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  Sitting there for several minutes eating the balance of the peanuts, I managed to get to my feet. My legs were like wet straw. I could hardly walk. I glanced in every direction and didn’t recognize anything. I couldn’t see the security fence. “Where the hell is the fence? It was here last night.” I tried to run, stumbled and fell, smashing my nose on a dead tree branch on the ground. The blood poured from my nose. I had never had a bloody nose before. I felt my nose; it was broken for sure. The pain in my nose eased the pain in my temples.

  I heard a chopper. “That’s my security men.” I tried to get up, made it to my knees and looked up into the bright sky. The chopper was going away. “Hey, I’m over here,” I screamed, waving my arms. I attempted to stand; my eyes lost focus. Everything became blurry; then went black.

  I woke up again. My nose felt like it was imbedded in my forehead. The pain traveled throughout my head. My shirt was soaked in blood. My watch now showed eight-twenty four. “I’ve been drugged. What the hell is happening?” My stomach was on fire.

  I heard voices. They were men’s voices. I tried to holler, but nothing would come out; my throat was still on fire. I waited, listened and then heard dogs barking. The voices and the barking became closer. I couldn’t see anyone. I tried to stand, but was too weak. I tried to holler again, but nothing came out. I saw the trees moving; the trees were coming closer. I couldn’t breathe. “Jen”

  Chapter 8

  A FEW HOURS LATER

  The time on my watch now read eleven thirty-nine. My nose still hurt; the blood on my shirt caked. My body ached—an ache I had never felt before. I raised my head, got my shoulders off the ground and sat up. I looked around. The security fence was approximately one-hundred yards away.

  I stood up and stumbled in the direction of the fence. Reaching the fence, I looked straight out, to the left and then to the right. I spotted the camouflage for the plant. It was three, maybe four hundred yards to my left. “Hey! Hey, can anyone hear me?” I waited for a voice. “You dumb shit. How is anyone going to hear you?” I turned and walked to the opening to the tunnel.

  “I need to get my people out of there before they die,” I mumbled. I jumped down into the tunnel and hurried back to the house. I stood in front of the mirror; a pitiful sight stared back at me. I shed my smelly, bloody clothes and headed for the shower. The warm water turned cold before shutting the faucets down. After drying off, I tried to straighten my broken nose. It looked red, bent and swollen, but okay for now.

  I put on a pair of old jeans and a tee shirt. I headed downstairs to get some much-needed food in me. I fixed some flap jacks that required water to mix rather than milk. “Thanks, Jen.” I gobbled down six of them, along with six strips of bacon I had found in the freezer. I fixed them on the finest Westinghouse gas range money could buy. I flushed it all down with two cups of instant Folgers coffee. I hate coffee, but there wasn’t anything else in the refrigerator or cupboard.

  My energy came roaring back. Now, if I could just figure out what to do next. I picked up my flashlight, located some extra Size D batteries in a drawer in the kitchen and headed to the basement. I found the candles and candle lighter.

  I sat on a basement step with my head in my hands. “The floor, it has to be in the floor.” I jumped up and went down on my knees. Using the flashlight, I began to cover every square inch of the concrete floor that had been put in over seventy years ago. My bony knees were hurting, but I was determined to find that opening.

  A half hour later I found a hole in the concrete. It was a perfect square; a square big enough for my body to get through. The hole had been camouflaged with boxes and an old table.

  I grabbed the light and, sure enough, a tunnel lay below the basement. I stuck my head down the tunnel looking to see which way it went. I saw nothing, except a dark tunnel supported with Georgia clay. “Damn it, why didn’t we know this tunnel existed? Somebody knew, though.” I ran back upstairs, grabbed three bottles of water, shoved another set of Size D batteries in a back pack and headed to the tunnel. I grabbed the spade and fastened it to my back pack. “I better get the 357, just in case.”

  The somewhat bigger tunnel allowed me to run, using the flashlight to search out my path, which consisted of many twists and turns. I did not experience any problem breathing. Every step got me closer to Jen.

  I reached a T in the tunnel. I had to make a decision. I took the right turn, hoping it would lead to the plant. The plant had to be closer. I could see Jen. She, she wore those purple Capri pants with a, with a white sleeveless top. On her feet were the white flats she had bought at Nordstrom’s. I remembered. “Yes, I remember.” I broke into a smile. My heart raced. I couldn’t get there fast enough.

