Lethal mistake, Bradley thought, zeroing his rifle sights on the closest target. Two rapid shots pierced their chests and reduced them to roadkill, then the desolate neighborhood fell silent.
Did the morons radio for backup before they engaged?
Are other patrols nearby?
“Yo, CJ! Time to get outta Dodge!”
They skulked from the rear of the Colonial to their Humvee, hidden inside the Glenmont Station parking garage. CJ drove, and Bradley scrutinized every abandoned vehicle and vacant house while he pondered Volkov’s riddle.
“S, M, T, P, U-5,” he reiterated. “Maybe it’s a scrambled word.”
“Like stump?” CJ asked. “Or tumps?”
“Is tumps even a word?”
“Yeah, aren’t tumps mounds of dirt or vegetation or something?”
Unconvinced, Bradley sank back against the passenger’s seat. “Maybe the letters are Cyrillic. That would equate to C, M, T, R, Y dash 5 or minus 5. Maybe it’s a word that begins with C and ends with T, R, Y ... Like chemistry. Or circuitry.”
“Cabinetry, carpentry, country.” CJ’s head bowed in defeat. “It could mean anything.”
Bradley retrieved Volkov’s paper scrap and studied the clue under the glow of black light. “There are underscores between the first three letters, all consonants. Maybe those represent missing vowels.”
“A, E, I, O—”
“E!” Bradley exclaimed. “That’s the fifth letter of the alphabet. Hence the minus 5.” Fingers groping for his pen pocket, he fished out a BiC and filled in the blanks.
C_M_T_RY-5 = C E M E T E RY
“Volkov is directing us to a cemetery,” Bradley concluded. “But I have no idea which one.”
“Great,” CJ muttered, braking to a stop and extracting his Chi-phone. “A midnight trip to a graveyard.” He inserted the battery, powered it on, and dialed Python’s direct line. “Yo, buddy. We need a list of cemeteries in the greater Washington, D.C. area.”
“With family plots related to our target,” Bradley added.
CJ ended the connection and his baby-blue eyes widened. A relieved smile gave way to a choked laugh. “I’ve got a voicemail from Missy.”
Bradley understood the pain of a missing wife.
I would’ve lost my mind if I hadn’t heard from Abby since the election.
“My family was rescued by a TEradS team,” CJ said excitedly, jettisoning the phone. “They’re on a C-130, landing at Ansley at 0400. I know you pulled strings to make this happen. I owe you, brother. I owe you everything!”
“If you hadn’t stolen that Little Bird, Abby could’ve died of hypothermia. Or been recaptured. So right back atcha, brother.”
A fierce, strength-draining ache harpooned Bradley’s chest, the reality that his relationship with Abby had died the moment Volkov took him captive.
I’ll never get to kiss her again or make love to her or—
His self-pity party was derailed by the chime of CJ’s Chi-phone.
“Yo, Python,” Wingnut said, laughter and sarcasm wriggling in his tone. “What took you so long?”
“It’s a common surname,” the NSA guru replied, his voice tinny and frail thanks to the phone’s subpar speaker. “So I had to dig into his family tree. He allegedly murdered his wife before fleeing the country with his son. She’s interred inside a mausoleum at Greenwood Cemetery on Hamilton Avenue.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Did you catch Volkov’s confession?” Python asked.
Bradley’s pulse skyrocketed. “Confession?”
“Yeah. He hacked into the Emergency Alert System and claimed credit for Ames, Hanssen, Arnold, and Burr. The Consortium is trying to scrub the video, but I archived a copy.”
Ripples of dismay and confusion creased CJ’s forehead as he ended the call.
Volkov rushing to the aid of Kyle’s daughter, son-in-law, and Vice President, Bradley thought. That’s going to reinforce the Russia collusion narrative.
CJ extracted the phone’s battery and shifted the Humvee into drive, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
Neighborhoods zipped past in a blur while Bradley’s mind jetted.
Would Volkov’s confession squelch the witch hunt against Abby?
Why did he confess to crimes he hadn’t committed?
What’s in it for him?
It can’t be to curry favor with me. He’s already transformed me into his puppet.
Was Volkov really working with a group of white hats? Or was that disinformation?
Then a darker, more sinister thought occurred.
What if Volkov intends to use that altruistic confession as leverage over Kyle?
CJ turned right onto Greenwood Avenue and backed the Humvee inside a defunct car wash.
Bradley kicked open the passenger’s door and slung his rifle strap over his shoulder, then they traversed the three blocks to the cemetery on foot.
The graveyard was a ghoulish, shadow-filled realm with frost-encrusted weeds that protruded like daggers. Headstones glowed icy green under night vision and, across the grounds, an old church capped with gargoyles was silhouetted against the moonlit sky.
The Jackson family mausoleum was a white granite structure with four columns, an open-gabled roof, and narrow double doors inset with gothic, arched windows.
CJ inserted the odd-looking key Volkov had taped to the hammer, the lock clicked, and the hinges extended a ghostly moan of welcome.
