She saw Russell standing speechless in the middle of the living room, frozen with fear as he wet himself. She looked down at her wound. The darkness of the blood that had just begun to ooze from her wound was a bad sign. “Damn. Why did the son-of-a-bitch did have to get me in the liver?"
Pressing a hand over her wound to help control the bleeding, she motioned to Russell to join her. “Come to mama, darling. Come to mama."
Russell moved towards her with leaden feet as he approached his father's body then leapt towards her excitedly. “Oh mama, daddy's dead and you're hurt too! Oh mama I'm so scared!"
She wrapped her other arm around him and kissed him sweetly. “I know you are, honey, and I'm so sorry, but your mama is hurt very bad—too bad I'm afraid. Darling, you've got to save yourself.” The burning sensation from her wound began to spread and she drew a deeply pained breath that made the young boy start to cry. Girding herself, she gripped his shoulder. “Honey, you've got to be strong. Very bad men want to hurt you, and more will come."
“I want to be with you, mama,” Russell pleaded. “Please don't send me away, mama."
Just then, Roxanne could hear the squeal of tires out on the street. Given the lack of a siren, that could only mean that Eddy was not alone. Whoever wanted her son was obviously willing to go to great lengths to get him, and to no good end, no doubt.
She gripped his chin tightly. “Russell darling, you've got to listen to me,” she commanded. The boy obeyed. “Do you remember the secret door in the walk-in pantry that leads to Nancy's house next door?"
The trembling young boy nodded. “Yes, mama,” he replied dutifully.
The previous owner had built an underground pathway between the two homes. He had used it to secretly visit his mistress who also happened to live in the house where Nancy, a retired nurse and a close friend of the family, now resided alone.
“Good.” She pointed towards her cell phone sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “Honey, take the phone. I want you go right away to Nancy's house and when you get there, I want you to call an old friend of mine. His name is Vigo Jones. He is number 27 on the auto dial list. Tell him that you are my son and that I never told him about you and my client. Do as he tells you."
“I don't know this Vigo man, mama and I don't want to leave you,” Russell protested.
She could hear heavy footsteps in the rain, and the silhouette of man crossed past the picture windows. “Oh damn; shotguns,” she sighed as she raised her Kimber at the silhouette and fired. The shot struck the dark assailant in the side of his chest just below his armpit, spinning him down to the ground. There wouldn't be much time now.
She kissed her son one last time and said forcefully, “Run, Russell. Your mama loves you more than anything in the world, but bad men are coming to hurt you, and I can't stop them! All I can hope to do is to slow them down. Please, honey, don't make me cry. Now run!"
There were more footsteps in the rain, racing towards the loud cries of the man she had just shot. The boy took a step back and looked at his mother one last time as dark blood oozed between her fingers, bleeding into her house robe at a frightening pace. “I love you, mama,” Russell said as tears streamed down his face. He then turned and ran into the kitchen.
“Thank God,” she sighed, as she watched her son disappear into the kitchen. A moment later, she could hear him opening the pantry door as the men outside her house prepared to break in. She reached forward, tapped the remote control and shut down all the lights in the house. She was outnumbered and dying but at least the dark would give her one last chance to buy some time for her son.
She slipped off the couch, sending agonizing waves of pain through her body. Gripping the edge of the coffee table, she was able to use the weight of her husband's lifeless body as added leverage to push it the rest of the way over, away from her. She hoped that the table's thick Marbleite top would at least offer some limited protection from the shotgun blasts. She then dragged herself across the floor behind Justin. Using his body as a parapet, she raised her pistol and waited for whatever would come next.
A shaped plastique charge blew the front door in and the first shooter came in spraying bullets in every direction with a 9mm HK MP5K submachine gun. Roxanne immediately returned the fire, striking the man three times. The first two shots failed to penetrate his bulletproof vest but her third ripped out his throat. In the dim light from the street lamp, she could see him with his back pinned against the wall of the foyer. As sprays of blood shot out of his neck, he slid limply to the floor.
