Mind Power- America Awakens

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “I’m not jaded, just brutally honest.”

  The SUV rolled forward a full car length then stopped again.

  I hope they don’t allow my dad’s motorcade to get caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic like this, Abby thought.

  Fifty yards ahead, a tidal bore of black inundated the space between stopped vehicles. Masked Anti-Tyranny protestors were waving professionally printed signs; thought-provoking retorts like “Fuck Murphy;” depictions of her father with a Hitler moustache; and a disturbing likeness of his decapitated head.

  These people are sick, Abby thought. Then, perplexed by the agents’ lack of concern, she said, “We need to get out of here.”

  “They’re just sore losers,” Leezuh said, “intent on blocking traffic and disrupting the inauguration.”

  The horde advanced and surrounded a 1978 Volkswagen Beetle with a homemade Murphy-Andrews bumper sticker. Expletives and obscene gestures escalated into kicks, and the terrified occupants laid on the horn. Anti-Ty devolved into a violent mob. They dented the hood with crowbars, sheared off mirrors, and shattered windows.

  “Don’t worry,” Agent Peters told her. “Our vehicle is armored and the glass is bulletproof.”

  Abby craned, pressing her forehead against the window. A District Three deputy cruised past the SUV on a motorcycle, coming to the aid of the trapped motorists, and was pelted with Molotov cocktails. Flames leapt upward. The officer tore off his burning helmet and wriggled free of his gasoline-soaked leather jacket.

  “They’re not protestors,” Abby insisted. “They’re terrorists!”

  Both Secret Service agents flung open their doors. Leezuh drew her sidearm. Peters yanked Abby from the backseat, and in a stooped run, they sprinted toward a defunct parking garage. They darted down the sloped, zigzagging ramps, moving deeper into the shadows.

  The skirt of Abby’s dress uniform was constraining her stride, making it difficult to keep up with Peters, then one of her pumps slipped from her foot. She jettisoned its mate, her stockinged feet slapping against frigid concrete.

  The battle cry of the horde was growing fainter, and a quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Leezuh was right behind them. Did she call this in? Were District Three police en route?

  Peters stopped beside a four-door white pickup formerly used by peacekeepers. He wrenched open the rear door, shoved Abby inside, and then both agents piled into the front. Peters lowered the visor, and an old-school set of keys dropped into his lap.

  Did they plant emergency vehicles along the route? Abby wondered. Or did they just get lucky?

  The truck accelerated through the garage, tires shrieking, then exited onto K Street and turned south onto Route 1.

  “Could you guys do me a favor?” Abby asked. “I’m going to need a pair of shoes for the inauguration.”

  “Shut up!”

  Shock and anger exploded inside her. First these clowns get me stuck in the middle of a riot and now they’re going to be rude? Their sorry asses need to be fired!

  She stewed for several minutes, mentally rehearsing a rebuke for their superiors, then Abby’s mouth filled with a sour taste. “Uh, why are we heading away from D.C.?”

  “I said shut up!” Leezuh pivoted. Her balled fist slammed against Abby’s thigh, a needle penetrated flesh, and a warm sensation coursed along her leg.

  Grogginess descended rapidly, and as Abby’s eyelids drooped, she thought, Why are Secret Service agents kidnapping me?

  15

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  FOR RYAN ANDREWS, reality had become surreal. He was still having trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that, in a few hours, he would become Vice President of the United States. He preferred to think of it as a mission, a prolonged undercover operation to rid the nation of the cancer known as The Consortium.

  Ryan was smart enough to know that taking on the globalist cabal would endanger his family; and wise enough to understand that his unborn child would have no future if they maintained power.

  Did they really have a ninety-six-day plan as Denny Rockenfeld suggested? If so, what would happen on February fourteenth, the two-year anniversary of the EMP?

  Ryan exhaled a hiss of frustration.

  Is Amad’s “honeypot” trap part of it?

  By the time law enforcement had interviewed the perverted prince, the underage girls were gone, and the royal liar had played the Islamophobia card, accusing Kyle of being a bigot.

