In the upscale, sun-drenched streets of Beverly Hills, Los Angeles, Thomas, after a quiet dinner, ascended the spiral staircase to pack his luggage. The soft clatter of his footsteps echoed through the lavish hallway, hinting at the opulence surrounding him.
Victoria, his girlfriend, trailed behind, her eyes tracing Thomas as he located his suitcase and strode into the spacious cloakroom. The air was thick with unspoken tension as she ventured, "You hardly ever take a break, Thomas. Why don't we escape to the Caribbean? Just imagine it."
With a flourish, she unveiled a meticulously planned itinerary from a polished cabinet. "Look at this," she said, her voice tinged with excitement. "From Nassau to Puerto Rico, it's a journey through paradise."
Thomas, methodically folding his clothes, responded without looking up, "I thought I mentioned, we're headed to Washington for our vacation."
"Washington?" Victoria's voice bristled with disappointment. "What's in Washington but cold monuments and stuffy museums? The Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, Capitol Hill... they hold no charm for me!"
Thomas paused, his hands lingering over a neatly folded shirt. "It's the Independence Day celebration at the White House. It's a rare opportunity, Victoria."
Her tone turned accusatory. "This is about Martin, isn't it?"
Thomas, touching his balding forehead, a sign of his stress, replied, "Martin's about to be honored with the Presidential Medal of Freedom. It's a big deal."
"But he's the one receiving the honor, not you!" Victoria's frustration was palpable. "Can't you put us first, just this once?"
Thomas sighed, a hint of concession in his voice. "Next time, I promise."
However, his words only fueled Victoria's anger. "Go then! Chase after your Martin! See if he'll keep you warm at night!"
Thomas, now visibly upset, pointed sternly towards the door. "That's enough, Victoria! You should leave!"
Victoria, her voice quivering, asked, "Are you telling me to go?"
Thomas, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself, said firmly, "This ends here."
Regret and realization dawned on him simultaneously. He should have ended things after the last tumultuous incident, not prolonged this doomed relationship.
"No, it's over," Thomas declared, a strange sense of liberation washing over him. "We're done, Victoria. You should move out."
Victoria, wordless and seething, began packing her belongings in a hurry.
Thomas watched, his gaze icy and distant, pondering the sacrifices he had made for this relationship. The parties he missed, the opportunities he declined, all for a love that proved to be hollow.
As Victoria descended the stairs, her bag in tow, Thomas followed at a distance.
"Don't come crawling back!" she spat, her middle finger raised in defiance. "You'll regret this!"
Thomas, momentarily softened, caught his reflection in the mirror, his balding head, a testament to his stressful life. He bit back his words.
Outside, the roar of Victoria's car starting up broke the night's silence. She drove off, her angry shouts fading into the distance, leaving Thomas alone with his thoughts.
Neighbors peeked out from their homes, drawn by the commotion.
Thomas, his mind swirling with emotions, vowed to focus on himself. Perhaps, he thought, a night of simple pleasures was far better than the complexities of love.
Once again, Martin found himself in Washington, this time greeted by a familiar face, Benjamin, a Secret Service agent with a solemn demeanor.
As their car glided smoothly over the Potomac River, turning onto the iconic Pennsylvania Avenue, they approached the grand Hilton Hotel, its facade gleaming in the soft light of dusk.
Before disembarking, Benjamin leaned in, his voice a mixture of formality and secrecy. "Mr. Davis, I'll be here at 8 AM on July 4th to escort you to the celebration. Until then, you're free to explore the city."
Martin extended his hand in gratitude, receiving a firm handshake in return. Benjamin discreetly handed him a business card, his tone shifting to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "Sir, it's my duty," he murmured, then, with unexpected fervor, he added, "Long live the Coca-Cola Cult!"
Martin, momentarily taken aback, managed a nod. "You're a member of this Coke Cult?"
Without warning, Benjamin began to disrobe, causing Bruce to instinctively reach into his pocket, alert for any threat. But Benjamin merely unbuttoned his black jacket and white shirt, revealing a red shirt emblazoned with a symbol beneath. "Eternal Coke God! Eternal Coke God of War!" he declared with solemnity.
Martin, realizing the extent of his following, even among the ranks of the Secret Service, acknowledged Benjamin's dedication. "Ben, you've done well," he said with a nod of respect.
He winked at Bruce, who promptly handed Benjamin a business card. "If you need anything, call this number," Bruce instructed.
"Yes, leader," Benjamin responded dutifully.
As Martin prepared to exit the car, Benjamin added, "Many brothers in the Secret Service have joined the Coke Cult. They're eager to meet their leader."