The air smelled stale, and Bradley felt like a trespasser, intruding upon the eternal rest of people he had never met. He switched on the black light and appraised the claustrophobic space. An ornate stone bench was positioned beneath a stained-glass window that faced due east. The walls were lined with white marble, and each slab was affixed by patinaed copper rosettes. Names and dates had been etched into twelve of the eighteen vaults, and Bradley systematically inspected each with the black light.
One unmarked drawer near the ceiling fluoresced with a handwritten name: Dmitry Volkov.
“You’re not really going to ...” CJ’s voice faded into the macabre stillness.
“There’s a reason he supplied a hammer.” Bradley attempted to slide the stone bench and vented an audible groan. “It’s bolted to the floor. I’m gonna need a boost.”
CJ dropped onto all fours, and Bradley climbed atop his human stepladder. He pounded at the marble, shielding his eyes as he chipped away, and the hollow clank reverberated like a chant invoking spirits. Chunks of stone rained down, and one struck CJ’s head, prompting a string of expletives.
“Sorry.” Bradley swapped out the hammer for the black light. “There’s a metal suitcase inside the vault,” he said, reaching for the handle. “Just like the one Volkov had when I was held prisoner.”
“You think it contains the owl he mentioned in his note to Rone?” CJ asked.
“Dunno.” As Bradley stepped down, the black light swept his friend’s head and a snaking trail glistened. “Oh shit! You’re bleeding.”
CJ rose onto his knees, right hand assessing the wound. “I’ll live.” He flinched, seemingly unnerved by his word choice, then returned to his feet. “Open the suitcase.”
It was made from the same indestructible buckypaper as the briefcase and secured by a lock with a five-digit code.
The black light revealed another handwritten hint: the combination is a number dear to your heart.
“You’ve got to be fricking kidding me!” CJ moaned.
The sound of a combustion engine drew Bradley’s attention back to the doorway. A peacekeeper truck braked to a stop in front of the gothic church, and two men dressed in black began unloading metal crates meant for large dogs. Mournful whimpers and wails floated across the graveyard and chilled Bradley’s blood.
“The bastards already resumed trafficking children,” CJ said, his tone simmering with antipathy. “We have to rescue those kids.”
“Stick to the mission,” Bradley argued. “We can’t risk this suitcase falling in
to their hands.”
“Fuck you, then. I’ll do it myself!”
Bradley latched onto his elbow. “Do what? Get yourself killed? Force your son to grow up without a father?”
CJ jerked his arm free. “Would you be so cavalier if it was Abby inside that church?”
He sighed, conceding the point, and a bizarre sensation of déjà vu settled over him. He’d had this argument before, with Ryan Andrews, only he’d been advocating the other position back then.
Mind-control technology means the stakes are higher, he rationalized. What if saving a few children results in the enslavement, torture, and genocide of billions?
Looking skyward for divine guidance, Bradley thought, what takes priority? The mission? Or the children?
48
Edgar Air Force Base, California
RESTLESS AND UNABLE to sleep, Abby walked over to the commissary to see if they had any over-the-counter sleep aids. Every time she closed her eyes, taunting memories of Bradley replayed through her mind, from alligators to Oreos, from Haywood Field to the battle of Sugar Lake, from the first time they’d made love to his unforeseen proposal. How did it all go awry?
His e-mail haunted her: feelings have changed; I’m just not that guy anymore; the slow betrayal of infidelity.
Did he have other one-night stands, besides Mia Candelori, that I never found out about?
Did he patronize that hooker in the train station?
And who’s this bimbo he’s fallen for?
Abby blotted the corners of her eyes and suppressed a fantasy that involved beating the faceless floozy into a bloody pulp.
Could Volkov’s mind control have coerced Bradley into sending that e-mail?
The Russian general was proving to be an enigma.
First he uses the owl to rescue me from a satanic priest; then he forces Bradley to dump me; and then he assumes responsibility for our black ops. It makes no sense.
“Hey, Abby, wait up!”
Recognizing the voice, she cringed. After vehemently accusing Cozart of fabricating Bradley’s Dear Jane e-mail, she’d disintegrated emotionally, crying on his shoulder like a jilted middle-schooler. It wasn’t merely a broken heart, she knew. The trauma had started with the horrors of the St. Nicholas Academy, deepened with Evans’ unjustified shooting, intensified with President Quenten’s treachery, and mushroomed with Bradley’s betrayal.
My entire life self-destructed in forty-eight hours.
Faith in humanity—gone.
Career and integrity—gone.
Best friend and lover—gone.
Hope for the future—gone.
“Fitz wants us in the briefing room, top of the hour.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” After three days without sleep, Abby was going to need a generous dose of caffeine to stay alert on overwatch.
Cozart jogged ahead of her and wheeled around into an ever-slowing backward walk, subtly forcing her to halt. “I talked to the guys. Nobody saw the e-mail. So you don’t have to worry about anyone saying anything.”
Abby was grateful, but couldn’t bring herself to look at her team leader. She stared down at her feet, ashamed for showing weakness, for sullying a reputation that had taken a year to cultivate.
Cozart gripped her shoulder and his touch was strong and reassuring ... like Bradley’s. An onslaught of loneliness siphoned the air from her lungs and she gasped in a breath.
