Brady Hawk 09 - Seek and Destroy

by R. J. Patterson

  “The gang’s all here, I see,” Blunt said.

  “But not for long,” Hawk said. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  Blunt laughed. “You think someone is still watching me? Because if they were, I’d likely already be dead by now. I’ve made you far too suspicious.”

  “Suspicion is what keeps me alive on most missions—that and Alex being my eyes and ears everywhere,” Hawk said.

  “It’s probably more to do with Alex,” Blunt said. “I know she’s saved your bacon more times than you care to admit.”

  “We’re a team,” Alex said with a grin. She flashed a wink to Hawk.

  “And seeing that we’re a team, we need to get you out of here because I’m not staying any longer in this petri dish of germs and diseases,” Samuels chimed in.

  “Hear, hear,” Blunt said as he picked up a small paper cup with a couple of pills and raised it in the air. “So, what’s the plan?”

  Before Hawk could spell it out, Blunt’s phone buzzed.

  “Hold that thought,” Blunt said before answering.

  Hawk leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. He clasped his hands and looked down at the tiled floor. It was scuffed and dirty, certainly not like any hospital he’d ever visited in the U.S. He halfway listened as Blunt responded with one-word answers and plenty of “yes sirs.” And within thirty seconds, the call was over. Blunt hung up and placed his phone back on the tray in front of him.

  “That was President Michaels,” Blunt said, his face turning dour. “He wants us to stand down in our pursuit of Petrov.”

  “Did he give you a reason?” Alex asked.

  “Does he need to?” Samuels said. “He’s the President of the United States.”

  Hawk stood up and sighed. “I don’t like this.”

  “What?” Blunt said.

  “Something just feels off to me. He knows where we are now.”

  “So?” Alex said. “We’re back in his good graces.”

  “We were,” Hawk said as he started to pace around the room. “Seems like he’s reached some sort of understanding with Petrov.”

  “You’re probably right, Hawk,” Blunt said, shoving the tray to the side. “I need to get out of here.”

  “We all do,” Hawk said. “But let’s don’t make this easy on Michaels. Alex, you’re with me. Samuels, you stay with Blunt. We’ll bring the SUV around. I’ll text you when to start heading downstairs so we can get the hell outta here.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Blunt said. “Better hurry.”

  Hawk and Alex walked quickly down the hall, careful not to attract attention by breaking into a slight jog.

  “You really think something is up?” Alex asked.

  “Blunt always told me to trust my gut. And I’m not about to ignore his advice when it might be his life on the line.”

  In less than five minutes, they made it their vehicle. Alex texted Samuels to let him know they were driving to the front.

  * * *

  “IT’S TIME TO MOVE,” Samuels said as he hurried across the room to help Blunt out of bed.

  Blunt swung his feet around and planted them firmly on the floor. He winced as Samuels grabbed his arm.

  “Be careful,” Blunt instructed. “It’s still tender.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be battle-axe tough,” Samuels said. “Guess you never really know a man . . .”

  Blunt groaned. “Let me shoot you through the chest and see how you feel.”

  An orderly was stationed just outside of Blunt’s room and approached the duo.

  “Would you like some help getting down?” the orderly asked.

  “Absolutely,” Blunt said, wasting no time settling into the orderly’s wheelchair.

  “Where to?” the orderly asked.

  “The lobby, please,” Samuels answered. “And we’re kind of in a hurry, so if you can please speed it up, okay?”

  The orderly nodded and guided Blunt down the busy corridor until they reached the elevators. Once inside, Samuels repeatedly hit the button for the lobby.

  “You only need to press it once, sir,” the orderly said.

  Samuels shot the orderly a sideways glance and stepped back from the control panel. Seconds later, the doors eased shut and the elevator began its descent.

  Blunt twiddled his thumbs and watched the orderly’s hands. They were gnarled, likely from years of hospital work. But still, there was something about him. As the floors ticked past, Blunt studied the man’s hands. They appeared steady and calm, not the hands belonging to anyone who was anxious. And Blunt took that as a sign that it was all the more reason to be anxious.

