Kept Boy to Made Man - 20. Freedom Fighters

The Jack of Spades came to a stop on the crest of the hill, frowning as his Italian-made wingtips sunk into the black, oily mud. He knew enough about farming to know he was standing in more than dirt.

The man he referred to as Two or Deuce stepped up beside him and held out a pair of binoculars. Two was also carrying the rifle he had used the night before. The Jack of Spades took the glasses. A smirk split his face as he considered asking the man to lie down on the well fertilized earth to take aim. As tempting as it was, he had no desire for either of them to smell worse than they already would.

The old farmhouse came into view as he adjusted the focus wheel. The Jack watched as a middle-aged man climbed into a large pickup truck. Seconds later the vehicle was moving quickly down the long drive. Noting the single, obvious local occupant, the Jack returned his gaze to the house and surrounding buildings. The farm was quiet apart from the lone and clearly bored man he saw smoking a cigarette next to a small, white barn.

Lowering the field glasses, the considered the dust cloud following the truck East along the backcountry, dirt road. His eyes were drawn several hundred yards into the adjacent corn field by a bright glint of reflected sunlight. He raised the glasses once more and scanned the field.

. . .

“Shit!” the HRT sniper said as he tucked his large rifle to his chest and began to roll away from his perch.

The man’s heart pounded as he came to a stop and froze. He counted to two hundred, before very slowly retrieving his radio with sloth-like movements. He keyed the talk button.

“We have company across the road. Top of the hill directly south of the drive. Two men, one with binoculars, another with a rifle. I have no idea how much they saw, but I think one of them caught a reflection off my scope.” Turning his head, the man was relieved to see the earth blocking his view of the far away hill.

“I see them. They are both scanning your location,” another agent said from his position on the other side of the farm.

“Fu-uck! Wa-atch them, but stay out of si-ight,” Special Agent Thompson said as his body bounced in the bed of Billy Morrison’s truck.

. . .

“I thought I was going to have to shoot that fucking redneck. Leave the kid where he is, and I’ll have a go as soon I calm down.” Jonesy said to the two men with him in the back yard.

“What’s going on, Lips. You and Willis have been bickering like an old married couple all week. Why don’t you two just fuck and make up?” Lips stared at the young, red-headed man with disdain.

“Shut up Red. Why are you both standing around together, anyway? Maybe it’s you guys that are fucking around.” The neighbor’s unannounced visit had startled them all, adding to the already stress-filled atmosphere.

. . .

Adrenaline coursed through Billy’s shaking body as he brought the truck to a stop outside his own home. It was very similar in age and architecture to the old Peterson house.

Special Agent Thompson had the boy they rescued back on the ground by the time the shaken veteran climbed out of the cab.

“Billy, would you allow my men to set up camp here? We could really use a roof, a restroom, and a place to park the vehicles.” Billy nodded but didn’t verbally respond as he led the man and boy towards the front porch.

Jim Thompson hurriedly spoke into the radio in his right hand while guiding Oliver forward with his left. The front door of the American Foursquare opened into a small entryway. The agent took in the layout of the home. Next to a staircase on the right was short hallway that led past the basement stairs into the kitchen. To the left, an open archway opened into a homey looking living room and adjacent dining room. Billy waved his guests into the living room while moving towards the kitchen himself.

The sweaty agent and scraped up boy, both covered in dust and dirt, were suddenly alone in the unfamiliar space. Jim knelt in front of Oliver and looked into his lost eyes. The fire that had burned brightly minutes earlier was gone, but the boy hadn’t yet retreated into his mind as Micah had in a similar living room days before. A gasp, followed by a strangled cry caused them both to turn.

“Mercy, you poor child!” The small, plump, apron-clad woman moved quickly, pulling an afghan from the back of the velveteen sofa as she approached the now-frightened boy.

“Sally...” There was a warning tone in Billy’s voice as he too entered the living room.

“Hush, William. Go run a warm bath, and then call Doc.” The woman’s voice left no room for discussion, and Billy turned at once to obey his wife.

“Wait, Billy.” Jim was all but shoved aside as Sally took possession of Oliver’s stiff body, wrapping the knit blanket around his shoulders before enveloping the boy in a gentle hug. “How do you communicate with your militia friends?”

