Chapter 1 – MICHAEL 

Dr. Michael Madison, or Dr. Mike as most called him, exhaled deeply as the last student filed out of the lecture hall. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of another monotonous day settling in. Despite his achievements, being a tenured professor in Electrical and Computer Engineering at just twenty-six, his heart wasn’t in academia. His mind wandered to his cybersecurity research, now cited in Homeland Security documents, a testament to what he could be doing elsewhere—somewhere more impactful, he thought.

Michael glanced around the empty lecture hall, noting the abandoned Starbucks cups and Oreo crumbs scattered on the floor. “This can’t be it,” he muttered under his breath. He leaned back in his swivel chair, the desk before him cluttered with midterm exams and term papers, a stark reminder of the daily grind he despised.

His eyes drifted to the whiteboard, covered in complex formulas he had erased countless times. He envisioned a different life, one where he was on the front lines defending against cyber threats instead of grading papers. His fingers tapped restlessly on the desk, a habit he’d developed whenever he felt particularly trapped.

The door creaked open, breaking his reverie. Zara, his colleague and research partner, stepped in, her presence a welcome distraction. “Hey, Mike. Heading out?” she asked, her tone light, trying to lift his spirits.

“Yeah, soon,” he sighed, the weight of unspoken frustrations in his voice.

Zara perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed, and gave him a playful smile. “Talk to me, Professor. What’s going on?” she teased, hoping to coax a real smile from him.

Michael attempted a smile but failed. “Are you doing what you love? Is teaching your passion?” he asked, his voice heavy with doubt.

“Back in the day, I wanted to be a ballerina,” Zara began, “but you don’t see many brown girls leaping across the stage in Swan Lake, if you know what I mean. So, yeah, teaching pays the bills. Plus, I get to do some exciting research and maybe make a difference in someone’s life. Damn, that last part sounds corny, even to me,” she chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

Michael managed a half-hearted smile. “Why? You aren’t?”

“Eh,” he said, stacking the ungraded papers into a neat pile. “It just feels so damn monotonous sometimes, you know? Every day it’s the same routine: lectures, grading, dealing with students. It repeats.”

Zara’s expression grew thoughtful. “I get it. Academia can be monotonous. And we aren’t exactly landing on the cover of Forbes. But think about the impact you’re having on those few students who are truly inspired by your work. You’re shaping minds and futures, even if you don’t see it every day.”

“Okay, Oprah,” Michael chuckled, finally a genuine smile breaking through.

“You’re doing great work here. Don’t sell yourself short,” Zara said, her tone gentle yet firm.

He shrugged. “I know. But sometimes I dream about being out there in the field, making real-time decisions that could change the world. Doing stuff that makes a real difference. Yes, I know, shaping young minds and all that, but still…”

“The grass is always greener,” Zara replied with a wry smile. “Those jobs come with their own set of challenges and monotony. Besides, you’re twenty-six with a PhD and tenure. At twenty-six, I was still trying to figure out which bong to use. You’re way ahead of me. Trust me, don’t beat yourself up. You’ve got time to explore different paths if that’s what you want.”

Michael chuckled softly. “True. I guess I just need to figure out what I really want. For now, though,” he gestured at the stack of papers, “I’ve got these to deal with.”

Zara gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Take it one step at a time. And remember, you can always talk to me if you need to vent or brainstorm. We’re in this together.”

“Thanks, Zara,” he said, feeling a bit lighter. “I appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” she replied, heading towards the door. “Hey, a group of us is heading to Big C’s for a pre-Memorial Day drink. Come with us; it’ll be fun. It’s game night, and we scientists are playing against the Humanities department. You know it’s our job to break the tree-huggers, right?” Zara joked.

“Ah, the inhumanity,” Michael said, matching Zara’s wit.

“You are just as corny as me. Come on, once going twice…”

“I can’t. I promised my aunt and uncle I would stop by after work.”

“Is this the aunt with the crazy baking skills? Dude, whatever she baked, save me a slice or two,” Zara waved with a smile, leaving Michael feeling a bit lighter but not quite out of his funk.

