Hellhound’s reputation was as barbaric as it was legendary. At the age of twenty, he’d been dishonorably discharged from the Navy, insinuated himself into a drug cartel, and quickly advanced through the ranks. Regarded as a conscienceless killing machine, he’d evolved into a corrupt leader, who made sure his men feared him even more than they hated him.
That’s why Hellhound assembled the entire battalion, Glen thought. He wanted us to witness our commander’s torture and brutal death.
“Governor Zeller,” Hellhound said, his steely voice amplified by a sound system, “was assassinated by forces loyal to the Murphy regime. Colonel Plantagenet’s bloodline has been extinguished because this happened on his watch. This is the price of failure.” The general’s savage glare roamed the ranks, and his pupils looked more like blades than circlets. “Your new commander is ... Adam Hanover. Congratulate your new colonel!”
A heartfelt whooping cheer went up, led by six candidates who understood that the title colonel was a death sentence disguised as a promotion.
Hanover stepped forward to receive his new rank insignia, a pair of gold pyramids encasing the all-seeing eye of Moloch.
I wonder how long it’ll be before he’s lying in a pool of blood like Plantagenet.
Hellhound ceremonially punched the colonel’s left eye, in keeping with Night Sector tradition. Hanover staggered back several steps, an obligatory display of deference, then bowed before his master.
“Contrary to an erroneous report filed by the late Colonel Plantagenet,” Hellhound continued. “Enemy-of-the-state Melissa Love is not deceased ...”
A cold tingle crawled up Glen’s spine and branched into a tangle of conflicting emotions, confusion, joy, and abject fear.
If they trace that report back to me ...
His gaze drifted to the butchered Plantagenet family.
Shit. Shit! SHIT! What am I going to do?
“... The fugitive was transported to Edgar Air Force Base for medical treatment. Punishment of those responsible for this disinformation, along with the recovery of two-year-old Matthew Love, will be the first tests of Colonel Hanover’s leadership.”
Glen spent the remainder of his shift going through the motions, body on autopilot while his mind pored over the rudimentary emergency plan he and his wife had discussed. District Nine had become an Orwellian nightmare, every aspect of life regulated: speech, medical care, diet, housing, electric usage, and water consumption. Those laws, however, did not apply to The Consortium. They were free to steal, rape, and murder with impunity.
Glen hot-wired a Night Sector pickup truck, drove home, and parked beneath the carport to shield the vehicle from prying satellites and drones. Ellen and four-year-old Gabby came charging out of the house to greet him. He pushed open the passenger’s door and barked, “Let’s go!”
His wife’s blue eyes met his, brimming with equal parts hope and terror, then she hoisted Gabby onto the floorboard of the cab, crouched beneath the dashboard, and slammed the door.
Glen backed out of the driveway, and every atrocity he’d witnessed flooded back, taunting and debilitating. He drove through the neighborhood at normal speed, telling himself that they would make it to Mariupol; that the TEradS would protect his family in exchange for actionable intelligence; and that somehow everything would be okay.
He steered the truck onto an old fire road that crossed the ridge then activated a beacon that would alert nearby drones and UGVs that this vehicle was part of a Night Sector patrol.
Approaching the turnoff for Breckenridge Mountain, daunting questions assailed his mind.
What about Juanita and the kids? And little Matthew separated from his mother? Missy Love must be losing her mind with worry.
His battle-hardened brain advised him to brief the TEradS and let them do the extraction, but his conscience countered with a nagging question: Would you want someone to step up and rescue your child?
Sighing, he turned onto the single-lane dirt road.
Glen braked to a stop beneath the canopy of a large oak, shifted into park, and killed the engine.
“Are we at Edgar already?” his wife whispered.
“No. There are some people who need a ride—”
“Glen, please. Let’s just go,” Ellen whined. “I’ve got a really bad feeling.”
“It’ll only take a minute. I promise. And we don’t have to make it all the way to Edgar. The TEradS control Mariupol, so we’re less than five miles from safety.”