“I have a HAM radio in my den,” Billy replied as he watched the boy melt into the first truly loving embrace he had experienced in over a year.

“Raise the alert level, or whatever it is you do when there is trouble. We need to buy some time. See if you can generate some traffic in front of the farm. I don’t want a Fourth of July parade, but a truck every few minutes might make the men watching the farm pause.

We could also use some reinforcements. I’d like you to set up a tight perimeter maybe a mile out. No roadblocks, but a militiaman with a radio pretending to take a piss could come in handy. Make sure you’re clear, Billy. Leave the armory at home. I don’t want anyone getting shot.” Jim couldn’t believe he was enlisting the help of the local militia group, but Billy had already proven to be both courageous and dependable.

“Sir, yes sir.” Billy’s response was automatic, but he was far from the almost hyper man Jim had been introduced to earlier.

“Ma’am, this is going to sound heartless, but I need Oliver’s help right now. There are more boys on that farm, and their lives are in danger.”

The fire was rekindled as Oliver quickly pulled away from warm, soft woman.

“I need to save my brothers. You promised we would save them!” he said in a loud, almost accusatory tone.

“We will, son. I did promise, and I will do everything I can to keep that promise.” The cathartic moment with Sally had sadly been broken. “Oliver, can you tell me how many other boys are being held at the farm?”

“Only nine now,” the boy’s voice conveyed a pain that reinforced the insinuation that there had been more boys in Oliver’s family in the past.

“Are they all in the small white barn, son?” Jim was holding the transmit button on the radio which he held between them.

“They should be. Unless somebody gets in trouble or has to go out on a date.” Jim watched the boy fidget as thoughts and memories evoked by his own words bombarded his young mind.

Special Agent Thompson asked several questions about the farm. In less than a minute Oliver had told the man more about the property and buildings than the team had learned in an entire night of careful observation. The boy’s emotions and anxiety grew with each question he answered.

“We need to save them now! They’re going to be mad at me. They will punish my brothers!” Oliver grew desperate as he imagined the pain his brothers would suffer because of him. “I should have stayed! I shouldn’t have run away!”

Jim barely noticed Sally Morrison’s soft cries from the nearby sofa. His own mind searched frantically for a way to remove the remaining boys from the farm without spooking the organization that held so many other children hostage in places they had yet to find.

Sally stared helplessly at the Federal Agent who had brought the broken boy into her home. She found it almost unbearable to listen to Oliver hint at the torture he and the boys he called brothers had been enduring for years so close to her home.

“Tell me about the men, Oliver. Have they been saying or doing anything strange in the past few days?” Charles Miller was arrested five days earlier, and Jim thought it likely the captors were growing nervous.

“Lips has been fighting with Willis. That’s how I snuck out,” Oliver said.

“What have they been fighting about?” Jim knew time was running short; The men would soon discover that Oliver was missing if they hadn’t already, and it was clear by Oliver’s reaction that the boys were in danger.

Oliver told Jim about the recent conversations he had overheard. The boy was still talking when Jim suddenly jumped up and asked Sally to use the Morrison’s phone.

. . .

The man called Lips allowed the spring-loaded screen door to slam loudly behind him after checking on the boys in the barn. There had never been more than a day or two without contact from the city, yet they hadn’t heard anything since sending out three boys almost a week before. The man knew how marketable most of their boys were, especially the youngest boy, who had yet to be sent out on client work. Still, Willis refused to check in.

“Something is wrong,” he mumbled once more to himself as he moved through the kitchen towards the staircase in the front of the house.

The lack of contact weighed on him, and the neighbor’s visit had spooked Lips further. If the man hadn’t honked and then called out before walking around the house, he would have heard things that would have necessitated his death. A missing neighbor could cause even more problems for the crew than a friendly one.

Lips raised his middle finger towards the basement door as he passed. Willis was likely sitting at his precious computer working at what he often referred to as his second job; finding a buyer for the Polaroids he had just taken of the boy Willis thought of as his own.

He made no attempt to regulate his frustration as he stomped up the wooden staircase to the second floor. The hatred Lips felt for his boss was growing rapidly, fueled by the man’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge the obvious truth.

“Something is wrong!” Lips reached for the closed bedroom door but paused with his hand resting on the brass knob.

