by Akart, Bobby
Chapter Sixteen
Haven School
The Haven
“Well, you guys, it’s our first day of school,” said Meredith cheerily as her new young charges got settled into their seats. The schoolchildren of the Haven ranged from six to twelve. After a long discussion between Meredith, Blair and Ryan, they all agreed that teenagers would help the community better by working under the direct supervision of adults and being homeschooled in the evenings. The youngest children, those under six, were being cared for as part of a day care program in the Katniss Everdeen home as designated in the Hunger Games movie. The rest, representing grades one through seven, were to report to school.
Teaching a multigrade class presented some challenges for Meredith. The first challenge had to do with the maturity of the students. Developmentally, both from a social standpoint and an educational perspective, there was a vast difference between a six-year-old and a twelve-year-old.
Over the past several decades, children had grown up much faster than their counterparts in the middle part of the twentieth century. It wasn’t just their exposure to things on television, or what they learned from other children. Technology enabled them to advance as well.
Meredith took the approach that the broad range of kids simply meant that some had greater learning capabilities than others. The older kids could remain more focused while the first or second graders might require more supervision.
She planned on adopting a balanced literacy format. She’d teach reading and writing lessons as a whole group, and then she’d divide the kids into smaller groups, which she could give individualized attention based upon their skill set.
The same would apply to math curriculums and the social sciences. History could be taught to them all in a way that was easy to understand and that encouraged interaction between Meredith and her students.
Meredith’s daughter, Hannah, was her oldest student, followed closely by Kaycee Rankin and Skylar Hightower. The three girls bonded almost instantly although Kaycee was more mature and adultlike than the other two.
Young J.C. was not the oldest of the boys in the combined class, but he was the undisputed leader of the young men. He exuded confidence and commanded the room when he spoke. He was a born leader and would provide Meredith an excellent assistant, especially in history matters.
They were nearing the end of their day when Ryan and Alpha arrived at the school and pulled Meredith aside. She gave the kids orders to put their books away and straighten their desks while she stepped into the library to speak with the guys.
“Gentlemen, have you come to check up on me?” Meredith said jokingly.
“Well, we wanted to make sure they hadn’t tied you up and stuffed you into a closet on day one,” replied Alpha with a laugh. “I remember this time when I was in grade school. A bunch of us—”
Ryan raised his hand and shook his head from side to side. “No, Alpha. Meredith doesn’t need to hear your childhood war stories.”
“But she might need to know that—”
“Nope, not today. Tell her what you need.”
“Okay,” Alpha said, disappointed that he couldn’t continue. “As you know, we have a perimeter-security program that involves drones. Some of the teenagers are involved in that, as well as a few adults volunteered. Truthfully, the adults can’t seem to grasp the maneuverability of the quadcopters. You know, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
“Hey, that probably applies to me,” complained Ryan.
“Me too,” said Meredith, who got suddenly serious. “Let’s cut to the chase. Are you thinking of pulling some of these kids out of school?”
“No, no,” Alpha quickly replied. “It’ll be an afternoon and weekends thing. Um, they don’t come to school seven days a week, do they?”
“Sunday school at church, but that’s it on the weekends,” replied Meredith.
“Then do you think any of the kids have both the skill set and the maturity to be worked into our rotation? We’re talking about a few hours after school and free time on weekends.”
Meredith fidgeted as she considered her new batch of students. The oldest kids made the most sense, but neither Skylar nor Hannah had the requisite maturity level. She immediately chastised herself for sheltering Hannah and not preparing her to be a young woman.
“Honestly, I can only recommend Kaycee at this point, although her brother is perfectly capable of handling himself. That kid could probably drive a truck if you asked him to.”
“Of course. I remember him from the morning meeting, but how old is he?” asked Alpha.
Ryan and Meredith replied simultaneously, “Eight.”
“Really? I don’t know, guys,” said Alpha skeptically.
“I tell you what,” Ryan began, stepping in to make a decision. “From what I know of those two, they are very tight knit, and they’ve managed to survive a situation in their home where they worked together to avoid being attacked by a bunch of thugs. Alpha, can you assign them their own quadcopters, but have them work together?”
“Sure. I can designate them to the Henry River sector. The Rankins live down there anyway, and their cabin is centrally located along the entire stretch. They can practically work from home while staying completely familiar with one stretch of the Haven.”
“I’ll tell them, but I want to do it outside of the earshot of their classmates,” said Meredith. “Let me speak to them after class lets out and I’ll send them down to HB1. Is that okay?”
Alpha gave her a thumbs-up and headed toward the door. Ryan was about to leave when Cort arrived at the school.
“Hey, what did I miss?” asked Cort.
Ryan fist-bumped Cort and replied, “We’re recruiting soldiers. Meredith said Hannah would make a fine gunner.”
“Wait, what?” Cort had a look of concern on his face.
“They’re just kiddin’, dear,” replied his wife, followed by a playful shove directed at Ryan. “Mr. Smart, why do you wanna scare my husband like that?”
They all shared a laugh. Alpha and Ryan left, leaving the Cortlands alone.
