The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  That ought to give him agita, Ryan thought, chuckling as he cast the live newsfeed to a wall-mounted monitor, plopped onto his chair, and propped his feet atop his desk.

  “... Welcome to Morning Ray, I’m your host Ray Maginess, and leading the news this hour, private colleges in all ten districts have been bombed. You heard correctly. This isn’t a spoof or a sick joke. Our out-of-control, megalomaniac dick ... tator in chief is now carpet bombing American institutions of higher learning. And joining us, to attest to this flagrant violation of the Posse Comitatus Act, please welcome Glen Anthony, an eyewitness who was less than a block from Gramsci College when bombs rained down on his neighborhood.”

  The camera cut to a middle-aged, balding man with charcoal-gray eyes and a lanky frame. “To be honest, Ray,” he said with a lawyerly, confident tone, “bombs didn’t rain down on my neighborhood. It was a surgical strike against an army of foreign fighters bent on overthrowing our President.”

  The host’s lips puckered, and he glanced scoldingly at an off-camera producer. “Sources have confirmed that a chapel was razed, obliterating a storehouse of food donated by global humanitarian groups.”

  “Rice and beans don’t cause secondary explosions,” Anthony insisted. “That chapel was full of weapons. Sounded like fireworks on the Fourth of July.”

  “Mr. Anthony, you are a fraud and a disgrace!” The host scowled virtuously for the camera. “We’ll be back after this.” He pressed a dainty hand to his ear. Panic glazed his brown eyes, and his cheeks reddened. “What ...? Why are we still live ...? What do you mean we can’t cut away?”

  That’s right, motherfucker, Ryan thought. Python locked you out, and Glen Anthony is dropping truth bombs.

  “This is ideological subversion,” Anthony said, undaunted. “In the words of Yuri Bezmenov, a former KGB agent, ‘The highest art of warfare is not to fight at all, but to change the perception of reality to such an extent that no one is able to come to sensible conclusions then ...’ ”

  The television crew descended on Anthony, tugging at his clothing, slapping palms over his mouth; and a black T-shirt blanketed the camera lens.

  “ ‘... Then you can take your enemy without a single shot being fired!,” Anthony continued. “Wake up, America!”

  That ... was beautiful! Ryan thought. Then a text message from his chief of staff extinguished his ecstatic mood.

  48

  District Six, Texas

  BRADLEY WEBBER YAWNED and sat upright, furiously scratching at the fire-ant bites on his backside. Last night, after scarfing down a half-pound hamburger and reveling in a twenty-minute shower, he’d donned a pair of hand-me-down blue jeans and a T-shirt and crashed on a cot inside the sheriff’s office.

  Despite a week’s growth of facial hair, the sheriff had recognized him from the funeral for a stoning victim who, at the time, was believed to be Abby.

  “You can trust Turner,” Kyle had assured him. “Just sit tight.”

  Easier said than done, Bradley thought.

  His father-in-law had briefed him regarding Abby’s “overdose” and Wachter’s heroics at the psychiatric ward; and when Kyle made no mention of the baby, Bradley assumed the worst. He was a two-hour drive away from Abby, from holding her in his arms and consoling her.

  Being stuck in limbo sucks, he thought.

  Does Ryan have a plan to raise me from the dead?

  And why didn’t he return Kyle’s call?

  Bradley needed advice on where to go, what to do, and who to trust in order to navigate this political landmine without detonating Ryan’s presidency.

  Maybe I should start over with a new identity. Abby and I can ditch the military and disappear into the wild country beyond the districts ... beyond the all-seeing eye of The Consortium ... live a quiet, simple life and raise a family.

  The word family burst his burgeoning fantasy.

  Won’t work, he decided. Abby will never break ties with Kyle and Jessie ... people will figure out who I am.

  Mindful of his aching quads, Bradley hauled his stiff body from the cot, hobbled to the door, and peeked into the hallway. A lone deputy was manning the station desk, a forty-year-old female with auburn hair swept into a ponytail.

