“How’s I supposed to know it was voluntary? The news said you kidnapped all of them, and caused the dementia in all those patients.” Pete Kragg turns frantically to Farrell. “I ain’t waiting around. We’ve got to get outta here.” He begins to walk up the hill into the open and the agent holding his cuffs pulls him to the ground.
“I don’t think you’re in the position to be giving orders!” the agent shouts in his face.
I lean close to Farrell. “The Georgia governor seemed sympathetic to Alabama and Mississippi’s cause. Do you think he would help us?”
“And resist the feds? Ha!” Farrell smirks. “No, I think Alabama and Mississippi are alone in this battle. And we are far behind enemy lines.”
“The border between Georgia and Alabama is not an enemy line, Tod.”
“This side of it is.” He taps behind his ear and speaks a number. Leaning away, he chats in whispered tones.
The bound police officer sits nearby, his eyes downcast with shame.
“I was a mass murderer just, just yesterday, it seems,” I say to him. “I can’t blame you, Pete, for wanting to turn me in, with what the media is saying about me. But I assure you, the media and the government bureaucracies feeding them have hands that are just as dirty as mine used to be.”
“Used to be?”
“By God’s grace, I’ve changed. People can change.”
He turns his eyes away. “From freedom to prison, that’s how I’m changing.”
“Prison, if you’re lucky,” the agent holding the young officer’s cuffs responds. “You’ve put all our lives at risk with your betrayal.”
“Freedom’s a state of heart.” I lean close to Pete Kragg, who is beginning to tremble with fear. “If my heart can change, anybody can change. And not just outwardly.” I tap my chest. “I’m talking about a deep down, new-reason-to-live change.”
Farrell gets off the phone and turns back toward me.
“When are your vehicles coming?” I ask.
“They’re not.”
“Why?”
“We won’t escape by road. It’s too vast a stretch between exits.” His eyes search the woods, and he mumbles to the agent holding the officer. “Brendan, do you think we can escape into the safety of the forest without detection?”
The lean and muscular Alabama agent removes a handheld computer from a pouch on his hip. “If the feds are coming, it’s only gonna buy a few of us some time.”
Brendan glances at a radar showing, I assume, approaching aircraft.
“Incoming?” Farrell asks him.
Brendan shakes his head. “No, sir, not yet. But they’d probably employ stealth with such a high-value target.”
“They’re going to kill us all,” the police officer warns us. “Whether it’s the Free America Militia or the feds, our best chance of living is getting out of here, quick!”
Farrell reaches for his nano. “Hold on. He’s calling me back.”
“Who?” I ask. Farrell doesn’t answer, but turns to converse in whispered tones.
Glancing at the radar on his handheld computer, Brendan utters under his breath. “Escaping now would require the elusiveness of Jeremy Porter.”
“What do you mean, the elusiveness of Jeremy Porter?” the police officers wonders.
“Jeremy Porter escaped last night. From an impossible-to-escape facility . . . ”
“Here they come.” The agent monitoring the radar on his handheld turns his screen to Farrell. “Blinking on and off because of their stealth technology. We can see a little bit of ‘em from their sound.”
Farrell’s eyes widen as he watches the screen, still communicating through his nano. “We don’t have one minute, much less one hour. Two V-22 Ospreys, by the looks of their signatures. 270 knots northeast. Less than a minute out. No, three Ospreys.” He pauses for a brief second. “Make up your mind. Gotta go. Farrell out.”
He taps his nano and communicates orders to his troops.
The Ospreys are tilt rotor aircraft that can take-off and land like a jet or a helicopter, and carry massive loads. A tad noisy, and that’s why we can see them. Farrell starts scattering his dozen troopers to various places of cover, instructing them to replace their rifle’s hollow point-filled magazines with armor-piercing.
“Randy!” A huge man at the edge of the woods holding what appears to be a very heavy, long-barreled rifle, turns to us. “We’ll cover for you after you make your first shot, but you’ve got to hit rotors to take one out. Then take aim at the others, but be quick.”
