The Power of We the People

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Faisal flashed two-fingers, a traditional Arab handsign for “having a good time,” and drove off, seemingly relieved that his role had ended.

  Bradley crawled along the landscape bed, through the pungent odor of manure, until the portico shielded him from the heavily defended gate, then he weasel-walked toward a pair of double doors, grateful that Python had neutralized Amad’s surveillance cameras.

  Spiraling white columns littered the palace interior, reminiscent of twisted taffy, and Bradley tracked faint voices through a hallway crowned with three-pointed gold arches. He paused beside a partially opened door and peeked through the vertical slit near the jamb.

  Prince Al-Waleed Amad was presiding in an oversized, gilded chair and sipping cognac from a snifter. His flowing white robe glowed against a backdrop of mahogany paneled bookshelves, creating an almost godly aura; and an abundance of modern artwork—pieces that would be deemed child pornography in the United States—gave the library a cluttered feel that detracted from its grandeur.

  The Dopey Prince was decrying his guests for their lack of punctuality.

  Who’s he talking to? Bradley wondered. A bodyguard? The woman in the abaya? An unanticipated attendee?

  Craning to better his viewing angle, he caught a glimpse of a man wearing a Western-style suit and a predatory smile.

  Too old to be a bodyguard, he decided. Could that be the legendary Pindar? The reclusive ruler above the triumvirate?

  Bradley dismissed the possibility. A man that powerful would’ve summoned his subordinates to his turf, and he certainly wouldn’t tolerate Amad’s diatribe on tardiness.

  He studied the stranger, unable to shake a nagging sense of familiarity. Could that be the infamous Hellhound? The supreme commander of Night Sector?

  Bradley readjusted the atomizer’s range and barged into the library.

  Amad leapt to his feet.

  Cognac splashed from the snifter, staining his pristine white thwab, and he shouted, “Securit—”

  The prince’s mouth and tongue dissolved before he could utter the final syllable, and Bradley gawked in awed revulsion. At close range, inside the well-lit library, atomization became a grotesque anatomy lesson. Blood and bone and sinew melted away like candle wax, and it felt surreal; as if he was watching a depraved Hollywood special effect.

  The mystery man stood spellbound, morbidly fixated on the grisly scene, and flung his hands upward. “Don’t shoot! I surrender!”

  Then a blunt object crashed against the back of Bradley’s skull.

  75

  The British Virgin Islands

  DANGLING UPSIDE DOWN by an ankle, the distressed infant was bleating out despondent cries that were withering in strength. Internal organs were exerting pressure on the newborn’s fragile lungs, making it harder to breathe, and blood was racing to her head, transforming her scrunched face into an unhealthy shade of scarlet.

  I can’t allow Krupp to leave, Abby thought, because she’ll sacrifice that baby.

  “Where’s Carter Sidney?” she shouted, annoyed by the pantsuit princess’ absence.

  Krupp’s expression shriveled, causing one of her eyebrows to droop. “She’s vacated the island, and I suggest you do the same. Security will be here any sec—”

  “Doubtful,” Abby interrupted. “NSA disabled your little panic button.”

  Krupp’s mouth puckered and puffed as if sucking on her dentures. “You think a standoff is advantageous? Think again! Adults can hang upside down for hours before succumbing to asphyxiation or a brain hemorrhage. How long will this infant survive?”

  A haunting sense of déjà vu spawned goose bumps, and Abby’s mind flashed back to the junkie who had taken her mother hostage. She recalled vividly the gun barrel pressed to her mother’s temple; the tears streaming down her face; the way they’d glistened in the faint light. She’d faced a gut-wrenching choice that night: stand down or take the shot and risk accidentally shooting her mother?

  Abby’s heart rate doubled. The air in her lungs seemed to pressurize and expand, making her chest feel as if it might explode; then she shifted the high-tech weapon to her left hand and drew the Ruger, forcing Krupp to right the inverted infant and reposition the baby to guard against kill shots to the head or heart.

  “Touché, Abigail.” Krupp’s tone softened and became conversational, heralding a change of strategy. She was stalling for time. “Did you know that it wasn’t an Iranian EMP that rendered the United States powerless? Nine strategic transformers were sabotaged ... by your own government.”

