The Exile

By Darryl Young

Rick gripped the wheel as he pushed the car up to around a hundred and ten. He could do almost twice that but he didn't know the highway that well and a sudden curve or a rough patch in the road could make for a very short trip. He'd been running the events of the day through his mind as he drove, trying to figure out what he could have done better, or different, or whatever. As he let up for a curve, he started over for the third time.
He'd been up for a couple of hours when Timmy showed up, watching the news about the supposedly alien ships flying around the planet. He'd listened with half an ear. True or not, it wasn't his problem. Hell, it wasn't anybody's problem as long as all they did was fly around.
Even to him, that sounded wrong, but it was the truth. He'd noticed that for most people, it was almost business as usual. And that was how the trouble started.
He glanced over at Cyn, then in the mirror at Timmy. She was asleep and Timmy was too fascinated by simply being in his car again to talk much, so he was left alone with his thoughts.
Timmy came to tell him Bob Stuart, his father's brother was at the house. As soon as he'd heard that, he knew there was something wrong. He got there in time to screw up his plans, but he didn't believe that would be the end of it. Especially since his being in that house was enough to get him thrown in jail. So that had put them on the road. But even that wasn't the worst part. No, that came about an hour later when Timmy shouted he could see the ships from the news. Rick had pulled over, just to get a look at what the fuss was all about.
He wished he'd kept going.
As soon as he pulled over and got out, a wave of nausea hit him. His legs turned to rubber and his head felt like it would burst. It passed quickly, but they were back in the car as fast as they could and off again, this time with him pushing the Audi to its limit, even as another wave of nausea hit him. In the outside mirror, he could see one of the ships reversing its direction and dropping down, almost as if it was looking for something. He had no idea how, but he could feel it was looking for him. There was no logic to it, no reason for it, but the feeling was there and it was not leaving.
All of which left him with three questions. Who the hell was on that ship? What would they want with him? And finally, what are Cyn's idiot in-laws going to do next?
As he pulled into a little town on the Oklahoma border, he had no idea that the answers to all three questions were on their way to find him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darryl Young
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005053369

Book preview

Chapter One

The room was lit just well enough for the man to see the rest of the room and yet there was still enough to see the air of apprehension that radiated from the man. He sat in his favorite chair and tried to split his attention between the TV and the darkness he could feel tugging at his mind.

He leaned back and stretched, listening as joints popped and enjoying the release it brought. He was considered by some as a large man, his arms stretching the limits of the dark gray tee shirt he was wearing. His chest muscles flexed and bulged against the thin material as he cracked his knuckles to relieve the tension in his hands. He was almost forty, but several broken fingers had left him with a low-grade arthritic condition. It wasn't debilitating, just annoying.

His face showed signs of the life he'd lived. His eyes had an almost permanent squint from all his years in the Army, staring at people and things in the distance to determine whether or not he should kill them. The deep creases along the sides of his eyes were a testament to the hours he had spent in such endeavors. To most women, the body, the squint, all simply added to his appeal.

Not that he needed it. The fact was that women found him attractive in most ways, although he made no attempt at using that attribute. He lived the perfect life of a bachelor, quiet and spartan, despite the opportunities his looks offered him with the opposite sex.

His face had a squareness that ended with a deep cleft in his chin that he'd inherited from his mother, matched up with high cheekbones from a Native American ancestor, while his lips were well-formed and large to match with the flat broadness of his nose. He found himself happy about that at times past as there had been cases where his caramel-colored skin, was light enough that he could have, if he had so desired, passed as a white man with a heavy tan. With all that and his heavy brow, as a youth, he had abided years of riding as a Neanderthal. Now he often laughed about that.

It had had its effect though. In his entire life, he'd never grown a beard, fearing the ribbing that would bring. Still, he'd worn a mustache all his life and for him that was plenty. He had let his hair grow just enough to cover his head, but even his hair was what the general populace called good hair for a black man, semi-straight and wavy. All in all, he was considered by most women to be good-looking, while most men had always given him a wide berth, out of respect for his physique. All of which led to him being left alone by most and his attitude towards most of the mundane aspects of life did the rest. He wasn’t exactly anti-social, but he was hardly gregarious either.

Despite all of the former, and because of the latter, he was alone in the house as well as in his life. Not from any lack of opportunity, but rather by choice. He had long ago decided that he liked to be alone. At least most of the time.

Today was not one of those days. He was watching the TV with an apprehension that almost boggled the mind.

The whole world was watching the same reports as he was looking at, all with the same wide eyes and dry mouths. Nor were the reporters doing the story immune to the scope of it. Despite their experience and expertise in their field, to a man, or woman, they stuttered and stammered their way through dialogue scripted and sent to them through their networks from their main offices or even government agencies, all the while afraid to look at the camera too long lest the fear in their eyes became apparent to all of their viewers.

Even the ones charged with leading the country, at least those brave enough not to be hiding in a bunker somewhere, showed up on the screens trying to reassure everyone that there was nothing to worry about, all the while looking near collapse from sheer panic.

