“Be constructive, Councilman,” Uribe snarled. “What has gotten into some of you? We are the highest office of the organization—we cannot act like pouty teenagers who didn’t get their way. Am I clear?”
Ryan tossed his hands in the air. “None of it matters. The people have spoken, and they want anarchy.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Councilwoman Thrasher said. “We held a vote and are honoring the results. Nothing about that is anarchy.”
“We just voted as a people to not save our own leader, as if she never existed,” Ryan snapped, standing up from his seat and slamming two fists on the table to grab everyone’s immediate attention. “There was a time where we wouldn’t think twice about rescuing our commander at any cost. Thirty years ago this would have been a ninety-five percent vote in favor of saving the commander—no doubt about it. We wouldn’t have had to waste a whole day taking polls—that day would have been spent getting our commander to safety. Now, there’s no respect for authority, that much has been made clear. I just don’t recognize this organization any more. What have we become? We’re no better than the Revolution.”
“Don’t you dare say something like that!” Councilman Martinez barked. “We are nothing like those people.”
“Those people don’t give a shit about their leadership. They blindly follow Chris. If he were to go missing, they’d just follow the next man up. Today’s vote was a huge step in that direction for us.”
“What do you suggest we do, then?” Councilman Pierre asked. “Because it sounds to me like this has been years in the making. Our people didn’t just wake up one day and decide to change their priorities. If you saw the start of this years ago, that would have been the time to speak.”
Ryan took a deep breath before speaking again, this time in a much more controlled tone. “I’m afraid a vote like this is something that can divide our membership beyond repair. There are people ready to march right up to Chris’s mansion right now and get Strike themselves. Road Runners are smart and savvy. I wouldn’t be shocked at all if they actually found a way to get her out of that place. It was hard watching you lie to the people, pretending that we have people working on finding a way to rescue her.”
“We do have teams—” Uribe started.
“Save it. Those teams have been at work for weeks and haven’t done a damn thing. They’re no different than the teams who have been working for years to find a way to kill Chris. Just a bunch of moronic ideologists.”
“Of course you’d think that,” Thrasher snipped across the table.
“Enough!” Uribe shouted. “We have to get on the same page. No one in this room loves the decision. And no one would have loved it the other way, either. Let’s call it a night. We’ve been together since yesterday morning. Go home, sleep in your own bed, try to unplug from the stress we’ve had to endure. You may not recognize the Road Runners, but I don’t recognize this Council. I’m ashamed of the behavior I’ve seen these past couple of days. We have work to do, a special election to manage, and new laws to create to ensure we don’t get put in this position again. Take the morning off, and we’ll meet here at noon tomorrow. I’ll buy lunch for us and we can get back to work.”
Ryan pushed his chair and walked off, muttering under his breath. Murray was the next to stand and leave without another word.
Her silence was enough to prove a point, and the rest of the Council quietly rose from their seats and departed the building. Some exchanged awkward glances with each other, but they moved about as if they had never met before.
* * *
Across the country, from the comforts of his office, Chris Speidel chucked the remote at his TV screen, shattering it into dozens of little shards.
He snapped up the phone and called down to whatever guard was on duty in the basement. “Let’s make sure the commander is ready for her television special in two nights.”
He hung up, threw his head back, and snickered at the ceiling.
12
Chapter 12
The vote was indeed polarizing and divisive, and definitely widened the pending divide within the organization. The following day was as lifeless of a day the Road Runners had ever seen, a virtual dark cloud hanging over the entire organization, panic spreading among groups pushed to the brink in their efforts to save Strike.
Others feared for Martin’s life, both from Chris and other Road Runners who seemed to have lost their minds. No one knew what to expect in regards to Chris’s promise to execute Strike on live television. They were halfway to his deadline, and it became increasingly clear that there was a target on Martin Briar’s back.
Where was the mysterious and unknown Martin Briar? He had been a central focus in this offer from Chris, yet no one had heard from him. The Road Runners news ran numerous reports on Martin and why he was so important. He was a Warm Soul, and that’s why Chris was so intent on getting him. This also made him a valuable weapon for the Road Runners in their mission to hopefully kill Chris and destroy the Revolution.
But he was missing in action. They discovered the story of his mother’s murder at the hands of Chris, and many figured he was hiding.
Tarik Sadi, the Lead Runner of the Denver chapter, denied any knowledge of Martin’s whereabouts. The people refused that answer. Briar was a Road Runner and had a tracking device just like everyone else. Someone knew where he was hiding.
A national witch hunt sparked as a result, some people just wanting to know that Martin was okay, others desiring to capture him and drop him at Chris’s front door. Some speculated that he fled to another continent to hide under the protection provided there. Commanders from all around the world were contacted and denied any knowledge of their prized possession.
“It’s all bullshit, folks,” Stephen said, a cigarette pinched between his lips. The group heading to Alaska had gathered in Stephen’s living room, their jet being fueled and prepared to make the flight from Iowa to northern Alaska, leaving within the next hour. “Briar could be dead, for all we know. Since when can our government not locate one of our own? Just another reason to not trust these people, I suppose.”
