Abby’s rifle sights locked on to the enemy. Calculations whipped through her head—distance, wind, humidity, temperature, and angle of incline.
Her finger grazed the trigger then her elusive target evaporated.
I can’t desert Cozart, she thought crawling from the safety of the redwood cave. Abby stalked closer, each footfall soundless and more exhausting than the last. The thud of her pulse was compromising her hearing and making her wounded thigh ache.
The gaps between cover increased. The terrain steepened, and loose dirt and layers of pine needles shifted under her feet. Abby halted and slumped against a redwood with a fifteen-foot-wide trunk, cursing the thin air and struggling to control her ragged respiration.
The sound of male voices wafted through the grove, their words garbled. Was the gunman interrogating Cozart? Or calling for backup?
Tentatively, Abby peeked around the spongy trunk, and a wicked chill iced her vertebrae.
74
South of District Nine, California
TEARING OFF THE balaclava he’d acquired from a Night Sector sentry, Bradley’s mouth fell open, and he blinked. Confusion yielded to shock; and shock to a vengeful smile.
The man he’d clubbed wasn’t a Consortium mercenary. It was none other than First Sergeant John Cozart, the schmuck who’d been kissing Abby!
“The guy is TEradS?” It was CJ’s voice, transmitted directly into Bradley’s mind via the owl. “Is he a traitor?”
Personally, yes, Bradley thought, anger and blood pressure spiking. We trained together; we fought together; and Cozart is banging my wife! God, I hope he’s a Consortium traitor so I can put a bullet in his fucking—
“Yo, Webber,” CJ’s voice projection interrupted. “That’s way too much information.”
Infuriated over the incessant invasion of privacy, Bradley thought, And when I get done with Cozart, I’m going to shoot that fucking owl!
It was unnerving, having people eavesdrop on his most private thoughts. He didn’t want CJ—or The Consortium—delving into his personal business; he didn’t want them whispering into his mind, manipulating his senses, controlling his body.
Never-ending torture, he thought. Censorship of the most depraved order.
“This is why we need the owl,” CJ’s telepathic voice reminded him. “So we can find White Rabbit and protect humanity from technological enslavement.”
Bradley sighed, knowing that Wingnut was right. He couldn’t let his personal gripe with Cozart derail the mission.
“I’m headed your way,” CJ added, “So don’t get trigger happy.”
He thinks I need a baby-sitter—
“You do. For your prisoner. You can’t have him disrupting the op or tipping off Gorka.”
Damning the intrusion, Bradley surveyed the terrain. Python had hacked into The Consortium’s satellites and Athenian Grove’s network of cameras, ensuring that they were monitoring an innocuous loop of footage. The Wizard had even disabled an army of palm-sized unattended ground sensors designed to detect trespassers. Most were disguised as rocks or decaying branches, nearly impossible to ferret out; and together, they formed an electronic fence that protected the perimeter of the 2,700-acre property. But even the NSA’s finest couldn’t negate the threat of roving sentries and canine units.
Satisfied that his position was secure, Bradley’s left hand plunged into his pocket. He retrieved a bottle of doe urine—a simple way to disguise his scent and confuse the dogs—and squirted a steady stream onto Cozart’s face.
The asshole regained consciousness, coughing and sputtering.
Bradley met his gaze then mimed zipping his fly.
“Uuu-uh! Did you just piss on my face?”
“Believe me, you got worse coming!” Bradley said, his voice a hushed blistering growl.
Cozart shook his head as if clearing away the cobwebs. “You died in a plane crash. Shouldn’t you be cavorting with Beelzebub?”
The little prick had no business casting moral judgments. “You’re screwing my wife ... And I’m the evil one?”
“Wife ...? You fucked her over with that e-mail, remember? I can’t believe you faked your death and broke her heart over some bullshit, black ops mission. You don’t deserve her!”
“Webber, op sec.” CJ was scolding him about operational security, but his digitally rendered voice lacked inflection and failed to convey urgency.