  Abby felt like she’d been hit by a speeding train. “You’re a freaking liar!” she sputtered. “It wasn’t just a blackout. Cars and phones were fried.”

  “Silly girl,” Krupp said condescendingly. “Consortium-owned multinationals have been installing kill switches into electronics for decades. We’ve been shutting off car engines for nonpayment and controlling the lifespan of electronic devices to maximize profits. A few carefully constructed algorithms compelled airplane engines to cut out and the circuit boards of trucks, trains, buses, and emergency vehicles to burn out ...”

  Abby didn’t want to believe that corporate titans had conspired with The Consortium to destroy the nation, but on an intuitive level, she sensed it was true.

  “... And Quenten bestowed citizenship on 2,500 members of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps,” Krupp continued, “and your democratically elected Congress enabled Night Sector armies to infiltrate the southern border. AK-47s, stereotypical beards, shouts of Allahu Akbar—and voilá! Muslim terrorists are blamed for the door-to-door genocide.”

  Sadness buffeted Abby, followed by a torrent of betrayal and anger over the lives lost: Gramps, Uncle Dave and Aunt Laura, Will and Heather, the teenaged girl at the swing set, the toddler with the teddy bear bomb. “How could you attack your own country?”

  “It was expedient,” Krupp said with a nonchalant shrug. “Can you think of a more efficient way to sacrifice ninety percent of the useless eaters? After all, he who controls the food and water wields the power of life and death. And through selective breeding, we planned to thin the herd, replacing undesirable traits like independence with obedience. And frankly, watching you all fight to the death for resources was quite entertaining. Like the games at the Roman Coliseum—only better.”

  Repulsed by Krupp’s depraved indifference to human life, Abby said, “So as governor of District Six, my father disrupted your master plan, and as President, he derailed it.”

  “He’ll pay for stealing that election!” Krupp fumed. “Your entire family and ... and all his terrorist supporters will be rounded up and executed!”

  Disgust was begetting anger and a ruthless craving for retribution. Abby had been overcome by the same outrage at Athenian Grove, an irrepressible urge to make sure this NEVER happened again.

  The barrel of the Ruger dipped, and she fired a .22 caliber round into Krupp’s knee.

  The elderly Congresswoman shrieked in pain.

  Her chubby frame listed, her magenta suit ruptured under the strain; and during that moment of vulnerability, a second bullet burrowed between her eyes.

  Krupp’s head jerked.

  Her body tipped backward.

  Oh God! The baby!

  Jettisoning her weapons, Abby lunged for the falling infant.

  Krupp’s backside struck the checkerboard floor.

  Her arms went limp, and the baby bounded against her abdomen, its unsupported head bobbling. Abby managed to catch the little angel beneath an armpit, averting serious injury, and tears gushed as she cradled the newborn. She cried for the infant, torn from her mother’s arms, and for the baby she’d lost. For the angelic face she would never see, the smiles and hugs she’d never experience, and for the amazing life that would never be.

  She bawled for the innocents slaughtered in the name of profit; and for the soldiers who had unknowingly laid down their lives so The Consortium could enrich itself and expand its power. Abby sobbed until she had n
o tears left to shed.

  “I won’t let them hurt you,” she whispered, rocking slowly to soothe the infant.

  The baby’s clenched eyelids fluttered open and, in that instant, a peculiar warmth overwhelmed Abby. Maternal love cast out grief and regret, leaving in its wake an inexplicable sense of peace.

  “We’re getting out of here,” she said, sniffling as she laid the baby girl on the floor. Abby atomized Krupp’s corpse, crammed the directed-energy weapon into her backpack, and sent a text to Python, requesting that he initiate her extraction protocol.

  Abby tore down a panel of the blood-red drapes that framed the altar and tied the fabric around her, creating a hands-free sling, then she eased the infant into the makeshift carrier. Maybe it was the swaddling effect or the reassuring thump of Abby’s heartbeat, but the newborn’s cries waned to a whimper.

  Then, gripping the suppressed Ruger, she exited the satanic shrine and returned to the stairwell, only making it up a single flight before the high-strung barks closed in.

