by Paul Moxham
“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, 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. Then, 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 Amy buddy of mine. Hadn’t seen him in ages. I reconnected with him when I moved out here.”
“Does he live around here?”
“Loves 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 Frederick Phelps marching toward them, gun in hand.
“Don’t move!” shouts out Frederick.
Spencer makes a move toward Frederick, 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 Frederick, recognizing him. “Son of a bitch. How’s that Medal of Honor treating you?”
Frederick 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. Frederick steps forward and pistol-whips Spencer across the mouth. “On your knees!” he shouts, grimly smiling.
Hesitantly, Jack and Spencer kneel down. Frederick 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 Frederick. 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 Frederick, emerging from cover, cocking his gun.
He starts to squeeze the trigger... Crack! A bottle shatters and Frederick 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 one 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, 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 Frederick 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.
Frederick 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.
Frederick 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!
Frederick 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 fo
r 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 reins 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.
