League of American Traitors

by Matthew Landis

  Then water sloshed in his nose, and he started choking. He clawed at the seatbelt—what was he thinking?—but it was stuck. He kicked out, but his feet were lead.

  Then, suddenly, he was free—somebody had set him free. A hand fumbled around his waist. Jasper gasped at the pocket of air near the roof as somebody grabbed his ankle and pulled him under. He surfaced seconds later, thrashing like an idiot.

  “Stop.” Her voice was iron, like her grip.

  Jasper let himself be dragged to land, water flooding in his ears the whole way. His feet banged against the stony riverbed and he stumbled ashore.

  “You might be the luckiest person on this planet,” the woman said, panting.

  Jasper was on all fours, coughing up water. He squinted at the soaked EMT: twenty-something, pretty, and obviously in way better shape than he was. Brown hair turned almost black from the water brushed her shoulders.

  “Never had someone drive off the road right in front of our ambulance before,” she said, less iron in her voice this time. “Didn’t even have to turn the sirens on.”

  Jasper just sat there sucking in air. He was glad she’d saved him from an embarrassing death. What was he thinking, giving up like that?

  “Is he stable?” shouted a guy from the road. The woman gave him a thumbs-up. Another EMT was diverting traffic.

  She checked his pulse. “Can you remember what happened?”

  “The … brakes.” Jasper saw his stuff pop to the surface and float downstream. His clothes. The portrait. Gone. He had a hundred bucks in his pocket, but he’d stashed the rest in the glove compartment. “They wouldn’t work. I kept pressing them … but nothing happened. I couldn’t stop.”

  “That, I saw.” She moved a penlight in front of his eyes. “Brake lines in those older cars go all the time. The good news is you’re not still in it.”

  “Am I in shock?”

  “Definitely.”

  That made sense. The world seemed weirdly calm, even though everything had just gone straight to hell. “I feel like I’m floating.”

  “Probably concussed, too. We need to get you to a hospital.”

  She helped him climb the slope to the ambulance, her hand firmly on his bicep. Some cars slowed to watch, but the ambulance driver waved them on. He seemed angry. Jasper climbed in the back and lay down on the gurney. The guy fumbled with the straps like it was his first time. The ambulance started moving.

  A hard shiver jolted Jasper. The shock must’ve been wearing off. “Idon’t h-haveinsurance.”

  The woman put an IV in his arm. “Not a problem.”

  Jasper thought he saw the EMTs trade looks. Then, again, he was shaking like an earthquake. “Oralotof m-money.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the guy said. He flicked a syringe.

  “Whatisthat?”

  “To help you focus.”

  The man emptied the syringe into Jasper’s IV.

  A warm sensation spread across his chest and quickly escalated to burning. Jasper’s heart rate doubled.

  “Jasper, I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them.” The woman got two inches from his face. All iron again. “Did Cyrus Barnes give you anything at your father’s funeral?”

  “What?”

  She slapped him, hard. “The lawyer. Did he give you anything at the funeral?”

  Panic clawed at Jasper’s throat. How did this random lady know his dad was dead and that Cyrus Barnes had been at the burial?

  “Who are you?”

  She pulled his T-shirt up. The other EMT unpacked a defibrillator kit and pressed the shock pads to Jasper’s chest. A high-pitched whine started, then grew louder.

  “Answer the question.”

  Jasper gaped stupidly.

  “Hit ’im.”

  Jasper screamed. The charge felt like a grenade going off inside his chest cavity.

  “Did Cyrus Barnes give you something at your father’s funeral?” the woman yelled.

  “No!” Was that him wailing? Jasper’s mind spun. Were these people after Cyrus—and now him? What did Jasper have to do with any of this?

  She slapped him again. “Liar!”

  “His card … just his card.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he knew she didn’t believe him.

  The next shock lifted him off the gurney.

  “The research!” she screamed. “Where is it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We’ve got company,” the driver yelled.

  The woman peered out the back window and cursed. “Increase the voltage.”