He turned the channel only to find more of the same on all of them, just with different faces blanched with terror. The reports sounded more and more like they had been designed to quell a rising panic in the audience. The trouble was that their very existence made the task more than hopeless as the things they had to say to their portion of the masses, rather than calming fears, gave them substance.

He sat back again and watched for the fifth time. Or was it the sixth? There it was again. The little ships dancing through the clouds like quicksilver. Not really any larger than a modern fighter jet, but sleeker by virtue of the lack of any external features. The part that had drawn everyone into this though was the fact that they had been being seen for hours. Before that the larger ship, the one still high above the planet, orbiting silently, with only God knew how many more of these smaller ships aboard, had been detected as soon as, or at least they thought it was as soon as they dropped into the solar system, by a telescope array in New Mexico.

There were no real pictures of this mysterious Mother ship, as the press was calling it now, owing to the fact that the ship was so far away, and so far nothing they had come up with had made any headway at cleaning up the image, but several stations were running what appeared to be an artist’s representation of what they thought it looked like. Fortune found that strange since any good telescope should have been able to pick it up, but none of them had. One of the local geniuses on the payroll of one of the stations covering the story had insisted it was a new cloaking technology they were using to keep us from seeing the hundreds of ships that were dropping through the atmosphere even as he spoke, but as they had yet to show up, that part of the theory was being, for the most part, ignored. The accuracy of the drawings he couldn't swear to, but the ships that had dived into Earth's atmosphere were not only real, they brought him a feeling that he was unused to.

It was difficult to identify at first, but as the day wore on, it became more and more apparent that the sight of the ships was stirring feelings or memories that he didn't normally have access to. And those feelings, more than the ships themselves, were the real cause of his fear.

A knock at the door broke his concentration. His hand dipped into the chair next to him, closing around his old forty-five. He seldom shot it, other than a couple of times a year at the firing range and it still worked as well as ever. He was still a good shot, which sometimes surprised him. But then his entire life had been that way.

The knock on the door tapped out a pattern that he recognized and he felt himself relax. Everyone that knew him knew that door was never locked in the daytime, but the knock he heard was a signal that told him who it was before he ever saw the boy.

Three knocks, two knocks, one knock and... Hiya Uncle Derrick!

That was Timmy Stuart. His next-door neighbor and little buddy. A bright-eyed little boy that had basically adopted Rick Fortune, the man in the chair. And on a side note, was the only person since his mother and an anal-retentive high school science teacher that called him Derrick, although only when he was excited. Or scared.

Hi Timmy, what's up?

A product of a mixed marriage as they were called, Timmy had a cute little cherubic face that showed the best of both worlds. His face was oval-shaped while his chin showed the cleft he had gotten from his father. His skin was copper-toned and clear. His eyes had the strange hint of an almond shape, but they were so light brown they looked like there were lights shining behind them. And those eyes, identical to his mother’s, were the most expressive he'd ever seen.

Rick often wondered if the boy’s father, Mike Stuart had ever looked at the boy as anything more than a tribute to him. His ego probably took credit for anything that would be considered exceptional about the kid.

Rick cursed under his breath. Thirty years ago, he remembered his father telling him of how he had been forced to work for men like Stuart. Black men had had to then, and there was little they could do about it. The agencies that were supposed to enforce laws of equality and fairness were just getting started and had yet to find any real ways to enforce their high moral standards, while the ones that held the power were adept at finding ways to circumvent any authority they did have. A talent that people like Mike Stuart cultivated on a daily basis.

Timmy, in the fashion of any ten-year-old, didn't understand the kind of generalities that Rick was thinking about, but he was old enough to remember his father and what he was like, as well as the rest of that side of his family. He had memories of the battles his parents had had and how once his father had died, they had tried to shut out his mother and get him away from her. Just the memory of those times brought a change to little Timmy.

That change showed on his face, as if the question forced him to remember why he was there. Uncle Bob came over and mom told me to make myself scarce. She still hates him as much as ever.

With good reason, Rick thought to himself. Bob Stuart was Mike Stuart's brother and Timmy's uncle. When Mike died, Bob was named executor of his will. The trouble started when he, and his siblings, realized that he had left all his money to his son, with a decent amount marked in a weekly stipend to his ex-wife, they were, to say the least, pissed. From what he knew of them, their only goal in life was to make money. Any opposition to that was a problem.

So, what does he want now?

Rick knew that whenever Bob Stuart showed up, it usually meant trouble of some kind, and Timmy's mother, Cynthia, would send him out, and when she did, Timmy would invariably end up here to wait out the visit. Normally, Bob Stuart had no problem with that as he disliked them both. Anytime he came over, that had been the way things had gone. Since Mike’s death however, his entire family had taken an interest in the pair of them.

More so the boy, since he was now the richest family member thanks to his father’s will. Rick always felt that for the most part, Mike had stayed away from his family businesses because he didn’t trust his family either, a sentiment his wife picked up on, and one of the few things the two of them agreed on. Where the family forgave Mike however, they took a lot of pleasure in hating Cynthia for her defiance. She was the outsider, in their opinion. Just a bit of fun their brother had indulged in. While Mike Stuart had been alive, they had constantly tried to get him to divorce her, figuring that with their connections, they could easily get custody of the boy for him, if that was what he wanted. And they could get rid of the woman that had divided the family unit they had all been so proud of.

