CJ strode into the enlisted club lounge where his peers had gathered to watch the inauguration and logged into his squad’s e-mail account.
Captain Love,
Below, you will find Governor Zeller’s response to my inquiry.
Regards,
General Quenten
Head shaking, CJ thought, I can’t believe he had the balls to impersonate the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
His buddy, Peter “Python” Poplawski, was an NSA computer “wizard,” the only living soul who knew the truth about CJ and Missy’s past. Python had hacked into government databases, merging the military records of CJ’s aliases into a single file, and altered Missy’s date of birth to shield her from the draft.
That personal debt just keeps growing, he thought, scanning Zeller’s response.
General Quenten,
I am pleased to report that Captain Love’s family is safe. The terrorist activity within District Nine is abating, and I anticipate that our cellular towers will be operational in the coming days.
Sincerely,
Governor Zeller
Relief and gratitude flooded through CJ, and as he closed the e-mail, it disappeared from his inbox. The digital record would linger in cyberspace, he knew, but Python’s tradecraft would make it difficult to locate.
Logging out, he glimpsed the live-stream of the inauguration on the lounge’s forty-inch monitor. Kyle Murphy placed his left hand on a bible held by his wife and raised his right.
“I, Kyle Thomas Murphy, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God.”
Shrill whistles, raucous cheers, and thundering feet pulsated through the room. As CJ added his applause to the deafening roar, his gaze tracked toward the window. A small black helicopter was landing in a parking lot fifty yards from the lounge. It was an MH-6M Little Bird, a highly maneuverable single-engine chopper that could fly into tight spaces. Dubbed the “killer egg,” it supported various weapons systems and could balance on a building ledge or ship railing long enough to deploy special operations forces.
Privately owned, CJ concluded, confident that military Pilots would never paint a conspicuous bright-red pyramid on a chopper. This is restricted airspace. Why’s it landing here?
A black, BMW 7 Series rolled toward the Little Bird, and the pilot emerged. CJ blinked as though his eyes were deceiving him. It was Senator Conn, one of thirty-two congressmen boycotting the inauguration.
The commotion in the lounge abruptly died out, and the live-stream became audible again.
“I, Ryan Franklin Andrews, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter, so help me God.”
As a former Army Ranger and commander of the TEradS, Andrews got an even louder outpouring of support. Morale had taken a nosedive during William Patterson Quenten’s administration; the endless string of traitors, the demonization by the media, the epidemic of suicides; but since the election, the base had been inundated with a rejuvenating energy, a collective sense that America would recapture her greatness.
“Captain Love?”
CJ turned, nodding toward a man in a black suit.
“Senator Conn wishes to speak with you.”
Me? he thought. How does he know my name?
Exiting the building, he squinted against the bright January sunshine. The rear door of the BMW was propped open, and the senator invited him inside. He was a balding, elder statesman with comically mismatched eyebrows and a proclivity toward securing his belt just below the nipple. He crowned his fashion statement with a purple tie that was both too wide and too short.
How the hell did this guy ever get 15% of the vote?
“You look at me as if we’re strangers,” Conn said.
CJ scoured his memory and came up empty. “I’m sorry, Senator. I’m at a loss.”
The failed presidential candidate frowned at his word choice then a predatory smile tipped his wrinkled lips. “You were employed by one of my associates ... Daman Dickinson ...”
The name was a sucker punch to the gut. Blood rushed to CJ’s head. He felt dizzy.
Senator Conn is part of The Consortium? Shit!
“... I am offering you amnesty in exchange for a signed affidavit, attesting to Bradley Webber’s collusion with Vladislav Volkov.”
How the hell did he find out that I partnered with Bradley on that black op?
“And if I’m not inclined to lie?” CJ asked.
Conn’s liver-spotted forehead crinkled; his black, soulless eyes bored into him. “That would be unfortunate for your family.”
Intense fear clawed at CJ’s heart.
My inability to reach Missy ... Did Governor Zeller lie? Did Conn abduct my family?
Amused by his distress, the Senator chuckled, filling the vehicle with the raspy sound of vibrating phlegm. “Give my regards to Madolyn, Mis-ter Kakos. And to your darling son. How old is Matthew now?”
CJ had been so sure that the chaos of the EMP had expunged their aliases.
How did The Consortium track us down?
Delighted by the anguish he’d inflicted, Conn said, “The FBI will present the affidavit for your signature and prep you for your congressional testimony.”
If I throw Bradley under the bus, will Conn honor his word and leave my family alone?
18
West of Fredericksburg, Virginia
WINDSOR HOVERED OVER the girl and gave her a backhand smack. Her head lolled to the side, but she didn’t regain consciousness. His time was running out. In one hour, she would be transported to the next waypoint on the “underground network.”
“Damn it, how much sedative did you give her?”
“We used the spring-loaded syringe we were given.” Peters’ expression grew hard and resentful. “I don’t understand why she needs to be awake.”
