The Intern - Chapter 2

The East Coast was inundated by heavy rains but that didn't stop people from gathering at one of the local pillars of the community and the C.E.O. of Global Dynamics Interprises' home for a party. The party was being held at his mountain home, really his base of operations, in the Roanoke Valley area of Virginia. Manfred Powell came from five generations of money and influence and maintained his grip on the Washington scene by keeping a watchful eye on all things that were of concern to his businesses, and his extracurricular enterprises. In his free time, Manfred enjoyed hosting parties for political allies and gathering what he called, "like-minded" individuals with deep pockets to support his allies on both Capitol Hill and at the White House.

The party was filled with executives from the major tech companies, presidents of the four major banking institutions, governors, senators, and members of congress as well as his personal friends and business colleagues. There were dozens of models, Hollywood A-listers, producers, and money moguls. All in all, the party was the place where there was more money flowing in the room than there was at the Federal Reserve. That was the purpose of his parties, that and to indulge in the favorite past-times of the rich-delving into the vices that they all have.

As the bubbly flowed, the music wailed, the people ate, danced, laughed, and reveled in the glitz and glamour of the night-Manfred sat at his desk working on his latest project. He had on his tuxedo, his brightest tie, and a black shirt, leaving him looking distinguished but playful. His assistant and personal security guard, Marco, stood faithfully by his side. Marco fit the role to perfection, large, dark-skinned, muscled, and educated. He spoke three languages, had passports from four countries, and was an expert marksman. Manfred felt safe with Marco by his side, not because of his skills, his education or his being well-traveled, but because he was a genuinely menacing individual.

A knock at his office door alerted Manfred and his assistant went to the door. Marco stood in the doorway, looking over his shoulder, as he advised his employer that it was his manservant, Arthur. Arthur had news that Manfred urgently needed to be advised on and Marco waited for approval to allow him inside.

"What is it, Arthur?"

"Sir, the council has convened in the chamber," he told Manfred.

Manfred leaned back into his chair, not sure why they were suddenly convening without notifying him first. Manfred was a senior member of the chamber and had been for nearly ten years. To even be asked to join the chamber was a great honor. But, it came with a cost that most people couldn't live with even if they tried.

"Arthur, please see to it they're are provided with drinks, food, and anything else they need to be comfortable," requested Manfred.

"Yes, sir," Arthur said, dropping his head as he turned and left the boss's office.

When the door closed, Manfred sat behind his desk, his face showing the concern he felt within. As the second oldest member of the group, Manfred knew the rules of the group as well as anyone. They were coming to the chambers built below his residence instead of calling for a meeting. It meant that something was unusually wrong. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Manfred offered his man, Marco, a drink for the very first time. After pouring two drinks and sliding one to his left, he nodded at his security man. He waited until Marco took the glass, swirling the whiskey around before putting it to his lips.

"Is everything alright, sir?" the heavily muscled Bahamian asked.

"Marco, after I go downstairs, if we don't talk again, there is a briefcase in the closet with five-hundred-thousand dollars inside. Consider it severance pay," said Manfred as he stood up and straightened his jacket.

"Sir, should I come with you?"

"No," answered Manfred. "This I'll have to deal with on my own."

Manfred left his office, feeling like he was walking the green mile. Business had been good lately, including his extracurricular business ventures. He couldn't see why the rest of them were in chambers awaiting his arrival. His heart was beating through his chest as he walked through the main hall of his home, intermingling with his guests. He barely heard them talking as he passed by, their voices in his ears only echos. In the chaos of the party, Manfred had to work his way through the room to get to the rear stairs leading down to the chamber.

Going down a set of stairs, finding his way to a locked vault door, Manfred put his hand on a palm scanner. The door locks automatically released and the door opened, revealing a stairway leading down through the bedrock below the structure. The stairs were lit by torches. Manfred worked his way down the winding steps, into a stone chamber, before stopping momentarily at the bottom as he laid eyes on the group's remaining members.

