Choose Freedom: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series (The Boston Brahmin Book 6)

by Bobby Akart

  Katie nodded and led the way without saying another word. Using the span of trees and overgrown weeds as cover, they worked their way to the driveway across the street. They crossed the aggregate, asphalt road and ducked behind the blue sedan, kneeling in the still-dewy grass.

  The sound of the white screen door closing indicated that someone had exited the home and was on the front porch. Katie and Smalley remained deathly still. Because they were only thirty feet away, they couldn’t risk discovery.

  A belch followed by a fart revealed all Katie needed to know. She crawled around the back of the sedan and peered under its trunk to get a better view. It was Elkins!

  He was standing on the front porch in his boxer shorts, scratching his belly through an open, light blue robe. He wasn’t wearing any shoes and appeared sleepy and disheveled. Katie didn’t hesitate as Elkins stepped down the two steps toward the white grocery-getter.

  She ran at full speed toward Elkins and lowered her head, driving it into his ribs. He flew to the ground with a grunt, having had the wind knocked out of him. Katie scrambled to her knees and pounced on his back, pummeling him in the ribs and the sides of his face. Elkins tried to cover himself, but Katie was relentless.

  Smalley joined her side and drew his weapon, pointing it at Elkins. “Don’t move, fucker,” yelled Smalley as Katie brusquely grabbed the man’s arms and pulled them behind his back.

  Elkins, still gasping for air, attempted to wiggle loose, but Katie had a death grip on his wrists. Smalley handed her the zip-tie wrist cuffs and she affixed them tightly to his wrists. She stood over him and stared down at him with utter contempt. Coward, she thought.

  “Don’t move,” shouted Smalley towards the front door. Katie pulled Steven’s Glock G38, which she’d been carrying since the hunt began. She’d be the first to admit she fantasized about blowing this fucker’s head wide open. But she’d made a commitment to Sarge.

  Smalley repeated the command to the woman looking stoically through the screened front door. Her face was morose and her brunette hair unkempt. There was a sadness about her that Katie could sense. The woman never said a word as she slowly retreated into the home and closed the front door, locking the bolt lock behind her.

  The temporary distraction allowed Elkins to recover somewhat from the beating Katie had inflicted upon him. He got to his feet and started running toward the street, shoulders waggling back and forth, as his hands were restricting his movement. Katie chased him, pouncing on him like a cat. She shoved him down onto the road, ripping a gash in his forehead and most likely breaking his oversized nose.

  Elkins rolled over and two teeth fell into the street. “I know you,” he groaned.

  Katie pointed the gun in Elkins’s face and repeated Steven’s dying words, “Karma is just a polite way of saying ha-ha, fuck you.”

  Chapter 49

  Monday, April 24, 2017

  9:00 a.m.

  The Grove at Hertfordshire

  Watford, England

  Through the picturesque countryside of Hertfordshire near Watford, England, a caravan of town cars with blacked-out windows carried the visitors around hilly curves and turns. Helicopters flew low overhead, and armed men dressed in dark suits dotted the landscape, providing surveillance. Roads were closed and the perimeter was secured. The entire town was on lockdown. An air of mystery permeated the senses.

  Their destination, just eighteen miles from London, was The Grove—a centuries-old chateau built by the Earls of Clarendon, later turned into a spa and resort. Once Queen Victoria’s private retreat, The Grove was still at the forefront of decadence and luxury.

  There were many labels attached to the visitors—cabal, consortium, secret societies. All of these terms implied conspiracy, intrigue, and connivance.

  The visitors were real. Their names were synonymous with wealth and power—Soros, Rockefeller, Buffett, Gates, Bezos. Publicly, the visitors and members of these groups claimed to be merely a debating society of sorts, insisting they were simply a forum for leaders to listen, reflect and gather insights, unbound by official policy positions.

  The groups had names—Bilderberg, Illuminati, Boston Brahmin, Trilateral Commission, CFR, and CGI. They were united in some close design together, usually to promote their private views or interests in an ideology, state, or other forum, often in secret, usually unbeknown to persons outside their group.

  The members of these groups were the wealthy and powerful of the world. Some were driven by religious or political ideology. Others were in pursuit of additional wealth and power. Regardless of motivation, these global elites insisted upon one thing—control.

  They sought power vacuums—voids to exploit. When there wasn’t one, they’d drive a bull through the china shop and create havoc while the thief sneaked in the back door and stole the diamonds out of the vault.

  Their methods varied, but these elites insisted upon one thing—control.

  These secretive cabals dominated media, governments, sports franchises, oil, gold, land, transportations, and the military-industrial complex. The list was long.

  They sought out like-minded partners. They shared common interests, but above all, their common bond was control.

  It was a vehicle through which private financier oligarchical interests were able to impose their policies on nominally sovereign governments. The desired result was one international identity that observed one set of universal values, including establishing the United Nations as a de facto world government and making NATO the world’s military.

  Control.

  In the coming days, these powerful men and women would advance an agenda that fostered centralized command of public opinion through propaganda. Their common goal of a New World Order, which provided only the illusion of democracy, would be discussed in detail.