  My beam of light got bigger with every step. “Shit, another T, now which way?” I went left; it was a gut feeling. I ran faster, faster, until the tunnel ended. My heart swelled. I searched the clay walls with my light and saw nothing. “I can’t take it anymore.” My eyes filled with tears. “Where are you, Jen?”

  I headed back to the last T and took the other path. My mouth became parched. I ran for several hundred feet when I was confronted with yet another T. I went right and kept running.

  I had to stop and get some water into my system. I slugged down a whole bottle of water, dropped it on the clay floor and ran and ran. Another T came into view. “I’ll never get out of this maze.” I turned left and ran even faster. The twists and turns were every twenty feet. I felt as though I were running downhill.

  My flashlight picked up an object, a ladder. “Yes! Jen, I’ll be right there.” I grabbed the rungs of the wooden ladder and climbed till my head touched the metal door, the door to Jen and my employees. “Hey! Open up!”

  I pushed on the metal door. It was secured. “Hey!” I waited for an answer. “Hey, let me in.” My heart moved up in my throat. I took my spade and beat on the door. I listened. “I thought I heard voices. Hey, open this up, it’s Sam.” My body became numb once again. “Jen” My head was spinning. “What’s wrong with me?” I cried. “I have to get out of here. I’m being poisoned again.” I started to run, stumbled and fell. My legs were like hot tar; my head felt like it was going to blow off my shoulders. I tried to crawl, but my arms had lost all their strength. “I’m going to die. My God, help me.” My chest heaved and I felt my hands swell up. My throat became thick. I tasted bile rising in my dry throat. Everything went black.

  Chapter 9

  TWENTY-SIX YEARS EARLIER—MISSISSIPPI

  Sterling Shear, a good looking, arrogant, young man, had just graduated from the University of Mississippi with a degree in Political Science. Shear finished in the top of his class and was bound and determined to be Mississippi’s junior senator in the upcoming fall election. He had dreamt of it since he was ten.

  Shear enlisted a group of college students to aid him in his march to Washington, regardless of what it took. He was a manipulator, going all the way back to grade school. He would charm the girls and sway the guys. They believed him in college. His lies were often discarded, as long as he would show remorse, which he did, but never meant it.

  Shear campaigned hard against his arch rival, a longstanding, Republican Senator, who had been in office for twenty four years. Shear talked to the black people of Mississippi and promised them better jobs and better schools. The black college students on his staff stumped for him in every black neighborhood in the State. They would go into the neighborhood after Shear had given his speech, supporting him on every word he had spoken earlier.

  Shear contacted the manufacturing companies in his State and told them if they hired blacks, he would get them government contracts—contracts like they had never seen before. Shear knew he had to work hard to get elected, and even more so once he got in. After a few years, his machine would be well-oiled and he would prosper as a US Senator.

  Election week came and his opponent, Herbert Smith, was leading by 10% in the polls. Nervous, Shear drew up a plan, with the aid of two of his
staff. Shear’s campaign manager, Buddy Bracket, approached one of the black college staff members, Amos Johnson, who had mentioned a neighbor of his had been a former high school homecoming queen. Amos was always making sexual comments about this young lady, Rhonda Jones.

  One day later, Shear’s staff hired Rhonda Jones, a stunning, beautiful, eighteen-year-old African American, to seduce Smith. Rhonda looked twenty five and had the body of a Miss America contestant who had won the swimsuit competition.

  Jones approached Smith two days before the election after Smith had had lunch with his campaign staff. It was mid-afternoon and Jones waited by Smith’s Cadillac in a secluded parking lot. She wore a red, tight, mini skirt and a see-through, white blouse that showed a red lace bra, which made her soft, perfectly shaped breasts stretch its limits against her blouse. Her long legs, red, six-inch high heels, and the mini skirt could melt any man within seconds. Shear had purchased Rhonda’s complete wardrobe, including her underwear. Rhonda would be paid $1000.00 cash by Shear, if she could get Smith to consent to sex. She agreed, but wanted $500.00 even if he didn’t consent. Shear acceded.

