The Doomsday Series Box Set | Books 1-5

by Akart, Bobby

  Cort stood and adjusted his sweatshirt. “You’re right, Blair, and I couldn’t live with myself if I brought that kind of heat on the Haven. I think that Meredith, Hannah and I should leave.”

  “Come on, Cort, sit down,” said Ryan, gesturing with both hands to have Cort return to the table. “Nobody’s going anywhere.”

  Cort tried to argue. “I’m putting everyone here in danger. If there’s a target on my back, they’ll … Well, you’ve seen what they’re capable of. They could drop a bomb here and leave a crater the size of Rhode Island.”

  Tom started laughing. “Cort, they’re not gonna drop a bomb on the Haven. Ryan’s right. Let’s talk this through.”

  “I agree, Cort,” said Blair. “Listen, you know me. I tell it like it is. If I thought you should go, I’d be escorting you to the gate myself.”

  “Me too,” said Ryan. “Besides, where would you go? You can’t go back home. You’d never make it to New England. Meredith and Hannah aren’t made for hiding in the woods. You’re staying and we’ll figure it out.”

  “Let me add this, too,” started Blair. “Even if you left, they, whoever they are, wouldn’t necessarily know that you’re gone. They’d come around looking for you and we’d have to fight them off anyway. At least you’d be here and add one more gun to the Haven’s defense.”

  Cort was humbled and he slid back into his chair, slouching somewhat as his tall frame stretched well under the Smarts’ dining table.

  “Okay,” said Ryan. “First, we have to keep this information within the four of us. I don’t know how much you’ve told Meredith—”

  “Everything,” interrupted Cort.

  Ryan looked to Tom. “How about Donna?”

  “Nothing,” he replied.

  “Good grief,” interjected Blair with an accompanying eye roll.

  “Well, she’s been feeling down lately, and I didn’t want to add to her worries,” Tom explained.

  Blair, who was not a feminist, but certainly considered herself a strong woman, said, “Gentlemen, I’m gonna say this one time. Women are not fragile. We bend, but we don’t break. Consider this. We’re capable of giving birth. Could any of you three do that? Hmm?”

  Silence.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Blair continued. “That said, in a stressful environment like this, and especially under the circumstances, the fewer people who know about this, the better.”

  “I agree,” added Ryan. “We run this community like a business, doing our best to keep the emotions out of it. George Trowbridge obviously loves his family and must have some amount of confidence in the Haven. Otherwise, you would be somewhere under his wing, whether Meredith liked it or not.”

  Tom interrupted. “He’s a man who keeps up with his assets. Sorry, Cort, not to insult your importance as a member of his family. Trowbridge invests a lot in people like you and me. He wouldn’t put us in harm’s way.”

  Cort reluctantly nodded.

  “Good, it’s settled, then,” said Blair. “You’re staying here. I want you to reassure Meredith that we’ll do everything we can to protect you guys. Ryan might bring Alpha into it because special security arrangements may need to be put in place. I don’t know. Whatever it takes, we’ll do our best to make it happen.”

  Cort sat up in his chair, emboldened by the show of support from the Smarts. “Thank you. I will never forget what y’all have done for us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  George Trowbridge’s Residence

  Near Pine Orchard, Connecticut

  Trowbridge’s health had taken a downturn as the aftermath of the attacks had begun to weigh heavily upon him. The desired results were being achieved. Certain parts of the country were in turmoil. Violence was widespread, and communities were in a lawless state. Local law enforcement was overwhelmed, and even when the governors dispatched the National Guard in some states like California, Illinois, and Michigan, they were instructed to perform crowd control only. Guardsmen were not asked to tamp down the riots with lethal force.

  The president was safely tucked away at Raven Rock and, for the moment, he was content with bringing overseas troops back home for further deployment to the hottest zones of unrest. Harris, Trowbridge’s aide, had spoken at length with the president’s chief of staff on two occasions.

  The administration was content with allowing the fires of collapse to burn on for another week or so until reservists were called up and overseas soldiers were recalled. Once the military assets were in place and ready for deployment under the martial law orders, the president would take the necessary steps by executive order to circumvent the Posse Comitatus Act.

  Posse comitatus originated in ninth-century England and was later used as a means to incorporate the military in domestic law enforcement actions. Following the American Civil War, Congress passed a law prohibiting the president’s use of military personnel in typically local law enforcement duties such as civil unrest.

  The limitation did not apply, however, to the deployment of the National Guard. The Guard was activated by a state’s governor but could not be activated by the president as a result of the Posse Comitatus Act.

  The president’s chief of staff told Harris that he would violate the act if he deemed it necessary to protect the American people, and deal with the consequences of it later. He suspected, however, that the leaders within the military would not act upon his orders. Therefore, he planned on ordering the Defense Department to reassign large numbers of military personnel to the National Guard to be deployed to select states.

  He addressed the ramifications of the fuse lit on New Year’s Eve. “A lot of Americans will die, Harris. I knew this in advance, and I believe the president is keenly aware of this.”

  Harris closed up his iPad and set it on a side table near the door. He joined Trowbridge by his bed.

