Safe in the Lion’s Den Pt. 01

There is a backstory to this one, and it is important that you understand my background. This all began many years before I became involved in a lot of the background that I have revealed in various stories over the years. Yes, I was an actor on TV, I am a published author, I do carry a badge and I have run for political office. I also do own a large tract of land, which is the setting for many of my stories on here. The following introduction predates it, and fills in a few of the missing pieces as to why my characters are always sigma males.

Many years ago, while running for political office, I had befriended another candidate named John MacDonald, who was campaigning for mayor of a rather large city. He won, served a few terms, and then decided to run for governor of our state. I had decided to give it one last go myself, and on one foggy October morning, a series of events occurred which would make us inseparable, with a level of trust not shared by many politicians.

You see, when I was 21, I had applied for the Uniform Division of the United States Secret Service, and although they ultimately discovered that I had had corrective eye surgery to make me eligible for law enforcement, it was an immediate disqualification from the Service. No surgeries of any kind were accepted, so I took it in stride and applied to become a deputy sheriff instead.

The sheriff was impressed, when I mentioned how we were told, "At some point, you may find yourselves protecting the President of the United States. This is the most important man in the world, and your job is to jump on top of him and take multiple bullets intended for him. This is what we're paying you $27,000 a year for." Granted, it was a LONG time ago (I have zero idea what they start out at now), but it instilled that dedication in me.

Fast forwarding many years to that fateful morning, John had served several terms as mayor, and was now stumping for the governor's seat. As I mentioned earlier, we had become good friends at that point. There is an annual church barbecue in our state, which draws in tens of thousands of people by sending an open invitation to all of the politicians out there, to set up in a special area, or to just drop by. It's become famous, and one year, even the sitting vice president had dropped by to glad-hand the local politicians and some of their constituents.

John and I set up our campaign stuff next to one another. I was always the first politician to show up, because I set up next to the lines of cars waiting to buy their barbecue, and get tons of extra looks (and potential votes) my way. John picked up on it as well, so that is where we both happened to be, when a disgruntled constituent from John's mayoral days decided to get even with him.

There was no real security at this event, as it's officially just a church barbecue and not a political event. Sure, the local PD is there directing traffic, but not really there for much more. Well, they are now, after what happened that day.

There was a slight lull in the line of people coming by to shake hands, so John and I took a moment to sip some water. Suddenly a voice rang out from the closest line of vehicles waiting to pick up their delicious pork BBQ (yes, it's pork in these parts, with a dry seasoning rub; no sauce) It's North Carolina style, and it's some of the best in the world.

"Hey, MacDonald, you fucking asshole!" a voice screamed out. "I've got something for you, you cocksucker!!!"

This is where my short stint with the Secret Service came into play. You see, I still had that mindset drilled into me, to jump on top of the POTUS - should the situation arise - so when I heard those words directed at my friend and potential next governor, I did just that.

Without even thinking, I lunged for my friend and tackled him, as several staccato-like pistol shots rang out. They weren't throaty enough to be from a 9mm or larger; so most likely a.380 or even a.32. Even a.22 with a short barrel will sound pretty loud at close range, but whatever they were, they still burned like a motherfucker, as three of them drilled into my back.

In the event you've never been shot, let me explain what the experience is like: Imagine being stung by a Japanese murder hornet or a scorpion. Now add to that most unpleasant sensation, also grabbing 240V AC while being struck with a sledgehammer; all of it at the same time, and in an area the size of a pencil eraser. That, my friends, is what getting shot feels like. It's a most unpleasant sensation.

It was not an unfamiliar sensation, however. I had felt it once before, in my early twenties, while attending a weekend party. There was a large bonfire going, and some ass clown decided to toss a live 5.56mm round into the fire for some sort of reaction. It detonated a few seconds later, and although there was no chamber to build up a lot of pressure to send the bullet on its way, it still hit me in the right pectoral muscle with enough energy to bore in about half of an inch. Thank God it wasn't a tracer round! Someone dug it out with a penknife, so it was no big deal. A few beers later, and I was none the wiser.

So as I leaped on top of my friend out of sheer reflex, I felt that old familiar feeling once again. And then, twice more. Suddenly, a barrage of what sounded like multiple 9mms rang out, as the traffic cops opened up on the shooter.