So much for telepathic comms replacing tactical headsets, Bradley thought. They degrade information and are equally susceptible to interception. Even worse, the enemy could impersonate a CO, issuing bogus orders or ... Damn it, I need to focus!
Again, he turned his attention back to Cozart. “I know this isn’t a TEradS op. So how’d you find out about Athenian Grove? Are you a Consortium traitor?”
“Fuck you.” Cozart sat upright and patted the bleeding gash above his ear. “Volkov passed the date and coordinates to Abby. I’m here because I was tailing her—”
“After a piece of tail is more like it.”
Cozart proffered a derisive chuckle and spat onto the ground. “I’m not the opportunistic coward. I’m willing to marry her and raise the baby.”
The four-letter word detonated in Bradley’s mind. “You knocked her up!” Rage and betrayal coursed through his arteries. It pounded at his temples and exploded into an uncontrollable bloodlust. He lunged on top of Cozart, left hand choking him, right fist pounding his face.
Cozart bucked, tossing Bradley laterally, then both men tumbled down the incline, punching and kicking and swearing.
“Bradley stop.” CJ’s computer-generated voice echoed through Bradley’s skull, flat and devoid of authority. “You’re making too much noise. And there’s a sentry closing on your position.”
He maneuvered Cozart into a headlock, and the First Sergeant huffed, “You’re a scumbag, Webber! Getting her pregnant and dumping her!”
Dazed, Bradley froze and his prey wiggled free. His mind regressed to the last time he’d been with Abby, the only time he’d ever made love to her without protection.
I’m going to be a father?
A distant conversation percolated through his mind.
“I want your word,” Kyle had said, “that you won’t make me a grandfather.”
Air had rushed from Bradley’s lungs, and the resulting sound had been a Frankensteinlike synthesis of a cough, a groan, and a laugh. “Sir, I will not let that happen.”
Promise made, Bradley concluded. And promise broken.
His mind was spitting out rapid-fire thoughts like a sparkler.
I’ll never lay eyes on my child.
Should I renege on the mission?
But if I don’t destroy White Rabbit, who will?
Fuck! I’m right back to the same old dilemma. Who takes priority? Family or country?
He grimaced recalling the unspeakable things the satanic cannibals were doing to infants.
Abby and the baby won’t have a future if The Consortium is running the world.
I have to follow through with the mission for my family AND my country.
Despite knowing it was the right decision, he shuddered at the reality of Abby raising the baby alone, and a crazy thought began murmuring at the back of his mind. This time, it wasn’t CJ’s synthetic voice; it was Bradley’s conscience.
Nope! Ain’t happening, his ego protested. I can’t do it.
Stop making this about you! morality countered. Do what’s right for your family!
He inhaled a deep breath and, suddenly, his mouth felt like dry, dusty paper. “Cozart, I can’t get into the details of my mission, but it’s unlikely I’ll be coming back alive so ... so I want to take you up on that promise to take care of Abby and the baby.”
The First Sergeant’s nose crinkled in confusion. “I think that blow to the head jacked up my hearing.”
“You heard right,” Bradley barked. “And you’d better be on your game because The Consortium will have a price on their heads.”
“She’s in love with you. Not me.” A shadow of pain swept over Cozart’s face, and he bowed his head. “Why don’t we swap places? I’ll carry out your mission; you marry Abby and raise your family.”
Thunderstruck, Bradley looked away. “I can’t believe you’d do that for me.”
“I’m not doing it for you, Ass Wipe! I’m doing it for Abby.”
At that moment, Bradley realized that Cozart’s feelings for her were genuine and deep, and that he was entrusting his precious family to the right man. “Believe me, I’d love to swap places, but that’s not possible. So, I’m asking you to swear, on your honor, that Abby won’t ever find out about this conversation. That she’ll go on believing that I died in that plane crash—”
The sound of heavy breathing severed Bradley’s sentence. Hoisting his inherited AK-47, he whirled toward the noise, and a steel-toed boot smashed into his groin.
