Ameristocracy

Ameristocracy By Paul Moxham Copyright © 2012 Paul Moxham Published at Smashwords Contact Author: Website: Check Out My Other Books Twitter: Check Out My Twitter Page Email: [email protected] Like story? Love it? Please leave a review… Feel free to contact me as well. I love to hear thoughts from my readers When a conspiracy theorist cop stumbles upon the secret society responsible for the assassinations of Lincoln and Kennedy, he becomes convinced that they now have the newly elected President squarely in their crosshairs. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Prologue Baltimore, Maryland, 1865 As the sun slowly sets over the fields of Baltimore, a number of men of great power and influence are congregating in a private library. The walls are lined with hardbound texts while leather-appointed seats cover the floor space. One such man, a middle aged man with a bushy beard, commands all attention as he struts back and forth in his sharp suit, his thumbs hooked into his vest. “Gentlemen, we all agree our nation has been led astray. This usurper has turned our guns against our own and threatens to transform an inferior class of citizenry into full-fledged Americans. The bloodline of the Ameristocracy has for a century reigned over this great nation, but with his actions, this man threatens to steal our divine right to lead.” He pauses as hurumphs and um-hmms are heard from the assembled men. He then continues. “So by the power of our sacred order, I hereby enter a motion that we eliminate this man.” He glances around the room. No one answers aloud. Instead, each man puts a single hand upon their knee, tapping identical gold rings as their response. Rings with a symbol that looks like it’s part flag, part crown emblazoned upon them. The decision is unanimous. The leader nods. “Good. I have taken the liberty of enlisting a man of uncompromised vitriol to do our bidding.... Mr. John Wilkes Booth.” He motions to the rear of the room and the assembled men shift in their seat to see John Booth, standing hat-in-hand, eyes lowered in reverence to the men before him. A few nights later in the Ford theatre, Booth barricades a doorway behind him. He casts his eyes upon the entry to the presidential box. It’s unguarded. He leans back against the wall. Sweat beads along his hairline and his breath quickens. A trembling hand unbuttons his jacket and reaches inside. Eyes closed, Booth listens to faint sounds of the play in progress - an actor waiting for his cue.

Nearby, in the presidential box, President Lincoln, his wife Mary, and guests Henry Rathbone and Clara Harris chuckle in good humor as they watch a performance of Our American Cousin. On the stage, an actor speaks his line. “Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal; you sockdologizing old man-trap!” The crowd erupts in laughter as Booth rushes into the balcony, eyes wide as he produces a pistol. He fires a shot through Lincoln’s head! Lincoln slumps in his rocking chair and Rathbone bounds over to stop Booth, the commotion quickly evolving into panic and screaming that fill the theatre… Baltimore, Maryland, 1963 The same study. Same furniture. Same sacred texts on the shelves. But a different set of men. The attire is still impressive, the demeanor still stern, as a new leader speaks to his compatriots. “Gentlemen, we have long stood in the background, wielding power and control as is our divine right through blood, but just as what happened a century ago, our control is being threatened by a man fearful of military entanglements, swayed by his brother to acquiesce to the wishes of the an inferior race and class. The time has come, gentlemen, to do the deed again. I hereby enter the motion.” The men tap their rings, the exact same rings that counted votes a hundred years before, on their knees. The new leader nods. “So we are decided.” A few days later, in downtown Texas, President Kennedy’s motorcade rolls through the streets. In an upstairs room of a nearby building, a gun-wielding Lee Harvey Oswald, leans out of a window. He waits as the motorcade rolls past, then he squeezes the trigger… Blam! Panic ensues. Screaming. Running. Chaos...

Chapter 1 Washington D.C, Present Day Riiiinnnggg! The blare of an alarm hits a liquor store. Strobe lights flicker. An angry shopkeeper stands in the doorway, clutching a handgun. “Thief!” He turns and sees a D.C. Police Cruiser round the corner, red-and-blue lights flashing, siren whooping. The shopkeeper hides his handgun behind his back and hooks a finger down the street. “He went that way.” The cruiser continues down the alleyway where, covered in head-to-toe in black - jeans, hoodie, even sneakers - the thief scrambles down an alley. He crashes into a row of trash cans, barely able to keep on his feet. He doesn’t even look back as the police cruiser rolls up behind him. Behind the wheel is Officer Maggie Templeton. She’s good looking, 30’s, and sweet but strong. In the passenger seat is the handsome but high-strung Jack Mitchell, thirty seven, a mop of brown hair covering his head. Before the cruiser even comes to a stop, Jack throws open the door and jumps out to give chase. Maggie yells out. “Mitchell, wait!” But Jack’s long gone as he chases the thief down the alleyway, barreling through the same set of trash cans as he goes. Like the thief, Jack almost loses his footing, but he manages to stay up. When he looks up again, the thief is throwing something back at him. Jack braces as a shoe hits him in the face. When he realizes what it is, it just seems to make him madder. Now he really jumps into action. “Freeze!” Jack lurches forward, jumps up and grabs the bottom rung of a fire escape ladder. His momentum propels him forward as he swings off the ladder and onto a dumpster. He takes two quick steps across the black plastic lids, then launches himself in the air, flying high, arms spread. He crashes down atop the thief, the two of them sprawling across the pavement. The thief tries to run, but Jack overpowers him, pulling him to his feet and spinning him around. Jack’s jaw drops as he sees the thief’s face. Wide-eyed, frightened. Still got baby fat on his cheeks. The thief is twelve years old, thirteen at the most. The thief glances down at the stolen goods in his hands. Jack follows his gaze and sees a Snickers bar. Jack can’t believe it. His grip on the thief’s elbow slips and the thief takes off running again.

Jack looks up, shaking off the surprise of the moment just in time to see the thief crash into Maggie, who has driven around to the other side of the alley. The thief squirms, but Maggie quickly spins him around and reaches for her cuffs. “Okay, okay. Just settle down there. You have the right to remain silent...” Jack walks up, still a little dazed by what has transpired. Maggie’s slaps the cuffs on the thief as Jack reaches forward and grabs her by the wrist, stopping her. Maggie glances down at Jack’s hand on her wrist and even smiles a second before asking: “What?” Jack unlocks the cuffs. He looks at the kid. “Go on, get out of here.” The thief shuffles away. “Hey, kid!” The frightened child stops at the corner. “Stay away from Snickers. Mars Corporation spends millions bribing politicians to keep quiet about illegal workers and unsafe products. You want an honest, American candy bar, stick with Hershey.” The confused thief scurries around the corner as Maggie gives Jack a look mixed with curiosity and respect. She heads for the car door. “You coming?” “Where’re we going?” asks Jack “If we’re not making busts, we may as well take some target practice,” she replies, smiling. There’s Guinness on tap and rock ‘n roll on the jukebox at the Irish pub as Jack and Maggie shoot darts in the back. Swoosh... A dart flies through the air and hits double-20. Maggie pumps her fist in victory. “That’s another finsky you owe me.” “Put it on my tab,” answers Jack. Maggie gives Jack a playful punch to the arm. He shoots her a look, she returns a smile. A little too flirtatious for partners but hey, the beer’s flowing, and these two are clearly close. “Okay,” grins Maggie, “you want your money back? We’ll go double-or-nothing.” “You’re on, Templeton,” smiles Jack. He walks up to the dartboard and collects the darts. Then walks back and hands Maggie’s darts to her. He stops to sip his beer, but Maggie knocks her hip into his, nudging him to the line. “You go first.” Jack puts his beer down and steps up to the line. He lines up his shot as Maggie yells out. “Don’t choke!” The dart flies and misses wide as it hits the corkboard. Jack spins on Maggie and shoots her a glare. “Oh, so that’s how you’re gonna win? Shouting in my ear?” Maggie grins. “If you can’t stand the pressure, big boy, maybe you shouldn’t be playing.” Jack shakes off Maggie’s playful grin and turns back to the board. This time he fires off a dart that hits pretty darn close to the bull's-eye. “Huh? How’s that now?” “Not bad for a mama’s boy.” “Okay, make your jokes while you can. That’s temporary.” Maggie walks around behind Jack, moving a little too close. “Relax, Mitchell. Now, you gonna throw your third dart or what?” Jack rears back and fires. Another good shot. “Nice,” comments Maggie. She smacks Jack on the back as he walks toward the board to collect his darts. When he turns back around, Maggie’s already aiming for the board. She lets the dart fly. Jack ducks just in time... The dart whizzes past his head and lands squarely on 19. Jack rises back up, eyes bulging in disbelief as Maggie steps forward and whispers in Jack’s ear. “Too close for comfort?” Maggie backs up to line up her next shot and Jack scrambles out of the way. He shuffles to the nearby table and picks up his beer. But as he lifts the bottle to his lips, his eyes are drawn to the television mounted in the corner. It is showing file footage of two powerful and well-dressed men walking across the White House Rose Garden. One is Chief of Staff Peter Phelps, 50s, wearing his salt-and-pepper temples like a badge of honor and a $5000 suit as though he was born in it. The other is Vice President-Elect James Hawkins, late 40s, strong and powerful, moving with an easy gait and waving to the camera.

The news reporter speaks as the footage is shown. “White House Chief of Staff Peter Phelps has been asked to stay on in that prestigious position, a choice many credit to the influence of Vice President-Elect Hawkins, a longtime friend of the powerful Washington insider.” Footage of President-Elect Ben Lombard, 60s, as he rallies outside a factory with picketing union workers is shown as the reporter continues speaking. “Pundits suggest the choice clashes with the reform message of Lombard, whose surprise victory in the fall came with promises to take on the Washington establishment and powerful business interests. Many see the continuation of Phelps’s service as Lombard’s bipartisan attempt to ease the transition as the incoming president hopes to pass his famous Renewed Society program, a series of reforms likely to shake up all areas of domestic policy, ranging from healthcare to energy.” Footage of the rotund, balding Speaker of the House, Andrew Baxter, 50s, is shown as he speaks on the floor of Congress as the reporter continues. “The program’s staunchest opponent, Speaker of the House Andrew Baxter, carries only a slim majority in his house and may have trouble halting the president’s growing momentum. The coming Inauguration promises to provide a great deal of drama on Capitol Hill.” The reporter concludes speaking and switches to another topic as Jack sits down at a nearby table and shakes his head. “Big things happening in the world. Huge.” Maggie lets a dart fly. “Oh, here we go again...” Jack takes no notice of her. “False flag attacks and unjustified wars. Big Pharma and Oil companies running the show for God knows how long. Now we just have to wait and see if this new hero is gonna be just like the others. Government, of, by and for whom? Sure as hell not the people!” Maggie looks over at the bartender, who rolls her eyes at Jack’s rant. “The whole country is getting robbed blind and we’re not doing a damn thing about it. Just busting kids with candy bars,” concludes Jack. “What? Not the kind of ‘protect and serve’ you had in mind?” “It’s enough to drive a cop nuts. Might explain my father.” Maggie perks up, and her interest draws her to the table. She sits down. “You must have heard stories,” continues Jake. “But you never asked.” Maggie nods. “Figured it wasn’t my place. Maybe you’d talk when you wanted to.” Jack shrugs. “Not much to tell, really. A few years back, he just left. No explanation, no promise to return. Just packed up and moved out to a house in Virginia. And he won’t return calls or answer letters. I just don’t get it.” “Always looking to resolve people’s hidden natures, huh?” smiles Maggie. “When you don’t understand the people closest to you, it makes it hard to trust anybody, you know?” “Do you trust me?” Jack looks up. He fights off a small smile, then downs the rest of his beer and stands. “Not when you got a dart in your hand.”

Chapter 2 That evening, Jack huddles behind a computer in his bedroom, reading a blog entitled: The Truth Revealed. All around him in the room are newspaper clippings and bumpers stickers held to walls and corkboards by thumbtacks. His conspiracy theories are laid out concisely by phrases like: 9/11 Was An Inside Job, Just Because You’re Paranoid Doesn’t Mean They Aren’t Out To Get You, Who Is Spying On Who? “I’m leaving,” calls out a voice. Jack glances over his shoulder and sees his mother Nancy, 60s, standing in the doorway. She’s putting on earrings and looking rather stunning in an evening gown. Jack shifts uncomfortably. “Shouldn’t you wear your wedding ring? I mean, you’re still married, right?” “That would make for a pretty awkward first date.” Jack gives her a judgmental look and she shoots him a glare.