"What the fuck just happened?!" John burst out.

"He had it out for you, Old Friend." I managed to utter with a bit of a giggle. "Sorry if I hurt you. It just kicked in. Are you okay?"

"Yeah." he responded. "Are you?"

"I don't know." I replied. "Jesus, I'd forgotten how much it hurts."

"Are you hit?!" John exclaimed.

"Yeah," I responded, "but I don't think it hit anything major. Far be it for me to say that I'm alright though. Don't mean to be laying on top of you like this, Buddy, but I honestly can't really move. I'm not gay, I promise. I think you do owe me dinner for my trouble, though."

John let out a laugh that I will never forget, just as the officers arrived to assess the situation. They were not trained to handle this, but fortunately, there was a fire engine on the premises, and an EMT was quick to tend to my needs. It was obvious that none of my wounds were life threatening, and they were quick to get me off of the future governor.

I pulled through with little fanfare, but my actions were enough to win my position, along with John's. Now you can understand why we are so tight. John went on to secure two terms as governor, and then successfully ran for president.

I'd had enough of politics, and decided to sell my house in the suburbs and build a log home on some rural property I had the luck of paying cash for, when I was just 20 years old. That's a separate story, but I owned it nonetheless. In the meantime, I had been approached by an alphabet agency, to use my talents as an actor among other things, to route out domestic terrorists. Because of this, I was given a code name and an official number.

I spent the next seven years of my life, living essentially a double life as "Lion." The moniker was given to me by the agency, due to my actions regarding John. I had leaped like a lion to his rescue. I was living what Ozzy Osborne said so succinctly in Crazy Train; "The Media sells it, and you live the role," along with who I really was. I finally had enough, and refused to run again. I just wanted my life back, and I decided to finally build my log home retreat in the middle of the Appalachian forest. It was, in fact, my little slice of Blue Heaven, when I got an incoming call from a restricted number, that brings us to this story.

"Hello?" I answered.

I figured it was most likely from my former case agent, but was pleasantly stunned to hear John's voice on the other end instead. It HAD to be important.

"Jack!" he said tersely. "I need the lion back. Can you help me out?"

"You got it, Buddy." I replied. "What's up?"

Now, let me clarify something here. I have never in my life, addressed someone by their title. I do not address random men or women as Sir or Ma'am. I don't care what your rank or title may be, you were given a birth name, and that is what I use. You may have graduated medical school, but your name is still Rick, Frank or Jill; NOT Doctor Jill. John was well aware of this, so having him call me by my name was nothing. It was when he dropped my code name, that my ears perked up.

"You've been watching the news, I'm sure." the president continued. "You've seen the coup going on, over in Europe?"

"Yeah, sure." I replied. "But what does that have to do with me?"

"Prime Minister Leoni and her daughter are here." he explained. "We were going to do a series of talks about what is going on in the region, and how NATO might get involved. Then, all hell broke loose and she has basically been deposed in absentia. I have no doubt that she will be reinstated at some point, but in the meantime, I need to keep her safe.

"Jack, I don't even trust my own detail anymore. I can't even risk sending them to Camp David. If there is a leak, then she will be identified. I can't risk that. I need her taken off the books. Can the Lion's Den take in two lambs for a while?"

I was shocked and taken aback, to say the least. But this was the president of the United States of America asking me for a favor, after all. What was I going to say, 'no?'

"Of course," I replied. "but just remember that I'm a bachelor with a bunch of cats, and the house isn't anywhere close to a five star hotel. Actually, it's kind of a mess, John."

"It'll be fine." he assured me. "How soon can you get here?"

"Well, if I leave now, I can probably make it in about eight hours," I replied, "but I'll be dead on my feet when I get there."

"You can crash in the Lincoln Bedroom and take a nap." John responded. "I'm also taking you off of inactive status with the JTTF and placing you on my personal detail. There will be a federal badge and credentials waiting on you. It's equivalent to 'Eyes Only' clearance. You can get into Area 51 with this."

"Don't you need a current pic to make up my ID?" I quipped.

