by Peter Parken
And then she spoke—in a whisper. “I love you, John. I always have and I always will. My hands will make you feel better, you know they always do. Just relax and let me do what I know I need to do. Just go to sleep—I’ll be with you all night. I have work to do.”
Her fingers were pressing and probing now, exploring his entire scalp—back and front, right and left. Then they stopped at one point on his head and began pressing hard, very hard. It didn’t hurt—in fact it was the most exhilarating feeling he’d experienced in his entire life.
John closed his eyes and puckered his lips. He felt her again. She kissed him and gently slid her tongue between his lips.
The stickiness in the crotch of his pyjamas added reality to his dream. It had happened quickly and only from a kiss. So much time had passed already—he had no resistance to her.
Was it a dream? John kept his eyes closed, in fear that if he opened them she’d be gone.
She seemed oblivious to his orgasm and just continued to work her fingers into his scalp.
And he didn’t want that to stop. Ever.
Chapter 45
Carl Masterson pulled out of the driveway of his luxurious country home in Crofton, Maryland. His eyes always roamed when he drove through his property. Carl’s driveway was at least a quarter of a mile long, framed by mature oak trees that formed almost a tunnel-like effect. His spread was ten acres—not that he used more than just the space his house occupied. He never had the time. Someday, he hoped to grow some vegetables, maybe get some horses. And most definitely a dog.
He didn’t have any kids—hell he didn’t even have a steady girlfriend. Had never been married and had never really wanted to be.
To him, women were just objects. To treat them like real people meant having to put up with the emotion and their unreasonable demands. He preferred to just have the occasional lady drive out to visit him, and then kick her out before the sun came up. He didn’t like to wake up in the morning to see what he’d been messing around with. And he didn’t care if it cost him money—he had plenty of money, and having the real thing was certainly better than browsing porn sites.
No, he preferred to be alone. There wasn’t one warm spot in his heart for anyone. He didn’t know why he was like that. He’d had a good childhood, his parents were wonderful—but he just didn’t care about people. Carl just tolerated them. He hadn’t had any brothers or sisters. Maybe that was it? That he’d never really been properly socialized?
He turned left at the end of the road and headed toward the main highway. It was only a twenty minute drive to his Fort Meade office and he always enjoyed it. It was so isolated out there in the Crofton area. Served as a real escape for him from the pressures and unpleasantness of his job. And lately there had been a lot of them.
When this was over, Carl intended to spend a couple of weeks at a Club Med down in the Caribbean. Lots of loose women at those resorts and he wouldn’t even have to pay for them. And all the women who went to Club Med never wanted nor cared about a relationship, which suited him fine. They just wanted to get drunk and fucked in the tropical heat, and that was all he wanted, too.
He thought back to the meeting he’d had with the FBI the other day—all prompted by those stupid speeches Nate Morrell and his two friends gave at the convention. He knew the FBI would have no choice but to look into their allegations. They found out quickly who he was—Gary Tuttle at the NTSB had caved and given them his name. That opened up a firestorm of phone calls back and forth between the FBI, the NSA and the Pentagon.
General Tetford had given the agents their marching orders—hadn’t told them anything at all except that the lid was on this entire thing, and that national security was at stake. Carl loved using that term ‘national security.’ It was the ultimate crutch. Got you out of anything.
When they met with him, they tried their best to probe—just curiosity, he guessed. But he stuck to the party line that Tetford had set. Sorry, national security.
So, the FBI had no choice but to just shut up and bury the whole thing. They’d not only had orders from Tetford, but also the FBI Director herself.
But, they met with Carl anyway. Probably just wanted to put a face to the name. Funny though, they mentioned that they’d done some digging on Shelby Sutcliffe. Turned out she was involved in a near-fatal accident a week before, with some organization called Virginia Sky Pilots. Some parachutes had been sabotaged. The FBI agents asked him if he knew anything about that. He answered honestly when he said that he didn’t, but he couldn’t help but think to himself that Shelby’s near-death experience had been the work of his two men.
And where the hell were they? They had just disappeared into thin air! And John Fletcher was obviously still alive, too, so they had failed on both counts. It was a real mystery.
Well, Carl wasn’t going to think about Shelby Sutcliffe or John Fletcher any longer—nor the executives at Flying Machines Inc. It was ‘hands off’ now—they had gone public and there was no margin anymore in having them killed.
He could just concentrate on Operation Backwash. Watching the master plan swing into action. Just days away now.
Step One was punching the tunnel through the banks of Lake Erie and beginning the massive theft of precious water from Canada.
Step Two, the very next day, was the launch of the million-plus hydrogen cyanide laden grasshopper-bots from the Canadian side of the border. Thousands of Americans would die, but the action would convince Americans and the world that the Canadians were weak on terrorism—hell, the wimps hadn’t even supported the U.S. in the war in Iraq. They’d refused to be part of the action, stating publicly that the war was unjustified and illegitimate.
Well, they should have known that their public humiliation of the United States would come back to haunt them one day. The Canadians showed no fear whatsoever of their giant neighbor and clearly forgot the U.S. mantra: ‘If you’re not with us, you’re against us.’
