The Doomsday Series Box Set | Books 1-5

by Akart, Bobby

  “What about Interpol?”

  “They’ve been alerted,” replied Trowbridge. “International wiretaps and warrants have been issued for the offshore accounts that Jonathan Schwartz uses for these types of dealings. Our contacts in the FBI’s financial crimes division are closely monitoring his U.S.-based activities. Justice will be meted out with lightning speed.”

  “The media?” asked Briscoe.

  “Our friends at the Financial Times will break the story, and the Fox Business Network will make sure it is disseminated throughout the U.S. He’ll be as toxic as a nuclear waste dump within days.”

  Briscoe smiled and rubbed his hands, lending the appearance of a miserly scrooge celebrating the bankruptcy of another. The man’s body relaxed, and he slid down into the comfortable chair as if he were enjoying a casual chat with an old friend over cognac and cigars.

  A wry smile came across Trowbridge’s face as he saw the noticeable change in Briscoe’s demeanor. Trowbridge often laughed at the so-called expert poker players who bragged about their ability to read their opponents. Those people had never played the kind of high-stakes card games that Trowbridge was accustomed to.

  “I’ve received reports that unrest has spread across the country, especially in unexpected locales. May I assume these are organized efforts?”

  “They are, George,” Briscoe replied. “Our network has responded quickly and with equal violence.”

  “Any problems?”

  Briscoe grimaced. “Only in Richmond, but we have teams descending upon the city this morning. The public will applaud our efforts.”

  Trowbridge appeared to be uninterested, casually refolding the end of the blanket that was tucked just below his shoulders to keep him warm. “What about the death toll from the Delta flight? How many?”

  Briscoe’s body stiffened in his chair. The question caught him off guard, as intended. “Um, one-oh-nine, passengers and crew. The target, um, Congressman Pratt was one of the dead.”

  “Survivors?” Trowbridge asked the questions that he already knew the answers to. He’d conducted his own, independent investigation of the downing of Delta Flight 322.

  While it was true that Cort was a late addition to the flight, the manifest with his name on it had been filed with the FAA. For over an hour, Briscoe’s team was, or should have been, aware of Cort’s presence on that flight.

  Trowbridge’s investigation had revealed that the Frenchman, who had been one of their top operatives because of his development and knowledge of radio frequency weapons, a highly prized tool of terror, had been inadvertently killed as he slipped off the oil rig’s elevated platform. The ex-military operators hired to protect the man had disappeared by prearrangement.

  For Trowbridge, it was all too convenient. Briscoe had the answers and Trowbridge expected him to volunteer them. A lie of omission was just as big a lie as one of words. He was going to give Briscoe the opportunity to admit his operation almost killed Cort, whether by accident or design.

  A few beads of sweat appeared on Briscoe’s forehead. “They keep it warm in here for you, don’t they?”

  Trowbridge glared at his contemporary and nodded. He wasn’t acknowledging the fact that the room was kept warm. He was relishing the fact that the room, and its suddenly hot feel, was closing in on Hanson Briscoe.

  Trowbridge offered the younger man a glass of water and subtly changed the conversation to the next part of their intricate plan to push the nation to the edge of a second civil war. As the two discussed the arrangements, Trowbridge slid his hand under the blanket and pressed a buzzer, summoning Harris.

  When his aide arrived, Trowbridge held his hand up, indicating that Briscoe should halt the conversation. Trowbridge waved his hand for Harris to approach, and then he pointed to his ear. Harris picked up on the cue and pretended to whisper in his boss’s ear.

  “Hanson, old friend, would you excuse us for just a moment?”

  Briscoe nodded and left. Just as the door shut, Trowbridge mustered the strength to push himself up a little taller in the bed. Harris awaited his instructions.

  “Not now. Not here. But soon. I want him gone. Without a trace.”

  “No message?” asked Harris.

  “Oh, it will be loud and clear.”

  “Sir, I was unable to install the GPS tracking device in his jacket as you requested. Shall I send a team with—”

  Trowbridge waggled his finger at his aide and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Quickly, so we don’t raise suspicion.”

