by M. L. WILSON
“And now, we’re all on the endangered species list,” Bishop says.
“I’m very sorry, Detective. We sincerely did not mean to involve your people in our war.”
Bishop just shakes his head. For only the second time in his life, he feels completely helpless.
“Is...this your true appearance?” Saunders asks.
“No. Our true appearance is cloaked,” Christine answers. “While we have much of the same frailties as you, we...do not look like you.”
“Well then, let’s see who you really are, Detective Justice,” Bishop says angrily.
CHAPTER 68
THIS IS EASILY the longest ride he has ever taken. Probably because he’s all alone with his thoughts. Danvers is so distracted, he doesn’t even notice his favorite song playing on the radio, Billy Joel, “Just the Way You Are.” He and his wife, Martha, danced to it on their wedding day. Every time he hears it, he thinks about how his life should have turned out. Instead, he climbed into a bottle and never came out.
All he can think about now is the likelihood of him dying tonight. He knows if he intervenes and tries to save Bishop and Saunders, the agents will either kill him or expose his secret. Actually, death is preferable to exposing his secret.
He still has a few hours before he reaches his destination. Danvers looks at the GPS tracking monitor and notices Justice has stopped.
“Damn rookie. Why didn’t you throw away your phone?” Danvers says as he angrily slams his hand on the steering wheel.
“Last day on Earth,” Danvers says to himself.
He doesn’t want to leave any unfinished business. There are some things he needs to say, some things he needs to make right before he goes. He has time to say his good-byes. He picks up his cell phone and calls Martha. She’s remarried, but they have remained friends.
The phone rings twice before there is an answer.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Martha? It’s me, Bill.”
“Bill. What...why are you calling this late? What’s wrong?” After all these years, Martha can still tell if Bill is upset about something. She knows that troubled tone in his voice.
“Nothing. I...I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Martha knows better. Something is wrong.
“Bill. What’s wrong? Please talk to me.”
“I should have been there for you and the kids. I should have given you the life that you deserve.”
“Oh my god, Bill. What’s the matter? Please, tell me!” Martha says in a panic.
“I love you Martha. Tell the kids I love them.”
“Bill—”
Danvers hangs up before she can say another word. Tears of anger and regret stream down his cheeks. He won’t get a second chance with her. The best he can do is make things right with Bishop. As he drives on, he is unaware that his every move is being monitored.
A tracking device is attached underneath his car. In a dimly lit room at a makeshift Promelian headquarters, the Promelian leader watches his own GPS monitor and bides his time. The Promelians are watching his every move. Danvers is leading the Promelians right to them.
CHAPTER 69
ALBERT CLAYBORN SPENT most of his adult life in politics. His parents wanted him to grow up and be a doctor.
Do something to help your fellow man, his father would always urge him. Clayborn was always more patriotic than humanitarian. He takes out a picture from his wallet of him with his parents when he was only twelve years old. It brings a smile to his wrinkled face. With two liberal parents, Clayborn wonders how he turned out to be so conservative.
Maybe I’m adopted, he jokes to himself.
He picks up a picture of his wife and kids from the nightstand; the family he lost long ago because of his passion for politics. Memories of happier times come rushing back to him. The thoughts bring him to tears. Thoughts of a time in his life that he will never be able to get back. He’s prayed on it a million times, no luck.
But never let it be said that Albert Clayborn was not a proud American. He is a true patriot in every sense of the word. He used to tell his staff that he bled red, white, and blue. When he ascended to the position of secretary of defense, he was confident his next step was the White House. He didn’t notice his family was slipping away from him. His wife and children were reluctantly present at his swearing in, but they left him shortly after that.
After that, the only thing that mattered to him was his work. Eighteen-hour days in the office were the norm for him. He didn’t like going home. The emptiness and quietness was too much to handle. Instead, he filled his every waking hour fulfilling his patriotic duty: keeping America safe.
However, no one will ever know that it’s because of him, America is the only remaining superpower. History will not celebrate his achievements. There will be no dedications to him. He will be mentioned only in passing in the history books. Nothing more than a footnote.
Perhaps it’s just as well. He’s given everything for his country, but now it looks like he may have ensured its destruction as well as the rest of the world. Making the deal with the Promelians has proved to be his biggest regret.
The deal had initial benefits that allowed America to win the Cold War and make significant advances in medicine and technology, but the cost turned out to be too high. They gave the Promelians free reign to hunt and kill Cereleans.
What’s worse, he helped them commit this atrocity. He can’t undo it. Can’t get his family back, can’t get his life back.
With tears streaming down his face, Clayborn reaches under the mattress of his bed and pulls out a 9mm pistol he kept hidden from his Secret Service agents. Had they known it was there, they certainly would have confiscated it. He doesn’t even know if any of his assigned agents are human.
He can’t deal with knowing what he has allowed to happen. He can’t face the certain destruction he has brought upon the Earth. In his mind, there’s only one way out now. Clayborn removes the magazine to make sure there is ammunition. He loads the magazine back into the magazine well and chambers a round.