Farrell leads me and Pete Kragg underneath the bridge.
In the shadow of the bridge, Farrell pushes our heads down until we are sitting on the ground. “They’re going to use small arms fire, I think, not rockets, because they need Verity alive.”
“No.” Brendan, still holding the officer’s cuffs, disagrees. “Percussive munitions. Those bombs will knock unconscious anybody within 30 feet, and bust the eardrums of anybody within 50.”
Pete Kragg tries to stand to better see the screen of Farrell’s pocket computer and he actually strikes Brendan on the face.
“Ow!” Brendan brings his hands to his bleeding lower lip.
“Sorry,” Pete says, squatting back down, fearful of the rage behind Brendan’s eyes.
“Why do they want me alive, Tod?” I ask.
“You’re more dangerous as a martyr,” Farrell responds.
“Well, thanks,” I say sarcastically. “Good to know my existence is so meaningful.”
“At least you being with us gives us a chance to survive this.”
“God’s the one with us that gives us a chance to survive this.”
“Shoot smart!” Farrell shouts to his men. “You’re only going to get a couple off before their smart-guns will pinpoint your location.” Smart guns have the capacity to shoot at muzzle blasts and heat signatures in combat situations without the risk of having a human eye behind the gun sights. “Shoot and duck, shoot and duck! Keep radio silence, as their weaponry can hone in on radio signals.”
All is quiet for a half a minute until we hear the whistling sound of speeding rotors rushing toward us. I try to stand and look over the edge of the bridge to see what is approaching, but Farrell grabs my shirt and prevents me, telling me to stay low.
The relative quiet is interrupted by what sounds like a cannon on the other side of the bridge. Farrell stands and peeks over to see Randy’s large caliber, explosive-tip bullet hit its mark. Keeping his eyes on the damaged Osprey, which banks away and careens over some trees, he mumbles, “Fighters are only as strong as their weakest link.”
An explosion shakes the ground and flames reflect off of Farrell’s eyes. Farrell grins as his men cheer.
Randy, the sniper, takes an immediate, direct hit from a thick hailstorm of high-caliber bullets from several guns on an Osprey that speeds overhead. The other flying monsters change course, turning away from the barrage of small arms fire unleashed by Farrell’s men.
When the pitch of Osprey’s motors changes from low to high, Farrell announces, “They won’t make the same mistake again. They’ll both come full speed, weapons ablaze. Stay under the bridge, behind the piling.”
Rock and cement seem to explode into dust as the low-flying Ospreys race over our heads so fast you can barely see them, leaving in their wake dozens of groaning and bleeding bodies.
I press my hands over my ears just in time to avoid the massive concussion detonation about 50 feet away. I see Pete Kragg scream in pain, unable to cover his ears due to his hands being bound behind his back. His ears begin to drip blood. He lowers his forehead to the ground in misery.
The screaming Ospreys seem to disappear quietly among the obscurity of the forest’s trees, with only the moaning of the injured breaking the pulse-pounding stillness. But the repose is brief. They return as quickly as they left, flying fast and low, at a different angle, seeming to target even those who are taking cover behind boulders, trees, and bridge pilings.
/> This time there is much less return fire from Farrell’s men, and when the fighting copters have passed, there are more screams and groans.
I see but can’t hear Farrell’s lips speak to Brendan, “We cannot win this.”
I reach for Farrell’s shoulder. “Tell your men to drop their arms and let me ascend the bridge.” I shout to be heard over the incessant buzzing in our ears. Farrell’s eyes search mine. I discern both admiration and fear behind those eyes, as if I am provoking him past the edges of his comfort zone. “They’ll let you go, Tod. They just want me.”
The police officer who kidnapped me raises his eyebrows, stunned at my offer. With the blood pouring from his ears, I’m surprised he can hear me. “You’re going to give yourself up?”
The whistling sound of the Osprey rotors changes pitch and Farrell shouts, “Take cover!”
