Mandy wheeled up to the front of the van. “What are you talking about?”
Jacob kept his hands on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling like a sixteen year-old kid preparing for a drag race. The feeling was unexpected and strange. Being fully aware that emotions represented deep, hidden, insights, that sometimes remained buried underneath the plane of conscious thinking, Jacob took a few seconds to evaluate the sudden feeling of being sixteen. An image of a sixteen year-old kid flashed through his mind. “Some ride, huh, dad?” he heard a cool looking kid, dressed like a 1950's Greaser, speak. “This is a 1957 Chevy Street Shaker.” Edwin Green, dressed in a plain gray sweater, crossed his arms and studied a rusty old car dripping oil on his driveway. “What's your intention with this car, son?” Jacob beamed, ran a pocket comb through his thick hair, and then tried to be really cool. “She's not much to the eye now, but wait until I'm through. This baby will be ready to drag the best rides in town.” Edwin Green frowned. “Dragging has been outlawed,” he informed his son, looking up into a late evening sky, and shaking his head. “I've already bailed you out of trouble more than once, young man. I will not do it again.” Jacob grinned. “Someday I'll be bailing you out of trouble, dad,” he teased, and slapped Edwin on his arm. “Don't worry, Dad. I'll play by the rules. I always do. You raised me right.” Edwin looked into his son' eyes and saw a good kid. “Yes, I suppose I did,” he said. He tossed a critical eye at the old car junking up his driveway, and then walked inside a nice two story home. Jacob turned his attention to the Chevy Street Shaker and began running his right hand across the rusted hood. “You may look defeated right now, but wait until I get through with you. All it takes is a little fight.”
“Fight,” Jacob whispered. “All it takes is a little fight. That was always my motto.”
“What?” Mandy asked Jacob. “Please, speak up.”
Jacob saw the sixteen year-old kid continuing to pet a rundown old car as if the car were gold. “I made that car the best ride in the state of Virginia,” he whispered. “I rebuilt the engine with my bare hands, located vintage seats, the works.”
Jessica looked back at Mandy. Mandy made a confused gesture with her hands. “Jacob?” Jessica asked. “Are you okay?”
“I was free then,” Jacob told himself. “I was free to live...to be a man...to ride with the wind in my hair. No one controlled me with their ideas.” Jacob slowly turned his head and focused on Jessica's beautiful face. “I've always believed in freedom,” he expressed in a hurt voice. “Freedom to go to Church, pray in school, freedom of speech, to own a gun, to...live without government control.”
“I agree with those freedoms,” Jessica replied, carefully looking into Jacob's eyes. An inner war was taking place inside of the man's mind and heart.
Jacob lifted his right hand and ran it through his wet hair. “It's all about control,” he spoke in a sick voice. “Billions of people live on this planet, and a select handful of men, who have managed to form world governments, want to control every human being. They want to control their freedoms, what they think, how they think, what they believe.” Jacob shook his head in disgust. “Christians in the Middle East are being marched to their deaths in orange jump suits. Did you ever wonder where those orange jump suits come from? Ever wonder where all the guns and intelligence reports, all the acidic toys come from?”
“I have,” Mandy admitted. “I've always known the American Government created that ISIS terror group.”
Jacob grew silent for a minute. “Yes,” he finally spoke, “The CIA did create ISIS in order to disable the Middle East, and create a political hazard that would require change. The Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt is a prime example.” Jacob turned around and looked at Mandy. “Christians...Jews...are threats. Hitler, with the help of the Vatican and other nations I won't mention, tried to kill of the Jews. At the time, Roosevelt deliberately allowed the Japanese to attack Pearl Harbor. He needed a way to cheer America into a war, without appearing like a warmonger. The American people bought his sales pitch; hook, line and sinker and--” Jacob stopped talking. Why was he running his mouth to two strange women? Why was he voicing deep secrets that could get the two women killed? His mouth was allowing a deep-rooted frustration to allow foolish words to form. “I...my point of all this is that the fight for freedom has always been taking place, since the founding of our country. Men have always been trying to destroy our Republic. Why? Because once, long ago, honorable men did fight for freedom against the same ideas that are murdering our country today. The war has never ended.”
