

This book is a work of fiction inspired by true events.

The Syndicate: Operation Valiant Exodus Copyright © E. Clay First Edition 2016

New Paradigm Publishers: All rights reserved

ISBN (eBook): 978-0-9971954-1-5  
ISBN (paperback): 978-0-9971954-0-8

Conversion to eBook by www.wordzworth.com

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by photocopying or any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

This book was reviewed by a designated representative of the US Department of Defense on 13 January 2016 prior to publication.

# DEDICATION

This book was inspired largely by the tragic deaths of Sandra Bland, Trayvon Martin, and the victims of the Orangeburg Massacre. Also, I felt compelled to condemn the physicality used when detaining young teenage girls and the elderly. Please read the story of William Wingate.

This book is dedicated to their memory.

# CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 Queen of Hearts

Chapter 2 The Green Book

Chapter 3 The Color of Ink

Chapter 4 White Collar Offense

Chapter 5 Agent of Influence

Chapter 6 Active Shooter

Chapter 7 (Nancy With Attitude)

Chapter 8 Pic of the Weak

Chapter 9 The Good Shepherd

Chapter 10 Inciting Chaos

Chapter 11 ... and the Light was Good

Chapter 12 DNR (Do not Relinquish)

Chapter 13 Anatomy of a Nightmare

Chapter 14 Sexual Reeling

Chapter 15 The Russian Connection

Chapter 16 Assassins Credo

Chapter 17 Threat Advisory: SEVERE

Chapter 18 The Majority Rules

Epilogue

Author's Corner

# PROLOGUE

21 JANUARY 2017

As the US celebrated its first woman President, the country mourned the disintegration of race relations after a series of landmark court decisions that seemed to shield the law enforcement community. Mistrust and violence reminiscent of the Jim Crow era reigned in the South and particularly in a small Texas town called Blythe. Unprecedented police heavy-handedness in urban areas across the country was rampant. Black militant and white supremacist rhetoric had become the dominating themes in social media. The NAACP had shed the African American classification in favor of _Black_ ; while South Carolina had readopted the confederate flag. Disenfranchised blacks exacted their rage on opulent, gated white communities while white Aryan groups targeted historic black churches.

Billionaires had no vision and law enforcement had no answers. America was sick. Enter a woman of influence, a man of faith and an officer of the law: a formidable trio whose love for their country would help put America back on the trajectory of greatness.

The biggest con in the history of the US was about to go down, and no one would notice.

# CHAPTER 1

## Queen of Hearts

8 MAY 1968,

BLYTHE, TEXAS

CHECKMATE," CLAY'S DAD AFFIRMED as he took his young son's rook with his queen cornering the vulnerable king.

"Dad, I don't like chess; I never win. And none of my classmates in first grade even know how to play."

"Clay, the reason why you have not mastered chess is because you fail to protect your king. To protect your king you must use all of your pieces strategically, especially the most powerful piece − the queen."

Clay crossed his arms and sighed in defeat.

"Son, have you ever wondered why the most powerful chess piece is the queen?

"No. Why is that, Dad?"

Rev. Thompson picked up the shiny pearlescent queen with respect and admiration.

"You see Clay, the queen is recognized for her unwavering loyalty. Sometimes she is sacrificed to protect the king."

"Initially, the queen was not as powerful when the game was first invented in Asia."

"One day, I'm gonna beat you, Dad."

Clay's dad responded, "Life is like a game of chess. In battle, defeating the adversary is not the end game. You must influence him to claim victory. The queen represents just that: influence. A woman's imagination combined with her sway can change the world. Remember that."

Father and son cleared the chess board from the dinner table.

"Dad, why isn't the president of the United States a woman then?"

"The office for the leader of the free world should not be inherited by the most qualified white man but the most capable person, be it man or woman. Someday it will happen, I just hope I live long enough to see that day."

# Dinner with the Thompsons

"Thank you Lord for this food and may it provide us with nutrition. Bless us in our new home and may we prosper as a family here."

Rev. Thompson concluded his prayer with, "And one special request, Lord: bless our leaders in government. Guide them and show them the way in these tough times. Amen."

Rev. Thompson (affectionately known as Rev. T), his lovely wife Christine and their son, Clay began to feast on a well-prepared Sunday dinner. However, Christine seemed slightly perturbed.

Rev. T immediately noticed and while pouring gravy over the mashed potatoes, inquired, "What's on your mind, Hun?"

She sighed. "You asked the Lord to bless our leaders but you didn't ask him to bless our unborn child. I'm due at the end of the month."

Rev. T leaned over and kissed his lovely bride, then rubbed her protruding stomach.

"Sweetheart, I pray for our daughter every day without ceasing. You know that, Pumpkin."

Clay Jr. rolled his eyes and folded his arms.

"Oh great, I'm gonna get a sister. How do you know it's a girl?"

Christine beamed as she responded,

"I just know. I just know it. She's very special, but I only have one first born," she assured him.

"If she doesn't work out can we send her back, Mom?"

Later that night, Clay reveals to his parents the challenges he faced in the new school and they convened in the living room to discuss the matter.

"Dad, Mom? I have something to tell you. I wish I was white. I wanna be white, like Dylan in my class," Clay Jr. revealed with a heavy heart.

Rev. T and Christine immediately glanced at one another in bewilderment.

Christine asked Clay to sit on her lap.

"Honey, God doesn't make mistakes, you know that. Okay, lil man, tell your dad and I why you want to be white."

Clay's eyes began to well up and tears started streaming as he spoke.

"I don't have any friends. No one will play with me because I'm ... because I'm different. If I was white, maybe I wouldn't have to play all by myself during recess and lunch. Could we go back to Chicago? I had friends there."

Christine cradled her son tightly as she struggled to hold her tears back.

"Oh, baby ... you're not the only one who feels out of place. It's hard on me too, my lil man."

Rev. T understood the real challenges he and his family faced being the first family of color to move into the town of Blythe. He held his wife and son and tried to offer assurances.

"I know hard times are coming. But the Lord brought us here for a reason. People fought hard for us, good white people, to get this house. God plus one is a majority; with Him on our side, who can be against us?"

Blythe's record of systemic discrimination in hiring practices, housing and denial of service to minorities made national headlines. An unapologetic press conference by the local mayor had hit a nerve across mainstream society − a society that had slowly been embracing a more progressive stance on racial equality. The leadership of the Christian Diocese had taken notice and made a bold and controversial move. After much debate, it was decided the Rev. Thompson would replace the retiring Rev. Peterson as Head Pastor of one of the largest white churches in Blythe. The local housing commission could not block residency as the residence belonged to the Church. Property managers and real estate agents that often worked in concert to keep minorities out were powerless and frustrated. In a fiery press conference the mayor openly accused the Church of meddling.

That night Rev. T and his family slept soundly. Unfortunately, many neighbors were less than happy living next to a family of color. One family in particular was more than willing to make the sentiment clear, crystal clear.

Rev. T picked up Clay Jr. from school in a brand new 1968 Mustang.

"How ya doing, young man!" Rev. T said, flashing his million-dollar smile.

"Dad, what happened to our Volvo?"

Clay Jr. placed his books on the back seat and strapped himself into the passenger seat.

"Well, it was a choice between a Pontiac Le Mans and this Mustang. I think it was the red interior that sold your mom. Whatever your mom wants, she gets. She's persuasive like that."

"Speaking of which, today we're going to pick up her birthday present. She's 25 today."

Clay Jr. became excited and immediately thought of ice cream and cake for dessert.

"Dad, since I have a pet, maybe we should get Mom one. What about a puppy?"

Rev. T. noticed the stares from the all the pedestrians that literally stopped in their tracks as he drove by. He sighed with unease before refocusing on his son's request.

"Clay, we need to have a talk about the pet you brought home from camp last weekend."

"You mean Timmy? He's cool," Clay Jr. said.

"I'm afraid ... your mother ..."

"Yes, Dad?"

"Well, it's a snake. And it's kinda long."

"I know. My counselor at camp said snakes only eat, like, once a month. I promised Mom I'd use my allowance to buy his food."

Rev. T struggled to break the news to his son.

"Clay, well your mom ... ah, uhm ... was giving Timmy a bath in the back yard. And ... and Timmy ran away."

Clay looked at his dad and frowned.

"But Dad, snakes don't have legs."

Clay Jr. remained silent. He continued to stare out the window.

Rev. T planned to offer solace to his young son, which would come in the form of a German Shepherd puppy. Rev. T would make good on that promise by the weekend.

# CHAPTER 2

## The Green Book

REV. T AND HIS son browsed the electronics aisle of the local TV and stereo shop to collect Christine's gift.

The manager stealthfully trailed their movement from the opposite aisle. He lost the pair until he did an about-face. He nearly ran over Rev. T.

"Excuse me; I'm here for the 21-inch Panasonic color television set."

The manager adjusted his bifocals.

"Boy, deliveries be around the back," the old man replied.

Rev. T restrained his frustration.

"My name is the Rev. Thompson. I am here to purchase."

"Sorry, we don't do lay-aways. This is a cash-only establishment."

Rev. T reached for his wallet and peered into it. "I think I have more than enough," he said confidently.

The suspicious store manager squinted and shook his head.

"Follow me. You must be that new negro in town everybody's talking about."

"Yes, this is my son, Clay Jr."

Rev. T marveled at the state-of-the-art technology in television.

"Dad, what's wrong with our TV at home?"

"Clay, nothing at all; it's an old black-and-white. We're giving that away to the Salvation Army. This one's color and there's a record player inside."

Rev. T noticed two uniformed police officers enter the store. The pair looked around before spotting Rev. T and his son.

"Cecil, is everything alright over there?" The senior officer asked.

The store manager nodded quickly then delivered a brief sales pitch. He turned on the TV.

Rev. T became suspicious of the two men in uniform and spied them out of the corner of his eye. They walked right behind him. Clay Jr. was unaware.

_Click_. The TV came on.

# Newscast

"Breaking News. Channel 2 News here. We're going live to Orangeburg, South Carolina, for the trial of the century. All eyes are on the verdict, four years after the Civil Rights Act."

"Thanks, Janice. Yes, we are live and the verdict has been announced. It is pandemonium in Orangeburg and negros have come from all over the state to witness the judicial process unfold."

# Back at the TV and Stereo shop

A police officer advanced forward and turned the volume up. A small group of patrons formed behind Rev. T and his son. They awaited the verdict of the nationally sensational trial.

The newscast continued.

"Janice, the judge excluded press reporters from inside the court room, we are waiting in anticipation ... wait! Here comes the lead defense attorney for the nine police officers!"

The defense consul stood atop of the stairs. He addressed the gauntlet of news reporters below him.

"Today is a great day for South Carolinians. Today justice was tested and it prevailed. All nine officers were acquitted of the charge _using excessive force_ ," he said with raised hands, looking left to right and back again.

Rev. T hung his head.

"Lord, Lord, first King and now this," he uttered quietly to himself.

A light applause was heard from some patrons behind him.

# Courthouse Orangeburg, South Carolina

Scores of negros joined hands and sang the spiritual _We Shall Overcome_. Many were in tears and on bended knee.

The news reporter engaged the chief consul.

"Sir, prominent journalists in the north are referring to the event as the Orangeburg Massacre. Of the 150 negro protestors in front of the bowling alley none were armed yet police fired indiscriminately into the crowd after a rock was thrown. Your comments?"

"My clients saw an angry mob out for blood. They feared for their lives and had every right to defend themselves."

The reporter pressed on. "Court records indicate that most of the 26 victims were shot in the back or in the soles of their feet indicating that they were running away. Your response?"

"The jury took only two hours to reach a verdict in a complex case. What does that tell you?"

# Back in Blythe

The other police officer emerged from the crowd, turned off the television and dispersed the patrons. He then engaged Rev. T.

"Hey, boy. You surprised by the verdict?

Rev. T grabbed his son by the hand. He responded sternly, "I'm the Reverend Clay Thompson. And yes I was surprised by the verdict.

"I'm surprised it took two hours."

Rev. T paid for the TV and arranged for delivery.

"Clay, your mother doesn't know about the TV so don't mention it until after dinner. Okay? Tonight we're dinning out."

"Of course, Dad. It's a surprise. Wonder if our neighbors have a color TV? Are we rich, Dad?"

"No. We are blessed by His riches. But it pays to be kind. I showed love to a complete stranger one rainy night. Always be kind to strangers, you never know ..."

Clay sensed there was a story behind his dad's comments. Rev. T was more than happy to reminisce.

"Before you were born I was late to my high school senior prom. Your mother was my date, she was only 16 then. I had a good reason for being late. One the way I saw an old white lady broken down on the side of the freeway. She was distressed as she'd been there a while. She was only a few exits away from home so I took her home. She asked for my name and address. I didn't think anything of it at the time. Five years later she passed away. She named me in her will. That woman was the wife of a famous record producer back in the fifties. She never forgot that night."

Christine pulled the kitchen curtains back, smiling from ear to ear as her young husband and their son drove up. Clay ran into the house.

"Mom, Mom! Guess what we got you for your birthday!"

Clay Jr. hugged his mom excitedly.

"Oh, is it my birthday today?" she asked in jest.

"Yes, we got you a color TV."

Rev. T, not pleased, just shook his head and gave his son a stern look.

"Honey, did you hear about the verdict?" Rev. T asked.

"Yes. Aunt May called and told me. Baby, when will things get better? I don't want my babies growing up in a world that judges based on color."

Christine removed her husband's coat and hung it up.

"Chris, remember what our old pastor used to say?"

Christine quoted him verbatim. " _Those who have no patience, ultimately become patients_."

The Thompson family adjourned to the living room to relax.

Christine sat on her husband's lap and whispered into his ear.

Rev. T agreed. "Yes, I think he's ready for the talk. Better sooner than later."

Clay Jr. overheard.

"I can hear you. Is this the sex talk?"

Rev. T responded, "No. This is more important. Clay, sit down."

Clay sat on his hands on the opposite couch.

"I really need you to pay attention and remember what I'm going to say for the rest of your life."

"Okay, Dad."

"Clay, whenever a police officer addresses you, you must always be respectful and never give him a reason to harm you. Always address him as 'Sir'. Always! You have to look him in the eye. People that avoid eye contact appear suspicious, especially negros. Always obey his instructions and always have your hands where he can see them. And one more thing ..."

"What's that, Dad?"

"If a police dog chases you, find the nearest car, jump on the hood and wait for the policeman."

The Thompson family prepared to celebrate Christine's birthday in town. Christine was deciding on a place to dine.

"Hun, I've got a taste for I'd like to dine at Sophia's but it's not listed in the Green Book."

Rev. T picked out a matching navy blue handkerchief to go with his new suit.

"We'd better call first. I'd like to avoid any embarrassing awkward moments if we can, especially tonight."

Christine dialed the restaurant.

"Hi, my name is Christine and I'd like to know if your restaurant serves negros."

The manageress responded, "Not yet, Suga. But I reckon we will at some point, maybe in the New Year. Could I interest you in our delivery service? I think I could bend the rules a bit."

"No thank you, Ma'am."

Christine let out a big sigh of disappointment.

Rev. T kissed her on the cheek and dialed her second choice, which was listed in the Green Book.

"Good afternoon, this is the Rev. Thompson. Is this a whites' only establishment?"

"It's not?"

Rev. T gave the thumbs-up.

"Oh, that's wonderful. I'd like to make reservations for three please at seven tonight," he said, elated.

"inaudible."

Rev. T responded, "Alright. I understand. In that case I'd like to cancel. Thank you for your time."

Christine stopped combing her son's hair.

"Babe?"

Rev. T loosened his tie and took a seat. He became trancelike.

"Babe? What's going on?"

"Honey, I refuse to take my family to restaurant where we can't sit where we want. I won't do it."

Rev. T reached for the Green Book and was ultimately successful in finding a negro-friendly Chinese restaurant.

After multiple servings of seafood Lo Mein and Wonton soup, the uniformed waiter asked to clear the plates. Christine soon realized she has been cheated out of her fortune cookies.

Her loving husband interjected, "You don't believe in Chinese superstitions, do you Babe?"

"Of course not, I believe in the Bible ... but ..."

"But what?"

"Well, they always have such positive messages."

Meanwhile Clay Jr. was drawing images on his napkin.

Rev. T requested the check from the manager. Christine requested two fortune cookies.

"Mom, I don't like fortune cookies; they taste nasty," Clay Jr. responded with a frown.

"Atta boy, Clay," his dad said.

An old man returned with a single fortune cookie on a tray and placed it on Christine's napkin. He bowed his head slightly. He then winked before walking off.

"Since there is only one cookie, I will give it to my unborn child. I wonder what her fortune is?" she said, making a face at her non-believing husband.

"What's it say, Mom?"

Christine read it. She looked confused. "This is unusual. Never read one with a message like this one before. It says ... _A clever woman can bring a nation to its knees_."

# CHAPTER 3

## The Color of Ink

ONE WEEK LATER,

RAY ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

THE ASSISTANT PRINCIPAL CALLED a meeting with the Thompsons. Rev. T and Christine patiently waited outside her son's home room class until they were summoned.

"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. Please have a seat. I'm Mrs. Gidden, the assistant principal here at Ray School, and this is Mrs. Towles, your son's math teacher. We have a couple of concerns regarding your son, Clay."

Rev. T and Christine were seated. Christine nervously reached for her husband's hand.

Rev. T sighed as he stroked his neatly groomed sideburns.

"What seems to be the problem?" Rev. T asked.

The assistant principal whispered to her colleague and they decided to address the problem away from school first.

"We are aware that your son is being bullied after school on his way home. We will try our best to guarantee his safety during school hours while he is on these grounds, but we cannot control incidents beyond that."

Christine gasped.

"But he's never said a word. And there are no signs of visible bruises anywhere on his body."

The assistant principal continues. "Sometimes the most serious bruises are the psychological ones. It seems the ringleader is one of the more popular boys in his class, Aaron Foster. In fact, according to our school records, he's one of your neighbors."

Rev. T slowly stood and approached the window watching the kids during their recess. He spotted his son sitting on a bench alone, watching other kids playing and laughing.

"Is that Aaron Foster, the one with the reddish hair?" Rev. T asked, pointing.

The pair was quite surprised by his intuition. Rev. T looked for confirmation but their demeanor validated his suspicion.

"This is unacceptable. Maybe I should address the parents," Rev. T suggested.

"Be careful. The father is a police officer and he's ..."

"Understood. I've dealt with that type most of my life. Maybe I will pick my son up after school. I can adjust my schedule."

Christine faced her husband and nodded with approval.

Rev. T and his wife rose and thanked them for their concern.

The math teacher stood and requested they be reseated.

The dialog turned personal.

"Excuse me, but there is one other issue which I need to raise that I am not happy about."

The tone in her voice raised Christine's eyebrows.

"And what might that be?"

"Well, your son has been caught cheating in my class and I will not stand for it."

Rev. T noticed his wife becoming agitated so he responded to the accusation.

"Mrs. Towles. Our son was an A student in math at his former school in Chicago. Math is one of his strengths. What proof do you have of my son cheating?

"Mr. Thompson, the educational requirements for colored schools is a farce. Look at this."

Mrs. Towles presents a folder to the couple. Her condescending tone grated on them.

"I see two math tests here. One belongs to my son. So what?" Christine replied.

Mrs. Towles resented being challenged.

"So what? I'll tell you so-what. The answers are exactly the same, even including the textual explanations. Verbatim. That means word-for-word. That's the so-what."

Christine's' eyes were filled with anger. She folded her arms and rocked back and forth, stewing in restraint.

"So that's your proof ? Maybe, this Robert kid copied off my son's paper. But I'm sure that never crossed your mind."

Mrs. Towles burst out in laughter, placing her hand across her chest. Her outburst even surprised the assistant principal.

"Are you suggesting a white child copied the answers from a colored boy? Why, that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. You can't possibly believe that."

Rev. T stood and walked towards the classroom desks.

"My son sits here. Where does this Robert fella sit?"

Mrs. Towles failed to respond. The assistant principal answered instead. "Robert sits there." She pointed.

Christine responded. "Behind my son? My son sits in front of Robert and you accuse him of cheating? That makes no sense whatsoever."

Voices become elevated and the assistant principal offered a suggestion.

"We will move Clay close to the window away from Robert. Problem solved. I think that does it. Thank you so much for your time Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. We'll keep in touch, okay?"

Tempers started to simmer down. On the way out, Mrs. Towles asked a personal question.

"Mr. Thompson. What is wrong with the term colored or negro?"

Rev. T and Christine turned around.

"I beg your pardon," Rev. T. responded.

"Some of you people are going around calling yourself black. That's just awful. Why would you want to be called black?"

She continued, "Black is the absence of light. Black is the color of this ink stain on my blouse. I find it absolutely appalling."

"So what do you want to be called?" she asked.

Rev. T looked down and placed his hands in his pockets. He advanced a few steps towards her. Mrs. Towles becomes slightly uncomfortable and inched backwards.

"Mrs. Towles, Mrs. Towles," he sighed. "I see your point. Yes, I do," he said, stroking his mustache.

"But there is another way of looking at it. That ink stain on your blouse. It's still just ink. But it's not welcomed where it lies. But one thing's for sure, wherever ink lies it will leave a lasting impression. Kinda like a legacy. And ... no matter how much you want the ink on your blouse to go away. Guess what? It will not. So, I don't think I'm going to mind being called black."

Rev. T concluded, "So, you've asked me what I want to be called. Well, that's easy. Call me Reverend Thompson. Good day, ladies. Let's go Chris, honey."

# After the last school bell

Rev. T pulled up to the school grounds only to find a small crowd encircling and taunting his son. His paternal instincts kicked in and he came to a screeching halt on the opposite side of the street.

"Hey! What's going on there!" he said as he slammed the car door shut and marched toward the crowd.

"Dad!" Clay Jr. shouted back in relief.

Most kids ran away with the exception of a very cocky redheaded seven-year old. He began to kick Clay Jr.'s books that were strewn on the ground.

Rev. T stepped in between the two boys.

"Are you alright, son?"

Clay Jr. nodded.

Rev. T slowly turned around and faced his son's antagonist.

"You must be Aaron Foster," Rev. T said, pointing at the kid.

The young punk advanced toward Rev. T defiantly.

"Yes, I am. And if you lay one finger on me I will have my father throw you in jail. He's a police officer."

Rev. T is unmoved.

"Well, then you should know better. Shame on you. Listen and listen carefully," Rev. T said calmly.

"Keep your hands off my son!!!" he growled.

The bully wilted and ran away, crying.

"I'm telling my dad. I'm telling on you!"