“Is everything okay?” Meredith asked.
“Yeah, um, I guess. I need to talk with you about your father. Is class almost over?”
Meredith studied him and then replied, “It is. The kids are cleaning up now. I need to pull the Rankin children aside to talk to them about being part of Alpha’s drone squad. He’d like them to help monitor the riverbank during their off-school free time.”
“J.C. is kinda young. Why not Hannah?” asked Cort.
“I’m sorry, but she’s not ready, Cort.”
He smiled and reached out to hug his wife. “I understand. Listen, take your time. I wanna take a look around the school.”
Meredith kissed her husband on the cheek and dismissed the class. The Rankin kids were beyond enthusiastic when they were told of their new role within the Haven. They bolted out the front door and didn’t notice Cort standing to the side observing their interaction with Meredith.
“Mom, are we going home now?” asked Hannah. “I need to start on my homework.”
“Honey, I need to talk to your father for a moment. Can you wait for us, or do you want to get a head start and I’ll meet you back at the house?”
Hannah hugged Cort. “Hi, Daddy. Bye, Daddy. I’m gotta get started on learning algebra. You know, it’s kinda like solving a puzzle, except you use numbers. I’ll see you later.” Hannah spun around and skipped through the door and down the stairs of the Little Red Schoolhouse.
Her parents watched her for a moment and then Cort said, “The world needs mathematicians, too, you know.”
“I know. I’m not ashamed of how we’ve raised her, although I admit I’ve sheltered her too much. It was a mistake and now she’s thrown into a cold, cruel world.”
Cort hugged Meredith and consoled her. “You’ve sheltered her, and I’ve sheltered you. We do it because we want to protect the ones we love and hide the ugliness of the world
from their view.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Ironically, that’s why I’m here,” began Cort as he broke their embrace. He looked down to the wood floor of the schoolhouse like a young boy who’d been caught cheating on his math test. “There’s more to your father than you know, and I have to tell you the truth about a few things. I want you to know that I love you and I didn’t want to lie about anything, but I thought it best to keep certain things to myself.”
Meredith touched her husband’s cheek and smiled. “You’re a good man and an excellent husband. There’s nothing that you can say that will ever change how I feel about you. Now, you can start by cleaning the chalkboard and slapping the erasers while you spill the beans about dear old daddy.”
Chapter Seventeen
U.S. Route 222
Near Lancaster, Pennsylvania
Briscoe mustered all of his strength to control his speed and emotions. He’d left the Johnsons’ bodies lying in a pool of blood in the home that he’d provided for them since he’d elevated Clarence to the position of caretaker. They’d become like family to him, and just hours ago, he’d summarily dismissed them from employment by execution.
Once he’d cleared Maryland and entered Pennsylvania by taking a number of country roads and detours, his paranoia subsided. He turned his attention to the man who’d ordered his death—George Trowbridge.
Briscoe understood that word would spread among those he used to consider trusted friends and allies. Their loyalty would turn directly to Trowbridge, especially if the old man explained his reasons for ordering the hit. Briscoe was fully aware that Trowbridge had the ability to call upon federal authorities to track him down, asking them to cast aside anything else on their desk, including dealing with the collapse of America.
Traffic was light on U.S. Route 222 as he approached the quaint town of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He had more than a half tank of fuel and several hundred dollars in his pocket, money taken from the Johnsons.
Initially, his only thought was to make his way to Canada and call on a childhood friend who lived just over the Maine state line in Saint Stephen. There were numerous places to cross the Saint Croix River in that desolate part of northeastern Maine.
But then what? His life had been ruined by a miscalculation. He’d made a play, and it failed. Did he deserve to die? Should he be exiled? Not in his opinion. As he carefully drove through Lancaster, eyes darting in all directions to determine if local law enforcement was looking for the Johnsons’ vehicle, Briscoe’s attitude changed.
He went from a frightened fugitive, deservedly on the run for a wrong that he’d committed, to a man hell-bent on revenge and desperately in need of an ally.
A student of military history, Briscoe, like so many others, liked to quote Sun Tzu, the Chinese general and military strategist from the fifth century BC, who once wrote “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Briscoe smiled and laughed out loud as he said, “Trowbridge has no greater enemy than the Schwartz family.”
Because it had been barely two hours since he’d left the caretaker’s home and, most likely, the Johnsons’ bodies had not yet been discovered, Briscoe chose to pull into a gas station that remarkably still had fuel. While the attendant pumped the tank full, to the top of the throat, as Briscoe had requested, he scrolled through his Notepad app on his phone.
He periodically received briefings on the Schwartz family, not only as it related to their financial dealings, but more importantly for Briscoe’s purposes, he kept tabs on their political activism and the groups they used to promote their ideologies.
One of their go-to guys for instigating unrest was Chepe. Briscoe scrolled through his notes and found the dossier that had been created on the DC Antifa leader. He’d been arrested a couple of years prior for aggravated assault, ethnic intimidation and making terroristic threats in connection with an Antifa mob attack on two Hispanic-American Marines.