He stepped out into the chilly night air, gingerly closed the driver’s door, and scanned the sky for drones. Orion was directly overhead, and the waxing moon was bright enough to cast shadows.
Glen jogged a quarter mile, slinked through the cabin’s aluminum gate, and pitched a stone at the door. The hunk of sedimentary rock disintegrated and the fragments had barely stopped bouncing when a shotgun poked through a mail slot.
“Juanita, it’s me, Glen.”
The door swung open, and he hurried inside the dimly lit cabin. Matthew was asleep on the couch. “I found the boy’s momma,” he said, scooping up the slumbering toddler. “She’s at Edgar Air Force Base and that’s where we’re headed. If you want a ride, you’ve got two minutes to wake your grandkids and—”
The sound of revving engines reverberated from his ears down to the pit of his stomach.
A loud metallic crash inflamed every nerve ending in his body.
A pair of Night Sector trucks had barreled over the gate and skidded to a stop, kicking up a cloud of sand and pine needles. Soldiers poured from both vehicles, weapons drawn.
“Corporal Anthony!”
A combat boot battered the wooden door, the lock gave way, and the newly promoted Colonel Hanover strutted into the room. “I knew you were lying about Hapsburg’s death.”
Two Night Sector goons pounced on Juanita, restraining her. Two more tramped into the cabin’s sole bedroom and emerged with her screaming grandchildren slung over their shoulders.
“Well, look who we have here. The kids who mysteriously escaped the night Ase was killed.” Hanover grinned, peering at the teens through his unswollen right eye. “Take the brats and the old lady to the cage,” he bellowed, referring to the prisoner transport truck, then his smug gaze returned to Glen. “Capturing lost cattle; delivering Matthew Love to Hellhound, not to mention the ringleader of the resistance—and all on my first mission as colonel. I might actually live to make brigadier general.”
The arrogant bastard wrenched Matthew from Glen’s arms and marched him back to the stolen truck at gunpoint.
Ellen and Gabby, he thought, panic welling. Oh God, what have I done?
The quarter-mile walk felt like an eternity. Memories of the slain Plantagenet family flickered through his mind, the agony in their screams, the pain in their contorted expressions.
I can’t let my family go through that, he thought. If Hanover lets me drive, I’ll roll the truck. Better for us all to die in a wreck than via Hellhound’s sadistic torture.
The colonel gestured for Glen to open the passenger’s door, and his pulse began to beat erratically. With a wavering hand, he gripped the handle, tugged at the heavy door, and gaped at the floor mat.
Did Night Sector lock my family inside the caged truck bed, along with Juanita and her grandchildren?
Or did Ellen and Gabby manage to sneak away?
64
Edgar Air Force Base, California
ABBY CLOSED THE bathroom door, as if quarantining a dangerous animal, then padded through the hallway of her apartment. She sank down onto the couch and hugged a pillow to her chest.
Think about something else, Abby told herself, knowing this would be the longest five minutes of her life. Dwell on saving the children.
She’d spent most of the day pondering the cryptic microdot message. Was Patriot Anon the shooter? Or was somebody mimicking those posts?
The first set of coordinates corresponded to the satanic church in Virginia where Abby had been held
; the second set marked the site of the ambrosia lab; and the final set pinpointed a place called Athenian Grove.
Nestled amidst centuries-old redwood trees, the 2,700-acre private club was composed of rustic cabins, a manmade lake, a clubhouse, and a rudimentary amphitheater; but its membership was more impressive than its amenities. The most powerful and prominent men in the world—actors, musicians, bankers, scientists, CEOs, military leaders, journalists, and politicians, including several former U.S. Presidents—gathered at the grove every July for a three-week “summer encampment.”
The all-male club was best known for planning the Manhattan Project and for its sexist ban on female employees, which was overturned by the California Supreme Court in 1978.
Did Night Sector seize the primitive retreat after the pulse? Abby wondered.
