CJ’s jaw dropped, and he forced a yawn to disguise his surprise.
Was The Consortium watching us the entire time? Did they see the suitcase? Shit! That leaves me zero wiggle room.
“Volkov sent Bradley to retrieve something,” he confessed. “A locked suitcase made of buckypaper. Contents unknown.”
“You never should’ve allowed the TEradS to raid that church ...”
CJ squirmed in his chair.
Were Consortium satellites able to eavesdrop on our conversation? Do they know that I instigated the raid?
“... Our losses were staggering, and Hellhound is furious.”
Peeling his parched lips apart, CJ managed, “Hellhound?”
“Night Sector’s senior commander.” A trace of fear glimmered in his captor’s eyes. “This guy makes cartel bosses look like choirboys. You fucked up. Big time!”
Attempting to exploit that fear, CJ said, “You’re the one who fucked up. Webber was going to deliver the missile tech to Volkov tomorrow, and I was poised to record the whole damn transaction. Ironclad proof of Russia collusion that would’ve convinced even the most skeptical Murphy supporters. No messy impeachment. No drawn-out trial. No public backlash. He and Andrews would’ve hung for treason!”
His flustered interrogator rubbed a hand over his mouth then scurried from the room.
Did he fall for it? CJ wondered. Did I dupe him into releasing us?
Will my lies buy enough time to save Missy and Matthew?
Or did I just doom them to ghastly deaths?
52
District Nine, California
GLEN ANTHONY LOADED the last crate into the bed of the truck, a cornucopia of apples, pears, potatoes, carrots, and beans.
Under Night Sector torture, a Mariupol resident had divulged the existence of an underground root cellar, a former mine shaft with tunnels that sprawled out in all directions.
Fitting that it’s used to store produce, Glen thought, since food is the new gold.
He climbed into the passenger’s seat of the pickup and threw a glance at the child on the extended cab’s bench seat. The toddler had finally cried himself to sleep.
“Mission accomplished!” Hapsburg declared, sliding in behind the steering wheel.
Glen’s partner was a monkey of a man with long, hairy arms, a protruding muzzle, and a substandard IQ.
The engine roared to life, and the truck bounded along the dirt road, kicking up a dusty plume that obscured the faint moonlight. A sequence of distant explosions drew his attention to the east. Light was flickering with each blast, an indication that the TEradS assault had begun.
I hope they drive Night Sector into the Pacific, Glen thought.
He stole another peek at the toddler to garner his courage then, in his most pitying voice, he said, “I can’t believe you killed Missy Love. What were you thinking, defying explicit orders to take her alive? She and that brat aren’t just ordinary stock to replenish the trafficking warehouses. Hellhound was trying to settle an intensely personal score. And now, all that wrath is headed your way.”
In a desperate bid to stimulate his feeble memory, Hapsburg’s brow rumpled, his cheeks puffed, and he spewed a defeated sigh. “How was I supposed to know that was Missy Love? And the bitch was biting me.”
Head shaking, Glen ramped up his effort. “Hapsburg, if I were you, I’d put a bullet in my own head. Beats being the main attraction at one of Hellhound’s rituals. I saw this video where—”
“I saw it too. You, you gotta cover for me,” Hapsburg pleaded. “Tell them she was already dead, that we found the kid wandering. Or better still, we kill the kid and pretend we never stumbled across them.”
Glen camouflaged his horror with an amoral grin. He’d become adept at hiding his emotions, a skill essential to his subversive fight against Night Sector.
“What about the bite marks on your arm?”
Panic-stricken, Hapsburg’s pale-blue eyes flitted over the dashboard as if searching for salvation. Beads of sweat were glistening, joining with their neighbors and streaming over his deathly pale complexion.
Glen smothered a genuine smile. He could practically smell the guy’s brain cells burning.
“I ... I can blame the bite marks on the last bitch I raped.”
His tone was tentative, as if soliciting approval, and Glen said, “Great idea ... unless ...”
“Unless what?”
“Unless they track the blood on Missy Love back to you. Then Hellhound will know you lied.”
