The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  Reginald took another sip of his drink and rolled his eyes. That was the trouble with servants—Stefan in particular—they always ruined the mood. Even when they had good news to impart. Reginald sighed. Charlotte would have to work twice as hard now.

  As soon as Stefan left, Darius staggered into Reginald’s sitting room. He limped on a bandaged leg and looked pale and haggard.

  Reginald tore his eyes off Charlotte's red curls and glanced at the agent. “You are to be congratulated, Darius. You have succeeded where four others before you have failed.”

  The man came to a stop and nodded grimly. He had scratches and dried blood on his face. His hand held a small box. Reginald noticed bloodstained corners. The man briefly flicked his eyes over Charlotte as he continued to step forward, extending his left arm to hand Reginald the box.

  Reginald reached out to accept a gift. "This is the data I required?”

  "It is," replied the man in clipped tones. It sounded as if it was painful for him speak. The way he held his left arm suggested to Reginald he’d been wounded in the chest—cracked ribs, perhaps.

  As he moved closer, Reginald noticed more bandages. One wide bandage wrapped around his thigh, stained crimson in the middle—that wound was still open. Yet another had been hastily wrapped around his midsection and a third wrapped on his upper right arm. His face had splotches of dried blood and a few cuts over the eyes.

  "I hope you didn't run into anything too terribly difficult?" asked Reginald. He opened the delicate wooden box and ignored the exquisitely worked ebony to focus on the small flash drive in a velvet-lined canister. He plucked out the drive and dropped the expensive wooden box without a second glance.

  The agent watched it—that box was likely worth more than his annual salary—clatter to the floor. He slowly looked back at Reginald. "I retrieved the blood samples as well, Earl Dunkeith.”

  "I trust those have been stored properly?" asked Reginald.

  “Aye,” said Darius, “the samples have already been delivered to the lab. Your man says he should have some results for you by tomorrow evening."

  "More good news!" Reginald said with a clap of his hands. "Just in time for me to brief the Council. You have done most admirable work.” Reginald felt the delicious sensation of pressure beginning to build deep down inside. He needed to wrap this up quickly.

  “You shall be rewarded handsomely, Darius. Consider yourself promoted. I shall double your income and give you a quarterly bonus on par with my household knights.” Reginald waved his hand in dismissal.

  The man's eyes went round in surprise. "Thank you, my Lord!" He bobbed his head as he backed out of the room. “You’re most gracious!"

  “Yes,” Reginald said with a smile, "I know." He looked down and winced as Charlotte began to speed up her performance. Sweat began to break out on Reginald's brow. He raised his left hand and motioned again for the agent to leave him. “Run along now—I’ve important matters to attend…”

  Reginald closed his eyes and lay back against the cushions, preparing himself to release control and relinquish himself into Charlotte's care.

  He heard a soft beep and before he could open his eyes, Jayne's voice boomed from the silence around him. "Reginald! I—oh, Christ—do you have to do that right now?”

  Reginald's eyes snapped open. Charlotte flinched at the interruption. No, no, no! "What—" He stared at Jayne’s face. Damn it all…

  He could feel the peak that he had been rushing toward slip away like smoke on the wind. Charlotte groaned her displeasure.

  The look on Jayne's face and the emergency breakthrough that she had used to activate the private screen in his room focused Reginald’s attention immediately.

  "You might want to be fully dressed for this.”

  Reginald smirked. “Really, my dear? I find this supremely ironic—"

  "Barron gave them his codes,” Jayne blurted.

  Reginald’s hand gripped Charlotte's hair tight. She squealed in pain and froze—the girl at least had enough sense not to struggle. "Who gave whom which codes?" he asked slowly.

  "Barron contacted Harris… He's given over his codes—they’re unraveling everything!” Jayne looked frantic. Her hair, normally restrained with skill, was a tumbled mess about her head. Her eyes were wide and darted back and forth as she talked, as if she were expecting enemies to appear any moment. “They've already re-established satellite communications and their data uplinks—”

  “Calm down, Jayne,” Reginald said quietly.