  To his right, Sheriff Turner emerged from the interrogation room, muttering, “Arrogant prick,” then, suddenly aware of Bradley’s presence, a flustered smile tugged at his lampshade moustache. “Sorry. McCann really pushes my buttons. Thinks he’s above the law.”

  “You mind if I have a chat with him?”

  A devilish glint twinkled in the sheriff’s cataract-dulled blue eyes, and he plucked something from his utility belt and slapped it into Bradley’s hand. “Dead men tell no tales; maybe a dead man can extract a few.”

  The combination Taser and 50,000-volt stun gun weighed less than a pound and featured an information display indicating power level and spark duration.

  Smothering a vengeful grin, Bradley disengaged the safety and limped into the interrogation room.

  The acting FBI director was sitting on a wooden chair, wrists and ankles shackled to a steel hook in the concrete floor, and he cringed. “Oh, hell no! You’re not law enforcement.”

  “Who has the video?”

  McCann’s mouth twisted into a crooked sneer. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen, Master Sergeant. The Feds are going to assert jurisdiction over my case, all charges against me are going to be dismissed, and you and your wife are going to be indicted for treason.”

  Bradley squeezed the trigger. Two barbed probes shot forward, biting into the dirty cop’s abdomen, and electric current zipped through the wires, snapping and crackling. McCann convulsed and spilled onto the floor like a gelatinous pile of sludge.

  Bradley indulged a moment of schadenfreude and capped it off with a derisive snicker. “Feels like someone is ripping your muscles apart with a fork, doesn’t it?”

  “Assaulting an FBI agent is a federal crime,” McCann huffed. “And the bureau will be here any minute.”

  “Who. Has. The. Video?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Bradley delivered another shock, and a morbid howl ricocheted off the gray cinder-block walls. The agent curled into a fetal position, writhing and gasping.

  “The video?”

  “Hellhound!” McCann panted. “He, he has the original.”

  “Did he order my interrogation?”

  “I won’t double-cross The Consortium. That’s suici-i-i-i-IDE!” McCann’s limbs jerked, his face twitched, and his jaw dropped in a silent shriek. Retching sounds gave way to a wet splat, and the sour stench of vomit filled the tiny room.

  “Next shock in five ... four ... three—”

  “Carter Sidney!” McCann wriggled away from the offending puddle and spat onto the floor. “She gave the order. I wasn’t supposed to use Hellhound’s kompromat for her operation. They’re in competition.”

  “That smells like a shit sandwich.”

  “It’s true. I swear.” Clumsily, McCann maneuvered himself into a seated position and let out a pitiful sigh. “There’s an internal battle within The Consortium, warring factions in a race to assassinate Andrews. Winner advances within the ranks.”

  “Winner takes Gorka’s place in the triumvirate?” Bradley asked.

  “No. The royal family replaced Schwartz as the third leg of the pyramid. They’re fighting over an open slot in the Committee of 300.”

  “Names?” Bradley pressed.

  McCann’s lips tightened. His head shook slightly.

  “Maybe your memory could use a jolt.”

  The whites of the agent’s eyes grew large. “Hellhound, Carter Sidney, and Johanna Krupp.”

  “You’re cheese-dicking it!” Bradley barked. “Five ... four ... three—”

  “There are two plots,” McCann pleaded, “set to go live within twenty-four hours. Hellhound has an assassin inside Andrews’ inner circle.”

  Bradley scratched the bristly growth on the underside of his chin. “N
ame of the assassin?”

  “I don’t know; I swear,” McCann insisted, “but Carter Sidney’s planning a weaponized fetanyl attack that will kill everyone in that bunker. And she already field-tested it at the border.”

  The claim seemed absurd, yet Bradley couldn’t dismiss it. “You’re telling me that, at this very moment, there are two active plots against Ryan Andrews’ life?”

  McCann gave a listless shrug. “In all likelihood there are more. They’re the only ones I’m privy to.”

  I need to verify this before sounding the alarm, Bradley concluded. This schmuck could be playing me in order to flush Ryan out of a safe position.

  “You’re pretty low on the food chain,” he said. “How’d you happen to come by this intel?”

  “Monitoring my bosses’ communications is a life insurance policy.” McCann’s arrogance resurged, and his head tilted into a condescending slant. “You would be wise to do the same.”

