Rating: K-plus, for mentions of substance abuse

IMPORTANT NOTE: The story of The Racketeer is set twenty-one years into the future from the first 39 Clues series. Amy Cahill and Ian Kabra are thirty-five; Dan Cahill, Madison Holt and Reagan Holt are thirty-two; Jonah Wizard and Hamilton Holt are thirty-six; the Starlings are all thirty-seven. I tried to keep it canon to the series, as this is not AU, but depending on the aftermath of Flashpoint, the latest book, it may end up being AU anyway. However, for The Maze of Bones through Countdown, this story fits the canon. If you have any questions, feel free to send me a PM - I promise I'm nice. (:

Also, one last thing: this is inspired by John Grisham's book, The Racketeer. (Which I highly recommend to anybody looking for a good read.) However, because it is "inspired by" it and not based off of it, I feel the need to warn you that my version of the story and his version of the story could not even be put on the same shelf at the library without messing up the Dewey Decimal System. They are very different, so if you have read Mr. Grisham's The Racketeer, you have neither read mine nor spoiled any plot twists. If you haven't read his, definitely read it (just keep in mind that it's an adult book, so if you don't like the adult themes, references, and swearing, definitely don't read it) but do it after you read mine. His is way better. ;)

Most importantly, I hope you enjoy my fanfiction - that's the reason I posted it. (:

Hugs,

Bre xoxo

Dedicated to Michael, my godfather, who is the reason I'm still writing today.

Thanks so much, Mike. You're the greatest godfather in the universe.

Alpha | by Breanne Nedra | January 2nd, 2014

Ned Starling pulled up to the curb a couple blocks away from his destination. The streets were busy, people walking to and fro down the sidewalk, cars whizzing by on the road. He sat back in his BMW's leather seats for a moment, going over the plan one last time. Everything had to be perfect. One slip up and the whole thing would be down the toilet – and he was not one to unclog a toilet, even if it was purely metaphorical.

Putting up the convertible's roof and cutting the engine, Ned slipped out of the car. His reflexes kicked in as a red pickup truck blew by, nearly hitting Ned and almost taking his car door off in the process. He released his breath slowly. He was way too jumpy.

Hugging the side of the convertible, he slammed his car door shut and slipped around to the sidewalk, where he smiled in relief. No getting hit before the plan gets set in motion. He dropped an hour's worth of coins into the parking meter next to him. This wouldn't take long.

He weaved between passersby, ignoring them all, and them returning his indifference. That was one thing he loved about Washington D.C. – nobody judged anybody else, mostly because they ignored them. It was the perfect place to make history.

"Hello, boys," he greeted warmly, walking up to the guard station a few blocks later. "How are things?"

"Buzz off, Ned," growled a man with hair so red it was a fiery orange. "You know we can't let you in."

"Aw, c'mon, fellas, at least give me a chance to ask before you turn me away," Ned grumbled. "It's not like you don't know me."

"Security Protocol Four. No one gets in."

"But-"

"Cut it, Ned."

Ned turned to see a particularly muscled man with blond hair styled like a shark fin walking toward the small group. "There's my favorite Secret Service member!" He grinned in a laughably warm fashion. "How's it goin', Hamilton?"

Hamilton Holt, who was six-two and had to weigh at least two hundred-fifty pounds, was definitely not Ned's favorite Secret Service member – for a number of reasons. The Clue hunt might be a good place to start, as would be the age-old skirmish between the Ekaterinas and the Tomas. Ultimately, however, it boiled down to the fact that Hamilton was usually the one to cart Ned off the property whenever he tried to get into the White House, and Ned had a tendency to hold a grudge over those kinds of things – especially considering he had a perfectly fine reason to be on the property, and Hamilton darn well knew it. "Don't try to kiss up, Ned. You know we can't let you in."

"Why? Because I'm a civilian and I might hurt the President with all my evilness and normality?" Ned scoffed. "C'mon, I don't have anything against anybody in that building. Except maybe you, but technically you're not in the building itself, and I think that, given my reasons, my dislike is justified."

"I can't go against orders," Hamilton replied firmly, unruffled. "Sorry, Ned."

Ned huffed. "Don't you think you kinda owe me for the 'accident'" - the use of air quotations made Hamilton scowl - "a few years back?"

"No, actually, I don't think I do," Hamilton snipped. "Because as I recall, I helped to steal multiple priceless items to make sure your brother didn't get to find out what being six feet under the soil feels like."

"And what was it like to be able to put 'master art thief' on your résumé?" Ned wondered aloud suggestively, since the other agents had started talking amongst themselves. "Surely it didn't get you this amazing job?"

"If you're implying that you'll turn me in, I'd like to see you try. It's my word against yours."

"True," Ned sighed. He didn't actually have any evidence to back up any claims he might be able to make against Hamilton, so going to Interpol would prove useless. Besides, everything had been cleared up years ago. "How about this: Please let me in, Hamilton."

