Ameristocracy (5 page)

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.

Baltimore
,
Maryland
, Present Day.

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, 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,
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.”