The Referendum (Chapter 1)

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Content

Chapter 1        Abort Mission

Chapter 2        DOJ Investigator

Chapter 3        Widow

Chapter 4        Private Jet

Chapter 5        Double Back

Chapter 6        Micro Circumstance

Chapter 7        Six Walls

Chapter 8        Dead End

Chapter 9        Cessation

Chapter 10      Operation TOUCAN

Chapter 11      Call of Duty

Chapter 12      Cardiology Wing

Chapter 13      Referendum

Chapter 1: Abort Mission

Sam Davis stood before the cracked mirror in his cramped bathroom, staring into the eyes of his other self. His reflection revealed a man worn around the edges – a fitting guise for today’s charade. He ran a hand through his hair, further marring its neatness.

In the dimly lit drawing room, Davis picked up the half-empty bottle of whiskey, scrutinizing it as if it might reveal secrets. The sparse space offered no memories worth clinging to – no nostalgia here. This flea-ridden apartment was just another temporary hideout, a place to lay low before embarking on his next mission. He double-checked for any personal effects left behind; a clean slate was crucial.

Sam Davis’ mission, codenamed CACTUS, seemed straightforward on paper – at least that’s what the Pentagon training had ensured. They’d even guaranteed an embassy cleanup afterward. But Davis knew better than to trust guarantees. As an agent with three years under his belt, he’d learned the hard way that nothing in this game was ever simple.

He bought a tram ticket from the antiquated machine, blending into the crowd with practiced ease. His mission had already begun back at the apartment, but today was all about maintaining plausible deniability – no screw-ups until the climactic moment.

Stepping off the tram at Leipzig Arcaden, Davis felt a twinge of unease. Too many people milling around on a Saturday afternoon. He glanced at his rugged plastic watch – it read 3:37 PM – and sighed internally. “Shoppers,” he thought disdainfully, “in broad daylight.”

Davis strode toward Arcaden, his trained eyes sweeping the surroundings without lingering. Protocols demanded caution, but today was different. This mission was different.

He navigated the marble-tiled corridors of Leipzig Arcaden for a while before making his way up to the rooftop parking lot. Here, anyone could enjoy two free hours of parking if they first spent money at any shop in Arcaden – a detail Davis didn’t concern himself with; he neither had a car nor any intention of purchasing anything.

He uncapped the whiskey bottle, taking a deep swig before nonchalantly tossing the cap aside. Leaning against the gleaming engine block of a black Mercedes E-Class, one foot hooked over the bumper, he relished each sip. The whiskey burned its way down his throat, but it was nothing compared to the metaphorical fire he’d be courting soon. For now, though, he let the alcohol do its work, slowing time and numbing the edges of his consciousness.

A well-dressed couple in their early fifties emerged from the escalator onto the rooftop parking level of Arcaden. Helmut Fuchs, tall and imposing with a full head of silver hair, had his arm protectively wrapped around Erika Fuchs’ waist as they walked. She was petite, her blonde bob perfectly coiffed despite the shopping excursion, and wore an expression of mild discontent that seemed etched permanently onto her features.

As they approached their gleaming black Mercedes E-Class, Helmut’s steps faltered. His eyes narrowed upon seeing Davis sprawled across the engine hood, one foot casually hooked over the bumper. The half-empty whiskey bottle dangling from Davis’s fingers completed the picture of drunken disrespect.

Erika gasped, her hand flying to her chest in a show of affronted sensibilities. “Helmut, look at that!” she exclaimed, pointing at Davis.

Helmut’s face flushed with anger as he marched towards Davis, Erika close on his heels. “Hey!” he barked, poking Davis’s shoulder none too gently. “What are you doing there? That’s our car!”

Davis blinked slowly, feigning surprise at their sudden appearance. He took another leisurely sip from the whiskey bottle before responding in heavily accented German, “Oh, hello there. I was just…waiting for a friend.” His words were slightly slurred, playing up the drunk act.

Erika wrinkled her nose at the smell of alcohol on Davis’s breath. “You can wait for your friend elsewhere,” she snapped. “Get off our car immediately!”

Davis took a step closer to Erika, his voice low and menacing. The smell of whisky reached her nose before his words even did. “You know, I’ve always found that women like you are the most delicious kind of challenge.”

Erika recoiled in shock. Before she could respond, Helmut inserted himself between them, his face red with anger. “How dare you?” he thundered.

Davis barely had time to register Helmut’s fury before Erika shoved her husband aside and screamed, “Help! Police!”

Chaos erupted as Davis managed to dodge Helmut’s wild punch and landed a sharp jab to the older man’s solar plexus, sending him crashing to the ground. Erika froze in horror.

Davis grabbed Erika by the wrist, twisting it just enough to make her drop her phone. He pulled her close, using her body as a shield as he growled into her ear, “Listen up. You’re going to keep quiet and do exactly what I say if you want your husband to live through this. Understand?”

Erika nodded weakly, her breath coming in short, frightened gasps. “Yes,” she whispered. “I understand.”