Then, Clayborn does something he wished he had done more of; he prays.
“Dear God, please forgive me,” he says quietly.
With his hand shaking, he puts the gun to his head and closes his eyes. There is a single loud bang that is heard throughout the house. All the agents come running to Mr. Clayborns room with weapons drawn.
Albert Thomas Clayborn, Secretary of Defense
Born April 24, 1935
Died February 3, 2017
CHAPTER 70
CHRISTINE IS UNSURE if Bishop and Saunders are truly ready to see an alien life form. They would be the very first humans to ever see them in their true form. She is not surprised at the request, though. For thousands of years, both species have made every effort to keep their presence a secret, but the death of Kevin Phipps has changed things. It’s no longer possible to keep the secret they successfully kept from their human hosts for all these years.
In order to save themselves and Earth, they can no longer afford to keep anything from Bishop and Saunders. They are their allies now. In fact, they are Earth’s and the Cereleans’ only hope of survival.
Christine looks over to one of her aides and nods her approval. The aide takes a small, circular device from his pocket and presses his thumb to the surface of it. The device reads his thumbprint and acts as a remote control to the Cerelean cloaking device.
The air around him begins to shimmer as his appearance slowly begins to change. After a few moments, the aide is no longer in human form. Bishop and Saunders are filled with every emotion possible. Before them stands an actual being from another planet.
With their mouths wide open in disbelief, Bishop and Saunders look at the Cerelean from head to toe.
The alien’s appearance is not entirely different from humans. Nothing like the scaly, little green men that Saunders envisioned. They have two arms and legs and stand erect like humans. Their facial features are s
lightly different; ears and mouth are similar to humans, but there are three small holes in a triangular pattern where the nose would be. Their skin is pinkish-gray in color.
The Cereleans’ large, pearl-colored eyes make eye contact with Bishop and Saunders.
“Oh...my...god,” Saunders says.
“I’m sorry if our appearance frightens you, but we are a peaceful race,” Christine says, hoping to ease their obvious anxiety. “We mean you no harm. I know that sounds a little cliché, but we desperately need your help.”
“Why...why us?” Bishop asks. “Why me?”
“It wasn’t intentional, Detective. You and the doctor stumbled upon the biggest secret in human history. You have information that could expose the Promelians and their agenda.”
“But won’t we be exposing you as well?” Saunders asks.
“Yes,” Justice answers. “But we have no choice. The Promelians must be exposed.”
“You make that sound easy,” Bishop says. “How are we suppose to do that?”
“By showing the world who they really are.”
CHAPTER 71
STILL DRESSED IN his six-thousand-dollar Armani suit, Mr. Jacobs paces the living room floor of his eight-thousand-square-foot, three-story oceanfront estate in East Hampton. While the Promelians are soldiers, Mr. Jacobs feels that if he’s going to live as a human, he might as well live like a wealthy one. His estate is guarded by Secret Service agents who have no idea who he really is. This was part of the deal he struck with Mr. Clayborn—to live like a king.
While a trained killer himself, Mr. Jacobs is more politician than executioner; a better liar than a killer. Because of this, he and the Promelian commander do not have much of a rapport. The commander has little need for politicians. But the Promelian government felt it was necessary to have emissaries on this mission. Turns out, they were correct.
He’s waiting impatiently for word on the capture or execution of Bishop and Saunders. Until they are dead, none of the Promelians can rest easy. He feels it’s unfortunate that he has to rely on human intervention to help solve this problem. Humans, however ruthless they can be, are not the killing machines that the Promelians are.
Finally, the phone rings. He’s anticipating this to be the call saying Bishop and Saunders were dead, all evidence of the Promelian agenda has been destroyed, and that agenda can proceed as planned. After a single ring, Mr. Jacobs answers.
“Yes.”
“Sir, this is Agent Braxton. I regret to inform you, sir, that...Secretary of Defense Clayborn has committed suicide.”
Much to Agent Braxton’s surprise, Mr. Jacobs does not immediately reply. His silence is, in fact, more unnerving to the agent than any chastising could ever be.
Mr. Jacobs heard every word, but he is slightly shaken at the news. He worked with Clayborn for years. While he is not saddened by the death of a human, he can’t help but feel a little moved at hearing the news.
“How?” Mr. Jacobs asks.
“He had a gun, sir.”
“Would you mind explaining to me how he got hold of a gun?”
“We...we don’t know, sir,” Agent Braxton nervously answers.
With similar frailties as humans, Mr. Jacobs is uneasy with the news, knowing that his time will eventually come to an end as well. Mr. Jacobs hangs up the phone without saying another word. An odd relationship he had with Clayborn. Not quite enemies, not quite allies. An odd relationship, indeed, but a relationship nonetheless. One that he will actually miss.
Together, they shaped the world.
He served his purpose, Mr. Jacobs says to himself. Can’t let himself care for any humans. After all, they will soon be extinct. He resumes pacing the floor, waiting for the most important news of his life.
