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The only thing the elite fear, an uprising of the people, is about to be realized.
After bankruptcy took away his dying wife’s medical care, Thomas Paine is on a crusade for a Second Bill of Rights using violence against politicians, banksters, and CEO’s.
How far will FBI Agent Darren Medlin go to stop the public from joining Paine’s insurgency? Forced to publicize Paine’s demands, what decisions will talk show host Crystal Dickerson have to make? And which way will the country turn?
Chapter 1: Linn Cove
Senator Arlen Stowe’s motto was, “If it’s not a jet, it’s not an airplane.” Deathly afraid of heights, the Chair of the Senate Finance Committee knew just enough about flying to lack faith in turbo-prop commuter planes destined to encounter thunderstorms, thermal drafts, and clear air turbulence. Even on commercial jetliners he sat on the aisle, or preferably in the center section, just to avoid any possibility of looking down.
Speed, however, was another issue. The senator loved to drive fast, especially on curvy roads where he could fantasize about being a famous race driver. Stowe’s family, on the other hand, would rather have taken flight in a battle-damaged WWII bomber than ride across the street with Arlen at the wheel. This worked out well for everyone when it came time to make the annual pilgrimage from Stowe’s home in Virginia to the family farm near Ashville, North Carolina for his mother’s birthday. His wife and kids flew on ahead, and the senator followed later by car.
The only practical route was the Blue Ridge Mountain Highway, a road not conducive to those in a hurry. The maximum posted speed limit along its entire twisting, curving 470-mile length was 45 mph. However, car and weather permitting, in some places a driver like Stowe who was so inclined could go a lot faster. As was his custom, Stowe spent the early evening with his mistress and started his drive around nine. This gave him a chance to race through the really curvy stretches of the highway by slicing over into oncoming lanes in the safety of darkness, where the glow of on-coming headlights gave him plenty of time to ease off the throttle and get back into his own lane.
The crown jewel of the Blue Ridge Mountain Highway was the Linn Cove Viaduct, a span that seemed to hang in space on concrete pillars as it curved in and out around Grandfather Mountain. Driving over it had been described as “feeling like a soaring flight around the edge of the world,” the operative word being feeling. Like many people with a fear of heights, Stowe wasn’t bothered as long as he didn’t have to look down, and as he expertly lined up his approach into the viaduct’s first curve, he certainly didn’t intend to do any real soaring. His instructor at the high performance driving school in Phoenix would have been proud as Stowe’s muscular imported luxury sedan cut the apex of the first curve perfectly and came out flat, glued to the road, holding a perfect line. Attacking the apex of the second curve, the car dipped across the centerline into the on-coming lane, which should have been empty.
But it wasn’t.