The Doomsday Series Box Set | Books 1-5

by Akart, Bobby

  “I don’t know,” replied Hayden. “I just found it unusual that in the midst of all of this, graffiti artists would be taking to the streets unless they had a specific purpose or agenda in mind.”

  “Well, if you think it’s related, call our contacts at the FBI. Let them sort it out.”

  “Okay, it’s probably nothing. Thank you for calling me, sir. Is there anything else?”

  “No, Blount, that’s it. Keep safe and we’ll stay in touch by phone. If something changes, I’ll let you know, but watch for the president’s declaration today. I suspect they’re working on the verbiage now.”

  The two said their goodbyes and disconnected the call, neither aware that it would be many months before they spoke again.

  Chapter Seven

  Rankin Residence

  East Clay Street

  Richmond, Virginia

  It was almost midnight on New Year’s Day when the Rankins pulled into the driveway of their 1920s Craftsman-style home in downtown Richmond. Angela was curled up in the front seat with her head leaning against the window, while the kids had crawled under their respective blankets in the back. Tyler had pulled into the short driveway and turned off the ignition, yet none of his family stirred. For a moment, he contemplated leaving them there because they were sleeping so soundly, but when he heard a group of teenagers yelling down the street, he thought better of it.

  That night, the family had slept hard. Their ordeal since New Year’s Eve was more than most could endure, yet they’d managed to get home safely. Angela was the first to rise, as was often the case. It wasn’t unusual for her to be up as early as five thirty so she could go for a run. That morning, she allowed herself to sleep in. It was almost seven.

  The house was quiet as she spun the cap off a Starbucks Cold Brew coffee drink. She wore Tyler’s pink Hilton Head sweatshirt that she’d commandeered out of his closet when they first met and claimed as her own since. It had become a security blanket, a reminder of his love and ability to protect her, as she’d vowed to love and protect him forever.

  Angela walked around their modest home, which had been renovated before they purchased it several years earlier. The home was their place of refuge. It was a place where the family gathered at the end of a long day and ate supper together when her schedule as an emergency room resident allowed. Oftentimes, the family played board games or spent time together in a local park.

  The Rankins were a family, but moreover, they were close-knit friends and an alliance, of sorts. Kaycee and J.C. would much rather spend time with each other, or their parents, than with the other kids in school or the neighborhood. Angela credited that family closeness to helping them survive the harrowing experience aboard Kingda Ka and their ability to avoid being killed in the tunnel under the Chesapeake Bay.

  As she strolled barefoot on the wood floor, admiring the ornate woodwork and the period pieces of furniture she’d purchased at yard sales, she began to question whether Richmond was a long-term home for them.

  She liked the vibrant atmosphere that downtown Richmond offered. Their home was within walking distance to the convention center, the Richmond Coliseum, and the Downtown YMCA where they frequently worked out. Both she and Tyler could walk or jog to work if they wanted to. The kids’ school was close, and overall, despite being in an inner-city neighborhood, they felt safe.

  But her heart was still in the Carolinas. Richmond, and her position as an emergency room physician at the Virginia Commonwealth University Medical Center, was a means to an end. Her goal was to make it through her residency and immediately hope to land a job closer to Hilton Head.

  She was staring aimlessly out the front windows when Tyler eased up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He nuzzled against her neck and kissed her, a gesture she’d never tire of.

  “Good morning, Dr. Rankin,” he whispered in her ear as she turned to kiss him back.

  “I guess so,” she responded in a melancholy tone.

  Tyler immediately noticed and pulled away so he could get a better look at her. A rare tear streamed out of her right eye.

  He showed his concern but tried to lighten the mood at the same time. “Hey, hey, why the gloom and doom?”

  Angela sniffled and wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “More doom than gloom,” she replied before pausing. “Um, well, maybe a little gloom.”

  Tyler took her by the hand and led her to the sofa, where they sat next to one another. Angela scooted up against the back and tucked her legs underneath her. He looked her in the eyes and said, “Talk to me.”

