The Loyal Nine

by Steven Konkoly

  “Of course I do, John,” said Winthrop. “I would prefer to keep abreast of these matters, but I understand the need for secrecy.”

  “The direction of the talks had taken an unexpected turn, and I needed to take immediate action,” said Morgan. “This will benefit us all, despite the ruffled feathers.”

  “Absolutely, John,” said Winthrop. “Ah, it appears our lunch is on its way.”

  In a room full of men accustomed to occupying the power seat in board meetings, diplomatic talks and other high-level functions, John Morgan strode unopposed to the head of the table as their de facto leader—a title none of them had ever disputed. He waited patiently for everyone to gather around the table.

  The business ahead of them was nothing short of monumental. By the time they emerged from the room, the next President of the United States would be decided. These nine men, representing the wealthiest and most powerful families since the country’s founding, would once again shape the nation for years to come.

  In reality, Morgan knew today’s luncheon was a mere formality. Their course of action had already been decided, but tradition demanded the formal meeting, which had taken place since 1860. The group’s presidential nominee had won every election for the last 156 years, except for one. 1992. Ross Perot represented the one case in history where no amount of money or promise of power could sway the result. They had briefly considered other methods, but the group decided that either incumbent would favor their interests. As it turned out, the Clinton years represented one of the group’s most prosperous eras—money and power held great sway in that administration.

  A small cadre of waiters simultaneously placed their lunches on the table, making final adjustments before withdrawing from the room. Morgan looked to Malcolm Lowe and nodded for him to secure the doors. They were ready to begin.

  “Gentlemen, as is customary—a toast,” said Morgan.

  Everyone stood, raising their glasses.

  “To Boston,” said Morgan. The room echoed his words—To Boston.

  “To our forefathers,” said Morgan. To our forefathers.

  “To God and Country,” said Morgan. To God and Country.

  “To the Boston Brahmin,” said Morgan, raising his glass high. To the Boston Brahmin came the reply.

  “Now, let’s get down to business,” said Morgan.

  For the next forty-five minutes, the executive committee of the Boston Brahmin discussed the fate of the presumed nominees for President. Hillary Clinton was the front-runner for the Democratic nomination, and it was widely anticipated Mrs. Clinton would effectively secure the nomination next week during the “winner-takes-all” primaries in her adopted home state of New York, and in Pennsylvania, Connecticut and Rhode Island. Morgan had to reassure them that she could be controlled. She’d focus on domestic issues and allow them to advance their geopolitical goals when the need arose.

  On the Republican side, the nomination was undecided based on early opinion polls. Primaries in the northeast favored the underdog, Senator Rand Paul, while most of the contested states favored Jeb Bush. None of the executive committee members favored these two candidates. While their politics favored Jeb Bush, the committee did not see him as a viable candidate against the powerful Clinton campaign. Senator Paul was a candidate the average American could understand, but his position on auditing the Federal Reserve, combined with his dove-like approach to the military, excluded him from consideration—immediately.

  So it was settled, Hillary Clinton was the choice of the Boston Brahmin for President. Status quo—effectively a third term for the present occupant.

  Once they agreed and everyone pushed away from the table, the waiters were allowed back in to refresh drinks. Bradlee pressed his face against the window and recoiled, pointing toward the streets below.

  “My God, what’s happening down there?” exclaimed Bradlee.

  Morgan checked his watch—12:45 p.m.

  “It’s a riot or something. Look below,” said Winthrop.

  From the Skywalk Observatory, fifty-two floors above Boylston Street, they saw throngs of people scattered in all directions in Copley Square.

  This is what mayhem looks like.

  Chapter 54

  April 18, 2016

  Copley Square

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “Black lives matter! Black lives matter!” shouted the group marching westbound on Beacon Street.

  Jarvis Rockwell—J-Rock to his boys—held his hands high over his head. He knew this was a waste of time, but when the good Reverend Al asked folks to come out and make their voices heard, he felt obligated to stand with his brothers from Mattapan, Roxbury and Dorchester. Protesting was not his thing, but he agreed to lend his support. The time for talk was over.

  The crowd marched arm-in-arm past the fancy clothing stores on Boylston Street. More than a thousand men, women and children approached the Clarendon Street interchange, where they collided with the orange and white barriers blocking the entrance to Copley Square. J-Rock’s instructions were clear—march through and do not stop; let your voices be heard.

  J-Rock was the leader of the Academy Homes gang located in Roxbury, one of several Boston gangs heavily invested in drug dealing, gunrunning and human trafficking. The gangs of Boston were divided by ethnicity—Asian, Hispanic and black. The Asian gangs were united by their leader, the White Devil, and ruled the area south of downtown Boston—Chinatown. The Hispanic gangs were controlled by the Central American cartel widely known as Mara Salvatrucha—MS-13. They predominantly operated in the East Boston ghettos, though they had recently started to spread wings and appear all over the city. The black gangs of Boston outnumbered both of these rival ethnicities, but they lacked unity.