  “Sir, we were headed toward a second civil war anyway. I remember a poll taken a couple of years back that showed forty percent of those asked believed a second civil war would take place within the next five years, and sixty percent thought it would occur during their lifetimes.”

  “Harris, I will always wonder if I did the right thing by suggesting these attacks. The American electorate had shifted from being informed and placing their votes on distinctions between policy or procedure. Instead, they rallied behind their team, whether democrat or republican, for better or for worse.”

  “Sir, I personally believe this country needed to be shaken to its core. I thought 9/11 would do it. I felt like the patriotism on display in the years thereafter revealed a turning point away from the divide that began in the sixties.”

  Trowbridge laughed. “I remember. They all flew flags on their cars and wore lapel pins professing their love of country. And then the arguments about weapons of mass destruction and Saddam Hussein started in Congress, and our politicians were back to throwing stones and hurling accusations.”

  Trowbridge sighed and then continued. “The bottom line is this. There was no more time for nuance. There was only time for war. So, war it will be for the foreseeable future.”

  “How will it end?” asked Harris. “When the president takes control of the streets?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. This conflict may be too large for our military to control. It may need to run its course.” Trowbridge paused, managed a laugh, and then grimaced at the pain caused by enjoying the moment. “Harris, I’m like the weatherman. I’m not in control of the storm, but I can tell you where it’s most likely to happen.”

  The two men fell silent for a moment as they stared at the blank television monitors. Ordinarily, several news networks would be displayed on the screens. After the cyber attacks of that morning, an actual news blackout had affected America.

  Comfortable that the national approach to the collapse was being managed by the president in a satisfactory matter, Trowbridge was ready to focus his efforts on his adversaries. He bristled when Harris reported that Briscoe had eluded the hit team assig
ned to kill him at Monocacy Farm. Their careless mistake would send Briscoe into hiding and possibly out of the country.

  Trowbridge was upset that he wasn’t able to exact his revenge for Briscoe’s betrayal. However, causing the man to scurry about like a cockroach when the lights were turned on was somewhat satisfying.

  “Still no news on Jonathan Schwartz?” asked Trowbridge.

  “No, sir. I have to tell you that the FBI’s ranks are stretched thin at the moment. They have morphed from an investigative agency to one concerned with future attacks. I don’t believe they’re assigning the resources necessary to find Jonathan.”

  “And his father?”

  “Tucked away in a holding cell at the federal prison in Petersburg, Virginia. It should suit him for many months until the dust settles around the country.”

  “Has the DOJ frozen their assets?” asked Trowbridge.

  “Obvious accounts, plus those that we provided to them,” replied Harris. “The Schwartz companies have real estate holdings all over the country. It’s likely that precious metals and cash were tucked away, you know, just in case.”

  “Jonathan will stick his head up out of a hole, either to free his father or come at me. Are our people in place to fend off any direct assault on the property?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re at platoon strength on a full-time rotational basis with a second group of forty on standby.”

  “On the water, too?” asked Trowbridge.

  “Absolutely. Yes, sir.”

  Trowbridge thought about Meredith and her family for a moment. He considered reaching out to Cort, but he was concerned that electronic surveillance might expose their whereabouts. He’d taken the steps to notify his closest friends to explain Briscoe’s betrayal. He suspected that the word had spread throughout his fellow Bonesmen and the operatives they employed.

  Trowbridge didn’t lose sight of the fact that Briscoe had allies of his own and might look for a way to come at him. As he contemplated this, his lower back was struck with a sudden jolt of pain, followed by an onrush of chills that overtook him. His brow broke out in a cold sweat and he began to shiver uncontrollably.

  Trowbridge was barely conscious as Harris summoned the medical staff into the bedroom suite to attend to the man whose health was deteriorating.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lancaster, Pennsylvania

  Minutes seemed like hours as Briscoe anxiously awaited a phone call from Jonathan Schwartz. He’d told himself that after thirty minutes, he was going to continue driving north until he reached the Canadian border in Maine. If Schwartz called in the meantime, he’d take it from there. Otherwise, he needed to put some distance between himself and Monocacy Farm.

  His vehicle was parked facing the midday sun, causing the interior to warm up. He hadn’t slept all night and was exhausted. Despite his anxious state, drowsiness began to overtake him. Twice, Briscoe snapped his head upright as he drifted off to sleep. The third time, he was just about out when the phone vibrated on the seat next to him.

  He immediately picked it up and looked at the display. He recognized the number, not because he’d spoken to the man on the other end of the line before, but because the briefings he’d received from his hacktivist team had included the number in a recent dossier update.

  His mind raced as he thought of what he wanted to say. He set his jaw, straightened up in his seat, and prepared to enter a new alliance.

  “Hello.” He began the conversation full of trepidation.

  “You’ve got less than sixty seconds,” said the voice on the line. He recognized Jonathan’s voice immediately. Over the years, he’d studied every public appearance of the heir to the Schwartz throne.

  “George Trowbridge tried to have me killed, and I have no friends right now. I suspect you feel about him the same way I do. Perhaps we can help one another.”

  “I can handle things on my own.”

  “Maybe so, but I have an additional option that you might not have considered. One that would cut the old man’s heart out, figuratively speaking.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Let’s meet. I can assure you that I’m alone.”