"No."

"Pretty please?"

"I don't care if it's an ugly please – the answer is still no."

"I'll be your best buddy!"

"You can't be someone else's best buddy in exchange for a favor!"

Ned sighed again and turned to go. "Okay, yeah, you're right. I guess I'll just email Ted and tell him that you wouldn't let me in to see him..."

Hamilton sighed. "Come on," he snapped, "but don't even think of trying anything stupid!"

Ned perked up, even as Hamilton grabbed the collar of his trench coat to drag him to his destination.

Getting in was always half the battle.

Theodore Starling looked up from the papers spread across his desk as the door burst open to reveal Hamilton Holt dragging a man in a trench coat into his office. He recognized the man immediately.

"He wouldn't leave," came Hamilton's explanation. "Sorry if you were doing something important." He practically sneered the last word at Ned.

Ted smiled. "No worries, Ham. Thanks for bringing him in."

Hamilton gave a somewhat dissatisfied grunt, which quickly turned to irritation when Ned threw a mocking kiss and a wave at him when Ted looked away to put his papers off to the side. Hamilton cast a death glare at the second-youngest triplet as he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Ted turned to Ned, grinning warmly. "Hey, Ned, how have you been?"

"Wicked awesome, as always," replied Ned, sitting down on one of the soft leather couches in the middle of the spacious room. "I'm going to be doing a presentation next week about the advancements in nanotechnology."

Ted frowned in confusion, tilting his head to the side as he sat down on the sofa across from his brother. "I thought the institute had stowed the development of nanotechnology after they realized that the nanodoctors they were making could be used to carry poisons, chemicals and deadly diseases into the patient's body."

"They did," Ned admitted, "but I convinced them to bring it back."

"Why in the world would you do that?"

"We need these nanodoctors, Ted. People die every day due to illnesses that, when the doctors are fully developed, they could have helped with. Are there a few health risks? Yes. But UV rays can kill the bacteria and viruses that would cause the diseases, and as long as nobody decides to put bleach or something into the liquid of their hibernation tubes, they should never come in contact with any sort of poisonous substance to begin with."

Ted hummed in thought for a moment before nodding slowly. "I suppose I can see your point, but any cracks or shaded areas would still be contaminated, UV or no."

His brother waved the comment aside. "You know as well as I do that UV sanitation is a secondary sterilization method. I was just using that as an example."

"True. Just don't go testing your little mini robots on anything until they're done, okay?"

"You got it, bro," Ned grinned. "So enough about me – how are things in the big, white and presidential?"

"The ordeal with The Racketeer is still going on, so why don't you tell me," Ted said.

"You still haven't caught that guy?"

"The only way we even know it's him is because he leaves that same note at every place he's targeted." Ted ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in a couple places.

"I remember you telling me about that." Ned recited: "Sorry for the inconvenience, but you've been racketeered. Signed, The Racketeer. Classic – bordering on cliché."

"It's like he's taunting us," Ted continued with a nod. "He always handwrites the note, on the same yellow sticky-notes with the same red ink pen, but he must use his subordinate hand, because no matter how many times we run the note through the CIA's logs, we never find a match."

"Maybe he's just one of the people you don't have a handwriting sample on," Ned suggested. "Or maybe it's like in Season Three of 24, and you need to check the list of people who are presumed dead."

"I've gotten so desperate that we've checked the files of people we know are dead; like, we've found the body and everything." Ted sighed and straightened his hair back into it's usual spic-and-span appearance. "There's nobody in the system with that kind of penmanship. I can only hope that you're right and we can't find him because his handwriting isn't on file, not because he's bamboozling us by using his left hand." He slowly released a breath. "Whoever this guy is, he's amazing at what he does. I may have to get his autograph if we ever arrest him."

"It'll work out," Ned promised. "He'll mess up one day, and then capturing him will be a cinch."

"For the country's sake, I hope you're right." Ted grabbed a bottled water off the coffee table and took a long drink from it. "But enough about my problems. Was there a particular reason you came to see me today?"

"Well..." Ned started reluctantly. "There was a reason. I'm just not really sure how to break it to you."

Ted frowned. "What's wrong?"

"I come bearing a warning," Ned said quietly, solemnly. "It's The Racketeer. He wants you out of Office. And he wants you out now."

Ted leaned back into his seat, suddenly feeling tired. "Why?"

Ned shrugged. "I don't know."

"Then how do you know about this?"

"Insider info," smiled Ned, "of a sort." He reached his hand into the inner pocket of his trench coat; when he produced it, he was clutching a pistol. He dramatically cocked it as he stood up from his chair, aiming the barrel right between his brother's stunned blue eyes.

Ted froze. His eyes flicked to and fro between the gun's ominous barrel and his brother's impassive face. He was barely able to get out the words, "You're working for him."

