by Brandt Legg
“And Gouge paid for our sins,” Hudson added, downing the rest of his bottle.
“Putting Torland in jail wouldn’t help anything,” the Wizard said thoughtfully.
“Leaves us keeping another secret.”
“Yeah,” the Wizard breathed, as if the shocking idea was occurring to him for the first time.
“I don’t think Torland was ever coming for us. He didn’t even know we were there that night,” Hudson said. “Poor Gouge was just in the wrong place . . . with his father when Torland caught up with the old man. It’s wrong, it’s unfair, it’s nothing less than barbaric and horrific, but so is everything about that night.”
“None of us escaped the tire shop unscathed,” the Wizard said.
“Time to end it,” Hudson said firmly. “Once and for all.”
“I’m all in,” the Wizard agreed. “Let’s not bring any more pain to that family.”
Hudson nodded. “It’s what Gouge would want now, I’m fully convinced of that, as he looks back at us, and that night, through a cosmic lens.”
The Wizard stared at him intently, then nodded. “Okay. For you, Gouge,” he whispered, “the tire shop is gone. That night . . . it’s time to let it go. We’re letting go.”
On the flight back to Washington, Hudson thought back on the last conversation he’d had with Vonner.
“I wanted to trust you from the beginning,” Hudson had told him. “Why is it I never could?”
“Maybe because you don’t trust yourself,” Vonner had replied, and then added, “You probably haven’t trusted yourself since you let Rochelle down. It’s time you start trusting. Even if you don’t trust me, at least learn to trust yourself.”
Hudson now realized Vonner had given him good advice. Deciding to allow Torland Rogers to go free was more about forgiving himself than letting Rochelle’s brother off.
Hudson closed his eyes to better absorb the important clarity he’d just received. It’s impossible to trust yourself until you forgive yourself. And vice versa.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The president quietly and dramatically increased the pressure on NorthBridge. He ordered the FBI Director and Director of National Intelligence to devote even more resources into locating the terror organization’s leadership. He also authorized loosening the “rules of engagement” in the war against domestic terrorism. At the same time, he worked with the FBI Director and Dranick to create a new team to specifically target financial crimes by REMies.
A few weeks into his tough new campaign, Fonda Raton posted a blistering rebuke of him on the Raton Report, writing:
President Pound has ordered hundreds of low level arrests of anti-government activists who have no known connection to NorthBridge. Absent any evidence, the administration is engaging in strong-arm tactics normally seen in brutal dictatorships.
Hudson read the post and smiled. We must be getting close, he thought, as he continued reading.
Colonel Dranick, the Director of National Intelligence, appears to be an appropriate successor to DNI David Covington, whose tenure as the country’s top intel office was marked with Gestapo-like FaST Squads rounding up thousands of ‘enemies of the state,’ whose only crime was independent thinking and criticizing the administration.
Fitz knocked on the door to the President’s Study, used to finding him there during most unscheduled time. “Have you seen the Raton Report?” the chief of staff asked as he entered.
“‘The president, through his attack dog, DNI Dranick, is doing nothing more than what Covington did, in a desperate attempt to keep the public from revolting,’” Hudson read aloud to answer Fitz. “‘President Pound thinks throwing the peasants some red meat will keep them from storming the palace gates. We are not fooled—the ‘NorthBridgers’ they are arresting have about as much to do with NorthBridge as the president’s son, Schueller, does. Just because they don’t like the current government doesn’t mean they are terrorists.’”
“She sounds a little upset,” Fitz said, offering a bottle of Coke.
Hudson waved off the soda. “She sounds worried to me.”
“Think NorthBridge is feeling the heat?”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” the president mused. “But what bothers me is she published a complete list of arrests. Only about a quarter of them were made public.”
“Leaks,” Fitz said in a suddenly tired tone. “Could be from DNI or FBI.”
“No. Neither had a complete list.”
Fitz nodded in frustration.
“We’ve got to stop the leaks,” the president said. “We can’t beat NorthBridge or break the REMies if they know everything we’re thinking and doing.”
“I thought Granger was working on it.”
“The data still shows it could be any of us,” the president said. “I’m meeting with him tomorrow on another matter. I’ll get an update.”
“Fonda’s also attacking Three-D again.”
“Even though Booker profits from it,” the president said. “She’s pushing the linkability issues—getting everyone riled up. Did you see where Fonda calls me ‘President Big Brother’ and suggests the Three-D system would be too oppressive for even an Orwell novel?”
“Ignore her,” Fitz said, pouring his Coke into a tall crystal glass filled with cola cubes.
“I would if everyone else would. The college campuses are in constant demonstrations, the mainstream media is jumping on her bandwagon—which is incredibly hypocritical since the REMies are the ones who ultimately created and instituted Three-D. The media is happy to hang the blame on me.”
“Release Fonda’s name as a NorthBridge leader.”
The president stood and began to pace. “Not until we get AKA Adams and Franklin. Anyway, the timing is bad. It’s possible Granger will give the greenlight tomorrow and we’ll be ready to go with Cherry Tree.”