He wasn’t like Willis or the big boss in Chicago, and he was not looking forward to cleaning up the mess on the other side of the door. The boy had the wrong parts as far as Lips was concerned. He had suggested they expand their service offerings, but the man in the city had no interest in girls of any age.

The money was okay, even if he didn’t enjoy the fringe benefits as much as his boss or peers. Lips felt his hatred for Willis grow as he contemplated the distasteful task before him once more. The boss was far too self-important to clean up after himself.

Sighing, he turned the knob and pushed.

“Shit!” Lips rushed into the empty room. A gust of warm, early summer air blew in through the open window and wrapped itself around the suddenly panicked man.

He stared at the crimson bloodstains and drying fluids on the mattress where the boy should have been. He then looked at the obvious means of the boy’s escape. Lips wondered briefly if he had hitched a ride in the neighbor’s truck or if he had simply headed off on foot. It didn’t really matter to the man who knew he would pay for the kid’s defiance either way.

Willis would blame him, even though Lips was following the man’s orders when the boy slipped away. There was a good chance the man in the city would order his death for such a massive failure, if the man in the city was still in charge.

The boy had left his clothes behind and was obviously bleeding. When found, the boy would be questioned. Lips knew he should sound the alarm, but doing so would only speed up his own condemnation. The man moved towards the open window. It took some effort, but soon it was closed once more. He left the room, shutting the door behind him, and made his way down to the kitchen to think.

. . .

The man watched as another pickup truck drove by, kicking up dust. He didn’t like watching and waiting or standing in a field full of cornstalks and cow shit. He was anxious to leave North-central Illinois in his own cloud of dust, and standing in the sun and mud had not improved his mood. The man sighed. Other than the unexplained flash of reflected light, the Jack hadn’t seen anything remotely interesting or suspicious.

“I’ve decided trying to relocate Charlie’s inventory is more work than it’s worth. I want to get out of this state, and arranging for transportation would take time.” The Jack spotted another vehicle approaching from the opposite direction from the last two. “Given the amount of traffic, it might be best to close down the farm after dark.”

. . .

“Hey Sid, would you mind asking Chris if he can spare a few minutes?” Roger Cicero asked the bailiff again.

“Roger! I see you’ve brought a couple friends this week. Maybe I’ll save myself some future work and set up a recurring Friday afternoon appointment for you and the Judge.” The former beat cop’s quip earned him several smiles. “I was curious what you two talked about last week, but it became clear with the stunt you pulled on Monday morning. I’ve been doing this job awhile, but that was first time I’ve seen someone can their court-appointed attorney in front of a jury.”

The four men broke into laughter. Sid turned just as the door behind the bench opened, allowing Christopher O’Malley to step out of the small office. The man smiled when he saw who was responsible for the noise.

“Roger Cicero! Thomas Miller! What brings you both back into my courtroom so soon?” Chris was shocked but pleased by the sight of the inexplicably happy looking young man standing before him and curious to find out who the tall teenager beside him was.

“Your Honor, I’m sorry to bother you, but Roger suggested we stop in before filing these. I was hoping you might be willing to sign them so I wouldn’t have to wait for another court date.” Thomas shyly looked at his shoes as he spoke.

Chris made his way down onto the courtroom floor.

“Thomas?” He prompted, causing the teenager to meet his eyes. “It is great to see you again. I think I know who this young man is, but I’d love to be introduced.”

“This is my boyfriend, Brendon Mack.” Thomas only hesitated for a moment before officially outing himself and Brendon to the judge.

“It is great to meet you, Brendon. I am glad we get to meet this side of Thomas’ trial.” Chris looked at the papers in Thomas’ hand. “What have you brought, young man?”

He spent over a minute reading the documents prepared by Donald Cassel on Thomas’ behalf. When he was done, he held out an expectant hand toward Roger who handed the judge his pen.

“Normally you would need to publish your intent to change your name in a local paper, but I see you are proactively requesting that requirement be waved. In your case, I find that appropriate.” Judge O’Malley signed the forms before handing them back with a wink. “There you are Mr. Cicero. Drop them off with the clerk to be filed on your way out.”

“Thank you, sir!” Thomas said through his tears. “You have done so much for me already.”

“Nonsense. I’ve only done what the taxpayers pay me to do.” Chris looked at Thomas and then at Roger. “At the risk of overstepping, adopting an adult, or an emancipated minor, is relatively straightforward.”