As Erika’s whisper of acquiescence hung in the air, the commotion drew unwanted attention from nearby shoppers in the parking lot. Several people had stopped, watching the scene unfold with wide-eyed curiosity and concern. Among them was Hans, a middle-aged man with a smartphone clutched tightly in his hand.

“What’s going on here?” Hans muttered to himself, frowning as he took in the sight of Davis pinning Erika against their car while Helmut struggled to regain his footing after being knocked down.

Davis, noticing the gathering crowd and sensing that things were spiraling out of control, released his hold on Erika. He stepped back, raising his hands in a show of surrender, as much for the spectators as it was for the police he knew would be arriving soon.

“Alright, alright,” he said, his voice calm and measured despite the racing thoughts in his mind. “Let’s everyone just take a breath here.”

But it was too late for such diplomacy. Hans, with a sense of civic duty, had already dialed emergency services. Within minutes, two squad cars screeched to a halt at the entrance to the rooftop parking lot, their sirens wailing and lights flashing. Four uniformed officers spilled out and rushed towards the scene.

“Police! What is going on here?” one of the officers asked, taking charge of the situation. The crowd gathered, watching with bated breath as the police moved in to contain the situation.

Davis showed no signs of resistance as the officers closing in on Davis. Several bystanders had indeed whipped out their smartphones, capturing videos of the dramatic scene unfolding before them. The flash of camera lights mixed with the strobing police lights, casting an eerie glow over the tense standoff.

Davis put his hands into his pockets.

“Freeze!” the leading officer barked again, his weapon trained on Davis. “Don’t make any sudden movements!”

Davis paused, raised his hands in the air, but then he slowly began to lower them towards his side. The officers tensed and weapons were drawn, their fingers tightening on their triggers as they prepared for any unexpected move from him.

“Easy now,” Davis said calmly, his eyes never leaving the barrels pointed at him. “I’m just picking up my bottle here.” He bent down, moving deliberately slow, and wrapped his hand around the whiskey bottle lying on the ground beside Helmut’s prone form.

The officers exchanged a glance, uncertainty flickering in their eyes as they struggled to assess Davis’ true intentions.

As the officers closed in, Davis made a split-second decision, tossing the whiskey bottle high towards one of the officers before turning and darting through the gap between two parked cars, hoping to lose himself among the frightened onlookers.

Pandemonium erupted behind him as the officers, caught off guard by his unexpected attack, scrambled to give chase. The tossed whiskey bottle crashed onto the hood of a nearby car with a resounding clatter, shattering into countless glinting fragments that rained down like deadly confetti upon the scene below.

The sudden commotion had already sent shockwaves of fear and confusion through the crowd, but the sight of Davis collapsing to the ground, facedown with a rapidly growing pool of blood around his head, sent them into full-blown panic.

Screams erupted from all directions as people scattered in every which way, desperate to escape the scene now turned deadly. Women clutched their children tightly against them while men shielded their loved ones with their bodies, frantically searching for cover amidst the parked cars.

As the officers froze in shock, their weapons still leveled but no longer trained on any specific target, it became clear to them all that none of them had fired a fatal shot. Confusion rippled through their ranks as they exchanged bewildered glances, each silently questioning whether one of their own might have pulled the trigger accidentally, or worse, intentionally.

The leading officer lowered his weapon completely, holstering it with trembling hands as he approached Davis’ lifeless body. Kneeling beside him, he checked for a pulse despite knowing that none would be found. As he stood back up, pale and visibly shaken, he turned to his team and said quietly, “Nobody fired? Are you all sure?”

A chorus of uneasy murmurs and headshakes confirmed what they already knew: none of them had taken the shot that killed Davis.

The leading officer radioed for backup and medical assistance, his voice grim as he requested additional units to secure the scene and assist with crowd control. As more officers arrived, they began fanning out, cordoning off the area and herding shocked onlookers away from the body while searching for any clues or signs of what had happened.

As more officers flooded the scene, the leading officer barked orders, directing them to secure all exits and entrances, including rooftop access points. He turned to Michael Knokenfeld, his second-in-command, and said quietly, “We’ve got a situation here, Michael. None of us fired the shot that killed the suspect. We’re dealing with something else, something more calculated.”

Michael nodded gravely, his eyes scanning the chaos around them. “I’ll coordinate the search,” he replied, taking charge of the growing number of officers now descending upon the scene. “We need to find out where that shot came from and who pulled the trigger.”

The forensic team arrived shortly after, their van screeching to a halt near the cordoned-off area surrounding Davis’ body. They approached cautiously, determination etched on their faces as they set to work documenting every detail of the crime scene.

One of the forensics specialists, Dr. Emma Meyer, knelt beside Davis’ corpse, examining the fatal wound on his head. She glanced up at Michael Knokenfeld, her expression somber. “This wasn’t a pistol shot,” she declared, “Judging by the caliber and the entry and exit wounds, this was fired from a high-powered rifle, most likely a sniper gun.”

A murmur of unease rippled through the officers present; each realization sinking in that they were now dealing with a cold-blooded assassin who had struck from afar.