“Impressive,” Fitz said. “So he’s worked out the new economy?”
“As you know, right now the world currencies are connected and leveraged.”
“Right, like dominoes. One goes and—”
“If we switch to digiGOLD, it changes the entire dynamic of the economy.”
“Isn’t NorthBridge the master of digiGOLD?”
“No, they just use it. That’s the beauty of cryptocurrency and blockchain based systems. No one is in control.”
“Fair and Free.”
“Exactly.”
“So the Federal Reserve is raising rates, crushing us into another recession . . . ”
“Assuming we survive this one long enough to get to Cherry Tree, all that, and the Fed itself, will be a thing of the past.”
“Then what?”
“Radical reforms,” the president said excitedly. “We introduce them one after the other. Bring the troops home, outlaw pollution, implement mandatory recycling, universal healthcare, start—”
Fitz held up his hands. “I’m in the meetings, remember?”
“I know, I’ve seen you there. But, Fitz, we’re making history here. We’re about to fix the world!”
“Doesn’t the success of your ‘revolution’ depend on stopping the revolution already underway?” Fitz asked.
“Maybe,” the president said cryptically. “Maybe not.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Agent Bond normally gave the president the weekly recap of the most serious assassination attempts every Saturday morning. Lately they’d averaged three physical actions every ten days. In addition, there were nine to twelve credible threats each week, and hundreds of potential situations to investigate. But at least once a month a close call would require an immediate debriefing. The most recent case involved a cache of military grade weapons found in Washington.
“This one worries me,” 007 began. “Obviously, we have a perimeter of protection around the White House. We conduct searches, do breakdowns, satellite and drone surveillance, various reconnaissance, and constantly utilize Three-D. It would be very hard for someone to bring any ordnan
ce of size within our perimeters. “
“But clearly not impossible,” the president said.
“Right.”
“I’ve read the reports in the past, and I understand how the radius fans out looking for weapons capable of hitting us,” the president said. “So what happened in this case?”
“It’s a sophisticated operation, Mr. President. Fourteen advanced rocket propelled grenades.”
“Advanced?”
“Leading technology—nothing that’s available yet. What you might call a ‘shoulder mounted smart bomb’,” 007 said, sounding as if he were describing the end of the world. “This thing can be programmed with coordinates and launched from a small tripod mount. It’s designed for urban single strikes.”
“Terrorism.”
“Yes, our military experts agree that’s its primary function. The weapons can be moved in a hurry, carried, maneuvered, and set up by just one person, and it’s even possible to fire from the shoulder. However, in most cases it would be safer to use the mobile tripod.” He offered a grave expression. “This thing is equivalent to a tank with legs.”
“Where do they come from?”
“We don’t know.”
“Guesses?”
“Same as yours.”
The president nodded, already thinking about Booker Lipton.
“The thing is,” 007 said, summoning back the president’s attention, “we got there as they were preparing the launches.”
“How close?” the president asked.
“Three or four minutes later, and we’d be having a different conversation right about now, and in a different building, or . . . not having one at all.”
The president raised his eyebrows. “Good work. Then you have people in custody?”
“There were three suspects. They fought hard. Two of them are dead, one is critical. We lost an agent.”
Hudson looked up shook his head. “I’m sorry. Did the agent have a family?”
“He was single.”
“Did I know him?”
He gave him the name.
“Yeah, curly brown hair? Damn nice guy.” The president clenched his fist and leaned his chin against it. He didn’t speak again for several moments. “I want to talk to that piece of garbage you have in custody, whenever he wakes up.”
“He’s awake now,” 007 said. “Not saying zip.”
“Take me to him.”
“Not a good idea,” Bond said.
“Really? Good. Because I’m not known for my good ideas, so my record’s safe.”
“Sir, I must ask—”
“Now,” the president said. “As in, right now!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Titus Coyne sat at the head of a large conference table, its surface, an oblong white marble slab, covered with papers and laptop computers. The eight other REMies seated around him in the ultra-modern meeting space waited in agitated silence for “The Shark” to speak. The completely glass-enclosed room was suspended by a nearly invisible section of cables above a classic library filled with leather volumes and accented with antique wingback chairs. It was connected to the second floor by four glass walkways, one on each wall. It appeared and felt as if they were floating.
The nine assembled REMies together controlled nearly half of the world’s wealth. This was not a normally scheduled meeting. In fact, the nine in attendance had not ever before been in the same room together.
“Gentlemen,” Titus began, “by your presence here, you are acknowledging what some of our colleagues are still denying—that we are facing a crisis.”
He gazed around the room at their faces. The power wielded by these men, aged between forty-five and eighty-one, was truly unfathomable. The entire world ran on a system that they, and the REMies who’d come before, had created. It existed for the sole purpose of enriching the REMies and maintaining their control over the affairs of the global population. The empire had been built on it.