Are children being warehoused there?
She hadn’t shared the microdot message with Captain Fitzgerald because she knew it was pointless. Athenian Grove was a playground for the wealthiest and most powerful people in the world; her commanding officer would never authorize a raid, not without ironclad proof.
Abby rubbed a hand over her face.
I can’t just ignore it. The lives of innocents could be hanging in the balance ... and time is of the essence.
A Gaggle search revealed that the “wolf moon” would rise on January twenty-ninth, just two days from now. It was a combination of a blue moon—the second full moon within a calendar month—and a super moon—a full moon at its closest proximity to the earth.
Time, she thought, cringing. My five minutes is up.
Abby trudged back to the bathroom, gripped the doorknob, and inhaled as if oxygen would bolster her courage. The hinges creaked. Her blue eyes stared in disbelief at a plastic wand displaying a pink plus sign.
Shit!
The nausea, the fatigue, the aversion to coffee, the lateness of her cycle—it wasn’t stress.
Abby backpedaled, stunned by the confirmation that she was pregnant.
Should I tell Bradley about the baby?
Will he think I’m trying to entrap him?
Her thoughts exploded, whirling ever faster in dizzying circles, until her entire body began to tremble.
I can’t hide this indefinitely.
Damn him for not taking precautions!
It wasn’t solely his fault, she knew. Abby had gotten carried away that night too. The elation over their reunion combined with the trauma of her kidnapping had inflamed emotions and passions to the point of overruling common sense.
Will Bradley shirk the responsibilities of fatherhood, like his dad?
Or be a stellar father figure, like Gramps?
Abby’s stomach heaved, and she lunged toward the toilet. Retching and coughing, she expelled her dinner then sank down onto the tiled floor. The tears were unstoppable. She cried over losing the love of her life and for their unborn baby, who would grow up in a broken home. She sobbed until her heartbeat became a thunderous thud, nearly in sync with the pounding on her apartment door.
Sucking in a calming breath, Abby splashed water on her face to wash away the evidence of her meltdown then hurried down the stairs and yanked open her door.
“Major Andrews,” she said, snapping to attention. “I mean, Vice President Andrews, sir!”
Armed Marines formed a protective shield around him, and Cozart stood at Ryan’s side, both men wearing grave expressions.
“At ease, Sergeant,” Ryan said, his voice uncharacteristically somber. “May we come in?”
“Of course, sir!” Abby stepped aside, welcoming Andrews to ascend the stairs ahead of her, and she avoided Cozart’s quizzical gaze. Her team leader was perceptive enough to sense that something was wrong, yet wise enough not to press her. Instead, he proffered a ladies-first gesture and followed her up the stairs.
Ryan was studying his dress shoes, and when he lifted his chin, his honey-brown eyes were glassy. “A UC-35A bound for Edgar Air Force Base crashed into the Rocky Mountains and ...” His voice faltered. His jaw quivered, and he huffed in a breath. “... And I regret to inform you that at approximately 1637 hours, Master Sergeant Bradley Webber gave his life in service to his nation.”
“No-o-o-o-o-o!” Abby shook her head vehemently.
The room began to spin. Darkness encroached like a tightening belt, cutting off her ability to breathe.
Cozart was saying something, but the words were muffled. Indecipherable.
Then, buckling under the weight of shock and grief, Abby sank into an empty, soul-consuming abyss.
Chapter 15
DAY 709
Saturday, January 28th
65
District Three, Washington, D.C.
I CAN’T BELIEVE HE’S gone, Kyle Murphy thought.
Bradley wasn’t merely Abby’s husband or Kyle’s son-in-law; he was the man who had protected them from savages and taught Kyle how to survive in a lawless world.
I wouldn’t be sitting here, behind the Resolute desk, he thought. I’d probably be dead.
