“That’s factually incorrect, Mr. President. Now that the security leak has been dealt with, I have a game-changing piece of intelligence to share with you ...”
79
South of District Nine, California
BRADLEY’S BREATH solidified in his throat. Gorka’s torch was eking closer to the shrieking child, and the agonizing cries resonated through every nerve ending in Bradley’s body. Then the tremulous, high-pitched voice broke, stippled with coughs and gasps, saturated with terror and despair.
Immobilize them, CJ!
“Gorka’s gonna set that kid on fire.” Cozart’s voice was a furious whisper. “What the hell’s CJ waiting for?”
“Damned if I know.” Bradley raised his rifle and peered through his scope; then, crosshairs aligned on Gorka’s chest, he hesitated.
If I kill the bastard, he’ll take all the intel on White Rabbit to his grave ... But I can’t let him burn the girl alive.
The crosshairs drifted toward the billionaire’s hand. A three-round burst would prevent Gorka from igniting the pyre, but what about the other devil worshippers?
Could he and Abby succeed in neutralizing all five before they could set the child ablaze?
CJ, tell Abby left to right on my command; but NOT to shoot Gorka!
His finger grazed the trigger, and then a soul-piercing silence enveloped the grove.
The ruthless advance of the torch halted. The satanists’ eyes were forced shut; their vocal cords, paralyzed; the neural connection between their ears and auditory cortexes, jammed. The only movement was the macabre dance of shadows induced by the torches and the flutter of hooded robes frolicking on the breeze.
“They’re immobilized. Go, go, go!” Bradley said, shouldering his rifle strap.
Both men charged onto the rustic stage.
Cozart snatched the torch from Gorka’s hand and hurled it into the triangular lake, muttering, “Fuck your eternal flame!”
Bradley bound Gorka’s wrists with flex-cuffs and hoisted him over his left shoulder. Despite food shortages fomented by the EMP, the billionaire was still well-fed with nearly two hundred pounds packed on to his five-foot-four frame.
Cozart scooped the sacrificial lamb into his arms and groaned. They had wrapped the child in medical tape doused with an accelerant.
“I should break their devil-worshipping necks while they’re immobilized.”
Fleetingly, Bradley pondered the sentiment then decided against it. Rone and his cadre of game theorists had insisted that a large-scale attack on The Consortium elite would provoke a backlash of terrorist attacks and, ultimately, diminish their chances of destroying White Rabbit.
“They’re not the objective,” he snapped. “We’ll deal with the rest of them later.”
“Yeah, later,” the First Sergeant snorted. “And in the interim, they continue raping and sacrificing children.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Bradley huffed, double-timing it off the stage and around the lake. “But if The Consortium launches their next-generation mind-control technology, the atrocities will continue. In perpetuity.”
The terrain steepened. Loose dirt, pine needles, and rotting tree bark spurted from beneath his boots, retarding his progress. His calf muscles burned, his quads ached, and the thin air was wreaking havoc with his respiration.
This is worse than running on the beach, he thought. It’s like climbing a mountain of sand with two hundred pounds of petrified shit strapped to my back.
Keen to Bradley’s wheezing, Cozart said, “You want to switch? Carry the kid for a—”
“Sh!” He abruptly stopped and held his breath. “You hear something?”
“Sounds like a dog.”
Shit! CJ, you should’ve dispatched that freaking mutt!
The four-legged alarm system was on the opposite side of the lake, barking and growling, alerting sentries beyond the owl’s hundred-yard radius.
“Can’t CJ call off the dog?” Cozart asked.
“He tried. It’s not responding.” Bradley pressed on, zigzagging between redwoods, not for cover, but because the traction was better near the surface roots.
“Why don’t you let me lug the bastard for a while?”
Panting, Bradley declined with a shake of his head and removed his helmet. “Take my night-vision gear and scout out the most expedient path.”
Cozart nodded, adjusted the helmet and goggles, and took the lead.
The forest was much darker without the vision aid, and it took several seconds for Bradley’s eyes to acclimate. He was breathing rapidly, yet his lungs were starved for oxygen. Sweat trickled from his forehead, stinging his eyes, and his muscles were cramping.