  “Stay by the phone.”

  With that, Jonathan disconnected the call. Briscoe allowed himself a slight smile. He needed an ally, and while Jonathan Schwartz would not have been his first choice, he was an unlikely one, meaning that Trowbridge would never suspect it.

  One thing that Briscoe knew that Trowbridge did not was the fact that each of the New Year’s Eve attacks were compartmentalized. No one knew of the details for each of the operations except for Briscoe. Trowbridge might have his suspicions regarding the downing of Delta 322, but he wasn’t certain. If Briscoe could finish the job by taking out Cortland, using Schwartz-hired operatives who’d shoulder the blame, then he might be able to sway his fellow Bonesmen to disregard Trowbridge’s accusations as being irrational.

  He could be back in the saddle, as they say.

  The phone rang again. It was Jonathan.

  “Hello.”

  “Meet me in the faculty parking lot at the University of Pennsylvania in Kutztown. How long will it take you to get here?”

  “About two hours,” replied Briscoe. He knew it would only take an hour, but he wanted to arrive early to check out the location.

  “Come alone or I’ll kill you myself,” Schwartz snarled before disconnecting the call.

  Briscoe pulled the phone away and dropped it on the seat next to him. He reached into his sweater pocket and felt for the revolver that he’d used to kill his caretaker.

  “Oh, I’ll be alone, just as you’d better be, my new friend. Both of us are capable of pulling triggers.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Near Kutztown, Pennsylvania

  Briscoe parked his vehicle two blocks from the university and chose to walk onto the campus to locate the faculty parking lot. Dressed in his cardigan, he looked somewhat professorial. Briscoe was not a public figure, and he seriously doubted that Jonathan would recognize him if they stood next to one another in a crowded subway.

  He assumed that Jonathan was staying somewhere close; otherwise he wouldn’t have suggested this location. Also, he’d probably been there before and knew it would be an easy location to surveil. As Briscoe traversed the sidewalks of the small campus, he checked his watch. He was early, by design.

  Schwartz pulled into the parking lot alone and backed the stolen pickup truck so that the license plate was pushed against a retaining wall. He sat there staring ahead for a moment, and then he began to look around the parking lot. He checked his watch, all in plain view of Briscoe, who was standing to the side and rear of the pickup.

  After ten minutes in which the two men assessed their surroundings, Briscoe decided to make the first move. To reassure Jonathan that he was alone, and to allow him the opportunity to run if necessary, Briscoe walked to the entrance of the parking lot and strolled in between the parked cars until he was out in the open. He casually walked past the front of Schwartz and then stopped to face him. The two men nodded to one another, and Jonathan casually waved him over as he rolled down the window.

  “Good morning, Professor,” said Jonathan with a hint of snark.

  Briscoe studied his attire and smiled. “Yes, I suppose I do fit in.” He paused and studied the pickup. “This appears to be a step down from your usual transportation.”

  Jonathan was remarkably loose and lighthearted. Briscoe studied his adversary. The son of the great György Schwartz appeared relieved to be talking with him.

  “Hop in, it’s stolen. You might as well join in the conspiracy.”

  Briscoe laughed. “Yeah, I have a stolen one as well. I really need to get it off the streets. Do you have a place where we can hide these for a couple of centuries?”

  “Yes. We’ll get your vehicle. I have a place about seven miles from here. There’s a few barns on the property where they can be hidden away with years of dust.”

  Twenty
minutes later, the two men had parked their stolen vehicles in a barn located at the back of the Schwartz property. They removed the license plates and slung them like frisbees into a nearby pond. Schwartz assured Briscoe that he’d have the vehicles destroyed as soon as he felt comfortable reaching out to his people.

  Incredibly, the two men were nonchalant in their initial dealings with one another. It was as if they knew they couldn’t turn to anyone else. The odd pairing resulted in a mutual respect that was necessary as they hatched a plan to fight back against the man who put them in this predicament.

  It had been a long day full of a wide range of emotions. Incredibly, Briscoe felt safe in the presence of Schwartz, who was not known to be a violent man, although his employees were capable of it. Briscoe assessed his new ally’s demeanor and wondered if Jonathan had personally killed anyone, like he had.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” began Jonathan after he poured Briscoe a glass of much-needed brandy. “We both find ourselves in similar circumstances. We’re fugitives from law enforcement. We’re also hiding from the tentacles of George Trowbridge. I’m speaking for myself, but I suspect you feel the same way. We don’t know which way to turn and whom to trust.”

  “I agree. Honestly, I think that I could handle the legal matters easier than the personal vendetta Trowbridge has against me. Cops and judges can be bought. Trowbridge, however, cannot.”

  Jonathan took a sip of brandy and reached for a cigar humidor that sat on the coffee table between them. He offered one to Briscoe, who declined. After he clipped the end of a Davidoff cigar and lit it, he continued.

  “While I would take great pleasure in ending Trowbridge’s life, I’ve given this some thought. He will be protected and nearly untouchable. At present, I don’t think I could find the professionals prepared to take on that task. I’m intrigued by the suggestion you made on the phone.”