  Third floor, second floor, first floor.

  Ding.

  The elevator slowed to a halt and waited a couple of seconds before opening. Without hesitating, the orderly gestured for Samuels to exit first. But Samuels insisted on trailing.

  “Suit yourself,” the orderly said as he pushed Blunt forward.

  They exited the hospital and reached a small pickup area just outside.

  “Is your car here?” the orderly asked.

  “There it is right there,” Samuels said, pointing toward a black SUV.

  Samuels hung back and intensely watched the orderly. Everything appeared normal until the orderly made a sudden move. He reached for a pouch attached to the back of the wheelchair and pulled out a syringe. Ripping the cap off, he tapped it to make sure it was flowing and prepared to jam it into Blunt’s neck.

  In an instant, Samuels figured out what was happening and dove for the man. In the ensuing scuffle, the orderly lost his grip on the syringe and it bounded away down the sidewalk. Samuels kicked the man in the ribs before scrambling to get the needle. Using his fast reflexes, Samuels rolled the man over and rammed it into his neck. Samuels stood up and eyed the man closely.

  “What have you done?” the man gasped.

  Samuels watched as the man writhed in pain, grabbing different parts of his body and letting out shrill screams. A small crowd standing nearby had gathered and witnessed the debacle. The man twisted and turned before breaking into what looked like a seizure. Samuels knelt down next to the man and pretended to give him CPR.

  “Who sent you?” Samuels asked, gritting his teeth.

  The man attempted to flail around.

  “I said who sent you?” Samuels asked again.

  A second later, the orderly’s body fell limp.

  “Damn it,” Hawk said as he rushed up to the scene. “He’s gone.”

  Samuels looked up at Hawk and shook his head.

  “All’s not lost, Hawk. Trust me on this one.”

  The small crowd that had been watching the scene unfold buzzed with questions while one person ran off to get a doctor.

  “Let’s get out of here before the circus arrives,” Hawk said.

  Samuels and Hawk hustled toward the waiting SUV and drove off.

  “We could’ve used him,” Hawk said to Samuels.

  Samuels held up the orderly’s phone. “We weren’t going to get anything out of him anyway through conventional interrogation tactics. But at least we’ve got this.”

  “Nice work,” Blunt said. “And by the way, thanks, Samuels. I’m pretty sure I would’ve been the one thrashing about on the ground until my death if you hadn’t stopped that man in time.”

  “No need to thank me, sir,” Samuels said. “Just doing my job.”

  “Speaking of our job,” Hawk said. “We apparently don’t have one at the moment. And based on what just happened out there, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to any of us. However, we do need a new plan—and fast.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Washington, D.C.

  PRESIDENT MICHAELS DONNED a hat and sunglasses as a serviceable disguise. Knowing that the Secret Service wasn’t hovering over his shoulder or standing guard just outside the room was an enormous relief. While Michaels enjoyed the power and other perks that accompanied his position, he never understood just how intr
usive a security detail could be. Without them around, Michaels felt human again for the first time in several years.

  Finding a place in Washington where Michaels could meet incognito wasn’t easy. However, masquerading as a non-descript man going about his business through the vast network of the Library of Congress’ underground tunnels wouldn’t earn him a second glance. Employees mindlessly pushed carts along corridors that extended a quarter of a mile or more. Researchers and library employees chatted with one another, unaware of who was in their midst.

  Michaels used his burner phone to call and reserve one of the conference rooms in the Jefferson building. He didn’t even get much pushback either from the woman who answered the phone. She happily booked it for him and asked him to make sure he had his driver’s license with him when he checked into the front desk. When Michaels reached the front desk, he pawned off his fake credentials to gain access without as much as a second glance.

  “There you go, Mr. Orwell,” she said. “Or would you prefer I just call you George?”