  “He can’t take much more,” the guy said.

  “Do it!”

  “Hold onto something,” the driver shouted. The ambulance bucked to the right. Both medics fell as supplies rained down from the shelving units.

  “Time’s up,” the guy said.

  The woman groped her way back to Jasper’s side. “I’m not done with this traitor yet.”

  Both EMTs flew into the bulkhead as the ambulance slid to a stop. Jasper kicked against his restraints and wriggled free. He ripped the IV from his arm and scrambled for the door. His fingers were on the latch when he started choking.

  “WHERE IS IT?” The woman had wrapped the IV cord around his neck and wrestled him to the ambulance floor. “When I let go, you’re going to tell me.”

  Jasper’s vision narrowed. He clawed at her hands. It all seemed so incredibly stupid.

  My father’s research?

  IT?

  He was going to die in a state of total confusion.

  The ambulance doors swung open. A man with a shaved head and muscles everywhere pointed a silver pistol at the woman’s skull. “Let him go.”

  She tightened the cord. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He pistol-whipped her across the face. As she went limp, the cord loosened from around Jasper’s neck.

  The gunman dragged Jasper to the fake cop car from the funeral. A guy in the back seat with silver hair was staring out at him. Jasper strained his vision to make out the figure. Was that … the lawyer? Cyrus … Barnes.

  Cyrus cleared his throat. “I assume you are ready to discuss your father’s will, now?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jasper shoved himself up to sitting. He tried to say “yeah” but it came out all croaky.

  “Very good,” Cyrus said. He rolled down the window and whistled.

  The bald, retired-UFC-looking dude checked the woman’s pulse, then shot a hole in the ambulance tire. A tall black guy in jeans and a leather jacket Jasper hadn’t seen before held the EMTs at gunpoint as he backed slowly toward the Crown Vic and slid into the backseat. UFC took the wheel and reversed down the dirt road at a clip, cutting a sharp angle that sent the car into a one-eighty. Without taking his foot off the gas, he corrected the turn and tore down the winding road.

  “Assessment, Byron,” Cyrus said.

  The gunman took Jasper’s pulse and checked his pupils, just like the woman with iron hands and voice had. “He’ll live.”

  Around three minutes later, Jasper started crying.

  It was embarrassing to have a meltdown in front of these special-forces dudes, but whatever. He’d just almost been murdered.

  Byron handed Jasper a water bottle and went back to scanning the countryside.

  “You were following me,” Jasper said to Cyrus.

  “When I want something, I go after it no matter the cost. Your father and I had that in common.”

  “Really?”

  “There is much you don't know about him—information that may give your relationship context.”

  “Context?” The bottle crinkled as Jasper clenched his fist around it. “My dad pretended that my mom and I didn’t exist for seventeen years. The context of our relationship is that I hate him.”

  “And you might still feel that way when we’re finished. But at least you’ll have the full picture.”

  Jasper thought of the iron woman—how she’d called
him a traitor. And how she’d wanted his dad’s … research? Is that what Cyrus meant?

  Jasper recognized the on-ramp to I-95; his mom used to go this way to see her publisher in the city. “Where are we going?”

  “Philadelphia. My firm is headquartered in Center City.” Cyrus looked out his window. “Black van, Larkin. Four o’clock.”

  Byron shoved Jasper’s head down and drew his weapon. Jasper heard the soft click of the safety sliding off. His heart pounded. Larkin changed lanes and punched the gas.

  “Not following us,” Byron said, letting Jasper up.

  Thirty minutes later, Larkin exited toward I-676 and central Philly. He cut through the city, avoiding intersections that put them in standstill traffic for too long. At every light, Byron readied his pistol. Who wants me dead? Jasper thought. He wondered if Cyrus and the gunmen—whoever they were—had the wrong kid. It would be really awkward if all this were a giant mistake.

  But they’d obviously been following him for a while. And Cyrus didn’t seem like the kind of guy who made mistakes.

  Context.

