Patriot's Farewell: A Political Thriller Fiction Series (Boston Brahmin Political Thrillers Book 7)

by Bobby Akart

  Sarge leaned forward on the couch and studied his empty coffee cup. “Some of the Bilderbergs could be the answer. I don’t know. Something’s not right. I can feel it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Donald.

  “Eyes and ears wide open,” replied Sarge. “Let’s not get lost in the weeds, worrying about which congressman is voting yea or nay. If more defections occur in the House, let’s look at the reasons rather than the impact of a lost vote. We’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

  Chapter 9

  10:45 a.m.

  The Lowell Estate

  Wellesley, Massachusetts

  Lawrence Lowell was the son of a former president of Harvard and a direct descendant of John Lowell, a federal judge in the first United States Continental Congress. As far back as the sixteenth century, the Lowells and Winthrops, part of Sarge’s lineage, were allies and friends. When Governor John Winthrop was named the governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, he immediately called upon the Lowell family to help settle the New England region.

  During the reign of John Morgan as the recognized head of the Boston Brahmin, Lawrence Lowell and Walter Cabot were John Morgan’s closest confidants. They were privy to everything. As part of the executive council, they were considered to be number two and three in the hierarchy.

  Shortly after Morgan’s death, Lowell passed away. He’d gained weight after the return to normalcy and it took a toll on his health. He suffered a massive stroke while visiting his grandchildren on Martha’s Vineyard that summer and never recovered.

  His passing left the Lowell family business interests and their representation in the Boston Brahmin to his widowed wife, Constance. The Boston Brahmin was a men’s club and had been since the days of the revolution. Constance, who knew little of their activities prior to her husband’s death, would only have the ability to name a suitable family member to the Boston Brahmin. This did not guarantee the new Lowell a seat on the executive committee, as that honor was voted upon by the committee.

  As expected, Constance Lowell nominated their oldest son, Gardner Percival Lowell, an international law attorney who split his time between his New York offices and the Vineyard. Lowell’s firm specialized in cross-border resolutions—experts in mediating, or litigating, trade and investment disputes between countries. They were also one of the most respected lobbyist firms in America. Lowell kept a pulse on Washington and his thumb on his elected officials.

  After Morgan suffered his stroke, he immediately chose Sarge to become the new head of the Boston Brahmin without consulting his associates. The circumstances were such that the members of the executive committee, specifically Morgan’s closest friends, Lowell and Walter Cabot, did not object.

  But Constance Lowell did. First and foremost, Constance disapproved of Morgan’s tactics in initiating the cyber attack. While it was expected that the members of the executive committee were to remain tight-lipped about their activities, Lawrence Lowell was notoriously weak when facing the inquisition of his wife.

  Before she left the Lowell estate with Sarge and the Cabots, Constance had been fully informed of Morgan’s plan and was none too happy. She voiced her displeasure constantly in those early weeks at Prescott Peninsula and even demanded that she be taken to Gardner’s home.

  Eventually, her position softened and she came around, but she didn’t forget Morgan’s choice of Sarge to lead the Boston Brahmin, which she considered to be a slight to her more qualified candidate of choice—Gardner.

  “Come, Gardner, sit down for a moment before you leave. You have time for tea, don’t you?” asked the eighty-two-year-old matriarch of the Lowell dynasty.

  “I do, Mother, but just for a moment. The jet is waiting for me to leave for Egg Harbor.”

  Gardner’s New England accent was strong and sounded very Kennedy-like. It seemed in the northeast, New Yorkers truly enjoyed their dialects, as did those from New Jersey. Jersey always seemed to sound like joyzee, and to New Englanders, harbor was pronounced hahbah. They spoke the dialect like it was a badge of honor, or awnah.