  “I’ll leave that up to you,” Michaels said, amused that the secretary asked him that without even a hint of irony. He understood she had no inkling of an idea who George Orwell was.

  I really need to get to work on our education program.

  “Just sign right here,” she said, pointing to the clipboard on her desk.

  Michaels scrawled his fake name and then took the key off the counter. He wound his way through the maze of rooms until he arrived at the conference room. Eight chairs surrounded a table comprised of fabricated dark wood. It was simple, devoid of any of the touches that always accompanied his meetings in the White House. Although, Michaels didn’t mind. He reveled in the raw moment, one devoid of people fussing over him in an effort to gain more favor within the White House hierarchy.

  He slung his briefcase onto the table and sat down. Exhaling a long breath, he opened up his attaché and studied the stack of papers he’d placed inside before giving the Secret Service the slip.

  After a half-hour, the first person opened the door, tentatively poking his head inside.

  “Am I in the right spot?” the man asked with a furrowed brow.

  “Absolutely,” Michaels said. He’d yet to remove the disguise.

  “Care to tell me what this is all about?” the man asked.

  “What is this all about? It’s about accountability—and an incredible opportunity for you to change the course of world history. Please, have a seat, Justice Kellerman.”

  Kellerman hesitated for a moment before pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  “Who are you?” Kellerman asked.

  “In due time, Justice Kellerman, in due time.”

  Michaels leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers as he awaited the arrival of the others justices.

  Justice Frank Kellerman had been the justice Michaels was the most familiar with. At age 84, Kellerman was not long for the Supreme Court, if not the world. His thick glasses betrayed his attempts to act as if his vision was sufficient. The gangly hearing aid devices affixed around each ear were necessary for distinguishing any sounds. Using a cane to support, he hobbled around Washington, oblivious to the glances and fingers pointing at him. Not that Kellerman would’ve cared if he could’ve seen the looks of pity and heard the whispers. In his prime, he was a battering ram to congressional laws run amok, outspoken in his criticism of lower court judges attempting to legislate from the bench. To consider him a strict constitutionalist was a gross understatement. Kellerman established the bar on what it meant to be the kind of judge who interpreted the U.S. Constitution—nothing more, nothing less. He revered the past and worshipped the framers from long ago who crafted the enduring laws of the land.

  Kellerman was the one justice Michaels needed to convince the most to correct a gross injustice from years ago and help pave the way for a more stable—and just—future.

  “If there was one thing you wish you could change about the Constitution, what would it be?” Michaels asked.

  Kellerman looked up and scowled as he shot a glance at Michaels.

  “Did you say something?”

  “Yes, Justice Kellerman,” Michaels answered, careful to enunciate precisely and speak loudly, “I did. I asked you if there was one thing you could change about the Constitution, what would it be?”

  Kellerman glared at him. “It’s perfect as it is.”

  “Perfect? Are you sure?”

  “Perfect as something made by men could be.”

  Michaels’ eyebrows shot upward. “So, you’re implying that it’s not exactly perfect?”

  “What are you getting at Mr.—”

  “Orwell.”

  “What are you getting at, Mr. Orwell?”

  “I’m just wondering if there is something worth changing in the Constitution—and if you’d help me do that.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to do that? I’m a justice on the Supreme Court, not a legislator. Damn kids today don’t even know how the branches of government work. Stupid education system. We’ve got a nation full of dummies, I tell ya.”

  Before Michaels could respond, the next justice walked in and then another. By the time the fourth justice filed in, Kellerman raised his objections.

  “What is this all about anyway, Mr. Orwell? This is starting to feel very strange to me, and I don’t like it.”

  Then the fifth justice walked in.

  Michaels stood up and walked over to the door, shutting it and then locking it. Once he pulled the blinds, he proceeded to take off his disguise.

  “Gentlemen and lady,” Michaels said, giving a distinct nod toward Justice Camille Williams. “I know this is very unorthodox, perhaps even political suicide should anyone ever learn about this meeting. However, I’m trusting that you will all keep the details of this meeting and the fact that it even happened confidential. Can I trust you to do that?”

