American Terrorist Trilogy

by Jeffrey Poston

  “You can’t kill me. You need what I have to offer.”

  “And what is it you’re offering?”

  “The world is about the few, not the many. It’s about the haves, not the have-nots. It’s—”

  Carl held up a hand. “Please don’t tell me you’re some kind of maniacal despot trying to take over the world. I’ve seen that movie before, many times.”

  “We’re trying to save the world. This planet is going to die unless we do something about it, something drastic, something now. We can’t afford to wait even another year.”

  Carl wondered who they were, what they were going to do, and why the president had to die.

  “We’re offering you a place in the new world.” Koll’s eyes defocused for a split-second, and Carl saw a despot who actually believed with his heart and soul the nonsense he was dispensing.

  “You mean the New World Order?”

  Koll nodded.

  “The internet is blowing up with all that conspiracy bullshit.”

  “That’s fiction,” Koll said. “The reality, however, is that the human race is on a path of self-destruction and is going to destroy the planet in the process. Forget about all the newly mutated diseases that are resistant to antibiotics. Forget about the explosion of new cancers. Forget about the constant threat of war and the proliferation of nuclear and biological weapons. Those are important international issues, granted, but the real danger for the human race is unchecked exponential population growth.

  “The world’s population will exceed food production capability within fifty years. In eighty years, global warming will have melted the polar ice caps so much that ninety percent of all habitable land will be flooded.”

  Carl found so much hyperbole in the man’s statement, he wanted to lecture him on the difference between fact and exaggeration, between geometric population growth and exponential growth, just as he would lecture a novice engineer or college student. He said, “Well, I’ve heard the Antarctic Ice Shelf is melting from the bottom because of the influx of ocean currents that are now a few degrees warmer than the ice itself. It’s because all that warm water is actually flowing beneath the ice. And I agree this is because of global warming due to atmospheric carbon dioxide adding heat to the oceans. But I’ve heard it’ll take more than a hundred years for the global water level to rise by only ten to thirty feet. That’s hardly enough to flood the entire planet.”

  Koll held up a fist for some kind of emphasis. “Eight-five percent of the world’s population lives in or near coastal cities. A thirty-foot rise in the water level will render most of Florida uninhabitable. It will decimate every coastal city on the planet. Populations everywhere along the Pacific Rim and the Atlantic coast will have to relocate. Almost the entire global shipping and cargo transportation infrastructure is built within two miles of our coastlines.

  “When that happens, and we think it will happen far sooner than one hundred years, there won’t be enough food or space but for a few. Do you want to be part of the few or part of the ninety-nine percent that has to fight over scraps?”

  Carl laughed. “I’m a black man in America chasing the goddamn American Dream. I’m already part of the ninety-nine percent.” Well, I was until I became a goddamn terrorist and inherited half a billion dollars.

  Koll didn’t even seem to hear him. “The result will be every country desperately fighting for survival. We cannot wait for a nuclear war to cull the population because that will leave only a few survivors on a nuclear poisoned planet. We cannot wait for a biological calamity to create a zombie apocalypse. We want to be the few, but on a planet that is not poisoned.”

  Hollis Koll looked down at the table and shook his head. When he looked up again, Carl saw sadness and genuine concern in his eyes.

  “Mr. Johnson, even if we stop the population growth today, artificial food production needed to feed the masses we already have will cause more disease proliferation because of the poor quality of heavily processed, mass-produced food. If you don’t believe that, all you have to do is look at the last fifty-year trend in the epidemic of cancer.

  “And even if we stopped global warming today, it’s too late to reverse the damage to the polar caps. It has already started and we can slow it down, but we can’t stop it. You can believe this or not, but our experts say we will still lose half of all habitable land in fifty years even if we stop global warming today. But that’s moot since our global industry and the world economies couldn’t absorb such a radical technological change anyway, not even if the world governments could agree on how to fix all these problems…today.”

  Hollis Koll sat up straighter, and Carl could tell he was coming to his conclusion.

  Carl nodded, then focused his most hate-filled glare at the man. “Let me guess. You and your people have a way to fix all this, except you have to kill the president and her daughter…and my son.”

  Koll seemed to be only partly in the same room. “We have to force a change, Mr. Johnson. Atlas does not answer to the world governments. We control them.”

  “I get it,” Carl said. “Atlas runs the shadow government that runs the real US government.”

  “Atlas IS the shadow government,” Koll said. “We are the conglomerate that controls the largest and most powerful corporations on the planet. Therefore, we control the politicians. Isn’t it better if we control the destination of the world on terms that will eliminate the toxic population but preserve nature, so that the few who survive can do so in a safe and healthy environment?”

  “Sure, unless you’re part of the ninety-nine percent. Or unless you’re my son. My dead son.” Carl took a deep breath. “So, I suppose the few get to play God and decide who live and dies?”

  “We’re not trying to play God, but, yes, someone has to do it or we all will die.”

  “And it’s okay with you that people get murdered on the path of your plan.” Carl nodded. “You need to kill the president for this plan to work.”

  Koll sighed. “Shirley Mallory is no threat to us. Her death is retribution for betraying us.”

