by David Berko
The man with a medium stature and lean build stood there for a moment longer. Not only that, he actually rose to his tippy toes to better assess the situation. Satisfied, his smile returned and so did his quick pace. He turned on his heels, stopped short of the bank of elevators and waited for the ding. The doors opened--he stepped in--never to be seen again.
--
Conference Room, floor twenty
of Scorpion central command...
A couple hours earlier
The glass bubble used as Scorpion's conference room by its board of directors and diplomats was ruptured and splintered. It looked more like a war zone than a location where the most powerful leaders in the Western Hemisphere would meet.
When Howard arrived on the scene he looked like a specter. Gone were his horn-rimmed bifocals. His hair stood on end like it he had just received a large current that ran through his body.
Two black commandos guarded the entrance into the chamber. Inside the only thing visible was the carnage.
The old man snapped. His normally deep gravelly voice was replaced with an evil one void of emotion. "Why haven’t these corpses been put into body bags and airlifted off this base?!"
No one answered.
"You!" he moved within mere feet of the soldier on the left of the entrance. "You take orders from me, understand?"
"Sir," the soldier returned, turning to salute.
"Who's been here before me?"
"No one, sir."
Howard relaxed a bit. His demeanor didn't change, though. "Get this place cleaned up soldier. Call it in."
The guard didn't question. He immediately began speaking to his superiors…requesting for gurneys, a chopper, and personnel to clean and sterilize the room.
One minute he was there, the next...gone.
The other guard who had been watching the entrance shuddered, goosebumps forming all over. Howard had practically vanished. It was all so mysterious and chilling to say the least.
…
"Yuri? Where do we stand?"
"Um, I honestly don't kno--"
Howard balked. "You will address me as lord, you worthless slime."
Yuri suddenly had a coughing spasm. His hand wildly grabbed for his water but missed. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and upper lip. He gasped for air.
"Perhaps you had better get a replacement for the day, huh?" Howard made a fist. His eyes darted back and forth--his mind a little more than active.
Meanwhile on the other end of the sat phone conversation the station chief of Sector 3 in DC was dying of induced heart attack.
The pieces were lining up. Another domino would soon fall. Howard was all over the details.
--
San Bernardino, California
The hired killers converged from the north and south travelling on Interstate 15 for the town of San Bernardino. Approximately seventy-five miles from their designated target.
On the outer rim of San Bernardino, off the beaten path, a fully stocked Scorpion safe house stayed hidden from curious eyes. The building was very secure. It boasted structural engineering only used by organizations with deep pockets and connections. Its walls were made of carbon nano tubes...only the strongest material known to man. And just for fire insurance, the insulation of choice was aerogel covered by the latest gypsum board fire-resistant drywall.
The safe house sat lifeless however...waiting for the hit squad to make good on their contract and show. A dirt road nearby provided access to the building for the assassins to get on the premises and stop in to gear up and strategize before heading off to engage the target at zero hour.
…
Off in the distance up the road a hazy smog intermingled with the headwinds. Dust flew up from the tires of an approaching SUV. It was the crew from Vegas. The torque- hungry V8 rumbled along and announced their arrival. They had made it ahead of schedule.
The dark silhouette of a kinetic design with European lines cast its shadow a hundred meters from the house.
The skies that day were a Welkin Blue with picaresque snow-capped mountains in the backdrop: the perfect postcard picture. The sun high in the Californian sky blessed the topography below with a cloudless radiance. Californian quail, the state bird, sang their chi-ca-go song for the population in the area to enjoy. The air smelled sweet and traffic noise was at a minimum by the safe house.
Meanwhile the motley crew of two coming from the Cali- Mexican border were closing in and would only be late by half an hour. Both teams had never worked on any assignments together so it was anyone's guess how well Scorpion had chosen. The die had been cast though. Things that had been set into motion could no longer be reversed. It would be a night to remember.
--
Beverly Hills, California
The lights clicked on. Damion was the first to step onto the beltway, the massive basement's people-moving system similar to moving walkways at airports.
Christophe remembered the lower level after Damion had just moved in five years ago. But he had never been in it since the beltway went operational. The older man gingerly stepped on it with great hesitancy.
Damion noticed. "C'mon old pal, afraid to go on a little ride?"
"You turn everything in life into a big game, huh Damion?"
"No pops...that would be unfair of you to say. And c'mon! What's with the mood?!"
"What's with yours? Oh wait, don't tell me."
The billionaire rolled his eyes and sighed. "Let's talk business," he said over his shoulder as the conveyor belt took them through a set of sliding doors.
"Great, finally you tend to the seriousness of my visit," the doctor facetiously put it out there.
Damion ignored the backhanded comment and instructed the doctor to join him over where the nerve center of the house sat. It looked like a data center in an old NSA facility. Row after row after row of racks filled with servers blinked and hummed.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Damion said, admiring one of his most prized possessions.