So the horrific terrorist attack on U.S. soil would show the world that the U.S. was justified in protecting the vast Great Lakes system militarily; that Canada just wasn’t capable of keeping that precious resource safe.
When Step Three kicked in and U.S. troops lined the border areas around the lakes and set up permanent camp, it would just be one more step to actually crossing the border and taking control of the entire lake system.
More tunnels would follow. The tunnel into Lake Erie was just a ‘shot across the bow.’ And who would blame the U.S.? When Canada couldn’t even stop terrorists sitting right under their noses in their attempts to poison the water system? A water system that was shared up until now equally with America? How could America sit idly by and watch it happen again? They couldn’t and that’s the way the world would see it.
The Islamic cell based in Toronto that the attack would be blamed on, was already set up to take the fall. Sure, these people were probably already there as sleeper agents for Middle East terrorist groups, but so far they’d done nothing. They were supposedly a religious group. They are fucking Arabs for God’s sake—they are all terrorists deep down inside.
Well, pretty soon they wouldn’t be sleeping any more. The NSA had planted solid indisputable information linking this Toronto group to the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, otherwise infamously known as ISIS—the militant terrorist group that was currently tearing their way through Iraq and Syria, causing both countries to be on the brink of total collapse. And, perfect timing, these wingnuts had already issued threats of terrorist attacks against the United Kingdom and the United States. So, blaming the hydrogen cyanide attack on ISIS would be entirely believable.
Current events had primed the world to accept this ‘false flag’ as being exactly what it would appear to be. As for the deaths that would occur, the NSA and the Pentagon just viewed those as being necessary for the larger cause. That cause being the assurance of fresh water security for America, and the maintenance of its high standard of living.
And, of cour
se, maintaining its position of dominance around the world as the only true superpower left. As far as Carl was concerned that alone was worth lying, stealing…and killing…for.
Chapter 46
Nate was sitting in his office munching on a corned beef sandwich, when Robin Gilchrist burst through the door.
She was excited. “Have you talked to Shelby this afternoon?”
“No, do you want to talk with her? She’s at home cleaning my house right now.” Nate smiled. “God, I sure love having her staying with me, Robin!”
“I’ll bet you do. No, I don’t need to talk to her—you can pass along the news yourself.”
“What news?”
“You knew she was meeting with a judge this morning, didn’t you?”
Nate nodded while swallowing a big chunk of corned beef. “Yeah, she told me she’d been summoned. Didn’t know what it was about, but figured it must have had something to do with all the news coverage about what she said at the convention.”
“Well, it sure did. The judge she met with was the one who had originally certified the Class Action lawsuit. I just got off the phone with the court clerk. That judge has decided to de-certify the Class Action. And…get this…he’s launching an investigation that may possibly lead to Dwayne Feinstein being disbarred.”
Nate jumped to his feet, grabbed Robin in a bear hug and whirled her around in the air. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. “God, that’s incredible news, Robin! I can’t believe this!”
Robin put her hands on Nate’s shoulders and pushed him back. “You’re stronger than you realize, Nate. You’ve squeezed the breath out of me!”
“I’m sorry—couldn’t control myself!”
Robin straightened out her blouse. “It’s all due to your gutsy move to go public at the convention. You guys sure stirred things up. When the judge heard Shelby’s version of events this morning, and how Feinstein had told her how she had to testify, he was furious. His decision was swift.”
“Geez—so what does this mean exactly, Robin?”
“It means there won’t be a Class Action. But we’re not out of the woods. The families of the victims can still sue us, but they’ll have to do it individually. Which some might do. But here’s the kicker—because of Shelby’s story, and the photos of the melted track that have appeared in the news along with John Fletcher’s original report, there’s very little chance of Strict Liability being applied. There’s reasonable doubt now that there wasn’t an intervening cause. Which means that anyone who sues us will have to prove negligence, which of course will be virtually impossible to do.”
Nate was wringing his hands together. “Robin, in your expert legal opinion, what do you think the chances are that we’ll be successfully sued now?”
Robin held her right hand up and made a zero with her thumb and forefinger.
Nate yelled, “Yes!” He reached out for her again.
Robin held her hands up in the air. “No, Nate—no more hugs!”
Nate smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m just excited. Our great company’s going to survive, Robin. I can hardly wait to give the news to everybody.”
“Again, I have to caution you that we’re not totally out of the woods. So, be careful about giving too much assurance to everyone.”
“I know, I know—but that’s just the lawyer in you talking.”
Robin smiled warmly at him. “Yes, boss, that is just the lawyer in me. Friend to friend, I agree with you—I think we’re going to be okay. But, the lawyer in me has to ask a question—where is John Fletcher? He’s not answering his phone or returning messages. The court clerk tried to reach him, too, because the judge wants to talk to him about the coercion he was put through.”
“I don’t know. He was fired, as you know, so maybe he’s taken a little trip to get his mind on other things?”
“Maybe. That’s why I tried to reach him—to start the proceedings for his wrongful termination suit.”
“Give him a couple of days. John’s been through a lot. He’ll turn up. He’s probably just lying low for a while.”
