The Gambit by Allen Longstreet Read Free Book Online Page B

bike—a black blur, shooting past the visible field of the camera on I-95. I smiled at the thought of us putting him in handcuffs, and the court case that would follow. Even the best lawyer wouldn’t be able to get him out of his situation. Our evidence was foolproof.
    “If Owen wants to take us on a chase, then we will chase him, and a merry chase it will be.”

     
    The engine grumbled and sputtered as I slowed down to exit the turnpike. The skin beneath my jacket was unbearably icy. I wasn’t in gear that would keep me warm during high-speed interstate travel. I never planned on having to flee Washington. On most days, after my coffee, I might have responded to some emails, or gotten on a conference call, but today wasn’t most days.
    I hurried down the back roads of my hometown and navigated them solely by memory. Autumn colors—burnt orange, cardinal red, and amber leaves blanketed the yards and the edges of the street. What a majestic display they put on, as if their change of color were a final performance before their death. The sun sneaked out from behind the clouds periodically. Although it was overcast, there was no rain, and many homeowners were taking advantage of the lack of precipitation to break out their riding lawn mowers. If you ever wondered what upper-middle class America looked like, Midlothian was it. Perfectly manicured lawns, a close-knit community, and just a short drive to the city.
    Welcome to Suburbia.
    I turned onto Oakengate Lane and the familiarity caused memories to flood my mind. Our street sat behind Salisbury Lake. Many of the families who lived here when I was growing up never left. I imagined the streets would be filled with children and their parents in a few weeks, trick-or-treating for Halloween. I smiled momentarily, and as I pulled into the driveway I thought I should conceal my bike in the backyard. I parked it, and as I took off my helmet I saw the glimmer of sunlight reflecting off the lake. I used to smoke weed with my buddies the summer before my senior year while kayaking, and then we would all get paranoid when someone forgot the eye-drops. I would cautiously walk into the kitchen in hopes of avoiding my parents, all for some munchies.
    Only in America—first world problems. Now, after the Confinement, many of those lighthearted times had disappeared. They were cherished times. The real world, the world that I lived in, was no longer carefree. We lived in the wake of a tragedy, and the forceful imprisonment that followed haunted us all. Our reality was darker . That was something I was hell-bent on changing.
    Before I took a step onto the back porch the door flew open.
    “Owen,” my father gasped.
    “Dad…” I said as we embraced in a hug. I could feel him exhale as I held him. The fact that I was alive and in his arms was enough to comfort him. It was enough for me, even if that comfort was short-lived.
    He glanced to his left and to his right at the neighbors’ houses.
    “Come inside.”
    I followed him through the door and was instantly enveloped in the warmth of the house. My skin was still numb from the ride over. After all the years, my old home hadn’t changed a bit. There was the rustic walnut table in the dining room, with matching chairs, and the many picture frames that lined the walls. Our house was built in the twenties. My dad bought it when I was in my mom’s womb. Back then, property in this area was one-fourth of what it was now. It was a smart investment. My mother, while she was still alive, was passionate about French antiques and design. Much of our furniture she chose and my dad never sold or changed any of it. They were pieces of her, fragments of who she was. It had almost been a decade and he still hadn’t remarried. I doubted he ever would. He couldn’t let go of her.
    “What the hell is going on, Son?”
    As he asked me that question, I had the realization that I was just as helpless as he was. What did I know?
    “This must be