  That could’ve been catastrophic. What if, instead of trying to blackmail Kyle, the Dopey Prince had shot him?

  Through a set of French doors, Ryan watched Franny waddle into the living room of the hotel suite. A hand supporting her back, belly swollen with life, she eased herself onto a leather club chair; then, sensing that he was watching, she said, “I feel like an elephant that just swallowed a whale.”

  “You ... are gorgeous,” he told her, marveling at the miracle. Her body was building bone, muscle, and organs; interconnecting them with a complex web of neurological wiring; without blueprints or a team of engineers; without conscious thought.

  “Stop gawking at me with that stupid smile,” she groused, unmuting the newsfeed.

  “... Thousands of peaceful protestors are making their voices heard on this inauguration day, demanding a congressional investigation into Russia collusion. The President-elect and his transition team have come under increasing scrutiny in recent weeks, and Global News Network has obtained explosive information regarding the alleged suicide of Denny Rockenfeld. We can now confirm that the deceased campaign worker had, in fact, agreed to meet with an unnamed reporter to disclose damning facts that would’ve connected Kyle Murphy to General Vladislav Volkov. Was Rockenfeld murdered to keep the truth from coming to light ...?”

  Absolutely, Ryan thought, but The Consortium offed him, not us. He still hadn’t heard a credible explanation as to how the assassin accessed transition headquarters. Has the Secret Service been infiltrated by agents loyal to the cabal? Is that why Kyle’s protective detail allowed him to walk into a “honeypot” trap?

  Franny planted both hands against the chair’s armrests, battling an unwieldy center of gravity, and Ryan scrambled to help her to her feet.

  “I am so tired of running to the bathroom every five seconds,” she muttered.

  “It won’t be much longer.” He rested a hand on her belly. Junior was squirming, probably kicking her bladder. Ryan’s lips curled into an involuntary smile and brushed against hers with a tender kiss, then a resonant thud spoiled the moment. Someone with a heavy hand was pounding against the door of the suite.

  Ryan opened it and greeted Bradley with a combination handshake one-armed hug.

  “Congrats, Mr. Vice President.”

  “Not yet,” Ryan said, peering into the hallway. “Where’s Abby?”

  “Good question. She was a no-show at the train station.” Bradley’s tone was calm, yet held an undercurrent of concern. “I asked your Secret Service agents to check on her.”

  “Traffic’s a bitch thanks to the protests. Maybe her protective detail aborted the trip for security reasons.”

  Bradley rubbed a palm over his clean-shaven chin then let his hand fall to his side. “That’s probably a good thing because ... because Volkov was there to greet me.”

  A suffocating sensation tightened around Ryan’s throat. “What?”

  “He was disguised as a homeless man. Stuffed this into my pocket.” The Sniper waggled a thumb drive between his thumb and index finger.

  “It was probably just a guy who resembled him.”

  “A random guy who told me to consider myself activated?”

  Realizing that even a look-alike Volkov would be politically devastating, Ryan folded his arms across his chest.

  Did Crooked Carter Sidney set Bradley up?

  “I know you don’t need this agita two hours before the inauguration, but I’m really worried. What if Volkov chose me because I have access to Kyle? What if I ...” Bra
dley’s voice trailed off. His expression twisted with angst and shame. “I could be a danger to Kyle ... and you ...”

  He listened as his best friend rambled, each claim sounding more insane; and worse still, Bradley wholeheartedly believed this nonsense.

  “... Damn it, Ryan, say something.”

  “I think you’re overreacting to Abby’s absence,” he said, his voice placating, “because you went through hell when she was MIA.”

  Bradley’s arm lurched upward, thrusting the thumb drive into Ryan’s face. “Is this a figment of my paranoia?”

  “For all you know, the homeless guy could’ve fished that out of a dumpster.” Ryan plucked it from his hand, surprised that it looked new—no smudges, worn edges, or scuff marks. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll have Admiral Rone take a look at it.”

  The final syllable faded into the chime of his encrypted phone; and, eager for a change of subject, he grunted, “Andrews.”