  “Gardner, this is a very important time for us and your future,” said Constance as she directed her son to sit across from her in their sunroom. The snow flurries were just starting to flutter across Vineyard Sound as the nor’easter made its way toward their east. “This country has proven that it can elect a nonpolitician. Now, it will need one with business savvy and international acumen. Henry Sargent got lucky because of circumstances. In some respects, he has proven himself a capable leader. But in terms of what is best for our business interests and the others among the executive committee who agree with us, it’s time to send him back to Boston.”

  “Mother, I understand the gravity of the situation and I’ve been working diligently to provide Sarge quite a shock by Wednesday. At Thanksgiving, he’ll have to look all of us in the eye. He’ll be under a tremendous amount of pressure to respect our wishes.”

  “Thursday is a long time from now,” admonished Constance. “There will be a power struggle within the Brahmin, to be sure, but we have to set the table. Now, have you secured the necessary defections for tomorrow’s House vote?”

  “I have, and the congressmen involved will absolutely blindside everyone, including their own families. My marks were totally off the radar for Quinn and his staff. I can assure you, Mother, the House vote will make headlines tomorrow evening.”

  Constance leaned back on the rose tufted settee and clenched her hands together. “Son, tell me about the meeting this afternoon.”

  “Mother, our friend from New York has pledged his support and will deliver the necessary votes, but symbolically, he cannot vote with us. He is more valuable to us hidden in the shadows. Senator Ellis from Colorado has higher aspirations, and she sees this as an opportunity to endear herself to voters from the Pacific states. She’s a libertarian in name only. Her political roots spread into deep blue California, as do two of her fellow libertarians, which she claims she can deliver.”

  “What’s it going to cost us, son?”

  “Does it matter?” he quickly replied. After seeing his mother’s reaction, he continued. “Well, I’m sorry, Mother, that came out wrong. Yes, as is typical, their demands are high and I will convince them to be more realistic. But as you know, my promises are contingent upon a major upheaval within the Boston Brahmin.”

  Constance reached out and took his hand. “An upheaval that you’re carefully orchestrating, my son. A trap being laid for a political novice who’ll never see it coming.”

  Chapter 10

  11:00 a.m.

  The Jackson Family Home

  Muddy Pond, Tennessee

  Drew Jackson stood to the side as former Master Sergeant Johnson King Dawkins expertly flipped over a dozen burgers and steaks on the charcoal grill outside the barn. The aroma of grilled meat filled the air as the other members of the Aegis Global Response Team razzed their team leader. As he flipped the final burger, something pelted him in the back of the head.

  “Hey, what the—?” King shouted as he spun around with the spatula, ready to defend himself against the attacker.

  “Sorry, King. I didn’t mean to hit you,” said Drew’s younger brother, Jack. Jack, who’d graduated from the University of Tennessee following the collapse, briefly pursued an opportunity at an NFL football career, but after bouncing around from one team’s practice squad to another, he settled back on the Cumberland Plateau as a part-time hunting guide and full-time real estate agent.

  “No problem, Jack,” said King as he tossed the wayward football back to him. As King returned to the grill, he laid out the buns to toast them.

  This was a rare day for the members of the Aegis team. When they weren’t on a mission, they’d be back at Fort Bragg, training, far away from the prying eyes of the public or regular forces. Drew had invited them to the farm for some much-needed rest and relaxation. The guys hunted, participated in a traditional turkey shoot, and enjoyed the opportunity to
hang out with their families and friends, knowing they could get the call at any moment.

  Drew’s attention was grabbed by a roar of laughter that erupted from one of the picnic tables, undoubtedly a reaction to a joke that couldn’t be repeated in polite company, such as their wives and girlfriends, who sat at another table, talking amongst themselves.

  “Yup, here we were, rescuing this woman, and as soon as I cut her bindings loose, she kicked me in the balls!”

  “No way!”

  “I kid you not! I doubled over and then she kneed me in the nose and bolted out the door.”

  “That explains your warped schnoz!” The guys slapped the table and let out another roar.

  “More importantly, did the nuts survive?”

