I've decided to lay off Rio Grande for awhile, as Tyler is doing absolutely great with his Pitt story, and I think one Pitt story is good for now. :lol: Anyway, this is the first story in which I hope to make a nice series out of. I hope you enjoy Jack Bridges, the main character who works for the National Institute of Archaeology, as well as the story.

Thomas p:

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The streets surrounding the Washington Monument were ablaze with traffic. The streets were being described by the local news stations as a “parking lot.” Horns were constantly heard above the shouts of the drivers, and obscene hand gestures could be seen extended out of windows.

None of the racket appeared to bother Thomas Ferguson. Ferguson was sitting comfortably in his new silver Porsche 911 Turbo S. He picked up his mug of coffee resting in the cup holder and took a long sip from it, a small portion of the liquid spilling onto his black suit. Ferguson was a stout man, pushing the edge of three hundred ten pounds. His brown hair was cleanly kept and he never let it extend past his collar.

He set the coffee mug back into the cup holder when his cellular phone rang. Six thirty in the morning and I already have a phone call? Ferguson thought. He struggled to remove his phone from his right pocket, but eventually succeeded and flipped open the phone.

“Hello?”

“Yes, is this Mr. Tom Ferguson?” a voice of a woman on the other end of the receiver questioned.

“It is…” Ferguson responded.

“I’m very sorry to inform you, but your house has been broken in to.”

“What do you mean?” Ferguson asked, sitting up in his seat.

“Someone broke into your house around six fifteen this morning.”

This is great, Ferguson thought, everyone else on the street has their problems and now I have my own.

“What happened, and may I ask who is speaking?”

“Yes of course, this is Carol from ADT. We received a phone call from your neighbor Mr. Sanchez this morning.”

“Why did you receive a phone call informing you? I have your security system installed in my house,” Ferguson replied, annoyed that something must have gone wrong with the system.

“Yes, we checked the status of the system immediately after we received the phone call. Your system has not been activated for several days now.” Ferguson slumped back in the leather seat and stared up at the ceiling. The system was working fine when I left, he thought.

“It was working fine this morning,” he responded. “Is there any information on what was taken?”

“The only thing that our team could see was wrong was that the door leading to the study had been broken off and the hinges were shattered on the floor.”

Ferguson’s body immediately jolted upward and trickles of sweat began to appear underneath his arms.

“Do you know what was taken?” he asked apprehension in his voice.

“No sir, we do not. We were also wondering, why were there security guards at your house when my team arrived?”

“Quit being nosy, I’ll get back to you,” Ferguson quickly said, shutting his phone and tossing it to the shotgun seat next to him. Dread began to take over Ferguson, and he began to panic. Without thinking, he joined in the honking parade and started shouting at the cars in front of him, but it proved to no use. With a deep breath he pulled on the steering wheel to the left, and the car started across the sidewalk. He dodged trees and got the automobile up to thirty miles an hour. Shouts from angry pedestrians could be heard as they dodged out of the car’s way.

Tom Ferguson hadn’t a care in the world about what might happen because of his action. His only care was getting home and hoping it had not been taken.

Thirty minutes later, without so much as a single car siren, Ferguson pulled into his estate located in Mclean, Virginia. His house was constructed of brick, and several dark green window shutters added to the beauty of it. Several vine branches had extended up the brick, but Ferguson simply did not have time to trim them. He lived alone, and despite several recent dates he had with a few ladies, he just was not the type of man that a woman wanted to have as her husband. Which was probably even better off for the type of work Ferguson did.

He stepped out of his spectacular automobile and set his foot on the asphalt driveway. Dozens of security guards surrounded the yard, and made way when Ferguson hurried up to his front door, opened the glass door and fumbled for his keys. Once he had his home key selected, he inserted it into the doorknob and opened the door. Walking into his house in a hasty stride he quickly walked around the corner and into a hallway. He walked past his bathroom on the left and dreaded the sight that he knew was about to come. He looked up and found the door to his office crumpled on the wooden floor. Several security men in uniforms were examining the broken door, and one of them looked at Ferguson.

