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THEO STRITCH

Washington, DC

T he tunnel entrance was hidden in a storage warehouse in a rundown area along the Potomac River.

Theo Stritch hated driving, especially in this average sedan, but rules were rules.

Even the wealthiest men in the country followed protocol.

After the requisite retinal scan, Stritch proceeded down the narrow passage and began the five-mile trek into the heart of democracy.

Unscheduled gatherings rarely occurred. Assembly was always on the eleventh day of the month at the eleventh hour. Theo had not been born the last time the emergency call went out. Most issues were handled by individual members, each with their own designated area of responsibility.

The car passed the bulkhead security lights in a never-ending stream of flashes and alternating darkness. Theo often thought if the destination hadn’t been so imperative, he could fall asleep at the wheel. It was silent in the vehicle, his pumping blood and racing thoughts the only distraction.

The tunnel widened a mile from the destination, finally terminating at a massive steel door.

After a second scan—they had been using AI for over twenty years—the door split in the center like a stage curtain, and Theo proceeded.

Eight cars were parked. He pulled into his designated ninth spot and exited the sedan.

His cap-toe Oxfords echoed on the concrete floor as he walked to the entrance and summoned the elevator.

Soon, Ten would arrive, followed by Eleven, and the meeting would commence.

His stomach churned as he stepped into the car.

There were no buttons or panels; the only indication he was moving was the unmistakable sensation of descent.

Down, down, down, eleven stories beneath the Lincoln Memorial. They shared a similar vision of the former president; it was only fitting Lincoln’s statue sat above them.

When the elevator doors parted, Theo blew a relieved breath.

The first time he had made this journey, Theo Stritch had been like a child in a wonderland.

The hallway lay before him like a path to the pearly gates—the gleaming marble floor, the golden linen walls, the crystal chandeliers at even intervals—it was serene.

The walls were divided into panels, each section bordered by molding.

When the hallway split off, Theo turned left and proceeded to Room Nine, his room. His valet stood at the ready.

“Good morning, Nine.”

“Alan,” Theo returned the greeting as he stepped on the low platform before the gilt-framed mirror and extended his arms. Alan removed the red robe from the wide velvet hanger and slid on the first sleeve and then the second.

Alan adjusted the robe on his shoulders and slipped the sash and medallion over his head.

After a perusal in the mirror and Alan’s quick pass with the lint brush, Theo returned to the hallway.

As the clock in the Great Hall chimed the hour, one by one, the men emerged from their quarters and walked in single file without speaking through the twenty-foot-high mahogany double doors.

Above them arched across the lintel in aged brass letters:

Hyperion.

Below the mighty name of their organization, the three words that defined them:

Nation

Democracy

Security

Eleven men, each hand chosen for their intelligence, loyalty, power, and wealth with the singular purpose of national security. They had averted wars and started wars, deposed dictators, and installed them. Put in the simplest of terms, they eliminated threats.

Unlike the petty rivalries and bureaucracy of the federal agencies, Hyperion operated without oversight. Completely self-governed, its members policed the global arena with vigilance and foresight. Governments played checkers while Hyperion played chess.

The group’s spies were selected in their early teens and prepared for a life of service. Never in the organization’s history had an asset or a member been disloyal.

Until now.

The round, curtained room held two semi-circular conference tables facing each other on the left and right. Between them, at the back, was a judge’s bench with a single chair behind it and a gavel atop—the position of honor for Number One.

The men filed in, five to the left and five to the right, and stood silently behind their chairs.

At the far end of the room, the gold-fringed burgundy drapes parted, and Number One entered.

He took the high seat behind the judge’s bench and, meeting each man’s eyes, banged the gavel eleven times.

Again, without a sound, the members took their seats.

Theo gazed in awe at the assemblage. These were The Eleven, the men of Hyperion.

Sworn to secrecy and pledging their devotion and loyalty to the cause: the safety and advancement of the country.