Rev. T knelt down and wiped the tears from his son's face. He lovingly embraced him.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Son."

"I just want to be white," he sobbed.

Rev. T wiped a tear from his eye and looked toward the sky.

"Why Lord, why me? Why my family?"

After a toy spree at Toys'R'Us, father and son entered the house in a chipper mood, putting the incident behind them. They were greeted at the door by Brutus, Clay Jr.'s new German Shepherd puppy. Rev. T strolled into the kitchen and noticed a freshly baked apple pie.

"Hey, Hun! We're home. I guess I know what's for dessert."

The loving couple embraced with a passionate kiss.

Christine removed her husband's coat and relayed news of some neighborly hospitality.

"After I returned home from shopping I saw this picnic basket with an apple pie inside. Maybe the neighbors are starting to warm up to us. Or at least one is," she laughed.

Rev. T stopped in his tracks and did a double-take.

"Sweetheart, we aren't in Chicago anymore. Who knows what's in that pie? There are some people in this town who wish us ill will."

"But babe? Surely, there has to be at least one kind soul in Blythe."

Rev. T grabbed his wife's hand and stared into her brown eyes.

"I'm sure you're right. But, I can't take that chance just yet."

# 4:00 a.m.

Nature called and Rev. T sleepily walked to the bathroom in his robe and slippers. One the way he noticed some of the pie had been eaten. He panicked.

"Lord Jesus!" Noooo!"

He ran to his son's bedroom, distressed.

"Clay, wake up. Please wake up, Son."

His son lied there motionless.

"In the name of Jesus, wake up, please!" he pleaded.

Rev. T feared the very worst. Clay Jr. was unresponsive.

Awakened by her husband, Christine frantically grabbed her robe and then raced to Clay's bedroom. She turned on the light and inquired, "Babe? What's wrong with our son? Please tell me ... something."

Rev. T's eyes streamed with tears.

"Our son ...," he sniffed "... ate the pie and he won't wake up," he said sorrowfully.

He checked his pulse.

Clay Jr. yawned. "No I didn't. Mom said no," he said groggily.

Rev. T hugged his son in relief and sighed. "Son, don't do that to me. You scared me."

Christine sat on the bed and stroked her son's forehead.

Immediately, an excited ten-pound puppy jumped on the bed, his face smothered in pie crust.

Rev. T stroked Brutus' head.

"Well, if he makes it through the day, I guess there is at least one kind soul in Blythe."

# CHAPTER 4

## White Collar Offense

KNOCK, KNOCK.

Christine opened the door and a sweet, seven-year old with jet-black, wavy hair stood there with her hands behind her back.

"Yes, may I help you," Christine said with a smile.

"Can Clay come out and play?"

Christine welcomed the family's first guest.

"Which Clay? There's two that live here," she replied with a smile.

"Uhmm, the short one."

The girl shifted from side to side, looking up.

"Come on in. My name is Mrs. Thompson. What is yours?"

"My name is Leslie."

"Clay Jr. you have a visitor," Christine called out.

Clay Jr. entered the living room and was surprised to see one of his schoolmates. She was white.

"Clay, you and Leslie can go out but I need you to stay in front of the house, okay?"

"Yes, Mom."

Christine left the pair alone.

Clay found it hard to make eye contact and sat on the sofa, sharing an awkward moment of silence.

"Clay, I can tell you're shy. Are you shy?" Leslie asked.

"I didn't used to be shy. I had lots of friends back in Chicago. Kids at school don't play with me and no one wants to be my friend. So I don't say much," Clays said as he sat on the opposite side of the sofa, still unable to make eye contact.

Leslie scooted just a little closer to Clay, making him feel slightly nervous.

"Clay, I want to be your friend. We just moved here and it took me a long time to make friends too. Let's be friends," Leslie said, extending her hand out.

Clay Jr. eyed her hand from the corner of his eye and eventually gathered the courage to face his new acquaintance. He shook her hand.

"Okay, Leslie, but can I ask you one question?"

She smiled. "Sure."

"Did my mom and dad pay you to be my friend?"

Leslie scooted right next to Clay, pinning him against the edge of the sofa.

"No, silly," she laughed.

Clay was relieved.

"It's just that whenever my parents know I'm sad, they spend money to cheer me up."

Leslie responded "I know. My parents do that too."

Leslie looked left, and then right looking for any sign of Clay's parents. She whispered, "Clay, do you want to go steady?"

Clay's eyes widened with surprise. He struggled to respond.

"Ah, I, uhm. I haven't had the talk yet," Clay responded in shy mode.

"What talk?" Leslie asked.

"You know, the talk that always gets parents tongue-tied?"

Leslie still didn't understand.

"If we go steady, do we have to do stuff?" Clay asked, naively.

Leslie nodded her head, to say yes, and then explained.

"Yes, if we go steady, then you have to carry my books to class and sit with me at lunch."

Clay was relieved and happy.

"That's all?"

Leslie nodded.

"I guess that means you're my girlfriend. Never had one before."

"And now you're my boyfriend," Leslie said, as she stole a peck on Clay's cheek.

Clay recoiled bashfully, unaware that his mom was in the next room, eavesdropping. She was happy for her son.

Later, Clay tried to teach Leslie the game of chess.

"Checkmate," Clay said after just four moves.

Leslie was unimpressed with the game and conveyed her displeasure.

"Clay, chess is a boring game. I don't like it."

"Leslie, the reason why you lost is that you failed to protect your king."

While Clay put the pieces away, Leslie noticed two framed pictures on the fireplace mantle. She pointed to the distinguished portraits.

"That's Dr. King. Our math teacher, Mrs. Towles, says he was an evil man. He died, right?"

Clay nodded his head.

"Yes, Dad says they killed him."

Leslie cast her eyes on the other portrait.

"Who is that?"

Clay walked up to the mantle and gazed into the blue, charismatic eyes staring back at him.

"I think he was a president once. He died too."

# Sunday Morning after Worship

Rev. T, Christine and their son drove home from Alpha Baptist Church after being introduced to the congregation by the retiring Pastor Petersen. It was a sunny day and they flipped the sun visors down.

Christine was dressed in a white linen skirt and matching blouse, complemented with a pearl necklace. Clay Jr. sat in the back sporting a navy blue suit and matching bow tie.

Rev. T was dressed in traditional clergy attire accented with the distinguished white clerical collar. The couple recapped their first visit to the church.

"Babe, did you see the look on the congregation's face when Reverend Petersen introduced you? Lord, if looks could kill. I thought everyone knew."

Rev. T smiled at his lovely bride and placed his hand on her thigh.

"Hun, how much fun would life be, without its struggles? I knew what we were walking into. The Lord asks much, but much is required. I think over half of the congregation walked out before I finished speaking. But I'm here for the few who want to hear God's word."

"When the organist left her stool I was shocked. That was plain rude. But, I think you have a true friend in Deacon Jones. He treated us so nice. Made me feel at home," Christine said.

"Well, CIT has given me just 12 months to make it work. Time is of the essence so I must begin the hard work."

"Dad, what's CIT?"

Rev. T addressed his young son in the rear view mirror. "CIT is Churches in Transition. They help pay the bills."

Immediately after answering his son, Rev. T became alarmed. Christine read her husband's face. She knew he was deeply troubled.

"Babe, I know that look. What's wrong?"

Immediately she looked back and saw they were being trailed by a police car.

Rev. T perspired above his brow. Clay Jr. sensed something was wrong and looked around but his naïve eyes didn't see a threat.

"Christine, I need you to hold the wheel."

"What? Why?" she said nervously with growing concern.

Rev. T removed his wedding ring and then the gold cross from around his neck. With Christine steering, he placed the precious items on her lap and explained, "It's gonna be okay. I'm not going to make it home tonight."

Christine burst into tears, causing her make-up to run down her face. Clay Jr. panicked and cried, seeing his mother so upset.

"Nooo! Baby, you gotta talk to me. What's going on?" she asked, hurting inside.

Rev. T displayed a morbid sense of calm.

"They're going to arrest me. It's in the Lord's hands now. I trust Him."

"You can't leave me, Clay. I'm having your baby in two weeks," she pleaded.

Rev. T regained control of the steering wheel and addressed his son in the rear view mirror.

"Clay Jr. you take care of your mother and baby sister, okay? Can you do that?" A lone tear escaped below his sunglasses.

"Daddy, I don't want them to take you. You didn't do anything. Just look 'em in the eye and say, 'Sir', just like you told me," he said tearfully.

Within seconds, code lights flash from behind and a blaring siren deafened the family. Christine and her son quickly turned around. Rev. T indicated and slowly pulled over to his right.

The officer remained in the car for several minutes before exiting the patrol car with baton in hand. The officer was over six feet tall and donned his police cap before approaching the Thompson family.

He stared at them before directing Rev. T to roll his window down. He spat a wad of chewing tobacco out of the side of his mouth.

"Good day, I'm Officer Foster. Driver's license and registration please. Do you know why I've pulled you over?"

Rev. T smiled and showed calm. Christine reached for the glove box to retrieve the registration, her hand shaking uncontrollably.

Rev. T handed the officer the documents.

Officer Foster examined his Illinois driver's license.

"You know you can take a nigger out of the ghetto, but you can't take the ghetto out of a nigger."

"I've pulled you over because you have a busted tail light."

"This is a brand new car. I assure you the tail light is not broken."

Officer Foster walked to the rear of the vehicle.

"I see two busted tail lights."

_Crash ... crash_.

The sound of the tail lights being crushed scared Christine and her son. They jumped in their seats.

Rev. T tried to calm his family.

"Christine, Clay ... it's okay. It's okay. Honey, hold on to the ring and the cross. It will be over quickly."

Officer Foster returns to the driver's side window.

"Boy, take dem sunglasses off when address me, you hear?"

Rev. T hesitated.

Christine pleaded with her husband.

"Sweetie, just do it, okay."

Rev. T slowly removed his sunglasses and stared the officer directly in the eye ... fearless, waiting for the officer's next move.

The officer reached into the car and touched the clerical garb.

"Fancy digs you got dere. Is this a one-piece collar or is it just a plastic thingy?" he commented.

Rev. T percolated in anger, approaching the end of his tether.

"Hands off the collar, please," Rev. T said, calmly with great restraint.

"Whut cho say, boy? Did you just mouth off to me?" he said, as he tugged on the collar even tighter.

"I said, hands off the collar! Now!"

The situation quickly escalated out of control. Christine and Clay Jr. pleaded unsuccessfully with the officer.

Rev. T looked at his wife. He smiled, and then his eyes closed, almost in slow motion.

"No, babe. Don't ..." she cried.

Unable to exercise restraint, Rev. T instantly grabbed the officer's wrist with a Herculean grip. The officer doubled over in pain. After a few seconds Rev. T released his mighty grip and the officer recoiled his limp wrist from the window.

"You must be tired of livin', boy. Get out. Get out now!"

Christine and Clay Jr. tugged on Rev. T's garments, crying hysterically. He exited the vehicle and was met with a swift blow to the back of the head from the officer's baton. Rev. T fell, unconscious, to the ground.

"You best git, ma'am if you don't want a double funeral. I said git! Go on, now."

Christine exited the vehicle to tend to her husband. The officer's baton kept her away. Rev. T was dragged to the police car. The car reversed and made a screeching U-turn in the opposite direction, leaving a broken family behind.

Rev. T would survive his ordeal in jail and would spend months in physical therapy. The same fearlessness he demonstrated towards the police officer would drive him to build a successful ministry in Blythe. Rev. T and the Blythe Police department would have several more encounters, a persistent trend that echoed in urban cities across the country.

_And a little child shall lead them ..._

ISAIAH II:I6

That child would be born in just two weeks.

# CHAPTER 5

## Agent of Influence

JUNE 2017,

BLYTHE

NEARLY FIFTY YEARS HAD passed and much had changed in Blythe; however, there was one exception. The black population remained below one percent. Blythe's longstanding legacy of the 1960s' era was passed from one generation to the next. Most of the family shops and businesses from almost fifty years earlier continued to operate − new management with old biases.

In 1967, the mayor of Blythe made a campaign promise that the floodgates of black families would never be opened. Fifty years later that promise was still very much intact. Clay Jr. and his family would be the very first black family to purchase a home in Blythe, 20 years after Rev. T and Christine settled there.

Clay Jr. responded to an urgent text message from his mother. He left work early and braced himself for the worst.

"Mom, I got your text. I came as soon as I could. What's wrong?"

Christine, now in her 70s, answered the door with the same smile she'd always had. She had aged gracefully over the years and would often boast she still could fit into her wedding dress. She was slightly frail and noticeably slower but in very good health.

"Come on in, Clay. It's about Dad," she replied, grabbing her son's hand.

Clay became numb and struggled to hold back the tears.

Christine and Clay were seated at the kitchen table.

"Mom, is he ...?"

Christine got up to make them tea.

"No. He's just not himself. He hasn't been for a few days now. I have an appointment with Dr. Wilder in the morning. I'm concerned."

"I just spoke with Dad on Monday and he seemed fine. Can I see him?" Clay asks worriedly.

Christine hesitated, before starting to sob intermittently with her back turned.

Clay Jr. rose and hugged his mom, trying to console her. On the verge of tears himself, he said a silent prayer for his dad, the venerable Rev. T.

Clay Jr. wiped the tears from his mother's eyes. He overheard his dad in the living room.

"Clay, I need to introduce you to your dad."

Clay took a half step. He looked at his mom with a sad face.

"Mom, why do you have to introduce me? Surely he knows who I am. I'm his son," he pleaded.

Christine folded her arms then wiped her brow.

"Baby, he doesn't even know who I am. It's hard to explain. Physically he's okay, but his mind is not right. He doesn't know he has a wife or a son. It's in God's hands."

Christine led Clay Jr. into the living room. Clay's heart was heavy. Rev. T lowered his spectacles and placed his bible on the arm of the chair. He smiled as they entered.

Rev. T's neatly trimmed beard was now like a snow cap on his chin. He'd lost some weight over the years but he still possessed those massive strong hands.

"Rev. T. you have a visitor. His name is Clay too. He's a writer."

Christine left the room.

Clay Jr. was immediately aware his father did not recognize him. He couldn't accept it.

Rev. T sat upright and engaged. "So you're a writer?"

"Yes, Dad, ah ... Sir."

Rev. T nodded with approval.

"That's great. We need more colored writers to influence the next generation. I think our new president will be a friend to the colored man," Rev. T said confidently.

"Yes, I think she will. I voted for her. Been a long time since I voted Republican," Clay said, as he sat beside his dad.

Rev. T shook his head in confusion.

"I'm talking about the President of the United States, President Kennedy. Who are you talking about?"

Clay corrected himself.

"Of course. Of course."

Rev. T continued.

"It hurts me that our people cannot enjoy the same rights as whites. I believe that coloreds and whites can live together in harmony. My heart hurts knowing that there are coloreds falsely imprisoned and denied the right to vote. Basic civil liberties. Shame."

Clay offered words of prophetic encouragement. "Rev. T, who knows, maybe one day we will see a man of color or even a woman as president."

Rev. T's eyes sparkled.

"Wouldn't that be just wonderful? The office of the President of the United States should not be attained by the most qualified white man but the most capable person. Someday it will happen, someday. Maybe not in my lifetime, but someday."

Clay flashed back to a very similar conversation, nearly fifty years earlier.

Rev. T continued. "One day I will have a son, who will carry the torch and continue this fight. See it through. I already know what I'm going to name him."

"So what will you name him?"

Rev. T smiled from ear to ear.

"After me, of course."

"I'll be the original. He'll be the copy. A perfected copy!" He laughed aloud.

Clay found it strange yet interesting having a conversation with his dad that predated his birth. He became slightly overwhelmed when hearing the lofty expectations of his father.

"But what if he can't deliver? What if he can't live up to the dream?" Clay said under-confidently.

Rev. T smiled then placed his glasses on his lap.

"He'll deliver. It's in our blood."

Rev. T slowly nodded off into a slumber. Clay joined his mom in the kitchen.

"You okay, Honey?" Christine asked, placing her hand under Clay's chin.

"No. Every memory we ever shared together, gone just like that. I long to hear his voice say, "How you doing, young man? It's just not fair. I can tell it's still Dad, but Dad from another time. A time before me. It's crazy," Clay said, befuddled.

"It's just as strange for me too, dear. You see, I remember your dad that way many years ago. It hurts me when I see the look on his face when he asks about the Christine he knew back then. He's looking for her, wondering where she is. As much as I want to say, 'Darling, it's me ... I can't. I will just have to wait until I hear from Dr. Wilder. I don't know what to do but pray."

"Mom, I think I know what's affecting Dad, it's ..."

Christine abruptly interrupted her son. "Don't say it," she said, waving her index finger.

"I refuse to claim any affliction and give it power. We don't know until we know. And even then, I will never lose hope that someday I will get my husband back," she sobbed.

The phone rang and Christine regained her composure before answering.

"Thompson's residence, hello?"

Christine nodded her head, and then hung up.

"Who was that, Mom?"

"It's my Chinese food order. Can you get the door for me, dear."

Clay stared out of the kitchen window looking for a delivery vehicle in the driveway. There wasn't one. He proceeded to the door and was shocked as he opened it.

"Whoa! What the ...?" Clay shouted and stepped back.

"Mom! There's a drone hovering in the doorway."

Christine met Clay at the door and waved her credit card at the flashing drone.

" _Payment accepted. Thank you for your order_ ," the drone responded in a robotic voice.

The drone descended and released the order just in front of the doorstep, then ascended high in the sky before vanishing into the setting yellow sun behind the clouds.

Clay stood there in amazement.

"Clay? You look like you've seen a ghost. Are you alright?" Christine asked.

Clay laughed at himself.

"Wow. Welcome to 2017. I didn't know they went live yet. That's the first time I've seen one up close. Looks alien-like. I didn't know they were programmed to talk."

"The drone service is the cheaper option. There's no added fuel charge. I think they ought to ditch the 'Knight Rider' scanner on the LCD. That's so 1980s."

# Later that night

Clay came home to an empty house and turned on the news. While eating KFC in front of the TV he noticed a scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen.

"Nooo! How?" he yelled at the TV.

He shouted a voice command directed at the flat screen mounted on the wall.

"Call Mom!"

" _Your call is being connected. Please stand by_."

Christine connected and her video was displayed on Clay's TV.

"I just heard the verdict," Christine lamented, disgusted.

"Mom, after all this time. Two years later, is this how it ends? Why was she arrested in the first place? Is there a law against smoking in your car?"

"Baby, they just set race relations back fifty years. They exonerated the entire police force. There's a rally celebrating the verdict on Channel Two. The police say they had nothing to do with her death in prison, but just look at her mug shot. It just breaks my heart every time I see it on the news. Your dad would do something if he could."

Clay Jr. reflected on an earlier conversation with his beloved dad.

" _One day I will have a son, who will carry the torch and continue this fight. See it through_."

Both Clay and his mother were emotionally invested and devastated by the verdict as the incident took place only miles away. Their brief conversation concluded with a feeling of hopelessness and despair.

Immediately following the controversial verdict, violent protests erupted in Ferguson, Chicago and Baltimore. Black activist groups coalesced and faced off with angry counter-protestors, often becoming violent. Some groups became watch listed and were subjected to invasive national level technical surveillance. Distrust on both sides escalated. Black churches had become a platform for outrage, making them a target for lone-wolf attacks.

# Inaugural Presidential Address

An eager press corps anxiously awaited the President's entrance.

She was greeted by a standing ovation. She was confident, compassionate and masterful behind the podium. She was dressed in a navy blue skirt and blouse accented with a presidential pin on her lapel.

"... so as you can see, these first 100 days of my presidency are crucial. We have tough issues to address and there is no time for partisan politics. I ask Republicans and Democrats alike to join me, to help reclaim America's glory. I will take just a few questions.

"Madam President, Madam. President. During your campaign you promised to bring our troops home from Syria. Do you intend to keep that promise?"

Her microphone failed and the audio was interrupted.

She was unfazed.

"I guess I will have to use my CEO voice then," she laughed.

"Can you hear me in the peanut gallery back there?" She said, projecting her voice clearly to the back of the room.

An audio technician in the back gave her the thumbs-up.

The President continued, "Deploying our troops to Syria was an ill-advised decision made with the best intentions. No one wants a World War III scenario, but that's where we are headed. We have found ourselves in a proxy war with Russia and Iran. I will be meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and other military advisors to plan a methodical withdrawal of our troops from Syria."

"Madam President, Madam President? What is the official title of your husband?"

"Well, he's right there, ask him." She pointed past the blinding lights into the crowd.

A tall, distinguished gentleman with gelled salt-and-pepper hair stood amidst the press reporters.

"I guess that makes me the First Gentleman," he replied, with a perfect smile.

He got a round of applause. He blew a kiss to his lovely wife, the President of the United States.

The President took one final question.

"What is your opinion on the controversial verdict rendered this morning and the aftermath in major cities?"

"I have great respect the judicial process even if I do not agree with the outcome. I will be meeting with my Attorney General in the morning to discuss some imaginative ideas to help heal our country. This plan will require a whole-of-government approach, starting with senior law enforcement officials across the country. Accountability is necessary to restore the public's trust. This is a priority that my administration takes very seriously."

# CHAPTER 6

## Active Shooter

26 OCTOBER, 2017,

11:59 P.M.

R _ING, RING, RING_.

Clay sat up in his bed, staring at the clock and waiting for the phone to answer on the other end. Before he hung up, he heard a soft voice and a yawn.

"Hey, do you know what time it is?"

"I had to call you. Happy anniversary, darling."

"Clay, you don't have to call me that any more, we're getting divorced, remember?"

"Yeah, I know. It's just that this our first time spending our anniversary apart and I admit, it's tough," Clay conceded.

"Well, we both need to accept that it's going to happen. Have you told Mom and Dad?"

Clay hesitated.

"Leslie, I can't. How many years have we been together? They won't understand it. I really don't want to lay that burden on Mom, especially with Dad's condition worsening."

"Clay, don't we deserve a chance to find happiness? We've been together since we were eight years old. We're both 56 now. Don't you wonder what it would be like just to go out on a date with someone, and just be happy?"

"But I don't want to be happy. I want to be with you," Clay joked, half-serious.

Leslie laughed.

"Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? We both need to turn the page and move on. Forget appearances. Anyway, I joined an online dating site."

"Yeah, I know," Clay conceded.

"How do you know? Are you spying on me, Mr. Thompson?"

"No, I'm not spying on you, Mrs. Thompson. I'm on the same site. The site matched me with you. Isn't that crazy? If you log in you will see my profile is a super match."