“Mr. Ferguson, I was told-” he started to say, but Ferguson simply waved a hand at the man and turned to the right into his study.

It was in a complete state of disaster.

Papers were scattered all over the room and tens of books were disheveled and thrown off of their shelves. Ferguson did not waste too much time thinking about the work that would be put into reorganizing the study; instead he walked over to his desk and looked at the small top left hand drawer. The lock had been broken off. He nearly tore a hole in his collar by pulling on it too hard, trying to loosen it. Ferguson closed his eyes and prayed to God. He opened the mahogany drawer.

“Mr. Ferguson,” a voice said across the room. Three men in dark suits were standing in the doorway as what Ferguson recognized as Secret Service.

“It’s the President,” the man said again, handing Ferguson a phone. Tom Ferguson swallowed hard and grasped the phone. Pausing a second, he lifted the phone up to his ear and spoke, “Yes Mr. President.”

Chapter One

Sitting in his living room, a brown haired man was watching an entire scene appear before his eyes. The man was in his thirties, and was strikingly handsome, although he refused to admit it. He was in excellent condition and sported a lean body as well as a six foot one frame. He also had a profession; Jack Bridges worked for the National Institute of Archaeology, located in Washington D.C.

Bridges had taken Friday off to try and clear his mind of his work, after just delivering a presentation in Chicago to some fellow employees. Only the scene on the television was not helping his Friday become work-free. The Nuclear Football had been stolen.

The Football is a brief case which contains the data that allows the President to initiate a nuclear strike. The Football follows the president wherever he travels and is usually carried by a military officer who must undergo “Yankee White”, the nation’s most secure background check. And it had been stolen.

Bridges almost wanted to throw up at the fact that the president had been nowhere near the briefcase when it was stolen. The President had been hosting a get together on the White House lawn, and invited were the leaders of many countries, including several Middle Eastern ones. For safe keeping, the Secret Service decided against placing the football in a secure location inside of the White House, as guests would come into the President’s home for dinner once the introductions and photographs had occurred. There is no trust in the world. Instead of someone taking control of the Football inside of the White House, it had been transferred to a secure location somewhere out of the District of Colombia.

Very good ta16uva!! Fat lot of good it does to steal the 'football" though!! But I can see what you may have in mind though. p: w:

“Now back to our reporter in the field, what have you got for us Matt?” The anchor of Fox’s news team gave the controls over to reporter Matt Bruno, as he began to explain the incident that had happened.

“Sometime around eight o’clock this morning a call was placed into the White House saying that the Nuclear Football had been stolen from the secure location where it had been moved to. For those of you who do not know much about what is in the briefcase, these are the items which are rumored to be inside of it: The “black book” of nuclear launch options and directives, which are put together in the Single Integrated Operational Plan (SIOP). Secondly, the Emergency Action Message (EAM) that is required to authorize use of the weapons. A booklet on “Emergency Procedures White House” which shows secure locations to which the president could be directed, and also describes use of the Emergency Broadcast System. And finally, a secure telephone.

“We do not have anymore information on the story at this time. Back to you Dave.”

Jack Bridges ran his fingers through his long brown hair, when he was suddenly caught by surprise by a loud noise of breaking glass that was heard from the other side of his house.

Bridges sat up in the leather chair he was sitting in, and froze for several seconds.

“Hello?” he finally yelled. There was no response. He climbed out of his chair, and switched the button on the television and turned it off. He exited the living room and peered out into the main foyer. Still, there was nothing.

He walked down the spacious hallway into the kitchen where he set down his drink and took a knife from his utensil cabinet.

