The nation's capital always stood for power, at least in Foster's mind. It represented strength over everything else. His predecessors knew that, going all the way back to the waning days of the Civil War.
He climbed the steps and turned into the luxurious cabin filled with plush beige leather, black stitching, polished oak armrests and tables, and a fully stocked bar in the back.
There were no attendants on this flight. From time to time, Foster would request a high-end escort to accompany him on the plane. This trip, however, was all business. Things were dangerously close to unraveling, and he had to make certain everything was in order.
He walked to the back of the plane and opened one of the doors that housed the rocks glasses. He set the glass on the counter and picked out one of his favorite bourbons. The bottle cost over $600 for most people. For him, it was a gift from a Kentucky senator — a small token of gratitude for a favor no one else could perform. The amber liquid splashed into the glass. He stopped his pour when it was half-full and then put the bottle back in its place.
The engines revved higher, and the captain's voice came over the speakers.
"Sir, we are ready to taxi. When you're in your seat, we'll get moving."
Foster took a conservative sip of the whiskey, letting the smoky flavor splash over the tip of his tongue before turning to vanilla, then pepper, as it trickled down his throat.
He took a seat on his right and nodded to one of his men, who immediately went to the front of the plane to let the captain know he was ready.
Foster drew in a long breath through his nostrils and then took another sip.
Staring out the window at the historic landmarks of the capital brought back more reflections of his secret order: the Knights of the Golden Circle.
So many people had dubbed them a hate group, an evil organization bent on chaos. Foster snorted at the thought. There was nothing hateful about them other than when someone tried to interfere with their profits. They were a business, like anything else. Sometimes, Foster considered them more of a union — at least in the group's early days. After all, that's why they'd been behind the killing of Abraham Lincoln. He'd meddled with the profits of the South and ended up paying the ultimate price.
The other guard closed the door to the plane, and a moment later it started lumbering forward.
Foster's mind drifted to the first time he'd seen the incredible structure in Alaska. The previous chairman and leader of the KGC had taken him there and shown him. Foster had done his best to temper his surprise and wonder. If he hadn't seen it himself, he wouldn't have believed it.
It was Foster who figured out how to take the anomaly and use it to produce power. Up until then, his predecessors merely stripped it and the surrounding area of as much gold as they could find, storing it in giant vaults they built underground.
He didn't blame them. The KGC used the massive quantities of gold to fund wars, political candidates, and diplomacy whenever it was to their financial advantage. In that regard, the men who came before Foster were brilliant. What he'd done, however, was far more important.
Gold, after all, was a finite resource. The ability to perpetually create free energy — that was something far more valuable.
In an age where green energy was the new trend, his organization had capitalized in a way no one else could. They had a limitless source of power and could provide it to anywhere in the country so long as the infrastructure was in place.
Delivering to the Pacific Northwest, California, and the Southwestern regions had been an easy enough sell. With the proper amount of funding and enough palms crossed with silver, there wasn't anything Transcorp couldn't accomplish.
No one knew that under it all — the branding, the public relations, the good will — was the secret society that had been responsible for the death of one of the most beloved American leaders in history.
Lincoln, of course, wasn't the only one. Foster snickered at the thought. The public had no idea. They went about their lives, happily chasing their meager dreams, hoping to someday get a scrap from the table. Foster didn't pity them. It was their own fault. They chased the dream of money. Money fades. Power outlives mere mortals.
The plane turned onto the runway and paused for a moment while the pilot got the final go-ahead from the tower. In less than 15 seconds, Foster's head and back pressed against the seat as the plane jolted forward.
He looked out the window again at the lights passing by outside. Soon, he would be controlling the energy that powered those lights — and in every other city on the East Coast and everywhere in between.
Chapter 33
Sean peered through the windshield at the white airplane. It sat alone on the tarmac outside one of the larger hangars at Washington Executive Airport. There were no sounds of big jet engines or planes taking off and landing. Everything was still save for the pilot double checking a few things on the aircraft.
The Cessna had twin turboprop engines and a range of over two thousand five hundred nautical miles. That meant they'd have to make a stop or two along the way since Alaska was almost twice as far away.
While it wasn't as fast as Tommy's private jet, which was still being watched by the feds in Atlanta, the Cessna would get them there a good deal faster than any other means of transportation.
"Looks like Emily came through," Tommy said. "Those are good planes."
"Yeah," Sean said. "I just hope we don't run into any other snags."
"I know that worrying about stuff like that is kind of one of your things, but just this once, can you let it go? We're going to be fine."
Sean nodded as he surveyed the airfield, keeping his eyes open for trouble.
"Come on," Tommy said. "Let's get our stuff and climb aboard."
"Yeah."
His paranoia was on full alert as he got out of the car and walked to the back to get his bag. His head swiveled one way and then the other, constantly watching the darkness surrounding the airfield.
He hated it when things were this quiet, though he didn't dare say that to Tommy. His friend's reaction would be something along the lines of, "Well what would you prefer? An angry mob of henchmen rushing after us?"
Sean knew better so, he kept his mouth shut and picked up his bag.
He'd already tucked his pistol inside his jacket beforehand in case something happened while they were waiting.
When Tommy finished collecting his things, Sean closed the trunk and started marching across the asphalt toward the plane. They left their car next to one of the hangars a few hundred feet away. It was out of the way and wouldn't draw attention, not that it mattered too much. The plates were fake, and the registration belonged to a false identity, a cover in case of a random traffic stop by the police.
Halfway to the plane, a bright light flashed in the corner of Sean's eye. He spun around as the sound of a car's engine accompanied it.
Two headlights were roaring toward them. The vehicle had come, seemingly, out of nowhere and was closing fast.
"Friends of yours?" Tommy asked.
"I was going to ask you the same question."
"Looks like they're going to run us over. Thoughts?"
Sean wasn't the type to shoot first and ask questions later. Initially, he hoped the car might be Adriana or Emily. That thought changed in an instant as the car picked up speed.
"Wait for it," Sean said. "Dive clear at the last second."
"Or maybe run for it now?"
The two friends stood their ground, staring down the headlights racing toward them. The car was only a hundred feet away now and closing quickly.
"Hold!" Sean said as he pulled out his pistol and took aim at the oncoming vehicle. "One more second…"