“That is good to know. Family law has never been my focus.” Roger said, grinning in an unlawyerlike way at the man who had at some point become a friend. “There was one more thing I was hoping you could help us with while we are here.”

The attorney pulled another stack of papers from the leather padfolio he typically carried. Chris O’Malley began to read as the three visitors watched in hope.

“Are you sure you haven’t studied family law?” the man asked several minutes later.

“I am only looking out for the best interests of my clients, your Honor.” Chris snorted.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t send you to the Department of Child and Family Services or at least a family court judge.” Chris was genuinely interested in what Roger Cicero would say, knowing he would likely have a reasonable and convincing answer.

Roger spent several minutes explaining how Juan Ramos had pulled him into the secret and upsetting life of Charles Miller, some of which the judge was already aware. He then described the afternoon they had met first Micah and then the twins, and how the FBI was insisting on protective custody for the boys' safety.

“DCFS is not equipped to handle this case, even if we knew who could be trusted to keep the boy’s safe during the investigation and beyond,” Roger concluded.

Chris O’Malley was quiet as he thought about the twins’ situation. Finally, with a twinkle in his eye and a small smirk, he asked a question.

“Why do you think living with Ms. Motts is in the boy’s best interest, Mr. Cicero?” The man held up a hand to forestall Roger’s response. “I was asking the other Mr. Cicero.”

“Oh, ah…” Thomas was surprised to be asked his opinion but pleased to be addressed by his new name. “First of all, Mel’s amazing. I’d live with her if I didn't already have Roger.

"Sammy and Simon have been through hell, your honor. They were there when the only person who ever cared about them was murdered. Brendon washed the man’s blood off the boys himself.

“They need to feel safe and loved. I know what it’s like to be in the system and those are not the words I would use to describe my experience. Obviously, foster care isn’t jail, but with Melissa, the boys have a real home. It took a few days, but the boys are acting like kids again, mostly. Plus, her boss is paying her to stay home, so she has lots of time to spend with them.” Thomas grinned at Roger before looking uncertainly at the judge once more.

“So, if you were the judge, you would sign this?” Chris asked pointedly.

“Totally!” Chris smiled at the teenager, happy to hear him sounding his age.

“This is temporary, and far from iron clad, but I’m certain you know that.” The judge warned as he signed Roger’s petitions as well.

“It’s one small but important piece of my plan. Thank you, Chris,” Roger said sincerely.

The five men spent several minutes chatting before shaking hands. Roger and the teenage couple headed towards the courtroom door. A feeling of déjà vu washed over Thomas as he stepped out of courtroom seven feeling like a free man yet again.

“Have a good weekend, boys! I’ll see you again next Friday afternoon!” Sid’s hearty laugh chased the trio from the courthouse and out into the early afternoon sun.

. . .

“Easy Soldier,” said Major Anthony Fatone, Retired.

Billy Morrison’s eyes were watching a decades old battle play out before him. Ricky was dead. So were Boots and Joey. The M14 rifle slammed against his shoulder over and over as the unending wave of Viet Cong soldiers drew closer to the foxhole he and his dead friends were lying in.

Explosions, small and large. Screams. Blood and gore. Another impact as he pulled the trigger. A small enemy body flying back in a cloud of red.

“Billy!” He heard his name, but he couldn’t pull rip his eyes away from his impending death.

He could hear chopper rotors, quiet at first. The telltale thumping grew louder. The world in front of him exploded as four UH-1B gunships appeared over the tree line. Dirt and blood flew through the air in slow motion and the sounds of hell were replaced by a ringing in his ears.

“Billy!” His head was knocked sideways by a hard impact to his face.

The soldier raised his hand reflexively. Billy’s eyes returned to the present expecting to see fingers covered in blood.

“Come back, Soldier.” The insistent voice didn’t belong to the memory. “You are safe, son. Come back now.”

“Major?” The middle-aged farmer asked in confusion.

“Yes, Billy. I’m here.” Billy’s eyes focused on the old man as the stinging in his cheek began to fade.

“I was back there again, Tony. Fuck. It felt so real.” Billy looked around the kitchen his wife insisted was hers.

