button. He stared at the
folder on the desk, the darkness finally coming. It truly was already
surrounding them. They just had never realized. America was a pawn. Actually,
it was Bishop. Controlling but one-tracked. Feeling powerful but maligned.
Independence Day was a week away. What a joke. They had
never been free to begin with.
∞
W hen the security team had rushed him at the airport two
hours ago, Jake had thought it was best not to fight back. Now, sitting in the
back of the cargo plane, he wished he had at least taken some of them down with
him. Especially the jerk with the face mask. It was a modified gas mask, making
his voice sound muffled. The guy had seen one too many comic book movies.
The sound of the props was a roar in his ears. He was grateful.
He was able to doze. His captors sat around him smoking cigarettes and joking
harshly. He shut them out and concentrated. He prepared himself for the
inevitable. Surely, the answers lay at the end of this road. He was as lucid as
he had been in years.
He still held the locket in his palm, the thin chain bundled
around it. The memories flooded in. Mostly good ones. It would be easier to
control him if he could not remember his wife, his child, his mother, his home.
Things that matter. Things that buttress the man he became.
He realized then that the man that these people and events
formed had been there all along. It was a relief. It was an epiphany. It was
exactly what he needed. It strengthened his resolve.
He cracked open his eyelids and scanned his captors. Eight
in total that he could see. He imagined that if he wanted to escape, now would
be the ideal time. Just simply overwhelm eight armed men and jump from 20,000
feet. When he got to his destination, escape would likely be impossible.
Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. He knew his
memory was not completely restored. Gaps remained, but he recalled enough to
gain his confidence. He knew enough about himself and the ones he loved to
regain a sense of direction, a sense of conviction. This made him almost feel
giddy. He tried to bottle those emotions and feed off of the energy of a
renewed spirit.
He must have dozed because he did not remember descending. He
felt the wheels touch down. The plane jolted and bounced. He opened his eyes
and saw that he was braced by armed men. The man on his left had a bruised
cheek and a crew cut. They all looked like mercenaries and smelled like gun oil,
sour sweat, and leather.
He saw no insignias. Ex-military, he guessed. Trained and
expensive. The bruise on his neighbor’s cheek was probably from some internal
fight set off by bravado and machismo.
After they had taxied to a stop, he was grabbed by the
elbows and forced to stand. His manacles were unlocked while two men twisted
his shoulders until the blades touched. Another held a pistol to his temple.
The ramp was released, its hydraulics loud in the confined
space. No one spoke. No promises, no threats, no orders. Everyone knew their
roles and no one was stupid enough to complain.
These gents are well-paid and well-trained. Maybe I made
the right decision to not fight back, Jake thought.
They escorted him down the ramp as a team. Two men on each
side, one in front, and three behind or flanking. He could hear their footsteps
but could not turn his head to see them. Two pistols nearby his head and three
more ready behind him. He decided the wisest decision would be to go along.
The darkness of the airport almost made it indistinguishable.
After a moment, he saw the mountains. He looked up, realizing this was a
familiar place. He had just been here. This was Peterson Air Force Base. Why
was he here? Who were these people? How can they have access to Peterson? To
a C130 Hercules? Jake wondered. Money, of course. Jake should know that
money can buy just about anything.
“Head down,” came a voice from behind. A gloved hand pushed
his head forward. He barely kept his balance.
He obeyed. It was easier
folder on the desk, the darkness finally coming. It truly was already
surrounding them. They just had never realized. America was a pawn. Actually,
it was Bishop. Controlling but one-tracked. Feeling powerful but maligned.
Independence Day was a week away. What a joke. They had
never been free to begin with.
∞
W hen the security team had rushed him at the airport two
hours ago, Jake had thought it was best not to fight back. Now, sitting in the
back of the cargo plane, he wished he had at least taken some of them down with
him. Especially the jerk with the face mask. It was a modified gas mask, making
his voice sound muffled. The guy had seen one too many comic book movies.
The sound of the props was a roar in his ears. He was grateful.
He was able to doze. His captors sat around him smoking cigarettes and joking
harshly. He shut them out and concentrated. He prepared himself for the
inevitable. Surely, the answers lay at the end of this road. He was as lucid as
he had been in years.
He still held the locket in his palm, the thin chain bundled
around it. The memories flooded in. Mostly good ones. It would be easier to
control him if he could not remember his wife, his child, his mother, his home.
Things that matter. Things that buttress the man he became.
He realized then that the man that these people and events
formed had been there all along. It was a relief. It was an epiphany. It was
exactly what he needed. It strengthened his resolve.
He cracked open his eyelids and scanned his captors. Eight
in total that he could see. He imagined that if he wanted to escape, now would
be the ideal time. Just simply overwhelm eight armed men and jump from 20,000
feet. When he got to his destination, escape would likely be impossible.
Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. He knew his
memory was not completely restored. Gaps remained, but he recalled enough to
gain his confidence. He knew enough about himself and the ones he loved to
regain a sense of direction, a sense of conviction. This made him almost feel
giddy. He tried to bottle those emotions and feed off of the energy of a
renewed spirit.
He must have dozed because he did not remember descending. He
felt the wheels touch down. The plane jolted and bounced. He opened his eyes
and saw that he was braced by armed men. The man on his left had a bruised
cheek and a crew cut. They all looked like mercenaries and smelled like gun oil,
sour sweat, and leather.
He saw no insignias. Ex-military, he guessed. Trained and
expensive. The bruise on his neighbor’s cheek was probably from some internal
fight set off by bravado and machismo.
After they had taxied to a stop, he was grabbed by the
elbows and forced to stand. His manacles were unlocked while two men twisted
his shoulders until the blades touched. Another held a pistol to his temple.
The ramp was released, its hydraulics loud in the confined
space. No one spoke. No promises, no threats, no orders. Everyone knew their
roles and no one was stupid enough to complain.
These gents are well-paid and well-trained. Maybe I made
the right decision to not fight back, Jake thought.
They escorted him down the ramp as a team. Two men on each
side, one in front, and three behind or flanking. He could hear their footsteps
but could not turn his head to see them. Two pistols nearby his head and three
more ready behind him. He decided the wisest decision would be to go along.
The darkness of the airport almost made it indistinguishable.
After a moment, he saw the mountains. He looked up, realizing this was a
familiar place. He had just been here. This was Peterson Air Force Base. Why
was he here? Who were these people? How can they have access to Peterson? To
a C130 Hercules? Jake wondered. Money, of course. Jake should know that
money can buy just about anything.
“Head down,” came a voice from behind. A gloved hand pushed
his head forward. He barely kept his balance.
He obeyed. It was easier
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