“Drop it.” A hard edged voice was heard from behind Bridges. Bridges dropped the knife, and turned around and faced the man. The man was dressed in a long sleeve black shirt and wore black sweatpants. His black hair was a mess, leaves and small twigs inhabited his thick hair, and the man was badly in need of a shower. The only thing that did not belong with the man was the clean, silver briefcase that he was holding in his left hand. Clasped in his right hand, extended outwards toward Bridges, was a gun.

Hmmmmm......the thief? or someone who found the football?

Bridges was speechless; he had had no intent for his day off to turn out like this. Instinctively, he put his hands over his head, and then stared back at the man.

“Where’s your car?” the man asked Bridges, gritting his teeth.

“It’s in the garage. Why?”

“Why do you think?” the man asked sarcastically, then motioned with the handgun, “Where are the keys?” Bridges pointed to the side doorway that led into the kitchen from the garage.

“They’re on top of that ledge.” The man quickly turned and looked where Bridges had pointed, then seeing the keys, he turned back to Bridges. Only he wasn’t there.

“What–” In a split second, Bridges flung the knife at the intruder from his position on the floor, sliding out from behind the counter. The knife caught the man on his left leg, four inches below his knee. He cried out in pain as the knife cut flesh and then continued its way through the air, finally hitting the far wall and coming to a stop. The intruder caught sight of Bridges pulling himself off of the floor and running to the door leading to the dining room. The unwelcome guest squeezed off four shots and then limped off in pursuit of Jack.

The intruder would have just taken the keys and the car and driven away, but Jack had seen his face, and could provide authorities with a detailed description of it. This was not to happen. The man made his way up to the main foyer of the stairs, and saw Jack reach the second level of the house. The intruder fired off a shot, which struck a wooden rail and splinters of broken wood flew through the air.

He limped to the first stair, clutching his bleeding leg. Dropping the briefcase at the bottom of the flight of stairs, he began to climb, slowly but steadily. His gun was trained at the top of the stairs, and when he reached the final step, he paused for a moment. Inserting a new clip, he cocked the weapon and ascended into the hallway. To the left there were two doors, and there were also two more to the right. Fifteen yards directed in front of him was an open room, but the entire room could not be seen from the intruder’s point of view. Every door was closed, and he slowly made his way to the first one. Raising his leg, he flung a kick just above the doorknob.

The wooden door flung open, the lock breaking in the process. Besides a bed, stereo, a desk and a chair, there wasn’t much to see in the room. The intruder turned around and repeated the process on the second door. The same outcome occurred. Nothing living was in the room. He walked several feet to the third door on the left, and wiggled the doorknob, finding to his surprise that the door was unlocked. Opening it slightly, he peered in the room, spotting nothing that caught his eye. The intruder flung the door open and pointed his gun into the room.

“Miss me?” a voice whispered from behind him. The intruder’s eyes widened, but before he could turn around, a silver candlestick holder came crashing down on his head. The intruder toppled over to the floor, crying in pain from the wound to his head, which began to trickle blood. Bridges leapt down on the man, swept up his gun, and pointed the muzzle toward the intruder’s left temple.

“What in hell made you come to my house?”

th: th:

Good stuff, keep 'er coming.

The man struggled under Bridges’ tight grip but said nothing.

“Tell me now,” Bridges ordered, cocking the gun and squeezing the man’s throat tighter. The intruder spoke in a rasping sort of tone.

“You won’t kill me.” Bridges suddenly released his grip and shot two bullets an inch away from the man’s head.

“You better believe I will,” he said, placing the gun back towards the man’s temple, “now, tell me why you’re here.”

The man didn’t speak for several seconds, but Jack’s grip eventually caused him to.

“Okay…I needed a ride.”

“I knew that,” Jack said angrily, “but why mine.”

“Because your house happened to be close by.”

“Close by what?” the man didn’t respond.

“By what?” Jack demanded, increasing the strength of his grip.