The Antifa members, calling the men Nazis and white supremacists, attacked them on the street despite the Marines’ denials of association with any such groups. Calling the men racist terms, spics and wetbacks, Chepe led the charge as the men were brutally assaulted by the mob.
However, using the best criminal lawyers from Philadelphia that money could buy, courtesy of the Schwartz legal defense fund, Chepe’s trial was continuously postponed until an underling within the Antifa ranks stepped forward and admitted guilt. The man, who had no family and no criminal record, received a minor sentence plus probation, and most likely a generous compensation package from Jonathan Schwartz.
Briscoe had notes on all of this as well as the most recent report on Chepe’s activities. His last known whereabouts were in DC, but the news reports Briscoe had watched out of Richmond had all of the earmarks of a Chepe-led operation. If Chepe was making waves, he was funded by Schwartz. That meant he had access to Jonathan.
The attendant finished pumping the fuel and Briscoe paid him. Then he scrolled through the dossier and found Chepe’s cell phone number provided to Briscoe’s operatives courtesy of their NSA contacts.
Briscoe started the car and pulled into a parking lot so that he was out of plain view of any passing police cars. He took a deep breath and placed the call. After several rings, a single-word answer set the wheels into motion that would turn one family’s life upside down and bring another’s closer together.
One man’s gain is another man’s loss.
“Yeah.” Chepe’s voice was brusque but hesitant.
“Chepe, please do not hang up until you hear me out. My name is Harlan Briscoe, and I’m known to Jonathan Schwartz although we’re not necessarily friends.”
Briscoe waited for a reaction from Chepe. For several agonizing seconds, there was silence on the other end of the line. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the display to see if the call was still connected. He nervously continued. “Hello?”
“I don’t know either one of you,” said Chepe in a monotone voice.
Briscoe was relieved that Chepe stayed on the line, so he treaded lightly as he continued. “Okay, I understand that and I’m not going to press you. All I’m asking is that if you were to speak with Mr. Schwartz, you tell him that we have a common enemy and that I’m prepared to be his humble servant. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Thank you,” said Briscoe, his voice revealing his sense of relief at having jumped this initial hurdle. He took the next step, one that would either get him killed or guarantee his safety. “My phone number should show on your phone’s display. Please provide the number to Mr. Schwartz and tell him that I will meet him anywhere, anyplace, under his terms. He can call me as soon as possible.”
Briscoe heard a click and he glanced at the display once again. The call had lasted fifty-four seconds, too quick for a typical law enforcement trace. He surmised Chepe was aware of the surveillance parameters.
Now Briscoe waited. He hoped to have piqued Jonathan’s curiosity. With his father arrested at the airport, a fact Briscoe had learned on his own the previous evening through a conversation with one member of the hacktivist team, it was probable that Jonathan was seeking allies as well. Briscoe hoped the two men could help one another.
He’d soon find out.
Chapter Eighteen
Schwartz Lodge
Off U.S. Route 222
Near Kutztown, Pennsylvania
It had been many years since Jonathan had visited the hunting lodge off the Kutztown bypass northeast of Reading, Pennsylvania. One of thousands of real estate holdings his family had throughout the United States, the hunting lodge had been a place of refuge for his father during his early days of high-risk currency trading. He would come here with the family, hunt, smoke an occasional cigar, and teach Jonathan about geopolitics and financial market manipulation. It was an education his son could never receive in any business school.
The lodge was a two-story structure built in the seventies usin
g cedar shake shingles and matching siding. The interior was built with post-and-beam construction, featuring soaring ceilings and a massive stone fireplace in the center that could be viewed from both the living and dining spaces.
Like most of the Schwartzes’ residential properties, a property manager came around once a month to make sure the pantry was stocked with nonperishable foods that hadn’t expired and that the utilities were in proper working order. The individuals were always instructed to be discreet and were well paid for their silence.
Schwartz surveilled the property for more than an hour before deciding to enter. He’d managed to evade the clutches of the FBI. While he didn’t think they’d have the forethought to place agents at this obscure hideaway, he wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
There was just one problem. The entry door’s locking system required that a code be entered. He had two options. One was to call the property manager and have him open up the lodge. The other was to access the code via his contacts in his cell phone. Either way, he’d have to activate the phone, which meant he could be discovered.
Schwartz wandered back and forth in front of the stolen pickup truck, yet another complication in his attempt to elude the authorities. He was anxious to ditch the vehicle so it couldn’t lead to him.
Exasperated by the situation, he pounded his fist on the hood of the truck. “Dammit!” he yelled in frustration. The sudden outburst was stupid, and he immediately closed his mouth, looking around the dense woods to determine if he’d been heard.
The lodge was three miles from Kutztown and Route 222, a well-traveled north-south thoroughfare stretching from Allentown, Pennsylvania, into Northern Maryland. Jonathan was tired yet invigorated by the prospect of being able to ride out the storm at the lodge. If he was going to activate his phone, if only for a few minutes, he’d do it somewhere in Kutztown, where the FBI would presume he was just passing through.