  The words hit Carl like a punch to the gut.

  “Yes, Mr. Johnson. Now you understand the futility of your actions. President Mallory is one of us.”

  Chapter 30

  Koll nodded. “She was one of the few.”

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Carl snapped a finger. “Hey, where can I find Rainman, Walter Breen?”

  “The Contagion was an accidental opportunity Walter Breen fell upon. Despite orders to the contrary, Breen abandoned the long game and launched his own plan to eliminate Mallory. He forgot his place in the master plan, but he remains useful, unlike President Mallory.”

  Another gut punch.

  “Rainman works for you?”

  Koll smiled and spread his hands. “What you’re feeling right now is complete and utter futility. You can’t protect her, Mr. Johnson. Controlling her Secret Service contingent was yet another successful proof-of-concept test, despite Agent Palmer’s interference. And as soon as we locate your mercenaries, it will be a simple matter to have them kill her.

  “Or you can join the few now. In a few short months, the planet will be a drastically different place. Chicago was just a prelude. You think that experiment was about controlling the police, but it wasn’t. If we also control the behavior of the general population, inciting the masses in many large cities around the globe to violence, then the police will have to respond and we will also control their aggression.

  “You see, we’ve spent two decades equipping police with military weaponry to combat terrorism, and now we simply have to incite the police to respond to citizen protests and uprisings even more violently. After a few million people have died, the world’s citizens will beg for government protection.”

  Koll paused as if for special effect, or perhaps he thought Carl should have reached the inevitable conclusion.

  Carl had, and it scared him. “And government protection means government control.”

/>   Koll nodded. “It means population control. Our projections show that in four months, the entire world’s population can be reduced by eighty-seven percent, and in six more months, our goal of ninety-five percent reduction will be achieved.” Koll spread his hands again. “Without nuclear war.”

  Carl shook his head. “Have any of your one-percenters actually considered the logistics of disposing of ninety-five percent of the population?” He gave Hollis Koll a hand shrug. “Six and a half billion bodies is a trillion and a half pounds of flesh. You can’t burn that much flesh without polluting the whole planet’s atmosphere. You can’t dump ’em in the ocean, and it would take a landmass the size of half the United States to bury them.” He smirked. “And I wonder which of your one-percenters will undertake that massive grunt work anyways. You?”

  Hollis Koll chuckled and waved aside Carl’s questions. “That’s a simple detail of logistics.”

  “Well, good luck with that, but you cannot have the president.”

  “We will succeed. This week or next, or maybe next month, you will fall and then the president will fall. Don’t fight us, Mr. Johnson. Pick the winning side of the few.”

  “Well, Mr. Koll, maybe someone else in Atlas will succeed, but it won’t be you.”

  A flicker of doubt crossed Koll’s face as Carl grabbed the man’s left hand and pulled him across the table. At the same time, he grabbed his belt knife and rammed it lengthwise into Koll’s upper arm, under his tricep muscle and flat against the bone. The man screamed and clawed, but Carl had half of the eight-inch combat knife buried inside the man’s muscle, the metal blade grating against bone.

  Koll flailed with his right hand, found the gun, grabbed it, and pointed it at Carl’s face. Then he pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.

  Carl had no magazine in the weapon because he wanted his enemy to feel fleeting hope dangled in front of him, then yanked away, same as Carl’s government interrogators had done to him. He pulled his knife from Koll’s right arm and slammed it down as hard as he could through his arm near the wrist.

  The man screamed again and tried to pull free, but the tip of the carbon steel blade was stuck deep in the wood of the tabletop. Carl leaned back in his chair as the man quieted to a whimper. He gazed down at the top of Koll’s head as he lay sprawled across the table and sobbed. Then the man’s cellphone began to ring.

  “Maybe that’s your boss.” Carl stood and reached over the table to the smartphone hooked to Koll’s belt. He yanked it from its holster, then examined the display. It said Unknown. Carl swiped the display to connect the call, then touched the speaker symbol.

  “Ex-Vice President Walter Breen.” Carl growled the name. “Or should I say, Rainman.”

  To his surprise, the young voice that emanated from the speaker was not Rainman’s.

  “Please don’t kill my brother.”

  Brother? Wizard’s research indicated nothing about family.

  “My name is Grainger Koll.” The man had a gentle voice, almost feminine. It wasn’t the voice of evil or international intrigue and murder. “Hollis can be a bit cocky at times, but he doesn’t know you the way I do. What can I do, what can I give you to keep you from killing him?”

  “I want Rainman.”

  “Rainman is no longer relevant.”

  “So you say.”

  “Hollis told you the truth in that Rainman works for Atlas. However, he has become a liability.”

  Interesting, Carl thought. They’re listening and probably watching.

  “Hollis said Rainman remains useful.”

  “I did not inform Hollis of my decision to terminate Walter Breen. The way he completely botched the Chicago operation and his choice of assassin to engage you was unacceptable.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Carl said, though he did, in fact, believe the voice. Grainger didn’t sound like part of Atlas; he sounded like a man who controlled Atlas.

  “I know, but that doesn’t change the fact. The former vice president has been confined to his office in Manhattan. I have a specialist en route to administer his…heart attack.”

