Burt Berendsen sat in his cluttered medical office in New York, adjusting his glass eye in the mirror. He had just received a package with no return address. Inside was a single, weathered film reel and a note written in Valerie’s unmistakable, frantic shorthand: “The titles are available. The script is being written in blood. Come to the coast.”
As the lights came up and the conspirators fled into the night, the trio stood on the studio roof, watching the California sun rise.
The trio realized the "titles" weren't just movie names; they were the designations of power. The industrialists had a list of who would be the next "President," the next "General," and the next "Traitor."
Burt met Harold Woodman at a rain-slicked pier in New Jersey. Harold, now a successful lawyer but still wearing his scars like armor, looked at the film reel. "She’s in California, Burt. She’s found something in the Hollywood backlots that makes the Committee of Five look like a bridge club."