Christophe didn't wanna say no, but a yes was hard to find, too. So he just cocked his head and smiled.
"What?"
"Don't test my patience friend. This is a serious breach if what you say about your 'new' virtual assistant is true." His eyes narrowed as he studied a sticker on the back of one of the standard nineteen inch wide server racks. "How much do you know about Trex?"
"Dang good manufacture that's been in the biz for years. Very trustworthy," came his immediate reply.
"That's not what I hear."
"What's not what you hear?" Damion snapped, folding his muscular arms across his chest.
"Who do you trust these days?" Christophe's voice steeply dropped off.
It was a no-brainer question for the billionaire. But he wasn't very comfortable with the answer all the same. Instead of answering he tapped his chest with his index finger. "Me. That's who I trust." His face changed a little and he followed it up with, "And you, my friend. I can trust you with my life."
"What about Charles?" the doctor brought up noticing the butler’s name hadn't come up in the conversation on trust.
"Oh sure...." Damion looked away a little chagrined. "He's the best I've had."
Christophe smiled for the first time in the last half hour. He chuckled slightly. "Your last guy couldn't even be trusted with your coffee," he smirked.
Damion laughed long and hard.
Over time his eyebrows went up with the increased activity going on behind the scenes in the old noodle. "Take a look at this." He grabbed a pair of gloves and put them on. The lights in the space automatically dimmed. The sensors and cameras in his fingertips were being tracked by a computer that translated his motions into three- dimensional haptic-feedback capable holographic images. Minority Report fans would have been jealous. "Here's a model of what Iris sees."
Christophe's eyes widened in astonishment. He was impressed. "We had better determine then that her installer's goals are subservient to your needs and not
a surveillance nightmare."
Damion's visage mirrored the same concern. "Let's hop on the network and find out all we can about Iris and who installed her."
Christophe became increasingly concerned, judging by the question he asked next. "She's been your assistant for how long, exactly?"
"Since 2039," Damion reflected with a finger on his chin as he thought.
This startled Christophe and gave him goose bumps all over. “Turn her off!! NOW!”
"Huh?"
"Do it!"
--
San Bernardino, California
Doors banged shut on the Mexican drug cartel-esque, golden-plated ride of the hired guns from Tarijuana. Each man slid off the high seats and onto the earthen path, crunching the loose dirt and soil under their tremendous weight. They had parked just behind the other SUV that was in the vicinity of the safe house.
Hassan went around to the rear liftgate and activated a sensor with his foot that popped the big door open. The Jordanian Asef Azizi was right there with his partner to heft their heavy gear contained in one hundred pound rucksacks. Both men expertly lifted the packs and shouldered them with little to no sign of exertion. Up to this point neither had said a word. And then they both simultaneously noticed the cohort from Vegas approaching from their own parked vehicle.
Relations stayed very low key out of mutual interest for getting along and maintaining missional focus. However all the thugs exchanged typical greetings and flashed gangster signs, because, why not. It was custom to posture in that sort of way in their culture.
The diverse, multi-cultured group of gangsters then decided it was time to set aside the pleasantries and just get down to the nitty-gritty of the evening's business.
The self-designated leader of the whole group turned out to be the rough and ready driver, Henry, who was a former U.S. Army Green Beret before becoming a long time inner- city head honcho over one of Chicago's biggest, most- feared gangs--the Latin Kings. If his credentials didn't command enough respect, his heavy-handed leadership certainly did. He called all the shots and anybody fool enough to cross him would hear about it--but more often than not they would feel his wrath before any words would ever be exchanged.
When the group made it to the house's concrete walk-up Monty quietly took the lead per prior instruction from Henry who requested that Monty would be the one to safely get into the place without setting off any alarms or traps designed to keep snoopers out.
Meanwhile the former Latin King lord leaned against one of the awning's pillars and observed everything going on with little interest.
At last after fiddling with the digital combination lock and its mechanical old-school dial...the tumblers began to move with the turning key and the door opened inward on its hinges, rather forcefully too. Its give surprised Monty who had his weight unevenly distributed against the heavy metal door. He was the first to go in as a result, but not intentionally. Henry filed in after Monty and gave the Canadian a slight shove to show his disapproval over the other man's error of going first--even if it had been entirely on accident.
Henry was all about hierarchical order and people under him respecting it. If he didn't get first rights on everything, the person who made their move to get in front of him would be faced with a confrontation.
"Don't let it happen again," he said under his breath to Monty who already started apologizing and kissing up.
The remaining four came into the small foyer area one at a time. Before long everyone congregated in the little ten by twelve entry.
Rodney, the outspoken one of the bunch, was first to suggest they set up a table if there wasn't already one, and from there hatch a game plan on how it would all go down.
The layout of the safe house was extremely open. But functional. It wasn't a mansion, but at two thousand square feet there was plenty enough room for a conference table, commercial kitchen, one and a half bathrooms, and everything else needed by visiting operatives.
A second story looked out into the primary gathering space down below.
