going to sit back and allow this.”

      Checking his mirrors, Charlie began to pull back onto the street. He glanced at Maggie as he shifted gears. “The American public will never hear about what we saw tonight,” Charlie said sternly. “Phillip Elliott will simply vanish. This press meeting tonight with that bitch Koontz, will never be