Certainly, that caused a commotion outside the house, and she could hear muffled voices from outside. The next time, they'd come at her from several directions. This would probably be her last stand, she realized as she struggled to breathe, but if not, she would bleed to death anyway.
The pain in her side was burning like fire now, and between that and her loss of blood, keeping her mind focused was a real struggle. She laid her head on Justin's limp body. “You're right, my dear husband,” she said with a weak and raspy voice. “I should have told Anthony about his son a long time ago. I was wrong.” She grimaced as dark blood continued to ooze from her wound.
She drew pained, shallow breaths as she waited for the next attack. Feeling the fog of death beginning to envelop her, she wondered who it was that had sent assassins to kill her and her husband and to kidnap her son. It just didn't make sense. Who would go to such great lengths to do such a thing and why? Neither she nor her husband knew anything of value, and her child was completely innocent. There was no good reason for it; at least not one that she could see and the pain of that uncertainty now troubled her more than the fatal wound in her side.
Finally, she heard them moving into position outside the house and gripped her pistol tightly as she fought to maintain consciousness. She gave one last great effort and screamed as loudly as she could, “Whoever the hell you are, the police are on the way!"
She knew the police were not coming, but she hoped to push the assassins to make their final move before she lost consciousness. That way, she hoped to buy Russell a little more time with whatever time remained of her own life. “Come on you miserable shits,” she hissed under her breath, “let's dance!"
* * * *
THE TUNNEL BETWEEN his home and Nancy's was only three feet in diameter and used to have a wheeled dolly on a track but that had been taken out many years ago. Clipping his mother's cell phone to the neck of his pajamas, Russell crawled on his hands and knees in the darkness as rodents scurried around his disturbing presence in their underground domain.
Two thirds of the way through the tunnel, he could see the light from Nancy's basement filtering through the old wooden boards that covered the entrance to the tunnel on her side and the safety of Nancy's home.
Suddenly from behind him, came the sound of another barrage. Loud, echoing booms from shotguns and then the dull bursts of his mother's Kimber automatic. There was a long pause before several more shotguns returned fire. After that, a final silence prevailed. The boy's life was twisting around like a bad dream, yet he kept the presence of mind to find safety even knowing that his mother had given the last few minutes of her life to buy him time. Tears continued streaming down his face as he moved towards the light.
What Russell didn't know was that while he had been careful to close the secret trap door in the pantry behind him before starting through the tunnel, the force of the plastique charge that blew off the front door of the house had also jarred open the secret doorway in the pantry, revealing the child's desperate escape.
* * *
Whatever It Takes
THE UNITED NATIONS of Earth conference in Sydney Australia had been an unqualified success for US Senator Merl Johnston, a Democrat from the great state of Louisiana. His late vote on the floor had broken the deadlock in the United States Senate for America's ratification of the UNE Treaty in 2011 and allowed the new world governing body to pursue the final defeat of Al Qaeda after years of dea
dly terror attacks and destabilizing conflicts.
Upon receiving a private invitation to fly to Washington with Secretary General Antonio De Bono, head of the United Nations of Earth (UNE) governing council, he publicly expressed his gratitude and privately wondered why he had been offered such a singular honor.
The Secretary General had recently been honored with the first Gulfstream G-900 Hypersonic executive scramjet to roll off the assembly line. With its Boeing, high-efficiency Podkletnov Anti-Gravity assist device and liquid hydrogen fueled General Electric engines; the G-900 was simply the fastest way to travel, short of exotic military aircraft.
The trip from Sydney to Washington would take just under two hours. Even better yet, he would be the Secretary General's only guest on the trip. No doubt, Johnston's fortunes were on the rise. As he followed De Bono up the staircase, Johnston turned back for one last wave at the media. With the 2012 elections coming up, this kind of publicity was pure gold.