“What? You want me to sit around the house like an old maid? When your father left…” Jack stands abruptly to retort. Nancy glances at her watch. She doesn’t have time to fight a fight they’ve clearly had before. “I’ve got to go. Just tell me I look good, okay?” Jack sighs, calms down. “You look great, Mom.” Nancy starts to turn away, then stops, and turns back to her son. “Oh Jack...” She digs into her purse and pulls out a scuffed envelope. “This came from Charles.” She tosses the envelope to Jack. It sails through the air and lands at his feet. The return address reads: United States Secret Service. Jack looks at the seal, a slight snarl appearing on his lips. “Secret Service.” “Go on, open it,” requests Nancy. Jack reluctantly opens the envelope and pulls out its contents. It’s an official invitation to the Presidential Inaugural Ball. He mutters. “Sure, rub it in...” When Jack looks up, his mother is already disappearing down the hallway. “Don’t forget to thank him.” Celebratory lights sparkle against the falling snow, making the White House look even more amazing than usual. It’s a black tie affair inside one of the many ballrooms. Dignitaries in tuxes, trophy wives in sequined dresses. Everyone goes silent as the Chief of Staff Peter Phelps makes an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, the President-Elect of the United States... Benjamin Lombard!” Everyone applauds politely as they watch Lombard, dashing and commanding in his perfectlytailored tuxedo, make his way through the room, shaking hands vigorously. Across the room, Jack stands alone in the corner, watching the President-Elect and Chief of Staff from afar as he sips a light beer. “What are you, a tea-totaler?” calls out a voice. Jack spins around, grinning as he sees old friend Charles Long, thirty six, clean shaven and dressed impeccably in a black suit. They embrace. “Gotta keep my wits about me in this den of wolves,” answers Jack. Charles grins. “Same old Jack.” “Thanks for the invite, Charles. This is... Amazing. I still can’t believe you got this gig.” “Yeah, the six years of background checks paid off. C’mon, let me show you around.” Charles leads the way around various hallways till they come to a balcony and from where they can see the fabled White House Rose Garden. “This is bad-ass, right? Totally bad-ass,” asks Charles. “Well, better than being a DC beat cop, I’ll tell you that much,” says Jack. What? Are you sore I moved and stuck you partnering with some newbie?” A tiny hint of smile registers on Jack’s face. He covers quickly, but not before Charles notices. “What?” “What?” “What was that?” “Nothing.” “It’s a girl! Your new partner is a girl and you…” “No, I don’t!” Jack tries desperately to change the subject. “Hey, I’m proud of you, Charles. I really am. You’ve come a long way from DC Metro. Not exactly busting kids for stealing candy bars.” “If you don’t like humping it on the streets, take the detective’s exam again. Get yourself a cheap suit and a notepad, do some real good.” Jack shakes his head. “That isn’t gonna happen.” “Don’t give up. Your dad…” Jack looks at Charles. “Don’t.” Charles continues. “Had to take the exam three times to pass it, but he did. And you know what? He was the best detective on the force.” “Was being the operative word,” says Jake. “If he was so great, if being a cop was so great, why did he walk away? Legendary detective Spencer Mitchell up and quits just like that.”

“What’s with this mope-around attitude?” asks Charles. “I mean, you always thought you were the boss, even when I was the senior officer. Figured you’d be the one in the suit and I’d be the one wearing out my shoe leather.” “It didn’t work out that way. Nothing works out the way it’s supposed to.” Charles leans back and cocks his head as he keeps eye contact with his old friend. Nothing spoken for a few seconds, then Jack settles down. “Look, I’m sorry, Charles. It’s not your fault.” “No, it’s not,” says Charles, gazing down at the roses. “I just wish things were different.” “See? Maybe you and your dad are a lot more alike than you realize.” At the mention of his dad, Jack rolls his eyes. Charles laughs. “Ah, contempt. Very nice.” “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” “No? Then what do you want to do?” Jack motions toward a room in the distance, the Oval Office. “A tour, buddy.” “You got it.” Charles leads the way into the hallway and Jack follows. The two of them move quickly, Charles’ eyes darting toward everyone he sees. “Come on. Just a peek,” pleads Jack. “Dude, no. Oval Office? They’d can me in a heartbeat.” “Aw, and take away your black sunglasses and Illuminati ID badge?” “You know, I’d be insulted by that if I didn’t think you were serious.” “You want to play big shot, right? That’s why you invited me here? But you can’t even get me through the big door.” Charles looks at him. “You think it’s that easy to goad me into doing something I shouldn’t?” Jack grins. “Two words: Julie Stevenson.” “Okay, okay. Times change, Jack. You know that.” “The more they change, the more they stay the same. Come on.” Jack nods toward the open door to the Oval Office. “A peek. That’s all.” Jack shuffles forward, hurrying to the famed office, but he is instantly cut of by Agent Antonio Mendez, thirty five, trim and stern. “Can I help you?” Charles looks at him. “It’s okay, Mendez. Just giving him a peek. He was my former partner on the job.” Mendez nods brusquely, and steps aside as Jack peers into the room. It’s empty, but it’s majestic. And, just like that, the peep show is over. Mendez steps in front of Charles, blocking his view. “Show’s over. Agent Long, if you…” “Thanks. We’re done here.” Charles grabs Jack by the crook of his elbow and pulls him away. “Satisfied?” Jack just turns to him and grins playfully. “Mm. What else you got?” Charles leads an excited Jack down another corridor. “If the bedroom’s empty, you can step inside. But just for a minute and then we’ve got to make tracks. I may be on the inside but don’t be fooled, these walls have eyes and ears. And this hallway’s restricted to outside guests.” Jack looks around, sees the countless framed paintings on the walls. All of them seemingly staring at him with their painted eyes.” “Uh-oh...” says Charles. Jack spins around, sees Charles tightening up. “My boss.” Charles throws open a door and shoves Jack into the bedroom. The door shuts quickly, leaving Jack in a nearly dark room, just a thin shaft of light coming from the window. Jack whips out a tiny light fastened onto the end of his key chain and shines it around the room. A single bed, fireplace, portraits and a bookcase. Hearing a noise from outside the room, he turns off the light and hurries forward, but he stumbles over his own feet and goes tumbling, reaching out desperately to catch his fall and avoid making a sound. He catches himself on the bookcase and settles. Then he hears a scraping noise. Jack spins, shines the flashlight and sees the fireplace swiveling around, revealing a hidden passageway beyond! “Holy...” cries out Jack. Suddenly, the doorknob rattles. Keys jangle on the other side as Charles’s muffled voice can be heard, trying to give Jack time. Then, the scraping noise again.

Jack spins back to the fireplace and sees it closing. As it does so, the door begins to open... Jack shuts off his flashlight and darts behind heavy curtains to hide. A man walks in just as the fireplace settles back into its normal state. Jack peers out from behind the curtains as the man marches over to the bookcase and starts the fireplace swivel again. The tiniest sliver of light glistens off the man’s cuff link, revealing a cryptic symbol. Jack gazes intently. It’s part flag, part crown, the bars of the flag stretching up to meet the stars as tips on the crown. The symbol of the Ameristocracy. And just like that, it’s gone, as the man disappears into the hidden corridor. Jack steps out from behind the curtain as the fireplace closes back up, the room restored to its original state. Jack stares at the fireplace for several long seconds, and then makes his move. He just can’t help himself. He marches over to the bookcase and reaches for it… “Jack!” calls out a voice. Jack stops short of the bookcase, turning to Charles, who has just stepped into the room. “We better get out of here. C’mon...” Charles pulls Jack out of the room but Jack can’t keep his eyes off the bookcase. That night, Jack, still dressed in the suit he wore to the White House, sits at his desk, scribbling on a piece of paper, trying to recreate the cryptic flag/crown symbol he saw so fleetingly. Soon, he turns to his computer and starts searching for answers. Hours pass by as Jack searches the depths of the net and follows countless of dead ends. But then he hits the jackpot. He comes across one particular site which seems promising and as he starts to instant message the site owner, he smiles as certain words jump out at him. They are secret tunnel, White House, and Ameristocracy.

Chapter 3 A car races down a downtown street, hitting the brakes as it passes a squad car parked next to a sign announcing the speed limit at 35 mph. Inside the police cruiser, Maggie aims the radar gun through the window. Jack’s in the passenger seat, scribbling on a notepad. “Here we go, here we go...” A car whizzes past. The radar gun registers... 42. Maggie looks disappointed. “Seven over. Not really worth the effort.” “You ever hear of the Ameristocracy?” asks Jack. Maggie doesn’t even look at him. She just stares out the window, waiting for a good speeder to chase. “That’s the barbershop quartet for senators, right?” Jack’s nervous scribblings increase in intensity just as his rant does. “Not exactly. They’re connected to the old families in England, think they’re royalty in America. They control major, unelected positions of power, positions that don’t answer to the people and give them great authority. Authority over even those that are elected.” Another car whizzes past, but slows when they see the cruiser. Red brake lights hit the windshield. The radar gun drops from 41 to 39 to 35 within seconds. Maggie shrugs. “I thought this whole theory was debunked. I saw this thing on 60 Minutes where…” “60 Minutes?” cries out Jack. “Corporate media, Maggie. They’re safe, complacent. They’re not going to blow the whistle. You won’t expose the powers that be when you are the powers that be.” Maggie grimly smiles. “I guess I should get my news from bloggers and internet hacks? Some schmoe tapping away at the keyboard in his basement, simultaneously obsessed with secret societies and celebrity gossip? No thanks.” Maggie lowers the radar gun, turns and sees the hurt in Jack’s eyes from that characterization. She throws her free hand apologetically. “Sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean to…” “This is different, okay?” breaks in Jack. “This source is for real. He predicted the Beltway Sniper’s last attack the day before it happened. I think he’s an insider.” Maggie furrows a brow, reconsidering.

“Look, every time the power structure is questioned, every time the people start to rise up and take back the government they pay for, groups like the Ameristocracy pop up and change things, make sure they keep the government in their grip. They did it with Lincoln and Kennedy.” Maggie looks over at the notepad in front of Jack, at the sketch he’s just put upon it. It’s the symbol from the man’s cuff link: the American flag morphing into a royal crown. Maggie stares at it for a second, and then looks back up through the windshield as a truck rumbles past. “Expired tags. Bingo.” She throws the cruiser into drive and whips out into the street, siren blaring and lights flashing. The notepad falls from Jack’s lap, landing in the floorboard. At the local police station, Police Chief Henry Wilcox, 50’s, shakes hands and says his goodbyes to a cadre of local politicians before moving toward the front entrance. He stops when he sees Jack walking toward his car, an old beater covered in conspiracy theory bumper stickers. He yells out. “Officer Mitchell!” Jack turns his direction and Wilcox moves toward him. “Yes, Chief?” Wilcox puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder, much as a father would do to a son he was worried about. “Any contact with your dad lately?” Jack shakes his head. “No, sir. We aren’t exactly in touch these days.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” replies Wilcox. “Everything else going alright?” “Well, actually, there’s something I’m working on.” “I hope it’s studying up for the detective’s exam.” “Not exactly,” says Jack. “Sir, what would you do if you thought a crime was going to be committed, or at least that you knew criminals were assembling where they shouldn’t be, but you had no proof and no one seemed to believe you?” Wilcox regards Jack curiously. “But you truly believe you’re onto something?” “Definitely,” nods Jack. “Hunches have long been credited as a part of police work. But the fact of the matter... I’m just offering up some advice to you here, one cop to another... is that hunches don’t close cases. If you got no evidence, then you got no case. Understand what I’m telling you?” Jack nods. “Good. If you ever need anything, just ask, okay?” “Okay, Chief.” “And if you have any luck getting through to your father, let me know. You’re not the only one who’s concerned about him.” Wilcox turns and heads back into the station. It’s dinnertime at Jack’s house. Nancy is working through her steak quickly, but Jack’s not eating a bite of his tofu and stir-fried vegetable dinner. “This is big,” muttered Jack. Nancy looks at him. “You’re not eating, Jack. I prepared that vegetarian meal just for you.” Jack doesn’t listen to her. “It’s enormous. A nefarious secret organization working out of the White House. This is so massive.” “You sound just like your father,” says Nancy. Jack glances up for the first time. “I can’t believe you said that.” “He was always so competitive. Had to be better than everyone else. What do you think that great big house in Virginia’s about? Ego. But Jack, please remember, Charles is your friend. He’s only looking out for you. And he’s trained to spot a threat like the one you’re describing…” “So am I!” yells Jack. Nancy continues. “So if he thought there was any real issue, you know he would deal with it. So before you start spreading these accusations around…” “I understand,” breaks in Jack. “I understand just fine. You think I’m crazy. Just like him.” Ding-dong. The doorbell sounds. Jack grins. “That should be Charles now...” He rushes out of the room and into the hallway. A few moments later, the two of them are in the living room. Charles stares at Jack. “You can’t be serious.”

“Come on, man,” pleads Jack. “You gotta get me back inside.” Charles shakes his head. “You really have gone off your nut.” “I need proof.” Charles looks at him. “Proof of what?” “Of what’s going on in there. That the Ameristocracy is operating out of the White House!” “Ameristocracy?” cries out Charles. “Just listen to you!” “Don’t play dumb. There’s a secret tunnel connected to that bedroom that leads…” “Where, Jack? Where would that secret tunnel supposedly lead?” “That’s exactly what we have to find out.” Charles shakes his head in disbelief. “You don’t know what they’re capable of,” pleads Jack. “Oh, and you do?” “No, but...” “But what?” “But someone should.” “Forget it, man. I’m not going to risk my job for your wild goose chase.” “Charles, listen to me. You think I’ve gone off my rocker, right?” Charles doesn’t answer. “So then why don’t you get proof? Proof that I’m nutty as a fruitcake. Get me inside again, let me see what’s what. I come up empty, I’ll sign the commitment papers right then and there.” Charles shakes his head. “Jesus, Jack, that’s not what I’m talking about. I just think you need a little help.” “I do need help. From a friend. What do you say?” Charles looks down into his glass. He’s not saying no. Jack can’t help but grin. “I knew I could count on you.”

Chapter 4 Back in the White House, in one of the many hallways, Jack and Charles round a corner and make their way towards the bedroom that Jack once hid inside. With a glance around to make sure they’re not being watched, Charles unlocks the door and they hustle inside. But the portraits on the wall seem to be watching. Soon, the sound of scraping wafts out from the bedroom. The entrance to the secret tunnel is being opened. Inside the tunnel is a honeycombing maze of rooms. They look like bunkers. Steel doors with heavy locks on them. Jack scurries toward a big room on the end, with Charles moving slowly behind. But Jack’s enthusiasm wains when he gets to the door and tries to turn the knob. Locked. He tries another. Same result. And another and another. Until... “Here we go,” says Jack. The door creaks open and Jack and Charles step into the underground room. It’s empty. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Nothing but space. No maps, no computers, no people doing devious things. Nothing. Jack stares. “Empty... Nothing here.” “What exactly were you expecting?” says Charles. “I don’t know,” mutters Jack. “Something. Anything.” Charles looks at him. “Look, Jack, I can’t say that I’m happy it came to this, but at some point you gotta face reality. This isn’t what you think it is.” But Jack isn’t listening. He’s scanning the room, noticing things. A clean square against an otherwise dusty wall. Lines coming out of phone jacks but leading nowhere. A few errant pens and pencils left unnoticed against the wall. “They cleaned it out.” “What?” “This used to be something but they cleaned it out. Look...” Jack marches over to the corner, staring at a little tiny discarded shred of paper. He picks it up to examine it. It’s a piece of a calendar, a date circled on it: January 29th. “What’s this?”