Cozart inched closer. His fingers curled beneath her chin, gently guiding her face upward, then palm cupping the side of her face, he whispered, “You’re stronger than you think.”
The sentiment produced an unladylike synthesis of a snicker and a sob.
Was he serious, defining her as strong when she’d bawled like a baby? Or was that reverse psychology? A strategy to discourage more waterworks?
His arm encircled her waist, and Abby closed her eyes, melting into his embrace, wishing that it was Bradley holding her. Comforting her. Loving her.
Cozart’s forehead rested against hers. The tip of his nose skirted along her cheek. She could feel the gruffness of his stubbly beard, the warmth of his breath against her skin. Then his lips brushed hers, tentatively. Tenderly. Coaxingly.
Abby’s mind reverted to that first kiss with Bradley, atop that hillside back at Sugar Lake. Her lips had parted, welcoming, beckoning, and he’d responded with slow, drugging kisses. The loneliness, the fear, the betrayal faded away, and in that moment she wasn’t in the arms of her team leader. She was with Bradley.
Then suddenly, Cozart pulled back from the kiss. His arms dropped to his sides. “I, uh ... this ... this is a really bad idea, isn’t it?”
“For numerous reasons.” Abby’s voice cracked, and an upwelling of guilt raced through her. He was a nice guy. It wasn’t fair to use him as a proxy for Bradley.
“Listen, I’m sorry for overstepping boundaries. Well, not sorry, exactly. I mean ... sorry isn’t the right word.” A flustered smile crimped his lips, and he massaged the back of his neck. “I know you’re hurting right now. And I ... I just wanted to be there for you ... I guess I got carried away.”
Abby had never seen the vulnerable, sensitive side of her brash, supremely confident team leader, and she found it strangely endearing. “We both got carried away,” she said, succumbing to the urge to ease his discomfort. “You want a coffee from the commissary?”
“No thanks. I’ll, uh ... see you in the briefing room.”
Abby watched Cozart double-time it back toward TEradS headquarters, then she scurried toward the commissary. Eager for a distraction, she paused to peruse a Patriot Anon post affixed to the glass door.
What is a pattern?
Remember the Maine?
1898: Obsolete warship explodes in Havana Harbor.
Pretext for Spanish-American War?
Remember the Lusitania?
1915: Ocean liner loaded with munitions + submarine-infested waters + military escort recalled = sank by German U-boat.
Pretext for World War I?
Remember Pearl Harbor?
1941: Vulnerable Pacific Fleet + ignored warnings = Japanese sneak attack, 2,335 dead Americans.
Pretext for World War II?
Remember the Gulf of Tonkin?
1964: False claim of a secondary attack on the U.S.S. Maddox.
Pretext for Vietnam War?
Remember 9/11?
2001: Ignored warnings + “failure of imagination” = 2,996 dead Americans.
Pretext for war in Afghanistan?
Why Afghanistan if most hijackers were Saudi?
85% of the world’s opium comes from Afghanistan.
U.S. opioid epidemic.
Coincidence?
Remember the EMP?
Ignored warnings + 2 dismissed EMP Commission Reports = more than 100,000,000 dead Americans.
Pretext for World War III/depopulation?
Expand your thinking.
Patriot Anon.
That’s really hard to swallow, Abby thought, but even harder to ignore.
Was President Quenten complicit in the EMP?
Were the black ops a setup? A way to lay The Consortium’s genocide at the feet of the TEradS?
Fuming with righteous anger, Abby stomped from the commissary, foregoing her coffee. Who needed caffeine when rage was boiling within her veins?
She seethed through Fitz’s briefing, which was stippled with admonitions that National Guard equipment did not equate to friendly troops, then Abby piled into the armored personnel carrier along with her team.
Cozart ended up in the seat directly across from her. She felt his gaze travel over her, nonchalantly assessing her mental state. “You read the latest Patriot Anon post, didn’t you?”
“Yup.” Abby fought back a smirk, thinking that her team leader knew her too well, then redirected her focus to the mission. Night Sector had unleashed tank shells on the civilian population of Mariupol, and her team was tasked with driving the rogue army out of the small town.
Five miles south of the enemy checkpoint, the TEradS convoy made an unscheduled stop. A body was lying on the highway, a female who looked too young to have escaped the draft.
Abby assumed an overwatch position while her teammates conducted an X-ray scan to be sure that the corpse hadn’t been booby-trapped.
“No wires, grenades, or explosives,” Cozart barked. “But she’s got a pulse!”
Abby watched through her scope as he immobilized the victim’s head and lifted her onto a backboard, then the fiery rage inside her turned ominously cold.
Oh ... shit!
The unconscious woman was Missy Love, the civilian they’d been tasked with extracting from District Nine; then wrestling for control over her emotions, Abby thought, Where is little Matthew Love?
49
District Three, Washington, D.C.
BRADLEY HOOFED IT through the darkness, back to the Humvee, and used the Chi-phone to call for backup while CJ guarded the suitcase—a compromise they could both live with. Then he took up a position outside the mausoleum.
Crouched behind a headstone, he peered through his scope at the gothic church less than two hundred yards away, awaiting the arrival of the local TEradS team.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 19