“Fuck!” Hapsburg’s voice wavered. The dim-witted ape grasped that the punishment for the cover-up would be even harsher than the original offense. “I ... I need to get out of here.” He braked to a stop, slammed the truck into park, and kicked open the driver’s door. “Tell Hellhound I’m dead. Please,” he begged, abandoning the driver’s seat. “Tell him some bitch shot me.”
Right hand resting on his holstered handgun, Glen struggled to summon the courage. His mind harkened back to that sunflower-dappled kitchen. Forced to choose between sexually assaulting a grandmother and his squad gang-raping his wife, he’d cracked Ase upside the head with the butt stock of his rifle, knocking out the self-proclaimed all-seeing eye.
“Grab his pistol and shoot him,” Glen had told Juanita, the battered grandma. “The kids are hiding in a closet. Take them and run!”
“But I ... I can’t shoot anyone,” she’d sobbed.
“Those children will be doomed to sex slavery if you don’t!”
“Why can’t you do it?”
Taken aback by the irritation rioting in her eyes, Glen had barked, “Because I can’t run away and I won’t be able to save any more children if I’m dead!”
Lips quivering, she’d retrieved the pistol from Ase’s holster, pressed the barrel to his bulbous nose, and sent him to his master.
Suddenly, Glen understood her reluctance. He didn’t want to take a life, but he knew that Hapsburg’s capture was inevitable, and that the intellectually challenged baboon would divulge the truth under Hellhound’s torture.
I can’t endanger Ellen and Gabby, he thought.
His fingers clamped around the 9mm pistol.
He leveled the barrel on Hapsburg’s back.
“Do it, damn it,” Glen whispered, “before he moves beyond range.”
He pulled the trigger, and Hapsburg wilted into a cluster of chaparral.
Riled by the loud gunshot, the toddler began to shriek. Tears trickled down his chubby cheeks, and his gut-wrenching cries cut through Glen.
He holstered his pistol and gathered the boy into his arms, trying to console him, then circled around to the driver’s side and settled in behind the wheel. Still holding Matthew with his right arm, he drove to an abandoned dude ranch near Breckenridge Mountain and parked beside a felled mailbox.
“How would you like a brother and a sister?” he asked the boy as he exited the truck.
The whimpering toddler replied, “M-m-m-a-a-h-mee.”
The cabin was shrouded by brush and a thick canopy of trees, and Glen pitched a small rock against the wooden door to awaken the inhabitants.
Within a minute, a shotgun barrel poked through a mail slot. He switched his flashlight on and off in quick succession, signaling that he was “friendly,” then the door swung open.
“What are you doing, Glen? Coming around at this hour? Scaring me half to death?”
“Nice to see you, too, Juanita.” He entered the cabin, and smiled at the solitary ceramic sunflower hanging above the kitchenette’s tiny wooden countertop, a piece of family history transplanted to make life in hiding easier. “I come bearing gifts. Meet Matthew, a Night Sector fugitive who’s lost his mommy.”
“Oh no, Glen, I’ve got my hands full with my own grandchildren. I can’t cope with a toddler.”
“He’s a sweet kid, and you know what’ll happen to him if I take him back to District Nine.”
Gnawing on her lip, she cocked her head to the side, and Glen playe
d his trump card. “Come on, Juanita, you owe me.”
“I know you saved my family—and I’m eternally grateful—but I just can’t manage another mouth to feed. We’re barely getting by now.”
“Well, I’ve got a truckload of produce: potatoes, beans, apples. And I know where there’s plenty more.” He attempted to hand off Matthew, knowing that holding the adorable child would trigger motherly instincts, but Juanita’s half-lidded glare indicated that she was wise to his scheme.
“Just hold him for a couple minutes then,” he said, “while I bring in some crates of food.”
“I know what you’re trying to pull, Glen.” Angst shown in her eyes, a conflict between logic and emotion. “I’m sorry, but I have to put my own grandbabies first ...”
53
District Three, Washington, D.C.