  The black gangs of Boston were divided along geographic “turf” lines. The Academy Homes gang, representing a large territory in central Roxbury near Martin Luther King Boulevard, boasted five hundred members. J-Rock rose up the ranks starting as a runner, and graduated to enforcer by age sixteen, when he committed a double murder against an encroaching gang. At age twenty-three, he was the undisputed leader of the Academy Homes gang. Of course, anyone in Roxbury that disputed his reign didn’t last very long.

  “Baby, are you ready for this?” said J-Rock, squeezing his pregnant girlfriend’s hand. Monique Perez had been his girl for almost a year and had become known as the first lady. With Perez six months pregnant, the two were considered Academy Homes royalty.

  “I am, Jarvis,” said Perez, holding her stomach. “We need to stand up for ourselves. This is our time.”

  J-Rock looked back and forth along the front line of the marchers. The gangs of South Boston stood together in solidarity—for the first time ever. He nodded to the two brothers who led the Castlegate Road Gang, grinning when they both flashed their gang sign and nodded back. Turning his head left, J-Rock gave a quick nod to the Franklin Field Boyz. We may be shooting at each other next week, but today we’re brothers.

  “Move those mutherfuckers,” said J-Rock. Two of his enforcers jogged ahead of the protest line, kicking down the barricades. Other members of the procession followed suit, quickly clearing the road of any obstructions. People within the barricades scattered to make room for the protesters, who picked up speed as they crossed St. James Avenue.

  “Black lives matter! Black lives matter!” chanted the crowd.

  The bodies pressed forward, and J-Rock started to feel the sheer power the group possessed. They were getting the attention they deserved. The reverend was right!

  Loud, shrill whistles filled the air, followed by a dozen or so Boston Police officers dressed in full riot gear with shields. They poured out of Copley Park, forming a tight skirmish line that blocked the protestors’ access to the Boston Marathon finish line. J-Rock hesitated, slowing just enough to be pushed forward by the crowd surging behind him. The two groups would collide if he didn’t slow down the procession, and he hated to think what might happen to Monique in the chaos that wou
ld unfold.

  “We’ve got to slow down, baby,” said J-Rock. “Everybody slow down!”

  J-Rock turned toward the advancing protestors with both hands raised high in the air. The group responded by raising their hands over their heads and shouting, “Hands up, don’t shoot!”

  “No, no, stop! Everybody stop!” screamed J-Rock, his desperate plea cancelled by the frenzy pushing against him.

  The incensed mob pushed into the stiff line of police shields, which retreated several feet to give the protesters a chance to slow down. Bullhorns ordered the crowd to stop as dozens of additional police officers joined the newly formed line. J-Rock ran ahead of the group and turned to address the crowd. He was knocked into the advancing mob by one of the riot shields, where he was swallowed by the masses. No longer in control of the protesters, he furiously pushed his way toward Monique, who had been shoved into the police line.

  Before J-Rock reached her, he was struck in the face with an expandable baton, which dropped him to his knees. He watched helplessly as a police officer slammed his shield into Perez, knocking her to the pavement, where another officer hit her over the head with his baton. J-Rock tried to crawl to her, but was swept to his feet by the people rushing toward the police.

  When the police line broke moments later, several hundred infuriated protesters charged into Copley Park, hell-bent on tearing the finish line apart. In the process, they killed Monique’s baby and injured several protesters caught on the ground during the stampede. J-Rock never saw it happen. He was too busy fighting for his life by the time the crowd stopped.

  Chapter 55

  April 18, 2016

  100 Beacon

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “Mommy, the protestors are back,” said Penny, poking her head into the room.

  Susan left ahead of everyone to see what Penny was talking about. She and Donald had spent days trying to calm their daughters following the incident at the Chestnut Hill Mall. She found the girls standing in front of the bank of television screens, as “breaking news from Boston” filled her vision. Within moments, the rest of the room had joined them. Sarge raised the volume on the CNN-designated monitor.

  “Moments ago, we received reports that several dozen people were hurt in a melee near the finish line of this year’s Boston Marathon. The information we received from our reporters on the ground in Boston indicate a peaceful protest of the Black Lives Matter group was in the vicinity of Copley Square when fighting broke out with Boston police.

  “To provide our viewers some context, the Boston Marathon is a twenty-six-mile race that stretches through Boston to its finish line on Boylston Street in front of the Boston Public Library. Race contestants finish the race throughout the afternoon from noon until 3:00 p.m. Today at approximately 12:45, a large group of activists with the Black Lives Matter movement were raising awareness of the senseless killing of former Boston Transit worker Pumpsie Jones. Reports indicate the march was proceeding peacefully from Boston Commons for several blocks until the group approached Copley Square. We have video provided by our CNN affiliate in Boston—WCVB.”

  Donald looked to Susan, who nodded her head.

  “Girls, why don’t you come with me to see the beautiful paintings that Uncle Sarge received today,” said Susan.

  “Mommy, are those the same protestors from the mall?” asked Penny.

  “I don’t know, honey. Come with me, girls.”

  Susan took the girls and hustled them out of the room.

  “At approximately 12:45 p.m. today, all appeared to be normal at this year’s Boston Marathon event. Police have maintained a heightened alert level since the 2013 bombing,” said the reporter.