  “Ryan Andrews is an honorable man,” Bradley countered. “I trust him implicitly.”

  “I was referring to the TEradS. One of your comrades works for me.”

  “Bullshit!”

  The door to the interrogation room burst open and two men charged inside, guns drawn.

  “FBI! Drop your weapon!” The Consortium sellout was tall and thin like one of those inflatable air dancers used as an advertising gimmick, and he had the shifty brown eyes of a criminal.

  Bradley lowered the Taser to ready position, but refused to relinquish it. “You’re not going to kill me in a sheriff’s station.”

  A lethal calm came over the rogue agent, his eyes darkened, and his demonic smile sent a shiver through Bradley.

  “Sure I will. And then I’ll kill all the witnesses; just another senseless mass shooting.”

  I don’t have a choice, Bradley decided, and as the Taser clattered against the concrete floor, the gravity of his mistake became evident.

  49

  3,000 Feet below White-Jefferson

  Air Force Base, Ohio

  RYAN ANDREWS GROANED and responded to his chief of staff’s text: Show him in.

  He had been dreading this meeting since the moment he’d arranged it.

  Will it ever end? he asked himself.

  The door to the SCIF swung open, and Major Fitzgerald strode into the room, stiff and decidedly spooked. The TEradS Commander was in his late thirties, a former Army Ranger like Ryan. He had the keen, assessing eye of a beat cop and the friendly smile of a Disney greeter, but neither attribute was on display as he snapped to attention.

  Ryan edged closer until their noses were an inch apart and forced eye contact. “Why, Fitz?”

  The flesh between the Major’s hard-angled eyebrows creased. “Sir?”

  “I spoke to Colonel Gardner. You never went to him with concerns over those flights. You lied to Sergeant Webber. And you lied TO ME!”

  Fitz expelled a clipped, huffing sound, and his eyelids lolled shut as if shunning the truth.

  “Don’t be a pussy!” Ryan roared. “Look me in the eye and answer the fucking question!”

  Gnawing on his upper lip, the Major obeyed. “I-I didn’t want to do it. The FBI ... McCann, he ... he was blackmailing me. For something I didn’t even do. He said it didn’t matter whether the e-mails, phone logs, bank records, and file transfers were fraudulent. He said I’d be charged with selling secrets to the Chinese and executed for treason ... unless I cooperated.”

  Ryan backpedaled and folded his arms across his chest. He’d encountered dozens of traitors since the EMP, but this one was different. Fitz hadn’t been motivated by radical ideology, greed, or fame; he’d been coerced. Was that a mitigating factor?

  His emotions seesawed between contempt and compassion then anxiety set in. If a patriotic soldier like Fitz could be seduced into committing treason, everyone was vulnerable.

  How many more stealthy traitors are lurking out there?

  “Why didn’t you come to me?” Ryan asked. “I could’ve fired McCann.”

  The Major’s head shook. His mouth fell slack and words were slow in coming. “That would’ve been pointless. His successor would’ve come from the ranks of The Consortium. They’ve got dozens of operators at the top of the FBI and DOJ.”

  Ryan’s hands dropped to his hips, and he slumped against the edge of his desk, lamenting the truth in that statement. Corruption had completely metastasized. “Define the extent of your so-called cooperation.”

  “At first it was no big deal. McCann told me to send Abby Webber for a psych eval. It seemed reasonable, given that Bradley had just died. Then he ordered me to deploy her to ... to a specific location on the border.”

  “You sent her into an ambush?” Ryan demanded.

  “No.” Fitz’s eyes darted about the room as if in search of an escape route, and he sighed through rounded lips. “McCann wasn’t going to hurt her. It was a setup. She was supposed to be court-martialed for murder. He told me that she was guilty, that she assassinated Aaron Burr.”

  “And when Abby’s scope camera ruined that plan, you poisoned her water?”

  “No. I’d never; I swear,” Fitz pleaded. “Damn it! I never wanted any of this to happen.”