Leslie was slightly unnerved.

"I thought you weren't looking for anyone."

"I just did it on a whim. Hey, that picture on your profile ..."

"What about it?" Leslie said defensively.

"We took that picture together when we were vacationing in Spain. You cropped me out."

"Yes. I did crop you out. Somehow I didn't think a picture of me standing next to my husband would do me any favors.

"Hmm, let's see now. Logging in as we speak. Wow. You're right, we were matched. How funny is that?" Leslie commented.

And what about your profile pic?"

"What about it?" Clay asks.

"You took a selfie in our marital bedroom. That's tacky, don't you think? And by the way, you can see our wedding photo on the nightstand in the picture. You should probably put that away. Just sayin'."

"Oh, I didn't even catch that. You're probably the only one who'd notice it."

"Doubt it."

"So, how many responses have you had?" Clay inquired.

"I have over 100 messages in my inbox from the weekend,"

Leslie replied, nonchalantly.

Clay was less than happy.

"Over a hundred?"

"Hmm, I got 50 more messages today. How many do you have?"

Clay was silent.

"Clay, you can tell me. It won't hurt my feelings."

"Let's just say, not as many as you."

"How many?"

"Three. Three messages. Two were from site management. The other one was from a 76-year old looking for a toy boy with stamina."

"Clay. Put the wedding photo away and maybe just maybe you can find someone. Someone that is local and younger than 76," she laughed.

# 27 Oct 2017  
3:30 p.m.

Clay was desperately seeking a barbers' shop in town. All the shops were closed except one. He saw a spinning lighted red and blue striped pole and opened the door halfway.

_Jingle, jingle_.

"Hi, are you still open for business?" Clay asked hopefully.

A middle-aged white woman wearing a white smock, sweeping the floor was startled by the abrupt entry.

"Whew, you scared the daylights out of me. Yes, we're still open," she said after she calmed herself.

Clay jetted into the barber chair and let out a big sigh.

"I just found out I have a book signing at the Barnes and Nobles on Green Street first thing in the morning," he revealed, loosening his tie.

The woman barber stood there with her broom in her hand quietly. Clay sensed something was wrong.

"Ah, is there a problem, Ms?" he asked, speaking to her reflection in the mirror.

She bowed her head.

"I'm sorry, but I don't cut black hair," she said regretfully.

Clay was taken aback. He immediately swirled around in the chair to face her. He paused, and then rose out of the chair, shaking his head. He had a few words.

"Really? It's 2017 and I'm dealing with the same crap my dad did over 50 years ago. I'm sorry too," he said, heading for the door.

"Wait. Please wait. I think there is a misunderstanding," she replied, turning the volume down on the TV.

Clay turned around slowly to address her. "There's no misunderstanding. I understand all too well," he said.

The woman drew closer to Clay, a gesture that surprised him. She clarified.

"I don't cut black hair because ... because I'm not that good at it. I don't get much practice cutting black hair in Blythe. The last time I cut black hair was in barbers' school years ago. And that was on a mannequin. I don't want to mess it up, that's all."

Clay's frown slowly turned into a big smile. Clay was pleasantly relieved to know there was a misunderstanding.

"I feel absolutely terrible. I just assumed ... I'm very sorry. Could I have the honor of being the first?" he asked, apologetically.

The woman smiled, tightened up her smock and turned on the razor.

_Buzzzzzzzz_.

"I'll do my best but remember, I'm out of practice."

Clay zipped back into the barber's chair and was quickly draped in a black barber's gown. Clay offered an old cliché.

"The difference between a bad and a good haircut is ... seven days. Go for it," he encouraged her.

Twenty minutes later she handed him a mirror to inspect her artwork.

"I'm impressed. Just as good if not better than the barber I see regularly," he said, inspecting from all angles.

"All the other shops are closed. Do all the other shops usually close this early?" Clay asked, as he offered a generous tip.

The woman graciously accepted with a smile. She offered an explanation.

"The other barbers are participating in that rally downtown, so they closed their doors just after three o'clock."

Clay rubbed his forehead in dismay.

"It's been two days already. They're making that officer into a rock star. He'll probably write a book and get his own reality TV show. Just so tired of it. So why aren't you out there participating?"

The woman crossed her arms.

"Do you think all whites support the verdict? That was somebody's little girl, someone's best friend. I would have handled the situation a little differently but I saw the video. Why was she arrested? No one can answer that. It's false imprisonment at the very least. I'm disgusted."

Clay confided in her. "I'm glad to hear that. Unfortunately, the verdict has set Ferguson, Chicago and Baltimore on fire again. Everyday another city falls, like dominoes. Who'd ever have thought one court verdict could rip the country apart like this? When I watch the news you'd think it's Syria, but it's not. It's on our doorstep. It's heart-breaking. Something has to be done before we enter into another civil war."

During the drive home Clay could hear the high school band marching in the streets a few blocks away. The blaring sound of the drum beat and the horn section deafened him. The turn off to his home was blocked for the next few hours because of the parade, adding to his frustration. Clay pulled into a 7-Eleven to grab a drink and spotted a neighborhood watch officer in the back seat of a patrol car burning rubber out of the parking lot.

_Scrreeeech_!

"Was that Aaron Foster? My nemesis from second grade? Wow, I didn't know they made Levis in that size. Bet he couldn't chase me now. No wonder he couldn't pass the police physical," Clay thought to himself.

_Vroom, vroom_!

Clay flexed his American muscle (Mustang) before reversing. His onboard computer, affectionately known as Eleanor, alerted him. " _Speed cameras and road diversions ahead. Switching to local news station for latest traffic update. Please stand by_."

"... and that concludes our local traffic update brought to you by our sponsors. Now back to our coverage of the _Rally for Peace_.

"I've spent fifty years on the force here in Blythe. And it will be a cold day in hell before one of my officers spends a day in jail for being less than perfect in the performance of his or her duties."

Relentless applause and cheering.

Clay cringed at the sound of the voice of the same cop that arrested his dad on that regretful Sunday afternoon. Fifty years later he would ascend to be Chief of Police. Flashbacks of his father being beaten in his clergy attire and his mom running out of the car to protect her husband haunted Clay and enraged him. Still, he couldn't turn off broadcast. He wanted to know what hate the devil was spewing.

After the police chief concluded his charismatic delivery he took a few questions from the press.

"Chief Foster, Chief Foster. A few months ago a police officer in New York choked a man to death. The man clearly stated he could not breathe. Your comments?"

Dead silence.

"I'll tell you what I know to be true, young lady. It takes oxygen to speak. So if you are speaking, guess what? You're breathing. Next question," he said with a chuckle, patting his belly.

"Sir, Channel Nine News, here. How do you explain the lack of minority officers on your force?"

Chief Foster sighed. _"_ It's simple. Whenever we recruit at historically black universities we have to lower our standards. Studies have shown many of 'em are deficient in critical categories. People need to take responsibility and ownership of their own shortfalls and stop blaming the system. If you can't dance, don't blame the dance floor."

More cheers and applause.

"Okay, one final question."

He points to an eager young man jostled around by the prolaw enforcement crowd.

"You in the back with the ponytail! Hit me with your best shot, city boy."

The college student cleared his throat.

"My name is Ira. I'm a criminal justice major at Blythe Community College. Black males make up only 6% of the entire US population, but they make up almost half of the male prison population. That seems grossly unbalanced. What are your thoughts from a law enforcement perspective?"

"My thoughts? I tell you my thoughts. I think that statistic speaks for itself. Don't you?"

Clay took the sign-posted diverted route home. In his rear-view mirror, he observed a patrol car that had been tailing him for a few blocks. He was slightly nervous.

" _Warning, law enforcement surveillance detected_. _License, insurance and registration records are being accessed_. _Proceed with caution_ ," Eleanor advised.

" _Damn_. _What now_?" Clay said aloud while checking the speedo. His hands tightly gripped the steering wheel at nine and three o'clock.

Clay stopped at the next stop sign and signaled left, as did the patrol car behind him. Clay then signaled right and made a right turn at the intersection. He anxiously gazed into the rear view mirror. The black and white squad car continued its pursuit down the dark, quiet street.

Clay's heart rate spiked. He could feel the pounding in his chest. At the next intersection the police car pulled alongside him. Clay avoided eye contact.

The officer rolled down the window and engaged Clay. "Beautiful car. Not many around these days. 1967 Fast Back, right?" The lone officer said, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Consumed with paranoia, Clay slowly turned his head towards the officer and responded with a forced smile.

"Yes, Sir. It's a Fast Back Mustang. I mean a Mustang Fastback, Sir," Clay stuttered.

"That's my all-time favorite car. Very nice," said the suspicious officer, eyeing the entire length of the car and back.

Clay cleared his dry throat.

"Ah, Sir. Is there anything you want from me?" Clay responded, with a death grip on the steering wheel.

The officer looked left then right before looking to see if anyone was behind him. He nodded.

"Follow me, please."

Clay sensed imminent danger and overrode his natural instinct to make a run for it. He reluctantly and blindly followed the officer.

"I'm not gonna make it out of this. I guess this is it for me, Lord; I need a miracle, if you're listening," Clay pleaded.

The ten-minute journey took them just outside Blythe city limits on a windy, narrow, poorly lit highway. Tall mountains on either side of the road were picturesque yet ominous.

Suddenly the officer braked and turned off onto an unmarked gravel road into a densely wooded area. Clay was blinded by the brake lights masked by huge dust clouds. Again he overrode his gut feeling to speed off.

"What am I doing? I know how this ends. I think."

Just beyond the wooded area was a cliff with a steep drop against the backdrop of a full moon. The patrol car stopped just a few feet away from the drop. It was pitch black below. Clay's car came to a rest behind the officer's. The officer then made a sudden U-turn and parked about 25 yards behind Clay. The officer deactivates the dash cam.

" _Warning! Warning! Law enforcement video feed is disabled. Connecting to primary and secondary contacts. Please stand by_."

" _Sorry the number you have dialed is busy. Please try your call again."_

The secondary contact was also engaged.

Clay began to hyperventilate. He was in full panic mode. The officer remained in his car for a short time which seemed like an eternity to Clay.

" _Incoming call_ ," Eleanor advised.

It was Leslie. She was concerned.

"Clay. I just got a 911 call from Eleanor. What is going on?"

Clay wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to catch his breath.

"Leslie, some cop told me to follow him. I did as I was told. And ..."

"And what?"

"I'm in a desolate area next to the mountains just outside Blythe. I'm parked right next to a freakin' cliff. I can't even see below it's so dark."

"Clay. This is an ambush. Get outta there, now!"

"Either way, I'm a dead man. If I flee and get shot for resisting arrest ... I can't. But I need you to listen in and record what's gonna happen next, okay."

"Clay. Do you know what you're asking me to do? You are asking me to listen in and record your murder. I can't, sweetheart. You're asking too much of me." Leslie erupted in tears.

Clay sighed. "Okay. Just hit the record button and walk away. This probably won't take long. Come back in about five minutes. If I don't answer, that means I'm probably dead. My body will be at the bottom of this cliff. The moon is absolutely beautiful tonight. I guess that will be the last thing I'll see," Clay conceded with sorrow and regret.

"Don't talk like that. Just pray, Baby," she cried, emotionally.

"Honey, I have prayed. I prayed if the Lord gets me out of this mess ... I promise to make a difference and make my life count. You know, I'm starting to accept that my life is about to end."

"Warning. Law enforcement officer approaching vehicle from the rear. Place both hands on steering wheel in plain sight, immediately," Eleanor warned.

Leslie gasped.

"Clay, I love you, but I can't ... I can't listen anymore. It's recording. I love you and just so you know I never wanted the divorce. I've gotta go, please understand. Bye."

Clay's tears ceased. He bravely confronted the inevitable. He saw the officer approaching from the rear and slowly placed his hands on the steering wheel.

The officer knocked on Clay's window, signaling him to lower it. Clay followed the officer's instructions.

"It's a gorgeous night, isn't it?" the officer said, putting his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe.

Clay looked over the moon-lit cliff. The howling sound of nearby coyotes echoed in the vast canyon below.

"I love the tranquility of this place. You could scream at the top of your lungs and no one would hear you," the officer said, admiring the majestic landscape.

Clay's childhood flashed before his eyes, feeling impending doom.

"Please step out of the car. This will be painless. I promise you this won't take long at all. I appreciate your cooperation."

"Did I ever have a choice?" Clay said to himself as he exited the vehicle preparing for the unknown.

"Ssssir, did you disable your dash cam?" Clay stuttered.

Silence.

The officer looked over to his patrol car.

"You weren't supposed to see that. There are some things you don't want the boss man to see. You know what I mean?" the cop said with a sly grin.

"This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I'm sorry, I'm sure there are other things you'd rather being doing right now," the officer said.

" _Signal lost. Call disconnected_ ," Eleanor advised.

"Damn," Clay said to himself.

Clay pondered making a dash and taking a chance surviving by jumping off the cliff.

"Why not? It's better to die on your own terms," he surmised.

Clay walked toward the edge of the cliff. He was prepared to jump into the bottomless pit of darkness. He bent his knees slightly and closed his eyes. Small chunks of earth crumbled beneath his feet and fell hundreds of feet below. On the count of five, he was prepared to leap into the depths of the canyon.

"Five, four, three, two ..."

Clay's inner voice whispered to his subconscious. He held still.

"Wait a second. If I commit suicide, I can't get into heaven."

He raised his hands high to the sky. With his back facing the officer, he challenged the man.

"Just get it over with. One shot, okay?"

"No, I might need more than that. I just need you to move to the left about ten feet."

Clay was shaking like a leaf. His knees barely supported him. He prayed the Lord's Prayer.

He ended his prayer with a promise to make his life count if he was spared.

Clay moved to the left, as ordered, in great fear.

That's it, right there is fine. On the count of three: one, two, three," the officer responded.

A series of white flashes commenced. Clay braced his body for impact, holding his breath, eyes tightly closed.

"All done," the officer said. "You can get back in your car now."

"What?" Clays said, confused.

Clay turned around and saw the police officer repacking his camera kit.

"Mister, I'm a freelance photographer and American muscle cars are my favorite. These shots are amazing. Especially the moonlight bouncing off the hood of the car. This is going straight onto my Facebook page. I've been reprimanded before about moonlighting on the job so I had to turn off the cam. Sorry 'bout that."

Clay stood there at the edge of the cliff like a statute.

"Mister, you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost. You appear short of breath. Are you asthmatic?" the officer said with concern.

Clay bent over, putting both hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. He peered into the darkness of the canyon.

"Ahhhhh. Damn. That was close," he muttered to himself.

"Well, it's almost quitting time for me. Can you find your way home?"

Clay managed to speak properly. "Officer, you go on ahead. I'm good. Real good," he said in the upright position with his hands on his hips.

The officer approached Clay to thank him for his time. "My name is Andrew Black. My friends call me Andy. If you ever need assistance of any kind, here is my card. On the back is my personal mobile number if I'm not on duty. You're a real sport. Enjoy the rest of the beautiful night, my friend." The officer placed his hand on Clay's shoulder and offered a wink.

He set off in patrol car and his taillights vanished into the dense woods.

"Whew, that was close! Oh my gawd!" Clay shouted, looking into the black abyss below.

Clay broke into hysterical laughter, trying to cope with what had just happened. Then he remembered a promise he had made. He looked up at the starry sky.

"Lord. I will never doubt you. I'll make my life count."

Clay got back into his vehicle and started the engine.

"Let's go home Eleanor," he commanded with a smile.

"Law enforcement surveillance terminated. Expected arrival time to destination is 21 minutes," Eleanor advised.

As Clay made a left turn back onto the highway, he received an incoming call.

A tearful voice was on the other end.

"Clay, I know you can't hear me but I just wanted to tell you I love you and I wished we would've had children." There was sobbing.

Clay answered her. "So you did want children, huh?" He laughed.

"Clay, oh my God! You're alive. I thought you were dead. Why didn't you call me? I've been worried sick!" Leslie chastised.

"I had only one bar. The cop just wanted a few snapshots of the car. Do you believe that? That could've gone seriously wrong," Clay laughed.

"I can't believe you are laughing. Just a while ago you were crying."

"No, I wasn't crying. I was just a little emotional, that's all."

Leslie eventually calmed down and let Clay off the hook. Clay spent the entire journey home pondering.

"I need to make my life count, but how?"

# CHAPTER 7

## NWA (Nancy With Attitude)

NEXT DAY,

BOOK SIGNING AT BARNES AND NOBLE

M R. THOMPSON, I THINK we can call that a successful event. All of the books we ordered in were sold and we've taken several more orders. We'll have to do this again," said the store's community relations director.

" _The Seduction of Monet Dawson_ seems to be a favorite among women of all ages. Two years after its publication, it's still on Amazon's best sellers' list," Clay responded as the pair walked towards the exit.

Clay shook her hand and made his way to the parking lot.

Moments later, an elderly woman with a walking stick approached Clay as he placed his promotional material in his trunk.

"Excuse me, Sonny. Are you E. Clay?"

"That's my pen name; my real name is Clay Thompson. How can I help you?"

"Today is my birthday. I'm 77. I'd be pleased as punch if you could just sign my book," the old woman requested.

Clay was delighted.

"Ah. _The Seduction of Monet Dawson_. My pleasure," Clay replied, whipping out a pen from his jacket pocket.

"So, did you like it?"

The old woman smiled.

"It's one of my favorite smut books."

Clay signed the book and returned it. He was perplexed.

"Smut?" Clay asked.

The woman nodded.

"S-M-U-T. But I think you could've been a little more graphic. I was looking for a little more bang for my buck if you know what I mean," the old lady replied followed by a wink.

Clay scratched his head.

"Well, I never intended it to be a porn novel."

The woman clarifies. "It ain't porn, that's for men. Smut is for women. Sex that make your toes curls hitched to a real story line. That's what smut is," the woman explained.

Clay smiled with amusement.

"I didn't know that. You learn something new every day," Clay said as he tried to conclude the conversation.

"How about a birthday kiss for an old lady?" the woman asked, offering her right cheek.

"Sure."

Clay obliged.

In one swift move, the woman turned her head to face Clay, firmly planting her lips on his.

"Mwwwwwah."

"Okaaay ... I've gotta get going. So ..." Clay said as he abruptly withdrew from his admirer's lip lock.

She stuffed a piece of paper in his pants pocket.

"Call me," she whispered.

Clay forces a smile and waved to the old lady as he drove off. He wiped the kiss off as he turned the corner, feeling exploited. It was only the second woman he'd ever kissed on the lips, albeit involuntary.

# Later that night

Ring, ring.

" _Leslie is calling. Shall I connect_?"

"Yes."

"Hey, Leslie. I can hear you but I've got no video."

"That's 'cause I'm not dressed," Leslie responded.

"Oh, it's like that, now. Just yesterday you were back in love with me. What a difference a day makes," Clay jokingly scoffed.

"Forget what I said yesterday, Clay. I thought you were dead. It was a moment of weaknesses. You really need to move on and find someone. Hey about that that 76 year-old. I bet she's up for it," Leslie laughed.

Clay plotted in his head.

"Well, I did meet up with this 77 year old lady. The only problem is she has this 90-day rule about sex and I don't know if she has that much time left."

Silence.

"Leslie? Are you there?"

"Clay. You're not serious. Are you?"

Clay paused.

"Leslie. After almost fifty years you still can't tell when I'm joking," Clay laughed.

"Hmmm. Clay, you know the real reason I'm calling, don't you?"

Clay sighed. " Yes. I struggle with this every year. Am I going to watch it or not."

"C'mon, Clay. It must make you proud that your sister in one of the biggest names in Hollywood. This year she can't lose because she's competing with herself for an Emmy. Nancy is the queen of Reality TV."

Clay slouched back in his recliner.

"If Nancy and I were on speaking terms that would be different. I still can't for the life of me understand why she never forgave me. If I could've been there; I would've. It's that simple. It was ten years ago."

"But Clay, try to understand from her point of view. When Nancy got her star on the _Walk of Fame_ , that was a big deal for her. She wanted everyone there, especially you ... her big brother."

"Hey, I missed my flight. I got stuck in traffic. What can I say?"

"But you didn't call to let her know you couldn't make it. I think that's what really upset her."

"I started to call, but I knew I would get an earful. I'm not a member of her production staff, and I won't take the abuse she dishes out to them. She can bully anybody she wants, except me."

# Later that evening

Clay decides to skip the Emmys and headed to the gym for an intense cardio workout. During his time on the treadmill he flashed back to memorable moments with his younger sister Nancy before she skyrocketed to fame and fortune. However, those memories were interrupted by intermittent flashbacks of his near brush with death the night before. He was so close to jumping off the cliff. He was reminded about a promise to make change.

"If I only had the money and the connections Nancy had, I could do something," Clay thought, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Clay returned home and after a nice, long, warm shower, he turned on CNN, and then collapsed into his favorite love seat.

_Click_.

"And the nominees for Best Reality/Competition Programming are:

_Celebrity Mystery Date_ − Cornerstone Productions

_My Husband is a Cuckold_ − Cornerstone Productions

_Dream Maker_ − Cornerstone Productions

And finally,

_I Can Make You Laugh in 30 Seconds_ − Cornerstone Productions

And the winner is ... _I Can Make You Laugh in 30 Seconds_!!!"

The spotlight focused on Nancy and her entourage in the audience. She received a standing ovation. She approached the podium wearing a diamond-studded white gown and matching handbag. She was emotional with the mic in hand.

"... and finally, last but not least, I'd like to thank my best friend and make-up artist, Arthur. Arthur you've always been there for me. You're like the brother I never had. I love you.

_Click_.

Clay quickly turned off the TV and thought aloud.

Clay began to mock her acceptance speech in a high pitched voice, blowing kisses to the crowd and doing a curtsy in front of the TV.

"And the winner is ... _I Can Make You Miserable in 30 Seconds_ ... blah, blah."

After stewing over being slighted on national TV, Clay cooled down. He turned the TV back on again.

After a commercial, breaking news covered a despicable story of a nine-year old boy being lured into an alley, only to be gunned down. A revenge killing, because his father was in a rival gang. Clay was emotionally affected. He threw his hands in the air in disgust.

"What's happening to our country! How could anyone do that to a child? So much evil. Lord, what can I do? Just tell me."

That same inner voice that kept him from jumping to his death, answered him. He had to obey.

_Ring, ring, ring_.

"C'mon ... she's probably screening my calls. Pick up, I know you're there," Clay said, under his breath.

_"Call connected."_

Silence on the line.

