Chain of Command Read Online Free Page B

the social media savvy politician.
    He’d taken to re-tweeting photoshopped pictures of his face on some matador’s body, usually shirtless. His favorites were the amateur cartoons that cropped up every other week, depicting him in one or another scene where he (as the matador) was taking on some stodgy bill or lumbering curmudgeon in the nation’s capital.
    Tony McKnight had never been to a bull fight, but his publicist was working on it. It would be a perfect photo op, another notch in his belt. Pictures were the new platform.
    As the Hispanic community swelled in America, so did the need for fresh-faced newcomers on the political scene. McKnight was the Right’s up-and-coming Hall of Famer. He’d made it to the Majors, but he hadn’t cracked into the All-Star game.
    It was just a matter of time.
    In the beginning, McKnight sought out benefactors, men, and occasionally a woman, who had their own needs. Most were wealthy investors or business owners. In exchange for his ear and a chance on The Hill, they lavished him with trips and donations.
    There were legal ways of turning these thinly-veiled bribes into legitimate income. Again, his chameleon-like ability to blend in ensured there would always be a fresh supply of cash. Instead of going to them, donors were now coming to him. It was always satisfying to the man who’d once stood ashamed behind his mother as she handed over food stamps for milk and cereal.
    He liked his life. Men of lesser talent and middling ambition might let things ride. That wasn’t McKnight’s way.
    He looked around at his colleagues as they convened for another four hour session. McKnight didn’t see competition; he wasn’t even in awe of a single one of them. No, what he saw as plain as if it were, in fact, the case, was a herd of cattle, the odd bull mixed in, milling about like placid cows on the plains.
    It would soon be time for The Miami Matador to tame them, one by one if he had to. He was smart enough to know that it wouldn’t happen overnight. Overt frontal attacks would rarely be the tactic. There were plenty of ways to break a man, to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
    He smiled, relishing the moment and his hopes for the future. If they were anything like the dreams of his past, he had no doubt that his vision would become a reality.
    Not for the first time, McKnight silently addressed his father, who he could only assume now rested in Hell, I’ll be President of the United States in spite of you .
     
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    Rep. Tom Steiner sat down with a smug grin. He’d played second fiddle to Ezra Matisse since his first day in Congress. He replayed the look of shock on Matisse’s face after the comment of the Marine Corps’s defunding.
    “Mind if I scoot by?”
    Steiner looked up to see the face of the handsome Floridian, Tony McKnight. He didn’t know the man, but he sure knew the upward trajectory of the charismatic newcomer. He hadn’t been in Congress a month before he was gracing magazine covers nationwide. Steiner didn’t have anything against McKnight, but he wouldn’t have minded a sliver of the recognition the Miami native got on a weekly basis.
    “Sure,” responded Steiner, moving his legs to the side so McKnight could walk by.
    “Thanks.” McKnight moved by, but then turned around like he’d forgotten something. “You going to the U2 concert tomorrow? I heard you were a fan.”
    Steiner perked up. The question surprised him. He’d probably never said more than a few words to the younger statesman. But Steiner had been a fan of U2 since their debut record, Boy , hit the airwaves in the States in the ‘80s. He wasn’t about to tell McKnight that though, and he was always wary of favors.
    “No. Couldn’t get tickets,” he replied.
    McKnight flashed his world-famous smile. “I’ll keep my ears open. Maybe some seats will come open.”
    Steiner nodded as McKnight went on his way. The New Jersey congressman watched McKnight go, wondering what it was