Rick hated the way they treated her. She was the boy's mother after all. Even if Mike Stuart was a miserable son of a bitch, the same as the rest of them, he'd chosen to be with her and neither she nor the boy deserved the crap they threw at her.

Then once Mike was gone, and left his entire estate to the boy, they were completely outdone. Rick almost grinned to himself remembering how they had tried everything to try and get on her good side, and failing that, epically, they had begun a campaign of terror against her both legally and socially. They had once even tried to have her declared an unfit parent, just to get their hands on the kid so they could control his money.

That had turned out to be their most epic fail. The case ended up in front of Judge Sandra Mason, a fair-minded woman and a smart one as well. The whole scam lasted until she took a good hard look at the accuser and the accused. Not liking them aside, she figured out they were lying and ordered an investigation. When the charges turned out to be groundless, she put Robert Stuart’s duties as executor of Mike Stuart’s will in abeyance, other than for day-to-day activities, while a full investigation was carried out.

An investigation which was still going on. Or at least it had been. Now with these latest developments and the arrival of these ships, everything was being held in a state of suspension.

None of which explained what this bastard was doing there now though. Last he'd heard, there was a restraining order in place for all of the Stuarts, but again, with the ships out there, calling a cop to have it enforced could prove as useless as tits on a boar.

While Rick remembered all of this in a flash, he also noted that Timmy seemed more worried this time than usual when he had to deal with any of his father’s people. He looked at the floor and scuffed his feet, like he had something to say that he was almost ashamed of. Rick knew it was big when he started stammering, then he set his jaw and burst out with a machine gun blast of words.

When she told me to get out, I hid around the corner and listened for a while. I figured with all that's going on with these ships and all, the cops would be busy. I didn't really want to leave, but I figured you were the only one I could count on for help, and you'd want to know everything you can so I...

Rick cut him off. You did the right thing. Anyway, we better get over there. Sorry to say about your family, but I don't trust any of them as far as I can throw them.

He came out of the seat and put the gun down the front of his jeans. He wasn't sure if there was any need for it, but better safe than sorry. Timmy's eyes went wide as he saw the gun. He knew Rick carried it, but he was usually careful about letting the boy see it. Rick smiled to reassure the boy. It seemed to work, because as they headed for the door, Timmy smiled, saying, That's okay Uncle Rick. I don't trust them either.

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The two of them went through the rear gate and walked up the path to the back of Cynthia's house. As soon as they got near the back door, Rick slowed as he caught the sound of the argument that had probably been going on since Timmy left.

...don't care what you think, what you want or what you have planned. I am not going anywhere with you and neither is my son.

Bob Stuart had all the charm and appeal of a cockroach, and the whining voice of a teenage miscreant of the worst kind. All I'm saying is that you and the boy would be safer at the compound. We have everything we need there to wait this thing out. Whatever happens, it's clear that there is a major shake-up coming. We need to position ourselves to be on top whenever this thing is over. For that, we need to pool our resources. All our resources. That includes whatever he has as well. We need to get supply lines laid and make the right connections to keep them open.

Rick felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down. Timmy had a finger to his lips and pointed to the door in the side of the garage. The pair of them went through it without a sound. They got into the house, into the living room, and made their way silently to where they could see into the kitchen from the back of the room while remaining hidden in the shadows. Once they were in place, Rick could see the pair of them in the kitchen. Stuart was maintaining a respectful distance, even though Rick knew he was taking a chance just by being there. He was already in violation of the restraining order just by being in the house.

Cynthia, or as she liked to be called, Cyn, was well aware of that, just as she was aware that calling the police right now would most likely be an exercise in futility. She had sent Timmy out, knowing that he'd end up at Rick's. She knew he'd be there if she needed him, and like always, here he was.

Sometimes he felt like a fool. He was just short of forty, she was thirty-two. When he'd met her, he had found himself dreaming about what it might be like to be with her, but he held it to midnight fantasies or daydreams. He held no illusions about his place in her life, but he found he was happy with it whatever it was. Even so, that didn't mean that the thoughts didn't flit through his mind of their own accord every so often.

And with good reason. Cyn was nearly as tall as he was in heels and the legs that went in those heels were long and beautifully shaped. The rest of her was simply more of the same. And she wasn't simply a body. Her face was the same cherubic type as Timmy's. Her eyes were not as bright as his, but they were just as intense and to Derrick a lot better looking. Her hair was off black and long enough to reach her shoulders, but it had a natural straightness that hinted at the mixing in her family tree as well. She was beautiful, but she was also young. There were things that he felt he could teach her that she could use, but he wouldn't. Her fate was her own regardless of what either of them thought.

At that moment, all he wanted was for her to be safe. And Timmy as well. The kid loved him, and he found he cared deeply for the both of them too. That was enough and he left it at that. His mind focused in on the conversation as it rose in pitch. He was surprised to hear his name come up.