Billy was shaking once more as tears streamed down his face. The question bouncing around his mind had plagued the man for over twenty years. He had never given it voice, but something in the man's old eyes made Billy wonder if his friend knew the answer.

“Why me, Major? Why did I make it home?” The strong man began to sob as the weight of his secret guilt tried to crush his soul once more. “Why?”

“Only God knows the answer to that question, soldier. But I think it might have something to do with the boy in your living room.” The older man thought back to his own war. “I don’t like to talk about it, but I will never forget my years in the Sixth Armored Division. We fought our way from Normandy, across France, and into Germany. I thought I had lived through hell, but then we came across Buchenwald.

“There are things I’ve seen and things I’ve done that will always haunt me, son. I stood in the middle of that concentration camp where the Nazis murdered over fifty-six-thousand men, surrounded by emaciated survivors.” Tony grew silent as he too remembered. “Many of my brothers didn’t make it, but standing there, in that moment, I knew what I was fighting for, what they died for. We’re soldiers, Billy. We risk our lives for the liberty and freedom of others; in Germany, Vietnam, and even Lee County Illinois.”

Two pairs of eyes that had seen unimaginable horror and destruction met. They were from different generations, but their internal pain was much the same. They turned in unison at the sound of approaching bare feet and watched another, much younger pair of haunted eyes enter the small kitchen. Neither man noticed the too-big clothing hanging from Oliver’s thin, adolescent frame. What they saw was a fellow soldier who had survived one war, only to discover another hidden war he must fight alone on the battlefield of his mind.

Tony stood, and reverently saluted the boy before him. Seconds later, Billy did as well. Oliver stared at the men, seeing the tears in their eyes. He lacked their military training and was confused by the formal show of solidarity and respect he had only seen on television.

“Ms. Sally said I could have something to eat.” The boy said nervously.

Tony smiled. Billy laughed. Oliver’s stomach growled loudly.

The retired man’s words echoed through the middle-aged farmer’s mind as he considered the abused boy who had lived through a different kind of hell. Freedom and liberty. He could live on and continue fighting for those ideals.

. . .

Craig Andersen and Ankit Singh turned as they heard the lab’s electronic lock disengage. Several men entered, but it was the man in navy blue scrubs and handcuffs that captured the attention of the computer techs.

“Gentlemen, Mr. Miller is going to need to borrow his computer,” Special Agent Crenshaw said as he shoved the large, restrained man forward.

“Um, okay.” Craig had never felt comfortable around people he thought of as real law enforcement officers.

“Why would we let that man touch this computer?” Ankit had no problem standing his ground.

“Because Mr. Miller is going to organize a party for us.” The mirthless smile on Martin Crenshaw’s face made Craig shudder. “We are in a bit of a hurry, gentlemen. SAC’s orders.”

Craig and Ankit vacated their chairs, making room for Charles Miller to sit in front of his computer once more. While awkward due to the restraints, the man’s fingers settled on the keys of the familiar home row.

“Remember Charlie, no games. If even one of those boys is harmed, you can kiss your medium security paradise goodbye and count on additional charges. It’s time to do something nice for the boys whose lives you’ve destroyed.” Agent Crenshaw stood behind the man and watched carefully as Charlie’s fingers began to move.

. . .

“Lips! Get down here!” The command was heard clearly even though it came from the basement below.

The man looked at the almost full bottle of beer on the table in front of him. There was an empty one next to it. Lips hated the sound of Willis’ voice, and the man’s condescending tone. He pushed his chair back, not caring that he was adding deep gouges to the wooden floor.

“Lips! Move your ass!” Willis yelled.

Without replying, Lips moved towards the basement door. Twenty seconds later he was following his boss’ finger to small green words in a black box on the screen.

“I told you. You’re such a pussy! We’ve got work to do and not much time to do it. The order is for every boy we’ve got and more if we can find ‘em. Twelve hours, our premium rate, paid up front on delivery. This is going to be a huge payday!” Willis’ cut was ten percent, and another ten percent was split equally by the other stablehands.

Like Willis, Lips was doing the math. $250 an hour for twelve hours times ten boys. Willis would get $3000, but Lips would take all the risk and do most of the work for $750. It had been a stressful week of waiting and worrying. Lips realized he was no longer satisfied with a quarter of ten percent.