  “We both know what needs to be done,” she began. She pointed her thumb over her shoulder towards the bedrooms. “We have two miracles asleep in there, and we’ve always vowed to do whatever it takes to protect them.”

  Tyler squeezed her hand and gave his wife a reassuring smile. Half-jokingly, he said, “We’ve done a great job, too. They’re both still alive.”

  Angela laughed and playfully swatted at him. “Barely! But protecting them means more than keeping them alive, Dad. It means insulating them from the ugliness of the world, too.”

  Tyler sensed where she was going with the conversation. His words were simple, but emphatic. “We have to go.”

  She nodded and allowed another tear to escape. “We’re so close, Tyler. Six more months at VCU and I could start looking for something closer to home. The kids are flexible and ready to go wherever we go. Now this crap has messed up the whole program.”

  “I thought about everything last night after you guys fell asleep in the truck. What if you asked for a leave of absence? You know, pause your residency program while we go to the Haven.”

  “I don’t know. The whole thing is regimented. It definitely would take me off schedule for getting into a fellowship, not to mention the fact it will give my future employers a reason not to hire me.”

  “Okay,” said Tyler as the realities began to set in.

  “I’ll probably have to drop out, but I think it’s worth a try. It doesn’t matter. What matters is taking care of our kids.”

  Tyler glanced past Angela and looked down the hallway. A sleepy-eyed J.C. had wandered out of his bedroom in his Feast Mode pajamas featuring a dog wearing a red-stocking cap and salivating over a line strung with fish, a turkey leg, and pumpkin pie. Tyler nodded to Angela to turn and look at their son.

  “He’s adorable,” she said, her heart warmed by the sight of her sleepy man. “This is why we make sacrifices. For him and Kaycee.”

  Tyler nodded. “Agreed.”

  The family spent the next hour waking up and unpacking their things from the trip, and then they sat down to discuss their plans. Although Tyler and Angela had made up their minds, they wanted to include their kids in the conversation.

  Their home was never run like a top-down dictatorship. Certainly, the kids had their moments when they were growing up. Both Tyler and Angela handled disciplinary duties equally. Usually, all it took was a disapproving look from their mother, and the kids would stop what they were doing immediately. Tyler was more of a softie and a little easier to be manipulated. To their credit, the kids never played their parents against each other. That wouldn’t have ended well.

  “Guys, here’s the plan,” began Tyler after they’d finished breakfast. “We’re gonna run some errands today, and this afternoon, hopefully before dark sets in, we’re gonna head down to the Carolinas to our place at the Haven. How does that sound?”

  “Yeah! I love it there!” replied an exuberant J.C., who was always up for an adventure. Then he turned to his sister. “How about you, Peanut?”

  “I can be ready in five minutes,” added Kaycee. The events of the last two days had had a profound impact upon her. Perhaps, being older than J.C., she had a better appreciation of how much danger the family had been in. Her younger brother saw everything as an adventure that always worked out, just like on television.

  “Well, that’s good,” said Angela, who noticed Kaycee’s demeanor. “
We do have some errands to take care of, and you two have important jobs to do while we’re gone.”

  “What’s that?” asked Kaycee.

  “Well, for starters, can I trust you guys to do the laundry from our trip?”

  “Piece of cake,” replied J.C.

  Tyler started laughing. “Let your sister run point on laundry duties, okay, buddy?”

  “I got it, Dad,” Kaycee replied. “What else?”

  Angela scooted her chair up to the table. “We don’t know how long we’re gonna be gone, so I need you guys to pack both summer and winter clothes. We’ll stuff jackets in the truck, so don’t put them in your suitcases. If you have any special toys to bring, put them in our grocery tote bags.”

  “Roger that, Mom,” said J.C., a lover of military action movies.

  Tyler and Angela exchanged glances and shared an eye roll. The boy was gonna be a handful someday. He was a miniature version of the president, only without a Twitter account.