"What do you think those hi-def driver's license photos are for?" he shot back. "It's already done. Just get here. My detail will be expecting you; armed, of course. With your clearance, you can carry anywhere; even here."

"I'll see you at zero thirty-something." I replied. "Out."

I packed a quick overnight bag and tossed it into my SUV, and made it to my destination in only six and a half hours. I did get pulled over twice, but got out of each one with my retired deputy creds, and a sad story about my mother's untimely passing in a hit and run accident, and my getting to the funeral.

I arrived at the rear gate at 4:47 AM, with a bit of trepidation. I was here to see the most important man in the world, and I had a Ruger P85 mounted on the side of the console. Even if they were advised that I was here to see the POTUS with a gun in the car, it was still unnerving, to say the least. I was cleared, although they left one agent with the car (because of the gun), and another to escort me personally to the meeting.

"Jack Fawkes!" a familiar voice called out. "What's the idea of getting me out of bed at this time of night?"

"I dunno!" I hollered back. "Some asshole called me and asked me to be here. Fucked my whole day up. Said it was important though."

"Indeed it is." he responded, as we approached one another and shook hands. "Thanks for coming."

I clasped him firmly on the back, in a man-hug, and we grinned at one another.

"You were still up, weren't you?" I inquired. "You sneaky fucker."

"You know I only need four hours of sleep a night." he replied. "C'mon, I'll get you settled in. I'll introduce you to her Royal Hiney at breakfast."

"That bad?" I inquired.

John sighed.

"She likes to be addressed as 'Ms. Prime Minister.'" he confessed. "I know she's really important over there in Europe and all, but she's a bit swell-headed. Even though she's technically been overthrown in a coup, she's still the prime minister... ya know?"

"You know I don't do titles, John." I reminded him. "I don't care if she's the female incarnation of Jesus Christ walking on water; she still has a name."

"That she does." he admitted. "Portia Leoni. I'll see you then. In the meantime, Hillary here, will show you to your room."

I nodded, and followed the aged and rather haggard-looking housekeeper to my room for the remainder of the night.

"There is a buzzer on the nightstand, if you need anything." she informed me curtly. "Good night."

I awoke with enough time to shower and don my extra set of clothes. If you've read some of my other stories, you'll know that I am stuck in an 80s time warp. My wardrobe consists of a pair of hightop sneakers (laced low, so the tongues stick out), jeans, and a sleeveless black HD t-shirt, as I have arms that many women fawn over.

On top of that, I have let my hair grow out for the past few years, so I now have a ponytail as well. This is me; you get what you get, but apparently, her Royal Hiney was not advised that an 80s metalhead was going to be her knight in shining armor. She gave me a glance of disdain, as I sat down for breakfast, directly across from her and her young daughter.

"Good morning." I greeted her.

Portia nodded in a political/professional acknowledgment, but did not answer. Her young daughter - who appeared to be around eight years of age or so - on the other hand, piped up enthusiastically in response.

"Hi there!" she exclaimed. "I'm Sophia!"

"Hi Sophia." I replied with a warm smile. "I'm Jack."

"And I'm her mother." Portia cut in. "I don't mean to be rude, Jack, but my daughter and I are awaiting the president to introduce us to the secret agent who will be protecting us. I'm sure you're tired from taking our orders, but please leave that seat for the person to whom it is reserved."

I was both amused and insulted by her comment at the same time. Granted, I don't look like a cop, but that was the point when I was undercover. Now that I was retired, it was even less of an issue for me.

"Indeed I shall." I replied, as I reclined in the chair. "Comfy."

Portia glared at my seeming impudence, but her gaze was quickly redirected, as the POTUS entered the room.

"Jack, Portia; so glad to introduce you." he began.

"What?!" Portia spat. "Are you telling me that this, this... biker guy is supposed to be part of this meeting?!"

"He is." John responded. "I have asked him to take you under his wing, and to keep both of you safe and out of the public eye, until all of this passes over. You'll be safe with him."

Portia looked confused, so I stood up and walked around the table.

"I'm not here to cut fish bait." I announced sternly, as I stared directly into her gray eyes. "If you want to be safe, then you will come with me. If not; you're on your own. Your choice, and you have exactly thirty seconds to make up your mind."