"Nancy? Don't hang up ... I'm sorry, just hear me out," Clay begged.

"Nancy? Hello? Are you there?"

She sighed. "Yeah. I'm here. I'm waiting for your apology."

"I just did," Clay responded.

"Wasn't good enough. Send your video. I want to see you say it," Nancy demanded, with much attitude.

Video connected the siblings. Nancy was pacing a large, empty family room with an elegant fireplace burning in the background. Clay was sitting in his recliner with his arms folded.

"You look great, sis. Hollywood's been really good to you. Where's your furniture?"

Nancy stood in the middle of her lavish family room, beneath her an elegant white marble floor. Walls decorated with platinum framed pictures of Nancy and fellow A-listers captured Clay's attention.

"I'm waiting for my new furniture to be delivered. I want my apologies."

"Apologies?" Clay asked.

"Yes, hold on a second. I'm sending you a list."

Nancy retrieved her i-Phone 9D. Her iris scan unlocked the phone and she gave an inaudible command, sending a file to Clay.

"Clay, open the file."

Clay bit his tongue and attempted to open the file. He gave up after a few tries.

"I can't open it. It's an encrypted file that my phone can't unlock."

Nancy was losing patience.

"How old is your phone? Hold on a second."

"Unencrypt file. Resend file," she commanded.

Within seconds a PDF opened on Clay's phone. He transferred the call to his flat screen to read the file.

It was a list of ten grievances over the years. Clay cast his eyes to the floor to hide his boiling frustration. He took a deep breath and prepared for a groveling session to please his younger sister. He managed to re-engage and quickly scanned the list.

"Nancy. Some of these go back to the 1970s and some I don't even remember."

"I want you to apologize, sincerely. Don't half-ass it. I'm serious and don't take this lightly."

Clay kept it together, remembering a quote from his parents.

" _Sometimes all it takes is just 15 seconds of humility to change your life_."

"Okay, Nancy. But let me explain numbers six and seven first, okay?"

"I'm listening," Nancy said, tapping her right foot."

Clay rubbed his forehead as he flashed back to the events in question.

"Okay. Yes, I did give Dale Jr. condoms the night I took him and his date to the prom. I just wanted him to be safe, that's all. I'm sorry."

"Clay, that wasn't for you to decide. I'm his mother, I know what's best my son. What made me mad was he lied to protect you. He said he bought them."

"I told Dale to keep them in a cool place. I didn't mean the refrigerator where you'd find them. Again, I'm sorry."

"Clay. Number seven was a big one. You betrayed me."

Clay clasped his hands together. He became emotional, trying to hold back the tears. One slipped.

"Nancy, you're my baby sister and I love you dearly, but I had to tell Mom and Dad you went back to Tyrone. I did it for you as much as I did it for me. Try to understand, I can't apologize for number seven."

"But Clay, you know I loved Tyrone. He made me happy and you took that away from me. Why?"

Clay paused, and then looked sternly into the monitor.

"Nancy ... he was a wife beater in training. When I heard he beat up Cynthia it made me sick. Eric saw the whole thing. He beat her even after she lost consciousness."

"That was self-defense. Cynthia slapped him in front of everyone at school."

"Sis, all I could do was imagine him doing the same to you. I would've probably had to apologize to his mother if you'd continued to date him."

"Apologize for what?"

"... for sending her only child to an early grave. I knew you fell hard for him, it scared me. I would do it all over again, and if you never forgive me ... I understand."

Nancy stood there still. She broke down. Decades of pent-up emotions yielded to understanding and forgiveness. The tears and crying started subtly then gradually increased. Clay wept at the sight of seeing his sister so emotional. It was a therapeutic release for them both.

Eventually the crying subsided but the tears continued to flow long after. Nancy reached for a wad of Kleenex. She blew her nose making the sound of a trumpet.

"Clay, look at me. I'm a mess. Can you forgive me?"

"For what?" Clay asks.

"For my acceptance speech. Did you watch the Emmys?"

Clay nodded.

"Clay, Arthur is just a friend. He could never replace you. I mean that. I hope I didn't offend you. Did I?"

"Not at all, it's fine," Clay fibbed.

"Clay, I want us to be close like we were when were kids, okay? Do you still love me? I need to hear it. It's a girl thing."

"Nancy, we have an unbreakable bond that's timeless. Of course I love you. That never stopped and never will."

What's the price of salvaging a relationship? Sometimes as little as _fifteen seconds of humility_.

# CHAPTER 8

## Pic of the Weak

11:30 P.M.

CLAY YAWNED. "I was having a good dream. Why is Leslie calling me this late on a weekday? Hmm, I can only think of one reason," Clay surmised.

"Hi Leslie," Clay responded in his Barry White voice.

"Clay can I come in," Leslie asked.

"Come in? Where are you?"

"I'm outside your condo."

Clay whisked aside the bedroom drapes. It was raining and Leslie was sitting in a car outside. He nodded his head from the window and Leslie stepped out of the car looking stunning in a form fitting black satin dress.

As Clay opened the door the car pulled away. Clay tried to spot the driver of the car.

"Leslie, who dropped you off?"

Leslie walked in and sat in Clay's favorite recliner.

"I took a cab," Leslie replied.

Clay scratched his head.

"But there was no driver."

"Clay, driverless taxis have been around for a few months now. Women feel much safer in them after dark."

Clay made a pot of tea for his soon to be ex-wife.

"You look really nice, Leslie. You didn't have to dress up like that to come over," Clay said, as he dropped a few sugar cubes into the cups.

"Clay, calm down. I just got back from a date," she said as she slid her shoes off.

Clay took a stutter step, almost spilling the coffee.

"You went on a date?" Clay asked in disappointment.

Leslie looked up at Clay as he offered her tea.

"Yes, a date. It was awful. He was such a cheapskate. I'm going to block him."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Tell me what happened," Clay responded insincerely.

Leslie becomes more irate as she began to tell the story. Her eyes rolled to the ceiling after a big sigh.

"It was supposed to be a dinner date at a nice seafood restaurant in town. He was 30 minutes late. He didn't even offer an explanation."

She told the story.

"Wow, you look even better than your picture on your profile. Except, you really should dye your hair red. I have this thing about redheads. Hint, hint, wink, wink."

"You'll just have to accept me as I am. Are you one of those control freaks or something?"

"No, not at all. I'm sorry, forgive me, that was my inside voice."

"Okay, Mark. I haven't eaten all day; can you pass me a menu?"

Leslie marveled at all the delicious starters and main courses on the menu. She noticed Mark had not picked up his menu.

"Hmm, I think I will have the seafood platter.

The waitress approached their table and asked if they were ready to order.

"Yes, I will have the seafood platter," Leslie said, as she placed her napkin in her lap.

The waitress looked at Mark.

"And you sir? What are you having tonight?"

Mark sat back and folded his arms.

"Nothing, for me. I'm not that hungry. Thank you."

Leslie's eyes threw daggers at her date.

"Really? This is a dinner date. Right?"

The waitress intervened to de-escalate Leslie's brewing annoyance.

"Not to worry, the seafood platter deluxe is more than enough two. How about the deluxe?

After forty minutes of non-stop talk about Mark's ex-wife, the bill finally came. The waitress placed the receipt upsidedown underneath Mark's plate in an elegant leather sleeve.

Mark smiled and took the bill. The bill total unnerved him and he berated the waitress.

"I don't see my military discount on this bill. See that sign right there ... it says military discount with ID. Here's my ID, please adjust the total, right now."

Leslie was beyond furious and was ready to execute her exit strategy.

The waitress responded to Mark's demands.

"Sir, our military discount is for active duty members only not retirees. Sorry for the inconvenience."

Mark was frustrated and looked at Leslie with a scowl. He whispered to her. "I'm gonna need your half, that's only fair."

Leslie's frustration yielded to anger.

"For someone who said they weren't hungry, you ate the whole platter by yourself, just about."

Leslie's hands began to shake with rage and she calmly opened her purse to help with the bill.

Mark whispered to her again. "No, don't give me the money in front of everyone. Pay me in the parking lot or at my place later tonight," he winked.

Leslie lost it, badly. She stood up and slammed her purse on the table, making the silverware jump. She really wanted to throw the wine bottle at him but she resisted.

"You tight ass! Arrgh!" she shouted.

The entire restaurant turned around to observe the commotion.

Leslie snatched her coat off the back of her chair and stormed out of the restaurant.

Leslie concluded her recap of the night. Clay grabbed her hand and tried to comfort her.

She got a text message on her phone.

"This better not be him, I swear!"

The text was from another online suitor.

"Whew, it's not. Thank God."

Clay tried to control his jealousy.

"Who's texting you this late at night?"

"This guy is really handsome but he's really short on manners. Girls don't like to get sex texts."

"Let me see," Clay insisted.

"Sure, see for yourself," Leslie said as she handed him the phone.

Clay read the text and shook his head.

"This is so disrespectful. Why are you even communicating with this pervert? Wait a second, he just sent you a pic."

"What the ...! Ugggh ... that is so nasty. It's pierced too. I think I'm gonna be sick now." Clay exclaimed with extreme repulsion.

Leslie grabbed the phone. She was apologetic. "Clay, sorry. You weren't supposed to see that."

"And he's not just short in the manners department," Clay said, holding up his pinky.

"Leslie, you're too good for these jerks. You deserve to be treated like a queen. The queen that you are."

"There is this one guy. He's a lighting engineer and he's really been a gentleman in his messages. I might have to give him a chance."

# 2:00 a.m.

Clay continued to be a sounding board for Leslie realizing what she needed most was a friend who cared. Leslie wound down her rant about her online dating experience.

"I finally figured out why most men want to meet for coffee instead of dinner on the first date."

"Why?"

"Because they know they're not going to get any on the first date. Most men will spring for dinner if they think sex is guaranteed."

"Leslie, do you know the difference between a sex hook-up site and a dating site?"

Leslie shrugged her shoulders after being unable to differentiate.

Clay responded. "Very little. There is always an expectation of sex. For men, the sooner the better."

"Okay, Clay. Enough about me. What's going on with you? You seem really off these last few days. Are you writing?"

Clay sat on the arm of his recliner, close to Leslie.

"I've got nothing. I haven't published since _Fade to Black_. I've got no inspiration, just sadness all around. Dad's still in bad shape and there's no sign of improvement. And our country is going to hell in a hand basket," Clay lamented.

Leslie responded. "I just saw Dad the other day. He's still looking for Christine."

"Hey, did you hear about that boy in Chicago who was shot?" Leslie asked.

"Of course. And just yesterday there was another church shooting. A group called _Black Lives Don't Matter_ took responsibility. Killed almost half the choir and the usher board."

Clay covered his face with his right hand in despair.

"I just wish I could do something, something. I can't even pick up a pen, I'm just so uninspired."

Leslie put her arm around Clay and offered words of wisdom and comfort.

"Clay you said you have no inspiration, but you do. Sadness is an inspiration. Step away from all the hate that's tearing the country apart. If you were writing a story about what's happening in America right now, how would you end it to make it right? You have the story line right in front of you. Now write the part that fixes everything. That's the beauty of being a writer, you can end the saddest of stories with redemption and honor."

Leslie stood up, away from the recliner and slipped into her black pumps. She reached for her purse and grabbed her coat.

Clay was processing Leslie's advice. He found it uplifting. His creative wheels began to turn.

Leslie called for a cab. Within minutes she received a text from the onboard computer of the driverless taxi outside.

"Write the story. Goodnight, Clay."

# CHAPTER 9

## The Good Shepherd

ALPHA BAPTIST CHURCH,

CIVIC ACTION COMMITTEE: ROLL CALL,

ONE MONTH LATER

WHEN I CALL YOUR name, please say present," Clay stated to the few who had turned out for _Equality in Blythe._

"Deacon Jones."

"Present."

"Sister Fran."

"Present."

"Jamaal."

"Here."

"And Eric."

"Present."

The five gathered in the large conference room where bible study was normally held.

"Sister Fran, Jamaal and Eric, I know you've come a way to attend so I want to thank you for making the trip. We all have one thing in common, we want harmony in Blythe. We want to make an example for other cities to follow. So whenever injustice rears its ugly head, we want accountability."

They were all allowed to tell their story and the reason why they'd joined the group. Jamaal was the last to speak.

Jamaal stood. He had a defiant demeanor and his fists were clenched. He spoke.

"I'm sure you all have seen the video. My daughter was a cheerleader at Roy Wilkins High. I attended every game this season, except the game at Blythe High. A fight broke out after the Blythe varsity basketball team lost the conference championships and security was called. Did you see how that cop manhandled my baby girl? He body slammed her face into the floor and put his knee in the back of her neck. He grabbed her ponytail and dragged her across the court. Then he drew his weapon on the crowd. I still hear her voice crying out to me, 'I'm telling my daddy.' I wanted to kill him like the dog he is. The cop was reprimanded but no charges were filed. I say no justice, no peace!"

Jamaal sat down. Sister Fran offered him a tissue.

Clay responded. "Jamaal, I saw the video. I don't have a daughter so I can't imagine what you must be feeling. But in order to be effective we need to be logical and not emotional. We are all in this together."

As Clay tried to provide direction, he was interrupted by a dog barking relentlessly outside in the rain.

"Will somebody shut that dog up," Jamaal demanded.

Deacon Jones raised his index finger and quietly excused himself.

Clay continued. "Okay, Eric, you're our tech guy. We're gonna need a website. Can you handle that?

Eric responded. "I can do much more that. I have something special in mind," he said excitedly.

Clay addressed the two remaining members.

Sister Fran is our treasurer and Jamaal ...?

Jamaal crossed his arms and patted the inside of his jacket.

"I will be in charge of security."

Clay and the rest become slightly concerned.

"Security? Security for what?" Clay asks.

Jamaal responds. "It's just a matter of time before we are a target either by law enforcement or some nut job who see us as a threat. This is Blythe!"

Deacon Jones reentered the room.

"We have a guest," he announced.

Behind Deacon Jones emerged a policewoman.

She removed her hat and placed it in her right hand.

Jamaal voiced his disapproval. "Oh, hell no."

Sister Fran reminded Jamaal he was in the house of the Lord.

The female officer sat in an empty seat at the table and introduced herself.

"My name is Jessica Broughton and I want to join your group. I'm off duty."

Tensions subsided as the petite young officer showed her support. Jamaal stood then walked towards the window. He spotted her patrol car. He was untrusting and agitated by the constant dog barking.

"Will someone shut that dog up?"

"That's my dog. He hates the rain. I'm sorry," Jessica conceded.

Sister Fran smiled and suggested the dog be allowed inside.

"I promise he won't be a bother. He's well trained, I assure you."

The group consented.

Jessica reached into her right breast pocket and retrieved a dog whistle. In less than a minute, a very large soaking wet German Shepherd appeared and sat in the door way. The dog's menacing size caused Jamaal and Eric to retreat behind their chairs.

Jessica gave a command. "Chaos, go sit by the front door."

The large canine backed away into the dark hallway allowing only her steel blue eyes to be seen. She vanished.

Eric was slightly concerned.

"Ah, excuse me. Just what kind of dog is that?"

"She's half-wolf, half-German Shepherd," Jessica explained.

Jamaal challenged Jessica and questioned her motives.

"So, Officer Broughton. What do you know about being detained, arrested and abused because of the color of your skin? We want to know."

The blue-eyed, blonde officer looked over to Jamaal. She accepted his challenge.

"Maybe more than you think," she said confidently.

"Ha! This I gotta hear."

The others become fixated on Jessica. They wanted to hear her commentary.

Jessica told her story.

"Last year I was a Marine Lance Corporal with my unit near the Syrian/Turkish border. While on patrol, my HUMVEE hit a land mine. I woke up in a cell where I was held captive for 44 days by Syrian insurgents. The guards used Chaos during prisoner interrogations. She got them to talk. I remember being in the interrogation booth when they brought Chaos in. I was so scared. I never saw a dog that big before. She advanced towards me bearing her fangs. I closed my eyes. I could feel her sniffing all over me. Then nothing. I opened one eye with caution. She barked once and placed her paw on my thigh. I think she knew I was a female. She would not obey their commands to harm me or even frighten me. She just sat alongside me. If anyone tried to hurt me Chaos turned on them. The only reason why they didn't shoot her was because she was owned by a senior militia leader."

Clay in particular was drawn into her miraculous story.

"When I was rescued by Marine Force Recon, I would not leave without Chaos. It was a package deal. They had to take her too. We got heli-lifted out of there. I remember those first few days before she arrived. I was property of the guards. So, yes. I know a little bit about unlawful detention because of the color of my skin."

There wasn't a dry eye in the room with the exception of Jamaal who eventually reigned in his suspicion.

"Lordy, you got my vote. I say she's in," Sister Fran said, fanning her face.

No one had a more compelling story than Jessica. In days to come she would prove more valuable than anyone could ever imagine.

# St. Mary's Hospital, Blythe

Christine, Clay and Leslie anxiously awaited the results of Rev. T's lab work.

Clay was particularly impatient.

"Mom, the not knowing is the hardest part. I stopped Googling his condition because it was too depressing."

Leslie empathized. "After my dad passed away, Rev. T became that father figure I needed in my life. He always treated me like a daughter."

Christine braced herself for the worst but her public face was that of optimism.

"He's a fighter. God's not done with him yet. I just want him home."

They were summoned to the doctor's office. Clay reached for Leslie and his mother's hands as they anxiously hovered outside her office.

"You may come inside. I have the lab results," Dr. Wilder said.

Clay sat in the middle with his right knee full of nervous energy.

"I had the blood redrawn and retested; that's why it took so long. I apologize as I know it must have been difficult."

Christine rocked nervously in her chair holding out for signs of hope.

"May I ask why you had to re-do the blood work?"

Dr. Wilder scooted back from behind her desk and pulled up a chair closer to make the setting less formal.

Her South African accent was calming and personable. She barely looked old enough to be in such a senior position. She had the appearance of a triathlete with short, blonde, cropped hair, complemented by a comforting smile.

She responded to Christine's question. "I've had the blood re-examined because the results were extremely rare. You see, your husband has a rare form of encephalitis. Encephalitis is a swelling of the brain usually caused by a viral infection. Inflammation of the brain sometimes affects the hippocampus, the gateway to our memory."

Christine, Clay and Leslie dropped their heads in despair.

"Dr. Wilder, is it life threatening?" Clay asks.

She sighed. "I have to be honest with you. This particular type of encephalitis is extremely aggressive and is not usually compatible with life. The virus that causes it is clever and mutates quickly so the body's immune system can't figure it out. Unfortunately, our immune systems are slow learners and in most cases can't fight off this type of attack."

Christine removed her glasses to wipe her eyes. Her brave face was succumbing to reality.

"So, what should I do?" she asked.

"Well, we need to keep him here for more observation. This could lead to other related diminished brain functions or impairments. Mrs. Thompson, you should make sure your husband's affairs are in order. Does he have an up-to-date will?"

Christine nodded and maintained a stiff upper lip as did Clay and Leslie.

"Thank you, Dr. Wilder. You have been most helpful, but my husband's work is not finished. I just pray that the Lord's will be done here."

# CHAPTER 10

## Inciting Chaos

ALPHA BAPTIST CHURCH,

CIVIC ACTION COMMITTEE

SISTER FRAN READ THE minutes.

"As of today we have raised over $100,000 in donations through our crowd funding site; thank you, Eric. Most donations have been fifty dollars or less, but there are a few rather large donations from anonymous donors. We are still in discussion over a clear mission statement for a way forward and lastly we _still_ need a name." She laughed at the end of her sentence."

Clay clasped his hands at the center of the conference table and thanked Sister Fran for her diligence and dedication. He addressed the group.

"Well, the fab five plus one once again. Yes, I guess we should come up with a name. Any suggestions?

Jamaal raised his hand.

"Yeah, how about _Stop Blythe Discrimination_?"

Eric snickered under his breath. Jamaal takes offense.

"What's wrong with _Stop Blythe Discrimination_?" he asked naively.

Eric could no longer contain his laughter. After he caught his breath, he explained.

"Seriously? The press would have a picnic with that name. I can see the headlines now. ' _Blythe has an SBD problem'_. Or better yet, how about ... ' _SBD Packs Heat'_."

They all began to join in with the joke. Jamaal eventually lightened up.

"Okay, okay. You got me," he conceded.

Clay called on Eric to unveil his latest project designed to promote law enforcement accountability. He first had to sell his idea to the group.

"Eric, the floor is yours. We've been waiting in anticipation for this secret pet project of yours. Let's hear it."

Eric was slightly nervous when asked to address the group. He feared rejection. A smile from Sister Fran gave him a slight boost of confidence.

He reached for his phone and pressed a few buttons before delivering his over-rehearsed pitch.

"Even though law enforcement is now mandated to use dash cams and body cams when interacting with the public, we still need added protective measures to capture events as they happen."

"Ain't that the truth," said Sister Fran.

"Dash cam footage can be altered, lost or destroyed as we have seen in recent times. Also police have jamming capabilities that can disable your cell phone. I believe my idea will close the gap and accomplish what dash cams were intended to achieve. What if during a traffic stop you could have an 'eye in the sky' to record the incident?"

Jamaal was not impressed and voiced his pessimism.

"Eric, we don't need dreams, we need results."

"This isn't a dream, Jamaal. Allow me to demonstrate."

Eric walked over to the window. All eyes fixed on him.

Eric swiped his phone a few times and launched an app.

After a hyped pitch, a few minutes passed and nothing happened. The group became restless.

Clay broke the awkward silence.

"Eric, are we supposed to be waiting for something to happen?"

Eric smiled and requested the group join him at the window.

They patronized Eric and joined him.

Eric checked his watch.

"Right on time."

"Is that what I think it is?" asked Deacon Jones.

"Lordy, it's a drone. What does that flashing red light mean?" asked Sister Fran.

Eric responded confidently. "It's recording and transmitting the feed to my PC at home. It's my personal quadcopter modified with recording equipment. It tracks my phone's location by GPS. All we need is a license to operate. What do you think, guys?"

Clay was amazed and so were the others. He draped his arm around Eric.

"Eric, you are a true genius. I'd pay good money for that app. I'm in, what about the rest of this rag tag bunch?"

Eric received a round of applause, the loudest from Jamaal.

Eric terminated the app and the drone vanished from sight into the night.

After much encouragement from the group about Eric's app, Deacon Jones offered up an idea of his own.

"Clay, what if we had your sister sponsor one of our events? We could really benefit from the visibility. She's sure to draw a crowd and she could help put us on the map."

All eyes were on Clay.