  “Hi, Mr. Smith, I must say, you sure have captured the voters of Mississippi again this year.” She moved close to the Senator. Her heavily-scented perfume aroused the Senator. Rhonda stood over 5 feet 10 inches, and her long, shapely legs made her seem taller. Smith, also tall, and a good looking man, was married and the father of three children. Smith had been known to sew some wild oats for several years, but his affairs had never made the papers.

  Rhonda inched closer, putting her hand on Smith’s face. Her breasts got to within inches of Smith’s chest. Smith’s eyes were glued to her breasts under the red bra. His heart rate increased. He looked around quickly to see if anyone were watching. Rhonda moved in for the kill, dropped her hand to Smith’s buttocks, then across his thigh to his crotch, where she found his erection. He gasped and pulled her hard against him. His lips met hers; her tongue searched for his tongue. She clenched his buttocks and he pulled hard against her warm body. Their lips were on fire. Smith had his hands on her soft, firm ass. Jones hunched him and Smith said, “Let’s get out of here.” They jumped into Smith’s Cadillac and quickly headed toward the outskirts of town. Jones massaged Smith’s erection the entire way, keeping him from gazing into the rear view mirror. Rhonda knew they were being followed by Shear’s people.

  They ended up at an old, abandoned warehouse. Smith slammed on the brakes of the Cadillac. “You ever do it on the hood of a Cadillac?”

  “No, Mr. Smith, I sure haven’t, but I sure would like to.” She looked in her rear view mirror to see if Shear’s people were behind them. She saw no sign of any car.

  They stripped quickly and Jones bent, face first, over the caddy. Smith mounted her from behind and drove her hard against the white, painted hood.

  Jones cried, “Harder! Harder! Oh, God. Harder.” Smith, panting heavily, came. Rhonda looked around to see if anyone had seen them.

  Smith and Jones had been followed by two members of Shear’s staff. Once they arrived on the scene, they scurried up the warehouse’s roof ladder. Jones and Smith were dropping their clothes when the staff, in position with two cameras ready, shot pictures of the entire lovemaking scene.

  Jones dressed and asked the Senator to take her back to the parking lot. Smith obliged. Smith invited Rhonda to come to work for him. Rhonda smiled, but declined, saying she already had a job. Smith offered her $3000.00 per month. She quickly responded, “No thanks, Mr. Smith,” and got out of his white caddy seconds after he had stopped the car.

  Shear and his staff blew the lid off the encounter. The election was held and Shear got over 70% of the vote. Smith’s wife, a staunch Baptist, filed for divorce the same week.

  Shear spoke with Jones the day after the election. After viewing the three rolls of film from the parking lot and the warehouse, he knew he had a pro in his own backyard, right here in Mississippi. They met in Shear’s hotel suite. “Miss Jones, I want to thank you for your cooperation. I would like for you to come to work for me. You will have a job as long as I’m a US Senator.” Shear smiled.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Shear. I would be more than happy to work for you.” She pressed her body against Shear’s body.

  Mrs. Herbert Smith paid Sterling Shear a million dollars for the pictures Shear’s staff took of her husband and Miss Jones. Smith’s wife walked out of court with a full settlement, leaving her ex-husband penniless.

  Chapter 10

  MARCH—THE PREVIOUS YEAR

  Sterling Shear has been a member of the United States Senate for 26 years. He is a forty-eight year old multimillionaire. Miss Jones is still his mistress, as well as his call girl when he needs someone’s vote. She has put a ton of money into his bank account and her bank account contains well over three million dollars. Miss Jones, now 44, looks like a model for Vogue magazine. Her figure has remained firm and her face still has the glow that can melt any man. She works out on a regular basis with a professional trainer and has a full-time nutritionist at her beck and call. Her body is what she depends on.

  The drug companies have poured thousands of dollars into Shear’s Swiss bank account on a daily basis. In return, he has made sure the boys in the FDA are well-oiled with sex, money, and stock options; of course, Miss Jones tends to the head of the FDA, Mr. Howard C. Fitzpatrick III. Shear has a staff of 12 men and women to handle the drug companies’ needs and wants. They work out of a private office in Arlington, Virginia.