“Write down the details while I get your boy back to the barn. There's a lot of work to do if I’m going to have all ten boys to the Gold Coast by seven o’clock.” Nine boys, but Lips had decided Willis would never know that his boy had escaped.

The man moved with renewed purpose back up the basement stairs and into the kitchen. He lifted the abandoned beer to his lips and let the liquid pour down his throat until the burn of the carbonation became unbearable. Setting the bottle down, Lips moved to the counter. He pulled the nine-inch French chef's knife from the wooden block and ran it through the handheld sharper several times.

He finished the beer as he waited a reasonable amount of time. His excitement and anxiety grew. Lips looked at the knife in his hand. He had never taken a life with a blade, but the idea of killing Willis in such a close, almost intimate way appealed to him. He would be the boss of a new crew. Twenty-seven grand would be enough to get started.

Lips held the large knife tightly against his leg as he moved back down the basement steps. Willis was ignorantly typing away.

“You write down the instructions?” Lips asked excitedly.

“Yeah.” Willis nodded to a printed page laying on the edge of the desk next to the pornographic Polaroids he was likely still trying to sell.

Lips took a deep breath and angled his body to better hide the knife.

“Hey man. I want to say that I’m sorry.” The contrite words pulled the man’s eyes off the screen and Lips’ offered right hand drew the man’s body out of the chair.

“Forget it. You were worried even if it wasn’t your job to be. I’m the boss, man.” Willis grabbed Lips’ hand, surprised by the man’s apology.

Lips pulled the man he hated towards his own body plunging the kitchen knife into the soft flesh just below the man’s rib cage. Willis’ eyebrows rose with the blade as it sliced through skin, muscle, heart and lung.

“Like I said, I'm sorry, but you're not the boss anymore, you miserable fuck,” Lips hissed as he strained to drive the knife further into Willis’ chest cavity than its length would allow.

Willis tried to respond, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was blood.

Lips lowered the dying man’s weight to the concrete floor before retrieving the printed instructions that would lead him into his new future. Turning his attention to the keyboard and screen, he entered and confirmed the delete command, permanently erasing the message they had received. The man who sent it would still know the details, but Lips and his boys would be long gone by the time he realized he had been double crossed.

. . .

Freshly showered, shaved, and dressed in an expensive sharkskin suit, Lips stepped off the back porch and into the afternoon sun. He quickly gathered the other three stablehands.

“We just got a big order. Nine boys in the city by seven. Willis, the fucker, said he’d watch his houseboy while we do all the work to get the rest ready and loaded.” The men looked more relieved than annoyed.

“About time we had something to do. Nine boys will be a nice paycheck. No wonder Willis is in the mood to celebrate. I wouldn’t mind watching the boy for a bit myself,” Red said as they walked towards the small white barn.

“You missed your chance, man. Can’t say I didn’t offer.” Lips was proud of his lie and almost laughed at how easy it had been to sell.

. . .

“We’ve got some more action!” The last twenty minutes had been extremely tense, since no one could see what the four men were doing in the closed barn. “The redhead just entered the big barn.”

“What are our Peeping Toms up to?” Jim asked.

“They are still hanging tight in the same stand of trees they moved to earlier,” another voice called out.

“Barn doors are opening. Hold on.” Thirty seconds later, the same man was back on the radio. “The redhead is driving a large, delivery-type truck out of the barn. It looks like they bought our lie.”

Nine subdued boys dressed in athletic shorts and t-shirts were efficiently corralled into the back of the truck. Several large duffle bags followed before the redheaded man climbed in as well. The man in the suit took off his jacket before climbing behind the wheel. Two minutes later, the large vehicle pulled away from the two remaining men and carried Oliver’s brothers across the property line of the old Peterson farm.

. . .

The Jack of Spades watched as the large truck turned out of the drive heading East. After over two hours of nothing, the farm had quickly and inexplicably come alive.

“I don’t think we can wait for dark, Two. We need to know why the colts have left the stable.” The man was already moving back towards the car hidden behind a dilapidated and abandoned trailer home a quarter mile away.

. . .

“What do you want to do, boss?” Jim sat at the Morrison’s kitchen table with Oliver, Billy, and Tony.

“Nothing,” Jim replied into his handheld radio.