He doubled over, gasping, and an excruciating ache radiated outward.
His knees buckled; then collapsing onto the ground, he began to vomit.
75
South of District Nine, California
“YOU LYING SON OF A bitch!” Abby snarled, her voice hushed, her emotions raging out of control. She could see the pain pulsating in Bradley’s shriveled expression and, instead of engendering regret, it made her want to kick him again. Abby wanted to inflict a physical pain equal to the ache of betrayal that was rampaging inside her. “First you dump me. In an e-mail. A humiliating ... public e-mail! And now you’re tacking on a layer of deceit? Fuck you!”
As her right leg retracted for a secondary assault, Cozart lunged toward her. His arm clamped around her waist, dragging her away from Bradley. “We’re in enemy territory,” he chastised her. “Knock it off before you get us shot.”
“Let. Go!” Abby hissed, wrestling against his grip.
Grimacing, Bradley sat upright then blotted his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. “Cozart, get her out of here.” His voice was ragged, thrumming with lingering pain, and his hazel eyes were avoiding her stare. “Take her back to Edgar.”
“Like hell!”
“Pipe down. You’re making too much noise.”
Rifle on the upswing, Abby’s head swiveled attempting to locate the speaker.
Cozart latched onto the rifle barrel. “You nailed him in the nuts. That’s enough.”
“I’m not gonna shoot Bradley. Somebody else is here,” Abby muttered in a pissed-off whisper. “Didn’t you hear him? He said we’re making too mu—”
Her lips froze midsyllable, her vocal cords fell silent, and she stood paralyzed. Panic surged through her bloodstream, amping up her heart rate.
Is The Consortium attacking us with a mind-control weapon?
Her eyes slanted toward Bradley. His complexion was pale, sweat was dripping along his temples, and he gingerly maneuvered onto his knees and returned to his feet.
Why isn’t he affected?
She’d assumed the weapon would impact anyone within range. Was the technology using facial recognition to distinguish between targets?
“Abby?” Cozart snapped his fingers in front of her face then jostled her shoulder. “What’s wrong? Abby, answer me.”
“She can’t,” Bradley said flatly, “but she’s fine.”
“What the hell did you do to her?” the First Sergeant demanded.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
The owl, Abby thought. Volkov must’ve given it to Bradley.
“Try me,” Cozart said, waggling his fingers in a bring-it-on gesture.
“Drop and give me twenty,” Bradley ordered.
Abby’s team leader folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t take orders from you, Master Sergeant,” he said, issuing a not-so-subtle reminder of his superior rank.
A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of Bradley’s mouth. He pointed at Cozart, thrust his finger toward the ground, and her team leader obediently dropped into position and began cranking out push-ups.
“What the fuck ... how did you ...”
“Weaponized tech,” Bradley told him. “You have to experience it to believe it.”
A shiver coursed through Abby, realizing the nefarious potential of this mind-control technology. Despite knowing that Cozart and Bradley would never hurt her, a suffocating fear coiled inside her, dredging up memories of that awful night when she’d been naked and bound to that satanic pentagram. This technology could be used as an electromagnetic date-rape drug that wouldn’t show up in a toxicology screening; and any woman who dared to report the incident would be written off as delirious.
Is that how these pedophiles get away with abusing children? Because the stories are too outlandish and abhorrent to be believed?
The Consortium could use this technology to drive someone to commit a mass shooting or suicide; they could inflict torture, sans the physical proof left by wounds, and force a Soldier to betray the country.
Abby’s gaze gravitated to Bradley. Was he coerced into kissing that hooker? Into writing that e-mail?
She heard that same disembodied voice say, “He still loves you.”
Bradley, is that you? she thought.
“No, it’s CJ Love,” the voice told her. “Pilot of the feathered demon.”
Salty streams of relief and dread and joy trickled over her eye lashes and down her cheeks.