  These visitors would envision manufactured crises and perpetual wars, all designed to meet their common goal—control.

  The threat to America was not always obvious to the marginally informed. Americans had become accustomed to force-fed news media reports. The print media regurgitated stories off the Associated Press wire, with a smattering of local interest news and sports mixed in. The cable news networks watched each other and then attempted to sensationalize the topic du jour as part of their manufactured twenty-four-hour news cycle to boost ratings.

  The machinations of these groups were not just the subject matter of conspiracy theories or well-written fiction. The people were real, and so was their money. One high-priority goal was to curtail American sovereignty.

  Millions of dollars were given to progressive organizations such as ACORN, the National Council of La Raza, the Southern Poverty Law Center, and Planned Parenthood. Even more millions were used to fund the Black Lives Matter protests in Ferguson and Baltimore. Under-the-table funding advanced the radical causes of Anonymous and environmental extremism.

  In American politics, the creation of tax-exempt, Internal Revenue Code section 527 organizations enabled these groups to circumvent campaign finance laws and funnel hundreds of millions of dollars into their preferred candidates’ campaigns. Their donation of funds to political campaigns came with strings attached—control.

  Financially, they wanted the United States to capitulate to their goals by taking steps to curtail American sovereignty. These power brokers would like nothing better than for America to become subservient to international bodies—more power for groups such as the World Bank and International Monetary Fund. Their tools included currency manipulation and one-sided trade agreements.

  In the English countryside, representatives of all the groups came together in a manner reminiscent of the five major crime families that came together at the infamous Apalachin Meeting in New York. Their common interest lay in the creation of a global network of cartels more powerful than any nation on Earth, destined to control the necessities of life of humanity. Their ultimate goal—a one world government with a single, global marketplace, policed by one world army, and
financially regulated by one World Bank.

  Control.

  However, there was one customary guest that was purposefully excluded—the Boston Brahmin, a well-respected geopolitical powerhouse that had dictated the direction of world events since the founding of America. The changes within the Boston Brahmin’s hierarchy led the other cabals of the world to a single conclusion—Henry Winthrop Sargent IV represented the greatest threat to their existence and goals since collusion of this sort was devised.

  The meetings were held and the conclusions were reached. It was nothing short of remarkable what John Morgan’s protégé had accomplished. The world had the opportunity to bring America to its knees and the opportunity was fading with each passing day.

  The members of the secret societies gathered at The Grove chastised one another for an overreliance on their President. In hindsight, the rich and powerful agreed they should’ve done more to thwart this newcomer’s efforts. But how could they? Henry Sargent had built up a movement from the grass roots. We never should’ve underestimated the resolve of those patriotic Americans.

  Don’t they realize we know what’s best for them?

  Control.

  Discussions and debates were concluded. A consensus was reached. The threat must be addressed. They gave the order.

  Terminate.

  Chapter 50

  Monday, May 1, 2017

  7:00 p.m.

  Morgan Residence

  39 Sears Road

  Brookline, Massachusetts

  This was not a day Sarge ever fantasized about as a child, or as an adult. As his career at Harvard flourished, the thought of marriage and a family slowly faded from his consciousness. He’d made peace with it.

  His early tryst with Abbie was a distant memory now. Their relationship was never approved by her father. For years, Sarge questioned Morgan’s motivation in pushing the two away from a life together. The events of the past year provided answers. Morgan always envisioned his godson as being his successor as the head of the Boston Brahmin. Sarge marrying his only daughter was not part of the grand plan.

  His relationship with Julia started out like many—unrestrained sex. They’d been introduced years ago, instantly became attracted to each other, and then became physically intimate. At the time, both were driven professionals. Julia was trying to make a name for herself at the Boston Herald while Sarge performed the necessary steps to become a tenured professor at the Harvard Kennedy School of government.

  The two remained close friends and confidants as well as frequent dining and bed mates. But the invisible hand of John Morgan, the consummate puppeteer, played an indeterminate role in their relationship. It wasn’t until recently that Julia mentioned the reason she’d reached out to Sarge on that fateful afternoon in December when they reconnected was at the insistence of Morgan. It was that evening during their dinner at Stephanie’s, followed by their time in bed together, that the two fell in love permanently.

  Sarge knew at that point they would marry. He didn’t want Julia to leave that next morning. Eventually, the sleepovers became more frequent until Julia began moving things into Sarge’s closets and dressers. This was how relationships evolved—with a flurry of activity, then a gradual process of growing accustomed to one another, and then the realization that she was the one.

  Then sometimes, life got in the way. The events of the past twelve months could’ve been scripted in Hollywood. The drama surrounding their lives prevented any thoughts of marriage. But, after all, what was drama but life with the dull bits cut out. The last year didn’t provide much dull, that was all.

  A smile broke across Sarge’s face as Julia began to walk up the aisle. Her beautiful gown trailed behind her, but their unborn baby led the way. He’d asked her what style dress she would choose. The wedding shops had not reopened. In response, Julia had touched his face and said, “I’ll find the dress that makes me feel most like myself because that’s who you fell in love with.”

  A tear ran down his cheek as the anticipation built. He, Julia, and their baby were about to become a family.