The team was comprised of ten men and two women, dressed in all-black attire, loaded handguns in their waist bands, fully automatic rifles being loaded onto their jet.
“Before we get on that plane,” Stephen continued, “I want to tell you all how proud I am. This is no mission for the weak. You’re here because you want to be—want to do something good that our organization is turning a blind eye to. There’s a good chance we all die tonight. Thank you for your sacrifice. We may not know the outcome of our work today, but trust that you are doing the right thing. Now, is everyone clear on their roles once we land in Alaska?”
Stephen looked around his group of dedicated soldiers who were all nodding with confidence.
Frazier raised his hand, prompting Stephen to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he pointed at him. “I’ve been thinking, we should have a name for our group. Don’t you all think?”
More nodding worked around the group.
“We’ve discussed the matter before,” Stephen said. “But have never agreed on anything. Do you have a suggestion?”
“I sure do. I was thinking our group can be called the Liberation, which means each of us are Liberators.”
“Liberators,” Stephen repeated, his eyebrows raising at the good idea. “Thoughts?”
“I think it’s badass,” one man said, others nodding in agreement. “Good job, new guy.”
“We are the Liberation,” Frazier said, taking a step toward the front of the room, not stopping until he was within five feet of Stephen. He turned and faced the group. “And we fight for those no one else will fight for!”
The small team burst into applause and Stephen caught himself grinning. Frazier, the awkward weirdo, was riling up the team. Perhaps he’d need to get to know him a little better on the long flight ahead.
Stephen stepped forward to join Frazier. “Alright,
Liberators, it’s time to head out and do what we came to do. There are a couple of vans outside waiting to take us to the hangar. Be sure to make any final phone calls to family or friends you might leave behind on this mission. Do not go into the specifics of our work. This is a trying time where it’s impossible to know who to trust, and that can include your own mother. Make those calls, though, come to peace with the possibility of you not returning, and let’s go get Commander Strike and kill that evil sonofabitch in the process.”
More howling, clapping, and slaps on the back for this team of savage brutes. They made their way out of the cramped house (Stephen never wanted to upgrade after coming into his Road Runner fortune) and filled the two vans parked on the sidewalk. They looked like a group of ninjas heading off to a convention. Stephen was the last to exit his house, and after he locked the door and patted it with a shaky hand, he stepped back to admire the home he had lived in his entire life. His parents raised him in this house, nurtured him with love and care, and always wanted him to be his best. He wondered if he’d ever get to return. If he died, he had it ordered in his will to demolish the house. If he couldn’t raise a family of his own there, then no one else would, either.
He turned and jumped in the van, watching his house fade into the distance as they drove away.
* * *
Stephen might have not upgraded matters in his personal life, but he never shied away from going over the top on these special outings with the now-named Liberation. And this time, with death looming, he went well above the top. Their jet was loaded with premium steaks, bottles of the most expensive champagnes and wines, and somehow, every snack imaginable.
They drank and dined without a care in the world. It was a six-hour flight, and Stephen kicked off the party with a round of shots and trays of fancy appetizers no one knew how to pronounce. It was a mild party with wings, and everyone enjoyed every second of it.
They partied for two hours before Stephen cut off the alcohol supply. There was still a serious task awaiting them that evening, and they didn’t need anyone hungover or vomiting on Chris’s front steps. All Stephen wanted with the flight was for everyone to feel loose and stress-free. Some dozed off for a quick nap; others put on a movie and unwound from the long morning.
By the time they landed in the mid-afternoon in Barrow, Alaska, the group came back to life, conversation broke out, and everyone jumped out of their seats, ready to execute what they came here for.
Stephen stood at the front of the plane with his arms raised until the team fell silent.
“Don’t get too excited. We’re going to be on the plane for a good while. Remember, no one knows we’re here. We can’t exactly walk into the Road Runners office and wait for nightfall. This is our home and office for the next several hours. I want everyone to get with your partner and ensure your specific plans are completely ironed out. Everyone here has a role—make sure you’re ready. We’ll be having more food cooked for dinner. I wanted to go out, but decided against it because of how small this town is. We must stay on the plane – we can’t afford to be seen by any Revolters or Road Runners.”
As these words left his lips, Stephen realized for the first time that he might have accidentally formed a new organization to counter the Road Runners and the Revolution. Weren’t all great things born from tragedy, though? A response to a need in the world?
It wasn’t his intent to go against the Road Runners, but they were the ones making no effort to free Strike. With the knowledge and resources they had, there was no reason to not have rescued her by now. There was either something suspicious happening within the organization, or they were simply chickenshits, too afraid of Chris to make a move.
The Liberation believed the conspiracy theory that the Council was trying to force this unknown Martin Briar into leadership all because he was a Warm Soul, but not a single part of that statement had yet to be proven true.