Charles snatches it out of his hand. “Looks like a calendar.” Then, sarcastically, “Damning evidence. Proof of a conspiracy.” “Yes!” cries out Jack. Charles’ jaw goes slack. “What?” “January 29.” “A week after Inauguration Day.” “Exactly! See? Why would that date be circled on a calendar?” “It’s the White House! There are events every day of the week. Lots of circles on calendars, you know?” Jack, steeped in thought, heads back out into the tunnel and rushes farther into the bowels of the White House. Charles appears in the hallway behind him. “Don’t go off the rails now, Jack. Just face the facts.” “That’s what I’m doing. And what you ought to be doing too.” “Okay. I think I’ve made my point. Whatever you think is down here, it’s not.” Jack takes a step back and stares at his old friend in disbelief. “What?” asks Charles. “Don’t look at me with suspicious eyes, Jack.” Jack can’t help it. He looks at everyone with suspicious eyes and right now he’s sizing up his old friend. “You’re pissing me off, you know that?” says Charles. Jack stares at him and then, without saying a word, turns and heads for the exit. He makes his way into one of the ballrooms where a ball is in full swing. He scrambles through one of the side doors and comes to a stop, breathless. His mind races. At the head table on a stage, President-Elect Lombard stands at the microphone. “With exceptional valor, Captain Phelps single-handedly held the position, preventing an enemy advance from retaking a crucial outpost for humanitarian aid.” Captain Frederic Phelps, twenty eight, son of Chief of Staff Phelps, stands at attention to the President-Elect’s side. His crisp dress uniform makes him look like a living toy soldier. Lombard continues speaking. “After taking the Oath of Office, it will be my privilege to present Captain Phelps with the Congressional Medal of Honor. If we’re to overcome the immense social and economic challenges we face, we’ll need heroes like Captain Phelps working in every area of our society.” Applause fills the room, but Captain Phelps’s piercing blue eyes never falter in their intense gaze. Lombard continues. “Finally, I’d like to thank President Stevenson for being incredibly gracious throughout this transition period.” Outgoing President Whitley Stevenson, 60s, raises a glass politely from the table. Lombard glances across at the various faces watching his every move. “And with that, everyone, please enjoy your evening.” More applause. Agent Mendez whispers to Lombard, and with a nod, they make their way off the stage. As they pass, Jack blurts out: “President Lombard, there’s something you should know!” Lombard stops, turns. Agent Mendez hurries over to Jack, but Lombard puts up a hand to stop him. He approaches Jack. “I’m not the president yet, you know.” He pumps Jack’s hand and Jack leans forward, trying not to say it too loud. “Sir, there is something going on here. Something important.” But Lombard just grins, a practiced look coming from years in the public spotlight. “There sure is, son. We’re bringing change to Washington and it’s about time.” Lombard gives a politician’s smile and casts an eye to the side, signaling. Jack shakes his head. “No, sir, you don’t understand. I’m a cop. Jack Mitchell, D.C.P.D…” Chief of Staff Phelps moves up next to Lombard, cutting Jack off with a smug smile. “The President-Elect thanks you for your support. You understand he’s very busy.” Lombard slips away, leaving Phelps to deal with Jack. “Wait!” calls out Jack. “I have to tell him about…” He pauses as he notices Phelps shake out his dinner jacket, strategically covering his cuff links. He hesitates, then resumes. “How hard his supporters worked during the campaign. We really believe in his message.” Phelps gives a phony smile. “He’ll certainly make history.”

Jack nods in agreement. He reads Phelps’s expression, searching, wondering who he can trust in this building. Finally, he takes his cue to turn and leave. Phelps watches him go, eyes lingering and smile fading. At home, Jack huddles in front of his computer. He’s on the same site as before and, as he receives another instant message from the site owner, several words stand out. They are: Too many questions, They’re already after you, Find D.W. Jack reads them out loud. He then picks up the phone and dials the station. Maggie answers a moment later. “Hello.” “Maggie, I need an address.” “Is this a case you are working on?” asks Maggie. Jack pauses, and then nods. “Yes. Yes, it is.” “What’s the name?” “Donald William,” replies Jack. “The CIA Director?” “Yes. I need you to get into the system and find his home address for me.” “What’s this all about? I’m busting my hump in here filling out paperwork that we should both be doing.” “Sorry, couldn’t make it in. Look, this is important. I need his home address.” Maggie types the name into a computer and waits for the results. “43 Palm Drive. In Georgetown.” Wilcox appears in the doorway, having heard that address. “Shouldn’t you be on patrol, Officer?” Maggie looks up. She quickly speaks into the phone. “Gotta go.” She hangs up, turns to Wilcox. “Paperwork, sir.” “Where’s Mitchell?” asks Wilcox. “Just called in sick. Flu bug.” Wilcox nods as he takes one last glance at the name and address on the screen in front of Maggie.

Chapter 5 As the moon rises in the sky, a taxi pulls to a stop on the street in front of a D.C. rowhouse and Jack climbs out, the vehicle speeding away. A pedestrian strides down the sidewalk. As he nears, Jack has to shield his eyes from the glare of passing headlights. Jack turns up a walkway toward the front door. He balls a fist to knock, but as soon as his knuckles make contact, the door creaks open. He pauses. Reaches for his gun, but thinks better of it. He knocks on the door again. “Hello?” No response. He slowly pushes the door the rest of the way open and walks inside. He makes his way down the hallway, but pauses in the office doorway as he spots a silhouette seated in the dark behind the desk. “Mr. William?” calls out Jack. Nothing. Conflicted, Jack flips the light switch. His jaw drops as he sees that the office is in shambles. Donald William is slumped in his chair, laboring for each breath, blood seeping from his nose and mouth. “Jesus,” cries out Jack. He hurries over to his aid, finding William’s shirt soaked in blood. “Can you talk? Who did this?” William tries to speak, but produces only gurgles and more blood. He opens his hands, dropping a bloody object right into Jack’s hands. A .38-caliber handgun. Jack lets it fall to the floor. He reaches for William’s wound and applies pressure, but William is fading fast. He wheezes a final breath and his frightened eyes grow still. Silence. Jack checks his pulse. He slumps to the ground as the gravity of the situation becomes very real. The gun sits on a pile of papers messily strewn over the floor. He spots some handwritten notes with the words Thomas Miller and Spencer Mitchell connected with a line. Jack mutters. “Dad?” As Jack searches for some bearing, he looks at William’s still, lifeless eyes. His gaze darts around the room around him. Distinct handprints. Footprints. Blood all over his hands and clothes.

Police sirens wail faintly in the distance, and a look of realization comes over his face. He knows a framing when he sees one. “Holy crap.” His eyes fall to the floor, where his fingerprints cover the murder weapon. Jack scrambles out of the rowhouse, stuffing the handgun into his jacket pocket and scurrying down the street. Red and blue lights flash down the street as the cruisers get closer. Jack races around the corner and finds himself in front of a row of parked cars outside a fancy restaurant where a political fundraiser is underway. A banner announcing the NOW-PAC hangs outside, while several dignitaries, political consultants and contributors wait to go inside. Jack scurries past the valet and pauses, trying to look nonchalant as a couple climbs out of a black limousine, the door being held by a stocky driver. The couple walks up the steps and Jack slides into the back of their limo as the driver closes the door, having never even noticed Jack’s sly maneuver. The driver climbs in, quite literally whistling ‘Dixie’, but stops somewhere in the ‘land of cotton’ when he glances into the rearview mirror and notices Jack. “Who the hell are you?” “It’s okay,” says Jack. “I’m a cop.” The driver looks him over. He sees a guy dressed in street clothes who has a wet substance that looks an awful lot like blood on his pants. “You don’t say,” says the driver, sarcastically. Jack flashes the .38. “Go... Now!” The driver throws the car in gear and screeches away. Well-dressed dignitaries and valets dive for cover as the limo lurches past them. Jack climbs over the divider into the front seat. The driver shoots daggers with his eyes as Jack asks him a question. “What’s your name?” “Mick,” answers the driver. “Listen to me, Mick. I’m going to need you to get out.” “Come on, this vehicle’s my livelihood. Don’t do this, man.” Jack looks sympathetic for half a second. Nonetheless, he needs the vehicle and he can’t take no for an answer. “You have business insurance?” “Sure. As a certified livery…” “Good. Then you’ll be covered. Now get out.” Mick doesn’t want to do, but he has no other choice. He stops the car and climbs out. As he leaves, Jack places the .38 on the passenger seat and sits behind the wheel. He burns rubber as the car heads back onto the road. As he drives, he has a tortured look in his eye. Contemplating, calculating. His foot comes off the gas. The speedometer dips. Then, Jack makes his choice. Turns the wheel to the right and hits the gas. The limo merges onto an adjacent highway, passing a sign reading: Welcome to the Commonwealth of Virginia Meanwhile, in the police garage, Maggie’s body sticks half-in, half-out of her squad car. She’s cleaning her car, stopping every now and then to check her watch. She mutters to herself. “C’mon, Jack, where are you?” She looks down and sees the notepad Jack dropped in the floorboard. It’s open to the page Jack had scribbled upon, still bearing that symbol of the Ameristocracy. She stares at it a second before hearing frantic footsteps behind her. She turns and sees several officers scrambling to their vehicles. “What’s going on?” The newly inaugurated President Lombard welcomes Chief of Staff Phelps into his office. “I want to thank you for sticking around, Peter. I know it isn’t easy working for the opposition party, but you’re doing a good service to our country, and I won’t forget that.” Phelps nods. “Thank you, sir. And thank you for your speech last night about Frederic.” Lombard waves his hand dismissively. “No problem. You and your wife must be very proud.” “Absolutely.” They sit on opposite sides of the presidential desk. Lombard looks at Phelps. “Obviously, we’ve had disagreements in the past, but I have to know that you’re on board with the Renewed Society plan. It’ll make or break my administration in the first stages, so I need to know where you stand.”

“Where I stand, sir?” questions Phelps. “The nation’s on the cusp of calamity, Peter, and there’s only two sides to the fight. You can side with the corporate interests, extorting from the public, driving up interest rates and oil prices, and shirking all responsibility. On the other hand, you can fight on behalf of the middle class in desperate need of a voice they’ve lacked for too long. So, where do you stand?” Phelps seems almost amused to have his loyalty questioned. “To Hell with parties, sir. I’m with the people.” A squad car sits parked outside Jack’s house. Maggie stands on the stoop, talking to Nancy. “Mrs. Mitchell…” “It’s Ms.,” breaks in Nancy. “Okay, Ms. Mitchell, in about two minutes, several police officers are going to come to your door looking for Jack. And they’re not going to take no for an answer. If you hear from him, I need you to have him call my cell right away. Okay?” Nancy looks worried. “Did Jack do something? What’s going on?” Maggie frowns. “I’m not sure yet, but I need to see him so we can figure it out.” Nancy looks away, steeped in thought. Maggie notices. “What?” “Do you care for him?” asks Nancy, as she glances back. Maggie doesn’t answer. “Well, do you?” questions Nancy. Maggie hesitates. Then, she replies. “Yes.” “Then come on.” Nancy marches into the house, waving for Maggie to follow. She leads her up the stairs and into Jack’s bedroom. Nancy turns on the light and looks at Maggie. “Whatever Jack’s into, it’s related to all this stuff.” Maggie scans the conspiracy theory swag with a look of recognition, and then looks to the computer sitting on the desk.

Chapter 6 Baltimore, Maryland. Another meeting is taking place in the private library. It’s the same study, same stately appearance, but this time it is present day, and with a new set of dignified men. Which means that there is a present day leader, whose face we cannot see. He paces in front of the group, his back to the men. “Gentlemen, we may need to reassess our situation. Our secrecy has been breached.” A hushed whisper fills the room as the leader continues. “If we’re exposed, I cannot guarantee that the new administration under any leadership would not continue on with this Renewed Society program. If we truly mean to safeguard the institutions that keep our people healthy, produce their goods, and protect their borders, an escalation of tactic is essential.” The present day leader finally turns around, revealing himself to be Peter Phelps. “I move that we take action.” In one of the chairs sits Andrew Baxter, Speaker of the House. He taps his ring on his knee, starting a trend that sweeps throughout the room. The decision is a unanimous yes. The limousine weaves in and out of traffic on an interstate in Virginia. It’s followed closely behind by two SUVs, one black, one red. The red SUV pulls up beside the limo. Inside the limousine, Jack glances through his side window at the red SUV pulling up next to him. He reaches for the .38. As he lifts it up, he can’t help but glance into the rearview mirror, at the black SUV getting closer, closer, closer until… Clank! It slams into the limo and Jack lurches forward from the impact. He loses his grip on the gun, and it goes tumbling into the floorboard. Jack stretches for the gun, but he can’t quite reach it. When he lifts back up, he glances out the window at the red SUV beside him. The window rolls down and a gun barrel pokes out.