Michael turned his attention back to the whiteboard, wiping away the last of the formulas, and packed the remaining papers in his leather satchel. As he left the lecture hall, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more out there for him, but today that feeling will be filled with his aunt cake.

Aunt and Unc lived in your quintessential middle-class Leave-it-to-Beaver, well-manicured lawns, tree-lined block where it seemed that most homes came with a flower garden and nomes. The only thing missing was your regular milkman, and a kid delivering newspapers on his bike. His aunt and uncle wouldn’t have it any other way. They were both retired, the aunt was a schoolteacher, and the uncle, his mom’s brother, was a retired semi-pro boxer, who still trains and helps neighbor kids learn to box at the local Y.

Michael pulled up to the porch rang the doorbell, and patiently waited to be greeted by either auntie’s hugs or uncle’s fake boxing jab to rib. Either way, he knew he could always count on love greeting him at the door from the two people who had become his second set of parents. He rang it again, and then again, and then back to back while shouting their names. Assuming they were on their back porch, he pulled out his spare key but noticed the knob was barely hanging on. Pressing all of his weight against the door, he panickedly forced it open.

“Anybody home?” he called out, his voice tinged with worry. The lack of the usual oldies’ music or footsteps sent a chill down his spine. “Unc? Auntie?” he shouted, stepping inside and glancing around. “This isn’t right,” he whispered, his heart pounding. He hurried to the living room, heart pounding. The sight froze him.

“Someone call an ambulance!! he wailed with every vocal note he could muster, not quite sure who he was shouting to. His uncle was lying in the living room bloody, face almost unrecognizable, body limp, breathing faintly. He didn’t know if to move him or leave him in the fetus-like position he was in. “Unc, can you hear me?” he asked, feeling for a pulse when he heard his uncle moan “Your aunt”  he whispered. Following his uncle’s instructions, he ran into the dining room, tied to the wooden dining room chair, unconscious, blood-stained on her face, eyes swollen shut, and shirt tattered, she gave a soft, weak, moan “Help” was all she had the strength to say. Michael frantically untied her, and as gently as God would let him, he laid her on the ground, tapping her face, hoping that she could respond one more time, giving him hope; he loudly pleaded, bartered, and auctioned off every favor he could think of with God to save his family. He heard the uncle cry out for his wife. Michael desperately toggled between the two beaten bodies, bringing blankets and water,  unsure what to do or how to make this moment stop as he waited for the ambulance, which could not have come quickly enough. “Hold on, help is on its way,” he reassured, though he wasn’t sure if he was talking to them or himself.

Each minute stretched with agonizing pain until he finally heard the distant wail of sirens. “Unc, just hold on a little longer, they are coming,” he urged, wiping the mixture of tears and sweat from his face.

As the EMTs arrived, they quickly rushed him out of the way one headed over to Auntie the other stayed with Unc. Before Michael could truly assess the gravity of the situation, they were being rushed to the hospital, and Michael followed in his uncle’s car. Disoriented and retraumatized by the scene, he could not believe this was happening again. He couldn’t handle another death on his watch.

In the hospital, Michael watched them being wheeled into the corridor on two gurneys, doctors scurried around them and screamed numbers, acronyms, and words that were all foreign languages to him.

“Tell me they are going to be ok” Frantically tapping the doctor’s shoulders; she turned around frustrated.

“Who are you?” she asked while pushing his aunt from the back down of the gurney, down the hallway.

“I’m Michael, their nephew. Will they be ok? he said, talking as fast as the gurney was moving.

“I will try my best. I’m Dr. Nguyen, and you can’t go any further, Sir.” She pushed him back and turned her focus back onto the gurney. Michael, limp from helplessness and confusion, was once again left alone with the same questions he had as a child: Who would do this? Why them?

What felt like hours later, Dr. Nguygen approached him in the waiting room, as he was sitting on the edge of the already uncomfortable-metal chair, leg shaking uncontrollably.

“Mr. Michael? she said, getting his attention, he stood up, trying to read her facial expression and bracing himself for the news.

“Yes?” tightening his stomach for the worst.