Stuart was trying to change tactics. I suppose you sent the boy over to that Fortune guy next door. I swear, I think you are losing it woman. he pointed a finger of outrage at her. If her reciprocal gaze had been any sharper, she'd have cut it off. His voice carried an edge to it that she'd heard before, most notably when they were trying to convince a judge that she was a bad parent. You need to keep him away from my nephew. I don't trust that bastard. I don't like the way his kind hangs around. You give him a chance and he'll probably head for the hills with the boy.

Cyn laughed out loud. You want to play that sad song again? Rick Fortune is a better man than your asshole family ever met. Like that brother of yours, Cecil? Remember how he wanted to help me raise Timmy, while we were at Mike's funeral? He couldn't wait to tell me how much he admired me, and what he could do for me. I was tempted to spit in his face. Hell, I'm tempted to spit in yours.

Her voice and her manner turned serious, as her eyes narrowed dangerously, trying to fire her hate at him. And let me tell you something. As far as Rick and I are concerned, whatever the hell we might or might not want to do is none of your damn business, or your rat-faced family's!

Her index finger popped up to silence him as his mouth opened, the glare never fading.

Remember, I married the best man in your family, and he was a fuck up. As for the rest of you, and your opinions of how I should live my life... you can fuck off! And die while you’re at it.

Rick stared at Stuart from the shadows, trying to get some kind of a read on the man. He had never been impressed by any of them, but this seemed out of character for this weasel. He was such a wimp, Rick was never sure how he managed to stand up straight without a backbone, yet he looked as if he was enjoying the confrontation. For a moment, he even thought he saw a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth, along with an evil glint in his eye. A glint that said things were going his way.

For a long moment the two of them just stared, but it was easy to see the anger was gone from the man. Now he seemed to be waiting. But for what?

The realization hit Rick a second later. He grabbed Timmy and pulled him back to the garage, whispering, Get down to Mrs. Silverstone's house and wait there until me or your mother come to get you! The boy wanted to protest but Rick's tone left no room for argument. In typical ten-year old fashion, he turned and huffed away, silently. Seconds later, he slipped out the door without a sound, leaving the three adults to their matters.

Rick followed him to the door, for two reasons. One, to ensure he was doing as told, as Timmy was a little headstrong. And two, to see if his latest impression was true.

Timmy went to the street and turned left, running in the direction of Mrs. Silverstone's. Rick followed him with his eyes as far as he could, then turned in the other direction to confirm his theory. It only took a minute. Halfway up the block, a ratty-looking Chrysler sat among the Hondas and Toyotas. Inside it, slouching down behind the wheel and the front seat, two guys were watching the house like they were waiting. They didn't look ratty enough to be street tough types, but they weren't anything like wholesome or clean cut. Under normal conditions, one of the neighbors would have probably already called the police on the pair, but again, today was anything but normal. Rick smiled to himself. At least it was an explanation for why this little shit was acting so tough.

Rick let his hand slip around the gun in his waistband, contemplating his next move, when a scream, muffled but unmistakable, issued from the kitchen. Mingled with it was another sound, crackling and hissing. Rick recognized the source of both. Cyn Doyle was the scream, and a stun gun was making the crackling. He pulled the forty-five and ran into the kitchen.

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Leaning down over the prone body of Cyn, Bob Stuart was checking her vitals to make sure she was still alive. At least the coward had that much of whatever he passed off as compassion. He looked up just in time to see Rick's entrance into the kitchen. His head snapped up just in time for the butt of the forty-five to slam into the side of it.

He rolled with the blow, more stunned by the sudden appearance of the man he had used to send Cynthia Doyle over the edge. He held the stun gun in front of him, only to find himself staring down the barrel of the forty-five. A barrel that took on the dimensions of a cannon from his viewpoint. Rick growled at the man across the gun.

I oughta put a bullet in your fucking head. Back up in that corner right there and God help you if I lose track of your hands, you miserable son of a bitch!

He started to lie immediately. It's not what you think! She attacked me! I barely...

Give up fuckface! I heard most of the conversation! He felt himself tremble as he fought down a serious desire to kill the bastard, mainly because he knew he needed to get Cyn out of here, and flying saucers or not, gunshots would probably get someone to call the cops.

He motioned with the gun to emphasize his point. Sit down in that corner right there! The man moved to comply, but as he lowered himself down, never taking his eyes off the barrel of the gun, Rick stopped him in mid-motion.

Uh uh! Uh uh! Turn the palms up! Stuart complied, laying the stun gun on the ground next to him. Rick never took his eyes off the man as he walked over and kicked the gun against the wall, to let it bounce off and slide behind him. Closer to the man now, he couldn't resist giving him another shot to the head, this time using his hand.

The man cowered before him. Bob Stuart was not a big man and he showed all the signs of having lived a life that involved boardrooms and office chairs, as well as the kind of physique that develops. Mid-fifties and balding, he had a jowly look that would only get worse without surgery. He was hardly in shape to do his own dirty work, which explained the two punks outside.

Once he was sure he had him secured, Rick turned to Cyn. Her breathing was ragged and shallow, but steady. He sighed with relief. Stun guns could aggravate any medical condition, and he had no real idea of any she might have, but a quick check told him she was, if not fine, at least all right.