  Harris didn’t hesitate, pulling the wafer-thin piece of electronic circuitry out of his pocket. He flicked open a spring-assisted knife and created a small incision where the outer pocket met the main body of the overcoat. Within seconds, the device was inserted, and Briscoe, who kept his jacket with him like a security blanket, could be found anywhere, anytime.

  Trowbridge nodded his approval, and Harris exited the room, holding the door open for Briscoe—the dead man walking.

  Chapter Ten

  Hilton Garden Inn, Airport

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  “Okay,” began Cort cheerily as he returned to the hotel room, wiggling a key fob over his head. “How does a brand-new, barely broken-in Chevy Suburban sound to you guys?”

  Handsome Dan was the most vocal in his response, immediately attempting to jump as high as his eight-inch legs could hoist his oversized girth of a waistline. The key fob was the target of his excitement, as the big boy couldn’t care less about Suburbans.

  “Too excited for words,” said Hannah as she threw a pillow at her father. She enjoyed the slumber-party atmosphere of the night’s stay in the hotel. She’d never slept on a pull-out sofa bed and enjoyed creating a wall of cushions and excess pillows to build a lean-to structure on top. She’d said it was her way of getting ready to sleep in the woods.

  Meredith didn’t respond, reacting instead by pointing toward the local news she was watching on the television. Cort slipped the fob in his pocket, much to the chagrin of Handsome, who immediately found his way to the tile-floored foyer to stay cool.

  “Is this about the fire?” Cort said as he slid onto the edge of the bed next to his wife. She had the volume turned down with the closed-captioning scrolling across the bottom, Cort suspected it was because she didn’t want their young daughter to hear all the gory details that the news media liked to relay.

  “That’s part of it,” she replied with a sigh. “They have no idea what started the fires, and there was no discernible pattern to the targets. They were clearly arson, with the locations ranging from high-end homes to government buildings. The media is calling it the Night of Rage.”

  Cort took the remote from his wife and turned up the volume slightly. “Why?”

  “Apparently, mobs were seen in the vicinity of all the fires before they were set. Last night, around ten o’clock, groups started congregating in different parts of the city. Cort, it wasn’t just inner-city violence, either. I mean, the homes that were set on fire were big McMansions. Even their historic district was hit.”

  “The graphic reads coordinated.”

  “Right,” added Meredith. “Their newly appointed fire chief said the fires were set in a way that prevented his department from responding to all of them. As he put it, he had to play God with the Lord’s water.”

  “What did he do?” asked Cort.

  Meredith grimaced as she replied, “He protected homes first and businesses only if he had the resources. Makes sense to me, but not to the business owners, many of whom were minorities, apparently. They’re crying racism.”

  “That’s the chief in the picture,” said Cort, pointing to the split screen. “Um, he’s black.”

  Meredith shrugged, and her eyebrows rose. “I guess that didn’t matter.”

  The two watched the news a little longer until the coverage shifted to the mug shots of several white men whose faces were covered in tattoos. Cort shook his head in disbelief at the men’s appearance and
turned the volume up louder. The reporter explained.

  “The Ghost Face Gangsters are a prison-based gang that has been operating in Georgia for twenty years until their recent expansion into other large Southern cities. In the last three weeks, several incidents have been attributed to suspected members of the gang, including a deadly jailbreak in nearby Gaston County that left two corrections officers dead.

  “According to the Anti-Defamation League, they are one of dozens of white supremacist prison gangs operating in the greater Mecklenburg County area. The three escaped men shown on the screen are on the lam and considered considerably dangerous.”

  The station’s news host asked the reporter, “We’ve received reports that the Ghost Face Gangsters may have been involved in last night’s Night of Rage, is that correct?”

  The reporter nodded and his facial expression turned serious. “That’s right. Police sources tell us there has been a turf war brewing between the Ghost Face gang and the Trinitarios, a New York-based gang composed primarily of Dominican Americans. Like the Ghost Face Gangsters, the Trinitarios members rose out of the penal system, this time in New York State. Their numbers have swelled over the past decade and so have their areas of influence. Their territory now includes Charlotte.”