Knokenfeld radioed for additional resources, requesting backup from SWAT and snipers to assist with securing potential rooftop positions. As more units arrived, they began fanning out across surrounding buildings, searching for any signs of the sniper’s location or, worse yet, that they might be targeted next.

Meanwhile, Detective Markus Keller took charge of interviewing witnesses, starting with those who had been closest to Davis when he fell. He knew time was of the essence and so was finding whoever had pulled the trigger before another innocent life was lost.

In the sterile glow of War Room No. 9, Samuel Griffin stood rigid, arms crossed as he watched Agent Davis’ live feed. Surrounding him were rows of analysts and communications specialists, their eyes glued to screens displaying satellite imagery, social media trends, and police scanner chatter.

The room hummed with tension as they waited for Davis’ signal to escalate the situation at Leipzig Arcaden. Griffin’s gaze flicked between the feeds, his jaw set like a vice.

Suddenly, Davis threw his whisky bottle to one of the police officers. A collective breath caught in the War Room as they watched the German police swarm him, weapons drawn. Then, inexplicably, Davis convulsed and collapsed.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the room, disbelief etched on faces. Griffin’s expression remained stoic, but his fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against his forearm.

“Status?” he barked into the comms unit at his wrist.

Robert Kingston, his second-in-command, leaned forward in his seat. “Unconfirmed… sir, it looks like Davis might be… down.”

Griffin’s eyes flashed with something darker than concern. “Abort CACTUS! Extract ‘Camera Team’!”

Griffin then picked up the phone. “My office, now!” He hung up the phone without waiting for confirmation, turned on his heel and strode out, leaving behind an atmosphere charged with anticipation and unease.

Back in War Room No. 9, Robert watched as Griffin’s retreating figure disappeared through the door. A furrow formed between his brows as he absorbed the gravity of the situation. Around him, analysts exchanged worried glances, the weight of Davis’ possible demise hanging heavy in the air.

Breaking the silence, Nancy spoke up. “What happens now?”

Robert turned to face her, his expression somber yet resolute. “We adapt. And clean up the mess,” he said tersely. Redirecting his focus to the myriad screens before him, his fingers danced over the keyboard as he coordinated with the “camera team” on the ground.

Despite this unexpected twist, they had a mission to complete, no time for second guesses.

Davis had been assigned what seemed like an innocuous yet pivotal role in their operation: inciting sufficient chaos at Leipzig Arcaden during peak hours to draw police attention and intervention. Meanwhile, another team of skilled videographers and editors was embedded within the crowd, ready to capture every moment. Their goal was clear – to manipulate and edit footage to depict excessive police brutality against civilians.

Sam Davis’ mission required him to walk a fine line, pushing boundaries without crossing irrevocable ones. His actions were intended to stoke public outrage and sow distrust towards local law enforcement, ultimately turning society against its guardians while leaving no trace linking Department of Defense to the grand scheme.

Unbeknownst to Sam Davis, this seemingly straightforward operation would soon spiral out of control, morphing into a deadly game that would forever change his fate and those around him. His death was one contingency Griffin hadn’t foreseen.

Debra Lawrence knocked firmly on the door to Samuel Griffin’s office. “Come,” he called, not taking his eyes off the live news feed playing on his secure screen.

Debra entered, her expression somber as she took in Griffin’s tense posture and the unsettling headlines scrolling across the screen.

Debra cleared her throat, waiting for Griffin to acknowledge her presence before speaking. “You summoned me, sir?”

Griffin waved a dismissive hand towards an empty chair across from him. “Have a seat, Debra. We’ve got a situation in Leipzig. I need you on a flight out of Andrews Air Force Base within the hour.”

As she settled into the chair, Griffin continued, “Agent Davis is dead, and our operation has… taken an unexpected turn.” He paused, watching the news feed intently before turning his gaze to Debra. “I want you to investigate what happened on that mission, starting with why our carefully planned operation seems to be spiraling out of control.”

Debra nodded solemnly, taking her leave as Griffin returned his gaze to the live news feed playing on his secure screen. His unease deepened as he watched footage of Leipzig Arcaden being replayed ad nauseam and reached critical mass, now circulating under headlines like “German Police Brutality: A Shameful Display” and “Leipzig Arcaden: Another Unarmed Man Killed by Police.”

Griffin’s secure line rang; he picked up without taking his eyes off the screen. “Status?”

Robert’s voice was strained. “Sir, it was not us, someone still posted the footage… edited. It’s escalating faster than we anticipated. Social media platforms are ablaze with outrage and protests have started springing up across Germany and Europe, and even here in the States.”

Griffin leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “How many views?”

“Over ten million worldwide in just half an hour,” Robert replied. “We’ve got to reign this in before it gets out of hand.”

Samuel Griffin’s eyes flashed with determination. “Agreed. Have our disinformation specialists prepare a counter-narrative. We need to cast doubt on the authenticity of the footage, sow confusion about its origins.” “Already in motion, sir,” Robert confirmed.

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Step into the shadows—Murphy’s thrillers await.