She looked up at him with glazed eyes for a second, then blinked rapidly, shifting her focus to the man that had done this to her. Those eyes blazed as she thought of the ways she would dearly love to return the favor. At the moment though, that was beyond her. And probably would be for a few minutes. That was one of the leftovers from a stun gun. The electrical current caused the muscles to contract to the point of paralysis, sapping out every bit of strength, leaving the victim weak, trembling, and able to put up little more than token resistance. Suddenly, he realized what else the other two were there for.

Just then, a sound reached his ears. A faint scraping from the back porch. The two from the car! He pulled Cyn up, keeping the gun trained on the now wide-eyed Stuart. He leaned in to whisper, Cyn, you have to get it together! This guy brought friends and I can't stop them and watch him. I need you to help me!

Cyn was a strong woman. She'd had to be to be married to Mike Stuart, and therefore to his family, for years. Aside from Timmy’s inheritance, the only thing she had to show for that marriage was Timmy, and the undying hatred of her in-laws. If Rick read her right, it'd be easier to get her to bite the head off a live chicken than to let them win anything if she could help it. The hardest part from his perspective was whether or not she'd shoot him as soon as he handed her the gun.

So, before he did, Rick added somberly, You don't need the headache baby girl! And killing him hands your baby over to that brother and sister of his! I know you don't want that to happen. Just keep him on that floor for me!

She took the gun, shakily, her eyes still slitted as she glared at the man sitting against her kitchen cabinet. Stuart cringed even harder, knowing the fate that awaited him if she chose. His fear was it could happen either way. If his boys won, this bastard dies, but then she would more than likely kill them all. Or at the very least, him.

But if Fortune won, unlikely as that seemed, he couldn't see it ending any better. Once he was alone with them, it could very likely end very badly for him.

He had no more time to think though as Rick spun toward the door, just as it opened a crack. He watched fascinated as the man grabbed a rolling pin off the counter and dropped to one knee just as the door finished its track. Silently, as the two men started through it, Rick swung the rolling pin with astonishing speed, smashing into the lead man's knee. The blow was hard enough to spin the man to the floor. His partner, never seeing Rick, was crowding in behind him, so when he went down screaming in pain, his buddy fell across him, head now in line with the next swing. The result was he came out worse than his buddy as the heavy pin glanced off his skull with a sickening thud. As the first one howled in pain, the second dropped like a stone, to land across the legs of his partner, out cold. Stuart watched the two men he had hired to grab Cynthia fall in less than a minute.

Sure the two would be no trouble for a while, Rick turned to his prisoner now and scowled. He was breathing harder than he'd like and his arm almost ached from the exertion of swinging the rolling pin. He knew the reason why. Arthritis was creeping in on him slowly, slowing him down or making certain movements difficult. He had given up skip tracing because of it.

Cyn was sitting up against the fridge, still holding the gun on Stuart. Like him, she had been stunned by the apparent ease Rick had taken out two men. The pair of them had been large and rough-looking enough that she'd have figured they'd have had reputations for brutality. She wondered absently what they were doing there.

Her head grew clearer with every second. It didn't take more than a few for her to suddenly realize who was missing.

Still not taking her eyes off of Stuart, she asked Rick in a desperate tone, Where is Timmy? Is he...

Rick answered quickly to stop that line of thought before it got started. Timmy's fine! We'll go and get him as soon as I figure out what to do with these idiots.

Stuart suddenly shifted to get their attention. Look, I don't know what you two think you're going to do but I can tell you it won't work. You know you can't kill us...

Still carrying the rolling pin, Rick stepped toward him. Instantly, the man cringed as well as he could without leaving the floor. Rick almost smiled. As bad as it sounded, he was enjoying his discomfort.

If I were you, Rick said evenly, I wouldn't be so sure about my intentions. Or hers.

As he spoke, he reached down and picked up the stun gun off the floor. Leaning in, with Stuart's attention focused on it, he suddenly reached down and snatched a lapel pin off his jacket.

He looked down at the pin in his hand while Stuart looked at him astonished. Thought so. He showed it to Cyn. Latest thing in electronics. A pinhole camera, linked to a recorder. So, he turned back to Stuart, where is the recorder?

The man took a little longer to answer than he needed. It was easy to see he was trying to think up a lie. "It's at the office! A copy of it'll be sent to the police. Once they get it, they'll...'

Rick exploded, more pissed off by the insult to his intelligence than anything else Oh shut the fuck up! The range on that thing wouldn't be more than a few feet. You try to send it that far and all you'd get would be static. Good for nothing! Kinda like your ass! So do you want to try another lie or would you wanna just give me the recorder? Or would you prefer me to find it on my own? I really don't have time to argue and I promise I'm not gonna be gentle.

Stuart stared up at the man standing over him for all of a full second before he realized there was no lie that would make him believe anything he said. Then he simply sighed and reached into the jacket pocket, pulling out a small plastic square. It looked like a flash drive, if a little larger than most.

Everything is on it, from the moment I walked in and started talking to her.

Cyn, finally beginning to get herself back together, looked at him perplexed. What the hell for?

When Stuart said nothing. Rick finally explained for him. He was trying to get something they could use to dummy up a scenario where you attacked him and he had to defend himself if he killed you. Or if you survived, to say you were mentally unfit. My guess though is that those two were his main plan.