Of course you don’t, Windsor thought. The Secret Service agent was a new recruit, lured in by money and power. He hadn’t progressed far enough to understand that terror and pain were essential to the ritual, that negative emotion fed his master, and imbued Windsor with dark, magical powers.
Peters began to pace, a hand rubbing the back of his neck, and Windsor scowled at the pusillanimous fool. The agent’s reptilian brain, the most primitive part of the human mind, had yet to override rational thought.
“You must cast off Dull Care. Extinguish all traces of conscience and empathy. Remember the whole of the law is do what thou wilt!”
“In that case, I’ll be outside, keeping watch until it’s time to transport her.” The agent stomped through the aisle toward the old church’s red wooden doors.
“Peters, get back here! You must participate.”
“I don’t want any part of your satanic sex rituals!”
Infuriated at the disrespect, Windsor said, “You signed the oath!”
“I did my job. I delivered her into your custody.”
Overcome with rage, he struck the girl again. Blood trickled from her nose, along her cheek, and glistened under the bouncing glow of candlelight.
Angry and aroused, Windsor pulled a horned demon mask over his face. He bowed to the statue of Moloch, his lord and master, then hoisted his black druidic robe and climbed onto the altar, legs straddling the woman’s waist. She was a pretty blonde with an athletic figure, older than he preferred, but her family bloodline compensated for her age.
Fleetingly, he considered her military background and dismissed the concern.
A Sniper without a rifle is a defanged serpent, he decided, grinning with anticipation. Resistance would only magnify his pleasure. There
was nothing more satisfying than snuffing out a strong spirit, fracturing the mind, and reprogramming it to his master’s will.
“You don’t know it yet,” he whispered to his prey. “But you’re one of two star witnesses who will get daddy and hubby executed for treason.”
Expertly crafted memories would be inserted into the girl’s mind, vivid and precise; virtually indistinguishable from reality.
Windsor’s knobby fingers tightened around her throat; his left arm retracted, intending to thrash her again to restore consciousness; then a hand clamped onto his left forearm, another onto his elbow.
Finally, the bitch is awake!
She gaped at the mask. Horror flickered in her blue eyes.
“This isn’t a bad dream,” he hissed, savoring her confusion and fear. “Daddy chose his Vice President over you, dooming your mind to reprogramming, your body to sex slavery, and your soul to Moloch!”
Windsor felt her foot lock around his left leg.
Her hips thrust upward, tilting him off balance.
She rolled leftward, and before he realized what was happening, he was plummeting from the three-foot altar.
Her death grip on his forearm prevented him from breaking his fall. His tailbone struck the marble floor; his skull, a second later.
Brilliant lights flashed, a sharp ache traveled through each vertebra, then the bitch landed on top of him, driving air from his lungs. Her knee crushed his testicles, and a new, blinding, blistering-hot pain zinged through his nervous system.
A follow-up strike bashed his trachea, and his windpipe collapsed, trapping the vomit that was surging up his throat. Through the slits in his mask, he watched his prey dart toward the exit.
She won’t get far, he thought. Peters will deliver her to the next waypoint in time for the midnight ritual.
Windsor gasped, unable to take in air or call out. His lungs were filling with fluid, and a morbid feeling of cold was seeping through his limbs.
I’m drowning in my own puke ...
19
District Nine, California
MISSY LOVE WALKED into the kitchen and rested a hand on Tilli’s shoulder. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”
“Oh, no thank you, dear.” The elderly woman’s lips quivered, unable to muster a smile. “Did our little man tucker himself out?”
“Finally,” Missy said. “I’m sorry. Matthew gets cranky when he misses his nap.”
“No apologies necessary. He brings life to this empty house.”
More than two months had elapsed since Tom perished in the terrorist attack, and Tilli’s grief seemed to deepen every day. Missy hugged her, eyes squeezing shut against the grisly memories.
Trapped people were protruding from the upper windows of the courthouse while the mob chanted, “Ex-ter-min-NATE ... the yel-low SNAKE!”
Orange flames grew brighter, the smoke became chokingly dense, and Tom’s leg poked through a second-story window. His foot groped for the concrete ledge that girdled the building while the mob shrieked, “Fall! Fall! Fall!”
Face blackened with soot, the elderly man began coughing uncontrollably. He teetered, arms flapping in a futile bid to restore his balance.
Contact with the concrete bent his knee backward, and the sight had sent a weird electrical pulse whizzing along Missy’s nerve endings. It made her legs feel wobbly; her stomach, queasy.
Then thugs descended on Tom like hyenas around a kill. Their crowbars and baseball bats crashed against his hands and forearms until he could no longer shield his head. Then their savage blows battered his skull; and the Night Sector mob amended their chant. “Bleed ...! Or burn!”
Tears squirted through Missy’s clenched eyelids. The hatred in their voices, the fervor in their rabid strikes—how could they treat a human being that way?
