by Paul Moxham
“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, 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.
Jack 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 Army, 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 will 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’ve gotta stop running. Bring yourself in.”
“It’s Frederick 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 crime scene 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 really 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 aged between twenty five and forty.
First up is Keith Hodges, camo-clad tough guy twirling a buck knife in his fingers. Then there’s Cole Davies, built from sheet metal, snarling lip, serious as a heart attack. Then Angel Diaz, who would be beautiful if she wasn’t so harsh. And then there’s the biggest hardass in the group, Luke Theodore, 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…