Jack punches the gas and the car surges forward. Jack’s car thrusts forward, driving between two lanes, nearly sideswiping cars on both flanks as it barrels down the middle of the road. The two SUVs weave onto each shoulder to give chase. The speedometer needle rises: 85, 90... 100 mph. Jack white-knuckle’s the steering wheel, alternating glances between the rearview mirror and the side mirrors. Crash! The rear window shatters from a gunshot. Jack mutters to himself. “Mick is not going to like that...” He turns, hears another gunshot, and drops down just in time. A second later, the bullet rips through the headrest above him. Still clutching the steering wheel with his left hand, Jack reaches for his gun with his right. He stretches farther, farther, farther, until finally his fingertips make contact. Jack grabs the gun, lurches upward, takes half a second to steer the vehicle before whipping his arm around and firing one, two, three shots through what used to be the back window. Jack looks back up and sees traffic getting congested in front of him. Traffic comes to a full stop. The limo rushes forward, seconds away from slamming into the traffic jam. At the last second, it weaves across the median and into the other lane, going the wrong way against oncoming traffic. The black SUV whips into oncoming traffic behind the limo, but slams right into an 18-wheeler and explodes into a massive fireball. Jack steers through oncoming cars, never even looking at the massive explosion balling up behind him. Soon, police lights break through the smoke and debris behind him. Jack scans the area for other pursuers. “Where’d the other SUV go? The red one...” He swerves to avoid an oncoming car, then whips the wheel to the left, pulling off the interstate and onto a gravel service road. Unencumbered by traffic now, the limo surges forward, a massive cloud of dust growing behind it as it speeds up. Up ahead, a train whistle sounds. Lights flash. A gate closes. Jack presses the accelerator to the floor. “Sorry, Mick...” Jack almost smiles, driven by adrenaline now. “Aaaagggghhhhh!!” The limo smashes through the gate, tearing across the train track a split second before the hulking train roars by, whistle blowing, blocking all view of the car on the other side. In the Chief of Staff office, Phelps stands behind his desk, scanning through several open files. A knock on the door makes him look up to see Charles, waiting nervously on the other side. “Agent Long. Please... Come in.” Charles steps inside. “Close the door,” says Phelps. Charles does. “You used to be Jack Mitchell’s partner, correct?” “Yes sir, with the D.C.P.D.” “Still in contact with him now?” Charles stops to think about it a second, then shakes his head. “We’ve lost touch.” “Really?” asks Phelps. “Yes, sir.” “He attended an inaugural ball. Did you know that?” “Oh, that’s right. I ran into him.” “You ran into him?” questions Phelps. “That’s right.” “Thought you said you lost touch.” “Chance meeting. I really didn’t expect to…” “Never lie to a man who’s smarter than you, Long. I know you invited him.” Charles swallows hard, knows he’s busted. Phelps continues speaking. “Your old partner is the principal suspect in the murder of Donald William. I understand old loyalties dying hard, but we need to know the truth. So, where the hell is Jack Mitchell?” Charles puffs his chest and tries to look confident as he says: “I don’t know, sir. But I will do everything in my power to locate him.”

“Good. Give the police whatever they want. Last thing we need the first week of this administration is a high profile manhunt mucking up our headlines.” Phelps looks Charles in the eye, sees some doubt. “What is it, Agent Long?” “Sir, I was wondering about...” “Spit it out.” “I was wondering about the tunnels beneath the building.” Phelps thinks about it for a split second, then he answers. “Those tunnels have been there forever. An escape route leading to Griffin Park in case of an attack.” Covering five acres, this estate in Virginia borders woodlands and a river while a hedge and big gates guard a beautiful house. One hell of a place to call home. The banged-up limousine sits parked just inside the gate. Inside the house, in the den, Jack stares out the window at the beautiful scenery beyond. At the sound of footsteps, he turns to see Spencer Mitchell, 60’s, well-built, sharply dressed, clutching a newspaper. “Didn’t expect you here, son.” “I bet you didn’t,” retorts Jack. Spencer tosses the newspaper down onto the table. The banner headline reads: Police Officer Wanted For CIA Director Murder. Below are pictures of Jack and Donald William, both posed official shots from the start of their respective careers. “Hell of a headline to wake up to,” comments Spencer. “I didn’t kill him,” protests Jack. “Your prints are all over the scene.” Spencer waits for Jack to say something, but then he makes his way into the kitchen. Jack gives one more glance into the garden before he turns and follows Spencer. Unnoticed, a man appears at the top of the hedge a moment later and tumbles over into the garden. The, taking a gun out of his waistband, he sprints across the grass. In the kitchen, Jack sits on a stool while he watches his father prepare lunch. A plate full of meat. “So what are you doing here?” asks Spencer. “You need money? A place to hide? An escape route?” Jack shakes his head. “I’ve got questions.” “Because you can take my hybrid…” “You drive a hybrid now?” breaks in Jack. “Times change, son. It’s got a full tank, should get you to Canada. What you do from there…” “That your answer for everything? Run away? Marriage gets tough, your son’s a failure, so you just walk out?” Spencer pauses, a steak knife in his hand. “Jesus, Jack, that’s what you think? That I ran away?” “Didn’t you?” “I just thought... hoped... you knew me better than that.” “It makes sense. When your son turns out to be a disappointment…” Spencer drops his knife with a loud clang. He pulls out his wallet and produces an old photo. “Does this look like a disappointment?” Jack stares at the picture. It shows Spencer, Jack, and Wilcox in dress uniforms, shaking hands and celebrating Jack’s graduation ceremony. Spencer stuffs the picture into his pocket. “Look, there are things that a person can’t just scream from the rooftops. You understand that? Things they have to keep under their hat. But the fact that they’re keeping secrets doesn’t mean they’re doing something wrong.” “Speaking of secrets...” breaks in Jack. “What?” answers Spencer, defensive. “Who’s Thomas Miller?” Spencer shifts uneasily in his seat. “Thomas is an old Army buddy of mine. Hadn’t seen him in ages. I reconnected with him when I moved out here.” “Does he live around here?” “Lives to keep to himself so he holes up in a cottage in the woods. Past the hedge, there’s a trail leads right to it. Straight shot. Why are you asking me about Thomas Miller?” Then, a realization in Spencer’s eyes. More than that even. Pride. “You building a case here?”

Jack nods as they head back into the den. While Spencer eats, Jack gazes around the room. He pauses at a bunch of family photos. “You got a girl, Jack?” asks Spencer. “Quit trying to change the subject.” “I’m not changing the subject. You’re in here building a case, a case that it seems might just involve me, and you won’t so much as tell your own father whether or not you’ve got a girl.” “Fine,” answers Jack. “There’s my partner…” “Your partner?” exclaims Spencer. Jack nods. “Maggie. But she…” “What?” “She thinks I’m nuts. I’m sure of it. All this babbling about conspiracy theories. I turned her away when I should have just kept my mouth shut.” Spencer’s about to respond when Jack throws up a hand. “Stop. No more questions, no more stalling. I need answers. Now, there’s a reason Donald William had your name connected to Thomas Miller’s. What is it?” “Spell out your case. Give me the rundown.” Jack shakes his head. “Stop doing that! I’m the one asking questions here.” Spencer shrugs. “I see you haven’t changed.” “Okay, fine. It’s circumstantial right now, but the pieces are there. I’ve seen evidence that links someone in the White House to a radical group. I know there is a target date. I know that the intelligence community was investigating the truth, and now the CIA director is dead.” Spencer looks at Jack, sees that there’s more. “And?” Jack stares at him. “And you’re involved. This guy Thomas Miller is involved, and now... so am I.” “So you’ve got a volatile group with a penchant for violence, a desire for power, and blood on their hands. Not exactly circumstantial.” “I guess not.” “Sounds like only half the case.” “What are you talking about?” “I mean, you know something’s coming, right? That’s what you’ve found out so far. Now you need to figure out what it is, exactly, so that you can put a stop to it.” Suddenly, a door creaks open. Spencer grabs Jack by wrist. “Come with me!” Spencer leads Jack around a corner to the basement staircase, leaving the .38 from William’s house on the table.

Chapter 7 Maggie sits in her spartan apartment, using the computer she took from Jack’s house, working the mouse furiously as she navigates the web. Soon, she finds what she’s looking for. She stares at the screen, seeing the American flag glowing red, white and blue. But then it goes animated, the bars curling up to connect with the stars and form the crown. A banner headline fades over top of the image, reading: The Truth About The Ameristocracy. Maggie leans closer as she reads all about the secret society, devouring the information until… Bing! An instant message pops up. It reads: Now you know the truth. The help of all in the know is needed. Are you in? Y/N... Maggie stares at the message for a long moment, hand hovering over the keyboard, unsure whether or not to respond. Then, after what seems an eternity, she reaches forward and presses a button. The wine cellar of the Virginian estate is medium sized. There are rows and rows of expensive wine. A single bulb dangles from the ceiling. Jack and Spencer rush through. Jack looks back, Spencer doesn’t. “Dad! Where are we going?” “There’s a tunnel leading to the edge of the estate. It was an escape route for slaves.” “What? Is this whole part of the country filled with underground tunnels?” Spencer grimly smiles. “You’d be surprised.”

Slam! Jack and Spencer spin around to see the door shutting, the single overhead bulb revealing Frederic Phelps marching toward them, gun in hand. “Don’t move!” shouts out Fredrick. Spencer makes a move toward Frederic, but Jack grabs his elbow to steady him. “Don’t do anything stupid, Dad.” “I was a cop, too, you know,” answers Spencer. “Shut up!” shouts Frederick. Jack looks at Frederic, recognizing him. “Son of a bitch. How’s that Medal of Honor treating you?” Frederic smirks as Spencer looks at him. “What are you doing here?” “Your kid’s getting into some trouble, Spencer. He’s got no discipline. No sense of boundaries. No wonder he never got recruited.” Jack looks at Spencer. “What’s he talking about? How do you know him?” Frederick smiles. “Your old man’s on our payroll. You think a cop’s salary could afford this place?” “Nobody was supposed to get hurt,” answers Spencer. He looks at his son. “I never agreed to that, Jack.” Frederick shrugs his shoulders. “Collateral damage. Unavoidable in any war. Now, Mr. Mitchell, on your knees.” Jack and Spencer share a look. Then Spencer glances at Frederick. “Which Mr. Mitchell?” “Let’s go with both.” Neither move. Frederic steps forward and pistol-whips Spencer across the mouth. “On your knees!” he shouts, grimly smiling. Hesitantly, Jack and Spencer kneel down. Frederic positions himself in an executioner’s stance behind Jack’s head. Jack scans the room. The bottles, the bulb, the gunman right behind him. A brief standoffish glare shared between Jack and Frederic. Then, Jack turns back to the bottles. “Jeez, Dad, spend enough on booze?” He glances at his father, who smirks through bloody teeth. But Jack holds the look and Spencer catches on. Two cops signaling each other. “Only the best,” answers Spencer. Jack pulls a bottle from the rack. “What about this one? Cost a lot?” “A fortune. It’d be a shame to see it break.” “Shut up, the both of you,” yells out Frederick, as he prepares to fire. Suddenly, Jack spins around and flings the bottle. Perfect shot! It smashes against the dangling bulb above. Crash! The room goes dark. Frederick swears before yelling out. “Don’t move!” Smash! Smash! Smash! A barrage of wine bottles hit the wall in the dark and shatter. “Stop it!” yells Frederick. More bottles crash. And then… Blam! Blam! Two gunshots ring out. Muzzle flares briefly illuminate the room. “Leave it to a couple of donut-munchers to bring a wine bottle to a gunfight,” calls out Frederick. Meanwhile, outside the estate, police cars surround the house while a helicopter hovers overhead. Officers take up strategic positions all around the property. Back in the cellar, a light comes on. It’s Jack’s flashlight. It shines on a panting, aggressive Spencer standing in one corner, spoiling for a fight. One more turn and the flashlight finds Frederic, emerging from cover, cocking his gun. He starts to squeeze the trigger... Crack! A bottle shatters and Frederic drops to the ground in a pool of wine and blood. Spencer stumbles on top of him, still clinging to the neck of a broken bottle. He raises the bottle and prepares to hit him with it. But Jack calls out. “Stop! You hit him and you’ll be like him.” Spencer glares at Jack. “You have no idea what this man is capable of. He is responsible for everything that has happened to me. And now I am going to see that he can harm no one else.”