RYAN ARRIVED AT THE White House shortly before sunrise and was escorted to the PEOC, the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, for an urgent national security threat. Possibilities were dancing through his mind: Economic sabotage like the 2008 financial crisis? A terrorist attack like 9/11? A cyber attack against the nation’s fledgling electrical grid? Another EMP?
Admiral Rone, General Quenten, and Kyle were already inside. An odd-looking, hard-shell suitcase graced the conference table, propped open by a thick folder to prevent the lock from engaging.
“Where’s Umarah?” Ryan asked, referring to the secretary of Homeland Security. She was the only cabinet member to have won Senate confirmation, part of a concerted effort—by both political parties—to obstruct Kyle’s administration.
“This was at the end of Volkov’s wild-goose chase,” Rone said, opening the suitcase.
Ryan stared unblinking at the owl he’d once dismissed as a drug-induced dream then sank down onto a leather chair.
“This mind-control technology purports to project thoughts and control body movements of targets within a hundred yards,” Rone explained. “And to eavesdrop on brain activity within a ten-yard radius.”
“Are you saying Volkov could’ve hijacked my inaugural address?” Kyle asked. “He could’ve made me do jumping jacks, like Bradley? Or pick my nose on national television?”
“Or worse,” Quenten added. “He could’ve stopped your heart.”
Why didn’t Volkov use the owl to kill off The Consortium? Was he waiting until he located White Rabbit?
Or does The Consortium have the technology to jam the signal?
“Hey, Rone,” Ryan said, thinking aloud, “since you control the owl, does that mean Bradley no longer poses a threat to Kyle?”
“Unclear. I was going to ask him to submit to a voluntary quarantine, but he left NSA headquarters before I got there.” Rone hesitated and began fiddling with the laptop. “My crew cracked the two-stage password using Volkov’s fingerprint and a fifty-two character key: we the people, in order to form a more perfect union.”
Massaging his temples with both hands, Kyle said, “Is it me? Or is Volkov starting to sound more like a patriot than a traitor?”
“The Consortium functions like a mirror,” Rone reminded him. “Everything is backwards. So if the mockingbird media condemn him, odds are, he’s a good guy ... Anyway, my curiosity was piqued, so I tested the owl on my cyber chief, and it performed as advertised. Then I decided to experiment on an unwitting subject, an early-bird analyst who is always hard at work before sunrise, and ... well ... I’ll let you read his recorded thoughts for yourself.”
He swiveled the laptop monitor toward Kyle, and Ryan scooted his chair closer to read the tiny print.
“... Accelerating the plan is suicidal. Sure, Murphy and his ne’er-do-wells are disrupting our stateside trafficking, and his executive orders are freezing our assets, but implementing plan B is asinine. There’s just not enough popular support for a coup ...”
“Coup?” Ryan sputtered. “Here? In the United States?” The prospect was insane. Losing parties redoubled their efforts to win back power every four years; they didn’t overthrow their opponents with riots in the streets.
“No country is immune to the Arab Spring effect,” Quenten said. “Ask Viktor Yanukovych, the duly elected leader of Ukraine ousted by rioters who called themselves Right Sector.”
“Sounds an awful lot like Night Sector,” Ryan mumbled.
“Same ideology,” Quenten told him. “And they’re employing the same tactics to drive you from power.”
Every blood cell in Ryan’s body felt like it was pulsating with fear, not for himself or his position as Vice President, but for the future of his country.
“... And it’s not like we’ll get multiple shots at this. If the coup fails, we all hang, and global governance will be dead for generations ... I bet Umarah’s behind this. The bitch has zero patience. Why is Gorka Schwartz allowing a new recruit to usurp years of meticulous planning ...?”
“Our DHS secretary is a Consortium operative?” Ryan blurted.
Explains why she got Senate approval. And why she wasn’t invited to this emergency meeting.
“Umarah’s been compromised by a manufactured scandal,” Rone stated without a hint of condemnation. “Complete with a money trail, incriminating photographs, and a throng of corroborating witnesses. I believe my renegade analyst is correct. Umarah is attempting to sabotage The Consortium.”