  “That’s not acceptable!” Carl pretended to be the deranged narrow-minded terrorist the public believed him to be, growling into the phone. “Nobody kills him but me.”

  “I can arrange that, but you’ll have to spare my brother’s life.”

  Carl pretended to contemplate for a moment, then said, “Agreed. What is Rainman’s location?”

  Grainger gave it.

  “Very well, I’m on my way. ETA, three hours. If Rainman is not there, we’ll have this discussion again. I’ll find you, wherever you are.”

  “I doubt that, but Rainman will be secured, pending your arrival. And, of course, you realize we will blame this dastardly deed on the American Terrorist.”

  Carl didn’t end the call. He wanted Grainger to hear his brother scream again as he yanked the combat knife from his wrist. He wiped the blade on Hollis’s raw silk shirt, leaving a deep red smudge on the beige material at the shoulder to match the growing red stain of his sleeve. Then he sheathed the knife. He stuck the smartphone in the man’s shirt pocket, grabbed the whimpering heap by the back of his expensive shirt, and man-handled him toward the front door.

  “Coming out,” Carl said.

  Eight replied, “All clear.”

  Nine added, “Clear.”

  Eighteen added, “All clear. No threats.”

  “They’re watching from somewhere,” Carl said. “Stay tight.”

  At the door, Carl paused long enough to slam a full clip into the handgrip of his Glock. Then he opened the door and shoved the wounded man ahead of him. He kept his Glock pinned against his leg, ready for action. Six steps later, they stood at the armored limousine.

  Koll hissed through clenched teeth. “We’re the same, Mr. Johnson.”

  “No, we’re not. You’re a wannabe power broker who pays thugs to kidnap and kill people. You and your brother think having a lot of money and aligning yourself with powerful politicians gives you the right to use and discard people like trash. You think that makes you untouchable.”

  “We’re both survivors, Mr. Johnson. You should be asking yourself which team you want to be on—the few or the many.”

  “I’m on my own team, and the only reason you’re still breathing is because I want Rainman dead more than I want you dead. I don’t believe for a second that Rainman works for you and your insignificant brother. And good luck with conquering the world. Many have tried. But if Rainman’s not where Grainger says he is, you’ll see me again. I promise you that.”

  He shoved the man away, with Koll clutching his bloody arm, and stepped into the limo, certain that Grainger had heard all of his rant.

  Head fake.

  Two hours later, the Gulfstream landed at LaGuardia just long enough for Carl to get off before continuing west so the three mercs could meet up with Merc Three’s team. He got into another armored vehicle, this one a black Cadillac limo with darkly tinted windows and government plates, and was escorted by one of McGrath’s heavily armed fast-response teams in two separate SUVs, one front and one rear. Half an hour later, he and his escorts arrived at the address given as the location of the sequestered Rainman. It was the same address Carl and Palmer were initially headed to only a day earlier before they were redirected to separate missions, Palmer to rescue the president and Carl to rescue the Chicago police officer and his family.

  This time there was no stealth in Carl’s approach to the office building. McGrath’s black-clad troopers moved to secure the side and rear entrances with their imposing black machine guns. There were dozens of pedestrians on the sidewalk, but like Moses parting the sea, the flow of humanity broke around the armed government troops.

  A government agent remained in the driver’s seat of the SUV while Carl and two of McGrath’s commandos approached the main entrance. With the business end of his Glock pointed at the ground in front of him, Carl approached the solitary man standing in fron
t of the building entrance. He was a big guy, a bodyguard, and stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands clasped in front. He wore a gray two-piece suit over a white button-down shirt with the neck open. He was a light-skinned black man, bald, with blue eyes and neatly trimmed sideburns that merged into a narrow beard. He looked more like a GQ model than a corporate mercenary despite the small wireless mike attached to his left ear.

  The guard said, “The one you seek is secured on the thirty-seventh floor. No one will resist.”

  He spoke with an accent, maybe French, maybe African. He’d seen combat, Carl could tell. He was a cool customer and didn’t bat an eye at all the hardware pointed in his general direction.

  Carl nodded. “You have support inside?”

  “Only inside the lobby and on the thirty-seventh floor.”

  “Have your men in the lobby disarm and exit now. Those upstairs stay in place until I get up there.”

  The guard relayed his instructions, and two similarly dressed men pushed slowly through the brass-framed ornate glass door and stopped next to their partner.

  Carl stepped aside and said, “You should probably leave.”

  The three men got into a silver sedan parked in front of the black SUVs and drove off.

  The tech agent on the government team held his wrist up, showing Carl a building schematic on a flexible screen attached to his forearm. “There are two stairwells and two elevators. Recommend we lock down the elevators and—”

  “Ordinarily I would yield to your tactical judgment,” Carl said. “But our enemy doesn’t fear us. I can’t explain it, but to them we are gnats on the back of an elephant. They sit somewhere else across town or across the globe sipping cognac and watching us on a monitor. Rainman is their pawn, but I’ve misled them into thinking I believe they work for him. They think I’ve tricked them into sacrificing their leader, so let’s continue that illusion. Let them think killing Rainman is my endgame.”