  “Sir, this is Agent Unger. I’ve been in contact with Sergeant Webber’s Secret Service detail. Evidently, a wardrobe malfunction, in the form of a broken heel, necessitated a hunt for new shoes. She will rendezvous with the family in the Capitol staging area.”

  Ryan thanked the agent and ended the call. “Abby got sidetracked by a broken heel. She’ll meet you at the Capitol. Now you can drop all this nonsense about the homeless guy.”

  Relief flickered over Bradley’s features and immediately dissolved into irritation. “It’s not nonsense. It was Volkov. And his mind-control technology poses an existential threat to this country!”

  The tension in Ryan’s shoulders ratcheted tighter. “You want me to believe that an owl hacked into your brain and made you do jumping jacks and kiss a hooker? That it taught you about Greek demigods and how to speak Spanish while you were sleeping? This is the craziest conspiracy theory ever!”

  Bradley buried his face in his hands, vented a frustrated growl, then let his arms fall back to his sides. “Just because something sounds crazy, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  Determined to jolt Bradley back to his senses, Ryan opened the language translation app on his phone. “I want you to recite the Pledge of Allegiance—in Spanish.”

  Without hesitation, the Sniper said, “Juro lealtad a la bandera de los Estados Unidos de América, y a la republica por la cual se encuentra, una nación, bajo Dios, indivisible ... con libertad y justicia para todos.”

  Holy shit, he did it, Ryan thought. And he couldn’t have memorized it ahead of time because he had no idea what I was going to ask.

  “Necesito que me creas,” Bradley continued, “porque la próxima generación del arma de control mental se active en veintecinco dias.”

  Ryan gaped at the translation—I need you to believe me because the next-generation mind-control weapon is going live in twenty-five days—then his blood vessels turned to ice. Bradley’s twenty-five days and Rockenfeld’s ninety-six days both pointed to February fourteenth.

  “The uh, twenty-five days,” Ryan said. “Where’d that intel come from?”

  A broad, self-satisfied smile engulfed Bradley’s face then, switching back to English, he said, “A little bird told me.”

  16

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  A HALF HOUR BEFORE Kyle Murphy was due to appear on the inaugural dais, Abby still hadn’t arrived at the Capitol.

  Something’s wrong, he thought, certain that his daughter would attend the inauguration barefoot rather than miss it. Did she get caught up in the protests?

  Contrary to whitewashed media coverage, which painted Anti-Ty as peaceful protestors exercising their First Amendment rights, Kyle knew it was a front group for Night Sector. They lured gullible, well-meaning citizens into their ranks, supplied them with black clothing and balaclavas, and used them as human shields to protect the violent core from arrest.

  Anti-Ty had set fires all over D.C. and barricaded roads in order to disrupt the inauguration. Would they target his family?

  Admiral Rone entered the staging area, his face puckered with consternation. He rested one hand on Kyle’s elbow, the other on Ryan’s, and said, “Please come with me.”

  He ushered them into a private office within the Capitol, and closed the door. “Abby’s been abducted, and we believe her protective detail may have been complicit.”

  A flash of grief ripped through Kyle’s chest, leaving behind a searing hot ache.

  “Are you saying that The Consortium has infiltrated the Secret Service?” Ryan asked.

  “We’re investigating the possibility,” Rone told him. “And in the interim, Marines will be assuming all protective duties.”

  Kyle’s mind reverted to the prince’s threat: Spurning my hospitality will prove to be the biggest mistake of your life.

  Is Al-Waleed Amad behind this?

  The frown lines around Rone’s mouth deepened. “The ransom call came from a Night Sector general known only as Hellhound.”

  “What does he want?” Kyle barked.

  “He’s demanding that Ryan confess to war crimes on GNN, no later than midnight tonight; and that you nominate Johanna Krupp to be your Vice President in his stead.”

  Anger was boiling and frothing inside Kyle. “So much for your council of Wizards and Warlocks. How can they take down The Consortium if they can’t even keep my daughter safe?”

  Rone stiffened, seemingly displeased. “NSA is scouring the chatter and satellite feeds for her location. And Recon Marines are standing by.”