Walking toward the table in the center of the chamber, Manfred took a spot in his usual seat. He looked around the table, seeing the five other members. They all had seats at the point of a star that was engraved on the tabletop. Manfred reached forward, taking a bottle and enjoying a sip as he waited for the head of the table to begin the meeting.

"Brother, we appreciate the hospitality on short notice. The meeting was unfortunately unavoidable as we were all in the same time zone today," explained the chairman of the group.

Manfred looked at the chair of the group, curious about the sudden rush to hold a face-to-face meeting.

"Brothers and sister, we have a very real problem," explained Muammar from his chair.

Manfred looked around the room as they all sat at attention. When Muammar spoke the rest of the group tended to listen. Now, he was acknowledging a problem for the group and their interests. They all waited on pins and needles for him to acknowledge what that was going to entail.

"When we were all together last time, we voted to take measures to silence a former Federal Agent and the student witness that worked with him on several cases, one of those, the case that led to the closure of our midwest facilities. Unfortunately, Agent Morris survived, and the girl is on the run," explained Muammar.

The fifth member of the group, Jack Morrison, served as the Deputy Director of Intelligence. He knew more than anybody in the room that Morris being alive and his intern being out there somewhere, still at large, meant the group was threatened. Her statements, made before being taken into witness security, were the reason that the Department Of Justice knew of their existence, both their legitimate and less legitimate existence. Billions of dollars were at stake as well as hundreds of assets in the country and around the globe. As the Deputy Director of Intelligence, half of his agents were working underneath the groups' umbrella, as was the same for thirty percent of the agents within the F.B.I.

"So, what do we do?" asked Manfred.

"Well, Manny," sighed Alester, "Perhaps we need to find her and finish what we started before she can ever testify before a grand jury."

"We've missed once," Manfred answered. "How many public spectacles do we allow to play out, hit the nightly news, or get spread all over social media before we realize there is a need for handling things more tactically?"

A hush fell through the room and everybody sat watching Manfred, listening for what he had to say next. Manfred sat there, realizing he had just opened up pandora's box. He needed to offer them a tactical plan to find the girl, even though he didn't have one in mind. He looked around the room, reading the anxious faces that were now scared of the truth about their fortunes becoming public knowledge. They were among the richest of the rich, and collectively held more power than the White House. None of them were comfortable when their livelihoods were being threatened.

"She can't hide forever," said Manfred. "And, if she's on the run it means her witness security funds aren't making it into her accounts. That means she'll have to take on a job, somewhere. Flag her social security number, flag treasury, and issue a federal want on her face shot. Someone will come up with something. When she gets picked up, and she will be, we will insert Alester as the extradition agent."

"It's a good plan," said Alester. "In the meantime, I'm sending out the best five hunters we have at our disposal. We'll find her, one way or another."

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Courtney woke up to a message. She signed on and attached her sat-link. She was surprised to see a message so soon. It was reassuring to hear from someone who knew her, as none of the people in Lancaster knew who she really was, or why she was there.

Hey kid, I've had some money put into the secondary account we set up. Use the black card. They say I'll be out of here in a few days. Until then, stay safe.

Love,

M

The message warmed her heart. If they were letting him out of the hospital he had healed up faster than expected. Courtney would always worry about her mentor. He was like a father to her. Since going underground, he had become her only tie to the outside world. Without him, she could not imagine surviving many more years in hiding.

There was a knock at the door, distracting her as she held her hand on the screen, a lonely tear streaking down her cheek. She yelled out to hold on as she disconnected the sat-link and shoved it into a drawer. Wiping her eyes, Courtney went to answer the door, holding a Glock behind her back. She opened the door and it was Ms. Helen, wearing a dress instead of her normal flannel top and jeans.

"You're up, good."

Ms. Helen stepped in as Courtney tucked the Glock in her jeans. She looked around the room. It had been two days since Courtney checked into the Mclaren and she looked like she was ready to leave, except for the computer sitting on the room writing table.

"It looks like you're making things a little more comfortable," Helen commented. "Maybe one day you'll even finish unpacking."

