The Black Vault

by Jack King

Copyright

© Jacek Król, 2012

ISBN: 9780986787140

Goat Path Publishing, 2012

THE FULL VERSION IS AVAILABLE FROM:

PART 1

Chapter 1

A single shot thundered over the cheering crowd, its echo multiplied a

hundredfold by triumphant fireworks exploding high above the stadium. With the rifle

butt at his cheek, the sniper savored the bullet's impact raising hair on the target's temple,

the telescope magnifying the death in its glorious violence. He watched as the smile

vanished from the lips of his victim, wide open eyes augmenting the somber and

surprised expression on the suddenly lifeless face.

"They always seem surprised," the killer thought without remorse, and watched as

the body slowly slumped onto the podium floor.

The clean-slate entry of the bullet and the rapid recoil of the head were registered

by cameras and projected on jumbotrons above the stage. The cheering subsided

gradually as the understanding of the incident dawned on the stupefied crowd, and at last

silence fell upon the arena. It lasted mere seconds before a single cry resounded in the

still air. The cameras pan, and focused on a woman in the middle of the crowd, her

outstretched arm and index finger pointing high above.

"There he is!"

The speakers amplified her voice, the monitors magnified her face.

He recognized her. It was his love… His soul… She has betrayed him.

Suddenly the doors flew open with the impact of strong shoulders.

Four plain-clothed men filed into the projection room above the arena,

surrounding him and shouting orders, their voices fusing into one incomprehensible

clamor yet remaining strangely familiar. Barrels pointing at his heart, they advance on

him and press him right against the cold wall. Someone switched on the lights. He gasped

out, recognizing every face. They were men he worked with, his oldest friends, who now

turned into hunters. They advanced on him further, their faces contorted in dogged

hatred.

"He's one of us!" The men cried out in unison.

"He's one of us!" The audience doubled from the speakers, in thousand voices the

final judgment.

One of the men stepped forward, the others followed. One of them raised his arm,

the cold barrel of the gun pressing into the assassin's ribs. The leader's voice penetrated

deep, it shattered the dream, had the power to wake him, "You son-of-a-bitch! You killed

the President—"

Martin woke up with a gasp, his heart in cold grips. It took him a long time to

realize that it was only a dream — the same dreaded dream that haunted him since the

day he parted with the Company. The dream became more physical with each

occurrence, and today was the culmination of hallucination and reality. He could still

hear the echo of the shot reverberating in the woods across the bay.

Too real. He shook his head, and instantly regretted it. His temples throbbed with

pain. It was unbearable, excruciating to the point that his eyes covered with fog. He

blinked and struggled to raise his eyelids, only to find that milky mist was in the air,

rising off the still lake in thick clouds resembling cotton candy. He labored to sit up, but

the weight of his soaked clothes was constricting his movement. It took extraordinary

effort to raise himself on his elbows. The movement startled a bird. A blue heron that was

perched several feet away spread its wings and flew away, into the mist. Only now did it

occur to Martin that he was lying on the floating dock, next to an upturned canoe, the

cabin barely visible in the fog.

The cabin was located in the middle of a steep, wooded hill, overlooking the lake.

It stood not more than a hundred feet from shore, but it might as well have been a

thousand — before Martin reached the house he was breathless, panting like a dog. It was

cold inside, but he did not feel it, his body covered in sweat caused by the strenuous

climb. A rusty smell hung in the inside air, resembling something between blood and gun

powder, bringing to mind images of a butcher shop. He shook his head to rid his mind of

the intrusive vision, and almost lost his balance as the room spun in his eyes. Braced

against the fireplace he waited for the dizziness to subside. At last he gazed about the

room, his eyes glazing the beer and liquor bottles, and landing on the holstered pistols

that hung on antlers mounted on the wall. He listened. The house was quiet, in stark

contrast to the clamor that reverberated in its walls all night. The image brought vague

memories of joyful hours spent with his friends, together after months and years of

separation. Where were they now? He made a step forward, and tripped over something,

but regained his balance. He looked down. One of his friends had claimed the sheepskin

by the fireplace, sleeping face down, hugging the furry patch like a primeval lover on his

primeval woman. Everything was good. Martin turned abruptly to go to bed. Too

abruptly. His head exploded, spinning faster, and faster. He staggered only as far as the

couch, and slumped onto it, involuntarily. He did not see the shadow lurking outside of

the panoramic window. He did not see the growing patch of blood seeping into the

sheepskin, next to his friend's head.