She’d expected the discord to diminish once the election was over. Instead, Murphy’s surprise victory had opened Pandora’s box, and Governor Zeller refused to enforce the rule of law. Protestors were plundering and pillaging with impunity, dispensing beatings and rapes, even murdering those deemed yellow snakes.
“A third teenager went missing today,” Tilli said. “She was barely fourteen.”
The loss and hollowness in her voice shivered through Missy, and she offered a prayer for their missing neighbors. The sheriff of District Nine, a Zeller appointee from the ranks of Night Sector, had refused to investigate the first two cases, insisting that the girls had run off with nonexistent boyfriends.
Tilli withdrew from the embrace. “We’re not safe here. We need to try again.”
The day after the massacre, Missy and Tilli had attempted to buy train tickets for District Six, but the purchase had been declined as an unauthorized transaction.
“Night Sector has checkpoints all over,” Missy said. “They’re shooting anyone who approaches the border.”
“This district has become a prison.”
“Sure feels that way.” Tears were threatening again, salty pools of frustration and fear and loneliness. If only CJ was here.
Missy hadn’t heard from her husband since the election and, for two months, she’d been mourning, convinced that she’d lost the love of her life—like Tilli. Why else wouldn’t he call or text?
Then, last week, she’d overheard neighbors complaining about something called shadow-banning. Chatter’s high-tech blacklist was blocking the content of suspected yellow snakes in a surreptitious manner, so that users wouldn’t realize they’d been banned.
That’s why no one responded to my election-day chats, Missy thought. Chatter was censoring me and I had no idea.
Was the district’s sole cellphone provider blocking long-distance calls?
And why was Governor Zeller suppressing the truth about the Odessa courthouse massacre? Was the rest of the country being fed the same media lies? That the victims were the terrorists? And that they’d carelessly ignited the fire by mishandling their own Molotov cocktails? Was anyone buying that?
Tilli’s head cocked to the side. Her greenish-gray eyes tracked toward the bay window and widened with horror. “Night Sector. Quick. Get Matthew. We need to hide!”
Missy ran to the bedroom and swept her slumbering toddler into her arms. A sheer black fright was jamming rational thought; emotion and instinct were in command of her body.
“Hurry!” Tilli called out. “In here.”
Missy bolted into the hallway, cracking her elbow on the doorframe, and accidentally roused Matthew. “Sh-sh-sh,” she whispered, coaxing the toddler back to sleep. If he starts bawling ...
She couldn’t finish the thought.
As Missy entered the bathroom, four booms resounded; Night Sector soldiers slamming the doors of their truck.
“Into the laundry chute.” Clasping a messy wad of towels to her chest, Tilli nodded toward a custom cabinet with a shallow drawer front, the kind of craftsmanship only found in old houses.
“How far will I fall?” Missy asked, fearful that a rough impact with the basement floor might jar Matthew from her arms.
“You won’t fall. Tom and I hid in there many a time after the pulse. Now move. Move! MOVE!”
Missy sat on the cabinet’s edge, swiveled her legs inside, and eased herself down onto a wooden platform.
Tom widened it and boarded up the bottom—smart!
She shifted forward onto her knees, then rocked back, sitting on her feet.
Tilli settled beside her and arranged the armload of towels on top of their heads, leaving the door propped open to discourage suspicion.
Matthew began to moan, and his soft whimper mutated into a whine.
“Oh Doodlebug, not now,” Missy whispered, patting his back to soothe him.
Night Sector kicked in the front door. Heavy footsteps were moving closer. Closet doors creaked open and smashed against their frames, then a man stomped into the bathroom.
Missy bit her lip. Please, God. Please, please, please!
The intruder yanked the shower curtain. Met
al rings shrieked against the rod then both clattered against the tiled floor.
In a heavily accented voice, he shouted, “They’re not here.”
“Alert the checkpoints,” his comrade responded. “The bitch and the brat are a top priority ...”
Panic congealed into nausea and crawled up Missy’s throat.
Why is Night Sector specifically targeting us? Are they connected to The Consortium? Did they figure out who I am?
“... strip the valuables then burn this fucker down.”
20
District Three, Washington, D.C.
SHORTLY BEFORE 2200 hours, CJ arrived at the command post in the heart of Washington, D.C. Marines had seized control over the search for Abby Webber, despite vigorous objections by the Secret Service, and were clearing city blocks, expanding outward from the burned-out hull of the SUV on Massachusetts Avenue.
Puddles of broken glass shimmered atop the asphalt, supporting witnesses’ claims that dozens of vehicles had been battered by “peaceful” Anti-Ty protestors. Was there any truth to the “debunked” allegations that a district cop had been pelted by a hail of Molotov cocktails?
Same MO as the Odessa polling station fire, CJ thought. But why would the media protect violent assholes?
Scanning the lake of camouflage, he zeroed on Bradley Webber. The Sniper looked bereft, shoulders hunched, head bowed, gazing at a braided lock of hair.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 8