Taken aback by her tears, Bradley limped toward her, pain evident in each step. With both hands, he cupped Abby’s face. Part of her wanted to push him away, to smack him, and kick him again; another part wanted to burrow into his arms and kiss him. Unable to satisfy either urge, she closed her eyes to keep him from seeing the emptiness and despair roiling inside her.
Bradley’s thumbs tenderly stroked her cheeks and smeared away her tears. He pressed a loving kiss to her forehead then whispered, “Cozart’s a good guy. He’ll take good care of you.” His hand dropped to her abdomen. “Both of you.”
Damn you, Cozart! Abby thought. That wasn’t your place to tell him about the—
“Hate to barge in at the wrong moment,” CJ’s voice interrupted, “but we’ve got company. A Night Sector sentry with a canine. Approaching from the south side of the ridge ...”
76
South of District Nine, California
MARIO DEL BANCO HAD been a Night Sector foot soldier for decades. He’d instigated Middle East uprisings during the Arab Spring and waged war against “terrorists” in Ukraine. He’d spilled blood for the cause and was bored with his current assignment on the Athenian Grove security team.
His partner, Tito, was a German shepherd and Night Sector veteran with an impressive skill set: ferreting out bombs and firearms as well as an affinity for tracking down fugitives and intruders. Once given the command matar, the Spanish word for kill, the dog would hunt down his prey and shred them to ribbons.
Tito hasn’t sank his teeth into human flesh for months, del Banco thought, not since I recorded the mutilation of that thirteen-year-old. His bosses had incorporated that video into The Consortium’s official “break-in” procedure for new sex slaves, and it had proven to be an effective escape deterrent.
Tito strained against his leash, sniffing the narrow worn trail from right to left, and alerted with three, high-pitched barks. Del Banco surveyed the hillside and squinted at a faint set of footprints.
Boots ... And the treads are consistent with US military, he thought, giving the dog an appreciative pat on the head.
Ordinarily, del Banco would’ve indulged Tito with a good-old fashioned manhunt; but, tonight, VIPs were on premise, which meant all threats warranted a full-bore security response.
He sent a brief text message to headquarters.
Suspected breach sector 6. Request coordinates.
A combination of ground sensors and infrared satellite imagery would allow his commanding officer to pinpoint the interloper to within a yard; and while awaiting a response, del Banco began their ascent toward the crest of Lucifer’s
Peak.
Even before the electromagnetic pulse, trespassers had been dealt with harshly; beaten, arrested, and prosecuted under the most strident of terrorism laws. A few, who had witnessed too much, had even been executed and interred on the property. The world’s wealthiest and most powerful simply could not allow their satanic ceremonies to become public—not until their plan was fully implemented and their rituals were enshrined in law.
For decades, The Consortium had been using social engineering to normalize deviant behaviors through education, entertainment, and the judiciary. Author Richard Dawkins had challenged society to “overcome our taboo against cannibalism,” and Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg had tacitly endorsed lowering the age of sexual consent to twelve; but all progress had been derailed by the recent presidential election.
How in the hell did Kyle Murphy beat Carter Sidney when The Consortium controlled the media narrative, the social media algorithms, and the electronic voting machines?
For del Banco, there was no doubt about it. Murphy and the Russians had rigged the election; they’d managed to out-cheat even The Consortium’s most accomplished cheaters.
He followed behind Tito as the German shepherd ascended the hill, processing smells like a biological computer. The dog’s nose was nearly 5,000 times more sensitive than its human counterpart. While a person was capable of recognizing the smell of beef stew, a canine could isolate the scent of each individual ingredient.
Tito’s the best piece of equipment I have, del Banco thought.
Surprised that headquarters hadn’t responded, he retrieved his phone then stopped midstride. He cocked an ear toward the sound of two men speaking in hushed tones, and was only able to catch two words: TEradS and mission.
Spotting the infrared silhouettes of armed intruders, his fifty-year-old heart began to thump erratically.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 29