Portia stared at me in disbelief. Who was this middle-aged guy in jeans and a muscleman T to dictate what she was to do?! The nerve, the impudence; the lack of respect! How dare I address her in such a manner!

"Fifteen seconds." I interrupted, as she continued staring at me without speaking. "John, she's pissing me off!"

"Ms. Prime Minister," John cut in, "this is Jack Fawkes. I have assigned him to take you into protective custody-"

"What?!" Portia screeched. "This guy? He looks like a Steven Seagal wannabe!"

"Steven Seagal wears a wig." I informed her. "Mine is real."

"Nonetheless," John continued calmly, "he is who I have I asked to watch over and keep you safe. I've brought him out of inactive status for this assignment. He took a bullet for me, and I trust him implicitly, with your safety."

Portia eyed me suspiciously, but finally nodded in agreement.

"Okay, Guy." she eventually addressed me. "You really took a bullet for him?"

"Three, actually," I replied with a smile, "but who's counting?"

"You are, apparently." John responded with a slight smirk, turning toward Portia again. "Jack isn't with the Secret Service." he explained. "We were both running for office, and he was standing next to me. When the gunshots started, he tackled me and took three slugs in the back. I owe him my life, and he will do the same for you, should the need arise."

"You're not with the Secret Service?" Portia inquired, looking at me.

"No." I replied. "That's why John has asked me to do this. No one knows me in the current system, so they won't know where to look for you."

"Jack did some freelance work for the Joint Terrorism Task Force." John explained. "He used to do undercover work; infiltrating various groups and befriending lone wolves. He prevented several bombings and mass shootings. He acted as an operative, not an actual agent, so no one other than his case agent and myself knew who he was. He went under the code name of 'Lion,' due to his courage under fire. I recommended him for recruitment into a part of the government that operates outside of agency rules and restrictions.

"I know this doesn't mean anything to you, but during the American Revolution, there was a secret group call the 'Culper Ring,' who worked for General George Washington; later on, our first president. It was brought back after 9/11 to include civilians or those without a college degree, to be part of an organization that had secret clearance. It's just that now, instead of hanging colored clothes in your window, they use burner phones and meet clandestinely in empty parking lots. Jack was part of that, and operated as a freelance operative of sorts."

"Meaning, if I screwed up or went rogue, I couldn't be tied to them." I laughed. "The funny part, is that I was doing that as a politician. I was literally, the one politician who was a genuine badass. I had a few disgruntled constituents try and attack me physically, and they all ended up with broken bones and internal hemorrhaging."

Portia stared at me intently, trying to absorb all of this.

"You and Sophia will be safe with me, Portia." I assured her. "You'll be safe in the Lion's Den. I designed it to have a tactical advantage."

"What is the Lion's Den?" Sophia inquired, inserting herself into the conversation.

"It's my place in the mountains." I replied. "Kind of like the Eagle's Nest, but without all of the brown shirts hanging around. No one will know you're there, but in the event there is a rogue operation that finds us, it's easily and well defensible."

"Defensible with what?" Portia inquired. "My security team has MP5s. What do you have?"

"Jack is well armed, I can assure you." John chuckled. "He builds his own AR15s, and I think he's got more guns and ammo than the entire Sheriff's Office in his county has."

He turned back to me, with his hand outstretched.

"Here are your badge and credentials as promised." he stated. "Also, your license tag is tucked under the passenger's seat. Your vehicle has been given a G62 tag that comes back to a white Ford Bronco, registered in Denver, Colorado, in the event someone runs your tag when you leave out of here, and your windows have been illegally tinted; just like the Camo Dudes at Dreamland.

"Oh, here is a little something for your time and aggravation." he added, handing me a rather fat, plain white envelope. "No 'Lion' signature required on this one, Jack. This is a personal thank you from me. There's ten grand in there to cover your time and expenses; take good care of them for me. I golf with her ex husband sometimes, when I'm over there."

"You golf with an asshole!" she exclaimed. "He's a no good chooch! I have no idea why you pal around with him when you are in our country."

"Because he plays a good game of golf." John explained. "It doesn't mean that I like him. Anyway, he's a good contact for some of my business ventures. I need to have something else lined up when I'm out of office."