“They are alive, but in critical condition. We stabilized your uncle, but we had to induce your aunt into a coma. She received multiple blows to her head, which caused some swelling, and we have to make sure that swelling goes down. Sir, I am sorry, but we will do everything we can for them. You unc has defense wounds which indicate that he fought back, tough old man … Sir, sir, sir.” The doctor touches Michael’s shoulder like she is waking up a child who overslept. “Sir, you should get looked at. Nurse, nurse” she gestured for a nurse to come to her.

“Michael, you should go get checked,” the doctor looking at his bloody clothes.

Michael catches her examining him with her eyes “No, this blood isn’t mine. I am fine.”

“Sir, this is just a precaution.”

“I said I AM FINE” Michael unintentionally raised his voice to an unpopular tone causing steers from the staff and guests who are roaming the hospitals.

“I am sorry, I am sorry. I am fine,” he said, and the doctor knew that the outburst was not intentional. His look was apologetic, and her look was forgiving.

“Can I see them?” he said to break the awkward silence.

“Only your uncle at this time, but not for long. He needs to get his rest,” she said, instructing the nurse to escort Mike to his uncle’s hospital room. Unsure of what to say or do, he stood by the door just staring. The fragile, bruised-up man laying on that bed hooked up to machines with needles stuck in those once Championship boxing arms was not the man he knew. That was not his Unc. He figured that if this was to be the last time he saw his uncle alive, he had to toughen up, if only for this moment. He closed his eyes, took one deep breath, and began the slow, painful walk to Unc’s bedside. With his head hung low, he grabbed hold of the bed handle and leaned over his uncle fighting back tears with everything he had.

“Michael?” came from a voice that struggled to escape.

“Michael?” again with a struggle, but with more determination to get Michael’s attention

“Unc?” Michael said anxiously yet nervously. “Let me go get the doctor,” Michael said as he began to turn to the door, but his movement was interrupted by Unc grabbing his hand.

“NO, no, listen I have to tell you something, and I want to listen carefully.” Unc’s voice was weak and shaky, but resolved to finish what he knew he had to do, and probably should have done a while ago.

“Who did this to you? I don’t…” Michael stuttered his words and brain both stumbling. “I don’t understand.”

Unc took a deep breath, his grip on Michael’s hand tightening. “It was three men,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “They were looking for something very specific. They searched the entire house, and when they couldn’t find it, they started on us.”

Michael’s eyes widened with confusion and fear. “What were they looking for?”

That was not Unc’s focus at this time, he knew he had to tell Mick the truth.

“I have no clue,” Unc said, his tone firm despite his weakness. “What matters is you need to know the truth about your parents.

“Michael, please know I am sorry.  I should have told you and your brothers,” he sighed. Michael is quiet, not knowing what is coming. He pulled the visitor’s chair closer to the bed and sat nervously.

“Told me what? Are you messed up in something I should know about Unc?

“No, son, but I don’t know what’s going to happen to me and I’ve been carrying this for too long. Always, remember your mom loved you all more than life itself, and everything she has ever done was for your safety. You must believe that.  But she was not exactly who you thought she was. Your mom wasn’t just a mechanic.”  he took a deep breath mustering up what little strength he had, even if it was going to be his last bit of energy. It was time.

“Your mom and dad worked for the CIA as secret operatives. As you know, your dad died of a heart attack, that part is true, but your mom continued working. After she left the Navy, she was recruited by the CIA, and then the path led her to doing covert operations. She would be gone for months at a time. That’s why you all spent so much time with us. Michael’s face was glued to Unc’s face like he was watching the last episode of Bridgeton.

Michael’s world tilted. “What? Mom was a spy?”

“All I know is that her job was complicated and sometimes dangerous, but she was so good at it, a complete badass. By the time you came along, she had left that life behind, or as she told it, she had to leave that behind. She would never tell me everything, but I knew she left the agency because something had gone wrong, and she hinted her life was in danger. She always said that it was better if I didn’t know, but she reassured me that whatever she knew was enough to keep her safe. So eventually she stopped moving and settled in Chicago because she wanted to make sure all had a normal life. Well, as normal as an ex-CIA agent could make. She loved you guys so much.”