  Logic said there was more to the story.

  It’s not like Jasper had a choice anyway.

  Near City Hall, Larkin turned into an underground parking garage and drove to a freight elevator. Byron did a sweep of the area and signaled the all-clear. Jasper followed Cyrus and Larkin inside. Byron shut the outer wooden slats before the elevator doors closed, and headed back to the car.

  Twenty floors up, the doors opened onto a large foyer. No big signs or marble counters, just a desk and lots of people buzzing around dressed in professional clothes. It was like a really nice law firm had once been here, but they’d moved out and left these people behind.

  “Counselor.” A woman in heels and a high-waisted skirt met them at the doors. Amber hair twisted in a tight bun. Jasper pegged her for thirty and way out of anybody’s league. “All go as planned?”

  “With a slight variation,” Cyrus said.

  “Lunch is ready.”

  “Jasper will take his in the conference room. I have some calls to make.”

  She pressed a finger to her Bluetooth headset. “Send lunch to the conference room. Forward the Counselor’s calls to me.”

  “Jasper, this is Sybil,” Cyrus said. “She is my paralegal. I consider her an extension of myself, as can you.”

  “Anything else, Counselor?” Sybil asked.

  “Please escort Jasper to the restroom. He requires a change of clothes.”

  Jasper followed her down a wing to a giant bathroom. He emptied his bladder and smelled himself. It wasn't good.

  There was a knock at the door and Jasper poked his head out.

  "Shower," Byron said, shoving a towel and clothes at Jasper through the opening.

  Jasper stripped down and looked in the mirror: bloodshot eyes, burn marks on his chest, a red stripe across his neck. A hunch that shrunk him below his normal six feet. Ribs poking out where they shouldn’t. He must have lost twenty pounds since his mom died. His blondish-brown hair was months overdue for a cut, the ends curling near his eyes.

  In the shower, he scraped off layers of river sludge and sweat. He took his time getting clean. Who was he that people wanted him alive, showered, and dressed? Traitor. Jasper shivered under the hot water. Where did the iron woman fit into this? And his father’s research, whatever that was?

  Unsure what to do with his dirty clothes, he shoved them in the corner, then put on a white dress shirt and dark skinny slacks. Apparently Cyrus wanted him to blend in with the employees. He slipped on the dress shoes but left the vest and tie on the rack.

  Outside, Sybil set a quick pace back down the hall Byron trailing behind them. “Much better, apart from the hair. A little long, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Jasper’s chest ached. His mom had always cut his hair to save money.

  Sybil left Jasper in a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows. If they were open, he could have pissed on City Hall. He ate a grilled-something sandwich and slurped down some soup, seated at a giant oval table, wondering if it’d be rude not to offer Byron any. Body-guarding had to be hard work.

  Sybil returned twenty minutes later. They snaked back toward the bathroom and then turned down a hallway that dead-ended outside of Cyrus’s office. The lawyer waved Jasper into a hilariously huge space—a studio apartment, really. It was mostly empty except for a desk, a bookshelf, and a few leather chairs, probably leftovers from the rich firm days.

  “Please, sit,” Cyrus said.

  Jasper settled on a chair edge. His knee bounced rapidly. The soup and grilled-something sandwich fought each other in his gut. He should have eaten slower.

  Cyrus sat opposite him. “This morning was rather traumatic for you. The last few months have been as well, I’m sure.”

  “I think that’s an epic understatement.” Then it hit Jasper. “My dad was in the mafia, wasn’t he?” It was logical—the long absences, the drinking. “And you’re the mafia lawyers. And that lady was with another mob family. They wanted to whack me because my dad ratted somebody out.”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  It had been worth a shot.

  “Jasper, did you go to public school?” Cyrus asked.

  “Private.”

  “Did you have many friends?”

  Jasper shrugged. “Sure.”

  “They came over to the house. Stayed the night?”

  “I usually went to their places.”

  “Why?”

  “My dad was weird about people coming over.”