Jack rushes forward and stands in front of his dad. “When I was a kid, I looked up to you. Until you ran away. This is your once chance to save face. But if you get blood on your hands, I will lose the last bit of respect that I have for you. And once that is gone, there is no way I can ever look up to you. Ever again.” Spencer stares back at Jack. A tense moment. And then… Spencer drops the bottle and makes his way over to one of the rows of wine and reaches towards one specific bottle. He pulls it out then puts it into a conspicuously open space on the other side. The wall behind Jack opens. Thump! Thump! The upstairs doors shake as the police enter the house. Footsteps grow louder. “No time to waste, son. More coming.” Spencer practically pushes Jack through the opening and then follows behind himself, the wall closing behind him. Jack and Spencer run full speed through the ever-tightening space. “You know, this is how this whole thing got started. Hidden tunnel, I mean.” “No, Jack. It started way before either of us were around.” Jack looks at his dad. “How’d you get involved?” “Got recruited straight out of the academy. They treated it like an elite, undercover job. Turns out they had bigger plans.” “The Ameristocracy?” Spencer nods. “Heavy-hitters, son. Power brokers from every sector. Regulating trade across the globe and wiping out national leaders that challenge their control. I didn’t know who I was dealing with until I was in too deep. Then...” “Then what?” “I had to disappear.” Jack stops. “No! You could have stayed. Exposed their operation. Fought them!” Spencer also stops. He’s anxious to defend himself. “The day I left, you and your mother went for a walk on the National Mall. Remember?” A memory registers in Jack’s mind as Spencer jabs a finger into Jack’s forehead. “And they had a sniper rifle on each of your heads. They gave me a choice. And I gladly took it.” He lingers to let the point sink in. “Now, come on.” He takes off, leaving Jack stunned in his wake. Back in the wine cellar, Frederick stirs. Even in grogginess, his face displays his focus and calculation. He opens the secret passage and resumes his pursuit. A few moments later, the door breaks down and police officers swarm inside, finding only an empty room. The deputy glances around and mutters to himself. He turns and races back outside where he comes face to face with the sheriff. “The house is empty, sir.” “They must have slipped out,” answers the sheriff. "Begin a search of the surrounding woods.” Nearby, next to a shed, a wall of foliage opens up as Jack and Spencer emerge from within. “Who’s calling the shots?” asks Jack. “Who’s in charge of the Ameristocracy?” Spencer shakes his head. “I don’t know.” “Why not?” “I wasn’t on the inside. Never wanted to be. So many lies and secrets, you can never…” He pauses as he hears the sound of a gun cocking. They spin around to find Frederic emerging from the same bushes, hot on their trail. He wastes no time in taking aim straight at Jack. Bang! Spencer shoves Jack through a tree line. They tumble down over the crest of a hill and come to a stop. Jack rises, unharmed. Spencer rolls over, a patch of blood quickly spreading all over his side. “Dad!” Jack gazes at his father’s wound, recognizing its severity. Spencer’s voice comes out as a raspy whisper. “Know who to trust.” With a terrible grimace, Spencer reaches into his pocket. His shaking hand clutches the picture from Jack’s graduation. He hands the photo to Jack, leaving his own smeared blood on the image. Spencer struggles to speak, but lets out his last breath. Jack grips Spencer’s hand tightly and tears brim in his eyes as he watches his father’s head slump to the ground. Frederic emerges over the hill, reloading his gun. Jack gnashes his teeth. He hates himself for leaving his father, but knows his life depends on it. He takes cover behind a tree.

“That was supposed to be you, you know,” calls out Frederick. He edges closer to Jack’s cover spot, checking other trees, not quite sure where to pounce on. “Your dad would still be alive if you knew enough to mind your business. But the people I work for don’t like you snooping, and have ordered me to put an end to it. So that is what I’m going to do.” Jack tries to steady his nerves. He waits for Frederick to get just close enough to make a final attack. Frederic steps over Spencer’s body. He’s now mere paces away. Suddenly, footsteps rustle around them. Muffled voices can be heard. It’s the police! Frederic stops. Cursing, he darts off to avoid capture. Jack takes the opportunity and slips into the nearby stable. As the first police officers become visible, he comes riding out on horseback. He and the horse jump over two deputies, who dive out of the way. By the time they’re back on their feet, Jack and the horse are long gone. Jack hangs on for dear life as the horse thunders through the trees towards the hedge in the distance. He doesn't even look up when a police helicopter flies over. That is how much he is concentrating. He only has one chance. He tightens his grip on the reins and urges the horse to go faster, as he glances back and sees officers running after them. Suddenly, a clap of thunder booms overhead and drenching rain begins to pour down as he nears the hedge. Jack rides full-speed toward the jump but, as the helicopter lowers down in front of them, the horse cuts right and barrels through a line of startled sheriff’s deputies. They dive out of the way and scramble for safety as the horse spins in a complete circle and bounds toward the hedge again. It runs faster, faster, faster... Suddenly, the wet reins slip from Jack’s hands. He almost tumbles off, but grabs the horse’s mane just in time as the horse jumps the hedge! “Aaaaggghhhh!!”

Chapter 8 Charles walks down a street in D.C, his mind racing. He’s deep in thought. A car rounds the corner behind him, and rolls up behind him. Charles cocks his head, senses it following him. He starts moving faster. He’s about to break into a full sprint when the car lurches forward and cuts him off. The passenger door flies open and Charles looks inside. It’s Maggie. She stares at Charles. “Charles Long?” “Who wants to know?” asks Charles, curious. “A friend of Jack’s,” replies Maggie. Meanwhile, Jack rides the horse through thick foliage, trying to stick to a thin, winding trail. He’s starting to look exhausted and, as his energy fades, he leans down against the horse’s neck, resting against the grand beast. His eyes close momentarily, but flick open when the loud noise of a shotgun breaks through the silence. The horse spooks and tears into the thick bushes as Jack struggles to hold on. Branches fly everywhere as the horse thunders into the bush. Jack loses his grip on the horse’s reigns as the horse tears down a steep hill. He clings onto the animal for dear life, but falls off when the horse makes a tight turn to avoid a cliff-like descent. “Aaagghhh!!” Jack screams as he hurtles down the embankment. Dirt has turned into mud and he slides past numerous bushes, coming to a stop a few seconds later. He takes a few deep breaths before standing. He glances around. His eyes come to rest upon a hidden cottage. Surrounded by heavy brush, it’s clearly designed not to be noticed. Jack starts to walk towards it, then pauses. Thinks. He then resumes his walk as he marches up to the front door. He knocks and waits. No answer. Jack starts to knock again, but before he makes contact, the door draws open, revealing Thomas Miller, 60s, a living, breathing contradiction. Half survivalist, half intellectual. Cargo pants, t-shirt revealing rippling muscles, reading glasses perched atop his nose, a smart gleam in his eye. “Who are you?”

“Thomas Miller?” “I said, who are you?” “Jack Mitchell.” Thomas grins when he hears the name. “So you are...” He turns and heads inside, leaving the door open as an invitation to follow him. Jake does, and after getting a drink of water from the sink, he sits down. Thomas stares at him from across the room. “Internet says it’s the biggest manhunt since those snipers. Doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. All that matters is what they say you did. For all intents and purposes, you might as well have.” “Unbelievable...” mutters Jack. “So what are you doing here?” Jack looks at him. “My father spoke of you before he died. Like he wanted me to come see you, but couldn’t say it out loud.” Thomas staggers and stumbles backwards before clutching the counter to steady himself. The news of Spencer’s death clearly shakes him. “He’s dead? I’m sorry, that’s just…” “Tragic,” breaks in Jack. “To say the least. God, all we lived through in the Marines, everything since, but now, to hear you say it... Spencer’s gone.” A long, tense moment. Neither says a word, both casting looks to the floor, both remembering Jack’s father. Then Thomas speaks. “Well, no point keeping a secret anymore...” He makes his way over to the bookcase and takes out a book. He pulls a lever and the bookcase slides open to reveal a secret room. He enters the room and Jack follows. It’s a conspiracy theorist’s dream. Newspaper clippings on the walls. Printed pages from blogs. Photos. But it’s the subject matter that is so compelling. Kennedy, Oswald, Ruby. Lincoln, Booth. Dick Cheney, Saddam Hussein. The World Trade Centers. And in the very center, a detailed chart connecting surveillance photos of scores of high-profile men and women to one central symbol in the middle: the flag crown. The symbol of the Ameristocracy. Thomas speaks. “Your father was feeding me info about the Ameristocracy for years. It was his little way of fighting back even when he couldn’t be seen taking up arms against it. I put that info out there.” Jack realizes that Thomas is the very conspiracy theorist that he has been communicating with all along. “So you’re the guy online…” “The one and only. A lot of people hear what I have to say, but few know my face. Good way to be in my estimation.” “Sounds great to me right now.” “Yeah, you’re upside-down in that equation right now. But things’ll get straight soon enough. So long as the truth gets heard.” Jack shakes his head, realizing something. “Wait... If you’re... Then you sent me to Donald William.” Thomas nods. “I guess I did. I’m sorry it turned so ugly, but I assure you, my intentions were good. You see, William was a regular reader since I identified the origin lab from the anthrax letters. Probably didn’t realize I could reverse analyze the feed and find out who was reading. Point is, he had the info, so when you started posting questions about the Ameristocracy, I figured I’d send you his way. “Well, at least the word’s getting out there. Whatever the consequences.” Thomas nods. “You’ll be glad to know the increase in chatter has been overwhelming lately. In fact...” He glances over at the running computer at the desk. “I was IM-ing with someone about it when you showed up at my door.” Jack stares at him. “Thomas, this is real. Very real. More than something to speculate about, more than something to blog about.” He pauses, thinks, then resumes. “Something’s going to happen.” “What?” “I don’t know exactly. I need to…” “Build the case.”

Jack looks at Thomas and smiles. “You have been talking to my dad.” Thomas grimly smiles. “He liked to give advice.” He steps out of the way and Jack moves forward, scanning the room and putting the pieces together in his head. A series of images flash through his mind... The cuff links, Donald William’s dead body, the SUVs chasing the limo, Spencer dying. “They’re taking down anyone who stands in their way,” yells out Jack. “But who?” questions Thomas. Jack closes his eyes and another image flashes through his mind… Lombard walking through the White House and Phelps interceding to stop Jack from talking to him further. Then Lombard saying to Jack, “We’re bringing change to Washington...” Jack spins, grabs Thomas by the arms and shakes him. “They’re going to assassinate the president in the White House!” Jack’s eyes dart around the room, picking up more and more information, working on overdrive as he puts the whole plan together in his head. “They’re going to kill the president, blame it on Islamic terrorists and consolidate power.” Thomas nods. “It’s Lincoln all over again. Kennedy…” “Not if we stop it,” breaks in Jack. “What do you have in mind?” Jack spots a phone on the corner of the desk. “Can I use that?” “Safe call?” “About the only one I could make right now.” He puts a call through to Maggie’s desk at the police station. No one answers. He hangs up. “Well? Any other contacts?” asks Thomas. Jack thinks. He produces the picture his father gave him. Spencer’s blood is smeared on the photo, including a bloody thumbprint on Wilcox’s chest. He mutters to himself. “Know who to trust...” He puts a phone call through to the station again, but this time to someone else. Wilcox answers almost straight away. “This is Wilcox.” Jack hesitates, unsure of how to begin. They both swim in the dead air. Then… “Chief.” “Jack?” “I’m being set up,” says Jack. “Jack, you gotta stop running. Bring yourself in.” “It’s Frederic Phelps. The war hero. He’s the one who killed William. And my father.” “Spencer?” “Yeah, Chief. He’s gone.” “I’m sorry, son.” “Me too. That’s why you’ve got to help me get these guys. Phelps is working for a secret organization called the Ameristocracy, and they’re plotting something big. The president is in danger. Are you getting this?” “Just come back and help us, Jack. If you’ve got information, you need to come back and work with us. We’re all worried about you.” Jack tenses, analyzing Wilcox’s tone. “You don’t believe me, do you?” We can’t straighten all of this out as long as you’re a fugitive.” “You’re just gonna lock me up and call it a day, aren’t you? Do I sound like a killer, Chief?” No answer. Jack tries again. “Do I?” Wilcox replies. “You sound like those conspiracies finally made you crack! We can help you, but you’ve gotta come back before things get worse.” Jack slams down the phone in frustration. He casts a weary glance up to Thomas. “We may need to stray from the traditional approach here.” Thomas grins. He likes Jack’s style. “Manpower won’t be the problem.” Jack frowns. “No? Then what will?” “Access,” answers Thomas. “Into the White House.” “Well...” considers Jack. “I’ve been able to do that.” “Since you’ve become a fugitive?” Jack thinks about it and realizes Thomas is right. Nonetheless, picks up the phone again and dials.

“I’m guessing you’re not calling the appointment secretary,” grimly smiles Thomas. Jack waits for the cell phone to ring and then hears a voice answering. “Agent Long speaking.” “Charles...” “Jack, I can’t help you anymore.” “I just need you to get me inside. We…” “No. And that’s final.” “Charles…” “Goodbye, Jack. Don’t call me again.” Jack hangs up the phone and stares down into his drink. “Not the friend you thought he was, huh?” ponders Thomas. Jack shakes his head. Thomas sees the hurt in his eyes. “Tough being alone. Low on allies. But they’ll come. Best to focus on the task at hand, figure it out.” “Figure what out?” “Who. And why.” “I’m just trying to stop them. That’s all that matters.” Thomas looks at Jack. “Who stands to gain from killing the president?” “The Vice President?” queries Jack. Thomas nods. “Naturally. Anyone else?” “Look at the Renewed Society plan. A lot of people want to derail it. Oil companies, drug companies, defense contractors, health insurers, mortgage bankers. Could be any of them.” “Could be all of them.” Jack slumps at the sobering thought.

Chapter 9 Night falls over the city and Jack’s house is surrounded. Two police cruisers sit parked out front. Countless news vans fill up the street all around. Throngs of curious bystanders stare from across the street. In the upstairs window, Nancy’s face is visible. She watches the commotion. Behind her, Jack’s computer room is taped off with yellow caution tape. Nancy finally pulls away from the window and turns her attention to a framed photo of Jack in his police uniform. She swallows hard, unsure what to think anymore. As the sun slowly rises, a man approaches the cottage, moving slowly, looking around nervously. He makes his way to the front door and knocks. Inside, in the kitchen, Jack munches fruit for breakfast. He looks up as Thomas enters the room. “Someone to see you.” Charles enters. Jack stares. “What happened to goodbye?” “Had to pretend I was casting you aside. Eyes and ears everywhere, Jack. You of all people should know that.” “I do know that. Just didn’t realize you did.” “I didn’t,” answers Charles. “But she convinced me.” “She?” queries Jack. Charles steps aside, revealing Maggie standing behind him. “Maggie!” calls Jack, shocked. Thomas points to Maggie. “Officer Templeton and I have been trading Instant Messages. I gave her a very cryptic way of finding this place. And she found it with no problem. Don’t know if that means I’m slipping, or that she’s just really, really good.” “She’s good,” smiles Jack. “She’s real good.” Charles sits down. “Let’s save the group hugs for later. More important matters at hand.” He looks Jack in the eye, deadly serious. “There’s a reward on your head.” “Yeah?” answers Jack. “What am I going for these days?” “A hundred grand,” replies Maggie.

