July 3, 1927
"We've got at least 10,000 tons of rum being shipped off to the Nordic countries, though I can't be sure about the Chinese," A russet-haired man with navy blue eyes, his hair styled in a dappered side part, said.
He was driving the car, traveling down the long, dark Vermont road. He wore a red waistcoat and black tie, his suit vest draped over his seat.
"They're Chinese," A sun-kissed blonde man with evergreen eyes, his hair styled in a neat quiff, stated. "Damn sons of bitches will be dying for it."
The blonde loosened the straps on his suspenders, unbuttoning the top of his black-collared shirt and opened the window slightly to let air in. Long day at work, he noted.
He lit a cigarette, looking back at the crate of whiskey in the backseat.
"We're already making enough profit pumping heroin into their neighborhoods," A redheaded man with amber eyes, his hair casually slicked back, sighed. "They're so addicted to that shit alcohol just won't cut it."
He wore a black suit and red tie, his fedora holding an eight heart poker card. He flicked his cigarette out the window, looking back at his two brothers from the back seat.
"Well, what do you suggest, Elias?" The blonde brother asked.
Elias A. Jones, the personification of New York, only shrugged. He seemed rather tired with everything, possibly from dealing with so much political drama in his biggest city.
"Shift the run towards the brown communities," The russet-haired man stated, "Lord knows even they want in on some booze."
"Really? We can't even distribute in Harlem, how are we going to do that? They're still defensive, ya know," The blonde stated.
He was Ulysses E. Jones, the personification of Massachusetts, and one of the eldest of his siblings.
"Blame Louisa and her secession bullshit," The russet-haired man sighed.
Even so, George M. Jones couldn't hate his sister. They were family after all, and the personification of Pennsylvania knew whatever happened between them family was always important.
As they drove, they suddenly heard a bump in the back. They all frowned, writing it off as a bump on the road. An hour into the drive, they heard another bump. George gave Ulysses a skeptical look before they heard another bump.
A chocolate-brown haired man next to Elias in the back seat woke up. He only wore a white collared shirt and dark blue trousers, his sleeves rolled up, indicating he had been working. His deep jade green eyes had concern in them as he straightened himself in his seat.
Frederick S. Jones, the personification of Illinois, had a look of confusion on his face. The eldest of the Jones siblings looked out the window in confusion as they drove.
All four brothers looked young as if they were in their twenties even though they were, in reality, more or less 200 years old, perhaps even older. Now, they were all concerned as they heard another bump.
"What the hell is that?" Frederick asked.
"Flat tire?" Elias guessed.
"I think I'd know if my car had a damn flat, Elias," George deadpanned.
Another bump, this time louder than before.
"There it is again!" Elias exclaimed.
"What is that?" Ulysses muttered.
"Is it coming from the trunk?" George murmured.
"Don't know," Frederick murmured, "hey, pull over and see...oh, hell, it can't fucking be..."
"You're kidding me, right?" Ulysses asked in shock.
"What the fuck..." Frederick groaned.
There was another bump. Hell, Frederick and Elias could even hear a slight groan from the back.
All four of them had looks of horror on their faces.
"Hurry up, pull the car over," Elias said darkly, "now!"
Frederick shakily sighed and lit himself a cigarette as his brother turned the wheel.
George led the car down a dark dirt road, into a forest, stopping once they could no longer see the lights of the streets.
"Open the trunk, come on," Ulysses said urgently as they exited the car.
They heard the bump again as they walked up to the back of the car. Elias pulled out his trench knife while Ulysses pulled out his personal revolver.
George gave Frederick a skeptical look, but the eldest Jones child only nodded. George opened the trunk, and to their shock, they found an unpleasant surprise.
It was a man. Wavy dark blond hair, tousled from struggle and drenched in blood, while navy blue eyes stared back at them. Slight facial hair on his face was covered by bruises and blood, and the man tried to reach out for them.
"Son of a bitch," Elias growled and walked up to the man with his knife raised.
"No...no, please...no!" The man yelled, a French accent heard by all of them.
"Goddamn motherfucker!" Elias grunted.
Elias viciously stabbed the man, blood splattering on his hands and around the trunk. He stabbed the man in the chest and abdomen, the squelching sound every time he thrusted his blade in made Frederick's stomach curl.
The man coughed up blood, yet Ulysses raised his revolver emotionlessly. He fired three times, one in the head and twice in the chest. Each gunshot rang out a loud bang, the gunpowder rising into the air.
Francis Bonnefoy died there and then. The Frenchman's eyes were devoid of life, and he laid motionless.
"Alright, get him out of my car," George ordered, "I ain't having more blood in my trunk. You got the shovels?"
"What about the butcher we were gonna take him to?" Ulysses asked.
"Too far," George stated, "come on, chop off the limbs and we'll burn the torso."
The three brothers left Frederick at the car as they dragged the dead Frenchman from the trunk.
Ulysses brought out a large table cloth, and they wrapped the man in it, dragging him across the forest floor.
Frederick stood there silently, alone, smoking his cigarette. He frowned slightly and closed the trunk. His mind ran through the consequences of the Frenchman's murder.
The European nations would be investigating soon. Especially that damn Englishman. Though, he had trust in his father to solve things. After all, Alfred F. Jones wouldn't have given the hit if he didn't have a contingency plan.
Frederick got in the backseat of the car instead of joining his brothers. He had seen enough bloodshed in the past 100 years. He then paused before he could take another drag of his cigarette.
His mother was going to be angry, he realized, for not being informed. He wondered how his sister would react if she found out they buried a nation in her state. Probably not very pleasant.
Messy business this was, with all of its criminality and bloodshed.
Then again, that's how the Jones family operated. They were Americans, after all.
A/N: Prologue takes six years after the beginning of the story, so basically, this is something to be expected later on.
Thanks for reading, see you next time.
