The Liberty Group

Mitch wiped the sweat from his face as he tore through the unfamiliar streets. He knew who had sent his pursuers, and being caught was not an option. Running for your life was an experience no one should ever face, he thought, and the unfamiliar streets only compounded the complexity of the situation. Mitch had never been to Charleston before, but it seemed to him half the United States was in South Carolina today. This was actually a good thing, allowing him to use the crowds for cover. He turned a corner and found himself at the end of a large outdoor market. Mitch took the time to grab a T-shirt from a booth where a vendor was occupied by another customer and threw it on, followed by a baseball cap obtained from another little table. A pair of sunglasses completed the ensemble, and he tried to act as if he hadn’t just been running and hiding for the last twenty minutes. He stood in the middle of a larger group of tourists waiting in line for one of the many horse-drawn carriage rides through the historic part of the town. He caught sight of his pursuers now; they were entering the market about two blocks down, scanning every which way for a glimpse of him.

          Mitch wound his way to the front of the line and used a departing carriage as a shield to continue walking away from the area. He needed to find a place to think. He exited the other end of the booths and turned onto Market Street as the carriage continued straight ahead. Mitch walked a short distance down the block and saw a line of people gathered outside of Hyman’s Restaurant. He noticed a second entrance to the left of the line, walked in, took the stairway up, pausing shortly on the landing to see if anyone was following him up the street before continuing to the dining room on the second floor. He grabbed the only empty table he saw, sat down, and picked up a menu, hiding his face.

          “We usually don’t let people pick whatever table they want,” a soft, southern-accented voice told him. “In fact, the hostess is bringing a couple up right now to sit there. If you haven’t noticed, we are a little busy.”

          “I will give you fifty dollars to let me stay here for an hour. I’ll order whatever; I just need time!” His pleading eyes must have registered with her (or she needed fifty dollars). She plopped down a bowl of boiled peanuts and met the hostess as she entered the room, indicating there must have been a mistake.

“This gentleman was just seated a few minutes ago, and I’ve already taken his order and put it in.” The confused hostess took the other patrons away, and the waitress turned back to him. “I’ll bring you a beer; you look like you could use one.”

          “Diet Coke and a large glass of water, please.”

          “No problem.”

Although she was absolutely right about the beer, it was more important to keep his reactions and thoughts as focused as possible right now. Mitch also needed to keep himself hydrated—running through the streets in this humidity was draining him quickly. He was a distance runner (his tall, lanky form being tailor-made for the activity) but most of his training had been in the dry Arizona heat, not this oppressive, muggy weather. He downed the water before she could ask him if he knew what he wanted to order. He requested more water and glanced beside her at a whiteboard full of combo platters offering three, five, or seven items from a list.

“I’ll take the buffalo shrimp, the deviled crab, and the Charleston salmon and grits.” The waitress walked away, and he took in his surroundings. This looked like a great place to have a fun time with the family, if only that were the case today. The table was adorned with little gold plates listing the names of famous people who had sat there. He read “Billy Joel” on his table. How about that. Mitch’s mind went back to a conversation he had with his seventeen-year-old daughter, Lynne, about four months ago. She had wanted tickets to see Movin’ Out, the musical based on Billy Joel’s work. Had that really only been last May? That was the night before this whole mess started.

Mitch peered out the window and saw his two adversaries standing in the street, shaking their heads, and talking animatedly to the occupants of a parked vehicle. After about a minute of discussi