The black limo had spent the last twenty-three minutes in almost the same spot Billy had parked his truck earlier in the day. After a few tense moments, the two remaining sentries had followed the Card and his driver into the house. Minutes ago, several observers reported hearing several gun shots.

“The boss was clear. Intercepting the men in the limo is a last resort, and only to protect innocent lives. The boys are no longer on the farm, so we stand down. Shoot as much film as you want, but no bullets.” Jim sighed as he looked at the three stoic faces around the table.

“Leading isn’t easy Special Agent Thompson,” declared Major Anthony Fatone, Retired. “You often get to see a bigger picture than the men who follow you and they will always second-guess the choices that you make.”

“It’s Jim, please. If we take that man, a lot of other boys will likely die.” Too late, Jim remembered Oliver was present and listening.

“Some of my brothers did die. I think I was going to die soon too. Willis says I’m almost all used up.” Oliver didn’t cry or get angry which worried the three older men greatly. “Are Mark and the others still okay?”

The man thought about the Agent who had taken both his vehicle and his cellular phone. He hadn't received a call, so he assumed the man was following the truck as planned. Jim was about to answer when his radio interrupted him.

“The Card and his driver are leaving,” the HRT agent said.

“Stay out of sight and let them go.” It was difficult for the agent to let the heinous and dangerous man go free, but Jim believed doing so now would save innocent lives in the end. “We’ll take the bastards down when we are ready to move on the entire Deck of Cards.”

“We’ve got smoke, boss. Looks like he intends to burn the farmhouse down.” Jim closed his eyes.

“Billy, call the fire department and tell them you see smoke at the old Peterson place, please." Billy stood without a word as Jim raised his radio. “Everyone come in once the limo is out of sight. The fire department has been notified.”

“What about Mark and my brothers?” Oliver asked again.

“How would you like to ride in a helicopter, son? If we hurry, you and I can be in Chicago by the time they arrive.” The look on the boy’s face was almost childlike as he thought about the exciting new experience, but his wonder and excitement faded quickly as worry for his brothers returned.

. . .

It was an opportunistic move by a man nicknamed Lips that had emptied the Ace's stable. The audacious theft rankled. The Jack would eventually look for the man who had stolen The Deck’s assets, but the last piece of Charlie Miller’s operation had been destroyed. Three adult bodies burned up in a house fire was less likely to get federal attention than the bodies of almost a dozen boys.

“Take us to the airport, Two. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight.” The Jack of Spades leaned back and closed his eyes.

He was pleased with what he had accomplished. The Jack would still advise caution, but the threads connecting the Ace of Spades to the rest of the Deck had been cut.

. . .

“The application and the interview are done. The background check will take some time, and then there is a home visit and classes. According to the woman I talked to, it could still take several months to get licensed.” Melissa sounded upset on the other end of the phone line.

“Don’t worry. Judge O’Malley approved an emergency placement for the twins. As of early this afternoon, you are their temporary guardian even without a foster care license.” Roger paused to let Melissa process that she officially had custody of her boys.

“That’s- you’re incredible Roger. Thank you!” Roger heard several staccato sobs before Melissa fought through her emotions to ask a question. “Can the state take them away?”

“The state can try, but they will need a court order of their own. You’ve got a lot of powerful friends who believe you are what’s best for those boys. That includes me, Melissa,” Roger said. “I will hit hard and fast if they try.”

“I love you, Roger.” Melissa Motts became the second person that day to say those words to the man who had been unloved for so long.

“According to Juan, the twins’ mother is dead, and no father is listed on the boys’ birth certificates. The search for other family has turned up nothing thus far. You need to be thinking about what you want. You may be able to file for adoption before your foster care license is approved,” Roger said through a smile.

“It’s a good thing I’m sitting down!” The conversation was interrupted by a knock on the office’s outer door.

“Melissa, I’ve got to go. Have a great evening, okay?” Twenty seconds later, Roger was standing face-to-face with a man he didn’t know.

“Roger Cicero?” The man asked.

“Yes,” Roger replied.

“My name is Walter Penhurst the Second, and I am here representing Edward Vitale.” The attorney watched as Roger Cicero melted into a scared teenage boy at the unexpected mention of the man who had plucked him from the streets of New York City long ago. “Perhaps we could discuss my client’s wishes sitting down?”