  Shear obtains inside information on drug stocks and passes it along to FDA members. They have made thousands of dollars every month. A lot of the drugs should never have been put on the market due to their harmful side affects. Some have been withdrawn in European countries, but remain on here because the FDA is reaping huge profits from the drug companies.

  Shear has been married to Betty, a southern doll from Mississippi, for 24 years. She knows of her husband’s dealings in the Senate and his affair with Miss Jones. However, she is more than happy with her private bank account, which never goes below $250,000. She has no idea of her husband’s vast bank accounts in Switzerland. When needed, she helps with his campaign in Mississippi. She is a good speaker and has the personality to sway votes her husband has trouble getting.

  Two libraries in Mississippi have his name plastered everywhere. Several streets have been named after him, a Mississippi hero for more than twenty five years, who has brought many jobs into his State. Mississippi has more black students attending college and getting degrees every year because of the programs set up for them by Shear’s people. They, in turn, are given jobs in Mississippi, which brings the revenue up. He gets done what he promises his voters he can do. It took him awhile to get his machine running at full throttle, but he is now the most powerful Senator in the history of American government. His staff of 100 men and women is, by far, way ahead of anyone else in Washington, including the President. Out of the 100 staff members, twenty are black; ten of those are from Mississippi. Shear knows the game and how to play it.

  On a cold, blustery, Monday morning in Washington, Senator Shear arrived in his office at 0600, as he did every weekday morning, unless out of town. Sipping on his first cup of coffee, the phone rang. Shear had been waiting for a call from his finance manager, Howard Taylor. Taylor has been Shear’s finance manager for over twenty years. He’s been hiding money from the IRS for years. Shear’s secretary, Rachael Smithfield, a black woman from Mississippi, was off due to a death in her family. Miss Smithfield was hired because of her color; it helps with Shear’s campaign in the black communities. The call came directly to Shear’s desk. “This is Shear, how the hell are you, Howard?”

  “This isn’t Howard, Senator. This is R.D. Mallory from Mallory, Pittman, and Herrington. We represent three of the largest drug companies in the world. I need to talk to you about some things.”

  “I never heard of your firm before. It’s my understanding that Baker, Randolph, and Feldman still h
andled all the legal problems for these companies. Did they make a change?” Shear’s concern shook his brain. He fidgeted with a paper clip in his right hand.

  “Yes, they did, about three weeks ago.” The paper clip protruded under Shear’s finger nail after the “yes” came out of Mallory’s mouth. Shear swore, then threw the paper clip across the room, and sucked on his injured pinky.

  Shear thought he may have problems here with a new law firm. “So, what can I do for you?” Shear asked, as he tapped a pen on his solid walnut desk.

  “I would like to meet with you for dinner, here, at our office in New York. We’ll have a meal catered in. I realize you’re on a busy schedule, but this is very urgent.”

  “Where, when and what time would you like for me to be there?” Sterling’s pen hammered the desk.

  “We are located on the top of the Marshall Building on 32nd Street in NY. We have a lot to discuss, so how about this Thursday at 6:15?”

  “I will be there. Will the boys from the drug companies be there?” Shear jotted the information on a note pad.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “See you at 6:15, Thursday.”

  “Okay, Senator.”

  Chapter 11

  THURSDAY EVENING—NEW YORK CITY

  Shear and Miss Jones had their love encounter on Wednesday evening, instead of their usual Thursday evening. Sterling dressed in a tailor-made, Italian, grey, three-piece suit, an imported, white, silk shirt and black Cole Hann shoes. His burgundy silk tie matched the handkerchief in his breast pocket. Shear’s thick, wavy, salt and pepper hair had been styled less than an hour ago by a lesbian lady named Sandi, Shear’s hairdresser for the past ten years.

  Sterling’s chauffer, Amos Randle, a large, black man in his thirties, rang the Senator’s house bell at 3:30 P.M. Shear lived in an upscale neighborhood in Alexandria, Virginia. Shear kissed his wife goodbye and entered the black Cadillac limousine. Amos headed to Ronald Reagan Airport, where they would board a private helicopter to JFK Airport. Sterling did most of the talking; Amos either nodded or responded, “No, sir” or “Yes, sir.”