As they crossed the halfway point, the child began to writhe and wail.
Cozart’s beyond range of the owl, Bradley thought, which means Gorka will revolt at any second.
The plan was to hold the other satanists spellbound until Gorka was secured inside the stolen pickup truck, then CJ and Abby would retreat under the protection of the owl.
A false sense of security, Bradley thought, knowing that the owl’s hundred-yard range was nothing for a marksman.
Behind him, the growls of his canine stalker were growing louder.
Yo, CJ! he thought. Are any Night Sector goons within range? Can you force them to call off the mutt?
“Negative,” CJ’s monotone voice replied.
Can Abby get eyes on?
“Intermittently.”
Tell her to take the shot.
Bradley staggered forward, suddenly grateful for the telepathic communications since he was too out of breath to form words. He glanced over his shoulder to gauge the distance between him and the dog. Moonlight was streaming between the giant redwoods, creating puddles of silvery light that allowed him to catch glimpses of his pursuer. The German shepherd’s teeth were bared; its hackles, raised; and it was lunging with fluid athletic strides, unhampered by the loose soil.
Come on, Abby. It’s getting way too—
Gorka’s weight shifted without warning.
Bradley lost his footing and fell face-first with the barbaric billionaire on top of him.
“You will pay for this,” the old man sputtered, kicking and flailing. “And familial connections won’t save you.”
The dog was almost on them, its ferocious barks peppered with deep growls.
What the fuck, Abby?
“He-e-e-lp!” Gorka called out to the sentries. “Follow my voice ...”
Gasping and wheezing, Bradley rolled the silver-hooded satanist onto his back and punched him in the face. Gorka’s head jerked to the left then hung limp. His elderly body went lax.
Shit! I didn’t hit him that hard. If that blow killed him, I’m—
A gunshot rang out, and a piercing pain carved through Bradley’s leg.
80
South of District Nine, California
GUILT WAS A JACKHAMMER, pummeling CJ’s chest and spurring the flux of acid that was crawling up his throat. His ears were still ringing from the report of the gunshot, which seemed to resonate through the wooden cave like a pealing bell.
Bradley was right, CJ thought. I should’ve dispatched the dog before suiciding that sentry.
“Did you get it?” he shouted above the residual hum.
“Of course,” Abby said, speaking slowly enough that he could read her lips.
CJ nodded, and his hammering guilt evolved into palpitations of worry and raw fear. In more than a decade as a combat Pilot, he had never felt so rattled.
Human sacrifice? Burning children alive? How is this shit happening in America?
Abby had briefed him regarding the ancient rabbinical tradition of the Topeth, a hollow brass idol fashioned in the likeness of Moloch. It was divided into seven compartments, into which priests placed flour, turtle-doves, a ewe, a ram, a calf, an ox, and a child; all were burned in sacrifice.
During the 12th century, Rashi wrote that “when the child vehementl
y cried out, the priests beat a drum so that the father might not hear the voice of his son, and his heart might not be moved.” And CJ knew from personal experience that the Christian Bible referred to the heinous practice in Jeremiah 7:31. “They have built the high places of Topeth in the Valley of Ben Hinnom to burn their sons and daughters in the fire—something I did not command, nor did it enter my mind.”
CJ groaned. Every time he thought he’d discovered the rock-bottom depth of human depravity, The Consortium managed to lower the bar.
And these savages had his son!
What’s happening to Matthew right now?
Before allowing abhorrent possibilities to infect his mind, CJ employed the same sanity-preserving strategy he’d been using for days: prayer. As the son of a pastor, he could hear his deceased father’s proselytizing voice reciting Psalm 61:2. “I cry to You for help when my heart is overwhelmed. Lead me to the towering rock of safety.”
Please, God, deliver Matthew from evil.
Hearing the cry of a child, CJ startled as if emerging from a trance.
Cozart stepped over Abby, carrying what looked like a giant wriggling worm. “It’s okay, Sweetie,” the First Sergeant cooed soothingly. “You’re safe now.”