CHAPTER 72
JUSTICE TAKES BISHOP and Saunders to one of the rooms in the cabin so they can get some rest. Their hosts appear to be as kind and gentle as they claim to be. They served them a much-needed hot meal and are providing them safe haven until they can figure things out. After seeing an actual alien, Bishop has no reason to doubt their sincerity. They could have killed them by now, but they haven’t.
They both have mixed feelings about Detective Justice, though. Obviously, he couldn’t tell them the truth, but he was also living a lie. He and Bishop are partners. Albeit only a short time, but nevertheless, partners don’t keep secrets from each other. It’s an unwritten rule among cops. Bishop has to question Justice’s loyalty. What would he have done if he had to arrest or even shoot one of his own kind? Would he shoot one of his own to protect his partner?
“There’s some clothes in the closets that should fit you,” Justice says to Bishop and Saunders. “I’ll get another cell phone for you from Christine.”
“So, you knew all along,” Saunders says to Justice. “You knew our lives were in danger, and you didn’t say anything.”
“What the hell was I suppose to say? Hello, I’m Alan Justice, and I’m an alien from another planet.”
“You could have said something. Anything to let us know we were in danger,” Bishop says angrily.
“I couldn’t. Not without exposing everything.”
“We were nearly killed, Detective,” Saunders says.
“Excuse me, Doctor, but my life was in danger the minute I was born. We didn’t invite the Promelians here. We didn’t start this war.”
“No, but you did bring your war here. You brought this danger to us,” Saunders says.
Justice can’t respond to that. His ancestors did bring this war on the humans. He feels guilty, but yet he knows there was no other way to ensure the survival of his race.
“Look, my ancestors were just trying to stay alive. They were trying to escape a genocide. If we could take it all back, we would. But we can’t. We have a common enemy now, and we have to find a way to stop them.”
“Okay, partner. So how do we go about doing that?” Bishop asks.
“By exposing them,” Saunders answers, without giving Justice a chance to respond.
“We go back to my apartment and get the evidence and go public with it.”
“There’s no way they left anything behind in your apartment, Doctor,” Bishop says. “I guarantee, everything in there was destroyed.”
“He’s right,” Justice says. “No way they would have left any evidence behind.”
“What about the body?”
“They destroyed Phipps body as soon as they got it back to wherever it is they took it,” Bishop says with frustration.
“So, what then?”
Before anyone can offer Saunders a solution, Christine knocks on the door and enters.
“It’s just come to our attention that you have already been in contact with one of the Promelians, Detective Bishop.”
Immediately, Bishop thinks it’s Captain Danvers.
“Who?”
“An FBI agent. Don’t have a name, but—”
“I do.”
CHAPTER 73
THE WELL-DECORATED room at the Metropolitan Club is filled with cigar smoke. Decorated with the most expensive French Heritage furniture, membership at this restricted club does not come easy. The only application for membership is your status of wealth and power.
Five men wait patiently for a phone call. Five men that most people have never heard of but are five of the most powerful men in America. Each is smoking the most expensive cigars and drinking the finest imported scotch while they read the Wall Street Journal and wait for news of their most important investment of their lives.
Nathan McCoy has been a waiter at the club for nearly twenty-five years. With a white towel draped across his arm, he offers to refresh their drinks, offers a fresh cigar, whatever they need. His whole job is to serve the needs of the club members. The job pays very well. Far more than any other waiter in the country. But the working environment is considerably less than desirable. At age sixty-three, he’s learned to be patient with those he serves. Mostly out of fear. These are arguably the m
ost powerful men in America. Men who can ruin his life with a phone call.
The house phone rings and McCoy takes it out of his coat pocket. Only a handful of people in the world know this very private number. It’s a line that is specifically for these five men. McCoy is the only one that is entrusted to answer it.
“Yes.”
“Starfire,” the voice says. Nothing else. McCoy doesn’t know what the code means, but he knows who to give the call to.
“Sir, you have a phone call.” McCoy hands the gentleman the phone.
“Yes,” the gentleman answers in a harsh voice. This is not the call he was waiting for. He’s annoyed by the interruption.
“Sir, Sec Def is dead.”
With no sympathy for the death of Secretary Clayborn, the gentleman moves forward to another issue as if Clayborns death were meaningless. He didn’t even bother to ask how he died. Clayborn served his purpose. His death will have no impact on their plans.
“Are we still on schedule?”
“Yes, sir, everything is in place.”
“Excellent. Now, we just have to wait to hear from our friends concerning this issue with this police detective.”
Without a good-bye or a thank you, he hands the phone back to McCoy. He doesn’t even bother to say thank you to the waiter, either. A waiter is too far down on the food chain for him. He puts his paper down for a moment to announce the news to the rest of the group.
“Secretary Clayborn is dead.”
The response of the other members is similar to his—surprise but not much concern at all.
“Poor Albert,” says another gentleman. “How did he die?”
“I didn’t ask. It does not affect our plans.”
They go back to reading their papers when their aide comes in with another phone, a secure line that is untraceable. The gentlemen immediately stop reading and anxiously await the news they have been waiting for.