"I already know her stance on it without even asking. She won't do it. I know it."

Jessica asked why.

Clay sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

"Nancy is dead set against the politicization of entertainment. She says when politics weaves itself into entertainment it's never subtle, it's a hijacking."

Jamaal responded. "That's exactly what Berry Gordy thought when Marvin Gaye wanted to record the _What's Going On_ album. And we all know how big a hit that was."

Jamaal broke into a horrible rendition of _Let's Get It On_.

Clay saved the group from further lyrical torture.

"Well, on that note. I think it's time for a recess."

The group quickly dispersed leaving Clay alone with Jessica.

"Jessica, I've got something for Chaos."

He retrieved two bacon-flavored milk bone biscuits from his jacket pocket.

"Aww. She loves those. Why don't we go downstairs and you can give them to her."

Clay and Jessica got up from the table and paid a visit to Chaos. On the way down the stairs Clay enquired about her name.

"I didn't give her that name, the Syrian guards did. I witnessed her viciousness once. Something must come over her because she goes absolutely berserk."

"On second thought you can give her the treats," Clay said anxiously.

He quickly handed Jessica the treats.

They approached the front door and Chaos was not there. Clay got slightly edgy and looked around for her.

"Clay, Chaos stays in the basement. I didn't want her to frighten people coming in the front door."

"Whew," Clay responded in relief.

Clay and Jessica walked into a pitch-black basement. Clay is on edge staying close to Jessica.

"Jessica, are you sure she's here?"

"Chaos! Chaooooos!" Jessica called.

From the distance, two steely blue, piercing eyes appeared in the dark. It frightened Clay.

"Clay, are you scared?"

"Who? Me ... ah ...ah ... why would you say that?"

"Because you are squeezing my hand like a woman giving birth to twins."

"Oh, sorry."

"Chaos, lights."

Moments later the lights come on.

"Whoa, how did she do that?"

"Come here, girl. Come on, Chaos."

Clay stood behind Jessica as the menacing canine galloped towards them. She gave Jessica a series of loving sloppy kisses all over her face.

"Jessica, I never knew a dog that could turn on lights. Now that's impressive."

"I found out she has 13 commands. All of them have counter commands except two. Those two are in a different category."

Chaos rolled around like a puppy wanting her belly scratched.

"What two commands are those?"

Jessica stops rubbing Chaos momentarily to answer Clay.

"To eat."

"What's the other?"

Jessica looked away briefly.

"To kill."

After a 15-minute recess the group re-adjourned to the conference room. A guest awaited them seated at the table. The white gentleman was dressed in coveralls and black hiking boots. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties. A large cowboy hat sat in his lap. He had a friendly smile.

"Howdy. I'm Sam. How much does it cost for membership?" he asked politely.

The fab five plus one were elated to have a new face join the fight. Clay welcomed the group's latest arrival and shook his hand.

"Sam, there's no cost for membership. Dues are donation based."

After a brief discussion about an official group name, Clay notices that Sam seemed to pay Jessica undue attention. He brushed it off.

"So Sam, we've all had the chance to explain our reason for being here. We'd like to hear your personal story. The floor is yours, my friend," Clay offered.

Sam placed his ten-gallon hat on the table and walked toward the large portrait of Rev. T. hanging on the wall. He reads the inscription below the portrait before turning around and addressing the group in a very heavy Texas accent.

"I am here because when I turn on my television, all I see is violence across the country. It makes me sad," he said, placing his hand over his heart.

"Amen," said Sister Fran.

He continued. "This country ... my country ain't what it used to be."

"Amen, brother," Deacon Jones replied.

"I can't just sit idle while my country goes to hell in a hand basket. I've mulled this over and over in my head. I ask myself how did this happen? How did we get here? I know how," he said, walking back to his chair.

"How?" Clay asked.

Sam smiled and started laughing hysterically. Others become slightly unnerved by his change in demeanor.

"I'll tell you how. It's because we live in a degenerate society. A society that tolerates rap music ..."

"Say what?" Jamaal interrupted.

Sam continued. "Let me finish! A society that tolerates saggy pants and interracial marriages! A society where the white vote doesn't mean shit anymore!"

Panic begins to spread among the group as the hate spews from his charcoal-colored eyes.

He retrieved a loaded AK-47 from underneath the table.

Everyone gasped and scooted back in their chairs.

"He's gotta fire arm!" Jessica shouted.

"Everyone stand fast! Don't move. Especially you!" He said, pointing the loaded rifle directly at Jessica's face.

Clay's heart begins to beat rapidly in his chest. He offered the gunman money.

"If this is a robbery, we have plenty of money in the safe. You can have it."

Sister Fran fainted in her seat. Jamaal was waiting for an opportunity to go for his Glock pistol in his jacket. Eric's hands were trembling uncontrollably.

The gunman pointed to the quote under Rev. T's portrait. _God Plus One is a Majority_.

"In this case, I say my AK plus one is a majority. Don't ya'll agree? Everyone will make it out of here if you just follow my simple instructions. I promise no one will get hurt. But one stupid mistake and you all will die. Ya'll hear me?"

The group got a reprieve. What at first appeared to be a massacre, quickly changed course. Jamaal elected not to be a hero and opted to follow instruction as requested.

The group breathed a slight sigh of relief, knowing their lives would be spared.

"Alright, this is a simple three-step process."

"Step one! We're gonna play a game. It's called pass the collection plate. I want everyone to put everything in their pockets into this collection plate. Do it!"

Sam passed the plate around. Jamaal reluctantly placed his Glock in the plate to the dismay of the others. Sam smiled.

"Good boy."

Soon the collection plate was spilling over with cellphones, keys and wallets. Jessica did not comply.

The gunman demanded that Clay search Jessica and remove any belongings.

Clay looked at Jessica. She was defiant. Clay was defeated. However, she allowed Clay to search her. The gunman placed the barrel in Clay's back. Clay searched her jeans and found a small pistol strapped to her ankle. He paused before placing the pistol in the basket.

"Step two! Strip down to your underwear!"

"Damn!" Jamaal said.

The rifle now pointed at Jamaal.

"What's your problem, boy?"

"I ain't wearing no drawers," he said with his hands up.

The gunman placed the barrel to Jamaal's genitals.

Jamaal did as instructed.

"Somebody wake that old bag up and strip her down!"

Jessica, still dressed, defied the gunman.

"No!"

The gunman redirected the rifle at Jessica. The duress tripped memories of Jessica being held captive in Syria. She was overcome by PTSD.

Clay tried to diffuse the situation.

"Jessica, please. Do what he says. No one needs to get hurt. Just do what he asks."

"Eric frantically attempted to wake up Sister Fran but he was unable to do so. He manically ripped her clothes off leaving her sprawled out on the floor in her undergarments."

"Step three, face the wall on your knees. Both hands behind your head."

They all aligned themselves against the wall and knelt one by one.

Clay grew panicky. From the corner of his eye he could see his father's portrait. Right beside the portrait was a stained-glass window of Christ feeding lambs.

A feeling of impending doom began to creep into Clay's mind. He was fearful.

"Lord, I don't want to die. Please save us," he cried silently.

The lights flickered on and off three times. Everyone took notice including the perpetrator.

The gunman advanced towards a defiant and tearful Jessica. He clarified his intentions. "Remember when I asked what's the price of membership? I never really got a good answer. Well, let me tell you the price of membership. It's gonna cost you dearly ... your lives. Now that's expensive. The good news is it's a onetime payment that's due today. Right now."

He took the rifle off safe.

Click.

Eric freaked out.

"Oh my God. We're gonna die!"

Deacon Jones dropped his head and closed his eyes. Jamaal broke down, whimpering.

Clay looked at his dad's face one last time from the corner of his eye.

"I love you, Dad. Goodbye."

Clay began to blubber like a child, with his head pinned against the wall on his knees.

The gunman whispered to Jessica. "You're gonna be the last. But before you go, I'm gonna give you the time of your life. The only thing worse than a nigger ... is a nigger lover."

He licked the inside of her ear.

Jessica cringed and kneed him in the groin. He recoiled momentarily.

"Owwwh, you're gonna pay for that," he said with a sinister smile.

He struck the side of her face with the butt of the AK with brute force. She fell to the floor, dazed. Blood spilled from her mouth onto the floor.

The gunman walked over to Sister Fran who was regaining consciousness. He placed the barrel in her mouth. She gagged.

With blurred vision in both eyes, Jessica reached into her blouse pocket. She retrieved a thin, metal object. Barely conscious, she blew.

While the gunman taunted Sister Fran by reading her last rites, his hair began to stand on end. He turned around.

In the darkness of the hallway were two menacing, steely blue eyes peering at the gunman.

"What the hell is that?" he said, taking a step back.

Grrrr, Grrrr, Grrrr!" He aimed his gun. Jessica yelled, "No, no, please, don't!"

Chaos came from the darkness like a panther approaching the gunman.

Pandemonium engulfed the others as they awaited imminent death.

Chaos was square in the cross hairs.

Click, click, click.

The rifle jammed.

"Aww, come on! Son of a bitch!" He said, while nervously fiddling.

"No, no, no! Get back!" said the would-be assailant walking backwards.

Jessica pointed to the gunman. She paused before letting out a blood curdling scream.

"Chaos ... eat!"

With saliva dripping from her sharp fangs, Chaos lunged at the gunman's throat and brought him down. She ate.

Fade to black.

# CHAPTER 11

## ... and the Light was Good

CLAY'S CONDO

1:00 A.M. THE FOLLOWING DAY

CLAY, IT'S ME, NANCY. Open the door."

Clay lay face down on the sofa, exhausted and fatigued. It was a major effort just to open his eyes.

"Be there in a sec! Hold on."

Clay greeted his sister at the door with mere slits for eyes. She was taken aback by his lethargic zombie-like motion.

"Clay, come here honey. Your shirt is soaked in blood. Let's get you out of these filthy clothes. If you take a shower, you'll feel so much better. Go on, get," she demanded.

Nancy grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, while Clay showered.

Nancy shouted from the living room, "Clay, you're famous, did you know that?"

"Clay, did you hear me? I said you're famous."

Nancy investigated.

Clay sat motionless in the tub, water splashing everywhere. He was sound asleep.

# Thirty minutes later

"If this is the cost of fame, it's way too damn expensive. Are reporters still camped out on the street?"

Nancy peeked out the window and spotted a news van with blacked-out windows parked across the street. She nodded her head.

Clay conveyed to Nancy his suspicions regarding the police and the group.

"So why do you think the church is bugged, Clay?"

"Because they knew about Eric's surveillance proposal. They seized his computer and destroyed his quadcopter. They threatened him if he went ahead with his plans."

Clay continued. "Somehow I don't think the incident will be covered by the media. I'm sure there's some sort of cover up. Blythe is too protective of its image."

"Are you kidding? The evening news is looping your story every 15 minutes. Clay, you haven't seen the news, have you?"

"No."

Nancy switched to the local news.

"Clay, everyone saw what happened."

"Nancy, what are you talking about?" Clay said, defiantly.

# Newscast

"The deceased has been identified as Samuel Bodecker, 55, a long-time resident of Blythe. We are standing right outside his home here on Turfway. Excuse me, ma'am. Did you know the victim?"

Clay became enraged.

"Victim! How is he the victim?"

"Yeah, I knew Sam. He always minded his business, he never was no trouble. If you ask me, they should put that dawg down."

Clay stood in the middle of the living room. He was frothing at the mouth.

"If it weren't for Chaos, we'd all be in the morgue."

# Newscast continues

"Excuse me, sir. Did you know Mr. Bodecker?"

The man wiped tears from his eyes. He took a moment to get his composure.

"Me and Bo was the best of friends. We used to go deer hunting together. I was there when he got his first kill when we was kids. Bo was a decent man. He'd do anything for you. If it weren't for those meddlers, Bo would still be with us. He didn't deserve to die like that. Damn shame."

"Back to you at the studio."

"Thanks, Barb. We at Channel Nine have just received an exclusive clip of the vicious attack, courtesy of Blythe PD. Warning, viewer discretion is advised. "

"No, no, no! Get back!"

Clay threw a shoe at the TV. Nancy turned the volume down.

"Damn, they got the church's CCTV footage. If all you saw were those last few seconds, you'd think he was defending himself. That's not how it went down. This is a cover-up. Where's the rest of the tape?"

Clay threw the remote control at the TV.

Nancy physically restrained her irate brother. He eventually told her the real story.

Nancy was spooked by the botched execution. She tried to reassure Clay.

"Clay, it's a good thing God was watching over you and the others."

Clay tilted his head towards Nancy. He was broken and confused.

"Nancy, a part of me died in that church. A part of me that I can never get back," Clay said solemnly with eyes closed.

"What's that, Honey?"

Clay dropped his head between his knees. He was inconsolable.

"My faith. My faith is gone."

Clay wiped his tears and stood. He went on a rant.

"Nancy. Have you ever seen God? Answer me!" He pointed at her.

"Well, no," she replied defensively.

"Me neither. But, I've seen the devil. I've seen the devil up close and in person. His eyes. I looked into his eyes, Nancy. They were black, just like his soul."

"Nancy, he broke me. Yes, I survived but my faith didn't.

Nancy was saddened. Her brother, the epitome of optimism was now an empty shell.

"Clay, kneel here with me and pray. Do it for me, okay?"

Clay reluctantly dropped to his knees in front of the sofa next to Nancy.

Clay began.

"Lord, I was one of your loyal foot soldiers. I've got more than I can possibly bear. I miss my dad so much. I just want to hear his voice say _How ya doing, young man?_ Lord I'm hanging on by a spider web. I need a sign to let me understand that I survived by Your grace and not just a stuck firing pin. I need a sign right now. If you are there, prove it. Amen."

Nancy looked at Clay with one eye open, still in prayer.

"Clay, that's tempting God, you can't do that. What's wrong with you?"

"God can do anything, right? I want a miracle. That's what I need to fix me."

Clay and Nancy fell asleep in the living room, exhausted, with the television on.

# 8:00 the next morning

Knock, knock.

"Who is it?!" Clay yelled, face down in a sofa cushion.

"Maintenance."

Nancy stretched and yawned. She sat up and wiped the sleep from her eye.

Clay sleepily walked over to the door. He opened the door, half awake.

"Mr. Thompson, we just want to apologize for any inconvenience the power outage may have caused. We normally get the word out well in advance, but we fell short this time."

Clay wiped his eyes and emerged from his grogginess.

"Power outage? What power outage?"

"Sir, the entire estate was without power from midnight to six a.m. this morning. We always try to schedule them to cause the least disruption."

Clay looked at Nancy. Nancy was just as confused.

Clay addressed the maintenance man.

"Sir, I've had power all night," said bewildered Clay.

The maintenance man gripped his clipboard and placed his hand on Clay's shoulder.

"Mr. Thompson, I switched off the circuit breaker myself. All of our generators and back-up generators were off-line during the maintenance cycle. There is no way you had power to your unit. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience. Have a nice day."

# Three Days Later,  
Breakfast

Clay pushed back from the table and stretched.

"Nancy, I haven't had salmon croquettes since we were kids. That was just what the doctor ordered."

Nancy smiled.

"I always liked cooking for my brother."

"Clay, I have to ask you a question. What did Mom say about you and Leslie splitting up?"

Clay slumped in his seat.

"Mom doesn't know. She still thinks we live together."

"What? She's gonna freak so bad. You need to tell her. You don't want her to hear it from someone else. She'll be so hurt you didn't tell her," Nancy said while sipping her coffee.

"I know. Sometimes I don't believe it myself. Leslie is the only one I've ever been with. She's on a dating site now. I can't really go there yet. She's a pretty woman, it's just a matter of time before she meets someone. Uggh."

Clay and Nancy washed dishes together and recapped the mysterious circumstances of the night before.

"Clay, only you could ask God for a miracle like that. Dad always said you lived a charmed life. That was kinda spooky, you gotta admit."

Clay stopped drying the dishes and took a moment to reflect.

"No, it wasn't spooky at all. Living the rest of my life without my faith ... now that would've been spooky. I think I'm getting my spiritual mojo back, I can feel it."

Nancy hugged her brother. "I got my brother back, my rock. So what about the community group? Where do you go from here?"

"I can't reassemble the group. We're forever bonded by a tragic experience and hopefully we can all heal and move on. But I've gotta keep up the fight. I'll just trust God to tell me which direction to go."

Nancy stared out the kitchen window in deep thought.

She sighed. "Speaking of direction, my screenwriters are struggling big time. Ever since California passed legislation legalizing the recreational use of marijuana, there has been a noticeable decline in the creativity of my production staff."

Clay and Nancy continued their conversation in the living room.

"But Nancy, you ran the table at the Emmy's this year. You competed against yourself. You can't improve on that."

"But I can. And I will! Everyone will be gunning for me next season. My competition is trying to poach my writers and talent. In Hollywood, either you have a seat at the table or you're on the menu. Trust me, next season I'm going to take entertainment to a whole new level. A level the world's never ever seen before. This project is called _Shock and Damn_."

"Nancy, you're funny. You mean _Shock and Awe_."

Nancy folded her arms and then corrected Clay. "You heard me right the first time. I want to shock people and make them say ... 'Damn!'"

"I just need some new material," Nancy conceded.

Nancy excused herself momentarily and used the bathroom. She returned, making a detour into Clay's study where a picture of her winning the high school state championship for dramatic interpretation hung proudly.

She sighed. "That was one of the happiest days of my life. I remember exactly what I was thinking when you took that picture."

"What?" Clay asked.

"This is just the beginning. This five feet two red-headed girl with freckles is gonna take the world by storm."

Nancy noticed Clay's book collection. She picked up a random book.

"Since when did you start reading romance novels?"

"Nancy, I write them. That's _The Seduction of Monet Dawson_ , for whatever reason that's been my most popular title. I'm working on another book now; it's still in draft form."

Nancy entered a brief, trance-like state.

"Hmm. What's _The Crossover_ about?"

"That's based on a true paranormal story of a good friend who was murdered. Her spirit returns to guide the detective investigating her case."

"Interesting. So tell me about the new story you're writing?"

Clay went into a solemn state. He sat on the sofa.

"It's about all the killing going on in our big cities. Some by cops and some by gangs. It's so heart breaking. When I heard about Saundra ... it was something about her case that tugged on my heart. It reminded me a lot about what Dad went through. I didn't understand it then, I was too young. I just thought that was the way things were."

Nancy was very interested. "So, what's the name of the book?"

"Don't know yet. But in the book, America finds resolution and harmony again."

Nancy smiled in jest. "So, you're saying you manage to solve the ills of society in the book."

"Not all of them."

"I'll take all seven of your books. Do you have your latest work on a thumb drive?"

Clay bent down and removed a memory stick from his hard drive.

"Of course. Here ya go."

"Clay, I'll read the books personally over the next few weeks. If there's any potential, I'll let you know."

Clay became animated and excited.

"Wow. Sure, just let me know."

"Clay, I can't make any promises but ... if any one of these stories survives the Murder Board, I'll let you know. Who knows, maybe we can _Shock and Damn_ together."

# CHAPTER 12

## DNR (Do not Relinquish)

THE LAW OFFICES OF SOLOMON AND SOLOMON

LESLIE, ARE YOU SURE there is no chance of reconciliation with Clay?"

Leslie glanced at Clay seated beside her before reluctantly answering.

"I'm sure ... we're sure. We still love each other. We'll still be in each other's lives no matter what, just not as husband and wife. I think I've, I mean we've, drifted apart over the years."

Clay validated Leslie's concession.

"Call it the 50-year itch if you like. If I can't make her happy then I have to let her go. Her happiness means everything to me, even if it means going our separate ways," Clay lamented, twiddling his thumbs.

Mr. Solomon, seated in his black executive chair picked up a stack of files from his in-basket.

"In my hand are pending divorce cases that I'm representing. There's legislation being drafted right now to strike irreconcilable differences as grounds for divorce," he says as he vaped on his e-cigarette.

"The divorce rate is almost 50% and growing in this country. The reason is because marriage is too easy to get in to and get out of. I have one wife who is suing for divorce because her husband took his mom on their honeymoon. People abuse marriage by not taking it seriously. If the legislation passes this year there will be only five grounds for divorce. Let's see if you meet the criteria for divorce under this new bill, shall we?"

Clay and Leslie agreed.

Mr. Solomon went into character and addressed Clay and Leslie.

"Thank you for trusting our firm with one of the most important decisions you'll ever have to make. Before we begin I need to ask you the relevant questions to determine the grounds for the dissolution of this marriage. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Leslie said.

"Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, please answer _yes_ or _no_ to the following questions."

Clay and Leslie became slightly uncomfortable at Mr. Solomon's new demeanor and tone.

"Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, has either one of you infected the other with a sexually transmitted disease?"

Leslie responded defensively. "I beg your pardon."

"No," Clay added.

Mr. Solomon continued. "Is there domestic violence in the marriage, either in public or in the home?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Solomon got out of his chair and rested on the desk. He drew closer to Clay and Leslie.

Leslie felt her space was being invaded. She clammed up.

"Has there been an abandonment or separation for at least two years?"

Clay shook his head to indicate no.

"Was there misrepresentation or fraud prior to the marriage?"

Clay scratched his head. "Like what?"

Mr. Solomon pointed to one of his files to his left.

"Like this case. Mrs. X was born a male and therefore unable to bear children ... something she promised her husband."

Clay and Leslie exchanged uneasy looks.

"No, nothing like that."

"This next question may be a little unsettling, but years of experience tells us that couples that are still intimate are less likely to close the deal."

"When was the last time you had sexual relations?"

Leslie was defiant. "I'm not answering that."

"It was 13 September, almost three months ago. Clay sighed. I remember the thoughts going through my head at the time," Clay replied somberly.

Leslie looked at Clay oddly. She was taken aback by his openness and recollection.

Clay apologized. "Sorry, I was speaking with my inside voice."

Mr. Solomon gathered his files and placed them neatly into his in-box.

"Well I hate to break it to you; if this law is passed a judge may not grant you a divorce in the state of Texas. Are you really sure you guys want to go ahead with this? You obviously still love each other. You can always go for greener pastures, but sometimes ... the water bill is higher. Much higher. Think about it for a while."

Clay and Leslie concluded their office visit and proceeded to the elevator. Clay pressed the button for the ground floor. Leslie wanted to know what Clay's thoughts were doing their last love making session.

"I was hoping it wouldn't be the last time."

# The Next Day

"Incoming call from Nancy. Shall I connect?"

"Yes, Eleanor."

"Clay, connect your video. I want to see your face when I tell you the good news."