  *****

  It was a perfect spring evening for a wedding. Above the grassy lawn, which contained sharply dressed guests sitting in their white folding chairs spaced perfectly in rows, the stars shone in the blue-black sky. A cool breeze blew away some of the lingering heat of the unusually warm May afternoon, and for a moment, he almost forgot where he was—and what he was tasked to do.

  He glanced around the perimeter of the touching wedding scene. He noticed the M4 rifles kept within arm’s reach and the .45-caliber pistols the security team carried at their hips. As soon as he saw those, the illusion was shattered. The target’s team was ready for a battle—as was he.

  No mission was ever safe. He knew that. But danger had been part of this particular operation’s appeal. It was an adventure, a well-paying one, and adventures were supposed to be exciting.

  He’d snuck into the woods near the mansion earlier that day, dressed as a paparazzi complete with a long-lens camera. If he was discovered, he’d be viewed as an opportunist seeking to make a few bucks off the exclusive wedding pictures.

  He spent the afternoon moving from tree to tree, seeking cover and identifying the perfect line of sight. He found a centralized location to dig his cache, storing his all-black clothing and his Remington Defense CSR—concealable sniper rifle. If he was discovered, the tools of the trade would be safe for use another day.

  The assassin had been encouraged to work with a team, but he respectfully declined. He worked alone, and besides, it only took one precisely directed bullet to kill a man. His skills were unsurpassed and a team only enhanced his ability to be discovered. That was why he was known to everyone in the industry as Solus.

  *****

  The oak trees lining Morgan’s yard were wrapped and filled with white lights—twinkle lights as the Quinn daughters called them. White candlelit lanterns nestled into the grass were surrounded by pale pink flowers recently plucked from the estate’s gardens.

  Sarge felt like it would take an eternity for Julia to reach him. He resisted the urge to run down the aisle between their guests and sweep Julia off her feet. Patiently, Sarge waited until she took her place next to him. The world disappeared. Everything became silent. All he could hear was his heart pounding in his chest—full of love.

  At first, they both agreed they didn’t want a long drawn-out ceremony. They didn’t believe in quotes describing how to love one another. They knew how to do that. So, other than the formalities required by the State of Massachusetts, Julia and Sarge would speak from the heart.

  Tears of joy streamed down Julia’s face and Sarge retrieved a handkerchief out of his pocket. Aunt Stella told him he’d need it, and she was right. He gently dabbed the tears away, instantly generating an ahh from their guests. Julia blushed and smiled. She was ready now.

  *****

  Solus had unpacked his bundle of ballistic badassery. The Remington Defense CSR, commonly referred to as a rucksack rifle, was designed specifically as a lightweight, packable sniper’s tool. For Solus, deploying the weapon was literally a snap, as the larger pieces could be assembled quickly. It was a process he’d practiced a thousand times.

  The rifle was designed to run suppressed. Solus attached the AAC SR-7 7.62 mm silencer. He was confident in his ability, only intending to use one shot to find his mark. The silencer only ensured a head start as he made his getaway. In the woods, near his perch, he’d leave evidence that the hit was performed by a member of the United States military. His employers desired to leave a trail of breadcrumbs directly to the office of the President.

  Solus was a man without a country. He cared little for politics or power. He had to make a living. Killing in the shadows was a job, nothing more or less.

  *****

  Julia spoke first. “Before I met you, before I even knew you existed, I knew you were coming. I was ready to give my whole heart to someone, and now here you are.” Julia s
uppressed a nervous giggle as a few more tears appeared on her face. She continued.

  “Sometimes I think I’m going to explode from how much I love you. I’m completely consumed by you. And tonight, we get to become one.

  “Sarge, I promise to love you until after our children are old and gray.” She smiled as she held her belly with both hands. “You’re my dream and my reality, my future and my present, my whole heart and my best friend. I thank God for bringing you to me and igniting that light. I can’t wait to shine together and illuminate our love for the world to see.”

  Sarge smiled, gathered his emotions and spoke to the love of his life. “From the moment I met you, I wanted more. I wanted more of your infectious smile, I wanted more of your adorable giggle, and I wanted more of your love. You had me hooked from the beginning.

  “I never imagined that I could fall in love with my best friend. Every day, I am encouraged by your love, and as your husband, I promise to always put you first. I promise to be the best father I can be to our children, and I promise to always make you my priority.”

  “Julia,” said Sarge, “I promise to love you until after my heart bursts. I love you, and I’m going to love you for eternity.”

  *****

  Solus relaxed. He took a deep breath and focused on the target. Steady. Steady.

  SWISH.

  Silence.

  “Hostile is KIA,” whispered Drew into his comms. He pulled his sidearm and approached the body carefully, although the perfect placement of the blade left no doubt as to the result.

  Drew firmly grabbed the handle and jerked the serrated blade out of the temple of the dead assassin, leaving a hole for blood and brain matter to ooze to the ground. He crouched over the body, staring at the results. Then, without another word, he wiped the blade on the man’s clothing and returned it to its leather sheath under his jacket. The sound of approaching footsteps indicated that he could return to the wedding.