*****
John Fletcher was lying in the middle of a road in the community of Crofton, Maryland. There were only a couple of houses on this stretch of dead-end road, so he was pretty safe. Until one particular car came along, heading home to one particular house.
About fifteen minutes ago, he’d passed Carl Masterson on the highway coming back from Fort Meade. Then John sped ahead to the spot where he was right now. Lying on the highway with his car parked along the side at an odd angle, with its driver’s door wide open. He clearly looked like a driver in distress—perhaps a heart attack, or a mugging. Someone who needed to be saved. John figured even a heartless animal like Masterson couldn’t help but stop.
At least that was the plan. And it was Ron’s plan. His contact at Anonymous had given him the address to Carl’s home along with the make of his car and license plate number. It was then just a simple matter of both of them staking out the exit from Fort Meade and waiting for the right car to come along.
The plan was that John would speed ahead and position himself on the highway near Carl Masterson’s home. With Ron following at a safe distance behind.
When Masterson pulled over to help, Ron would pull up behind him.
What would happen after that was also mapped out—to a point. There was an old abandoned shack that Ron knew about only a short distance away. Located in the Globecom Wildlife Management area south of Crofton. It was a desolate area—virtually ignored by tourists, populated instead by some fairly serious animals. The old cabin had been a hiker’s outpost, but hadn’t been used by anyone in years. Some of Ron’s contacts had used it before, but Ron refused to tell John how they’d used it. John didn’t care—it sounded perfect.
But there was something else about the old cabin, too. For the last two days it had been inhabited. Ron had already taken someone there, soon to be joined by Carl Masterson. This other person was a bonus that neither of them had counted on. And the timing of it caused them to move up the timetable on grabbing Carl.
It was only fitting that the two of them be together in the shack.
Because the other person was Tom Foster.
Ron’s friend at Anonymous had managed to track Foster down in Bangkok. It wasn’t hard, at least not for Anonymous—only two Americans had registered new passports in Thailand within the last few weeks and a quick examination of passport photos online enabled Ron to identify Foster. He’d disguised himself—had a fashionable beard and had grown his hair out. Wore fake glasses as well. But he was still Tom Foster—and Ron had known the man for most of his adult life.
Anonymous had also tracked Foster along the tangled path of a worldwide child porn ring. And had discovered that the man had actually made two trips back to the United States since he’d disappeared. Both times for child porn activity.
Tom had a new name: Fred Waring.
Ron was given a ‘heads up’ by Anonymous that he was coming back again. Which he had.
Ron grabbed him out near the taxi stand at Reagan airport. A small needle in the neck and Tom looked just like a drunken traveler being helped into a car by his friend.
John was startled out of his daydream by the sound of an approaching car. He was lying face down on the road and the car would have to either stop or run him over. John held his breath. He knew it was Masterson.
The car stopped. John heard the sound of another engine approaching from farther back. He knew who that was, too.
The sound of a car door opening and closing, then heavy footsteps approaching.
He could feel his presence as the man knelt down beside him. John’s face was turned in the other direction so Carl wouldn’t recognize him.
Fingers were on his neck now, checking his pulse. Then both hands on his back, shaking him gently. “Hey, buddy, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
John pushed with his hands and slowly raised himself up into a kneeling position, head down
. Then he heard the ominous click of a gun being cocked. He looked up. Ron was standing behind Masterson with a pistol up against the back of his head.
Then the words, “No, he’s not okay, Mr. Carl Masterson of the NSA. He’s dying, you son of a bitch.”
Chapter 47
It was just a short hike through the woods to the ramshackle cabin. And it was indeed falling down around itself—it was a wonder any of it was still standing. Ron and John had driven their cars into the woods as far as they could before the tree growth got too dense. At that point, they could see the shack off in the distance, so they hauled Carl out of the trunk of Ron’s car and just abandoned their cars on the crude dirt road.
Ron pushed Carl in front and pointed towards the cabin. “Walk. That’s where we’re going to have a little chat.”
Ron glanced back at John pulling up the rear. He hadn’t said very much since he’d pulled himself up off the road. “You okay, John?”
He nodded. “Yeah, doin’ just fine, Ron. Let’s get this over with.”
Carl hadn’t said a word since they’d grabbed him. Ron could tell just by the look on his face that he’d been surprised to see that the man lying on the road was John Fletcher, and it all seemed to sink in to him pretty quickly after that. Ron figured that the guy had enough training to know that sometimes silence was the best option. Ron recalled that Carl had been with the FBI before joining the NSA, and had degrees in law and criminology, too—so he wasn’t just your normal, everyday hostage.
They walked up the rotting steps onto the tiny porch. Ron held his Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum in one hand pointed at the back of Carl’s head and, with the other hand he shoved open the rickety old door. The hinges squeaked as the door swung ajar, revealing a lone figure slumped in a chair against the far wall.
Ron shoved Carl inside the little one-room cabin. The wooden floors were rotting and the glass in the windows had long since fallen out, evidenced by the shards of glass littering the floor. But, it was the perfect interrogation room in Ron’s opinion.