Not a living soul outside this room knew of the affiliation—not wives, not friends, not family.

The only acknowledgment of service to the group was the small Roman numeral XI etched in the lower right-hand corner of their gravestones.

Number One began the pledge. “Oh hail, The Eleven who unite to give of their coffers, their hands, and their souls.”

The others joined. “We vow this oath with blood and word to preserve the sanctity and strength of our great nation. Patria nostra est magna, Patria nostra est prima, Patria nostra in aeternum .”

Number One banged the gavel a final time, and the meeting began. “Number Nine, proceed.”

Hyperion had never had a traitor. Nevertheless, the penalty was in place: death.

If the members unanimously agreed there was a betrayer in their midst, action was swift and irrevocable.

Theo Stritch stood, lacing his fingers at his waist. He paused to quell his trepidation. He had to step delicately.

“My ten patriots, as you know, I am investigating the theft of top-secret research on new drone technology that can capture and analyze DNA. When perfected, the drone can locate, track, and identify targets without any doubt of their identity. I recently discovered my Operative, S.K., acting out of character. Her finances, communications, and behavior have led me to cast doubt.”

Number Four asked, “Where is she now?”

Theo replied, “Still in the field but being monitored. I wanted to give no indication of my suspicion.”

Number One banged the gavel. “Obviously, the situation needs further investigation to gather evidence and ensure there is no mistake, collusion, or misdirection.”

Theo needed to tread lightly. Challenging a person’s opinion tended to make them hold to it more firmly. Agreement led to better results. “That is my intention. S.K. has an exemplary record, and as my fellow Patriots know, she is my star protégé.

Number Five agreed, “We need to be certain.”

Theo bowed his head. “I will explore every avenue of her possible innocence.”

Number One shuffled the loose papers on the benchtop until he found what he sought. After putting on his half-glasses, he read, “You plucked her from the juvenile detention system at fourteen. Her evaluation is impressive.”

The inadequate praise affronted Theo. “To say the least.” He added, “Sir,” to mitigate his tone.

Theo’s interest in S.K. had been enthusiastic from the moment he saw her.

He would almost describe his fascination as paternal.

If his thoughts strayed to the more salacious, he would never admit it.

“We had to recalibrate the scoring system after she took the initial tests. She solved the Romulus problem before I finished giving the instructions. She solved the Turing cipher in her head.”

Number One lifted his hand from the table. “So if your suspicions are correct, we have a formidable enemy.”

Theo shrank back. “Yes, that’s true. S.K. has a rare combination of street smarts and hyperintellectuality. She is the best operator this organization has ever seen.”

“If she is a traitor, she must be neutralized.” That was Number Two.

“Understood,” Theo replied.

“I’m curious.” Number One steepled his fingers at his chin. “Aren’t you inclined to fight for your protégé?”

Theo bristled at the veiled accusation. “My loyalty is to Hyperion. If she is not serving our interests and, by extension, the interests of our country, she must be held accountable.”

Number One ran a palm across his trimmed beard.

“Nevertheless, there are protocols. Whatever the circumstance, we do not take killing lightly. This is doubly true with one of our own. There is a system in place: evidence presented, suspect’s crimes confirmed, punishment administered.

We are at Phase One. Nine will surveil the suspect, S.K.

, and either confirm her crimes or exonerate her. ”

A s he drove back to his office, Theo reassured himself that, despite the recent setbacks, his plans would work out with his customary precision. Everything he did under the auspices of Hyperion must be above reproach.

He couldn’t act until the drone technology had been successfully completed—his buyers demanded the finished product.

Theo nearly laughed at the poetry of it all.

Stella couldn’t have picked a better time to stumble onto her discovery of his printer snafu.

By the time the drone technology was up and running, Theo would have planted sufficient evidence to implicate Stella, and he would become Number One’s heir apparent.

To that end, Theo pulled into a gas station, unpackaged the pre-paid phone, and sent a text. He had tipped the first domino; now, he would watch them fall.