  “Where are you guys going?” asked Kaycee.

  “Well, I’m gonna head down to the hospital and talk to my administrator.”

  “Mom, do you have to quit your job?” asked Kaycee.

  “I hope not, but—” began Angela before J.C. interrupted.

  “Maybe you could take a yatus?”

  Since J.C. was a toddler, he’d become enamored with the word hiatus, although he could never manage to pronounce it correctly. When he used it, it came out as yah-toose, not that it mattered. Everyone in the family knew what he meant.

  “That’s right, buddy. Mom is gonna see what they say.”

  “Your dad has errands to run as well, right?” Angela looked at Tyler to elaborate.

  “I need to get replacements for our cell phones, for starters. Also, I need to replace the evidence taken by the police last night.”

  “The gun?” Angela mouthed the words.

  Tyler nodded and continued. “We need some food and supplies for the cabin, and I think that I’m going to buy us another truck, something more reliable and a little faster.” He mumbled his way through the last part of his answer.

  J.C. became distraught. “But, Dad, what about the Bronco? You can’t sell it!”

  Angela reached over and touched Tyler’s arm. “I kinda agree. That was your dad’s truck. Besides, they’d never give you what it’s worth, anyway.”

  “What if I keep the Bronco, buy a good used truck with a trailer, and use it to bring the Bronco with us?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” replied Kaycee. “We can bring more stuff that way.”

  Angela leaned back in her chair and laughed. “That’s your daughter the prepper talking.”

  Tyler beamed. He’d taught his family well.

  Chapter Eight

  George Trowbridge’s Residence

  Near Pine Orchard, Connecticut

  George Trowbridge’s trusted aide, Harris, led the lanky visitor up the wide marble stairwell of the expansive home overlooking the ocean. The snowstorm had moved out to sea, and the sun was shining brightly, reflecting off the white blanket that still covered the estate’s grounds.

  The visitor had been summoned overnight, and the inhospitable weather was not an excuse for nonattendance by the man who’d set the events of New Year’s Eve into motion. Despite his failing health, Trowbridge was still very much in charge, but he was angry. Someone within his trusted circle had gone off the reservation, as they say, nearly resulting in the death of his son-in-law, Michael Cortland.

  Nathaniel Hanson Briscoe, a descendent of John Hanson, the president of the First Continental Congress, was also the owner of Monocacy Farm, the location of the secretive meetings that launched the New Year’s Eve attacks. Briscoe, who used his middle name when he introduced himself, was an aristocratic, cerebral ex-politician who’d made a name for himself in the defense industry.

  Hanson Briscoe’s contacts throughout the military-industrial complex needed high-level access to those in government who held the purse strings of the U.S. budget. Trowbridge was the gatekeeper who could make the introductions, in exchange for a quid pro quo, or two.

  As is often the case in politics, one side to a backroom deal needed the other more than vice versa. Trowbridge always maintained the upper hand in a negotiation, and as a result, he was owed many favors from those he assisted. Of all those who owed George Trowbridge, Hanson Briscoe was at the top of the list.

  Harris escorted Briscoe into Trowbridge’s master suite, where the elderly man was receiving his morning medications and checkup. The two visitors stood casually as the medical team completed their work. Quietly and efficiently, they prepared Trowbridge for another day in which he operated from the confines of his bedroom. After they left, Harris nodded and slowly backed out of the room, leaving the two powerful men alone.

  “George, you are looking well under the circumstances,” began Briscoe as he slowly approached Trowbridge’s bedside. Briscoe always dressed in his finest suit and an ankle-length herringbone overcoat in the winter. He held the coat over his arm, refusing to surrender it to the estate’s staff when he entered the home.

  Trowbridge sized up his business associate, noticing the jacket draped over his forearm. He surmised that Briscoe didn’t plan on staying long, or expected he’d be dismissed in short order. Trowbridge had learned in his past dealings with Briscoe that the man had several hang-ups, the biggest of which was his continuous quest to gain recognition for the efforts of his ancestor John Hanson.