"Sorry, sis. But I'm at a KFC drive through. Whatcha got for me?"

"Well, I read your stuff."

Clay perked up.

"Oh yeah, which one?"

"All of them. I can see why the Monet Dawson story is a hit, I just didn't like reading about my brother having rampant sex. _Eww_. You should've warned me, you silly goose."

"I sold one of your manuscripts to my screenwriting team. It made it through the Murder Board. It was the longest session we've ever had. It lasted two days. You should be proud. I never told them it was my brother's work. I wanted no favors on this one. This is going to be big, really big. We might break the bank on this one but we've got backing. I need to call in a big favor to get the buy-in I need to make this as realistic as possible to pull it off."

"Nancy, I don't know what to say. Which title is it?"

"Nope. Not telling you."

"Aw, c'mon. TV or the big screen?"

"Hmm, this will be a made-for-TV production," Nancy said excitedly.

"What kind of buy-in are you talking about? A technical advisor?"

"Yeah, a heavy hitter."

"Who?"

"The Attorney General."

"Wow. I'm sure he can help with all the technical aspects."

" _He_? Clay, I'm not talking about the State Attorney General."

# 6:30 p.m. at The Thompson's Marital Home

"Who is it?" Leslie asked.

"Leslie, it's me, Clay."

Leslie cautiously opened the door before inviting Clay in.

"Surprise. These are for you."

Leslie smelt the flowers and smiled at Clay.

"Clay we've talked about this. You can't just stop by unannounced anymore. What if I had company?"

"No problem. I would introduce myself as your jealous gun-toting husband."

Leslie was not amused. She gave Clay the evil eye.

"Clay, I have to tell you something. Have a seat."

"Oh boy, Is this where you tell me, 'It's not you ... it's me'?"

Leslie sat next to Clay on a white leather sofa.

"Clay, I've met someone that I really like. I'm starting to trust him and you know how hard that is for me."

Clay tried to keep a brave face. His jokes, used as a coping mechanism, no longer protected him from the harsh reality. The truth hurt ... deeply.

"Is it that Mark guy?" Clay asked looking away.

"No. He stole my identity."

"Ahh, is it Brian? The guy who does volunteer work at the Woodlawn animal shelter?" Clay asked sadly.

"No, that was court ordered."

"Then who?" Clay asks.

"His name is Jon. He has a professional lighting company that caters to Hollywood. He's worked for Nancy on a few occasions. He started from the bottom and worked his way to the top. He wants to take me to Paris with him on his next business trip. Should be fun."

"So I assume you guys will have separate rooms. Right?"

Leslie playfully punches Clay in the shoulder.

"That will be a game-time decision. We'll see."

"Clay, I don't want to hide anything from you. I want to be open, like I always have been with you. Try to look past the pain. One day we'll look back on this and realize our marriage wasn't a mistake but a journey. I don't regret it one bit. But I need to be more than just comfortable and content I need to be happy."

"Mom, I've cleaned the gutters, mowed the lawn and cleaned out the garage. Is there anything else you need me to do?" Clay said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Yes, dear. I need you to come inside. I have to show you something important," Christine said somberly.

Clay braced himself as he followed his mom to the study. Christine sobbed quietly.

"Mom, what's wrong? Is Dad still in a coma?"

"It's right there on the desk. Read it."

Clay sat and flipped through a few pages before he stopped.

"Mom, it's Dad's will. What am I looking for?"

Christine flipped to section 10.e of the will.

_In the event of stroke and or cardiac/respiratory arrest after the age of 75 no attempts to revive are authorized. If coma or vegetative state persists for more than sixty consecutive days after the age of 75 remove life support upon recommendation of medical authority._

Clay swirled around in the chair on the verge of tears, realizing his dad was nearing his 76th birthday.

"But Mom, why would Dad put this in his will?"

Christine sat on the desk next to her son. She explained, "He knows me. He knows I would sell everything I owned on this earth to keep him alive. I would gladly lose everything on the hope that there was a slight chance I could have him back. That's why there is a DNR clause in his will. This is the 31st day he's been in a coma. I have only four weeks left."

Relinquish: _verb. To surrender, give up, resign or abandon_

# CHAPTER 13

## Anatomy of a Nightmare

RIOTING AND PROTESTS ENGULFED the streets of Chicago on Black Friday after a video emerged implicating a white police officer of shooting a black teen, holding a knife. Cities' economies were threatened by similar Black Friday protests causing panic among big business, investors and city officials.

Law enforcement responded with a heavy hand targeting more organized groups and their key leaders. A face-off between activist groups and Aryan entities, namely _Black Lives Don't Matter,_ often became violent. Black activists and white sympathizers were pressurized by law enforcement on one side and lawless Aryan militant groups on the other. The new security environment posed a dangerous risk for both blacks and whites seeking justice and accountability. As a result, some groups disbanded, but two particular entities adapted and evolved. The press and media dubbed them _America's Most Wanted_ because of the group's elusiveness and their unique ability to target law enforcement wherever, whenever. Among the two was a small group of five ... called _The Underground_.

# Blythe Police Dept, Commissioner's Office

"'Scuse me, Chief. You have a visitor," said a rookie cop poking his head inside.

The Police Chief concluded a private discussion with an investigator and patted him on the back. They had a nice laugh as the civilian clothed officer departed.

The chief hoisted his belt up to his massive belly.

"Send him in. Who is it?" Asked the Chief between puffs on his cigar.

"It's the Feds," the young cop whispered, in a low tone.

The Chief quickly turned around with a scowl on his reddened face.

"Then you tell him, I'm out fishing," shouted the Chief.

A mid-fifties federal agent dressed in a dark navy blue suit invited himself in.

"Good afternoon. I'm agent Culp. Bryant Culp," he said, presenting his badge.

"You know who you look like, Son?"

The agent glanced at all the City commendations on the wall.

"Let me guess ... George Clooney?" Agent Culp replied.

The Chief put his cigar out.

"Yeah. Bet you get that a lot, don't cha, Boy?"

The agent placed a black leather briefcase on the Chief 's desk.

"Yes, I do. But that's not why I'm here."

The Chief polished his badge with his sleeve and ceased the pleasantries of small talk.

"I know exactly why you're here. Why is that the feds ... are never the bearers of good news? Seems like you fellas are always on a witch hunt."

His guest smiled.

"That's the nature of this business, I guess. But since you know why I'm here, I needn't warn you, because you already know."

The mood quickly soured as the Chief got right into the agent's face.

"You don't know shit. I know my boy better than anyone. He's a good kid. He had every right to stand his ground that night. That apartment complex has been hit a dozen times this month. In each case the perpetrator was a black youth. If you see a strange black kid in a white gated community what would think from a law enforcement perspective?"

Agent Culp loosened his tie and folded his arms.

"I'd think he was visiting someone. But that's just me."

"Don't gimme that liberal bullshit, Son. The questions is not ... are all blacks are thieves."

Agent Culp patronized his senior. "So what exactly is the question?" he asked sarcastically.

The chief got face-to-face with Culp.

"The right question is ... are all thieves _there_ black. If you ain't profiling, you ain't shit. My son was in fear for his life."

Chief Foster immediately turned bright red and went into a coughing fit. He stumbled back to his desk and popped a few pills. He broke out into a heavy sweat.

Agent Culp stood and offered to get the Chief a cup of water. The Chief steadied himself on the desk and let out a big sigh.

"Whew ... I'm fine. Hell, if I'd known I'd live this long I would've taken better care of myself. My health has seen better days."

Agent Culp retrieved a thick file marked 'CONFIDENTIAL' and placed it in the center of the Chief 's desk. He explained the purpose of his visit.

"Chief, I am not here to discuss the legalities of your son's case; this is much more serious than that."

Agent Culp walked towards a window and peeped through the blinds.

"Chief Foster, every US intel agency: DoD, CIA, NSA, you name it, is tracking this man right here."

He opened the first page of the file and pointed to a CCTV black-and-white image of a large man wearing dark sunglasses, sporting a ponytail, dressed all in black.

"This image was taken about 17 hours ago at Moscow Airport. The Russians call him 'The Patriot'. We call him our worst nightmare. He's what you might call a counter revolutionary," Agent Culp said with a stern tone.

The Chief looked puzzled.

"A what?" asked the chief.

"He's Russia's secret weapon. Whenever there is an uprising or instability in a state of strategic interest to Moscow, the Kremlin sends in this man to fix it. When the Russian Embassy in Georgia was bombed during the opening ceremony last summer; they sent in 'The Patriot' to remove the threat. Here are a few pictures of the carnage of his wrath. "

The chief blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. He challenged his junior.

"You must think I'm dumb. Ain't no Russian Embassy in Georgia. I grew up there. I know Georgia like the back of my hand."

Agent Culp gave the chief a deadpan stare.

"You're not serious, are you? I'm talking about Georgia the country," Agent Culp said.

"Naw, boy I heard you correctly. You said state."

Agent Culps scratched his head. Another deadpan stare but this time into space.

"Yes, I did say state ... as in nation."

"Carry on; just don't try to double talk me," said the Chief.

Agent Culp continued. "As I was saying ..." he sighed, "Our special forces fought alongside him in Syria. We've never seen anyone like him before. He's arguably one of the world's best assassins. He's everywhere and he's nowhere. Most think he's a ghost. We have a saying about 'The Patriot'. 'To find him you have to be lucky. To defeat him you have to be kidding'."

Chief Foster winced at the gruesome pictures of his victims in the file.

"If you look closely at the CCTV photo he is wearing a ring. It's a Superbowl ring that belongs to the Patriots football organization. There are many rumors about whether it was stolen or given to the Kremlin. Only a few know what really happened."

He continued. "We have intelligence indicating he is to receive Russia's new highest award for bravery for his actions in the Federal Republic of Ukraine. He will receive this award at FSB headquarters very soon. This award will be retired after it is presented. He's kinda a big deal."

Chief Foster closed the files and handed it back to Agent Culp.

"And what in the hell does this have to do with me and my police department?"

Agent Culp rolled up his right sleeve to check the time.

"Because he's landing at Dallas Fort Worth Airport at this very minute."

Chief Foster made light of the situation.

"Well, maybe he wants to return the ring?"

Agent Culp stood toe-to-toe with the Chief. He was very stern.

"He's travelling under his true name. That means it's personal. He can't be here for that!"

An awkward silence fell over the room before the Chief took a call on speaker phone.

"Chief Foster, here," he said in a gruff tone.

"Hey, Chief. Could you send Agent Culp to my office after you're done, please?"

"We're done here. He's headed your way."

The Chief pointed to the door as he hung up.

Agent Culp rose to his feet with briefcase in hand.

"Thank you for your time, Chief. It was almost a pleasure."

After a brief walk down the stairs Agent Culp knocked on a door and was greeted by a 30-year veteran sporting a crew cut and bi-focals.

"Agent Culp, my name is Jeremiah Johnson. I'm the deputy around here. Have a seat. Has anyone ever told you that you look like a celebrity? You look so familiar, can't remember what film that was. I'm sure my wife would know."

Agent Culp smiled.

Deputy Johnson began to search through a pile of paperwork on his desk.

"Found it," he exclaimed holding up a holiday card with a smiley face.

He handed it to Agent Culp.

The deputy placed his hands in his pockets and awaited a response from Agent Culp.

Agent Culp flipped over the greeting card and read the message.

"Happy Holidays, The Underground."

"Deputy, when did you get this?" Agent Culp inquires.

"This morning. Why? Do you what this means?"

Agent Culp stroked the side of his temple. His body language and serious demeanor concerned the deputy.

"You or somebody in your department is being targeted. Until one week ago we assessed they were just a bunch of disenfranchised hackers with an axe to grind against police officers. We believe they are alumni of a black fraternity. We considered the group low threat until last Friday when a series of videos were uploaded to YouTube. The video usually starts with a darkened room with five masked men wearing hoodies. Then a manifesto is read followed by dash cam footage."

The deputy released a desperate sigh. He surmised, "This probably has something to do with the Chief 's son. That boy has been nothing but trouble for us. He murdered that boy in cold blood. He's a walking time bomb. His name is Aaron. He tried out for the academy and I had to put my foot down. I couldn't endorse it. I went round after round with the Chief over Aaron's application. I almost lost my job over it."

"I presumed you prevailed over the Chief."

"I was about to turn in my resignation that Monday but I learned Aaron pistol whipped his girlfriend at a shopping mall that weekend. That put an end to that. Unfortunately, officers that are loyal to the Chief protect that dirt bag. I just want to serve the people of Blythe. I don't care about color or race or anything like that. I care about people."

Agent Culp retrieved a large tablet from his leather briefcase and opened up a YouTube browser.

"Deputy, I will fast-forward to the dash cam footage."

The unmanned taxi dash cam rolled.

"Take me home. 1369 Sycamore Lane," the drunk, off-duty police officer commanded in a Slavic accent."

"Thank you, Mr. Vasiliev. Your estimated driving time is 14 minutes. Automatic seatbelts deployed. We hope you enjoy your journey."

# Fast forward four minutes into journey

The passenger became irate.

"Hey, you stupid eedioot. My house is the other way. Where are we going?"

"System override. Your new destination is 5483 Kenwood Drive. Estimated driving time is five minutes."

"No, no! Not there. Turn around you mindless drone! Turn around."

The passenger tried to unbuckle his seat belt.

"Sorry, seat belt may not be disengaged while vehicle is in motion."

"No, no. This can't be happening," the officer shouted, looking around at his new surroundings.

# Fast forward five minutes

"You have reached your destination on the right. Thank you for your patronage."

The taxi came to a rest in the heart of the inner city where the officer patrolled, on the same street where he had killed a man claiming he thought he reached for his taser.

The taxi sat underneath a streetlamp where crowds of local residents surrounded it. The officer was quickly identified. A crowd began to circle the car and rock it viciously. The passenger was thrown around like a rag doll in the vehicle.

A kid in a black hoody appeared with a brick. He smashed the passenger-side window with brute force and then threw the brick at the streetlight. Darkness.

# Audio feed only

"Do you know who I am? Get your stinkin' hands off me! No, please. No, no, nooooooooooooo!"

_Cut_.

The deputy was taken aback by the footage.

"I will have a word with our technical branch and get them up to snuff on this threat. Is there any advice you can offer, Agent Culp?"

Agent Culp locked his brief case and headed for the door.

"Tell your officers to self-report when they overstep the law, and one more thing ..."

"Stay away from unmanned vehicles."

# CHAPTER 14

## Sexual Reeling

THOMPSON HEADQUARTERS

CLAY WASHED HIS HANDS in the bathroom then joined his mom at the kitchen table.

"Mom, I think I know why your car was overheating. There was a tiny leak in the radiator hose underneath the metal clamp. It probably got chaffed or something. Anyway, I replaced it and she's running fine now."

"Clay, I really appreciate that. Your father took care of all the car maintenance. I just drove it and put gas in it," she laughed.

Christine changed the subject to a more serious tone.

"So, how are you and Leslie?"

"Oh, we're fine. She's fine," Clay fibbed, avoiding eye contact.

Christine rose from the table and started to prepare dinner.

"Clay, I had a dream about you and Leslie last night."

"Hmm, was it a good dream?"

Christine stood behind Clay and put her right hand on his shoulder.

"It was a very good dream. I dreamt you two got back together."

Christine rejoined her son at the table.

Clay realizes he'd been caught in a fib.

"Nancy told you, right, Mom?"

Christine lifted her son's chin up then smiled.

"No, son. Your eyes did. I can tell, your heart is broke. How long has it been? Three months?"

Clay responded with a heavy heart. "Yes. This Friday it will be three months exactly. It's really tough sometimes. I didn't want to upset you. I know you wanted us to last forever. I did too," Clay said solemnly.

Christine began to reminisce.

"I remember when you two first became friends. Her daddy kicked up a storm. He called your father one evening after bible study. I remember the conversation like it was yesterday.

# Flash back

"Hello, this is Reverend T."

"Good evening, Reverend. My name is Donald. I'm Leslie's father."

"Yes. I've been expecting this call. Is this about my son and your daughter, Leslie? She's a wonderful girl."

"Pause ... Yes. Now you're a reasonable man, so I want to know what we are going to do about this situation."

"Well, Donald, can I suggest what we should do?"

"Alright ... let me hear it."

"Absolutely nothing," Reverend T. responded.

"Nothing? How is that a solution?" he exclaimed.

Rev. T's explained with persuasive charisma.

"Donald, if you want to throw gasoline on the fire that burns in our kids' tender hearts ... then try to keep them apart. They're kids ... just kids. Let their feelings run their natural course. I promise to keep a watchful eye on Leslie while she's in my home, and I'd hope you'd do the same for me. Just let them be."

Christine returned from her trip down memory lane, leaving her with a smile on her face.

"Donald had no idea that fifty years later you two would still be a couple. He eventually came around. Donald and his wife Carol became close friends of ours. He and your dad became bowling buddies not too long after that. God rest his soul."

Christine offered assurance. "Well, I've said a special prayer and it was answered. Your wife will come back to you. I promise you. It's God's word. It's God's will."

Clay got a text from Nancy.

_Do you have WhatsApp yet?_

_No._

_That's just weird. Let's Skype then._

# Skyping now

"Clay, you really need to step out of the 90's. I tried calling but your phone went straight to voicemail."

"Yeah, I was calling Leslie but she's not at home. It's past ten o'clock. She should be home now. I'm getting a little worried."

"Clay you sound like Mom. I remember when I would come home really late; she always said the same thing."

" _There's only two things open after midnight, hotels and legs_."

"Yeah, thanks for that, sis. I really don't want that image in my head right now. Anyway, I told Mom about us breaking up."

"She freaked, didn't she?"

"No, I think she knew. I thought you told her."

"Clay, circle of trust, remember? Anything you tell me stays between us."

"Speaking of secrets, my pet project ... I mean our project is right on schedule. I wish I could tell the world, but I have to keep my cards close to the vest. This is bigger than Cornerstone, much bigger."

"Okay. You've got my attention now. What can you tell me?"

"Hmm, let's see. Well, I've nailed down two of the three leading roles. They fell in love with the scripts. I like the way you developed the characters in your book. They all have pretty strong personalities so I needed to find quality talent to bring the roles to life. I wish I could tell you who the leading man is but I can't, at least not right now. I contacted the lead actor's agent directly and signed him the same day. He's brilliant."

"Okay, is it someone I would know?"

"For sure, absolutely, without a doubt. But I put my stamp on the story line, because that's what good producers do."

"I'm excited now. When do you start production?"

"We've already started."

# A few days later

Clay received a welcomed text from Leslie.

"I cancelled my online dating membership. Too many players, jerks and married men posing as single guys. I want a brand new beginning with you. I trust you and you know how important that is to me. I'm coming over tonight so be ready. I might just spend the night. Smiley face."

Clay becomes animated.

"Oh, yeah! Go Clay, go Clay! It's your birthday, go Clay!" Clay shouted and danced.

"Thank you," Clay said, pointing to the sky.

Clay wasted little time before heading to the nearest florist to buy the biggest bouquet of red roses with balloons. He made reservations at the _Red Lobster_ for a late night dinner. He placed fresh linen on the bed and lit a candle at six pm.

# Seven o'clock

Clay excitedly peeped through his bay window to look for her car.

Just a quiet street with an old man walking his dog in low lighting.

# Eight o'clock

Clay's excitement waned and he constantly checked his phone. Nothing.

# Nine o'clock

Clay left his condo and paced up and down the street hoping to see her red BMW make that right turn.

# Ten o'clock

His phone rang. His heart raced as he accepted the call.

"Hello, is this Mr. Thompson?"

He sighed. "Yes, this is Mr. Thompson," he acknowledged with great disappointment.

"This is Red Lobster, it's getting a little late and we wanted to know if you still plan on coming?"

Clay checked his watch one final time. He was sad. He was confused. He was dejected.

"No. I guess I'm gonna have to cancel. Thanks for calling."

Clay immediately phoned Leslie to find out why she'd stood him up. Her phone went straight to voicemail.

"Hi, this is Leslie. Sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I'll call you back. Beep."

# The next evening

Clay finally reached Leslie on the phone.

"Hi Leslie."

"Oh, hi, Clay. What's up?"

"What's up? I missed you yesterday. What happened?" Clay asked, subdued.

"Nothing happened. What are you talking about?" Leslie answered, defensively.

"I know nothing happened. That's because you stood me up."

Clay responded angrily.

"Clay, I couldn't have stood you up because I wasn't coming over."

"Okay, you want to play games, fine. Wait one second. Here it is ..."

"I cancelled my online dating membership. Too many players, jerks and married men posing as single guys. I want a brand new beginning with you. I trust you and you know how important that is to me. I'm coming over tonight so be ready. I might just spend the night. Smiley face."

"Leslie, forgive me if I'm wrong but that sounds like a date to me."

"Gasp. Oh, no. I'm so sorry, Clay."

"Well, yeah, I bought flowers, balloons and even made dinner reservations for us. I don't understand. Why didn't you come?"

Clay pleaded for clarification.

"Clay ... I don't know how to tell you this but that text wasn't for you. It was for Jon. Somehow I must have sent it to you by accident. I'm so sorry."

"But it said you were cancelling your membership and you were tired of all the losers."

"Clay, Jon told me to cancel my membership. Anyway, I didn't meet him online, I met him at Home Depot. How could you think that that text was for you ... we're getting divorced, remember?"

"I was holding on ... hoping that ... never mind. I get it. Good night, Leslie."

"Clay?"

_Click_.

# CHAPTER 15

## The Russian Connection

BLYTHE POLICE DEPT, COMMISSIONER'S OFFICE

AGENT CULP, THE CHIEF is on sick leave, so I'm going to direct you to the Deputy, Deputy Johnson. Do you know where his office is?"

"Yes, I do. Right through those double doors."

Agent Culp noticed females staring and whispering as he walked by. A mature female police officer gathered the nerve to approach him. Agent Culp answered the question before she could even ask.

"No, I just look like him," he said, with a million dollar smile.

Agent Culp was greeted by Deputy Johnson.

"Agent Culp, can I offer you a good ole cup of java?" Deputy Johnson offered.

"That would be just great."

Deputy Johnson and Agent Culp sat side-by-side over coffee to discuss new intelligence since their last meeting.

Agent Culp appeared somber and flat. Deputy Johnson noticed it immediately.

"I take it you're not here to tell me I won the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes," the deputy said.

Agent Culp once again retrieved his laptop and fired it up.

"I'm afraid not. I think we found out the reason why our friend from Moscow booked a flight here. Our suspicions were right; he was operational. We put our best surveillance detachment on him but he lost them within fifteen minutes. He just vanished; don't know how he did it."