Standing just less than six feet with a fair complexion and receding dark blond hair, he sported a small paunch from the stresses of political life, which had crept up upon him in his early forties. Yet, his regular visits to the gym had helped him to retain his muscular build. Strong-willed and competitive, he had never lost his virtually indomitable aura of confidence. Many still called him by his college-days nickname, Gator Chaser.
Entering just aft of the rakish delta wing jet cockpit, he was astounded by the lavish interior of the Gulfstream. Cramped, yet functional, the smell of new leather added to its intoxicating sense of privilege. The seating was lavishly spacious for six passengers and was organized around a large center table between the middle rows just forward of the wing. While the small interior could easily accommodate twelve passengers in more frugal corporate configuration, it was relatively spacious for six. Luxury with no expense spared.
Johnston followed De Bono and his 27-year old personal secretary, Yvette Cochereau. An exotically beautiful woman of French-Vietnamese descent, Yvette's trim and curvaceous figure transcended her unassuming business attire.
He quickly noticed her eyes. They were not almond-shaped, as he has expected. Rather, her French lineage had given her soft, widely spaced doe-eyes that seemed to say, “come hither, but only if you've got the price of admission,’ and that had obviously been paid by De Bono. It was also apparent that she enjoyed the arrangement as well, given that she exuded the sensual patina of a happily kept woman with shoulder-length black wavy hair, which was so well cared-for that it bounced joyfully with each movement.
For most men, her beauty alone would have been enough, but De Bono was more demanding, and Johnston could sense a keen mind lurked behind those shiny doe-eyes. Their controlled darting movements told him that she could scan a person for telling body language in a single fluid pass.
An accomplished linguist, she was completely fluent in six languages and had graduated Magna Cum Laude from the Sorbonne School of Language. Obviously, she was the kind of woman a man such as De Bono would demand, a fusion of great beauty and intellect. This time the grapevine had gotten it right. She was De Bono's secret mistress and that meant she was out of bounds.
Perhaps this was the measure of success, he mused to himself. Senators get to bed eager but clumsy interns seeking their own ambitions with the grace of a cattle stampede, while men like De Bono could lavish themselves in the arms of remarkable women like Yvette Cochereau.
She gestured to Johnston to take a seat opposite De Bono who was now buckling himself in. He quietly slid into his spacious seat facing De Bono, across an elegantly engraved Merbau hardwood table.
As he sidestepped towards the window seat, he looked down at Yvette with a gracious smile. While her dark business jacket complimented the scarf and her short skirt, he could see she was not wearing a blouse or a bra.
He drew a small quick breath as his eyes instinctively craved to search into the gentle bulge in her jacket to follow the curve of her shapely breasts. In another situation, he would have done so, but his cautious feelings towards De Bono stopped him cold in his tracks. There was something about this man he had never understood, other than it was something to be feared and respected—at all times!
Taking his seat, he glanced out the window as he buckled in. He immediately noticed that their seats were forward of the main wing and that he would enjoy an unobstructed view of the Earth during their flight.
One of the technicians on the ground caught his attention. She reminded him of his wife Ginny, approaching middle age and a little pudgy.
Over the years, Ginny had become a practical woman, as he liked to think. She had given him healthy and successful children and now had the good sense, as he saw it, to look the other way when he bedded an intern. Yet, he wondered how his devoted wife would react, if she learned that he had taken a mistress like Cochereau. Would it send her over the edge? Or, does there come a point where a man could obtain enough political power to cower his own wife without having to raise his hand?
This made him wonder if De Bono's wife knew of his mistress, or more to the point, was she honest enough with herself to accept the truth of it. The thought tickled his mind as he settled deeply into the seat and flashed De Bono a gracious southern smile.
De Bono nodded with a smile and checked to see that Yvette had finished buckling herself in. Satisfied, he casually pressed the intercom button on his armrest. “Captain, how soon can we take off?"