  Briscoe argued, as many others in his family had before him, that John Hanson was in fact the first president of the United States, not George Washington. The Hanson family maintained for centuries that in November 1781, when John Hanson became the first President of Congress under the Articles of Confederation, that bestowed the honor of first president upon him. At the time, the U.S. Constitution had not been ratified, but the government was in place.

  Be that as it may, history hadn’t been kind to the Hanson family’s efforts, and it continued to be a point of contention for Briscoe. He worked overtime to make a name for himself, working in the shadows and reminding anyone who’d listen that his lineage was every bit as important as the Founding Fathers’.

  Trowbridge didn’t care about such matters. He was interested in the present and what needed to be done to direct a nation into the future. A nation, in his opinion, that had lost its way. The events of New Year’s Eve, although orchestrated and planned in large part by Briscoe, would’ve never come to pass without Trowbridge’s blessing.

  All of the attacks that evening had been known to Trowbridge in advance, including the use of the directed-energy weapon on Delta Flight 322. During the planning phase, those operatives within his employ inside the government had been responsible for delivering travel plans and flight manifests to Briscoe.

  It was Briscoe who’d made the final decision on whether to call off a particular operation or not. In fact, one of the planned attacks had included an intentionally failed attempt on the president’s life. Trowbridge theorized that the president’s most ardent supporters would rise up in arms at the botched assassination. When the logistics of the attempt didn’t lend themselves to the desired result, Briscoe wisely called off the plan.

  What Trowbridge needed to know was why the attack on Delta 322 wasn’t called off considering his son-in-law was on board the flight. It was a question he needed to ask directly so he could study the body language of the man whom he trusted, but who also had motive to clear the playing field as Trowbridge neared the end of his life.

  There would be a successor to the throne of power. Hanson Briscoe wanted to take the seat next. George Trowbridge had other plans.

  Chapter Nine

  George Trowbridge’s Residence

  Near Pine Orchard, Connecticut

  “Please, Hanson, pull up a chair,” began Trowbridge as he pressed a button that maneuvered the back of his bed a little taller. He was now sitting upright and could see his guest’s body completely. “I t
rust you had an uneventful flight.”

  Briscoe looked around warily before setting his jacket on a side chair underneath a nearby window. He settled into the leather chair adjacent to Trowbridge’s bed. The man appeared nervous, a telling sign. It was also a mistake. Trowbridge immediately smelled blood and was more cautious with his words. If his suspicions were correct, then Briscoe was to be considered a dangerous threat to the Trowbridge dynasty and would have to be eliminated.

  “Yes, George, it was uneventful, and the invitation was wholly unexpected. I appreciate the use of your helo.”

  “This weather is not conducive to traveling three hundred miles by car,” Trowbridge added. He took a deep breath and began, choosing to make small talk, but establishing how their meeting would go. Trowbridge wanted Briscoe to do all the talking while he assessed the man’s responses and demeanor. “How are you feeling about the first phase of the plan?”

  “I thought it went very well,” he began to reply with confidence. “As you know, we had to abandon the Mar-a-Lago operation, and we—”

  Briscoe’s cell phone began to chirp in his jacket pocket, immediately drawing a scowl from Trowbridge. When he met with someone, he expected their undivided attention. Briscoe gave his host an apologetic look before reaching into his pocket. He took a moment to study the display before shutting off the ring volume.

  “George, it’s the markets,” he said as he shoved the phone into his pocket. “Schwartz is making his move.”

  Trowbridge nodded his head. “To be expected.”

  Briscoe continued. “I assume you’ve confirmed the appropriate course of action with the Treasury Secretary.”

  “I have, and with the fed chairman,” replied Trowbridge. “Schwartz pulled these shenanigans once and caught everyone off guard. Kudos to him, as it made him a rich man. You can’t fool this old fool twice. His efforts will backfire, and he won’t realize the mistake he’s made until it’s too late.”