That's when Ned did something strange – he threw his head back, laughing like it was all in good fun. Like he wasn't pointing a gun at his brother. Like a little kid... Like a maniac. He smiled. "Do you really think I would settle for number two? I've been number two my entire life. I'm even the second-oldest triplet, for crying out loud!" He was still smiling, but it was no longer the smile of someone who had heard a good joke – it was a smile with the arcaneness of the Cheshire Cat's.

"What's wrong with being the second-oldest?" Ted asked cautiously, raising his hands to where his brother could see them, though not quite a surrendering position.

"Says the youngest," Ned quipped.

"By three minutes and twenty-two seconds," Ted shot back.

"Like it matters," replied Ned. "So, now, this is when it gets all James Bond-like. I'm going to repeat my request, and the consequences of ignoring that request, to you; if you're smart, you'll run along and do it. If you're not, then you'll do something stupid and pointless in the smart thing's place. Of course, I know which one is the smart choice, but since I'm so nice and know all about your love of over-thinking things, I'm going to give you two weeks to make your decision. After you've made it, I will gleefully tune into your resignation speech – I love watching your speeches, by the way; you're a natural – and I promise I won't set my nasty plan into action. However, if you don't resign within that time limit, I will assume you chose the stupid path, and I will ruin you." He grinned wider. "Any questions?"

"You're The Racketeer," Ted whispered in shock.

"There we go!" Ned said happily. "Now we're on the same page."

"How could you do this to me?" Ted rose cautiously from his seat. "How could you do this to your own brother?"

"Hmm, let me think," Ned murmured contemplatively. He paused for a moment, pretending to ponder the question. Finally, he said, "Gosh, I don't know, Ted. Probably the same way you could betray me so swiftly back in college." He looked at his younger brother, eyes flashing in a strangely calm rage.

Ted blinked, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't play stupid," Ned sneered. "We both know you're not."

"But I don't know what you mean!"

"If you don't know, then you need to ask somebody."

"I thought I was asking you."

"I suggest someone who's not pointing a gun at your head." Ned smiled. "But if it makes you feel better, maybe one of these days I'll tell you."

"But I want to know now."

"But I don't want to tell you now." Ned's eyes twinkled merrily. "And you know how I feel about altruism."

"And you know how I feel about manipulation," Ted replied. "What makes you think I'll resign just because you're threatening me? I could have you arrested right now, you know."

"You won't do that, Ted. And do you know why? Because I have a plan. A glorious plan. And if I put it in motion, things will happen. Bad things. Heads will roll. People may die. By the end of it, the entire country will be mine. One way or another, you will not be the President at the end of this whole thing. But that's okay, because nobody will want you to be, anyway. Because all the bad stuff will be your doing – as far as the people of America will know." Silence engulfed them for a few moments as the words soaked in. Ned gave a mockingly sympathetic smile. "And all you have to do to make sure none of that happens is step down from your Presidency."

Another moment of silence, and then Ted managed to ask, almost tearfully, "What happened to you, Ned?"

Ned said nothing – simply raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

Ted cowered at the sound of the gunshot. It echoed through the vaulted ceilings and seemed to be fifty times louder than it should have been. He was surprised his ears weren't ringing. When he glanced up a second after the shot, he saw what his brother had aimed for: one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk.

And Ned was already sprinting toward it.

Ted shot off after him, jumping over the small coffee table between the sofas they had been sitting on. He put every ounce of energy he had into catching up to his brother.

But Ned just kept on going. His bullet had blasted through the window, weakening the glass's integrity. He ran, and just before he reached the window he threw his shoulder forward and broke through the invisible barrier.

Ted attempted to grab his brother's sleeve just before he crashed into the glass, but Ted missed, only succeeding in ripping off a piece of cloth from the trench coat's collar. His arm scraped painfully along a particularly sharp shard, and he cried out in pain involuntarily, clutching at the wound.

In the meantime, Ned landed harmlessly on the White House's South Lawn, immediately getting up and sprinting away toward the nearby trees. The trees weren't very thick, but he could lose himself in them and slip away before he could be caught.

Injured, with no one around to help him, and his brother armed with both a gun and an enormous head start, Ted didn't need his genius IQ to know that Ned wasn't going to be caught. Not today.

The Racketeer was getting away again.

Ned barely dared to breathe as he hid behind a hedge fence near the property line of the White House. He listened carefully for any signs that the Secret Service knew where he was. Upon hearing nothing, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over his arm, careful to fold it so the rip wasn't notable. He slipped out from behind the hedge and stepped onto the street, blending in with the crowd. Keeping his head down all the way to his car, he made sure to act as innocent as all the other pedestrians.

When he reached his BMW's welcoming interior, he let himself melt into the seat.

And he smiled.

All according to plan.