“Sons of bitches,” mutters Jack. “Ask for a raise, and there's no budget; go rogue, and they whip out the wallets.” Turning serious, he looks at Charles. “So can you get me in?” “The tunnels lead to an escape route in Griffin Park. And if you can get out…” “You can get in,” smiles Jack. They get to work. Soon, the kitchen has become a war room of sorts. It’s now covered with blueprints and printouts, taped to every cabinet and chair back and spare inch of space. Jack, Charles, Thomas, and Maggie toil away in the room, pouring over the information at their fingertips, tirelessly trying to formulate a plan. They work all through the day and, as the moon slowly rises, Charles snores on the living room couch. Behind him, Thomas is slumped over the keyboard of his computer in the other room, visible through the half-open door. It’s clearly been a long day and though a few have called it a night, someone is lurking about. They tiptoe out of the kitchen, en route to the guest bedroom. Jack sits on the edge of the bed, wide awake but deep in thought. The lurker appears in the doorway behind him. Jack spins and sees... Maggie. Maggie looks at him. “It would be romantic, wouldn’t it? This place? I mean, under different circumstances.” Jack nods. “Yeah. I guess it would.” Maggie steps into the room quietly and closes the door behind her. Jack notices and cocks his head to the side. “What are you doing?” Maggie sits down on the corner of the bed. She leans against Jack’s body. He turns to her and she smiles. “We’ve got a big fight ahead of us. We wouldn’t want any pent-up energy getting the best of us.” “No. We wouldn’t want that.” Maggie leans towards Jack who leans back slowly. “Best to burn it off any way we can.” “You know, they tell boxers to stay away from women before a fight.” Maggie looks at him. “Well, when you start prize-fighting, let me know.” And with that, Maggie presses her lips against Jack and they fall backwards onto the mattress. A run-down, abandoned building in an industrial district on the outskirts of Washington D.C. Trucks on cinderblocks out front. Windows broken. Graffiti on the walls. Inside, Jack stares out a broken window while Charles leans against the wall. “How’d you get the day off?” “I just requested it and, knowing that I know you, I think they were more than willing to be rid of me for a few days.” Charles looks at Jack, sees him staring off wistfully. “God, I’m so sorry about your dad, Jack. I just hope that you and he... before he...” Jack slowly nods. “We did. We’re good now.” “I should have been there for you.” Jack looks at his friend. “You’re here now. That’s what counts.” “I just wish…” “Drop it, okay? Nothing is going to bring him back to life.” An awkward pause. Jack offers an apologetic look. “Sorry.” “No, I’m the one.” “It’s just... this whole thing. These conspiracy theories, they’re ruining my life.” “It’s not a theory if it’s true, Jack.” “Even so, after this is all over, I’m going straight. Gonna just be a normal guy.” Charles grins, knowing better. “What fun would that be?” Bang! Bang! Then a pause. And then… Bang! Bang! It’s a coded knock. Jack unlocks the door and Maggie steps inside. A quick look of intimacy between the two, but it comes and goes quickly. There’s business to attend to. “They’re here,” says Maggie. She peels out of the way and Thomas walks in, surrounded by four mercenaries. First up is Keith Hodges, 30s, camo-clad tough guy twirling a buck knife in his fingers. Then there’s Cole Davies, 40s, built from sheet metal, snarling lip, serious as a heart attack. Then Angel

Diaz, late 20s, who would be beautiful if she wasn’t so harsh. And then there’s the biggest hardass in the group, Luke Theodore, 20s, lean and mean African-American. Thomas looks at Jack. “These are the men I told you about.” Jack walks over to him while the mercenaries sit down on wooden crates. They all look tough as nails and Angel doesn’t seem all that displeased about being referred to as a man. Thomas looks at the four of them proudly. “Best you’re ever going to find. Did the heavy lifting in Beirut, Afghanistan, Iraq. No one ever even knew it.” “Military?” queries Jack. Thomas chuckles. “Government salaries don’t pay for what these men can do.” “Blackwater?” “Dig deeper.” “Mercenaries?” Thomas nods. “Philanthropy doesn’t buy bullets, young man.” “I just…” “The fact that they take payment for a highly valuable skill set shouldn’t dissuade you. And it shouldn’t make you think they don’t believe in a cause. They are... like you and me... patriots.” Jack stares at them, still unsure. “Can they be trusted?” Thomas firmly nods. “I’d trust them with my life.” Jack looks at Thomas. “Would you trust them with mine?” Thomas doesn’t answer. He just gives a coy grin. After a second, Jack returns the smile. “Well, we’re ankle deep in sewage-and-snakes now.” Thomas chuckles. “It was up to our elbows in alligators in my day.” Jack walks over to the mercenaries as Charles and Thomas guard the exits. He places two wooden crates together and stands on top of them. Maggie watches from not too far away, a gleam in her eye. She likes seeing Jack like this. Jack speaks to the four people. “Judging from the scars you guys wear like a uniform, I don’t figure I have to talk to you about risking your lives.” Keith stands up, picks his teeth with his buck knife. “These scars don’t come cheap. Where’s the paycheck?” “How’s valor for compensation?” Keith shakes his head. “Don’t pay the mortgage.” Jack ponders his answer, thinks, and then speaks. “I’ll have to sort it out with my attorney, but I think I may have just inherited a multi-million dollar estate in Virginia. I’ll liquidate that property and we’ll split the money.” The mercenaries exchange looks. Jack waits nervously for their response. Cole looks to Angel. She nods, turns to Jack. “What’s the target?” “The White House.” A buzz spreads quickly through the room. Jack holds up his palm to quiet the men. “Please, let me speak.” It’s no good. The chatter just gets louder. Until… Maggie yells out. “Hey! The shout is so loud it echoes through the cavernous space for quite some time. But it does shut the mercenaries up. Thomas steps over and whispers into Maggie’s ear. “I like your style, but the idea is to keep a low profile here.” Luke stands up, looks Jack in the eye. “Give it to us straight. This a coup?” Jack shakes his head. “No, it’s…” “A rescue mission,” breaks in Thomas. The mercenaries all turn to Thomas, liking the way he’s characterized the mission. “Can’t the Secret Service protect the president?” asks Keith. “The Secret Service can’t do jack,” says Angel. “Hey!” calls out Charles. “What?” asks Cole. “You work for them or something?” Everyone laughs, but when the laughter subsides, they realize he does. “Sorry, man,” says Luke.

“Trust me, the Service is on its game,” replies Charles. “That’s the problem. If this is coming from within the White House, there’s no telling how many agents they’ve flipped.” “Okay, so how do we get in?” speaks up Keith. “We’re working on that,” says Jack. “Going in hot?” asks Angel. Charles nods. “No question about it.” Thomas glances around, speaking as he does. “Gentlemen, beneath the White House there is a series of tunnels that have existed since it was built. They were created as a safety valve for the president, a way to escape if things got too unsafe. But now, the threat comes from those tunnels. The answer is in the rooms there, so that’s where we’re going. But make no mistake, it’s going to be a battle.” “And we don’t want to bleed the good guys,” speaks up Jack. Maggie hands Jack a particular pistol. He aims the gun and pulls the trigger. A tranquilizer dart flies out and hits the wall. “A dart?” asks Luke, confused. “Why don’t we just play laser tag while we’re at it?” “Highly concentrated tranquilizer,” answers Jack. “Puts them down quickly, but not for very long. All we’re trying to do is keep them out of our hair long enough.” “Long enough for what?” asks Angel. “To search the rooms until we find whatever we have to find.” Jake sees looks of dissent from the Mercenaries. He has to step up the rhetoric. “Guys, the president’s life, and the fate of our society, is in jeopardy. I have no idea how high this conspiracy goes, but what I do know is this. The threat will be ended by the men and women in this room today. We will stop the assassination attempt, and we will save Lombard. It will be the toughest assignment any of you will ever have. But, you don’t look like the kind of guys who back down from a fight. Are you?” Luke and Keith exchange a look and a shrug. “We’re in.”

Chapter 10 As Charles races down the tunnel in the White House, Jack checks his watch as he waits inside a black van that is parked nearby. “C’mon, c’mon...” “Be patient,” says Thomas, who is staring out of the window, deep in thought. Jake shakes his head. “There’s no time for patience.” “And there’s no call for haste. It’ll kill you quick as a bullet. Now let the man do his job.” From Jack’s nervous energy, it’s clear he’s not going to take Thomas’ advice. Suddenly, a bird call sounds in the distance. “There’s the signal!” yells out Jack. Thomas turns and looks toward the park where Maggie stands with her foot up on a bench, pretending to be a jogger tying her laces. She gives a fake bird call and turns toward a statue of Abraham Lincoln which cracks open, the bust of the great president tipping long enough for Charles to climb through. Thomas chuckles. “Honest Abe... fitting.” Charles looks around, then does an almost-imperceptible nod, and the nearby van opens up. Jack, Thomas and the Mercenaries pile out. The group scrambles toward the statue, moving in impressive military formation, and disappearing through the portal within seconds. Maggie starts jogging, passing the strike team as she heads toward the van, climbs in and drives away. The Lincoln bust falls closed just seconds before a dog walker, with a bevy of barking pooches, comes padding past. The dogs smell something cooking, and the walker snoops around with curiosity. Inside the tunnel, the team moves quickly as they follow Jack’s lead. Jack comes to the first room and shoots the lock open with his pistol. He peers in. Empty. He turns back to the team. “Check every door in the complex. Whatever they’ve got planned, the answers are somewhere in these rooms.” He motions for the other men to break into the next room. He watches as Luke enters and returns a moment later. Luke shakes his head. “Nothing. Maybe they haven’t…”

“Don’t underestimate the threat we’re dealing with,” speaks Jack. “Every room.” The men go to work, searching one room at a time as Jack and Charles stand guard in the hallway. Charles watches them as they step in and out of room after room, shaking their heads each time they return to the tunnel. “Something’s wrong,” comments Charles. “Just now figuring that out?” says Jack. “No. Something more than that. Something wrong about...” “About what?” “This moment,” replies Charles. “Feels too safe. Here and now.” “If it feels safe…” breaks in Jack. “It isn’t.” Together, they make their way past the rooms as they are opened. Jack pauses in front of the last room as Luke and Keith try to break the door open, but they can’t. “We need some heavy firepower over here,” says Jake. Angel hurries over, un-slings her sub machine gun and opens fire. Bullets tear across the door making numerous holes. Jack steps forward and kicks the door open. A second later, the entire complex is rocked by a massive explosion! Jack is the first to recover from the blast. He clears his head, stumbles towards where the door used to be, and sees Charles on the floor. Jack shakes him. Nothing. Finally, he smacks him across the cheek. Hard. Charles’s eyes flutter open. He’s groggy. “My fault...” “What?” asks Jack. “There’s nothing in these rooms.” “We’re back to that?” “No. See what I’m saying? There’s nothing in these rooms, nothing in this tunnel except for us. Get it? It’s a trap. They knew you would think it was going to happen here and they knew I would bring you back here.” “Did you…” “No, I didn’t know! I just realized it right now.” Jack suddenly realized something. “Bastard...” Charles looks at him. “Who?” “They knew we’d come here.” “Meanwhile, the real attack is somewhere else...” Charles’s voice trails off and Jack follows his gaze, seeing Thomas’s body on the ground nearby. Dead. “Thomas...” mutters Jack. Blam! Blam! Blam! Bullets ping off the walls above Jack and Charles as someone opens fire from the entrance to the complex. “Down!” yells Charles. Jack draws his pistol and turns to the mercenaries, shuffling into position behind him. “Open fire!” The mercenaries open fire and soon it’s every man for himself. Jack crouches in a doorway. Charles kneels in the doorway across from him. “We can’t stay here forever.” Jack loads his pistol, and then motions to Charles. “Give me your piece.” “What for?” “Want me to lay it all out or just do it? Throw me your weapon!” Charles tosses the gun across the hall. Jack catches it easily. “Be careful.” “Yeah, right...” Jack motions for the mercenaries to hold their fire as he makes his way up the tunnel. Bullets ricochet off the walls and Jack drops to the floor, crawling up the hallway and rolling to dodge gunfire. He shuffles forward and opens fire with both weapons at once. Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! With every shot fired, Jack thrusts forward with more and more energy until the return fire stops. But... Blam! Blam! Blam! Jack keeps firing. “Enough!” yells out Charles. Jack finally releases the trigger and, when the smoke settles, he’s staring down at a dead man, lying there with his machine gun by his side.