Deputy Johnson stroked his mustache with concern.

"So, what's his purpose?"

Agent Culp rose slowly and paced back and forth with his hands in his pockets.

"A vendetta."

"Against who?" the deputy asks.

Agent Culp paused and appeared slightly emotive.

"He didn't just take out one person. He took out a group of five. A group of five called _The Underground_."

Deputy almost choked on his coffee.

"You mean the black hacktivists? I thought they were untouchable."

Agent Culp opened a browser on his tablet.

"You need to see this footage," Agent Culp said.

In a basement-like setting, 'The Patriot' sat in the middle of five individuals with black sacks over their heads. All five were handcuffed behind their backs. The lighting was low.

Deputy Johnson placed his right hand over his mouth.

"Uh, oh. This is bad."

The perpetrator stood and walked behind the hooded five. One by one he removed the hoods of each of his victims. All were expired, some with their eyes open.

Dressed in his signature dark shades, black t-shirt and black denim jeans, he put his arms around the two sitting in the middle. He stared into the camera with psychotic eyes. He waited five seconds and a camera flash went off.

"I take selfie," he said is a deep voice with a heavy Russian accent.

Deputy Johnson slammed his fists on the table, sending the coffee cups flying.

"Damn it!"

The tape continued.

The assassin removed his darkened sunglasses and stared into the camera with a deadly scowl.

"You mess with a Russian; you get repercussion."

Fade to black.

"Agent Culp, those were just college kids," the deputy bemoaned.

Agent Culp powered down the laptop and placed it back into his briefcase.

He responded,

"Our assessment was wrong. We thought they were black. These were upper-middle class white kids trying to make a difference."

Deputy Johnson was puzzled.

"I don't get it. Why would he come here to take out _The Underground_? It doesn't make any sense."

"Actually we know why. _The Underground_ was responsible for hacking the unmanned taxi that put that security officer in harm's way. His name is Vasiliev, he's eating through a straw now."

"I don't get the connection."

Agent Culp explains. "Intelligence tells us that Vasiliev is a distant relative of 'The Patriot'. This video was uploaded onto a Russian website, it won't take long for it to hit YouTube here in the US. That's all we need right now, more mayhem."

After a brief discussion about how law enforcement could better serve the public and restore public trust, the deputy asked Agent Culp if he was aware of a new cable reality show that allowed callers to text in menaces to society they felt should be "voted off" or "evicted".

Agent Culp locked his briefcase and proceeded to the door before he answered.

"We are fully aware. The program is called _Big Sister_ and it's run by a well-established Hollywood producer. The hostess is a black English celebrity who sang in a girl band back in the 1990's. She goes by the name Sapphire now."

"Is this something we should be concerned about, Agent Culp?"

"We lack sufficient evidence to make a hard assessment. But I'm slightly wary."

"Why is that?" asked Deputy Johnson.

"Because, the guy who had the third most votes hasn't showed up for work since the results. There's no sign of him. Like he's off the grid."

"Do you think it's connected?"

"I don't know. I'll keep you posted. Thanks for the coffee. We'll be in touch."

# St. Mary's Hospital, Blythe

Christine and Clay discussed Rev. T's condition after their visit in the hospital cafeteria.

"Mom, I don't know how you do it."

"Do what?"

"You are a trooper. You spend all the hours God sends just sitting here with Dad. How do you do it?"

"He's my husband. There's no other place I'd rather be than right by his side."

"Mom, you have conversations with him like he can hear you," Clay said soberly.

"He can. I know he can. Your father has put me in a tough position," Christine said as her eyes began to well up.

She grabbed a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes.

"There's not much time left. I'm weak. I'm praying for strength."

"I don't understand. Doc Wilder said his condition is stable," Clay responded equally as emotive.

Christine pushed her plate away. She'd lost her appetite.

"Clay, his condition is stable because he is on life support. Your father was very clear in his will that he would not remain in a vegetative state more than sixty days. He put that in his will for a reason. I have no choice but to obey his wishes," she said tearfully."

"But Mom, what if he wakes up in 80 days or 70 days?"

"Clay, I know this is hard for you to understand; this isn't about us, Baby. This is about your father. It's in the Lord's hands now. Next month will be the first time I won't be with him on our anniversary."

# Live Big Sister, Cornerstone Productions, Channel 32

The Big Sister intro – _No Scrubs_ by TLC - begins playing.

The audience gave the hostess a standing ovation as she walked out onto the catwalk from behind the stage curtain. Stage fireworks went off as she strutted with her hands high in the air.

She waited for the applause to die down as she held the mic in her hand, wearing a white leather pants suit and sporting white pumps.

The music faded.

"Welcome to _Big Sister_! The show where you, the public gets to decide ... who has got to go. Tonight we have two very special guests. Give it up for the mayors of Chicago and Baltimore," she said in a very posh English accent.

Both guests walked on to the stage sharply dressed and were seated. They waved to the hyped crowd.

The hostess continued, "So, I expect a lively debate as our distinguished panel takes questions from the audience. At the very end of the show we will take a few calls from our fans in faraway places."

After a commercial break the show resumed with a very animated audience.

Contentious questions followed by politically correct answers angered the crowd causing security to physically remove some members of the audience. After emotions simmered, constructive debate resumed.

Twenty-five minutes later the show began to wind down.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's that time. What time is it?"

The audience rose to their feet and shouted.

"Time to take out the trash!"

"I can't hear you!" she shouted back, cupping her ear.

"Time to take out the trash!" The audience shouted back at deafening decibel levels.

"That's right, now is the time when you, the public, gets to decide who has got to go! Phone lines are open. Remember, all calls cost $2.50 and all proceeds go to victims' families. We have time for one more call. Caller, are you on the line?"

"Yes."

"Go ahead."

"Thank you. My name is Jimmy Jackson and I'd like to address both mayors. Why are you so concerned with a few overzealous police officers trying to do their jobs, when you should be focusing on black-on-black crime?"

Both mayors looked at each to determine who would answer first. Meanwhile, the hostess was fuming and could no longer contain her frustration. She interjected.

"Excuse me. I got this one," she said with conviction, holding her earpiece.

The audience was aware a nerve had been struck.

"Let me get a grip first. I might be from London, but I can go from zero to ghetto in three seconds flat."

She regained her composure and responded to the caller.

"Okay, sir. First of all let me ask you one thing. Are you a parent?"

"Yes, ma'am. Two young 'uns, one boy and one girl."

"Let's just say, you come home from work and you find out your youngest has both eyes blackened and is crying. What do you do?"

"I might have some words with the parents to make sure it don't happen again," answers the caller.

The hostess continues.

"Okay. Same situation but this time you find out the baby sitter did it."

The audience falls silent. Both mayors exchange nods of understanding and approval.

"You in the front row. What would you do?"

The sound crane drifted towards the white woman chewing gum like it was going out of style.

"My name is Brittany. What would I do? I would beat dat ass."

The audience gave her a round of applause.

She continued. "I trust you to look after my child and I am paying you with my hard-earned money ... shit's fin to go down," she answers waving her index finger.

The mayor of Chicago interjected. "She has a valid point. Public trust is earned and we lose it when our tax dollars are supporting that tiny percentage of police officers that overstep and abuse their authority."

Brittany had one more question. "I live in an all-white community where there are killings all the time, mostly drug or gang related. Why don't they call that white-on-white crime? It's just crime."

# CHAPTER 16

## Assassins Credo

CRACKER BARREL RESTAURANT

LESLIE, I REMEMBER THE last time we ate here. I ate so much I couldn't drive home, remember?"

Leslie reflected and smiled.

"Of course I remember, I thought I was gonna have to wheel you out in a wheel barrel."

Clay ordered his favorite meal _The Smokehouse Breakfast_. Leslie had a bowl of yogurt. Clay raised his eyebrows.

"Yogurt? Really?"

"Clay, Jon says I need to lose a few pounds, so I'm eating healthier. You should try eating more healthy. We're not getting younger ya know." Clay took offense.

"I made you mad, didn't I?" Leslie said.

"No. Not mad at all. Why would you say that?"

"Because you squint your eyes when you get mad. You've done that since third grade."

"Okay, okay. Just for the record, you're 5'7 and barely weigh a buck forty. How is that overweight? You are the prettiest and most stacked woman in here. Why mess with perfection?"

"I don't know how to tell you this but I think I'm falling for this guy, Clay. I just want to please him. My mind says go for it, but my heart says proceed with caution. It's so confusing."

"Clay, try to be happy for me. I've got a few weeks to clear my head. Tonight I fly out to New York for a couple of weeks on business. Jon is going to meet me there and we will spend a week together. So I will be away. If you need to reach me, just text me, okay."

"Leslie, do you even love me anymore?"

Leslie placed her hand over Clay's.

"I'll never stop loving you, but I belong to Jon now. I think."

Leslie received an unexpected text.

"I gotta run, Clay. Jon wants to meet me at the fitness center. I have a weigh-in."

Leslie wiped her mouth and rose from the table. She kissed Clay on the cheek then scurried to her car.

Clay's breakfast arrived but he pushed it to the side. He left a tip and flagged down a waiter to pay. The waiter returned with a card machine in one hand and a TV remote control in the other.

He faced the monitor and turned the volume up.

"Channel 10 News live in Missouri here and we are speaking with former police officer Jones. Our viewers want to know your reaction to getting evicted last night on _Big Sister_."

"It's just a show and done in poor taste. I was tried by a jury of my peers and convicted. The judicial system didn't do me any favors. I did my time for shooting that guy."

"But, Sir. Some would argue that negligent discharge of a firearm was not the appropriate charge and a six month prison stint was nothing more than an insult. Your comments?"

"Hey, I lost my pension and I'm still on probation. What more do they want?"

"Regarding last night's results, aren't you the least bit worried? There were two more disappearances as of this morning?"

"I'm not going nowhere. The only kinda packin' I'm doing ... is right here," he says patting the left side of his jacket.

# Later that night

Clay returned after an emotional, fatiguing day only to find a police car parked outside his condo.

"What now?"

Clay avoided eye contact with the officer as he drove past and eased into his designated spot.

Clay could see an officer approaching in his rear view mirror. He remained in the car with both hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. It was dark. He was frightened.

The officer leaned into the window.

Clay slowly turned his head. His heart was in overdrive.

"Hey, Mr. Thompson; it's me, Andy."

"Oh, Jesus! You scared the crap out of me. Whew!"

"Hey, I just wanted to tell you that I got an honorable mention in my photography club for the picture I took of your Mustang. It's a national club so just to get an honorable mention is a big deal. So, how have you been?"

Clay stepped out of the vehicle and confided in his new friend about his marital problems. Ironically, Andy had gone through a similar situation five years earlier. He was empathic. They bonded.

"The best advice I can give you is although you are hurting now, you will recover. It may not be as soon as you'd like but you will. Trust me, I've been there, brother. If there's anything I can do just let me know. I'm here for you," he said patting Clay on the back.

The cogs in Clay's mind began to turn.

"Maybe there is."

"Sure, you name it. I owe you."

"The guy's name is Jon and all I know is he's a subcontractor for Hollywood. Do you know anything about him?"

"Sorry, but that's the most common name in America. Without a last name I'm afraid I can't be of any help."

Clay sighed in defeat.

"Oh well, I guess you're right."

Clay and Andy shook hands and parted ways.

Clay looked up at the sky and noticed a flickering lamp post. He found it annoying ... until.

He raced to the patrol car just before it took off. He was out of breath.

"Andy, Andy. I just thought about it. Jon."

He turned the ignition off.

"What about Jon?"

"Jon. He owns a lighting company and does a lot of work with Hollywood."

Andy scratched his head for a moment.

"Oh, that Jon. Why didn't you say so? I know Jon. He's selfmade. A lot of people respect him because he worked his way from an internship to owning the company. He did well for himself. Owns a lot of property around here too. He's a straight shooter. I consider him a good friend."

Once again, Clay was demoralized to find out first-hand how great a guy Jon was.

"I guess if there was any dirt on him you'd know about it, huh?"

"Like I said, he's a straight shooter. He's a man of his word. We're friends. In fact, we went on a double date about a week ago. He took us out on his boat."

"Wow, small world. What are the chances of you knowing Jon and my wife Leslie?" Clay conceded.

"Who's Leslie?"

Clay received an urgent incoming call from his sister Nancy.

"Clay, are you on WhatsApp yet?"

"Nancy, you must have a controlling interest in the company, what's up with you?"

"Clay, this is very important. I just flew in from DC where I met with the Justice Department."

"So, what's that got to do with me?"

"Clay, there something I need to tell you. I have to tell you over a secure line. I can't afford for anyone to overhear my conversation with you. Somebody's probably listening to the call as we speak. WhatsApp is secure. Please download the app. I'll tell you everything you need to know."

"I have the distinct feeling I'm not going to like what you have to tell me."

"Probably not. It's a matter of national security."

_Blythe Police Dept, Commissioner's Office_

"Agent Culp, we have to stop meeting like this. Have a seat. What can I do for you, my friend?"

"We've got additional intelligence on the missing persons phenomena surrounding _Big Sister_."

"Oh yeah, give it to me straight."

Agent Culp handed the Deputy a file marked TOP SECRET.

"So far, six of the ten personalities voted off Big Sister have vanished without a trace. I'm talking entire families to include pets. Of the six that went missing, I'm most concerned about these three. Two cops and the leader of a Chicago gang."

Deputy Johnson put on his bifocals and read their file. He was confused.

"That's impossible. All three are in maximum security."

Agent Culp nodded his head.

"That's right. All three were in solitary confinement; the gang leader was on death row. They just vanished into thin air."

Deputy Johnson sat down in his executive chair and stared into space. He queried Agent Culp.

"So who would be capable of pulling off something like this? This isn't a threat I'm familiar with."

"We've pulled a few all-nighters at headquarters trying to get our heads around this dilemma. It can't be someone acting alone. It must be a group, a syndicate if you will. Not many intelligence services or their surrogates could pull this off. We've ruled out Russian Spetsnaz or FSB, Israeli Moussad and British SAS. All we know is they operate in ways we have yet to understand. The question is why?"

Deputy Johnson's red secure phone rang. He looked surprised.

"Pardon me, that's the bat phone. Must be something bad, really bad."

The deputy turned the crypto key to activate the encryption.

"This is a secure line. Deputy Johnson, here."

Immediately he turned to Agent Culp.

"It's for you," said the deputy.

The deputy passed Agent Culp the phone.

"Agent Culp."

"I can't. The last flight to DC left over an hour ago."

"I don't know. Let me ask the deputy."

"Deputy Johnson, where is the nearest helipad?"

"About four blocks due north on the corner of Wertheim Way and Salon."

Agent Culp repeated the message to higher headquarters.

"I'll meet the chopper there in ten minutes. I don't want to be ambushed, just tell me what I'm walking into."

"Oh, my God. The gates of hell have just opened. Who else knows about this?"

"Anything else I need to know?"

"Okay. I'll brief the deputy. The Chief? I'll pass the word. Agent Culp, out."

Agent Culp hung up the phone and deactivated the encryption key. He stared into space in a trance.

The deputy was waiting for the shoe to drop. The suspense got the best of him.

"Well? The last time that phone rang was 9/11. You gonna fill me in or what?" asked the deputy.

Agent Culp locked his briefcase and checked his watch. He was anxious.

"It's the _Big Sister_ show," Agent Culp revealed in a low tone.

The deputy laughed. "Phew, I thought it was something serious."

Agent Culp stared intently at his naïve colleague.

"This could be the start of a war."

"How's that?"

"The results just came in a few minutes ago. Three were voted off."

"Who are the three?"

"A cop in New York and 'The Patriot'!"

Deputy Johnson took a seat and asked for clarification.

"What does that mean?"

"It means whoever this syndicate is ... they've called out 'The Patriot'."

"And?" said the Deputy.

"You don't do that, unless you are God himself. He'll respond. He has to, it's in his DNA."

Agent Culp made haste to catch his helicopter. The deputy caught him just before he left.

"Agent Culp. You said there were three voted off. Who was the third?"

"How could I forget? The third is Aaron Foster, the Chief 's son. Find him now. He'll need 24 hour surveillance."

"How much time do I have, Agent Culp?"

"Less than three heart beats. I gotta helicopter to catch. I'll be in touch."

# CHAPTER 17

## Threat Advisory: SEVERE

ST. MARY'S HOSPITAL, BLYTHE

INTENSIVE CARE UNIT

COUNTDOWN: DAY 60 OF 60

CLAY, WHERE ARE YOU? I told you 3:15," Christine chided her son.

"Mom, I stepping out of the elevator now. I'll be there in thirty seconds," Clay responded almost out of breath.

Clay reached room 22f, where his father lay motionless and unresponsive. His eyes began to well up.

"I'm here, Mom. Sorry I'm late."

Christine's eyes were bloodshot and her spirit was broken as she prepared to say goodbye to her husband and soul-mate of over 50 years.

"Sit with your mother. I need strength. This is so hard, so very, very hard," she confessed, holding Rev. T's hand.

Rev. T lay on his bed with a tube in his throat connected to a respirator. Clay and his mother kept constant watch on the heart monitor.

"Mom, where's Nancy?"

"She flew in this morning to say goodbye. She didn't want to be here when we removed your father from life support."

Clay didn't want to be there either, but he needed to be there for his mother.

Clay prayed for a miracle one more time silently.

"Dad, wake up, wake up," he sobbed, nudging his father's side.

Sorrow and unceasing grief gripped them both.

Doctor Wilder slowly opened the door. She briefly looked at the clock on the wall. She tried to prepare mother and son for the inevitable.

"I can assure this will cause him no discomfort. In just a few minutes he will wake up in heaven, looking down on the both of you."

Dr. Wilder sat next to the respirator and watched the digital clock approach 3:30 p.m.

"It's time," Dr. Wilder announced with compassion.

Christine stood and wiped the tears from her bloodshot eyes. She walked over to Dr. Wilder.

"No. Not today. I can't do this. Our anniversary is just a few days away. I will say goodbye the morning after. I promise," she instructed.

Clay let out a big sigh then hugged his mother. He kissed his father on the forehead and squeezed his hand.

"I love you, Dad," he whispered.

"As you wish Mrs. Thompson. No explanation required. My staff and I will continue to pray for your husband."

# Blythe Police Dept, Deputy Commissioner's Office

_Knock, knock._

"Come in," Deputy Johnson answered.

A veteran police officer entered and advised of an urgent call.

"Who is it?"

"Sir, it's the Feds."

"Well, patch the call through," he commanded.

"Sir, it's a video teleconference call. It's over a secure network so you have to take it in Chief's office."

"Why didn't you say so? I'm on my way."

The deputy put out his cigar and flew out of his chair.

# Commissioner's office

A communication tech adjusted the audio level and visual clarity.

Agent Culp was sitting at his desk. Behind him was a large FBI seal.

"Audio check over," said the tech.

"I have you Lima Charlie (loud and clear)," responded Agent Culp.

The deputy sat in the commissioner's chair and rocked back and forth anxiously.

"Boy, you sure get around. Lay it on me."

"Good afternoon, Jeremiah. We have new intelligence. Looks like 'The Patriot' drew first blood. It's not good."

Agent Culp grabbed a remote and pressed a button prompting video footage to transmit via the connection.

The footage showed a single individual in a black hood, seated and handcuffed. The location resembled the same as before, a dimly lit basement with camera lighting in the background.

'The Patriot' in his signature black attire made his entrance. He stared close up into the camera. He adjusted the camera to get an optimum view of the chain of events about to unfold.

He walked away, momentarily out of camera view and re-entered, standing behind the victim.

He placed his hand on top of the head of the victim and then aggressively snatched the hood off.

It was the TV presenter of _Big Sister_ , Sapphire. She was alive but obviously drugged. Her eyes were unable to stay open and she struggled to keep her head up.

'The Patriot' posed with her. He waited for the flash.

After the camera malfunctioned he angrily reached for the camera to inspect it.

A blinding flash occurred followed by a loud explosion.

Fade to black.

The footage stopped and Agent Culp was in full view again.

The deputy was dumfounded.

"What the hell just happened?"

Agent Culp leaned forward a bit and rested his hands in his lap.

"No one knows. We have no reports of an explosion from police anywhere. Your guess is as good as mine."

"He has a date in Moscow in a few days at FSB headquarters. He's going to be presented the country's highest medal of valor. We'll see if he turns up."

The phone rang. It was Chief Foster calling from the hospital. The deputy quickly brought the chief up to speed on speaker phone.

"Jeremiah, look after my boy, you hear me. Put your best men on this. I don't want nuthin' to happen to my son, got it?"

"We've got a detachment tailing his every move. We'll do our best, sir."

Agent Culp quickly interjected. "Chief, Agent Culp here. We're your best bet to protect your son. I assure you this threat we are dealing with is no ordinary threat. Your men are no match for this adversary."

"Agent Culp, whatever you can do to keep my boy from harm's way, I'm all in. Just don't let them get my boy," he pleaded.

"Chief, there's a safe house just outside city limits. It hasn't been operational in years. I'll call the minder and let her know he's coming. We'll have the place on lockdown and a chopper in the sky for early warning. I'll have him picked up immediately."

"Agent Culp, thank you."

_Call terminated. You are the only party in session._

# Safe house, undisclosed location, 9:00 p.m.  
Secure Radio Broadcast

"Whiskey Alpha Tango, this is Romeo Bravo Zulu. How do you copy?"

White noise.

"Romeo Bravo Zulu, we have you Lima Charlie, over."

"Tango, do you have a visual on the package? I repeat, do you have a visual on the package."

"Affirmative, we have eyes on. I repeat we have eyes on. Perimeter is secure, over."

"Tango, you are authorized deadly force upon hostile contact, do you copy?"

"Roger that, Zulu. Tango, out."

# End of Radio transmission.  
Commissioner's office, Bat phone rings

"Deputy Johnson here. Is this Chief ?"

"Yeah, no news is good news so I assume you got everything under control."

"Don't worry Chief, that place is crawling with Feds. They dispatched two choppers, one for early warning and one for emergency extraction. I've got a video feed piped into my office. I can see all ingress/egress access points of the safe house. Looks like your son is in the living room. I can see his silhouette."

"I tried calling him but he won't answer. I'm concerned," the Chief admitted.

"The Feds took his phone away. No transmitting devices are allowed inside."

"I figured as much. Alright, keep me posted."

_Midnight_

The Chief phoned the deputy at his home. He was nervous.

"Chief, it's midnight. Nothing to report, Sir."

"Jeremiah. I have a bad feeling. Something's not right."