Michael’s dark skin tone was draped in a blue, pale hue, and his breath was slow and heavy, his hands hung listlessly to his side, and his eyes turned to be fixated on the I.V. blinking with every drop of the bagged liquid.

“I am so sorry I have to tell you like this. I just didn’t know when the right time was. I see you are still wearing the chain with the key on it. Do you know what that means son?” Michael nodded no. “She wanted you all to know that you were the key to her happiness. I know she made you promise never to take it off, and I’m glad you didn’t break her promise. There’s a reason those keys are important, but I need you to.”

“I’m here. I’m just trying to make sense of this. “Wait, Did Aunty know this too?” sharply cutting off his Uncle’s words mid-sentence.

“Listen to me!” Uncle said, tugging on Michael’s shirt, mustering whatever strength he had left to put some bass in his voice. “You have to find your brothers. You need them to open the trunk. Go back to the house, to the garage, the old car… open the trunk, and in it, you will…” His voice trailed off as he slipped into unconsciousness. “In it, I will find out, Unc,” Michael murmured, knowing the answers would have to wait. Uncle needed rest. The urgency in his uncle’s voice stuck to Michael.

It was at that point Michael knew that if he didn’t leave that room, he would end up fighting his uncle over the oxygen mask. He stumbled his way into the hospital hallway, trying to make sense of what he just heard, trying to arrange the memories in an order that would give way to a whole thought, but it was just too much, too soon.  He found himself sitting outside on a bench, still trying to Rubix cube his thoughts –  the tactical training, the outdoor “camping” trips, the constant moving, not being able to have friends over, extra security systems, learning how to shoot and drive before it was even legal, the secrets … “the fucking secrets,” his intrusive thoughts blurted out loud catching the steers of a couple passing by. He caught himself and went back into his head. His mom was a spy.

And he knew he had to leave the hospital. It was all too much. He found himself driving under the crushing weight of the second heaviest exhausting day of his life. His aunt and uncle were in capable hands, but he needed to clean the blood out of his clothes.

Michael made his way back into the house; it was no longer the loving home where he spent most of his childhood. It was torn apart, pictures turned to debris, and the holes bore through the walls. He made his way upstairs and the manic chaos continued. He didn’t know where to begin. Cleaning up was the last thing on his mind.

A few hours ago, he was a professor scoring midterm papers. Now he is the son of an ex-CIA agent. He did know that he had to get the blood from under his fingernails and a stiff drink.

He made his way to the back of the garage, where, covered in an old, dirty white tarp, was a baby blue 1974 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. This car was a staunch, unique signature piece, a relic of a different era. Michael remembered how much time his mom and dad spent with this car. They would disappear into the garage, only to reappear hours later, their faces revealing nothing about their mysterious work. Stranger still, they never drove it, nor did they attempt to fix it. The car didn’t even have an engine or wheels, its bottom lying flat on the unpolished cement floor.

The boys had been given strict instructions: never touch this car. As time passed, their mom made fewer trips into the garage, but the car remained, untouchable and enigmatic. In her will, she made it clear that the car was not to be moved, sold, or tampered with under any circumstances. Michael had obeyed, but he never understood why. It was a piece of junk, but his mom loved it, so he did too.

With his uncle’s instructions echoing in his mind, he took the key from around his neck and approached the car. One click. The trunk nudged open slightly but wouldn’t fully unlock. Examining the lock, Michael noticed it had four separate components.

Being the engineer that he was, Michael pulled out his tools, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work on the most important puzzle he’d ever faced. The biggest obstacle was the lock itself—it had four separate compartments. Using his key and tinkering with the other three compartments did little to budge the trunk open.

“Damn,” Michael muttered, his frustration evident. “I need my brothers. I need to get them back home, now.”

Hours passed, night slowly turning into morning. The first rays of the sun peeked through the garage window, illuminating the sweat on Michael’s brow and the tired determination in his eyes. He realized he had been working on the car all night. This task had become a way to escape the pain of the previous day, but now it was clear he couldn’t solve this alone. The urgency in his uncle’s voice stuck with him. The answers were out there, and he needed his brothers to find them.