“Take care of Tollin Pettier. I don’t want him bothering my sister anymore.”
And that had been it, but Andrew had no idea how damning his words had been. Morpheus grit his teeth because in his line of work, he knew that there was always a price to pay, whenever men flexed their muscles, exerting false bravado. There was a price to pay when words held duel meanings. To Andrew’s mind, the request had been a simple one; but the governor had not known who he’d been talking to. When Joplin dealt with people, generally, they didn’t walk away, and he didn’t leave witnesses behind to tell their side of the story. Not long after Tollin’s death, the truth began to slowly unfold. Eliza had grilled Andrew until he’d finally confessed, confirming that he’d discussed his frustrations with a man named Joplin Paddox and that he’d enlisted his help. Weeks had passed, and Morpheus still couldn’t believe that out of all the people in the world, Andrew had stumbled upon Joplin Paddox; and Morpheus didn’t believe in coincidences. Joplin Paddox. The name scrolled in his brain. He thought about his brother Raal...and Kyle, his lover. Before meeting Kyle, Raal had never been without a lover--and at one time, his interest had been women. His brother had more children than he could count, and many of these women had never bothered naming him as the father on the birth certificates. Morpheus recalled the dinner at his home, and when he looked at his brother and Kyle, the two men appeared to be so happy. He thought about that night...then his thought’s went to his love--Mikita; then his brain jumped back to his brother. What a fucking mess. His brain drummed up the image. Joplin--the name haunted him mainly because Joplin was Raal’s illegitimate son. The son that his brother had never known--yet, Morpheus had known about Joplin for the past eleven years, and he’d never bothered to divulge this fact to his brother.
“Fuck”
He said...because in truth, he’d done a disservice to Joplin, and his brother. There was only one clear way out of this. When the plane slowed to a stop, Morpheus felt as if he’d just wakened from a nightmare. Although he had not slept one wink during the entire flight, his thoughts had busied his mind. What to do--what to do; that had been the question that circled like a merry-go-round. Yet all the while, one word tramped through his brain. A word that would put the horde of them in their proper places if they defied him. Fuck you. That would be his response, and he gotdamn well would mean it.
“Your coat sir.”
The attendant held open his woolen coat like a valet. After flying partway across the country, at this destination, the temperature had dropped by twenty degrees. He had a mind to wave off the gesture, but he thought it best to dress for the weather. He fit his arms in the sleeves while saying...
“How many...”
He didn’t need to say more. This crew had traveled here with him on countless occasions, and they knew the drill. How many, meant, who was here, and who wasn’t.
Olga spoke in her Swedish accent...
“They are all here sir... Everyone except for one--and I am not privy to that identity.”
Of course you aren’t my dear, was his thought. This group of people were known only to those who completed the circle. Morpheus inclined his head, then he passed her while exiting the main cabin. When he passed the cockpit, he nodded at his pilot, but they didn’t exchange any words. The man was busy, and soon he would be occupied as well. He walked down the steps of the plane, then he strolled over to a much larger plane, capable of transatlantic flights.
He had landed in the middle of nowhere. Basically, this landing field wasn’t on any maps per-say, and the land had been owned by his family for as far back as he could remember. Morpheus climbed sharply ascending stairs, then he entered a large cabin that looked like a board room. Seated at a table were five people that he knew very well. And now that he was here; his presence made six. Six--but one person was missing. Morpheus took his usual seat, then he acknowledged the rooms other players. Berta Volker; billionaires and heir to the Volker Chemical Industrial Corporation. George Stockton; media magnet, and owner of Triton Global Communications. Woodrow Fist; retired Director of the CIA, owner of P.A.T. Pharmaceuticals, and Global Realties. Maxwell Evans; CEO of Global International Banking Systems with a net worth off the scales and one of the richest men on the planet. Vincent Tyne; CEO of Global Satellites Communication.
He didn’t have to ask, and his question had been answered by Vincent....
“She’s running late. She called about an hour ago, and she should arrive any minute now.”
Morpheus scanned the room, making note of their faces. These people were some of the most powerful people in the world. Collectively, they controlled over half the worlds assets and for over one hundred years their families had worked in secret, restructuring the global economy to suit their purposes. For the past fifty years this group had set their sights on politics and governments; and ways to manipulate entire countries from the inside out. Whenever decisions were made, their voices were one collective chorus; kind of an all for one, and one for all mentality. If the crap hit the fan, they didn’t point fingers because every vote must be an unanimous one. In spite of this chummy chummy mentality, people were human. Flawed in more ways than one. Morpheus knew this better than anyone else in this room because he carried a heavier burden. This secret organization had been formed by one of his ancestors and he had a duty that went far beyond himself or his desires.
He was deep in thought when Berta said...
“How much longer are we going to wait?”
“As long as it takes.” George pointedly stated. Berta had been the second to the last to join the group, and Morpheus despised her. She looked like she hadn’t been fucked a day in her life, and maybe if she had a good turn, she could dislodge the stick that wedged the hole on her backside.
"Morpheus...how can you sit there behaving so calm!"
Berta was a wildcard; always led by her emotions. He ignored her. He lifted his arm, maneuvering his wrist until his timepiece could be seen. He wasn’t ready to start the game of petty squabbles. In fact--he’d decided before coming that he wouldn’t play at all; he would resolve this problem in his own way. He’d not fully decided on a course of action, but after this meeting he would land firmly on one side of his choices, and he will have dismissed his uncertainty.