  He got in over his head, Ryan thought, and before he knew it, the fabricated crime grew into a laundry list of genuine crimes. And then it was too late. He was trapped, owned by a treacherous group of people making ever-increasing demands.

  “How did antidepressants get into Sergeant Webber’s water bottle?”

  “Malvado,” Fitz said matter-of-factly. “A few hours after Webber voiced her concerns about the planeloads of military-aged males, McCann showed up. He demanded that I allow the shrink access to Webber’s gear. McCann promised that if she happened to overdose, all TEradS teams would receive immunity. No war crimes tribunal; no dissolution. It sounded like a way out—”

  “For you!” Ryan snapped.

  “For everyone, sir!”

  Betrayal, outrage, and vengeance were swirling inside Ryan, and he began to tremble under the strain of holding his emotions in check. “You fucking conspired to kill a soldier under your command! And when that failed, you fucking slow-walked the TEradS response to the psych ward, didn’t you?”

  Staring straight ahead, Fitz squared his shoulders. “As commanders, we make life-and-death decisions every day and ... And sometimes one soldier has to be sacrificed in order for the squad to survive. This was no different than Webber throwing herself onto a grenade to save her team.”

  Ryan’s hands clenched, his right arm retracted, preparing to throw a punch; then, restrained by the dignity of the presidency, his fist crashed down onto his desk. “But Abby didn’t make that decision!” he shouted. “You threw her onto that grenade instead of jumping onto it yourself!”

  The Major’s head bowed, and when he finally lifted his chin, his eyes were glassy.

  “Oh, fuck no!” Ryan fumed. “Don’t you dare ... stand in front of me, playing the teary-eyed victim! You’re not sorry for what you did to Abby! Or your country! You’re bawling for yourself because you got caught!”

  “No, sir—”

  “You are a fucking disgrace! A fucking coward! And a fucking traitor! You are relieved of duty. E-ffective immediately!”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Dis-missed! MPs are waiting for you!”

  “But-but-but, sir,” Fitz sobbed. “Rachel and Lilah, m-my wife and daughter ... Could I make one phone call before I’m taken into custody? It’ll be easier on them if they hear it directly from me.”

  The irate soldier inside Ryan was screaming, “Fuck you! You should’ve considered your family before you conspired with the enemy!”

  The loving father inside him was whispering, “That little girl is as innocent as Izzy. She’ll already be saddled with the backlash and stigma of her daddy being a traitor. Do you really want to compound her suffering?”

  Ultimately, compassion won out, and Ryan nodded toward the phone on his des
k.

  “Thank you, sir.” Fitz mashed his tears with the heel of his left hand, grasped the handset with his right, and promptly collapsed.

  50

  District Six, Texas

  I SQUANDERED MY opportunity to warn Ryan, Bradley thought as Combs, Shaw, and McCann perp-walked him through the sheriff’s station. A layer of sweat filmed his back, and the salty moisture was irritating the bumpy swath of fire-ant welts.

  Was McCann lying? he wondered, scratching awkwardly with cuffed hands.

  Does Hellhound really have an assassin in Ryan’s inner circle?

  Is Carter Sidney about to unleash weaponized fentanyl?

  “Uh ... what are you doing?” The petite female deputy on desk duty scrambled toward the main entrance, her auburn ponytail waggling, and she blocked the doorway with her body.

  Combs flashed his FBI badge. “We have asserted jurisdiction over McCann. And Sergeant Jackson, here, is under arrest.”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “Step aside, Ma’am.”

  Her candy-apple-red lips thinned. Her hands gripped her hips, elbows splayed as if maximizing her physical presence. “How about we call the Justice Department and see if we can reach a mutually agreed upon resolution?”

  Exasperated, Combs began berating the deputy like an irate drill instructor, and when she refused to back down, McCann’s forearm locked around Bradley’s neck. The cold barrel of a Glock poked his cheek.

  “He who has the hostage dictates the resolution!” the acting FBI director growled.

  Will Combs make good on his threat? Bradley thought. Shoot her and pin it on a nonexistent Sergeant Jack—

  A loud pop derailed the thought. Electrical current crackled, and the deputy collapsed into a twitching, moaning puddle of green polyester.