The response was almost immediate. “Sir, I've already cleared our departure with Sydney control and all flights have been already been suspended. We can lift in 15 seconds, once you've prepared yourselves for launch."
De Bono glanced at Yvette who smiled back pleasantly to signal that she was ready. “We're ready. Or as you pilot types like to say, it is time to kick the tires and light the fire."
“Very good, sir,” the pilot replied.
De Bono and Yvette began discussing the trip ahead, while Johnston stared out the window as the service vehicles pulled away from the Gulfstream to a safe distance. He continued to glance occasionally at De Bono, admiring his presence.
In his late fifties, the UNE Secretary General swam underwater laps in his private pool each morning to maintain his trim and dignified figure, and, unlike other men his age who had already gone gray or bald, he still had a full hairline with chestnut brown wavy hair. Gracefully trimmed by a touch of gray at just the right places, his youthfully thick hair accentuated his strong facial features.
But what Johnston noticed most, was how De Bono's deep brown eyes could flash at you with enough intensity to make you freeze like a startled deer caught in the headlights on a pitch black Louisiana night.
“Prepare for takeoff,” the pilot announced. “Starting launch countdown on my mark...” The cabin began to fill with a loud hum and Johnston felt a strange and unnerving sensation pass through his body as the craft began to levitate inches above the launch pad
“Relax,” De Bono assured him in a comforting voice, loud enough to be heard over the din. “It's the anti-gravity system. It has to stabilize an EM field. The odd sensations you're feeling will pass quickly. So will the noise. Relax Senator, you're about to have a rather stimulating experience."
Just as De Bono had said, the whirring noise of the anti-gravity device quickly diminished to a slightly audible hum as the nose of the Gulfstream rose steeply towards the sky. The craft hung in that attitude for what seemed an eternity to Johnston before the small low altitude rockets kicked in with a muffled roar, pushing him back into his seat at one and half times his normal weight. He looked at De Bono with surprise, which only made the Secretary General chuckle. Somewhat embarrassed, he turned his head to look out through the large oval window that stretched down past the right armrest of his seat, to watch the Sydney skyline fall below the craft at an incredible rate.
Ten minutes later, the hurtling craft's nose pitched downward to normal flight just below the stratosphere. Johnston marveled at the curvaceous sight of t
he earth below them as the craft's scram engines propelled them to a speed of Mach 7.6. The noise cancellation system in the Gulfstream's elegantly appointed cabin lowered the sound level such that one could even talk in loud whispers.
The ride was breathtaking and one he would relish telling his friends and family about. No doubt about it, this was air travel such as the common man could never hope to dream about except through the vicarious accounts of media stories.
“Quite remarkable, isn't it,” De Bono commented. “You know, the first time I ever flew as a very young boy was in a Boeing 727. Oh my,” he laughed, “I thought I was an astronaut!"
With his gaze still fixed at the earth below, Johnston could only say, “Secretary General, I definitely catch your meaning. This is real Buck Rogers stuff."
Yvette was amused by Johnston's remark and studied him with a pleasant smile, as watching him reminded her of her own first experience in the Gulfstream. The first time would always be the best, at least for her. She looked over at De Bono and laid her hand gently upon his. “Dom Perignon and Beluga Caviar?"
“A delicious idea,” De Bono purred back. Yvette winked as she unbuckled herself and walked forward to the small kitchen area just aft of the cockpit. He watched her lithe undulating hips through the space between the seatbacks and whispered to himself, “delicious indeed."
He then turned his attention back to Senator Johnston who was still mesmerized by the view below. It was time to attend to the business at hand, as the purpose of this private excursion was not simply to entertain a recklessly greedy politician with the ride of a lifetime. Rather, he viewed Johnston as an over ripe lemon, about to fall of its own weight from the political tree and with a thud that could interfere with his goals. That was, unless he could manage to turn this particular lemon into lemonade, which was precisely the reason for this trip.
Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru Page 3