  “What else was he weird about?”

  “Me having a phone. Social media. Getting my license.”

  “Your father was against all of these?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you find that strange?”

  “I found it ironic. The only part of parenting he wanted was the not-letting-me-do-stuff bit.”

  “Did your mother ever tell you why he acted that way?”

  “His job, or something. All the sleazy people he met selling medical supplies.”

  “I see.”

  Jasper didn’t like that answer—too leading. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m trying to point out that your father went to great lengths to keep you secluded.”

  “Him being a weirdo doesn’t explain why some random lady just tortured the crap out of me.”

  “True enough.” Cyrus stood up and got a folder from his desk, then handed it to Jasper. “Her name is Elsbeth Reed.”

  Jasper examined a grainy picture. She looked different without the EMT gear, but the photo had captured the same pyscho, dead-eyed stare. “So obviously you know who she is.”

  “Elsbeth is the fifth-generation descendant of Joseph Reed—George Washington’s right-hand man during the American Revolution. She hates you because your ancestor betrayed hers.”

  “Which ancestor?”

  Cyrus adjusted his frameless glasses. “Benedict Arnold.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jasper had a flashback to AP US History. “The guy who switched sides to help the British?”

  “Yes.”

  “The traitor.”

  “The same.”

  “I’m related to him.”

  “You are his sole surviving heir.”

  Jasper waited for more. The lawyer said nothing. “That’s kind of a letdown.”

  “Is it?”

  “Are you sure you’re not in the mafia?”

  Cyrus did that throat-clearing thing. “Quite.”

  “I’m just saying the mafia makes a lot more sense than all this happening because I’m related to some guy who betrayed America two hundred years ago.”

  “Two-hundred and thirty-seven years.”

  “Right…. See, this is my point. The Revolution is ancient history. There is no way that anybody cares about what some guy did that long ago. Aren’t we best friends with England now
? I mean, we joke about their teeth but you can get fish and chips anywhere.”

  “Arnold’s treason still enrages the True Sons of Liberty—the descendants of America’s Revolutionary generation,” Cyrus said. “To them, his treachery lives on through you.”

  Jasper rubbed his temples. Arnold’s treason. True Sons of Liberty. Somewhere, Nicholas Cage was having the last laugh.

  “You have to get how stupid this sounds. I’m not trying to be difficult—you saved my life. And you gave me these really nice clothes. But, come on.”

  “Three months ago, your father informed me that he believed he was being followed. I had Larkin tail him.” Cyrus motioned to the folder.

  Jasper pulled out a still from a security camera. People stood in line at a desk with luggage stacked in front of it.

  “These pictures are from the lobby of your father’s hotel, taken the night he drowned. Please note the figure ducking into the stairwell.”

  Jasper squinted.

  And then he shivered so hard it must have looked like a muscle spasm.

  The iron woman.

  “Are you saying—” The room tilted for a second. “What are you saying?”

  “I believe she murdered your father because she didn’t get what she wanted. Then she tried to claim it from you.”

  “The research?” Jasper raised a hand to his neck again. “It? But I don’t know what it is.”

  Cyrus went to his desk and paged Sybil. “We are about to find out.”

  A minute later, Larkin and Byron wheeled in a slate-colored safe that came up to Jasper’s chest when he stood up to examine it. It was old and heavy—the kind you needed explosives to break into. For this one, maybe a rocket launcher.

  “What’s in it?”

  Cyrus handed Jasper a leather-bound folder. “Your inheritance.”

  Jasper stumbled through the first paragraph of the single page—all clauses and compounded references to the Testator (his dad) and the Executor (Cyrus).

  “Article three,” Cyrus said.

  Jasper moved down the page:

  I devise, bequeath, and give to my son, Jasper Mansfield, all my research contained within the safe residing in the basement vault of the League of American Traitors headquarters.

  “What’s the League of American Traitors?”

  “A collection of families whose ancestors ended up on the wrong side of American history. Revolutionary traitors such as Arnold.”