"Maybe," replied Courtney. "So, what can I do for you?"

Helen smiled at Courtney. "When we talked yesterday, you mentioned looking for work. You didn't seem interested in the Sheriff's Office. I saw a friend of mine at Church this morning and he mentioned needing a bartender. A cute little thing like yourself, you'd do good on tips and probably make some friends from around town."

"I could give him a call," said Courtney.

"You'd be better off to go to the bar and fill out an application. Sullivan's is on Main on the corner of Golden."

"Thanks, Helen, I'll check that out," Courtney told her.

"Good, I'm glad to hear that. We have a hard time interesting young people in the town. You're new blood, we need new blood around here," explained Helen.

"Thank you for thinking of me," Courtney smiled, feeling a sense of welcome. "I'll go to Sullivan's today."

Helen left Courtney alone, reminding her to get something to eat as she left the room. The visit was a surprise but it offered Courtney an opportunity. Lancaster was perfect to hide in and the mountains surrounding Lancaster made for excellent escape routes. From there she could find defendable positions if she was forced to flee. She stood, looking out the window of her room, on a late, sunny, Sunday afternoon. The town was quiet and the people were nice, so far they were unassuming, and Helen was as welcoming as a grandmother after years of not seeing her grandchildren.

Courtney left an hour later, wearing a tight pair of jeans, and an old silk tee-shirt that accentuated her youthful frame. She drove her classic Impala to Sullivan's and walked into the bar looking for the man Helen told her to see. His name was Bo Sullivan. Courtney asked the bartender to speak with him.

"What do you want to talk to the boss about?"

"I was told he was looking for a bartender," she told the surly bartender.

She looked at the bartender as he seemed to be eyeballing her from top to bottom. The daytime bartender was an older guy, with snow-white hair, a thick mustache, and a deep gravelly voice. He was a tall and lanky gentleman. Courtney stood there smiling as she waited for the old bartender to call his manager.

"What makes you think you can handle bartending a bar full of rednecks, country boys, ranchers, and cowboys?"

"I grew up with rednecks, and my mom and dad ran a bar in Georgia," she told him. "So, how long are you going to pretend that you're not the owner, Mr. Sullivan?"

Bo chuckled to himself as he stood there, hand drying some glasses and hanging them above the bar. She was smart, spunky, and intuitive. He already liked her and could see what Helen saw in her when she talked about the "new kid" in town.

"Pays ten dollars an hour, plus tips. Tight shirts and jeans or jean shorts will get you all the tips you can handle as long as you know how to handle the boys around here. I don't want my employees bringing any of their own drama to my bar," he explained. "Can you handle that?"

"I can," she told him.

"Great," he smiled from beneath the thick white mustache. "You're hired. You start Wednesday."

Courtney thanked her new boss and then took a seat at the bar. She looked at the menu and ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a soda. Bo was interested in the new girl, she could tell that much. But, he was reserved, something that she appreciated about people in his age bracket. He put the order into the kitchen and she pulled out her laptop and decided this would be as good a place as any to start doing some research. Thanks to her time with agent Morris Courtney knew how to follow news stories, crime blotters, and public records. She could tell how close her followers were to finding her if they hit any of the spots she stayed or killed any of the contacts she made across the country. Her time studying to be an F.B.I. agent was the reason she knew to follow the trail of dirt across the last places she visited.

When Bo brought her order out, Courtney clicked off the screen she was on and left the word processing program open. Bo caught what she was doing, but left it alone.

"Helen said you were a writer," he said. "I'm not sure what you're researching, but if you want privacy the bar isn't the best spot."

"You're right," she said.

Grabbing her plate, she took everything to a booth. Courtney settled in, enjoying the taste of a hot, well-cooked meal. She had time to kill. Nothing popped up in her searches. She might even start writing something, although she had no plan in mind. It was a nice change of pace, to be out in public, socializing with people and not fearing each of them were someone out to get her. Courtney could get accustomed to the quieter life. She found a sort of peace about Lancaster that her life had been missing for a while.