  “Calm down? Calm down? Reginald, Harris is already getting the National Command Authority re-established.”

  Reginald took a moment to process the information and admire the symmetry of Jayne’s face. He could look on such beauty all day. Unattainable beauty—Reginald compressed his mouth into a grim line.

  Jayne’s image frowned. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  Reginald felt himself stir once more. Perhaps this interruption wouldn’t be so bad after all. Charlotte murmured her agreement. He let go of the red curls in his hand and she resumed her duties.

  “I said Harris is back in play.” Jayne frowned. “You might want to close her mouth long enough to figure out what we’re going to do about it…”

  Reginald reluctantly shoved Charlotte out of his lap and she squeaked as her bare ass slapped the hardwood floor. He jumped to his feet, ignoring his nakedness and crossed the room to his desk. He quickly typed the commands to set his backup plan into motion.

  The reports on his screen confirmed Jayne’s words. Harris was regaining control. The National Command Authority data uplinks, satellite communication, instant battlefield updates—all of it.

  He keyed the intercom button next to the computer. “Stefan, prepare the manor for immediate departure. We’re going to visit the summer home.”

  “Now, My Lord? It’s the middle of a blizzard and—”

  Reginald mashed the transmit button: “Stefan, I am not in the habit of repeating myself.”

  A pause. “No, Your Lordship.”

  “Very good. Off you go.” He brought up the nuclear command and control authorization window on his screen. He had changed the password authentication himself as soon as he’d had Barron’s code. It was time to change that again. In the background, Jayne prattled on about what she was going to have to do to regain control over Barron, how he should be punished.

  “Oh, he’ll be punished,” Reginald muttered as he typed in the new code. The screen flashed red and a blinking dialog box appeared:

  !>>ACCESS DENIED<
  He tried the code again with the same result. Reginald slammed his fist on the desk, which elicited a gasp of surprise from Charlotte.

  “Bollocks!” The Americans—at least those loyal to Harris—were back in control of their own nuclear arsenal. Things were quickly spiraling from bad to worse. He whirled around and stormed back in front of Jayne’s image on the wall. On the way he pointed at Charlotte, “Get out.”

  “But—” she said, glancing down at her nakedness.

  “Now!”

  Without a word, she scrambled to her feet and ran from the room, her feet slapping the floor.

  Reginald stood in front of the camera, hands on his bare hips, and glowered at Jayne’s face. He couldn’t help but think that as she looked down on him, there was some amusement on her face. “Have a good look?”

  That seductive smile of hers tugged delicately at the corner of her perfect lips. Her eyes half-closed and she said, “Indeed.”

  At any other time, Reginald would have welcomed that look on her face. Now… “Well, try to control yourself—we haven’t time for your sexual deviance.”

  Jayne’s eyes flared with a sudden burst of anger but she held her tongue.

  Reginald spoke: “We are quite out of options, aren’t we?”

  Jayne nodded. “I don’t think he knows personally, yet. We’re monitoring their comms, but their techs are just as good as ours. I’m sure they’ll cut that off soon. We d
on’t have much time.”

  “Indeed,” observed Reginald, the old comfortable feeling of calm and control filling his body once more. He had been fast enough—he had prepared for this eventuality. Truth be told, he would have been rather disappointed had Barron not given away the code and undermined his own authority. It showed the man still had a spark left, some strand of moral strength. The final breaking of his spirit would be that much more enjoyable.

  “Very well,” mused Reginald. He turned and padded across the floor to his robe, abandoned on the sofa when Charlotte had entered the room hours ago. As he slipped into the comforting cover, he turned to face Jayne’s image again. “Find out how Barron got the message to Harris. Destroy his access and punish him accordingly. Be harsh. I want this lesson learned fast.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Reginald smiled. “Fan the flames of war. Agincourt is in effect, dear.”