He motioned to the two men on the floor, one unconscious, the other wincing in pain every few seconds. He looked down at Stuart, who suddenly refused to meet his gaze, which more than anything else told him he was right.

These two were supposed to keep you here while he and the rest of his family kept Timmy out of the picture long enough to figure a way to make him compliant. Knowing them, the list probably included drugs and brainwashing of some sort, among other nasty things.

Now the man spoke quickly, knowing he was in a bad position. We have no intention of hurting the boy! He's family! All we want is...

To get a hold of his money! Your brother wouldn't leave it to you and now I'm guessing you're in a fix that needs a lot of cash to get out of, so you're getting desperate!

For the first time, Cyn took her eyes off the man long enough to look at Rick, horror and alarm running across her face. She tried to make her mind grasp what he was saying, but the thought was too far beyond anything she was used to. Looking at the cowering man in front of her, then back at Rick, then at the two men on her kitchen floor, then finally, back to the man on the floor in front of her, she asked hoarsely, You brought these two bastards here to what? Let them rape me while you stole my son? You slimy little mother...

Rick tried to grab the gun, but he was a micro-second too slow. She squeezed off a round before she thought about it. The bullet slammed into the wall next to Stuart's head. He flinched away from it when pieces of the wall sprayed the side of his head, several of the chips drawing blood.

Rick was between the two of them instantly.

Dammit Cyn! This bastard dies and you got a murder rap! Even if you beat it, they got rights to your boy till then!

Cyn wanted to throw the gun down and run. To get her son and get out of town. She began shaking and had to lean against the fridge for support. You were gonna let those two do anything they wanted to me and then what?

She directed the question at Stuart, who ignored her as he felt blood drip down his face. Unused to the physical pain of any kind, he was bordering on shock, staring at the red smears on his hand. Cyn however, was not to be denied.

Answer me, you bastard! As she screamed she pointed the gun at him again, her finger trembling on the trigger.

Stuart threw his hand up and started pleading for Rick to protect him. For his part, Rick was talking to Cyn softly, trying to keep her from killing the man outright.

Baby don't do this! He dies, the rest of that nest of vipers he has for a family wins by default. He was still positioned as a human shield in front of the man. The other two lay quietly, the one having finally recovered enough from the blow to his head to realize he was in a very bad position, and decided their best option was to not draw any undue attention to themselves. Rick continued to try to calm Cyn down.

We have to get out of here before somebody calls the cops. Get Timmy and get someplace safe. Then we can deal with these bastards one last time.

How? she snapped back. They buy whatever they need. Judges, cops, anything! And no one stops them! We can't stop them! The law can't stop them! The only thing we can do is let them have what they want or kill them! And I lose then too! So what do I do?

Rick had an answer. Wrong! They screwed up, or rather this idiot did. He set this thing running, he held up the recording device, and it still is. My guess is that they were going to have some tech wiz rig up a digital conversation that they could use to make you look bad. But now we have it. All of it! We can use it to let everybody see what they had planned. All we have to do is find somebody to listen!

Cyn wasn't convinced. And where do we find this mythical being?

How about a federal prosecutor? From what I hear about this bunch, they've been investigated a few times for everything from coercion to insider trading and like you said, they've managed to skate every time. Give a prosecutor anything that they can make stick and they'll give you all the protection you need. And just the fact that he's here puts him on the wrong side of Judge Mason's restraining order. That's a sure stretch in jail as soon as she hears about it.

Stuart had nothing to say about that. He knew it was true. That was one of the reasons they had made the decision to go with this plan. This UFO thing had been a Godsend. With everyone worrying about an invasion or whatever, there were few if any thinking about anything else, which left them a window of opportunity to get her away from everyone.

Perhaps a small one, in Bob Stuart's opinion, depending how long it took for this nonsense to be exposed, then things would go back to normal. His family decided it was their only shot at taking her out of the picture. The boy could be handled easily. They had several doctors on staff that could handle his reconditioning. Taking out the woman was the important part.

Only now they, or rather he had blown it. The plan had been much as Rick had surmised. He'd brought the pair with him to hold her for as long as they wanted. They could do anything they wanted to her, as long as they kept her away from the courts while they petitioned them for custody of the boy. Of course, they couldn't do that until the boy had been convinced of his new position, but the ones they had hired for the job had assured them that it would take no more than two to three days, assuming they had open access to the boy. Bob Stuart didn't want to think about what they would have done to the boy, or what toll it would take on him, but their position had worsened to the point that they had had to make some kind of play.

Like any coward, Stuart had tried not to think about how they would accomplish their goals. He was after all, his nephew. They had tried other means to get past both their present financial woes, and the betrayal they felt by being left out of their brother’s will, but their situation had become desperate when several of the family stocks went south over the last few last weeks. They had managed to cover the losses, but the resultant outpouring of capital had left them with a serious cash flow problem. And given they had several ventures that were, under the table, so to speak, they needed a massive influx of cash to make all of it go away. The problem as he saw it was this black bitch he had for a mother. Once they got her out of the way, things would be all right.