Martin pondered briefly before replying, "Arrange an introduction if the time is right."
Benjamin's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Yes, leader. I'll find the perfect moment."
Bruce observed the agent, noting his earnest demeanor. This wasn't an act. The Coca-Cola Cult had indeed infiltrated the Secret Service and even the White House.
Benjamin escorted Martin and Bruce into the Hilton Hotel, handling the suite key exchange before departing with a few parting words.
Martin and Bruce, now alone, proceeded to their suite, the same one they had occupied on their last visit. Bruce meticulously inspected the rooms with equipment he'd brought along, ensuring their safety.
Back in Los Angeles, their two bodyguards, previously stationed as doormen at Martin's home, had also arrived, staying nearby.
Martin voiced his hope for a peaceful stay this time, unlike their last ordeal. Bruce, peering out the window, agreed, "Those people were too extreme last time..."
"They dared to target me, but not Harvey Weinstein," Martin mused, referring to the notorious reporter team from the News of the World, who had faced FBI action and Russian spy accusations.
"Any movement against Harvey from the News of the World?" Martin inquired.
Bruce, who had been keeping tabs, speculated, "They might be gathering evidence, or perhaps they already have it. But launching a story against Harvey is complex."
Martin expressed a dark wish to eliminate Harvey, to which Bruce realistically replied, "It's a challenging task, perhaps impossible for us alone."
Martin accepted this, suggesting they wait for the right opportunity. He then reflected on the unexpected revelation of the Coke Cult's infiltration into the Secret Service and the White House.
Bruce shared his astonishment, noting the cult's evident admiration or even worship of Martin as their leader.
Martin, with a hint of humor, lamented, "Too bad the Coca-Cola Cult is just a loosely organized group."
In the dimly lit, cozy corner of a Starbucks in Washington, Bruce listened with a mixture of amusement and skepticism as Martin, slightly inebriated, mused aloud. "Capture the White House and dissolve the United States Federation?" Bruce chuckled at Martin's wild idea. "That's a task for an army of beautiful women, isn't it?"
Riding the wave of absurdity, Martin added, "Maybe we can get the Coca-Cola Company to ramp up promotions for the Coke Cult in Washington. Draw in more young folks from the departments."
Pausing, he then pondered more seriously, "Even if it's far-fetched, having allies in high places could be useful in a pinch. Someone might just step up for us."
Bruce, considering this, mentioned, "Thomas should be in on this kind of thing. Speaking of which, he just broke up with his girlfriend."
Martin's laughter rang out in the quiet café. "When he's back in Washington, we'll have to celebrate his return to bachelorhood. Seems like being single and bald has only made him stronger."
Their conversation was interrupted by Martin's phone. Glancing at the screen, he answered, "Hey, Neves, I'm in town. What's up, planning a welcome party?"
Neves, from the FBI, responded from the other end, "I'm headed to the Hilton Hotel. Fancy a chat?"
"Let's meet at the coffee shop next door," Martin suggested.
"Sounds good," Neves agreed.
Martin and Bruce made their way downstairs, finding Neves seated in a secluded corner of the café. He waved them over.
Martin, approaching briskly, greeted Neves with a smile. "Congrats on the promotion, old friend."
Neves, with a hint of gratitude, replied, "I have you to thank for that."
Martin, ever the casual conversationalist, waved off the formality. "No need for thanks between us."
Neves, his expression lightening, shared, "Without those Russian spies, I wouldn't be sitting here as assistant director."
Martin knew there were untold stories behind Neves's ascent, likely involving high-profile endorsements, but he didn't press.
Changing the subject, Martin inquired about the film adaptation project they'd discussed earlier. Neves, considering his response, advised, "It's too soon for an adaptation. Best to wait a few more years."
Martin nodded in agreement.
Neves continued, revealing some internal dynamics at the FBI. "I have rivals, and the promotion has blocked their paths. It's a delicate balance."
Martin, sensing the underlying caution, asked, "This won't cause any trouble for me, will it?"
Neves reassured him, "Not trouble per se, but keep in mind they might try to dim your spotlight as an American hero. Just make sure you're on the right side of the law, and the White House won't interfere."
"So, I should keep a low profile in Washington?" Martin queried.
"It's not about being low-key, but being cautious," Neves advised. "Remember, we're the FBI, masters of laying traps."
Martin acknowledged the advice with a nod. "I'll be careful. And if there's any trouble, you'll be my first call."
Neves concluded with a final piece of advice, "Just don't give them any reason to come after you."