Hidden Enemies | The Prime Archives #2 ✓

prologue

A man in a black suit and trench coat strolled down a sidewalk bathed in muted, yellow light. The street was empty, save for the odd car parked along the curb. A black luxury SUV was parked down the block with its lights cut off. In the driver seat at a man with dark shades and an even darker expression.

The man in the suit had instructed his driver to stay inside. The person he was scheduled to meet wouldn't have appreciated it if he had shown up with armed guards. Besides, he preferred being out the constant surveillance of his detail. Ever since his campaign started, he'd been placed under a 24/7 detail.

He stole a glance behind him, checking the barren sidewalks, before entering the shoddy bar next to him. Upon entering, he removed the gray trench-coat hugging his shoulders. He draped it across the coat-hanger at the door and ventured inside the smoky lounge.

It was fairly empty, but not too empty. It was the perfect place to have a meeting, especially one like this.

The bartender behind the counter paid him no mind as he entered; he was too busy watching the news report playing on the shabby television mounted across from him.

The man in the suit scrunched his nose at the strong scent of cheap booze and cigar smoke invading his nostrils. He ran a hand through his dark, slicked-back hair as he observed the décor around him. Old paintings adorned the chipping wallpaper. The furniture positioned around the bar looked like they were on their last legs.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have been caught dead in a place like that.

But these weren't normal circumstances.

He was there on business. Business that could save the lives of thousands. Millions even. He adjusted his gray tie and approached the broad-shouldered man sitting at the bar.

The man was significantly older than he was; short, gray hair sprouted from his blockish head. He was dressed in 5-star general's uniform. Colorful pins and gold medals decorated his left breast. A box of cigars rested in the pocket on the right. A silver nametag ran along the pocket. It read: North.

"Crane," the general said. He was still staring ahead at the half-finished glass of dark whiskey in his wrinkled hands.

The man in the suit, Senator Alastair Crane, nodded. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me, General North."

North grunted. "I didn't really have much of a choice, now did I?" He narrowed his ice-blue eyes at the senator. "You know, I've never really liked you politicians. You lie. A lot."

Alastair forced a smile onto his reptile-like lips. His fingers squeezed the handle of the leather briefcase in his left hand.

The general downed the rest of his whiskey. He grimaced and hit his chest with a meaty fist, a guttural noise following shortly after. Alaister resisted the urge to recoil in disgust.

"So, what is it that you wanted to speak to me so badly about, Crane?" North inquired. "You said we couldn't speak about it over the phone."

Alastair nodded. "You never know who's listening." He swung his briefcase onto the bar counter, pressed his thumb into the pad along the side, and flipped it open after he heard the satisfying click. He reached inside and retrieved a yellow folder. The letters PRA were printed on the front in bold, red print.

"It's called the Prime Regulation Act," he explained. "We've been calling it the PRA, though."

"Yeah, I got that much," the general grumbled. He pulled out a thick cigar from the box in his pocket and lit it. After placing it to his lips, which were overshadowed by his bushy mustache, he took a long drag. "What exactly is it?"