  “Got it.” Jayne gave Reginald one more appraising look and winked before her image disappeared from the wall-mounted screen.

  Reginald sighed and keyed in the code necessary to speak with Tennyson Jones. The man’s frog-like face appeared a few seconds later as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The fringe of hair on his head stood up sideways at a ridiculous angle. The man looked a proper wreck.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jones.”

  His eyes flew wide. “Yes, sir! Good—”

  “Enough with the small talk,” said Reginald, his European accent gone, replaced with a sturdy, Midwestern accent. “It’s time to get serious. You ready?”

  “Of course! My men are in place. I’ve got informants and locals willing to—”

  Reginald waved a dismissive hand. “Good—unleash them. Finish this business to the last full measure. I want a shooting war in less than 24 hours. Can you do it?”

  Jones swallowed audibly. “I can.”

  “Good.” Reginald clicked the screen off. He couldn’t help but smile.

  He called up the lab. One of the white-clad doctors appeared on camera, his face all but obscured by a surgical mask and face shield. “My Lord?”

  “Did you receive the blood samples?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “And the data from this?” Reginald asked, holding the flash drive up in front of his own camera.

  “Yes—we’re processing the information and running the first test batch of a new serum now.”

  Reginald rubbed his smooth chin in thought. “Very well. Please continue, Doctor. I want to know the moment you’re ready to begin testing.”

  After the screen went black, Reginald eyed the red switch on his terminal. One flick of that little plastic and metal lever and the entire lab complex would implode. He had seen to it personally that the structure containing his state-of-the-art medical research facility was laced with explosives. Now that the doors had been sealed and the precious blood samples at long last deposited along with Dr. Boatner’s research…the scientists down there were doomed.

  Reginald would retrieve the blood, the serum, and the data, then kill them all and destroy the lab. He alone would possess the anti-viral medication necessary to defeat the mutated Korean Flu.

  Reginald smiled. He was going to make more money than God Himself. China would pay through the nose for a serum. Anything to give them a leg up on their enemies.

  The screen flickered to life. Stefan appeared, his face flushed with concern or fear.

  “What is it?”

  “Apologies, My Lord, the King is on a secure channel for you.”

  Reginald swallowed. He needed another day at least. The King would be furious that Harris had regained control. He would be furious that Reginald had not yet created the long-promised serum.

  Reginald stood before the monitor, smoothed his hair, and adjusted his robe. He struck a relaxed, dignified pose. The King, exile though he was, commanded some of the most formidable assets in the world. He did not retain the respect and fear of the Council through weakness. When the King was displeased, people died—long, slow deaths.

  Reginald turned on the large screen in front of him. The King’s stately visage appeared—he looked furious.

  “Earl Dunkeith, I require an explanation.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Washington, D.C.

  The White House.

  Presidential Emergency Operations Center.

  PRESIDENT BARRON LET THE leaflet in his hands fall to the desk. Tennyson Jones had gone completely off the reservation.

  He blinked and looked at the paper again. It couldn’t be true—yet there it was:

  FEDERAL AGENTS ARE THE ENEMY!

  THEY ARE KILLING PATRIOTIC,

  GOD-FEARING AMERICANS AND TEARING FAMILIES APART…

  ALL IN THE NAME OF KING BARRON!

  RISE WITH US—JOIN THE SONS OF LIBERTY!

  TAKE BACK YOUR COUNTRY!

  (BOUNTY AVAILABLE FOR NEW RECRUITS)

  A handwritten note on the back indicated that thousands of leaflets had been collected in cities across the country—at least where Jones had people available to look. So far, it had been estimated the Sons Of Liberty were directly responsible for the deaths of nearly a hundred federal agents.

  Barron glanced at another report that indicated men had been shot in front of their families, and their bodies left as a warning. Jones was a madman on the loose—he authorized the killing of anyone not willing to publicly swear allegiance. The Sons of Liberty retaliated. More bloodshed ensued. Jones was driving the country straight into the arms of an open civil war.