He felt the commotion around him through his skin. The sounds of voices

penetrated his mind as though from a deep well. It took him a moment to realize that it

was not a dream, not this time. Someone tugged on his shoulder and Martin came to. He

opened his eyes to the blurred figures that moved purposely around.

One voice came on top of all others, "He's alive!"

Suddenly the blurred figures came to a still, and centered around him. Someone

neared, closer, and closer, until Martin could smell the onion breath, and see the

windblown face of a man with a thick mustache, a sparkling metal badge on the man's

chest shooting painful sparks.

"How you feelin', son?"

He did not reply. The living room was bright, the sunrays touching the floor, and

creeping up the walls. He tried, and succeeded, in pulling himself up to a seated position.

The headache was gone, but he felt groggy. Casting curious looks around, such as those

of a newborn, he stood up, and staggered.

"Easy there, fellow!"

A pair of strong hands slipped under his arms, preventing him from slumping

back onto the couch. The cabin was filled with uniformed police officers, and civilians

with badges around their necks, or clipped to their belts. Everyone paused and focused

their attention on Martin. He stood in the middle, bewildered. The presence of cops did

not alarm him. In fact nothing could upset his mind at this moment, for he was observing

the events as though through an out-of-body experience. He was here, and not here, all at

the same time. His eyes wondered from face to face, from person to person, and from an

object to object, resting at last on the fireplace, and the furry patch beside it.

Something clicked in Martin's head, rising him from numbness. He took a step

forward, toward the white sheepskin that was no longer white. He towered over it,

struggling to focus his eyes. At last succeeded, he could scarcely believe what he was

looking at. He knelt down and stared in numb disbelief. What was once his friend's face

was now a bloodied and unrecognizable mass of lifeless shreds of skin, bone, and brain

matter, and, as though in some gruesome exhibit, one eyeball was dislodged from its

socket, hanging on the optic nerve.

He sprung to his feet, and the room reeled in front of him.

FROM THE AUTHOR

"The Black Vault: secret funds, obtained by illicit means, used for the purpose of

conducting black operations."

In the year of election powerful men and sinister corporations want to seat their

own candidate in the White House - a puppet dictator who will serve their interests. Can

Martin Borneman change the fate of the Nation? Can one man stop the conspiracy that

threatens to turn America into a bloody dictatorship?

Jack King's THE BLACK VAULT is set today, but was inspired by true events of

the not-so-distant past - a past that is on the course to repeat itself...

Historical events that inspired the creation of THE BLACK VAULT:

Following the Great Depression of 1929, America found herself at a precipice.

Only a series of drastic socio-economic changes could ensure stability and return to

prosperity.

Franklin D Roosevelt spearheaded the necessary Change, yet within a few short

years wealthy industrialists and politicians plotted to overthrow the President. They

formed the American Liberty League (ALL), a group dedicated to protecting the

members' wealth and privileges through whatever means necessary, including a coup.

The ALL members were afraid of the President's nationalization and Social

Security plans, which they considered dangerous to their interests. They plotted to replace

FDR with a puppet dictator who would serve their interests. 500,000 soldiers stood by,

awaiting orders to storm Washington.

The United States was about to become a fascist dictatorship when one man saw

right from wrong, and his moral reservations averted the coup.

The conspiracy was stopped, yet no one associated with the coup was ever held

accountable.

Were the plans of the wealthy aristocracy shelved for ever? The old truism comes

to life in THE BLACK VAULT: History repeats itself...

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