The Flyover War: The Chase for the Story

     "Are you sure you heard the entire conversation?" John Tucker Brown, who called himself Tuck, pulled the wire-framed glasses from his face and exhaled on the lenses. Tuck wiped the lenses with a microfiber cloth and looked up at the burly man standing in front of his desk.
      "I might have missed the first few seconds when he was telling her who he was, but you’ve got what matters in your hand, all the way to the 'oh shit' when he saw me and dropped the phone."
      Tuck looked at the computer printout for the third time in as many minutes.
      Something related to the election. People will die, perhaps thousands – no, not on this telephone – on any telephone – oh, shit.
      "You are sure he was talking to this reporter? Tobi Monahan?" Tuck asked.
      "The number he called is her private cell phone. It could have been a secretary or assistant, but I don't think so. It's definitely a cell, not part of the YBN exchange, and Monahan's company issued cell has a different prefix."
      Tuck studied the man in front of him as he pondered his next question. The goon had bloated facial features, scarred with pock-marks and old lacerations above his eyes and on his cheekbones. Probably a boxer at one time, Tuck thought. A muscle-to-mentality ratio of maybe six to one. With red veins streaking across skin stretched over a nose that resembled a rotten tangerine, the guy had found a lot of 80-proof solace in his lifetime.
      "Tell me about the email again." Tuck waved the printout. "If Monahan didn't hear any more than this, why didn't you leave it the hell alone?"
      The goon shrugged.
      "It was your idea, wasn't it?"
      "Yeah, but –"
      Tuck slammed the paper on his desk. "But what?"
      "I guess I didn't think of that until later. I just saw her number on the phone and decided to scare her off."
      "Scare her off? I think you sent her a formal invitation." Tuck stood, his palms on the desk, and leaned toward the hulking man in front of him. The goon was large, but even leaning down, Tuck's eyes were an inch higher. "Get the hell out of here. Disappear for at least a month."
      The goon spun and strode to the door. Tuck picked up his phone, and when a man responded on the end of the connection, Tuck spoke. "Clean it up."