  After being mauled by a German shepherd at Athenian Grove, fear had sent Abby into a tailspin, and her first inclination had been to grab the tiny dog by its muzzle and snap its neck.

  Instead, she’d opted to leverage the proximity of Valerie Van Duyn into an ambush opportunity, but the uncooperative attorney general had closed the door, deliberately trapping the animal inside the stairwell, and halfheartedly called out, “Ju-Ju, get back here!”

  Krupp’s infamous golden Pomeranian had stared up at Abby, head cocked, tongue lolling, tail wagging as if she was a long-lost friend, and she just hadn’t had the heart to euthanize the dog.

  By the third floor, Ju-Ju had caught up, sniffing at Abby’s ankles and barking playfully.

  Fearful that she might trip over the tiny dog, she snapped, “No!”

  The Pomeranian yelped and scurried away with its tail between its legs.

  Pedophilia, human sacrifice, AND animal cruelty, Abby thought ruefully. I hope Krupp is rotting in hell!

  When she reached the upper landing, she tentatively pushed against the stairwell door, and an explosion rocked the island. Ju-Ju howled, the infant shrieked, and she said, “Guys, calm down. That’s our ticket out of here.”

  A Predator drone, piloted by CJ Love from half a world away, had just obliterated the helicopter with a Hellfire missile, diverting the attention of the island’s security team.

  Abby strode toward the temple’s main entrance, yanked open the door, and threw a glance at the dog, still cowering in the stairway. “Are you staying or coming with?”

  76

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  A THIN METALLIC ROD crashed against the back of Bradley’s head.

  Brilliant points of light distorted his vision, and for a split second, he felt like the room was spinning.

  Reaching back with his left hand, he latched onto the unorthodox weapon, and yanked it forward, whipping a young girl across the room. The female from the Rolls Royce twirled across the library like a top and slammed into a golden desk, knocking a reading lamp onto the floor and causing a computer monitor to teeter.

  Bradley swung the golf club like a hammer. Its shaft smashed the wooden top rail of a camel-backed sofa, bending it into a right angle, then he pitched the club over his shoulder and patted the bleeding gash above his ear. It was two inches in length and deep enough to require stitches, but his vision and balance had normalized.

  The girl was screaming in Arabic. “What have you done to my beloved husband, you infidel!”

  Husband?

  Bradley cringed at the thought of the Dopey Prince having a sexual relationship with a child barely nine years of age.

  “Hellhound, kill the infidel!” the girl shrieked. “Avenge the Prince and—”

  The man jerked her into a chokehold. His forearm contracted, and she began gasping for breath.

  “Let her go!”

  “You don’t have the balls to kill a child ... Do you, Bradley?”

  He recoiled, feeling oddly vulnerable.

  How does this asshole know my name?

  Satisfaction and arrogance were glinting in Hellhound’s hazel eyes as if he held the upper hand. “I knew George would turn you into a pussy.”

  “You’re the one hiding behind a little girl.” And then the significance of Hellhound’s message sank in.

  He knows Gramps raised me?

  “Still haven’t figured it out yet?” The Night Sector commander’s head shook in haughty condemnation. “You never fail to disappoint.”

  “Fuck you!”

  A cocky sneer warped Hellhound’s mouth, the smile of a man who enjoyed inflicting physical and psychological pain. “I raped Alana Anderson.”

  Taken aback by the ludicrous assertion, Bradley stood frozen. Words failed him.

  It’s just a mindfuck, he decided, designed to throw me off my game.

  “Your mother was in eighth grade at the time, wearing one of those sexy, Catholic-school plaid uniforms ... Barely older than this tempting little piece of ass.” Hellhound flexed his biceps, compressing the girl’s airway. Terrified, she clawed at his forearm. Her complexion reddened, then her head lolled to one side.

  He’s just choking her out, Bradley assured himself. Killing her would destroy his leverage.

  “Alana and George tried to hide the pregnancy from me, but I ferreted out the truth.”

  “Fuck you! And your PsyOp!” Bradley barked.