  Ryan planted an empathetic hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “You can’t cave to those demands. Johanna Krupp is high-level Consortium—”

  “I know that, damn it!” He brushed off his friend’s touch, repudiating the gesture. The blood in Kyle’s veins was tingling with electricity, racing ever faster. “This is my daughter’s LIFE! She matters more than any job or title.”

  “I get that,” Ryan responded, “but you have to consider the 40,000-foot view. If you appoint Krupp, you’re signing your own death warrant.”

  “So be it!” Kyle was vaguely aware that emotion was drubbing out rational thought, but he couldn’t control it. “I’d rather The Consortium assassinate me than murder Abby.”

  “And what about the country?” Ryan argued. “Are you going to let them implement their totalitarian state?”

  Fear and anger became a scalding fury, making Kyle’s skull feel like a pressure cooker on the verge of rupturing, then words erupted from his mouth. “Are you worried about the country? Or avoiding a war crimes tribunal?”

  Shock lit in Ryan’s eyes, raw hurt mixed with indignation. “You ... are way out of line—”

  “Yeah, well maybe that’s because I already buried Abby once. I can’t go through that again. I won’t put Jessie through THAT again. My family has to come first.”

  “Believe me, Kyle, the last thing I want is to endanger Abby—”

  “Says the guy who’s made a fucking career out of it!”

  “All right, enough.” The Admiral stepped between them, palms extended, like a referee. “This is unproductive. It doesn’t help Abby, and it plays into The Consortium’s divisive strategy. ”

  Kyle knew Rone was right. He’d let his emotions get the better of him, and he couldn’t retract the venomous words. “Ryan, I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean that.”

  Reeling from the verbal flogging, the former TEradS commander nodded an acknowledgment and continued staring at the floor.

  “I think the point Ryan was trying to make,” Rone continued with a serene tone, “is that if The Consortium regains the presidency, they will systematically purge all military personnel. Abby will still be in jeopardy.”

  “Listen, Kyle ...” Ryan hesitated as if groping for words. “I’ll gladly step down. I hate politics. I hate D.C. And I’d go back to the TEradS in a heartbeat, but I am not going to confess to crimes that I didn’t commit. I have a family too.”

  Kyle massaged the aching knot in his neck, embarrassed by his outb
urst.

  I haven’t lost control like that since right after the EMP, he thought, not even when I thought Abby had been stoned to death. Why now?

  He drew in a deep breath to soothe his frazzled nerves then glanced at Rone. “What’re the odds of Abby being rescued before midnight?”

  “I have every available resource devoted to the task. And your daughter’s skill set as a Scout Sniper could facilitate a self-rescue.”

  Noting that Rone declined to offer a numerical probability, Kyle said, “How am I supposed to make a decision when I can’t live with either outcome?”

  17

  Anolachia Air Force Base, Washington, D.C.

  CJ LOVE WAS STATIONED at Anolachia Air Force Base. The nine-hundred-acre military installation was home to Whiteside, an executive flight detachment responsible for VIP flights, and for nearly two years, he had served as General Jonathan Quenten’s personal Pilot.

  At thirty-seven, CJ had a tall, muscular frame and platinum-blond hair that was cropped shorter on the sides, longer on top; but his baby-blue eyes, dimpled chin, and impish smile conspired to make him appear much younger.

  CJ had been trying to contact his wife for weeks. Phone calls went straight to voicemail; text messages went unanswered; and she hadn’t posted any “chats” since before the election.

  Missy’s addicted to Chatter, he thought. She’d never be able to go this long without posting.

  Anxiety simmering, he inhaled a slow breath. CJ had fought so hard to protect her and Matthew from The Consortium. To lose them now would be more than he could bear.

  He and Missy had been vacationing in Hawaii with their infant son at the time of the electromagnetic pulse, and CJ was immediately drafted. It had taken a year’s savings to ferry his family across the Pacific; and the second leg of the move, from California to Washington, was proving equally expensive due to a lack of commercial aviation and earthquake-ravaged rail crossings that dead-ended at the Mississippi River.