Rone glanced at Quenten as if passing off a virtual baton, then the General said, “In order to put down this coup, you need to authorize the Marines to execute a preemptive raid on Langley—”
“Wouldn’t it be better to mobilize the TEradS?” Kyle asked. “So I won’t need congressional approval.”
“Actually, as Commander in Chief, you have the constitutional authority to use the Marine Corps as you see fit.”
Holy shit! Ryan thought. The civil war within the military industrial complex is going hot.
He was aware of the long-standing friction between the CIA and Army. For years, “spooks” had been launching cross-border drone attacks from U.S. Army bases in Afghanistan—while donning Army uniforms—which resulted in senior command being blamed for violations of international law and the deaths of civilians.
Kyle leaned back against his chair, face contorted with angst. “Won’t a raid on the CIA look like a power grab on my part? Won’t it play right into The Consortium’s propaganda?”
“Mr. President,” Rone said, his tone solemn yet forceful. “You have a choice to make: The illusion of a power grab on your part? Or a genuine power grab on their part?”
54
District Three, Washington, D.C.
BRADLEY PEERED THROUGH hooded eyes, struggling to stay awake. The pacing of Agent Dumb Ass was like watching a swinging pocket watch, hypnotic in all the wrong ways.
His jailor was short, devoid of muscle, and geeky with widespread hazel eyes and a hooked nose. The guy was not FBI, of that Bradley was certain, but he couldn’t decide whether his interrogator was Consortium or CIA.
Probably because they’re indistinguishable, he thought.
“Your buddy already told us about your clandestine meeting with Volkov, your secret agreement, and your foray into Murphy’s safe. And we know about the suitcase you removed from that crypt. You’re in a shitload of trouble, Bradley. We’re talking death penalty, here ...”
CJ, you loose-lipped, traitorous son of a bitch!
“... Heed my warning. You do NOT want to do this the hard way ...”
How far would Dumb Ass go to extract information?
Bradley had been subjected to waterboarding and other “enhanced interrogation techniques” during his training, but one tactic terrified him more than any physical pain: pharmacological torture. So-called truth-serum drugs worked by slowing the transmission of messages from the brain, hindering the concentration required to conjure up a lie.
He swore under his breath, realizing that sleep deprivation would have the same effect.
Going into this exhausted is putting me at a disadvantage, he thought; then, an even m
ore dire prospect occurred.
As the world’s largest drug trafficker, The Consortium was likely to employ a simpler method: injection of opioids to create dependence, followed by induced withdrawal; a process that harnessed the power of addiction to achieve compliance.
Please God, I’d rather die than contend with a life-long addiction, he thought. Don’t let me get sucked into their world.
“... If you cooperate, the FBI and DOJ might give your wife a pass. Otherwise, she’ll hang right along with you.”
Having no reason to trust any deal they might offer, Bradley said, “She’s not my wife.”
“Ri-i-ight ... Your heartfelt e-mail.” Dumb Ass proffered a condescending smile. “Such a gallant gesture. Once Hellhound gets wind of it, I’m sure he’ll execute Abby first, to ensure that you have time to mourn.”
“I want a lawyer.”
Dumb Ass sucked air through clenched lips then bared his pearly yellows in a “tough-shit” expression. “That’s not how this works. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that Volkov’s stunt—claiming credit for the assassination of Aaron Burr—is going to save Abby. You see, The Consortium is still in control of the FBI, the DOJ, and a plethora of federal judges. If we control the admissible evidence, we control the outcome. You give us Murphy and Andrews, and there’ll be insufficient evidence to prosecute Abby.”
Bradley recited his name, rank, and serial number.
“You can’t count on Murphy to pardon her,” Dumb Ass continued. “There’s going to be a coup very soon. A violent backlash will drag that jock-itch of a President from the White House and slaughter him in the streets, just like Muammar Qaddafi in Libya.”
Good luck getting past the Marines, Bradley thought.
Head tilted to the side, Dumb Ass retrieved his cellphone. His fingers frolicked over the glass, then he jammed the tiny screen into Bradley’s face. “This was captured by a spy satellite.”
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 21