  All the justices nodded, except for Kellerman. He stared at Michaels, making the President wonder if Kellerman knew who he was.

  “Justice Kellerman,” Michaels said. “It’s me, the President.”

  “Where’d that Orwell guy go?”

  Michaels suppressed a smile. “He was just standing in for me until I could get here and didn’t want to cause a scene when he left.”

  “What are we doing here?” Kellerman asked. “I demand to know right now or I’m gonna get up and walk out.”

  “Settle down, Justice Kellerman,” Michaels said. “I need to give you all a little context first before continuing this unorthodox meeting.”

  “By all means, continue,” Kellerman grumbled. “You are the President, for god’s sake.”

  Michaels put on his best politician face and smiled.

  “Thank you. Now, the reason you’re all here today is because we’re facing a crisis of epic proportions. And this is not just hyperbole. In days of old, our freedoms were under assault from madmen wielding weapons of mass destruction. Today, this evil takes a different shape and form, but it’s just as devastating in nature. I’m talking about the financial sector.”

  Michaels paused to pull five packets out of his briefcase and hand them to the justices.

  “Make sure Justice Kellerman gets the thick one on the bottom,” Michaels instructed. “It was printed specially for him in a large font.”

  Justice Williams gave Michaels an exaggerated eye roll before fishing the stack of papers off the bottom and handing them to Kellerman.

  “Now, what you’ll see in here is a brief history of how the Federal Reserve Act came to be—and how it never should have,” Michaels continued. “A small segment of private banks have been controlling the entire U.S. economy for over a century with limited abilities to curb this carte blanche power the Supreme Court approved of on several occasions despite convincing challenges. I’d argue that those justices who caved did so under immense threat and danger to their own families.”

  “Do you have proof of this?” Williams asked.
>
  Michaels shook his head. “However, if you look at the voting records of the justices who sided with Congress to uphold the Federal Reserve Act of 1913, you’ll find that it was a departure from their usual voting patterns. It’s an anomaly if you’ve ever seen one. Flip to page seven.”

  Michaels directed them to view the chart that showed the justice’s record on cases dealing with fiscal activity—and based on the information presented, Michaels appeared to have a compelling case.

  Justice Horford, the junior member of the Supreme Court—and a Michaels’ appointee, scratched his neck as he held up his hand.

  “Did you have a question?” Michaels asked.

  Horford nodded. “So, how exactly does any of this relate to what you suggested at the beginning of the meeting, that there’s an attack coming?”

  “Good question,” Michaels said. “In fact, it’s already begun. With the one-world currency gaining momentum, the United States and all her assets abroad are at extreme risk to becoming devalued almost overnight. If we’re not on board with this, the global board that will be setting the exchange rates for nations that choose to retain the current fiscal system will be at the mercy of this small group of decision makers.”

  “Sounds exactly like what we have now,” Williams said. “Why would you want to go along with this? Seems to me that you simply want to move the country from one failed system to another.”

  “No, no, no,” Michaels said. “This is different. The U.S. government will actually have people on this board if we decide to switch over our currency.”

  “Then why not petition Congress to do this?” Horford asked.

  “Because it will trigger lawsuits and immense pressure from the group of banks and their shareholders who benefit from the current arrangement,” Michaels said. “If we don’t get in on the ground floor, we could get shut out or minimized. And I believe that the United States, the one great harbinger of freedoms in this world, needs to be leading in this arena.”

  Kellerman tapped his cane several times and took a deep breath.

  “Did you want to say something, Justice Kellerman?” Michaels asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kellerman said. “It just seems off to me. I don’t like getting involved in affairs such as these. It’s why we rarely cross paths with the President in public—and never in private. If the public found out about this meeting, they would hang us all, not to mention the fact that even if we agree to overturn the Federal Reserve Act, you still don’t have the authority as President to make decisions about currency.”