"Sir, what would you like me to do?"

"Listen carefully. Go back to the office and check the video surveillance feed one last time."

He sighed. "Roger that, Sir. I'll call you in fifteen. Jerimiah, out."

_Fifteen minutes later_

"Sir, all clear. I can see your son's silhouette. He's still in the living room."

"Has he moved?"

"No, he must be asleep in the recliner."

"He's not asleep. He hasn't slept in days. Tell the officer in charge to move in. Something is wrong!"

Deputy Johnson relayed the Chief's instructions to the senior officer on the ground.

# Secure Radio Broadcast

"Whiskey Alpha Tango, this is Romeo Bravo Zulu. How do you copy?"

"Romeo Bravo Zulu, we have you Lima Charlie, over."

"Tango, cease roving patrol and enter quarters immediately. Make physical contact with package, over."

"Copy that. Entering quarters now."

"Tango, what's your 20?"

"The living room."

"Tango, have you made contact with package? Please confirm."

"Negative. No sign of package anywhere on site. I repeat no sign of package anywhere on site. Do you copy?"

"Copy that. Damn! Zulu out."

# End of Radio transmission, 00:45

Deputy Johnson phoned the chief to alert him of his missing son.

"Well, tell me you made contact? Is my boy alright?"

"Chief, he's gone. Just vanished into thin air. There was a mannequin seated in the living room. They outfoxed us. Sorry for your loss, chief. Very sorry."

"There's nothing else to say, is there? My boy's gone and he ain't coming back. He was all I had, Jerimiah." The Chief sobbed. "I wished I had gone first. Parents ain't supposed to outlive their children. I ain't gonna be on this here earth much longer, getting tired of livin'," the Chief said woefully.

"If there's anything I can do, just let me know. I know how much you loved that boy of yours."

"Naw, it's over. Ain't nuthin, nobody can do. Goodnight Jerimiah."

# Blythe Police Department,  
Retirement Ceremony for Chief of Police William D. Foster, The following Monday

News reporters jockeyed for front-row positions to capture the human interest story of the retirement of Chief Foster, Texas's longest serving police chief, after a career that had spanned over fifty years. It was a warm day and hundreds had turned out to see an icon pass the torch. The ceremony was broadcasted locally and nationally over podcast. Residents dressed in patriotic shirts waving flags and cheering as their longtime hero approached the podium. The chief received a deafening standing ovation fit for a head of state. He was overwhelmed with emotion and waved to his loyal supporters as he was supported by a walking stick. The audience settled as they awaited words of inspiration and wisdom. Chief Foster was emotional and frail. The stars on his shoulder patch reflected rays of light into the crowd. He removed his head covering.

"Residents of Blythe. As I look into the crowd I see faces that I've seen over so many years. I know your parents, I know your kids. Together we grew up as a family, a family that I dedicated my life to protecting. Today is a very sad day as I say goodbye to you all. Over the last few years I've written a speech just for today as I knew this day would come. You will not hear that speech because it's not appropriate and it does not reflect the new direction this police force should pursue. Over the last fifty years America has changed. I've changed."

The chief momentarily got choked up. The audience became somber.

"I have a confession to make and I want every officer of the law to hear it, wherever you may be right now: in your car, in your home, wherever. Many, many years ago when I was a rookie cop I wanted to be accepted, I wanted to prove my loyalty to the creed of this department. That was back in 1968.

One of my first traffic stops involved a black man. A man of God. Back then most saw that man as threat to our way of life here in Blythe. Times was different back then, we didn't tolerate change much. On his way home from morning worship I stopped him, his wife in the passenger seat and his young son in the back. I intentionally provoked him into an altercation so I could beat him within an inch of his life. I will never forget the blood stains on his white clergy collar. Immediately I knew I had done something wrong, but I was vindicated by all the pats on the back from my superiors. The incident shaped me as an officer of the law. If I could do it all over again, I would have driven past that man of the cloth and just smiled. That man is Reverend Thompson, also known as Rev. T.

Looking back, I wish we could have been friends, something I thought I'd never say. At this moment he's fighting for his life. I am making a plea to all officers of the law, don't be sheep. Be responsible. Without public trust we have nothing. My last act as Chief of Police was to assign a task force to promote diversity and equality. I want that to be my legacy. God bless the residents of Blythe, God bless our police department and God bless our friend Rev. T."

"Let me introduce you to your new Chief of Police."

"Jeremiah Johnson! Front and center!"

# CHAPTER 18

## The Majority Rules

ST. MARY'S HOSPITAL, BLYTHE

THE MORNING AFTER

CLAY HAD STAYED AWAKE all night reminiscing about fond memories of his dad. Memories of chess games that lasted into the early hours of the morning made him smile. Clay would often use chess as an interlude to addressing life's issue with his dad.

Christine accepted Clay's wish not to be present during his father's final moments.

"Good morning, Doctor Wilder. Did you remove the life support from my dad?"

She paused. "Yes, I did. About one hour ago."

Clay's heart sank and sadness overwhelmed him. His voice was shaky.

"Well at least he's at peace. I guess arrangements need to be made."

"Mr. Thompson, arrangements are best discussed with a parent. Hold on one moment."

"Okay."

"Hello?"

"How ya, doing, young man?"

"Dad? DAD!"

"But, the doc said she removed you off life support?"

"Clay, my son. How long have I been telling you ... God plus one is a majority."

"Wow, Mom must be really happy too. Is she there?"

"If I could just get her to stop kissing my face, I'd be alright," he joked.

"Dad, can I speak with Doc Wilder for a second?"

"Hold on, Son,"

"Doc Wilder, what happened?'

"Your father's case is extremely rare. Somehow his immune system cracked the code. His body never gave up the fight. His defenses are actually stronger now than before the infection."

"How is that possible?"

"Well, your father has developed immunity against the antigens. We call it immunity through natural infection. The other type of immunity is through vaccination. However, immunity by natural infection triggers a much stronger immune response because it deals with a live virus. Your father is a fighter. Hold on, he wants to speak with you."

"Clay, when I get home I'd like to challenge you to a game of chess. How does that sound?"

Clay got emotional and tried to keep from crying.

"I'd like that, Dad. I'd like that a lot."

Rev. T responded to his beloved son.

"Clay, I'm having trouble remembering, so bear with me, okay?"

"Dad, its fine. I'm just glad you're back. What are you trying to remember?"

Rev. T paused.

"I'm trying to remember the last time you won at chess. Ha, ha, ha!"

"Nice one, Dad. Let me speak with Mom."

"Clay, he's back. The love of my life is back. He'll be home this weekend. Nancy is flying in too. Are you on your way?"

"Mom, I'm already in the car. I'll see you soon. Love you."

# Commissioner's Office, Chief Johnson

Chief Johnson received a video teleconference call from Agent Culp.

Agent Culp's video/audio streamed.

"Good morning, Chief. Congratulations on your promotion. It's well deserved. I heard the speech, we all heard the speech. I think both you and Chief Foster touched a lot of hearts, to include civilians. Somebody uploaded both speeches onto YouTube. It's gone viral, and I'm glad. It's a new day and its officers like you that can help us turn the page."

"Agent Culp, I will do my very best. One of the things I'd like to do is facilitate better dialog between federal and local security services. We owe it to our residents. So, what can I do for you, friend?"

"I'd like to bring you up on _The Clash of the Titans_. I've just sent you a link to your email. Take a look."

"Got it. Hmm, St. Petersburg Press. 'Hero Bestowed Country's Highest Honor'. Wow, I guess the legend continues. Did they ever recover that woman's body? I think she was English."

"The _Big Sister_ presenter. Melanie Thatcher, also known as Sapphire. She's recovering nicely at home; she was released shortly after the incident. We debriefed her after she was medically cleared. I think she's scheduled to return to the show next week."

Jerimiah leaned forward facing the camera. He was perplexed.

"She survived?"

"Yes, she survived. He did not."

"Hold on, it says in the paper he received the award for valor last week. It doesn't add up."

"Actually it makes perfect sense. If you read further down, it says the award was presented posthumously. Somehow the syndicate tracked him and took him out before he could get his signature selfie. That's what the explosion was. It was a concussion grenade used during the breach. We underestimated the syndicate. We are witnessing the birth of a new legend, a modern day equalizer. The whole of law enforcement is talking about them. Maybe, just maybe, some good can come of this."

# Mary Ross Hospice, Blythe

Nancy agreed to meet Clay outside of the Mary Ross Hospice where Chief Foster was spending his final moments on earth.

"Clay, I don't want to go in there and see him," Nancy conceded.

"Nancy, he's not the same man we knew as kids. It will be okay, I promise you."

"Clay, you forget. The reason why his son is gone is because of my show. Remember? He'll blame me."

"Oh yeah. Didn't think about that. Maybe you should wait here. I'll be right back, sis."

Clay enters Chief Foster's room. His bed was next to a large bay window overlooking the city. The Chief was awakened by the squeaking of the door. Clay's presence brought a smile to his face. He clasped his hands on top of his chest.

Clay grabbed a chair and sat beside his new friend. Chief Foster's shaky hand touched Clay's shoulder.

"Do you think there's room in heaven for an old redneck like me?"

"Chief, God loves us all. I think there's a place for everyone that wants one."

The Chief managed to harness enough strength to sit up.

"Clay, I dedicated my entire life to protecting the citizens of Blythe. I took great pride in upholding that sacred honor. But, when the chips were on the line, I couldn't save my own son, Aaron. Makes you wonder," the Chief said, reflecting.

He continued. "You know, about an hour ago there was a cleaner here in my room. He reminded me so much of my son, I cried. I miss that boy so much. Facially he didn't look like my son, but he had my son's eyes. It broke my heart. I was sad when he finished cleaning up. I didn't want him to leave."

"I'm sure your son loved you just as much as I love my dad, Chief."

"Clay, the only reason I'm still on this earth is because I'm holding on to hope. Hope that one day I'll find out what happened to my boy, Aaron."

Clay began to become emotional and sad. A single tear fell onto Chief's blanket.

"Chief, that cleaner who was just here. That was your son. Special permissions were granted, at the highest levels, for him to see you. My sister had a little part in that."

"My boy is alive? Special permissions? Talk to me."

"Chief, the only way to protect your son was to put him into witness protection, the most secure level of witness protection. It's a long story but my sister is involved with the Justice Department. Your son has undergone complete facial reconstruction. Aaron wanted to see you one last time. He was an emotional wreck when he was escorted out by security. He's on a plane now to his new destination, somewhere. But he's okay."

A heavy burden was lifted. The pain in the Chief 's face began to subside.

"I'm free, now. I can go on. Thank you."

Chief Foster passed away peacefully in the night.

# Parking Lot of Mary Ross Hospice

"Whew, Nancy that was tough."

"Clay, are you crying?"

"Nope, just got a little dust in my eye, that's all."

Nancy and Clay recapped an earlier conversation they had about national security.

"Nancy, I didn't know what to think when you called me that day. You had me spooked."

"Clay, the paparazzi listen to all my calls. If they ever found out that The Syndicate was a fictional creation from your book, it would have blown the whole operation. As soon as I read your book I pitched it to the DOJ. They loved it and got on board. The public's perception became their reality. Nothing like that had been done before. It's the ultimate in reality television, brought to you by the US government. The only bad news was you can't publish your book."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that."

"Your manuscript is classified TOP SECRET with a million caveats. Only five have knowledge of this program, to include the President."

"So, I can never publish it?"

"In fifty years a review board will adjudicate to determine if it's releasable."

Nancy showed Clay a video clip of 'The Patriot' on her tablet.

"Wow, he's just like I scripted in the book. Maybe even more menacing. I don't recognize him, is he an actor?"

"Naw, he's my head of security for Cornerstone. We just gave him a makeover. He's not even Russian, he's from Poland," Nancy conceded.

Clay had a burning question. "Okay, who did you get to play the lead role for Agent Culp?"

Nancy playfully nudged Clay. "In fact, I am having dinner with him later tonight in L.A. Hold on, I'm gonna call him now."

_Ring, ring, ring._

"Hello, this is Nancy. Are we still on for tonight?"

"You bet. See you around sevenish."

"Bye bye, George."

Clay stared into space. He recognized the voice.

"No, way. No way, Nancy. How could someone so famous and recognizable pull that off?"

Nancy hugged and kissed her brother before departing.

"Well, sis. You gonna leave me hanging?"

She got into her rental car and rolled down the window.

"He's an actor. One of the best."

# Two days later

Clay came home with an arm full of groceries. He found Leslie there with her suitcase. He was pleasantly surprised.

"Leslie? I thought you were in New York."

"I was. I just got back. I left early. Can I come in?"

Leslie slipped off her shoes and collapsed on the sofa. Clay began to put the food away. Leslie noticed a large bag of dog treats.

"Clay, I didn't know you had a dog."

"I don't."

"So is this some new diet you're on?" she asked, jokingly.

"Oh, this? This isn't for me, silly. I'm dog sitting for a friend. Chaos loves these treats. Jessica is gonna be so mad at me when she gets back because I'm overfeeding him. Guess I'm a softie when it comes to animals."

Leslie turned on the television. The President was just concluding a press conference.

"... and lastly I'm very proud to report that we've concluded combat operations in Syria and next month we begin redeploying troops back home to be with their loved ones. I have time for a few relevant questions," she said, with absolute confidence.

"Madam President, Madam President. How do you respond to political pundits that claim you hijacked the GOP nomination, benefiting from a contested convention? Most experts agree the front runner with the most delegates should have been presumptive nominee. In your personal opinion was it fair to deny the front runner the nomination being short less than 22 delegates?

The President smiled and shook her head. She was amused. She adjusted her microphone before addressing the reporter with brilliance and poise.

"I said I have time for a few _relevant_ questions but I will make an exception for this particular question because I continue to hear it time and time again."

"Winners only compete for one reason, to win. Our party knew my ticket had the best chance to beat the democratic nominee in the fall. To give a candidate the nomination because he came up short would be political malpractice. That's like asking the North American Lottery Association to reconsider because you missed it by one number. Next question, please."

The President received a standing ovation led by her supportive husband from the middle row. Thousands of camera flashes created a strobe light effect on the stage. The President acknowledged her support with a smile and a wave.

The crowd's overwhelming support for the first woman President was cause for some long-time reporters to become emotional in their coverage of the speech.

The applause subsided.

An animated reporter was desperate to be called upon. The President obliged.

"Madam President. What do you know about Operation Valiant Exodus?"

The President was slightly unnerved. Her closest aides began whispering amongst themselves. The room was quiet.

The pesky reporter continued to press the President.

"The public has a right to know. Please tell us."

"All I can tell you is Operation Valiant Exodus is a classified program that is highly compartmented. In the interest of national security I will not disclose any further details."

The reporter began shouting and raised the eyebrows of secret service agents on standby.

One of the President's aides whispered into her ear. She is momentarily distracted.

The disgruntled reporter took advantage of her being distracted and removed one of his shoes and hurled it directly at her.

Secret service agents were unable to react quickly enough. The shoe flew through the air.

Seconds away from striking her in the face, the audience gasped. Impact was imminent.

The President spotted the incoming projectile out of the corner of her eye.

Acting on pure instinct she caught it with her right hand.

The audience sighed in relief.

"You've never known me to duck hard questions. Well, you can add shoes to that list."

She held a black leather shoe up and smiled at the audience. Millions of camera flashes blinded her.

"Nice catch!" an unknown reporter yelled from the very back.

The subdued audience became lively again and laughter was heard among many.

Secret service agents descended upon the disgruntled and removed him from the premises.

"I have time for one final question."

"Madam President, what would you like your legacy to be after you leave office?"

She smiled and stepped away from the podium. In a very confident and elevated voice she responded, "Ask me that question after my second term. Good night, ladies and gentlemen."

Leslie turned off the TV. She expressed her admiration for the President.

"I really like her. She's tough as nails. Everyone wrote her off after the debates. Who knew?"

Leslie helped Clay put the groceries up.

"Clay, can we talk?"

"Sure, about what?"

"About Jon and I."

Clay became a little anxious. He sat beside Leslie on the couch.

"Okaaayy."

Leslie confided emotionally. "Remember when I sent you that text by accident?"

"Oh yes, how could I forget?"

"Well, I went to his house that night thinking he was expecting me after I sent the text."

"And ...?" Clay asked.

"Well, he wasn't there. I phoned him from his driveway and he told me he was home. But he wasn't. I don't know where he was but he wasn't where he said he was."

"Maybe he was seeing someone else, Leslie."

Leslie leaned on Clay's shoulder.

"No, there's no way he could split the time between me and another woman. I think I'd pick up on that. But he lied to me. I can't recover from that. I trusted him and that's gone now. I left him in his hotel room in New York. I had to end it. I was throwing away something that I cherished for a fantasy."

Clay picked up on a few key words.

"Did you say his hotel room? You mean you had separate rooms?"

Leslie placed her head in Clay's lap.

"Of course. Of course we had separate rooms. What did you think?"

"Never a doubt," Clay fibbed.

Leslie excused herself and went to the bathroom.

A few minutes later Leslie called Clay from the bedroom.

"Clay, come and join me. I'm in here."

Clay desperately tried to manage expectations. He didn't want to be too hopeful.

He entered the bedroom lit only by the light on the nightstand.

He was surprised once again.

"Leslie, are those your clothes hanging up in the closet?"

"Yes, get under the duvet with me."

Clay undressed and joined Leslie. The skin to skin contact brought burning feelings of his deep love and passion to the surface.

Leslie sat up in bed baring her nudity.

"Clay, I don't want to lose you. I know that no one will ever look at me the way you do. No one can make me laugh like you do and no one knows me like you do."

Leslie kissed Clay softly on the lips.

"I want to start over. I want you to date me," she said sincerely.

Leslie rested her head on Clay's chest. He stroked her wavy black hair.

"You want us to date? We're married. What does that even mean?"

Leslie roses up again and looked her husband in the eye. She was reminiscent, she smiled.

"It means that you carry my books to class and sit with me at lunch."

# EPILOGUE

## PRESIDENTIAL EXECUTIVE ORDER 12444

On 23 February 2017, the President of the United States signed Executive Order 12444 authorizing the US Justice Department extraordinary powers to quell escalating unrest particularly in major urban population centers across the country. The campaign was a whole-of-government approach that welcomed imaginative and unorthodox measures. The executive order called for the identification of select personalities whose presence, particularly in the media sphere, was deemed incompatible to American core values and principles. Thus, their removal from society was an accepted encroachment of their civil liberties. The creation of a notional, elite, lethal, vigilante-like entity would be used as persuasion to convince said individuals to enter into a tierone witness protection program outside the Continental United States, never to return. This classified program was codenamed _Valiant Exodus._

**Rev. T. "God Plus One is a Majority" from a sermon in 1988 1939-2007**

**Rev. T (far right) and colleagues hold memorial for the victims of the Orangeburg Massacre in 1968**

# THE GREEN BOOK

The Green Book was first published in New York in 1936 to accommodate an emerging negro middle class that travelled mostly for business. Negro travelers in unfamiliar areas were sometimes subjected to threats of violence or inconveniences if they attempted to patronize establishments for whites only. The Green Book afforded negro travelers with a directory of gas stations, lodging and dining facilities that would serve them along their journey. The Green Book ceased publication in 1966, just two years after the Civil Rights act was passed. However, the book remained relevant for a period of time particularly in the Deep South.

# THE EVOLUTION OF RACE CLASSIFICATION, COLORED, NEGRO, BLACK, AFRICAN AMERICAN

In 1968, the negro community was ready to shed the term 'negro' because of its association with legalized discrimination. Black militants and activists and such as Stokely Carmichael advocated dropping the classification 'negro' in favor of 'black' despite carrying a negative stigma in some circles. According to a 1968 poll, two thirds of blacks identified themselves as 'negro'. By 1974 the term 'black' was widely accepted and 'negro' was politically incorrect. There is debate around which icon was most influential in gaining mass appeal for the term 'black'. However, two larger-than-life personalities were undeniably responsible.

In 1963, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. who, in his famous _I Have a Dream_ speech, mentioned 'black' (as a race) on at least four different occasions. The soul singer James Brown undoubtedly popularized the term 'black' in his song _Say it Loud, I'm Black and I'm Proud_ in 1968. The song was number one for six weeks.

# ABOUT THE BOOK

Rather than write a story about a secret government operation to eliminate those who escaped justice or perpetrators of heinous crimes, I decided to write a book about the power of fear as a tool for accountability and resolution. In this book, a fictional boogie man and super rival, also fictional, were created to message law enforcement and the community at large. In the story, the government created a well-defined super threat _in the minds of law enforcement officers and reprobate criminals_ to persuade blots on society to "go quietly" into witness protection, never to be seen again. The result being appeasement of the public while encroaching on the rights of a few less-than-stellar citizens.

The first chapter titled _The Queen of Hearts_ is symbolic. I am referring to The Queen of Hearts (and Minds). As I mention in the first chapter, influencing your adversary is far more desirable than to defeat him and win the battle but not the war. In the game of chess, the Queen is the most influential and powerful piece on the board. Her moves almost always dictate how the opponent will respond.

In the story, winning the hearts and minds of law enforcement and high profile criminals is achieved by influence in lieu of violence.

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author grew up in the early 1960s on the south side of Chicago during the height of the civil rights movement. In 1975 he attended a predominately white high school where he developed close friendships and an understanding of certain biases. In 1979 he enlisted in the US Marine Corps where he retired after just over 20 years of service. In 2011, he embarked upon a writing career. He has one son, Eddie IV, who is serving in the US Air Force.

# OTHER TITLES  
BY THE AUTHOR

_Flagrant Misconduct_

_My Name is Elijah_

_Insider Threat_

_The Mogadishu Diaries_

_The Seduction of Monet Dawson_

_The Crossover_

_Fade to Black_
Special thanks to all who inspired the development of characters in the book or certain concepts.

Brenda Lewis, Cheryl Keaton, Carol Thompkins, Melanie Lewis, Karen Thompkins, Jimmy Parker, Terry Hogan, Etoria Thompkins, Dr. Elaina Wild, Richard Culp, Army Chief Warrant Officer Jerimiah Johnson, Dave Fernandez, Cindy Huffman, Tara Johns (beta reader) Gwyn Starreveld, Mona Lee (editor) and the late Reverend Dr. Eddie Clay Thompkins Jr.

The role of Chaos was inspired by a former police dog from the Orlando Police Department.

Her real name was Casper.

This literary work is not intended to demonize the overwhelming vast majority of honest and hardworking police officers whom have one of the toughest jobs in the workforce.