“For more than a hundred years, we have managed to keep the people in the dark,” Titus continued. “With each passing year, we have tightened our hold so that we, fewer than fifty individuals, decide fate and destiny.”
“Titus, can you cut through the glory and pride speech?” said one of the other REMies, a silver haired man wearing a dark cashmere sweater, blue jeans, and cowboy boots.
“Yes, yes, we’re the greatest emperors the world has ever known,” a large Hispanic man wearing gold-tinted glasses and with a long scar on his hand said in a mimicking voice.
“Forgive me,” Titus said, “I was merely setting the stage for what I’m about to say. Our power, and therefore our wealth, our very way of life, and ultimately our freedom, is at stake as it has never been before. At a time when we’re at our most powerful, Arlin Vonner opened a Pandora’s box and put someone into power who’s not a reliable friend of the REMies, nor a servant of the one percent. As a result, for the first time in generations, we have an independent man in the White House.”
“We all know the situation, Titus,” another REMie with thick, dyed black hair said from the other end of the table. “You don’t have to convince us. The others who chose not to come may need your speech, but we don’t.”
“Either our friends don’t see the threat as significant, as we do, or they think they can handle it on their own,” one of them added. “Of course, in the case of Bastendorff, we simply didn’t invite him.” He shook his head in disgust, as if talking about a serial rapist.
Titus was used to their impatience. These were men not accustomed to following orders or being on the defensive. “I appreciate you all coming,” Titus pushed on. “I do believe our best chance is by uniting.”
“If that’s possible.”
“Yes,” Titus said. “It is no secret that some in this room, including myself, are vying for the CapStone. However, it’s time to recognize that the CapWars are what have weakened and exposed us. While it could be debated that one person with ultimate control might give us a stronger position against Hudson Pound, I don’t think anybody would argue that working separately, and still competing with each other, hurts our chances and gives him an opening. I’m calling for a truce in the CapWars.”
A sudden murmuring swept around the table. Most would admit that Titus, Booker, and Bastendorff had the best chances to win the final CapWar, so it came as a surprise that he was willing to stand down.
“What about Booker and Bastendorff?” one of them asked.
“They can’t win if we are unified.”
“Is this about stopping Pound, or a new scheme that has you ending up with the CapStone?” the Hispanic man asked.
“Right now, our entire existence is at stake,” Titus said, trying to make it sound like a news bulletin. “The CapStone is meaningless rubble if the pyramid beneath it collapses.”
“Are you proposing a cartel, then?” another REMie asked.
“Will that work?” the man with the dyed black hair asked before Titus could respond.
“We work together until Pound is out and reevaluate then.”
Everyone agreed. None of them trusted Titus, but they knew he was right. Dangerous times . . .
“Pound may seem unstoppable—”
“He seems immortal,” the silver-haired REMie in cowboy boots said to nervous laughter.
“As I was saying,” Titus continued, “he seems more powerful than he is. This guy managed a hardware store.”
“I believe he owned a successful chain of hardware stores,” a bald, raspy-voiced REMie corrected.
“Whatever,” Titus said. “He should never have gotten this far. He’s no match for us.”
“He’s managed to stay alive,” the oldest REMie in the room, an eighty-one-year-old German, said. “Extraordinary achievement.”
“If he succeeds in dismantling the central bank system, puts in place a crypto currency on a decentralized blockchain, and adds his automated payment transaction tax system to that recipe . . . ” one of them began. “Well, gentl
emen, if he pulls that off, then we’re not going to be much more than a useless group of old rich men!”
“And even that is very much in doubt,” another man added.
Someone else opened his mouth to say something, but Titus waved his hand to cut him off, and raised his voice. “We may lose our cash and liquid wealth if Pound’s proposed ‘Fair and Free’ system comes to pass. Worse, if an uprising accompanies this transition, which Booker Lipton is trying to make happen, then we’ll also likely see our physical assets seized. It must not be overlooked that there’s a real chance we’ll all wind up in prison.”
Several of the men began talking at once until Titus was able to calm them down and regain control of the meeting, at which point serious deliberations ensued on how best to destroy the president’s plans.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Beast pulled up to the back entrance to the George Washington University Hospital. Agent Bond opened the door and barely missed getting bulldozed as the president jumped out and marched inside. More than twenty VS and Secret Service agents maneuvered to keep up and protect him. Four FBI DIRT agents met the entourage.
On the way over, 007 had explained that the suspect had suffered two gunshot wounds, one in the abdomen and one in the leg. “They expect him to recover, but there’s no guarantee.”
“Is he still awake?” the president asked the first FBI agent.
The agent nodded. “He’s weak, but conscious. However,” the agent paused and looked at Bond, “the doctors are very upset about this. One of them wants to meet with you before you see the suspect.”
The president looked annoyed. “Where is he?”
“The suspect or the doctor?” the agent asked.
“The doctor,” the president said reluctantly.
A couple of minutes later, they were standing in a private waiting room while the surgeon tried to explain that the president’s planned interrogation was not only risky to his patient, but also very inappropriate.