Conflicting emotions raged inside CJ. His better angels were thrilled and relieved that the child had been spared, but selfishness and jealousy were overpowering them.
Why was this girl saved? Why not Matthew?
How could any just and loving God allow this shit to happen to children?
“Cozart, is the kid all right?” Abby asked.
“Unclear.” The cotton strips screeched as the First Sergeant tore them, and CJ caught a whiff of a strange odor.
“U-u-uh, what is that smell?”
“Accelerant.”
To kill more efficiently? CJ wondered. Or to increase the child’s suffering?
The toddler’s wailing was a reminder of Matthew—a white-hot stake being driven through CJ’s heart.
What did I do to deserve this?
It’s not bad enough that my boy is missing, now I’m being forced to witness someone else’s miracle.
Pain and resentment were making his body tremble like a volcano on the verge of erupting. Missy’s injuries, Matthew’s abduction, the wolf moon ritual—CJ had reached his breaking point.
God, I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be consumed with anger and hatred and—
Abby’s frazzled voice truncated his prayer. “What the hell happened to Gorka?”
“Knocked ... him ... out,” Bradley said, gulping air between words. He dipped his shoulder easing satan’s spawn onto the floor of the goose pen. “Pulse ... is good. Probably ... faking ... unconsciousness.”
CJ retrieved a bottle of water from his backpack and tossed it to the Sniper, his gaze consciously avoiding the child.
“What’s your name?” Cozart asked the youngster.
“M-m ... ma ... few.”
Adrenaline dumped into CJ’s bloodstream. Hope became an electric current zipping through his nervous system. The rescued child wasn’t a little girl.
“Oh God! Matthew!” He lunged toward his son, hugging and cradling him, and began to sob, thanking God for answering his prayers. CJ wept over the narrowly averted tragedy and his jealous, shameful thoughts.
He felt Bradley’s hand grip his shoulder with a comforting, yet firm pressure. “He’s not out of danger yet. We need to exfil Athenian Grove. That means you need to coordinate with Python and manage the owl.”
CJ sniffled in a deep breath and nodded, fearful that his voice would fail him.
“And speaking of Python ...” Bradley produced a headless five-foot snake with a scale pattern that appeared braided. “... Does anybody know whether this thing is venomous? It bit my leg ...”
81
South of District Nine, California
“FOR THE FOURTH TIME, I am positive,” Cozart told Abby, jealousy and impatience dueling in his tone. “I know a coachwhip when I see one. NONvenomous. They eat lizards, small birds, and rodents; they can slither up to fifteen miles per hour; and they rarely bite.”
“Abby, chill. I’m fine.” Bradley jammed a segment of the accelerant-soaked cotton fabric into Gorka’s mouth, gagging him, and hefted the old man onto his feet.
Cozart reached for the traumatized toddler, and the boy buried his face into CJ’s shoulder. His little arms locked anaconda-like around his father’s neck, and his bare feet kicked wildly.
The child’s reaction was understandable, given all that he’d been through. A quick physical assessment had revealed a handful of superficial bruises, likely acquired through his writhing and flailing; and, thankfully, no evidence to suggest that he’d served as a pedophile’s play toy.
“Let’s race daddy to the truck,” Cozart said, attempting to ease the boy’s separation anxiety. “You think we can beat him?”
“No-o-o-o-o!”
Peeling his clingy son from his body, CJ said, “Matthew, bad guys are still out there so you have to be quiet,” then he kissed the child’s forehead.
Cozart propped the distraught boy against his hip and left the goose pen. Within a minute, Matthew expended the last of his energy. His legs ceased kicking, and his cries faded into a whimper.
Bradley was right behind him, prodding Gorka to walk using a “come-along,” a pain compliance technique that applied pressure to joints in order to achieve control.
Abby and CJ remained behind, keeping the satanists paralyzed until they reached the truck.
Who’s more worried? Cozart wondered. CJ, over letting Matthew out of his sight? Or me, over leaving Abby in enemy territory?