What excited everybody the most though was the inclusion of a firehouse pole for quickly sliding down from meetings that would take place on the upper floor.
Genius.
Henry in fact sashayed over to the golden pole and grabbed it with his meaty hands to give it a good shake. "This is why we work for Scorpion boys. They don't forget the little things that make a man happy. All we need now is to open up the fridge and find a six pack."
Allen laughed the hardest. Everybody else enjoyed a Bud every now and then at the bar, but Allen routinely looked to the bottom of a bottle for life's answers. It was an addiction that he didn't know the how or even the why when it came to quitting. And because of his occupation, his seared conscience didn't move him to even consider darkening the doorway of an AA meetup. Not a-happening.
…
A couple hours later a settled hush came over the six men who sat at the rectangular table in the upstairs loft area. Each man new the stakes were high and it would be of the utmost importance all loose ends were tied up--no room for error.
Henry looked at all the maps and plastic gizmos cluttering the table's surface. His leather jacket wrinkled as he folded his arms into a closed posture. "Let's just do a HALO jump," he half seriously joked, "and be done with it."
Several chuckled and Asef half raised his canteen. "I'd be the first one out of the plane, too!" he said laughing while bringing his water down with a smack against the wood.
Henry glared at him.
"What else are we dealing with other than three guards?" Hassan asked.
Monty who had been busy scanning the latest surveillance reports given to them by their electronic spy, Iris, noticed she had indicated an unknown quantity of top secret drones. Land and air. "This isn't good," he swore.
"Pull it up on a screen," Henry ordered.
Everyone saw the same thing the Canadian had a moment ago. It had the same crippling effect on the rest.
"They think six is enough for the job?" Rodney whined. He looked over to the other African-American in the room. Hassan shared the same look of despair.
"Quiet!" their ring leader bellowed. "Scorpion has seen the same reports we have here. If you think we can't do the job, I'll make it easy for you. I can shoot you now, that way you won't have to worry about being drone kill."
His words were bold and proved convincing.
Allen began to sweat under his camo flak jacket. "I suggest we attack from the sewer, sky, and through his front gate."
A dull murmur crescendoed into men shouting at each other and papers scattering everywhere.
Asef took one look at Allen and said in his thick Jordanian accent, “You just made me very happy.”
The American didn't know how to take a comment like that: if it was to be interpreted at face value or perhaps understood as ill-contempt. He didn't know or care. Allen just wanted it all to be over with so he could take his Harley out to his favorite joint back in Vegas.
--
Central Cyber Corps, Washington building: Honolulu
“There's a lotta flash traffic today boss,” a worried interpreter relayed to his boss in an email.
The reply back was almost instantaneous. “Yeah?” In other words, you had better make this worth my time.
Edward sat there with his legs crossed and a pen in one hand, nervously tapping it against his desk. “It's about Sector 3,” he anxiously typed out. “...‘shifting power.’”
That electrified the man who read Edward’s emails deep within the bowels of the sprawling intelligence building. “Get a team on this, ASAP. Get this on Ben Fritz's desk, he'll quarterback the effort. I want this to be a number one priority. Everything else is on ice until further notice.”
Edward's finger tapped the screen to open the latest email. His heart skipped a beat. The message’s contents weren't completely unexpected--more like vexing. More stress. Everybody was feeling the squeeze. Long days, little pay-- little sleep.
But what could have been more important than fighting for the FRN? He felt like a patriot.
The next thing the translator did was forward the email to the director of operations who oversaw S3 (Sector 3). It wouldn't be long before the email would be opened and the manpower corralled to address the day’s latest transcripts on Scorpion activity in the American nation’s old capital. Suddenly the man in his thirties spun in his chair and cracked his knuckles. Edward began to whistle the old national anthem: adrenaline surged through his veins.
--
Chapter 18
Dreamland, Nevada
The top floor of Scorpion's HQ was especially dark.
There wasn't a power outage either: the Lord of the Ages (Howard) was on the level.
The eighty-five year old hardly looked his age. His secret: adult stem cell therapy and laser resurfacing to turn back the clock on aging. For years he had purposefully walked with a slight hobble; in addition to that he let his hair mature into a brilliant gray...the crowning jewel of the elderly. Now he faced himself in the mirror, a box of dark mousse dye on the counter. His reflection eerily lit up the bathroom he used to complete his physical transformation in. Finally a younger-looking, glowing Howard emerged from the restroom ten minutes later.
After his appearance in the conference room earlier in the day the Old Man made himself scarce and got lost in his work in Tommy's old office. His phone call to the now- deceased station chief of S3 got the ball rolling with his agenda.
Next up on his docket: meet with the false prophet, otherwise known as the man who effectively curated the Western culture for the coming of age through the lens of a purely humanistic point of view. Howard was excited at the very least to meet this apostate man he highly esteemed. The two of them would work well together in establishing a new world order and bringing to full realization man's globalist ambitions.