“You act as though the war is already lost?” Mandy asked Jacob.
Jacob placed his hands back on the steering wheel. “Perhaps it is.” he replied in a weak voice. “However, I can't give up on trying to repair my 1957 Chevy Street Shaker.”
“Your what?” Mandy asked.
“America,” Jacob clarified. He brought Mandy's van to life, and then looked at Jessica. “Better go find a place to sit down, Mrs. Mayes. We have a long ride ahead of us, and a long fight...a very long fight that we may not win.”
Jessica stared into Jacob's eyes deeply and intently, and found a man who understood what it felt like to constantly remain standing beside an open grave. “I suppose I should,” she agreed, and moved back toward a spare tire. Jacob waited until Jessica sat down before he got the van moving.
As Jacob got Mandy's van moving, Roger Alden received news about Wendy Cratterson. “I'll deal with Cratterson later,” he growled, staring a large flat screen television set mounted on a burgundy wall. Every bought-off news media outlet was flocking outside of the Whitfield County Jail, like hungry vultures. “Right now, it is believed that Jessica Mayes, the wife of Jack Mayes who died in a mysterious vehicle accident, is responsible for the murder of Mr. Walter Hicks. We're waiting for further reports from Sheriff Butler--” Roger muted the report and narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I will deal with Cratterson later. In the meantime, get me Senator Ammons on the phone right now!” he yelled. “Mrs. Mayes, you will be found. There is no escape.”
A few minutes later, Senator Ammons came onto the phone. “Yes, Mr. Alden?” she asked in an uncertain voice. “What can I do for you today?”
“You can tell me why you betrayed my trust!” Roger screamed into his cell phone. “You can tell me why you didn't contact me when Cratterson began stepping outside of the line! Sheila, you can tell me why I'm wasting my time to ensure your office remains successful!”
Senator Ammons felt fear enter her mind. “Mr. Alden, Wendy Cratterson has certain damaging information that can ruin my career, if made public. I was forced to use my contacts in the media to assist her.”
Roger gritted his teeth. “Senator Ammons, I want twenty-four-hour coverage on Jessica Mayes, is that clear? I want her photo plastered on every television screen across the world; every social media outlet there is. I want this woman turned into the biggest national circuitry threat this country has ever seen! Is that clear?”
“Uh...yes, Mr. Alden,” Senator Ammons answered in a startled voice, shocked to receive such an order. “I will make the proper contacts right this very minute.”
“Expect a file from me,” Roger informed Senator Ammons. “And Sheila, you better follow the orders in the file I'm sending you, down to the very letter, is that clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Alden.” Senator Ammons promised. “You can rely on my trust.”
Roger slammed down his cell phone and focused his eyes back on the flat screen mounted on the wall. “Yes, we are now at war, Mr. President, but I don't intend to lose. I will locate the virus Jack Mayes created, and take control of every world government. And when I do, you're a dead man. Right now, I can't risk killing you until I take the guns out of every home in America. Once I disarm the masses...” Roger narrowed his eyes. “There's a lot of work ahead,” he whispered. “Yes, a battle that I will not lose.”
Jessica Mayes had no idea that she was about to become the most wanted woman in th
e world.
Sample Story
The Missing One by James Kipling
ASIN: B06XBLRZ77
-1-
New York at night – a hive of motion, action, and preparation! Cars flew down the streets, patrons entered and exited trendy restaurants, theatre marques announced the newest attraction or show, men and women stumbled – laughing – from bars. Cleaning crews started at one the of the street, sweeping their way south, only to turn around and rake trash in the other direction the next day. Taxi drivers cruised for fares – young associates burned midnight oil in often-futile attempts to impress the boss.
All in the City That Never Sleeps.