Cozart knew that she was a tough, first-rate Sniper. He’d entrusted her with his life, and she’d saved his ass on multiple occasions, but there was no denying the truth. Abby was more emotional now that she was pregnant. And emotion could impair judgment. And a lapse in judgment could get you killed.
Darting between monstrous tree trunks and cutting through ghostly patches of moonlight, it gnawed at him, an overwhelming feeling that he needed to get back to that goose pen.
Cozart halted and waited for Bradley to catch up. “Matthew’s calmed down,” he said. “You think you can manage him and Gorka the rest of the way?”
“Any particular reason?”
“It’s just ...” Shit! How do I say this without sounding like a dick? “Pregnancy hormones are NOT a force multiplier.”
Bradley’s gaze ping-ponged between Gorka and the crest of the hill as if weighing the repercussions. Then he extended his left arm to accept responsibility for the child.
Cozart handed off Matthew and jogged up the hillside, his progress slowed by the steep grade and loose soil.
Will Abby ever love me the way she loves Bradley? he wondered.
It was obvious that she was still deeply in love with him. It showed in the way she looked at him and resonated in her tone when she’d learned about the snake bite. The bond between them seemed indefinable. And unbreakable.
Am I prepared to live my life competing with Bradley’s memory?
Cozart spotted CJ traipsing toward him with awkward, uneven strides—a consequence of paying more attention to the laptop than his foot placement.
“Where’s Abby?” he demanded.
The Pilot threw a quick glance over his shoulder. “I thought she was right behind me.”
A sickening sensation tightened around Cozart’s throat, an overwhelming sense that something was wrong, and he pushed his aching legs into an all-out sprint. He ascended the hillside, lungs heaving for oxygen, discounting the danger posed by the thundering of his footsteps.
This is why women shouldn’t serve in combat, he thought. Because it makes men crazy!
As he crested the hill, he saw Abby beside the goose pen, peering through her rifle scope. In the valley below, the five robe-clad demons stood befuddled, heads swiveling, shoulders shrugging, as if trying to comprehend what had just happen
ed.
Convinced that Abby had lost track of time while recording video evidence through her scope camera, Cozart slowed to a hunched walk and gripped the cramp in his side. Then, without warning, Abby opened fire, four kill shots in as many seconds.
The satanists toppled in quick succession and the boatman plunged headfirst into the lake in an unartful dive; then a siren began to wail.
Fuck!
Cozart latched onto Abby’s arm and towed her toward the Humvee.
As her team leader, he wanted to scream, “What the hell were you thinking?” but a moonlit glimpse of her tear-streaked face gave him pause. And he already knew the answer anyway.
Cozart had felt the same outrage, the same disgust, the same compelling, vigilante urge to make sure this never EVER happened to another child. And if not for Bradley, he would’ve broken their necks, one by one, while they stood paralyzed.
He and Abby had scurried, skidded, slipped, and slid halfway down the hillside before Cozart heard the first menacing bark. Another vicious dog was approaching from the east. Since the safety of the Humvee was due west, he made a split-second decision and sent Abby on ahead.
Cozart drew his unregistered sidearm and surveyed the wooded hillside. He was betting that the dog’s handler had lagged behind and that dispatching the mutt would buy him and Abby enough time to get to the Humvee and out of Athenian Grove.
Aided by Bradley’s night-vision goggles, he located the German shepherd. In the infrared spectrum, the beast looked like a bright orange blob jetting above the ground.
Taking aim, Cozart fired a three-round burst.
A pained yelp echoed above the residual hum in his ears, and the animal melted into a glowing puddle.
Satisfied that the threat had been neutralized, he resumed his trek.
Within a minute, another chorus of snarls and agitated barks wafted through the forest, and the hair at the nape of his neck prickled. The sound was coming from the west, and this time, there was more than one dog.
Oh shit ...! Abby!
Cozart ran as fast as he could, arms pumping, feet drumming, on the verge of losing his balance. Ahead, he spotted Abby’s heat signature. Rifle aimed at a trio of dogs, she discharged a half dozen rounds. Two shepherds fell instantly dead. The third had been struck in the hind quarter, yet the animal kept coming.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 31