This is no Secret Service agent, no soldier. This is a paramilitary gunman, clearly a part of the conspiracy. Jack stares at the dead body for a long moment, then turns back to his men behind him. They slowly make their way out of the crooks and shadows and move toward him. When they get to him, they follow his gaze, looking past the dead body toward a trail of blood leading away from the tunnel. Another gunman. They hurry down the tunnel. Soon, Jack, Charles, and Luke climb through the fireplace in the bedroom and instantly spot a trail of blood leading towards the door. “That's our man,” says Jack. Charles nods. “Dangerous territory coming up. Not just our enemy but…” “Secret Service,” speaks up Luke. “Right,” says Jack. “Use the tranq guns,” comments Charles. “Lock and load,” says Jake. Luke shakes his head and stares in disapproval at the tranquilizer gun. “That phrase just don’t sound right when we’re shooting darts.” They make their way out of the bedroom and head down the hallway. They follow the blood trail as it gets thinner and thinner. Eventually it just ends. Right before a fork in the hallway. “Okay, which way?” asks Luke. Jack looks to Charles. Charles shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.” Suddenly, a voice yells out. “Freeze!” They turn to see Mendez coming toward them, gun drawn, another agent at his side. Charles squeezes off two shots with the tranquilizer gun, missing Mendez but hitting the other agent, who crumbles to the floor below. Seeing his ally go down, Mendez charges the group, opening fire. Blam! Blam! “Hands up! Now!” Jack dives around a corner as shots splinter the wall around him. Charles doesn’t move. He’s frozen as he stares at the fallen agent. “He’s gonna be fine, Charles! Get down!” Charles drifts to Jack’s corner, still in a daze. Jack’s about to say something, when he’s shocked by another sight... It’s Luke, drawing his gun. Not his tranquilizer gun, but his real weapon. “No! Use the tranq!” Gunshots ring out as Luke and Mendez engage in a firefight. Behind Jack and Charles, the other mercenaries fire at more agents. “No!” Jack rushes back into the middle of the firefight between Luke and Mendez, braving bullets from both directions, as he fires off a tranquilizer. It grazes Mendez’s arm, and he drops to the ground clutching a gash over his elbow. It’s not instantaneous, but Mendez goes woozy and blacks out. Jack grabs Luke and pulls him around the corner. Charles and the other mercenaries follow behind. They almost stumble over two bodies on the floor. Two Secret Service agents... Dead. Charles is dazed by the sight of the corpses in his familiar black suit. “Oh my…” “Charles!” speaks up Jack. “We didn’t do that. It’s not us.” Charles looks over at Luke and the loaded gun in his hand. “What happened to non-lethal? Where’s your discipline now!” “If they’re using these peashooters, fine,” replies Luke. “Otherwise, I’m keeping the playing field level.” Charles suddenly lunges at Luke, and they struggle. The other mercenaries try to break them up. “Hey! Enough!” yells out Jake. He squats next to one of the bodies, searching through the pockets. He finds a folded wad of paper and opens it up. It shows an aerial view of a landscape with complete with position markings, formation lines, and target Xs. “Found something.” Charles and Luke release each other and Jack holds the paper for Charles to see. “This mean anything to you?” Charles studies the image long and hard. “This looks like the layout of Camp David.” “Then we’ve gotta keep the president from going there,” replies Jack. Suddenly, footsteps from the tunnel can be heard behind them. They look up to see Wilcox tip-toe around the corner, gun drawn. Wilcox and the mercenaries level their guns at each other, but Jack jumps in the middle. “Don’t shoot! Hold your fire!” He faces Wilcox. “Chief? How’d you get here?”

Wilcox stares at him. “I got calls about a group of gunmen sneaking around a park near the White House disappearing into secret tunnels.” “We’re here to save the president, Chief,” answers Jake. “You gotta believe me.” “I don’t have to believe anything!” shouts Wilcox. “It’s courtesy enough to fish you outta here before SWAT comes in and does things their way. Lower your guns, and let’s all come out of here alive.” Wilcox defiantly maintains his ground, one against six. A back door flies open and Mendez bolts in, flanked by five other agents. “Put your hands up!” Jack’s team and Wilcox waver at the multiple targets. Guns pointed in every direction. Nerves on fire. Charles speaks. “Mendez, listen…” “Shut up!” yells Mendez. “You have broken into the White House, engaged with Secret Service agents and put a very annoying tranquilizer dart in my arm. Do not think for a second that these men will not end you. Put your hands up now!” Jack tosses the folded paper at Mendez’s feet. “We found this on that downed agent. You need to look at it.” “Like Hell I do,” yells Mendez. “Hands up!” “Mendez!” shouts Jake. “You signed up for this job to protect the president. Now’s your chance! That is an all out attack plan.” Mendez inspects the document. “Camp David.” “We don’t have to go any further, just keep the president from going there,” pleads Charles. “His life could depend on it.” Mendez peers at Jack and Charles, evaluating their honesty. “He’s been there since this morning. Nothing has happened so far and you expect me to believe that something will happen now? At Camp David?” Suddenly, one of the agents behind Mendez puts his finger to his earpiece, a puzzled look upon his face. After a second, he steps forward and puts his arm on Mendez’s shoulder. “Mendez...” “What is it?” exclaims Mendez, annoyed. “We just lost contact with Camp David.” Mendez looks at the agent and sees the worry in his eyes. He then looks back to Charles and Jack, reluctantly accepting their story. Everyone glances at each other, seeking assurance they can lower their weapons. Like synchronized components in a large machine, the guns all lower very, very slowly. “If you’re telling the truth,” begins Mendez, “then we have to get to Camp David ASAP.” “But by the time we take a car…” says Jake. “We’re the Secret Service,” breaks in Mendez, a grim smile appearing. “How do you think we travel?”

Chapter 11 As the sun slowly sets across the countryside, a helicopter roars through the sky. In the back of the craft is Wilcox, Jack, Charles and their team in back. Mendez sits in front with the pilot. “How close are we?” “Pretty close,” answers the pilot. He nods towards the window and Mendez peers out. He doesn’t see anything at first, just trees, but then a moment later, Camp David becomes visible. His jaw drops in shock. Smoke and fire are visible while two news vans are turned on their sides, as if they’d been attacked. Dead bodies litter the ground. It looks like a war zone. He glances back at the others. “Looks ugly down there.” “Good thing we’re here then,” answers Charles. Mendez shoots a look at Maggie, who sits next to Jack, loading herself up with weaponry. “You know how to handle that stuff?” Before Maggie can answer, Angel pipes up. “Hey! Don’t be sexist, tough guy.” Mendez looks at Angel’s bulging biceps, then at Maggie’s confident look as she inspects her weapon and realizes they’re gonna be okay. “Cool. Lock and load...” All eyes shift to the window as the massive retreat draws closer.

Blam! Blam! Blam! Sporadic gunfire. A shootout is underway on the ground between surviving Secret Service agents and a cadre of militant insurgents. “Looks like we’re just in time,” mutters Mendez. Everyone readies their weapons as the chopper touches down on the landing pad. Blam! Blam! Blam! Gunfire peppers the area as Jack and his crew storm out of the chopper. Nearby, a Secret Service agent turns, about to fire on Jack and his crew, but stops when he sees Mendez. Suddenly, bullets shatter the windshield, which draw a line of holes across the side of the chopper. Jack turns, sees the bullets tracing a direct line to the gas tank. “Gas!” He scrambles toward the tree line, beckoning for his compatriots to follow suit. “Go, go, go, go, go!” The mercenaries dive for cover just as… Boom! The chopper bursts into a fiery ball of flame. They cover their heads, holding tight against the licking flames until the fireball recoils. They stare in disbelief at the destruction. Blam! Blam! Blam! Bullets pepper the trees behind them, bark and leaves showering down upon them. “We gotta find Lombard,” yells Jack. Charles points toward a building across the way. “Main lodge is right over there.” Getting cover fire from Angel and Luke, Jack, Charles and Wilcox bound in that direction. Maggie follows behind, but her path is cut off by a string of bullets. She’s pinned down. “Maggie!” shouts Jack, looking back. Charles grabs him by the elbow and pulls him forward. “She’s with us because she can handle herself. Now, let’s us go.” Jack watches as Maggie scurries for cover behind helicopter wreckage. She gives him a nod, telling him to go, and he moves on. She fires a rifle toward the hostiles until it runs out, and she clicks empty rounds. Arriving at the main lodge, Jack grabs the doorknob and tries to open the door. No good. “Locked...” Blam! Blam! Bullets hit the wall around them, so Jack, Charles, and Wilcox duck for cover. Clank! They look up to see the doorknob and lock falling off the door. It’s been shot off. They turn toward the tree line where Angel winks at them, smoke billowing up from her gun barrel. It was her shot that opened the door for them. Jack, Charles, and Wilcox nod their appreciation to their fellow soldier. “Impressive,” says Jack. “Hell yeah,” replies Charles. They bolt to their feet and push through the door. Jack and Charles charge in first, guns drawn. They find Vice President Hawkins holed up inside. There are two dead Secret Service agents on the floor and Hawkins is holding one of their guns. “Thank God you’re here. I’ve been pinned down…” “Drop the gun,” yells Jack. Hawkins looks surprised to see Jack aiming his piece at him. “What are you doing? Can’t you see there’s a firefight going on out there?” Jack nods. “And you’re responsible.” Hawkins looks surprised. “Me?” “No one stands to gain from the president’s death more than you,” argues Jack. Hawkins shakes his head, turns to Charles. “Agent Long, tell him I’m one of the good guys.” Charles stares into Hawkins eyes, as though trying to read the man’s soul. Finally, he reaches over, places his palm on the barrel of Jack’s gun and lowers it. “He’s right. Besides, why would he just be standing here if he was after the president?” Jack’s still suspicious. “Maybe the president is already dead.” Hawkins shakes his head. “No. Phelps took him.” “Where?” asks Jack. “I don’t know,” explained Hawkins. “He came barging in with two men…” “Secret Service?” interrupts in Charles. “No. Paramilitary. They shot these two agents and took President Lombard out of here. When I tried to follow, I started taking heat from outside. They’ve got this entire place surrounded.”

Jack slowly nods. “Okay. Let’s move.” Charles moves to the window and peers out. He sees the firefight continuing outside. He signals to Mendez who is by the tree line. Mendez sees the signal and turns to Luke. “You! Come with me...” Then, to the others. “Cover us.” Keith and Angel step forward and start offering cover fire as Mendez and Luke sprint toward the main lodge. They arrive at the front door just as Jack and Charles rush out, with Hawkins right behind them. Jack’s eyes are drawn to the helicopter wreckage. Doesn’t see Maggie anywhere. “She’ll be…” says Charles. “I know!” yells Jack. Suddenly, the gunfire picks up. Blam! Blam! Blam! It tears up the earth in front of them, stripping away the paint on the building behind them. No time to wait, they rush into action, following Jack’s lead toward the presidential cabin. This time, Jack wastes no time in firing a shot at the doorknob. The door flies open and the group rushes inside. They immediately come under gunfire. Blam! Blam! Blam! They dive for cover and return fire, the room quickly awash in gunfire and smoke. Everyone seems pinned down as the bullets spray across the room relentlessly. It’s like a stalemate, bullets flying everywhere but no one seeming to win. Until Jack steps it up a notch. He rises from the corner where he has been crouching down and sprints across the room. He fires non stop as he does so, taking out one gunman after another by sheer will and determination and the willingness to step into the line of fire to win out. And as the bodies drop, the gunfire comes to an end. Jack stands in the middle of the room, smoking gun in hand, while those around him watch in awe. Hawkins’ eyes bulge in amazement and he shoots a look over at Charles. “Did you know he could do that?” “I don’t even think he did. Okay, well maybe he did...” Jack turns and starts searching the lodge. Soon, the others are following along. “What the hell’s going on anyway?” asks Hawkins. “We believe there’s a bomb planted here somewhere,” answers Charles. “A terrorist attack?” Smash! Before Charles can reply, the window behind them shatters and a grenade comes flying in. Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! It tumbles across the floor. Charles dives on top of Hawkins while Mendez dives on top of the grenade... Boom! It explodes, taking Mendez along with it. Jack and Wilcox look up, surprised to be alive. Ten feet away, Charles climbs off the Vice President, both men having survived. Charles swallows hard as he thinks of the fallen agent. “Agent Mendez...” Hawkins slowly nods. “He was a good agent. Did his job till the bitter end.” Suddenly, a clanking noise catches their attention. They quickly follow the sound into bedroom. Luke charges toward the window, ready to give cover fire, as Hawkins searches the room. He throws open the closet door and finds nothing but suits. He’s about to say something when Jack steps in front of him, finger pressed to his lips to silence him. Hawkins nods his willingness to stand mute while Jack and Charles move toward the bathroom. The door flies open and Jack and Charles rush in, guns drawn. The room appears to be empty. But Jack notices something askew. The porcelain top on the toilet tank is missing. He nods toward it and Charles sees the same thing. They furrow their brow, neither sure what to think. Suddenly, Lombard charges out of the shower, swinging the porcelain piece! “Aaaagggghhh!!” He wields the white porcelain tank lid mightily, having no idea who he’s swinging on. Jack ducks just in time and the lid goes smashing into the sink mirror, shattering it. All eyes and guns turn on the president, who balls his fists, ready to battle some more. “Mr. President, wait!” yells Hawkins. Lombard glances around and sees Hawkins and Luke stepping into the room behind Jack and Charles. “I better get an explanation and fast.”