Just as the two Ospreys begin to spray their bullets and percussion rounds down around us, two massive explosions sound off above our heads, sending fiery debris down on both sides of the bridge.
At first, I suspect the Ospreys unleashed their heavy artillery at us. I doubted Farrell’s suspicion that they wanted me alive. Even if they did, the destruction of one of their Ospreys surely resulted in an appropriate modification of their rules of engagement. I hold my hands over my ears and duck lower, but Farrell’s eyes widen enthusiastically, as if the explosion brought good news. He rushes out from under the bridge into the open to watch one of the Ospreys flip and strike the tail of the other. Both of them descend into the forest, spinning wildly, crashing about a hundred yards away in a massive explosion of billowing flames. The blast is so bright, it hurts my eyes. The heat of the explosion seems to singe the skin of my face and the exposed part of my arms. A large area of the forest around the wreckage is instantly aflame.
Farrell stands, his mouth agape, as two fighter jets zoom past, their engines screaming a high-pitched growl. Farrell holds his rifle high above his head, cheering, joined by his surviving men who are able.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“Georgia Guard. F-35, Lightening 4s.” His countenance shines with pride. “I guess Alabama and Mississippi are not alone in this fight after all.”
45
THE INJURED AMONG FARRELL’S MEN are field dressed and treated with IV fluids and pain medication as quickly as their medics could manage it. Those who were hemorrhaging most severely were given IV drips of novaglobin; the substance has oxygen-carrying capacity like blood but is not rejected by the host, and thus requires no timely “type and screen” procedure to ensure blood compatibility—a spectacular breakthrough of medical science new to me. The injured are reclined on the floors of Farrell’s vehicles and sent west via different routes toward Alabama, so as not to arouse suspicion.
Once Farrell is on the road with the sickest of his men and two medics in a long, 12-seat hovercraft, he calls a number to update surgeons who are heading their direction in surgical suites installed in windowless vans.
Farrell has directed me to sit on the floor between the two front seats as we obey the speed limit westward on two-lane back roads. I turn my back to the dashboard.
He is not happy about my repeated insistence, “I can’t go to Alabama.”
“Stop saying that.” He slaps the steering wheel with his right palm for emphasis. “You’ve got to come with us. You agreed to be prosecuted.”
“I will, but not now.”
Farrell looks down, disappointment etched in his face.
Facing me, with his back to the first row of seats, is the handcuffed police officer who kidnapped me, Pete Kragg. In the front passenger seat is the Alabama agent Brendan, who has assumed responsibility for the Georgia police officer.
“I’m sorry, but I must go home. My granddaughter—”
“This is bigger than you!” Farrell interrupts me. “This is bigger than me! This is bigger than your family, and even bigger than just one state! This is about stopping the American Holocaust, Dr. Verity! This is about saving freedom for another generation.”
“Even so, my family comes first to me, just as your family comes first to you.”
Farrell throws his hands up in the air. “I can’t believe this! After all we have done for you, getting you before the governors and their cabinets, even saving your life. Don’t you feel some obligation to keep your word?”
“I will, but not now.”
“What’s going to happen to me?” the Georgia police officer, who sits beside the Alabama agent Brendan, asks.
Brendan turns to angrily shout his response, “Duct tape over your face is what’s going to happen to you if you don’t exercise your right to remain silent!” He stretches a gloved index finger at him out of a tightly clenched fist. “Ya got me?”
“Hey, take it easy,” I tell Brendan. “He’s not a monster. His motives were not malicious.”
“Least till he busted my lip.”
An argument ensues, and Farrell shouts to be heard above the raised voices, “Doctor, you played a pivotal role in the success of this killing industry. Don’t you feel some obligation to stop it?”
“Obviously, or I wouldn’t have turned myself in.”
Pete Kragg interjects, “Wait. You turned yourself in?”
Ignoring him, I tell Farrell, “But I just learned that my little Down Syndrome granddaughter has a date with death in three days at the killing center I founded. That, sir, is my priority.”