  Barron flipped to the next page. It was a report out of Boston regarding terror attacks perpetrated by the Sons of Liberty against what was left of the German security forces. Barron authorized Jones to send his own people to fill the power vacuum. It was risky, but controlling Boston was worth it.

  Unfortunately, according to the note, the plan had backfired. The citizens of Boston, united in their hatred of the Germans, had merely transferred that hate to Jones’ people. Dozens of agents had been killed or simply vanished. The Sons of Liberty were getting serious, and their message was spreading with every atrocity committed by Jones in President Barron’s name.

  His eyes flicked back to the recruiting flyer. King Barron.

  That’s what they’re calling me now. People are wishing me dead. How has it gotten so bad—how did I lose control?

  He looked at the last page. It was a detailed accounting of the number of Americans moved to re-education camps and families transferred to holding facilities for loyalty assessments. The daily numbers were staggering. Barron paused—the last three dates were blank. He scanned the page, trying to account for the error. They had been averaging 12,000 transfers a day for over a week now, then nothing.

  What happened?

  His eyes roamed the paper, taking in all the numbers, seeking a pattern or new sequence. Just as he was about to chalk it up to clerical error, he found the missing numbers—they had been transferred to the civilian mortality column.

  “My God,” he whispered. “He’s killing them instead of relocating…no wonder the people hate me.” Barron felt his hands begin to tremble. Why the hell did he start this drastic course of action? I didn’t authorize this—I thought I made myself clear the last time we spoke—I wanted direct control over this business.

  He’s turning me into Stalin—I’m responsible for killing my own countrymen.

  The President reached for his phone. It was time to end the madness. As he waited for Alice to connect him to his wayward loyalty enforcer, he smiled. At least James got the authentication codes through to Harris.

  Barron took secret delight in the reports coming in about the rival government’s aborted attack on the North Korean base in San Diego. The Joint Chiefs—Jayne’s impostors—were apoplectic. It had been delicious to watch their indignant reactions at the morning’s briefing. He'd played ignorance to conceal his own involvement, but he had to admit the show had been entertaining.

  A double-knock on the
door jarred him back to the present. He looked at the phone in his hand. You only have one thing to do, Alice… He sighed and replaced the phone on its cradle and called out, “Enter.”

  Three Secret Service Agents—the same ones from whom he’d rescued James—entered the room. This time, Gruber seemed to be holding back a smile—Barron could see it in his eyes—he was pleased with himself about something. He carried a box about the size of a bowling ball and deposited it with a thud on Barron’s desk. “Package for you, sir.”

  “A package? Here?” Barron tempered his curiosity with a healthy dose of fear. “Is it safe?”

  Gruber turned deadly serious. “Sir, it’s my job to make sure you’re protected. I personally ensured the contents were safe.” He smiled. “It’s my job, sir.”

  Barron offered his own weak smile—which felt more like a wince—he reached to open the lid and froze as Jayne sashayed into the room. She had a mischievous look painted across her face. When last he’d seen her, she’d been panting and crying in bed, her hands painfully tied to the bedposts. Jayne seemed to be enjoying the roughness he brought into the bedroom of late.

  “Jayne my dear, I’m surprised to see you so…soon,” he said. I’m surprised you got out of bed at all. How the hell did you manage that? You must be even more limber than I thought….

  The agents turned as one and nodded in greeting. She ignored them and focused those brilliant blue eyes on Barron.

  “What do you need, Jayne? I need to fire Tennyson Jones—maybe have him arrested.”

  “Aren’t you going to open your gift?” she asked, one hand on her hip.

  He tore his eyes off Jayne and lifted the lid. “Fine, but…” The box was tall enough that he had to stand in order to see what was in it—

  “Christ!” he gasped and staggered back from the desk as if he’d been punched. He backed into the chair and tripped, landing in the seat with a grunt.