by Bobby Akart
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 8
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 9
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 trust 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.”
“What about Interpol?”
“They’ve been alerted,” replied Trowbridge. “International wiretaps and warrants have been issued for the offshore accounts that Jonathan Schwartz uses for these types of dealings. Our contacts in the FBI’s financial crimes division are closely monitoring his U.S.-based activities. Justice will be meted out with lightning speed.”
“The media?” asked Briscoe.
“Our friends at the Financial Times will break the story, and the Fox Business Network will make sure it is disseminated throughout the U.S. He’ll be as toxic as a nuclear waste dump within days.”
Briscoe smiled and rubbed his hands, lending the appearance of a miserly scrooge celebrating the bankruptcy of another. The man’s body relaxed, and he slid down into the comfortable chair as if he were enjoying a casual chat with an old friend over cognac and cigars.
A wry smile came across Trowbridge’s face as he saw the noticeable change in Briscoe’s demeanor. Trowbridge often laughed at the so-called expert poker players who bragged about their ability to read their opponents. Those people had never played the kind of high-stakes card games that Trowbridge was accustomed to.
“I’ve received reports that unrest has spread across the country, especially in unexpected locales. May I assume these are organized efforts?”
“They are, George,” Briscoe replied. “Our network has responded quickly and with equal violence.”
“Any problems?”
Briscoe grimaced. “Only in Richmond, but we have teams descending upon the city this morning. The public will applaud our efforts.”
Trowbridge appeared to be uninterested, casually refolding the end of the blanket that was tucked just below his shoulders to keep him warm. “What about the death toll from the Delta flight? How many?”
Briscoe’s body stiffened in his chair. The question caught him off guard, as intended. “Um, one-oh-nine, passengers and crew. The target, um, Congressman Pratt was one of the dead.”
“Survivors?” Trowbridge asked the questions that he already knew the answers to. He’d conducted his own, independent investigation of the downing of Delta Flight 322.
While it was true that Cort was a late addition to the flight, the manifest with his name on it had been filed with the FAA. For over an hour, Briscoe’s team was, or should have been, aware of Cort’s presence on that flight.
Trowbridge’s investigation had revealed that the Frenchman, who had been one of their top operatives because of his development and knowledge of radio frequency weapons, a highly prized tool of terror, had been inadvertently killed as he slipped off the oil rig’s elevated platform. The ex-military operators hired to protect the man had disappeared by prearrangement.
For Trowbridge, it was all too convenient. Briscoe had the answers and Trowbridge expected him to volunteer them. A lie of omission was just as big a lie as one of words. He was going to give Briscoe the opportunity to admit his operation almost killed Cort, whether by accident or design.
A few beads of sweat appeared on Briscoe’s forehead. “They keep it warm in here for you, don’t they?”
Trowbridge glared at his contemporary and nodded. He wasn’t acknowl
edging the fact that the room was kept warm. He was relishing the fact that the room, and its suddenly hot feel, was closing in on Hanson Briscoe.
Trowbridge offered the younger man a glass of water and subtly changed the conversation to the next part of their intricate plan to push the nation to the edge of a second civil war. As the two discussed the arrangements, Trowbridge slid his hand under the blanket and pressed a buzzer, summoning Harris.
When his aide arrived, Trowbridge held his hand up, indicating that Briscoe should halt the conversation. Trowbridge waved his hand for Harris to approach, and then he pointed to his ear. Harris picked up on the cue and pretended to whisper in his boss’s ear.
“Hanson, old friend, would you excuse us for just a moment?”
Briscoe nodded and left. Just as the door shut, Trowbridge mustered the strength to push himself up a little taller in the bed. Harris awaited his instructions.
“Not now. Not here. But soon. I want him gone. Without a trace.”
“No message?” asked Harris.
“Oh, it will be loud and clear.”
“Sir, I was unable to install the GPS tracking device in his jacket as you requested. Shall I send a team with—”
Trowbridge waggled his finger at his aide and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Quickly, so we don’t raise suspicion.”
Harris didn’t hesitate, pulling the wafer-thin piece of electronic circuitry out of his pocket. He flicked open a spring-assisted knife and created a small incision where the outer pocket met the main body of the overcoat. Within seconds, the device was inserted, and Briscoe, who kept his jacket with him like a security blanket, could be found anywhere, anytime.
Trowbridge nodded his approval, and Harris exited the room, holding the door open for Briscoe—the dead man walking.
Chapter 10
Hilton Garden Inn, Airport
Charlotte, North Carolina
“Okay,” began Cort cheerily as he returned to the hotel room, wiggling a key fob over his head. “How does a brand-new, barely broken-in Chevy Suburban sound to you guys?”
