It was my second week as chief-of-staff for Florida governor Conn LeSanta, and things were not great. As I typed up the daily briefing, I reminded myself of my mentor's advice.

“The man is abhorrent, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," he'd said. “He has presidential ambitions, you can get on the rocket ship!"

Would my soul ever recover, though?

An aide rushed in, skinny shoulders swimming in his dad's suit. "Mr. Kimble, the jet to take the Governor to D.C. is gassed up and ready to fly."

I tabbed through the Governor's schedule. On tap for today was a quiet day of golfing and using executive power to manipulate the stock market, or so I thought.

The aide slammed my laptop shut. "It's time to get going."

I was taken aback, but the guy's face was confident, determined. I'd been on the job for less than two weeks, and I didn't want to fuck up. I followed the aide into the Governor's office.

"Sir, we need to leave for D.C. immediately."

LeSanta looked confused. 

I infused my voice with a confidence I didn't feel. "The car is waiting to take us to the private jet, sir."

LeSanta gave me a quick nod, then marched out the door.

I watched as my boss strode out of his office, down the hallway to the elevator, and into the waiting car. He had done what he always did when he was faced with conflict, confusion, or indecision. He pulled the oldest trick in the political book: just run away.

The aide gave me a disdainful look and motioned for me to follow him. 

As I got into the car, my heart pounded harder than it had when facing down the Governor's angry ex-wife. The car lurched into motion.

I closed my eyes a moment to clear my mind. But my vision remained blurry. Panic set in, but I climbed into the body of the C-32. The governor closed his eyes and was asleep immediately--oh, to have the blissful conscience of the inherently evil. 

We took off, and my eyes watered as the cabin pressure increased. I drank in the quiet stretches of blue sky. My mind worked on a strategy to ensure my success in the next several months. Success was easy. Moral clarity, less so.

I leaned back in my seat and tried to drift off, but intrusive thoughts circled my brain. Why were the Governor and I the only passengers on this plane? Why wasn't this trip on the official schedule?

Over the next few hours, I tried everything: reliving the best moments I'd ever had at work, naming off the restaurants I would go to when we got to D.C., listening to music and shutting my eyes. But I felt as though we were only halfway there. 

I must have drifted off, to wake up with a jolt. The plane was shaking. 

I leaned toward window and looked out, expecting to see the Eastern seaboard laid out below in blocks of tan and gray, but all I saw was the blue of the ocean like a horizon-to-horizon carpet.

I ran to the pilot's compartment and banged the door. "Mr. McAdams, what the hell is going on? The world is below us, and I have a bad feeling."

He did not answer. I banged again. "Are we off course? What's happening?"

Then I heard the pilot's voice in my ear, calm.

"Mr. McAdams here. We're all right, Mr. Kimble."

"Where are you taking us?" I screamed.

"Don't worry about that," McAdams laughed, then cut the speaker.

I paced up and down the aisle. LeSanta had stirred briefly while I screamed at the pilot, but his chin rested on his chest as he softly snored.

Okay, so the pilot was taking us somewhere. I should wake up the governor, but I couldn't deal with his panic on top of my own. 

I took a shaky breath and ran to my seat, turned back toward the window, and watched as the atmosphere of the planet thinned out like water in a boiling pot.

As the plane soared higher and higher, I found myself overcome with a sense of peace and tranquility. Though my instincts were screaming at me to be alarmed, I couldn't bring myself to worry. Though I didn't know where we were going or what the future would hold, I felt confident that everything would work out.

The plane began to descend through the clouds and I rushed to the window. Lush, green jungle spread out below. Were we headed to some unknown city? What would happen to the Governor?

Whatever punishment they had planned, would I be dragged in, too?

We descended until we were nearly brushing the treetops with the belly of the plane, and LeSanta finally woke. He stretched. "We about to land in D.C.?"

Tongue-tied, I kept looking out the window. There was no city ahead. Was the pilot planning to crash land us in the jungle?

A dirt airstrip appeared ahead of us, hacked into the jungle. Definitely not regulation. The plane dropped like a stone and rumbled over the rutted ground.

"What the hell is going on, Kimble?"

"I have no idea, sir."

The plane was still, and the pilot's compartment opened. The man emerged, pointing a handgun toward us. "Out!" he ordered.

The Governor looked as stupefied as I felt. "Where are you taking us?" he demanded.

The man hesitated, then steadied the gun. "I'm not taking you. I'm leaving you." He pulled a lever and the cockpit door opened. "Out."

LeSanta held his arms out in a pacifying gesture. "Come on now, you can't be serious."

"You don't want to test me, Governor."

A charismatic man, the Governor thought he could charm his way out of any situation. It worked most of the time, but I had a feeling it would get us nowhere here.

"Please, McAdams," I said. "At least tell us where you're leaving us."

"We're on the bank of the Rio Caroní. Northeastern Venezuela. Now, move."

LeSanta looked at me as if I would have an answer. I shrugged--my finest hour of political strategy.

"Who are you?" the Governor asked.

"I have no interest in telling you that," McAdams said. "My orders are only to leave you here."

The Governor and I climbed out of the plane at gunpoint. We stood at the edge of the runway as the plane taxied then took off into the sky, disappearing and leaving us alone in the jungle in our suits and ties.

"At least he left us with some food and water," I said, opening the duffle bag the pilot had thrown down as an afterthought. I handed the Governor a protein bar.

LeSanta studied the dark strip of dirt in front of us. "We'll figure this out, Kimble. I’ve been in worse situations."

"We need to get moving," I said. "Still three hours until dark. We can rest tonight, gather our bearings in the morning, and hope to get noticed then."

"Hope someone will notice us?" the Governor asked. "We're stuffed in a jungle halfway across the planet with not a thing to our names but the suits on our backs."

LeSanta unzipped his jacket and hung it from a branch. Then he wasted no time in removing his tie. "I'm sweating like a pig in a sauna. It'll be nice to let it out." He took off his pants and blazer, leaving him in his shirt, undershirt and boxer shorts.

I rummaged through the duffle bag, finding an old-fashioned map and compass, a torch and seven packs of cigarettes. McAdams had also left us some liquor and aspirin.

"Guess the guy wanted to compensate for the rough landing," LeSanta said, opening the packets of cigarettes like a kid in a candy factory. "I'm glad he left us those. It'll be nice to have a few moments' calm." He leaned back against the plane, lighting a cigarette, then held it to me. "You want some? Stress reliever."

"I don't smoke," I said. "Sir, we need to find a place to spend the night.”

"Someone will be here to airlift us out before you know it, kid. Sit down, relax, have a smoke."

"Sir--everyone in Florida thinks we flew to D.C. It might be several days before they miss us."

The Governor's eyes narrowed. "How exactly did we get into this mess, anyhow?"

"The aide, he said we had to get on the plane. Nothing was on the schedule, but I thought he had access to a schedule I didn't. Sir." I looked down at my feet. Well, I'd definitely screwed up this Chief of Staff job. "But why would anyone want to drop the Governor of Florida alone in the Venezuelan jungle?"

He exhaled smoke. "Keep owning your mistakes, kid."

If he wasn’t going to find shelter, I would. I walked away, muttering, "Human-rights violating motherfucker gets kidnapped and blames me..."