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    At The Midnight Of Creation
    At The Midnight Of Creation
    At The Midnight Of Creation
    Ebook33 pages28 minutes

    At The Midnight Of Creation

    By Philip Hemplow

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    About this ebook

    The president has a new adviser, Constantine Nephrenka: a sinister and menacing figure whose origins and motives are shrouded in mystery. Francisco Cruz, a young Federal Protective Services agent, is assigned to guard him, and to find out his secrets. With the country gripped by an environmental cataclysm, Francisco finds himself at the forefront of events, and a witness to the ultimate collapse of the Trumpire.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPhilip Hemplow
    Release dateSep 8, 2018
    ISBN9781386999911
    At The Midnight Of Creation

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      Book preview

      At The Midnight Of Creation - Philip Hemplow

      Table of Contents

      At The Midnight Of Creation | by Philip Hemplow

      At The Midnight Of Creation

      by Philip Hemplow

      IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING, said Special Agent Rex Christie, glancing at the waitress as she walked away, that nothing we discuss here today should leave this table. I take it that’s not a problem?

      Francisco nodded and did his best to look serious and thoughtful—then realised the correct answer was ‘no’, and shook his head instead.

      He was surprised by how slightly-built the head of Trump’s presidential protection detail was. He knew Christie had been on the Secret Service’s Counter-Assault Team for years, and those guys were usually huge. Instead, he had a lean, wiry frame, skin taut over muscle, without a trace of subcutaneous fat. His movements were efficient and controlled, as was his handshake. He exuded an understated toughness only a fool would disregard, and which Francisco found more intimidating than any amount of brute strength.

      I’ll let Mr Benedict, here, lay out the situation for you, said Christie, and nodded to the man sat between them at the table.

      Benedict looked more like an analyst than a special agent, and sat hugging a laptop bag to his chest. Francisco would have bet the farm he was from one of the sneaky-beaky agencies: CIA, NSA, DIA, perhaps some obscure office under the HSA. Once upon a time that would have impressed him, but spooks were more common than Subarus in Washington, now. He wondered if he was about to be recruited. Over breakfast? Surely not. He would have thought even the three-letter agencies had proper HR procedures to follow.

      The analyst, if that’s what he was, looked around before talking, making sure no one could overhear them. Francisco followed his gaze, automatically sharing the man’s paranoia.

      They were crowded round a small table in the corner of a quiet breakfast bar. No one was obviously eavesdropping. The only other patrons were sat up at the counter, watching the news on a muttering television.

      Breakfast meetings were routine in DC, for the people Francisco looked after; but he’d never been invited to one on his own behalf before. He was a little disappointed they were only having coffee, but it was hard not to feel like a Beltway power-player anyway.

      Constantine Nephrenka,

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