  “What caused today’s disruption?” asked the CNN newscaster.

  “According to reports, police in full riot gear began to advance upon the Black Lives Matter protestors and pushed them backwards up Boylston Street away from the finish line. We are told the protestors in the front were squeezed between the police skirmish line and the advancing protestors, causing a panic. From what we have been told, police in the skirmish line struck several of the protestors, resulting in an escalation between Boston PD and unarmed protestors. At that point, the situation spiraled out of control.”

  “Have there been any injuries?” the newscaster asked.

  “Reports are still coming in to the studio, but it appears there have been several dozen injuries, including a pregnant woman who was part of the protest group. There have been no reports of injuries to law enforcement personnel. Back to you, Don.”

  “This is part of the news every day, isn’t it, Julia?” asked J.J. “It’s not just in Boston, it’s become a national epidemic of sorts.”

  “These types of clashes are inevitable,” said Donald. “We saw it firsthand in the mall. When large mobs of people gather and try to force themselves into a place that is inappropriate, violence is likely to occur. There has to be a better way to get your point across without endangering others.”

  “We’re collapsing from within, just like Lincoln wrote,” said Katie. “We are destroying ourselves.”

  “After World War II, some declared the next one hundred years to be the American Century,” said Sarge. “That designation could, in fact, be a bad omen. History has shown that within a century of an empire’s peak, or shortly thereafter, things begin to deteriorate.

  “Arguably, we are looking at the early stages of collapse. Economically, as a nation, we are declining as a world power. Our credit rating has suffered, and the dollar is systematically being replaced as the world’s reserve currency. Militarily, we are being surpassed in technology and strength. A new Cold War was ushered in several years ago, and we have been remiss to react. Rogue nations have the ability to bring us to our knees by cyberattack or EMP without notice.”

  “Even if none of those events occur, society is coming apart at the seams,” said Abbie. “We are more polarized than at any time in our history. Political rhetoric aside, I don’t have a clue as to how to bring us together as a nation at this point.”

  “As a society, politicians and the media have divided us by class and race. Some would argue our societies values and morals have never been lower,” added Donald. “I didn’t mean for that to include you, Abbie. We all know you’re fighting the good fight.”

  “I know, Donald,” said Abbie.

  “Well, I don’t plan on going down with the ship,” said Steven. “We have a good plan to ride out the storm. We may not be able to fight a war against the Russians, but we can make sure we stay alive until things are sorted out. Right?”

  “Absolutely,” said Donald.

  Susan returned from Sarge’s study, snapping the group out of its morose mood.

  “I’ve got the girls settled in, if it’s okay, Sarge,” said Susan.

  “Whatever makes them comfortable,” said Sarge.

  “They’ll probably draw for a while and then fall asleep on your sofa. I made some food for everyone. Why don’t we grab something to eat before we get started,” said Susan. “We can’t save the world or ourselves on an empty stomach.”

  Chapter 56

  April 18, 2016

  100 Beacon

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Donald had long ago earned the unofficial title of “Director of Procurement” for the group. Since returning from prison, he had committed his life to the concept of preparedness. Shortly after his return from FMC Devens, Donald was called to a meeting with John Morgan at 73 Tremont. At the meeting, he met Steven and Sarge. Morgan surprised Donald with his first words: Gentlemen, we need to be prepared for a collapse event. Donald recalled looking around the room to measure the reaction of the Sargents, who appeared unfazed. The four men spent several hours discussing the various threats they faced, and the preparedness steps necessary to survive each collapse event.

  At the end of the day, Donald was tasked with putting together a comprehensive preparedness plan. He suggested that a like-minded team neede
d to be assembled—a mutual assistance group of connected, capable and, most importantly, loyal associates.

  Over those next few months, Steven introduced Katie and Brad to Donald. In addition to their military training, both of them occupied positions of power and influence within the government. Donald introduced J.J. to the group, where he was warmly welcomed for his medical expertise and military perspective. Sarge suggested Julia join the group because of her international political contacts, and her dedication to unbiased media.

  Donald stressed the importance of awareness related to global events, and the potential they might have to precipitate a collapse event. The contacts Julia, Brad and Katie had cultivated were invaluable to the assessment of a potential collapse. J.J. was in charge of survival medicine. Donald and Susan took on the roles of gathering information, organizing the basic necessities and planning for the collapse. Steven handled the security and tactics aspect of the group readiness training, while Sarge coordinated the group as their leader.

  The final member of the group had been the most obvious, but unexpected addition. During one of Donald’s periodic meetings at 73 Tremont, Morgan informed him that Abbie would be the ninth member. Donald immediately recognized the significance of her presence among them. Morgan would spare no expense funding the plans Donald was required to develop—for the Nine and the Boston Brahmin.

  “So we all agree the world is going to shit,” said Steven. “Let’s see how we’re going to survive it.”

  “Very well. Let’s start on the ninth floor, which includes the residences,” said Donald.

  “Here?” said Abbie.

  “For some of you, this will be new,” said Donald. “We’ve made a few changes in the last six months.”