  Cort turned off the television and tossed the remote over his shoulder, where it landed squarely on top of a pillow, emulating a trick basketball shot he’d perfected as a teen in which he’d shoot the ball blindly over his shoulder, finding the hoop every time.

  “I have an idea,” he said with a chuckle. “Why don’t we load up and get the heck out of Charlotte?”

  Meredith leaned over and hugged her husband while she gave him a long kiss on the cheek. “I really love you, Cort.”

  “That’s a good thing, Mrs. Cortland. Our daughter, who’s watching our every move, probably appreciates that.”

  “No, I mean it. The Haven, and your ability to overcome your fears to get us there, takes a tremendous amount of courage. I love you for that.”

  Cort genuinely blushed and smiled. “Aw, shucks, ma’am. ’Tweren’t nothin’.”

  “Yes, Cort it was. I woke up several times last night as you fought through the nightmares. You were knocked out by the Zoloft, so you probably don’t remember. There were several times that you began kicking and flailing about. The moans were what saddened me the most. It was heart-wrenching.”

  “Honey, I’m sorry. I had no—well, um, I don’t remember the dreams from last night, but the night before. Those were awful.”

  She hugged him again and stood, using her arms to help Cort up. “We’ll get through this together, as soon as we’re safe at the Haven.”

  “Sounds good,” said Cort as he reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small single-page map of the area surrounding the airport. “I picked this up at the front desk. If we head out this back way through Pinecrest, we can stop at Walmart and pick some things up for the cabin.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Meredith. “Once we get there, I’d like to stay put until all of this mess blows over.”

  The Cortlands quickly gathered their things, coaxed Handsome off the floor, and made their way to the rental car to start the final leg of their journey.

  Chapter Eleven

  Delta’s Cabin

  The Haven

  Will Hightower was having difficulty transitioning to his role as Delta, one of the lead security personnel at the Haven. When he signed on with Ryan and Blair, he’d assumed he’d be flying solo. He was estranged from his ex-wife, who’d done little to rehabilitate his image as a father in the eyes of their kids. If anything, she’d torn him down further as it related to his fifteen-year-old son, Ethan.

  Skylar, however, was a different matter. She had been somewhat shielded from the media circus inflicted upon the Hightower family two years prior, and for whatever reason, she hadn’t succumbed to the onslaught of negativity directed at Will. She was still a daddy’s girl and probably would remain so as long as Will didn’t screw it up.

  This was their second full day at the Haven, and routines were being established for the single dad. He awoke early to prepare breakfast for his kids. He dressed in his uniform that now consisted of a full military kit that held his sidearm, extra magazines for both the pistol and the AR-15 he carried, as well as a radio. He stopped once to check himself in the mirror before he gave final instructions to the kids. He looked more like Rambo than the former uniformed security guard for a stadium, his job of just three days ago.

  “Okay, here’s the plan for today,” Delta began, trying to be upbeat. He sensed his kids were bored with this new arrangement, and he wasn’t ready to explain to them how bad it really was beyond their secured perimeter, because he wasn’t totally sure himself. This was one of the items on his agenda during today’s morning briefing. “I’ve got my meeting and then I’ll be making rounds. I plan on seeing you guys back here at noon for lunch. Cool?”

  “That’ll be cool, Daddy,” replied Skylar enthusiastically. “I’ve got my paintings, and Miss Blair has commissioned some artwork.”

  “Whoa!” exclaimed Delta. He was impressed with his daughter’s big-girl speak. “She commissioned some artwork? What are you supposed to do?”

  Skylar proudly sat up in her chair as she finished off another scoop of oatmeal mixed with a cinnamon-sugar blend. “I’d asked her about things kids could do around here. Miss Blair said we were all living a simpler life now and that wasn’t such a bad thing. She talked about the tire swing we have in front. That tire has been here since before the Hunger Games movie. She said she wouldn’t be surprised if Katniss played on that swing.”

