Page 93 of The Fourth Option
“Exactly.”
“But the attorney general, her opponent, could override that. He’d hit her hard with the conflict of interest.”
“Which is why we’re going to contribute legally. She’s set up a 527 political action committee. T-JAW.”
“T-JAW?”
Kimbel grinned. “Truth, Justice, and the American Way. No campaign limits on a Super PAC, provided they operate independently.”
“I thought Super PAC contributions were disclosed to the FEC?”
“They are, but we won’t give directly. We create a 501(c)(4) group to run educational issue ads.”
“And since they do not have to disclose their donors, they make the contribution to T-JAW.”
“Exactly; for general welfare and educational purposes. And sir, there are some things best left to me.”
The jet braked at the hold-short. Kimbel tightened his seat belt.
“Get some rest, sir. We want you fresh in New York.”
The engines roared, the wheels thumped, and the jet lifted into the sky.
As they climbed, Matheson looked down at the lake, the city, and the low-slung brick buildings of the FBI’s New Orleans Field Office. The place looked like a prison: intimidating fences, squat architecture, black SUVs crawling in and out. One of them exited the gate as he watched.
Get your head straight.
He forced his thoughts to the investor meeting. Today was the day he would unveil his forecasts for Xylaxyn, a revolutionary anti-inflammatory and synthetic painkiller for cancer patients. Among its other benefits, it eliminated the need for fentanyl, the legitimate opioid for stage four cancer sufferers that had become politically radioactive thanks to Chinese knockoffs and overdose deaths.
Matheson’s line was ready, drafted by Carolyn, just waiting for the press release:Not only are we enhancing lives—we’re eliminating the need for fentanyl. My competitors like to say it’s a controlled substance, but is it, when we’ve lost so much control?
That sound bite would echo across CNBC, ripple through trade journals, and land like a sledgehammer on his competitors. Kimbel would make the calls. Senators would listen. The pressure would mount. Fentanylwould become a drug of the past. And Xylaxyn, his drug, would be the only alternative.
Ten years on the patent. Ten years of dominance. He wouldn’t just be a multibillionaire. He’d be untouchable.
He glanced around the Bombardier’s cabin, at the worn leather and scratched chrome.
Fake it till you make it.
The old mantra flickered in his mind like a neon sign. He’d faked it once upon a time. Everyone had. But then he met Fulgencio Vargas—Cuchillo—and everything changed. Vargas had made him an offer he was not strong enough to refuse. Vargas had offered him the world.
As much as he knew he needed to stay focused on Xylaxyn, his mind was drawn back to the Garden District.
“Is the story true?” he asked. “Was it a rival cartel hit?”
Kimbel hesitated, then leaned closer. “You really want to know?”
Matheson raised an eyebrow.
“Word is that some guy with a dog showed up and took out most of the crew like a pro. Bates said they’re keeping it quiet.”
“A professional?”
“Current theory is he’s asicario. Maybe hired by a rival. No one knows who. But it’s not in the reports.”
“Come on. Even I don’t buy that.”
“It won’t matter for much longer.”