Rick Fortune however, was a wild card they hadn't counted on. When they encountered him, they had of course had him investigated, trying to find a way to buy his loyalty. They learned nothing about him other than the fact that he had been in the Army in some elite unit, but that had been a long time ago. Then he'd retired and let obscurity claim him. It had taken months to find out what he had done once he got out of the army. It took a large number of bribes just to find out he had hired out as a contractor to a bail bondsman, working as a skip tracer.

They never bothered to worry about Rick. The way they saw it, either he was just chasing a woman he probably couldn't have or had some kind of unnatural attraction for the boy. That had been one of the things that had turned the judge against them as it turned out. It came out later that Judge Mason had known Fortune from his time with the bondsman. Their lawyers immediately tried to have her recused from the case and her rulings thrown out, to no avail. Her knowledge of him was no more than what she had heard of him when he was a skip tracer, that being that he was honest and honorable. It wasn't much really, but it was enough to make her question their opinions of him enough to investigate them. Once she had taken a closer look at the Stuarts and their lives, she laughed at their petition and the courts backed her up.

So, after the edicts had been made, once they realized that they were legally out in the cold, they had decided they needed an alternative, after of course, taking some precautions to ensure their position. Bob Stuart had come up with this plan and despite the objections of his siblings, he managed to convince them that he could get it done. He wondered how bad it would be when they found out how badly he had failed?

Meanwhile, Rick seemingly had convinced Cyn to relax and taken the gun back, much to the relief of everyone else in the room. It was a short reprieve as Rick told her suddenly, You head down to Mrs. Silverstone's and get Timmy. I'll be along as soon as I... tidy up a bit here.

Cyn nodded, then turned and ran into the front room, returning with her purse and what looked like an overnight bag. Rick shouted as she left, I'll be in the Audi. You just make sure Mrs. Silverstone doesn't worry about you.

She nodded as she left, casting a baleful eye at the men on the floor as she did. Once she was gone, Rick looked around as if searching for something. The men tried to re-position themselves to be more comfortable, but a stern look from Rick froze all of them in place. He finally went to a broom closet and found what he was looking for. As he turned, he was smiling openly as he said, Well boys, looks like this party is about to get live.

With that, the men began to squirm uncomfortably.

Chapter Two

The world at large was either glued to TV sets or watching every news channel they could find on their computers or whatever handheld device they could, trying to see the latest news on the ships that were circling the planet. For the most part, younger listeners had given up on the networks, calling them stooges of the government conspiracy, as their reports became more and more stilted and contrived. The alternative news sources were just as bad in the other direction, pushing everything from an experimental ship from a foreign government to an alien invasion in response to the Voyager mission.

Yet despite the provocations of the social media sites, as well as the tabloid prevarications, the overall attitude of the man on the street was blasé at best. The politicians were at a loss to explain the calmness of the populace, or for that matter, their own. They were afraid, yes, but the level of that fear was far below what anyone would have expected. As a result, the loss of normal day-to-day operation, such as it was since ninety-nine point nine of the population had said screw it and taken the day off, was minimal. It had been almost a day since the ships had been sighted, yet there were no reports of people losing it and going off the deep end. And that in itself was frightening to those that knew about it.

One of those that did know was a reporter for a local news station named Myron Perez that prided himself on being in touch with the public sentiment. He had himself, noted his own lack of feeling regarding the ships but to him, the oddest thing was that the ships themselves were doing nothing other than flying in what amounted to a low orbit. There had been no contact with them, despite everyone trying to do anything they could to get their attention.

The military claimed to be following them closely, but from what he had heard through a few of his contacts, the best they could do was watch as the ships were not just faster than their earth-born counterparts, they were phenomenally faster. Their speeds were being classified or at least, not released to the public, but one airline passenger who happened to be in the air close enough to see one of the encounters between the ship and one of the fighters chasing it said the ending he had seen had been simple. The jet dropped in behind the mystery ship, the ship ignored him for a second, then just walked away from him. Although walked was too kind. The mystery ship accelerated at a rate nothing on Earth could match. The jet looked as though it stopped dead and the other one just flew away.

So far, no one had fired on the ships, but he was sure that was subject to change without notice. All it would take was one scared pilot or some Colonel who had some delusion of making General on the back of one of these ships and Earth could be in the middle of its first interstellar war.

He sat back in the chair and dropped his head into his hands. Nothing in this made sense. The dream of contact with another world was happening but apparently, humanity wasn't invited.

He sat up straight. He had to find out at least some of what was going on. And the only way to do that was to find a way into the higher echelons of the military.

He signaled his secretary. Sharon, leave a message for Mr. Apple. I need to talk to him ASAP.

I'll start the procedure at once, but like always, he calls when he's ready.

James sighed. Yeah, I know, but he does call. I just hope there's something left when he does this time.

That done, he leaned back in his chair to force himself to relax a little. Mr. Apple had yet to disappoint him in any of their endeavors. All he had to do now was wait.

While he did, his eyes fell on the calendar on the desk. He grimaced as he realized the date. Looks like I'll never forget this birthday, he muttered out loud. He had to think for a second to remember his age. Was he really only forty-one? He felt fifty at least. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass on his bookcase. Well, he thought, at least I still look passable.