He had yet to break the news to Jessie and the kids, and he was dreading the prospect of trying to comfort Abby. The bond she and Bradley shared had been an intense, once-in-a-lifetime kind of love that was sure to leave his daughter brokenhearted
From the Oval Office, he watched the sun reflect off a blockade of Humvees and armored personnel carriers, a de facto wall protecting the White House from a growing horde of protestors.
Following the highly publicized use of directed-energy weapons, the Anti-Ty ranks had ballooned into the thousands. They arrived in peacekeeper vehicles, outfitted with brand-new tents and camping gear; and, thrice daily, trucks packed with food showed up—all donated by multinational conglomerates loyal to The Consortium.
Rubbing his temples, Kyle swiveled his chair toward a computer monitor and scowled at the news broadcast.
“... This is day three of the crisis,” the anchor announced merrily. “On Thursday, Americans gathered on Pennsylvania Avenue to decry this administration’s fascist policies and were assaulted by microwaves that raised skin temperatures to a blistering 111 degrees—the modern-day equivalent of being burned at the stake ...”
Kyle groaned at the outrageous lie. The Marines hadn’t deployed the Active Denial System. They’d used PHaSR rifles to temporarily blind and disorient the mob, a tactic that was only partially successful in repelling the incursion. “Protestors” equipped with protective goggles had continued their charge onto the South Lawn and were ultimately halted by rubber bullets filled with calmative agents like Valium and Prozac.
I have to give them credit, Kyle thought. It was a well-planned offensive, complete with blowtorches to cut through the wrought iron fence, eye protection for the crisis actors, and gallons of fake blood.
“... On Friday, Governor Zeller—an outspoken critic of the Murphy-Andrews regime—was assassinated during a meeting with Ryan Andrews. Given the TEradS’ alleged role in the assassinations of Ames, Arnold, Hanssen, and Burr, it seems reasonable to ask ... were the TEradS involved?
“Here’s an excerpt from an interview with the governor just prior to his untimely death.”
“Anti-Ty protestors have been denouncing the genocidal air strikes that murdered civilians in Mariupol,” Zeller said, his mouth tightening into a frown. “But peaceful protests are not enough when mortars and missiles are leveling neighborhoods. In the name of humanity, the Murphy-Andrews regime must go!”
“Chilling last words.” The female newscaster shuddered for effect. “And this just in, Global News Network has now confirmed the identity of Zeller’s assassin ... Vladislav Volkov!”
Kyle gripped his throbbing temples. His skull felt like it was shrinking, compressing his brain to the size of a walnut, and his ears were ringing with a high-pitched hum that made him nauseous.
“... The Russian general was shot and killed by Andrews’ security detail. Couple that with news of a plane crash that claimed the life of Bradley Webber, and it a
ppears as though the Murphy-Andrews regime may be eliminating witnesses who could expose the collusion ...”
Kyle’s heart sank, and his emotions reverted to the moment he’d learned of Bradley’s death. Shock and profound grief had depleted his energy, and the lingering ache rivaled the pain he’d endured during those bleak days when he thought he’d lost his daughter.
“... For insight into the mind and behavior of the madman in the Oval Office,” the newscaster babbled, “we go to GNN’s chief medical correspondent, Dr. Claude Bruce.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here, Rachel.”
She proffered a demure smile. “I understand that you have some concerns regarding Kyle Murphy’s physical and mental health?”
“Yes, yes. Thirty-one years as an expert in my field leads me to believe that his erratic behavior could be attributed to early onset dementia or possibly an arterial blockage, starving the brain of oxygen.”
“A blockage?” the host asked hopefully. “You mean like a blood clot?”
“Precisely! In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if our Commander in Chief suffered a stroke in the near future ...”
Unbelievable, Kyle thought. A doctor who’s never examined me is making a terminal diagnosis on national television. Does The Consortium have a stroke gun?
The door to the Oval Office opened, and Admiral Rone strode into the room.
“Why is it that everything seems to play into their narrative?” Kyle mumbled, massaging his throbbing temples.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 25