  Delta began laughing at the sincerity of Skylar’s statements. He loved her innocence. Delta glanced over at Ethan, who continued to shovel oatmeal into his mouth in an effort to avoid interacting with the rest of the family.

  “Sky, does she want a painting of the swing?” asked Delta.

  “Yes. The cabin, too. She said this was one of her favorite spots when they bought the place. I promised her a beautiful painting for her wall.”

  “I’ll bet you do a fantastic job.” Delta leaned over and kissed his daughter on the forehead. He turned his attention to Ethan. “Son, you’ll stay here with your sister, right?”

  Ethan didn’t look up from his bowl. He toyed with a clump of oatmeal and nodded his head. Will had hoped the change of scenery and a new adventure might bring Ethan around. He was beginning to wonder whether his son’s attitude was normal for fifteen-year-old boys. He tried to remember what he was like at that age. Although he couldn’t conjure up any specific memories, he certainly didn’t remember being perpetually sullen and ill-tempered.

  “Right, Ethan?” he reiterated his request.

  “Sure, Dad, whatever. Are you gonna find me a charger for my phone today?”

  “Top of my list, son.” The lies continued. Delta walked over to muss his son’s hair, but Ethan just pulled away. The attempt to make some kind of contact with his son failed, again. “Okay, I love you guys. Be good, and I’ll be back for lunch.”

  “Okay, Daddy. Love you!”

  Ethan didn’t reply. He stood and took his empty bowl into the kitchen without saying goodbye. Delta grabbed his gear and left, pulling the door tight behind him.

  Skylar began to gather her sketching materials and headed toward the door.

  Ethan interrupted her. “Where are you going?”

  “Um, in the front yard to sketch the house and tire swing. I’ll paint it inside because it’s too cold out.”

  “Hang on.” Ethan stopped her. He sat on the sofa and motioned for Skylar to join him. Although she was anxious to get started on her project, she reluctantly joined him.

  “Okay,” she said hesitantly as she set her materials down and plopped down on the slip-covered sofa.

  Ethan began. “What do you think about Mom? I mean, do you think she’s back from her cruise and home safe, or what?”

  “I dunno. Daddy sai
d he’d try to call her.”

  “Do you think he is?”

  Skylar hesitated, indicating she wasn’t so sure. “Um, I guess so. I mean, he said he would.”

  Ethan had a quick comeback. “He also said he would find me a charger for my cell phone, and he hasn’t so far.”

  Skylar was growing uncomfortable with the conversation. She didn’t like it when her mother criticized her dad, and she didn’t like it when Ethan did either. She began to stand and leave when Ethan gently touched her arm and pulled her back down.

  “Ethan, I don’t know. What’s the big deal. Mom’s probably safe at home with Freddie, or they’re still on the cruise ship. Either way, I’m happy here with Daddy.”

  Ethan rolled his eyes. “You mean you’re not bored out of your mind?”

  “We just got here,” she replied. “I haven’t had time to get bored yet. Besides, Miss Blair has given me a job, and Daddy said there would be other things for us to do.”

  “Like what?” asked Ethan.

  “I don’t know, but he’ll tell us when it’s time.”

  Ethan stood and walked around the room. “Well, I don’t think he has any intention of talking to Mom. He sure isn’t gonna go get her.”

  “Yes, he will,” Skylar shot back.

  “No, Sky, he won’t. They hate each other, and Dad has everything he wants now. We’re here with him, and Mom is out there somewhere, probably in trouble.”

  “You don’t know that!” Skylar was becoming afraid for her mother now. “Besides, living with Dad isn’t so bad. You’ll see.”

  “Whatever,” Ethan grumbled. He wasn’t hearing what he wanted to from Skylar, so he rudely dismissed her. “Go on, do your painting or whatever. I’m gonna play with my new Nintendo until the batteries die. Then we’ll see how long it takes Dad to get me more batteries.”