“By…Tom Ferguson.” Jack knew he had heard that name before, his mind raced over information to try and recall the person behind the name. Nothing clicked. He looked back down to the intruder.

“And who are you?” the man grunted and then smiled.

“The man your country is trying to catch.”

In what seemed to be a blinding flash of light, it all became clear to Bridges. The briefcase the man had been holding, it was the Nuclear Football. This man had penetrated the location of the Football. The name Tom Ferguson clicked and it came to Bridges that Ferguson was a close friend of the President, and was involved in much of the presidential campaign. And it also meant that it would not be long before the authorities pursued the intruder to Jack’s home.

Angrily, Bridges struck the man on the side of the head with the gun. As long as I’m here, I better see to it that I’m the one in charge.

“Now, what is your name?” Jack questioned, gritting his teeth. The intruder coughed up blood on his shirt, Jack clutching tightly to his collar, his right hand still grasping the pistol.

“Why would I tell you that?” the man said sarcastically. Jack clobbered the man a second time on the head.

“I am not playing games with you!” he shouted angrily. “You’ve invaded my house, my privacy, and my life! You tell me what I want to know!” Almost exactly after Bridges finished shouting, cars were heard pulling into his driveway.

“Better leave that to the professionals,” the intruder smiled, blood running down his lips.

Bridges lifted up the intruder by his collar and started dragging him towards a closet, gun still aimed square at his head. Jack opened the closet and threw the intruder inside of it, who landed awkwardly on the floor. Bridges closed the door and reached for a wooden chair that stood by a desk close to the closet. He placed the back of the chair underneath the brass doorknob of the closet, which caused the doorknob to stay jammed in one place. Thank God for Hollywood movies, he thought, remembering this ploy in several films.

Leaving the man’s pistol on the desk, Bridges quickly ran downstairs and peered out of a window. Four black Chevrolet sedans sat parked in his driveway, and two men were visible standing by the vehicles, as if guarding them. Just as he began to wonder where the other men were, he heard footsteps in the kitchen and the unmistakable cocking of a gun. Jack hurriedly walked towards the kitchen and shouted, “Hello, hello?”

Completely by surprise, as soon as the words were out of his mouth, five men surrounded Bridges from all sides.

They carried an extremely advanced type of machine gun, but Bridges was not able to tell what kind, his field was archeology, not weapon schematics. As all of the men leveled their guns on Bridges’ chest, he instinctively raised his hands in the air. He took a second to observe the nature of their attire. It was mostly all black, despite the clear earpieces they had on, and a small white emblem on their dark black jackets. Bridges knew it wasn’t a SWAT team and he also realized it was not the Secret Service; they were standing out by the cars. Finally, he mustered up the courage to speak.

“Thanks for coming guys, the-”

“We’ll do the talking,” a tall man in front of Bridges interrupted. Bridges nodded quickly, his brown hair becoming more of a mess.

“Where is it?” the intimidating man spoke again.

“The…the what?” Bridges asked. The man simply glared at him.

“Oh, the Football.” Jack tried to think of where the intruder had last set it down. Bridges knew the man was carrying it downstairs in the kitchen, but when he came upstairs he was no longer carrying the briefcase. Bridges stole a glance behind his back, and noticed the members of the team who were behind him were making their way to the front door, revealing a grey briefcase leaning against the bottom stair.

“There!” Bridges turned and pointed. The men who were now at the front door, turned and looked in the direction of Jack’s finger, and their gaze fell upon the Football. Two of the men raced to the briefcase and quickly picked it up. The tall man who had spoken to Bridges removed a large walkie-talkie and began to speak robotically into it.

“The target has been acquired, I repeat, the target has been acquired. Now taking the suspect into custody.” Bridges whirled around at the man’s last statement, but two big, muscular men already had grabbed Jack’s arms.

I'm heading to New Orleans for Football this week so I wont be adding anything for a while. Enjoy the story! p:

boy it is sure good i can;t wait for more