  “Can you deny the resemblance?” Hellhound demanded. “You have my hazel eyes, my build, my chiseled jaw, my strong nose—”

  “Millions of people have those traits. That doesn’t prove a damn thing.”

  “Well, if proof is what you seek, let me tell you a story.” Hellhound smiled fondly and feigned a nostalgic sigh. “The last time I saw you, I was trying to drown you in a bathtub.”

  Bradley’s jaw dropped.

  His blood ran cold.

  And a haunting memory swamped him.

  He was three years old, playing with a submarine in a sudsy bathtub when an attempt to torpedo a rubber ducky sent a tsunami crashing onto the bathroom floor. Bradley’s father had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and plunged his face into the soapy water. It had felt like an eternity, unable to breathe, unable to cry out, utterly helpless.

  There’s no way he could know about that ...

  Oh God ... It’s true ...

  “I attempted to sacrifice you that night,” Hellhound continued. “The prince of darkness offers lucrative rewards for a firstborn son, but alas, George intervened. You would be shocked and horrified to learn of the unsavory techniques employed by your saintly grandfather to keep me at bay.”

  “You,” Bradley croaked, struggling to find his voice, “are Admiral Richard Webber?”

  The supreme commander of Night Sector laughed, and the jarring, mocking sound grated against nerve endings and stoked the sourness rising in his throat.

  “No, Richard Webber was a fairy tale, fabricated to protect you from the truth—that you are a product of rape; the seed of a satanic pedophile and mass murderer. I’m Herbert Scherf from the royal lineage of Vlad the Impaler, also known as Vlad Dracula—the son of the dragon. He slaughtered eighty thousand and once hosted a banquet amidst a ‘forest’ of spikes that were topped with the impaled, twitching bodies of his enemies.”

  A slow tremor rumbled outward from Bradley’s core inducing nausea. He felt violated, soiled by the blood of a monster coursing through his veins, and stricken by a pernicious sense of guilt, an original sin for which he could never atone.

  My conception was a violent ordeal for my mother, he thought.

  Did that cross her mind every time she looked at me?

  How did she and Gramps love me unconditionally when they had every reason to resent me?

  Overcome by a deeper degree of respect and gratitude, he asked himself, Would I have had the moral fortitude to do the same?

  “Yes, Bradley,” Hellhound gloated. “Your angelic
mother and pious grandfather, the people you trusted most, lied to you. And your satanic rapist of a father told you the truth.”

  Rage exploded inside him, and he aimed the atomizer at the bastard who had brought him into this world.

  “Go ahead. Kill me,” Hellhound taunted. “Prove you’re just like your old man. That my DNA has infected every cell in your body and polluted your soul.”

  Trembling under the strain, Bradley lowered the weapon. “I am NOT like you!”

  Hellhound jerked the unconscious girl’s head, snapping her neck, and tossed her aside like a piece of trash.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  The Night Sector general proffered an evil grin. “Preying on the feeble, it’s what I do. Now, go on, son. Pull that trigger. Make me proud.”

  “Don’t you EVER call me SON!” A hot, black anger was rising inside Bradley, more powerful and barbaric than anything he’d ever felt, and it scared the hell out of him. His entire body shook as if forces of good and evil were waging war, engaged in a fight to the death over every muscle, fiber, and neuron.

  “If you don’t have the balls to shoot me,” Hellhound snarled, “I’ll sacrifice you to Moloch then hunt down Abby and savage her for days—just like your mother.”

  And then something dark and dormant, hibernating deep inside Bradley, ruptured, unleashing hatred and bloodlust.

  77

  NSA Cryptologic Center

  Oahu, Hawaii

  ANNOYED WITH WINTHROP Sebastian’s tone, Ryan allowed the silence to lengthen.

  Who does this guy think he is? Chastising me like I’m a subordinate?

  “Mr. President, I await your explanation.”

  And now you’re going to wait even longer, Ryan thought.

  He harbored serious reservations about the Liberty, Integrity, and Truth Society. Online information regarding the secretive group was relegated to the realm of conspiracy theory; his presidential daily briefs had proven untrustworthy; and even the NSA archives had been “purged” by anonymous personnel sympathetic to the LIT cause.