He was as thin as a rail, thanks to a genetic disposition that saved him from the blubber that claimed most of his friends or forced them into gyms and running shoes. His Spanish ancestry colored his skin and hair, but his eyes, a gift from his Swedish mother, were sky blue. It made for interesting conversations at the bars.

He had a reputation as a lady’s man that he felt may or may not have been earned. That had been how he had met Mr. Apple, whose real name was Lydia Perry, a Colonel in the Army that had been passed over and decided to do her own financial backup. And he had gotten the job of being her sidekick. It hadn't been an easy application process, but he had apparently passed because this whole thing had been set up to let them communicate.

Sharon knew the whole deal but played dumb. It was best to keep a low profile just to keep Myron from worrying about her. The funny thing was he knew she knew all the details of their arrangement. He let her think he didn't know that she knew. They both lied to themselves to protect the other. Yet they never bothered to explore the reasons why. So, they both sat in their offices and waited for either Mr. Apple to call or the world to end, whichever came first.

Chapter Three

At the Command center at Moran Creek, Missouri, Colonel Perry couldn't get any messages. And if she could, she wouldn't have answered anything. She was far too busy trying to find a way to get all the data Major General Harmon Reid had requested for the briefing. Or rather, getting the data to amount to more than a bunch of bad guesses.

The reports had nothing that could remotely be considered information. They had seen the ships, and they knew about the big one in orbit. They knew they were fast, much faster than anything they had. And that so far, they had simply flown around the world several times, but that was about all as far as anyone could tell. They didn't even have any good pictures of the ships because nothing they had could get close enough to even get one.

One thing had come out of Colorado when they flew over there, though. Each of the ships was emitting a low-frequency signal as they flew. The purpose of it was unknown, but further investigation had shown each ship to be giving off the signal. Aside from that, they knew nothing.

Perry was a career officer, with twenty-one years of service, the last twelve in her current position. Those that knew her well enough to have an opinion thought of her as extremely competent, dedicated, and as stubborn as a mule. She had a reputation, deserved or not, of using anyone who had something she wanted. And given her looks, usually, that was a man, although word was that she had several episodes that involved liaisons with women and in at least one case, a couple.

Those looks were considered classic by everyone that knew her. An oval face that was just short of perfection by a lot of them. Her body was carved by years of PT as well as her own personal regimen that she had developed to handle the physical defects that she thought were there even though no one else seemed to see them. The result was that she was in phenomenal shape, both as far as physical ability and appearance.

Her brown hair was kept cut short although she made sure to keep it as feminine as she could, trying to quell the jokes and rumors that flew around any powerful woman. Not that she needed to. One look into those fierce gray eyes of hers was enough to keep even the most intrepid joker quiet.

Her looks, to her, were an asset, and a weapon. One she used on every occasion she could. And she used it well. She was a good officer but she was, by and large, according to the scuttlebutt, a bitch.

Which made her a good match for her boss.

General Reid was a veteran of every war, police action, and demonstration of open hostility for twenty-five years. The only thing was that all those were against humans, which he admitted to not fully understanding, but at least they were humans.

Not that he was totally convinced that the pilots of these ships were not human. The trouble was that if they were, that didn't change the fact that these ships were so far advanced over anything he had to put up against them, it was beyond ridiculous. People seemed to be taking it amazing well, for now, but that would change as soon as one of them did something offensive. Then he would have to order one or more of his ships to fire on them. His fear was that if they were as advanced in weapons as they were in propulsion, he could be swatting a hornet’s nest with a tennis racket in a locked room.

He had had a good career, and a chest full of medals to prove it. His record spoke for itself, listing his accomplishments in stellar fashion. The single blemish had been thirteen years ago when he had ordered a series of strikes on a village that had been overrun and claimed half a dozen soldier's lives and an untold number of non-combatants. He had survived career-wise because the village was found to be a nest of subversive elements. In the end, the brass had ruled the soldier's deaths as fortunes of war and left it at that, but his command of troops in battle was over.

When the idea of riding herd over the DREN operation came up, his name floated to the top and stayed there. The Senate committee that ran oversight on the op, with no real idea as to the actual capabilities of the ships and the engines, thought that it was exactly what the general populace thought it was, an expensive and useless exercise in futility, none of them knowing that at the time that the ships were in fact, operational, and in certain corners of the world, in use daily.

So, his punishment became his greatest assignment. And he succeeded at it brilliantly. Enough that when those in the oversight committee found out the truth about what was going on and how good an assignment they had given to a man they thought of as a failure, they had immediately tried to have him removed for cause, never specifying what exactly that cause was. His successes with the unit however, quashed any thought of having him or any of those that had come with him removed. Which of course included then Captain Perry.

The now Colonel Perry was still his aide and therefore it was her responsibility to give him whatever useful data he needed for whatever the occasion. And she was good at it. The trouble was that she was so good at it, Reid had come to expect perfection. So much so that he felt entitled to it. Anything less was unacceptable. As a result, he had become so used to her proficiency that he simply took it for granted she would make sure he had all the available data at his fingertips when he needed it.

In the final analysis, this was one of the reasons she had struck up her relationship with Perez. It was