Hawkins motions to the others. “These men are on our side. How’d you get free?” “Two good agents lost their lives to save me. They opened fire, but Phelps escaped into the woods. Fortunately, I was able to make a break for it.” Luke is confused. “I don’t understand. They’ve had access all along. Why would they wait so long?” “Well,” speaks up Hawkins. “Phelps just approached me about the Renewed Society. I told him I stood with the President, but he knew the Speaker of the House would oppose it. He must have decided to wait until he could get us both in one shot.” Lombard nods. “When his little plan got interrupted, I figured this was the best place to hide, but when I heard gunshots out there I knew I was going to have to get into the fight. But I didn’t expect you to charge in like that. I expected... him!” All eyes turn to see a masked gunman charging into the bathroom, gun trained on Lombard’s head. Through the slits in the masked gunman’s ski mask, his eyes dart about, seeing the armed men in the room, knowing he’s outnumbered. But he does have the president in his sights. “Back out right now. Back away or the president dies.” Jack points his gun directly at the masked gunman. “What are you doing?” explodes Hawkins, looking at Jack. Jack moves in on the masked gunman, pressing the barrel of his own weapon against the man’s head. “You’re putting the president at risk!” yells Charles. Jack shakes his head. “No. The president’s already dead.” He turns to the masked gunman. “Right? If we don’t walk away, the president’s dead. Right? But if we do walk away, he’s dead too. So... that being the case, we don’t have much of an incentive to back away, now do we?” The masked gunman swallows hard, knowing his bluff’s been called. He and Jack glare at each other for what seems an eternity before the masked gunman makes his move. He spins his gun around, off the president and toward Jack... Blam! He fires. The bullet hits Jack in the shoulder, spinning him around, knocking him back against the door. He slumps to the ground, bleeding. Blam! One shot from Charles drops the masked gunman. He then turns to Jack, who is pushing himself back up from the floor. “He got you.” “But he didn’t get the president,” replies Jack, proud. Wilcox inspects Jack’s shoulder wound. It’s bleeding but it’s probably not lethal. “Just a scratch. You’re gonna make it.” “Thanks, Doc,” grimly smiles Jack, looking at him. Crash! A bullet tears through the window and rips through Luke, killing him instantly. Jaws drop. Everyone stands in shock until Hawkins yells out. “C’mon!” He heads out of the bathroom. Just outside the lodge, by the trees, Angel and Keith are pinned down, taking heavy fire. Cole takes a bullet to the temple, topples over backwards. Crash! A twig snaps behind them. Keith spins around and… Slice! In one swift, vicious move, a combat knife slashes deep into Keith’s neck and chest. He falls instantly. Angel turns to see the attacker, who is none other than Frederick Phelps. She fires off a few shots, peppering the trees behind him, but he swiftly takes cover behind. He then rushes towards where Marine One is idling nearby. He yells out to a scar-faced gunman that is in the pilot’s seat. “Let’s go!” But as he surges forward towards the craft, Angel comes running out of the tree line. Gunfire erupts all around her. She’s got no way to escape. But still she rushes toward Frederic, firing. The scar-faced gunman jumps out of the chopper and comes racing up behind Frederic. He and Angel squeeze their triggers at the same time! Blam! Blam! Two bullets fly through the air as Frederick hits the dirt. The bullets cross paths right over his head. One tears through the scar-faced gunman’s chest as the other rips through Angel’s midsection. Both fall to the ground in pools of blood.

Frederic rises to his feet, brushes himself off, grinning smugly. It seems like he can get through anything. But then… Bam! A rifle butt smashes into the back of his head. He crumples to the ground, motionless. Maggie glares down at him before quickly taking cover. Back inside the presidential cabin, Jack, Charles and Wilcox lead Hawkins and Lombard toward the door. When Jack hears gunshots, he stops for a second, but Charles nudges him and he focuses again. “We gotta find the bomb and…” speaks Jack. Lombard shakes his head. “No. There’s C-4 everywhere in this compound. They’ve got the whole place wired. If one bomb goes, the others follow. No way we could get to all of them.” “This isn’t a rescue mission anymore, gentlemen,” says Wilcox. “It’s an escape. Provide cover, and I’ll lead the president to Marine One.” The others nod, so Wilcox and Lombard take a position by the door. Lombard stops abruptly, gazing at Jack. “One second... I recognize you.” Jack grimly nods. “Probably got a security briefing with my picture on it.” Lombard shakes his head. “No, I met you in the White House.” Jack almost actually grins for a second, impressed by Lombard’s memory. “Yes, sir, you did.” Lombard then remembers the actual encounter. “You warned me about this.” Jack nods. “Wish I’d listened,” says Lombard. “Nothing personal, of course. In my position you never know who to trust.” And with that, Lombard makes a quick exit with Wilcox, hurrying toward the chopper. Jack’s expression glazes over as he withdraws into his own thoughts. “Never know who to trust,” he mutters to himself. He produces Spencer’s photo. Stares intently at Wilcox’s face surrounded by his father’s blood. “Never know who to trust,” he repeats, thinking. Charles gives him a inquisitive look and Jack groans in disgust. “It wasn’t just advice. It was a warning!” Jack flies out the door in a flash. As Wilcox and Lombard approach Marine One, Maggie emerges from cover. “I’ll provide cover!” Wilcox nods as he hurries to the chopper. They are more than halfway when Jack yells out. “Wilcox, stop!” Jack catches up to them, gun drawn. Wilcox freezes at the entrance of the chopper. He takes a defensive position, pulling a gun on the president’s head! “Well, lad. Looks like you would have made a decent detective after all. I almost regret not recruiting you like your father.” “He trusted you,” spits Jack, angry. “He didn’t know what he was getting into, and neither do you. We own this country, kid. And you’d be smart to stay out of our affairs.” Peter Phelps leans out of Marine One, nervously fingering a detonator. “Get your ass in here, Wilcox! You know I can’t fly this thing.” Wilcox takes advantage of the temporary distraction. He flings Lombard to the ground. He then takes a hasty shot at Maggie, hitting her in the side. Wilcox climbs in and positions himself in the pilot’s seat. Crack! Crack! Bullets hit the chopper as the rotors spin. The two look through the windshield at Charles and Hawkins and Lombard rushing toward them. “Take off... Now!” yells Phelps. On the ground, Maggie lies bleeding. Jack scurries over to her, cradles her head in his hands. “Maggie.” He clutches her tight. Lovingly. Presses his face against hers in a kiss. But Maggie breaks away long enough to tell him: “Get Wilcox!” Jack knows she means business, so he peels away and jumps back into action. The door to Marine One flies open and Hawkins reaches in, grabbing Phelps by the collar and throwing him out. Jack dives past them, attacking Wilcox. He hits him with the butt of his gun one, two, three, four times. Wilcox’s face goes bloody and he slumps against the side window. Looks lifeless. “Go on, play possum,” says Jack. “See if I care.” He punches Wilcox again. Behind them, Charles ushers Lombard into the back of the chopper. By the trees, Hawkins and Phelps wrestle, their bodies slamming to the ground. “Give it up, Hawkins!”

Hawkins rolls Phelps over, slams his face into the dirt. “What the hell are you doing this for? We were friends!” “Should’ve been me,” yells Phelps. “What?” “That pompous ass gets the big chair and all I got was your pity, your offer to stay on in the same lousy job I’ve had for four years.” Hawkins can’t believe it. Shakes his head, then remembers more details. “Why’d you have Donald William killed?” No answer. Hawkins slams Phelps’s nose against the ground. “Why?” “He was gonna blow the whistle on the entire organization,” answers Phelps. “But when your boy started nosing around, going to see him at home, it gave us the perfect patsy.” Hawkins is ready to slam Phelps’s face again when Phelps surprises him by lifting up quickly, the back of his head slamming into Hawkins’s nose. Hawkins falls backwards, blood pouring from his nostrils. “Don’t you see you can’t win?” yells Phelps. “It’s already started. Kicking my ass won’t do any good.” “Oh, I disagree. It’ll make me feel real good.” Hawkins lunges at Phelps and unleashes a devastating array of punches. Inside Marine One, Lombard studies the controls. “Anybody know how to fly this bird?” “I flew choppers in Desert Storm,” calls out Hawkins. Lombard turns and sees Hawkins supporting Maggie as they run toward the chopper. Phelps is crumpled on the ground behind them. “Then get your ass in here now!” A moment lat Phelps rustles and sees the group getting ready to take off. He rises to his knees and moves toward the chopper. Jack, inside the chopper, sees Hawkins climbing on board and passing Maggie off to Lombard. He stares at Maggie’s wound, and he doesn’t notice Wilcox opening his eyes beside him. No one does. Suddenly, Wilcox punches Jack in the face hard, and Jack falls backwards. But he’s not disabled for long and he surges forward, throwing all his weight into Wilcox, the two tumbling through the open side door. Marine One starts to float up into the air as Jack and Wilcox trade punches. Jack lands one. Wilcox lands one. Again and again. An even fight. Crack! A hard shot to Wilcox’s jaw and the man goes tumbling backwards. “Jack!” yells Charles. Jack turns, seeing the chopper hovering just overhead, Charles’s arm extended. He rushes over and jumps. Charles catches him by the wrist and starts to pull him up. But Wilcox grabs onto Jack’s legs! The chopper lifts into the air, with Jack hanging from the landing gear and Wilcox clutching Jack. Down below, Frederic comes to. He finds a rifle and takes aim at the chopper where Maggie and Charles both lean out the door, trying to reach for Jack. Bullets slam into the hull next to the door. “We’re taking fire!” yells Maggie. Charles pulls his gun and returns fire. Jack clings to the landing gear, weakened by his shoulder wound and burdened with weight as Wilcox climbs up his back. Maggie reaches out, but they’re too far. Jack stares up at her, losing his battle. Then, he spots something. “Maggie! Shoot for a bulls-eye!” Maggie follows his gaze and sees some extra tranquilizer darts strapped to her arm. She takes one. Wilcox’s face hovers just above Jack’s shoulder. The whole chopper wobbles and rotates - hardly a steady target. On the ground, Frederic takes a shot in the chest. He goes still. Peter Phelps inches past him, beaten and bloodied, moving slowly, the detonation device still in his hand. But then he runs out of steam. His hand falls slack and the detonator falls to the ground. He topples forward, right onto the detonator button! Beep, beep, beep… It sounds three alarms and then… Boom!

The presidential cabin explodes in a massive fireball! The main lodge explodes next, billowing up into the air, wicked orange flames licking the sky above. All around, buildings explode. Even the woods blow up, tree trunks and limbs flying everywhere. The flames engulf Peter and Frederic Phelps, burning them to a crisp instantly... disintegrating them. Marine One teeters over the exploding retreat, the fireballs edging up toward it as Jack and Wilcox dangle below. The chopper weaves out of control, unable to carry the dangling bodies. Maggie leans out the door, clutching her tranquilizer dart. Her blood loss and the overwhelming motion leaving her unsteady on her feet. She cringes. Takes aim. And throws the dart just past Jack’s head and sinks it right into Wilcox’s cheek! Wilcox lets out a pained roar. His fingers slip and he drops off Jack’s shoulders like a sack of bricks. He plummets into the flaming Hell below. “Hang on, Jack!” yells Charles. He pulls Maggie back into the safety of the chopper, then lunges out to reach for Jack. He struggles to lift him. Then another hand grabs Jack’s wrist. It’s Lombard’s. “We got you!” Lombard pulls with all his might. He and Charles hoist Jack up into safety as an explosive shockwave rattles the chopper and jolts them up above the rising flames. In the pilot’s seat, Hawkins finally gains control of the chopper and pulls back on the throttle, lifting Marine One up, up, up in the skies above. The legendary retreat is completely engulfed in flames, still burning and exploding as Marine One flies away to safety.

Epilogue Some Time Later Maggie rests peacefully in a small hospital room. She stirs from a sleep and finds Jack sitting at her side. His hand rests on her wrist. She smiles at the familiar contact. “I trust you got the word out?” Jack beams as he produces a Washington Post with a headline screaming: Secret Society Exposed After Camp David Assault. “I guess you could say that. You got a pretty nice write-up in here, you know.” Maggie playfully dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “You wanna drive yourself nuts with all that stuff, have at it.” Jack laughs. “Don’t encourage me. It’s nice to be vindicated once in a while.” There’s a knock at the door and Nancy tentatively enters. “Just stopping by to thank the woman who saved my son.” She takes a seat and smiles at Maggie. But her expression betrays a heavy heart. “How are you holding up?” asks Jack. Nancy’s voice trembles a bit, but she keeps her composure. “Doing my best, I suppose.” She hesitates for a moment before she resumes speaking. “Did you see him, before...” Jack nods. “Yes. And he never wanted to leave. He had to disappear to protect us.” Nancy smiles with relief as the tears start to fall. Jack holds her hand in his. “He saved us, Mom.” “I’m so sorry for your loss,” says Maggie. Wiping her face, Nancy produces her wedding ring from her handbag and slips it back on her ring finger. “Thank you, dear. But I feel like I finally got him back.” Nancy pats Maggie’s hand gently. “You’ve got a good partner, Jack.” “Actually, we’re not partners anymore,” says Jack, surprisingly. The women look to each other with curiosity. Jack can’t help but grin. “I got a new job.” Later, on a D.C. street, people line the street. They are waving flags, cheering, celebrating. A parade travels before them. The presidential motorcade rounds the corner and the crowd goes nuts. Inside the limousine, Lombard and Hawkins are in the back, looking out through the windows at the adoring crowd. “Nice turnout,” comments Lombard. Hawkins nods. “Everyone loves a hero.”

“I’m not a hero,” replies Lombard. “All I did was survive.” “I wasn’t talking about you,” says Hawkins with a coy grin. Lombard looks at him and follows his gaze, both men now looking through the opposite window. Outside that window, a Secret Service agent walks alongside the vehicle. Dressed in a black suit, a radio-com in his ear, and black sunglasses covering his eyes. It’s Jack. And, on the other side of the car, Charles. Both men protecting the president as part of his personal detail. The limousine rounds another corner, Jack and Charles moving with it, leaving this crowd behind. As the crowd disperses, a couple familiar faces appear. Maggie works crowd control. She smiles as she watches Jack hustle off alongside the motorcade, filled with pride. She turns, her grin proving infectious as she catches the eye of Nancy, who is beaming with pride as she turns and walks away, having seen who she came to see. As the crowd disappears, they clear the way for an unobstructed view of the most famous residence in the world... The White House. The End Did you like or love this story? If so, please leave a review. As an Indie author, I need all the help I can get, and any good review will help me keep on writing. Thanks…