Another theory was that Julian’s death was not actually a suicide, but rather a cover-up in this grand scheme to replace Strike. The timing was rather questionable, as all of these events happened shortly after Strike’s attempt to kill Chris had failed.
Like anything, the theories were never-ending, and the Liberation only discussed them with seriousness after passing a bong around and letting their minds wander to unknown depths. All that mattered in this exact moment, however, was what waited on the other side of sundown.
Everyone had broken off into pairs and would stay that way through dinner, plotting and planning for the most intense moment of their lives. When the skies turned dark, they would file out of the jet and head to Chris’s mansion.
13
Chapter 13
Chris was still in his office when the sun disappeared behind the horizon – not that he ever knew, thanks to the steel barricade engulfing his mansion. It had been a long day of preparing for a public execution tomorrow. The Road Runners were surely expecting something spectacular, and he wanted to deliver.
Every hour or so, he’d catch himself shaking his head. He thought for sure they would turn over Martin. It was an offer too good to pass up, but the Road Runners decided to take a shit on their commander and leave her to rot. They continued to amaze him, somehow remaining both predictable and utterly unpredictable at the same time. Not once in his term as the Keeper of Time did he think he’d see the day where the Road Runners refused their loyalty to a commander, certain she would be the easy ticket to Martin Briar. The thought frustrated him as he plotted his next moves.
Yes, he knew Martin was on Crooked Island in the Bahamas, just as he always knew where his old friend was by a simple dive into his mind. But Martin was surrounded by two guards at all times, and Chris couldn’t exactly march onto the island with his crew of soldiers without expecting some sort of gunfight where Martin could be killed. He wanted Martin breathing and at all full strength, so he could bend him to his will and have a little Warm Soul puppy to play with.
It had only been a couple of days and he already missed Duane’s help and support. Surely Duane would have some fun ideas for the execution, helping Chris out of the mental logjam he now found himself in.
His computer screen flickered to life. It automatically did this if the outdoor cameras caught movement within a 100-yard radius. Chris leaped out of his chair, sending it back to crash against the wall.
“What the hell?”
A group of three people were approaching in the distance, moving at the slow, steady pace of a walk through the park. He dropped his finger on the intercom, but had no one to page. Sure, he could’ve called the mindless robot that was filling in for Duane, but he provided nothing of substance in a time like this.
“Goddammit, Duane, why the hell aren’t you here when I need you?!” Chris snarled, his hands rummaging through his desk drawers to retrieve the headset that plugged into his computer. “All these years together, and not one single day off. Until now.”
Chris plugged in the headset and opened the software that allowed a two-way conversation.
The phone on his desk rang, causing him to jump again, laughing briefly at his startled self. He snapped the phone off the hook. “What’s wrong?”
“Mr. Speidel, we have visitors,” the voice on the phone said. One of the guards.
“I know. Get a team up to the main level, guns loaded. Leave everything to me, and don’t make a move until I say so. They want to speak with me, and I’ll allow them to do so.”
“Yes, sir.” The phone hung up and Chris returned to the screen where the trio was now within one hundred feet. “C’mon, you bastards. Tell me you have Briar. FUCKING TELL ME!”
Chris’s emotions danced all over the spectrum. The Road Runners had announced they were not going to turn in Martin, but here they were, ready to knock on his door and make an offer.
“Good evening, folks,” Chris said into his microphone once he knew they were within distance to hear. “Are you nice people with the Road Runners?”
The three,
who were bundled up from head to toe in all-black clothing looked to each before turning back to the mansion.
“Sort of,” the one on the left said, the voice a hoarse baritone.
“What does that mean?” Chris snapped back.
“We are Road Runners who don’t agree with the announced decision. We believe in loyalty to our leaders and want to work with you.”
“You’re going through all of this for Strike? Half of your people disagree.”
“But the other half doesn’t. Everyone seems to be forgetting about the other half like we don’t exist.”
“Are you even able to make decisions on behalf of the Road Runners?”
Chris knew this group was clearly not official Road Runner leadership, but wanted to play along.
“No, but that shouldn’t matter. We’re here, humble and willing to work with you. If we have your word about releasing Strike, we will get you Briar.”
Chris grinned, ready to call the bluff. “How much time do you need?”
“Three days.”
“I’ve already given three days. What have you been doing this whole time?”
“This isn’t a simple process. Arrangements have to be made, especially since we are going against our organization’s will. We have to be very careful to not get caught.”
“I’ll give you three days if you can tell me the exact location of Mr. Briar right now.”
The man who had been responding stared blankly at the mansion for a few seconds before shrugging. “We are still working on that.”
“Sir, I suggest you get off my property right now before I kill you all,” Chris said calmly. “You’ve already proven that you’re nothing but a sham. If you came here with actual details and a plan, then we’d be having a different discussion. Instead you thought you could knock on my door and try to bullshit me. Not in this universe, my friend.”
Keeper of Time (Wealth of Time Series, Book 4) Page 7