  A female voice answered from the other table as she rubbed her pregnant belly. “They survived just fine, thank you very much.”

  More laughter from all of his guests couldn’t bring Drew out of his melancholy mood. Drew’s team was unaware that changes might be coming to their dynamic. He had a decision to make that would impact all of them. His mind drifted to Abbie, so he eased away from the group to check on her.

  *****

  Drew entered the kitchen to find the love of his life helping his mother prepare lunch for the guys. He walked over and kissed Abbie on the neck without saying a word. The smell of baked beans caught his nostrils and he opened the oven door to sneak a peek. The awkward silence began to bug him as he leaned against the counter to observe the two women in his life—Abbie and Drew’s mom, Janie Jackson, a retired ER nurse and ruler of the roost in the Jackson home.

  “Son, somethin’ on your mind?” asked Janie. She kept working on the variety of side dishes, but Abbie looked up and gave her husband a reassuring smile. Abbie was seven months pregnant with a late January due date. She’d cut back on her vice presidential duties but was certainly not a couch potato. She’d carefully managed her weight, exercised regularly, and attempted to avoid stressful situations.

  As she and Sarge neared the end of their second administration, they were quite fortunate to have dodged the major international crises that most presidents endure. America was allowed a day of mourning, in a way, to recover from the cyber attack. After the power grid collapsed, a power vacuum was evident in international affairs.

  There was some posturing by Russia and China, but for the most part, the world came together to assist the United States in getting back on its feet. Israel, Australia, Japan, and the European nations had led the charge in providing relief supplies, critical electrical grid components, and protection of American military interests abroad.

  Drew and Abbie wanted a baby, but both agreed that the ideal timing for their first child would be after she left office. When the calendar permitted, they began to try, and as is often the case with two successful, driven people, positive results came quickly. By their calculations, the new parents would welcome their first child into the world two weeks after the inauguration of the next president.

  “Mom, I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” Drew started as he wandered to the breakfast room window to look at his guests, who’d gathered at the picnic tables to exchange stories. The men, all members of the Aegis team he’d worked with since Abbie was assigned a permanent Secret Service detail, had been assigned to Drew for special ops tasks that came directly from the president. “Sarge has suggested I take a leadership role at Aegis in Boston. You know, out of the field, because of the baby and all.”

  “Drew,” interrupted Abbie, “you know how I feel about this. It’s a desk job. You’ll be miserable.”

  Janie grabbed a dish towel and wiped her hands. “That doesn’t sound like such a terrible idea. I assumed you two would be moving to Boston in January. You could be close to work that way.”

  Drew continued to stare out the window at the playful banter between his team and their loved ones. King was putting the final touches on the grilled meats and began to remove them onto a platter.

  “Janie, deep down, Drew loves what he does and he doesn’t want to leave his team. I’ve told him not to make a rash decision based upon me and our baby. We’ll be fine, just as I know he’ll be fine when he goes out on a mission.”

  “Abbie, we can’t be so sure,” said Drew as he reached out for her hand. “Don’t forget, I get shot at sometimes.”

  “All I know is this,” started Abbie in response. “I’ll never forget seeing you lying on the ground, getting kicked and beaten that night at Camp Blanding. I thought—no, I just knew you were dead. But you came back to me. And you always will.”

  Drew hugged her tight and whispered, “I love you.”

  After a moment, Janie weighed in. “I’m your mother and I vote office job. You’ve been shot at enough for your country. I think you need to take care of this beautiful girl and your new young’un.”

  Chapter 11

  11:30 a.m.

  The Hart Senate Office Building

  Washington, DC

  Under most circumstances, the massive Hart Senate Office Building would be empty. Ordinarily, senators and their congressional counterparts would have scampered off for the safety of their home states several days before Thanksgiving. This year was different, as the vote loomed large.

  Snow flurries had turned to flakes and began to stick on the building’s windows, casting a faint gray light into the offices and hallways. Staffers scurried in and out of the outer office, which was occupied by his secretary.

