The Mansion.

Flash Fiction from the Vault.

The Georgian Revival edifice—built at the dawn of the American Age and hidden where the East Coast met the Atlantic.

Bounded by trees, secreted away from the distant public road.

The sun shone in a clear sky, and the sea rolled in gentle waves under a calm breeze.

A driveway cut through the leafy canopy, leading to the circular drive to the house.

Gardens in woodland shadow, punctuated by geometric rose beds laid out between stone pathways.

Two large hexagonal shapes in patterned concrete stood at either corner, bounded by manicured grass.

The mansion, fronted by a lawn divided into four by paths, offered an uninterrupted view of blue on blue, of sea and sky.

A couple of further identical hexagons, as squat foundations for invisible towers, jut out onto the beach.

In the garden, a group of people congregated, their eyes turning skyward.

The sound of helicopter blades cut through the air, growing louder as the aircraft descended upon the mansion—approaching from the cardinal directions. Two came from the sea, and a second pair from the land.

At the lawn’s centre, four men waited. Dressed in sober business attire. A fifth man stood across from them; he wore a lighter summer suit and a pale fedora, Panama-style. Alongside him, an elegant woman in white. Her sun hat—wide-brimmed and round—she takes hold of this as the wind rises.

A pair of rakish helicopters, landing gear folding out from the fuselage, alighted by the sea, each on its own platform, decked in uniform sky blue on blue livery.

Behind the house, the other two aircraft landed at the same time, coming to rest upon the hexagonal matching platforms to the rear. The same model, but painted in a deep green.

“Gentlemen, your rides have arrived.” The lady pointed to the helos.

“How do you propose to fund this?” The nearest fellow stuttered. He appeared younger than the other three. He assumed the role of leader.

“Pay?” the man in the pale Panama laughed. “Osbourne, surely you know, the price, a bill paid long ago. Our institution is a strong one. Visitors to this house should remember it.”

“We represent our fiscal masters.” Osbourne grinned. “Agnus, you would do well to recognise our banks’ foundational role. Industrial revolutions on four continents, in as many centuries.”

“From the world’s foundation, those few aeons are no more than a few drops in this ocean.”

Agnus gestured in the direction of the sea, and he beckoned to the helicopters. At once, figures emerged from the vehicles, one from each. Both loomed—very tall, wearing dark suits and sunglasses—every inch bodyguards.

Across the garden, from either side of the house, two more identical men appeared. They came striding, a fast walk, toward the gloomy-faced bankers: their escorts, for each helicopter, a hired gun guarding the messengers.

“Don’t resist,” Agnus said. “Your power is meaningless here; you have no authority.”

The helicopters took to the air; as they rose, their blades flickered as if flashing lightning, and the sound of the rotors waned to silence. Their coloured airframes fading to pure white as light splintered from them, like breaking glass, until only brightness remained—resembling four tiny suns, pulsing lights that shot heavenward, taking their captives away — disappearing at impossible speed in a brilliant blur, a shimmering, brief, ephemeral wake.

Leaving only sky and sea.