The rich and powerful, ever fearful someone would try to take that they have, huddled in overpriced apartments behind alarmed doors. Opportunists slid down sidewalks, always on the lookout for an open door or an unlocked window. The streets reeked of money…power… desperation... sadness… success… failure… and crime.
And, that very night, well after the good and most of the bad had retired home for a restless night’s sleep, a gang of criminals were on the prowl.
The Manhattan air was still crisp – summer had not come. Tango Cash walked down the street with a swagger and thinking about his name.
Stupid…just stupid. Can’t believe my mom liked that stupid movie so much.
Tango’s mother had a thing for Kurt Russell. When she’d gotten pregnant by a man named Simon Cash, she insisted her son be named after one of her favorite Russell films – a 1989 “buddy film” with Sylvester Stallone entitled Tango and Cash.
Could be worse, he thought. She could have named he Hard Cash or Check Cash or worse, Johnny Cash after that cracker singer – I’d have killed myself.
A feral cat darted across his path. Tango kicked at it, missed, and dialed a number on his phone. “Jordy,” he said into the phone. “It’s time.”
“We’re on, boss.”
The line went dead.
Cash reviewed his plan – a scheme to steal as many ATMs as his gang could in one night. The operation was too big for Tango to trust to anyone else. He’d done most of the legwork himself. Hour upon hour of surveillance. He knew the machines he’d hit…when and how they were filled with cash (no use robbing an empty box) ...how they were attached to the walls of the bank. He’d also singlehandedly heisted the construction equipment he knew he’d need.
Fifteen, he thought. Fifteen machines. Around two hundred grand per machine. A cool three million for a night’s work.
Cash smiled and quickened his step.
The timetable was precise. Cash knew the restocking schedules. Lazy fools. They run the same route every night. I bet they’re supposed to change things up every night.
He’d spilt one million – the other two were for him. He’d done the work – he deserved the payday.
Tango checked the time. Once everything was prepared, an 18-wheeler would pick up the ATMs. Work fast…work quiet…and, since the alarms on the machines would be neutralized…get away before anyone knew what had happened.
His phone rang. and Tango jumped a little. So far, they had communicated through messaging to reduce the chances of listening ears. “What?” he said into the mobile, his voice a bark.
“I’m almost there, boss.”
“Good, I’m waiting.”
A smile broke the angry lines of his face and Tango ran until he was at the meeting point. The semi with the ATMs was supposed to be there in less than two minutes; they’d be gone before sunrise. Tango waited for a few seconds; then he heard the steady rumble of the truck.
“Everything okay?” he asked the man who opened the door for him.
“Everything’s okay, boss,” came the answer from inside. Cash climbed into the truck, closing the door behind him with a heavy pull. “We’ve got fake serial numbers on the machines back there,” the driver said.
Tango looked out over a sea of heavy gray tarpaulin. “They under there?”
“Safer than a nun’s virginity.” Two cars were in front – two trailed. Three guys rode with Cash.
Cash heard his mother’s voice in his head. “You’re too clever for your own good. You’ll end up in trouble.”
Doing okay now, Maw, he thought. Biggest score of my twenty-seven-year life!
“Come on, brothers, it’s time to live a little,” Tango shouted into the night, and his boys cried out in response.
“We’re rich now. Nothing is going to stop us from doing whatever we want.”
-2-
Nothing changed overnight. The city stretched its arms and came the life – the citizens of the light replacing the denizens of the darkness, but mostly doing the same things
Jimmy Nolan woke to the sounds of the city, still confused by his dream and feeling sore all over. It had been a long night for him, spending hours developing photos in his grandmother’s garage.
The twenty-one-year-old wanted nothing more than to dedicate his life to photography. But, no one seemed to believe him. Still, Jimmy had every intention of becoming famous and following his dreams.
“Jimmy, Jimmy…” his grandmother called from the kitchen, forcing him to hurry up with his shower and clothes.