  Senator Paul Ashley Rutledge, Republican senior senator from Georgia, was a twenty-two-year pillar in the upper chamber of Congress. He’d won re-election by a landslide four years ago and his prospects for a fifth term in two years were good.

  As the Senate Majority Leader, Rutledge ruled with a firm hand. Scholarly in appearance, with thick, frameless glasses that hadn’t changed since his first term in office, Rutledge led a fairly disciplined life. He’d lost his wife to cancer years ago, which only served to intensify his obsessive tendencies. He demanded promptness, accuracy, and order from his staff. He had fired more than his share of staffers for failing to follow these basic requirements of employment.

  His approach to the vote was no different. He relied heavily on the Majority Whip to deliver the votes necessary to deny passage of the Pacific Statehood Act. He was against the bill for many reasons, the least of which was loyalty to the president who’d forged an excellent working relationship with him and the Rutledge family over the last eight years. Leader Rutledge was very pro-Sarge as his agenda was implemented.

  Senator Rutledge checked his watch, hoisted himself out of the chair and walked through his secretary’s office into his conference room. The room was dedicated to the Majority Leader and was adorned with portraits of past leaders of the Senate—the world’s greatest deliberative body. He took a seat at the polished table, clasping his hands across his protruding belly, and waited for his meeting.

  Precisely at 11:30 a.m., Congressman Rafael Sánchez entered the room. He was alone. This surprised Rutledge, as the young democrat from Georgia was known for his entourage, which accompanied him throughout Capitol Hill. This should be interesting, he thought as he rose to greet his guest. He’d never met Sánchez in person, but like everyone in Washington, he’d seen more than enough of the man on television.

  “Senator Rutledge, thank you for seeing me.” Sánchez firmly shook Rutledge’s hand before taking a seat at the head of the table. Does he think he belongs at the head of the table? Rutledge had chosen a neutral chair in the middle of the twelve-seat, nineteenth-century antique.

  Sánchez settled into his chair and smoothly unbuttoned his jacket. Crossing his legs, he smiled a bright, white toothy grin and exhaled dramatically. “It’s been quite a couple of interesting months, wouldn’t you agree, Leader Rutledge?”

  Rutledge wasn’t going to give the cocky upstart an inch. He’d learned over the years it was better to sit and listen. Instead of answering, he simply nodded at Sánchez.

  Sánchez c
ontinued. “That election was a barn burner. But I’ll say this for President Sargent, he did a magnificent job of keeping the Pacific statehood bill away from a floor vote. Things might have been much different on Election Day if the vote had proceeded in October, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Maybe.” Again, a noncommittal response from Rutledge. There was silence as Sánchez gathered his thoughts.

  Rutledge decided to take the offensive. He leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. He looked over his glasses like a schoolteacher. “May I call you Rafael?”

  “Call me Rafi.”

  “Fine, Rafi. I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but I’m a busy man and have taken the time to meet with you this morning. Maybe we ought to get to the point, young man.” Rutledge couldn’t resist taking a swipe at the man’s youthfulness. It wasn’t said condescendingly, rather just the opposite. It was more like a teacher trying to teach a new student how to get with the program.

  “You’re right, my apologies. Like I said, the last couple of months have been interesting. Your party took it in the teeth on Election Day, including in Congress, where things will be looking up for us next session.”

  “That’s a long time from now.”

  “To an extent,” said Sánchez as he leaned forward in his chair. “Leader Rutledge, change is coming. I know that we’re on opposite sides of the aisle, but I think we can agree that one way or the other, this bill will pass this week or next term.”

  “Maybe.”

  Sánchez leaned forward and lowered his voice, forcing Rutledge to pay attention. “I am content in the House for now. As you know, Georgia has turned from red to purple in recent elections. There are those who believe it can be turned true blue in the near future. I think they’re right.”