“You’re under arrest,” Farrell reminds me. “I am duty-bound to—”
“What would you do?” I ask him.
“I am duty-bound,” he repeats, “to keep you safe until we get to Alabama, and then you are in the custody of the Alabama criminal justice system.”
“Criminal justice system?” Pete Kragg appears excruciatingly confused. The agent in the front turns to scold the officer again but the officer will not be silent. “Wait, wait for a sec, why the criminal justice system? You turned yourself in to them and they arrested you?”
I nod, and then turn back to Farrell. “And I will turn myself back in with a full confession to everything I have done that resulted in the deaths of clones in Alabama, but only after I retrieve my granddaughter. Without my confession, you can’t do anything to me, and my confession is contingent, sir. So if you want a successful act of defiance of federal tyranny, if you want to defend Alabama citizens, then your best and only option is to let me go so I can fetch my Mary Nell!”
“And how are you going to do that, Doc?” Farrell condescends to me like I’m a child insisting on visiting Santa’s workshop at the North Pole by flapping my arms and jumping off a cliff. “You are not being realistic. You’re a wanted man. The feds can tap into any security camera in the whole country. They will pin-point your location before you get within one hundred miles of Baltimore.”
“Not with my facial palsy and some hair dye. It’s like, like camouflage.”
“Camouflage on half your face is not very good camouflage. How would you get there, Dr. Verity?”
“I’m one of the richest men in the nation—”
“One of the stupidest men in the nation,” Farrell adds.
I ignore his interruption, “I can buy a space shuttle and tour to the moon on the way if I want.”
“With what credit card, Doctor? Think about it! You don’t have any credit, any car, or any insurance! You’re a fugitive. You’re broke! If you so much as use a card to put fuel in this vehicle, they’ll have their satellite imagery on us before the receipt’s even printed.”
I am silent as I consider his valid point. I know he’s right. I’m broke.
“Let me fly him there,” Pete suggests.
“What?” Farrell exclaims.
“I’ll fly him to Baltimore.”
“Before or after you fly out this window onto the side of the road?” Brendan mocks from the passenger seat.
I try to measure the sincerity of the Georgia policeman. He is serious. Dead serious. “Thank you, Pete.”
“My partner did, not me,” Pete assures us.
“You are under arrest!” Brendan shouts at the police officer. “Don’t you get it?”
“I was only trying to get Raymond Verity to the feds, believing the press’ report on him, that he kidnapped his daughter and granddaughter and was trying to sabotage the American economy by trying to bring down his massive company. Obviously,” he turns to me, “I was wrong.”
“I was trying to protect my family, Pete. I was trying to protect the people my company kills for profit.”
“I understand that now.” Pete nods and licks his lips. “I’m deeply sorry, Dr. Verity. I’ll make it up to you. I have a friend in the TSA who can get me access to any airport in the nation off the books.”
Farrell slams the steering wheel. “I can’t believe you! You guys are going to give me a heart attack.”
I smile. “You fly me, Tod Farrell. That way you can fly me back when I’ve secured her safety.”
“Are you listening to a thing I’m saying? There’s no way I can get a flight into Baltimore without getting us both caught and shipped to CIA Waterboarding School.”
Pete Kragg clears his throat. “I can get him in.”
“Shut up!” Farrell and Brendan shout simultaneously.
“Do you know how to pray, Tod?” We make eye contact in the review mirror.
He sighs heavily. “Of course.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. I’m stepping out of this boat with my eyes to the miracle-maker, just like Tamara said. Stay in the boat if you want, but I’m walking on water.”
When Pete Kragg sees that my comment was not intended as a joke, his eyes widen. “Come on, Mr. Farrell. You gotta let me take him now.”
“You aren’t going anywhere without my fist around your throat.” Brendan aims an index finger at the Georgia officer.
“Lighten up, Brendan,” Farrell interjects. “Your busted lip was an accident.”
“Fine,” Officer Pete responds. “That way you can throw me out the window if I try to escape.”
Body by Blood Page 31