“You took your time, coming down,” Mrs. Rebecca Nolan said when her grandson finally arrived for breakfast.
“I was up late last night,” Jimmy said, stuffing his mouth with pancakes. “I have some good shots.”
“Don’t you think it’s about time for you to consider your future?” his grandmother asked. “There are not a lot of successful photographers, Jimmy. Face it – find something stable.”
“It’d be nice if you’d at least look at my work.”
Grandma looked at a photo. “Pretty picture,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Get a job.”
“I will be a big fashion photographer, Grandma,” Jimmy said for the thousandth time. “I’ve told you already that nothing else interests me.”
“But, you should be practical…”
“I am, I assure you, I am practical. I have been taking photos, developing them, and then sending them to the biggest fashion houses. Soon, someone will notice me.”
“You know how much I love you, Jimmy.” The woman sat in front of him. “And I want you to be happy and to do what you love, but I want you also to have a good life. You need a reliable job.”
“Soon, Grandma, soon I will have all that,” the boy said, and smiled at her. “Soon, I will be a famous fashion photographer.”
Rebeca shook her head at his silliness and poured him another glass of coffee. She had been taking care of her grandson for years now; she knew how stubborn he could be. Like all grandparents, Rebeca wanted the best for her grandson, and if that meant crushing his fantasies, she was ready to do it.
Jimmy was still too young to understand how difficult life could be, and how cruel it was. She laughed and shook her head as he sped off into the city on his red bicycle. The boy had brought her a lot of joy, and Rebeca was going to be sorry to see him go his own way some day.
Jimmy Nolan was almost six feet tall, and he liked dressing in sporty, comfortable clothes. After finishing college, he had dedicated his time and energy to pursuing his dream of becoming a famous photographer. He had an analytical and witty mind that helped him survive in New York, and he could see things through a lens other people never imagined. He loved creating beauty.
As he pedaled, he reflected on his grandmother’s warning. I can get what I want. I know the business…I know photography. And, I’ll roll over anyone who gets in my fuckin’ way.
Jimmy laughed aloud. People told him he needed to watch his mouth – and to tone down a little. Maybe I should fuck…ah flippin’ try to be nicer.
He rode through the crowded streets of New York and saw nothing but beauty – even in the dirty sideways and dilapidated buildings. But, fashion captivated him. He never bypassed an opportunity to snap away at a cu
te ensemble or a fashion experiment.
His midnight project had been pieces of a big puzzle. After an afternoon of photographing people in the park, he spent the evening getting the finished photos just right. His portfolio was going to be impressive.
-3-
Of all his duties, Detective Clyde Davis hated dealing with families the most. Robbery, murder, mayhem…he could handle. Looking into the eyes of a devastated parent or a grieving spouse tore through his heart like a finger through wet tissue paper. It’s good news, he thought. Well…good news to a woman with a dead husband.
The 5”11’ detective drove slower than usual. He wasn’t looking forward to this.
Blessed with an analytical mind and a keen eye, Davis had shot up through the ranks. It wasn’t easy to become a detective at twenty-nine…twenty-nine and African-American…twenty-nine and African-American in the NYPD. He smiled.
“The women think I’m a stud…the men think I’m a bastard – I must be doing something right,” he said out loud.
He parked, waited, then hoisted himself out of the car. He smoothed his immaculate, black suit and walked toward the front door of 2146 Roswell with all the confidence he could muster. He saw the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance, hanging like a malicious reminder of everything he wanted to forget. Clyde took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
A middle-aged, African-American woman answered.
“Good morning, Detective,” she said.
“Good morning, Mrs. Warren. May I come in?”
He settled in the living room – she went to get coffee. Clyde was relieved there were no children at home. I guess you only get a few days off for a murdered dad.
Mrs. Warren sat. “How can I help you, Detective?”
“We have the man responsible for your husband’s death. I wanted to make sure you knew.”
“I heard through the grapevine,” she said. “But, it is gracious of you to make it official.”
The Accident Page 13
