The two bigger agents immediately stepped forward. They took a look, glanced at each other, then stepped back. Gruber, the smallest of the three, stared at Barron and his smile grew wider. He never looked at the box and didn't move from his spot just in front of Barron’s desk.
“Thought we wouldn’t find out, huh?” asked Gruber.
“What?” gasped Barron. He tried unsuccessfully to regain some of his composure. He flashed a look at Jayne.
“Naughty boy,” she said in a husky voice.
Barron forced his eyes to look back at the box that contained James’ severed head. The young agent’s face was a mask of pain, his eyes open and staring; his mouth snarled in a rictus of death. The eyes were so clear—Barron’s heart tried to climb up his throat. He glanced at Gruber’s hands. There was a red stain at the wrist of the white shirt protruding from his black suit jacket.
“You murdered him!”
Gruber laughed. “Just now, yes. In reality, though, sir, you murdered him.” The other two agents looked at him, then took a step back, but did not draw their weapons or otherwise react.
Gruber snorted in derision. “He didn’t put up much of a fight.”
“I don’t understand—”
The smile vanished from Gruber’s face. “Oh cut the bullshit, Barron.” He chuckled and glanced at Jayne. “Bullshit Barron—I kinda like that.”
Jayne nodded without taking her eyes off the President. “Has a catchy ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed,” agreed Gruber. It was like the two of them were at a government function instead of standing over a severed head in the President’s nuclear fallout bunker.
“This is a message from Reginald, dear,” Jayne softly. Her voice held no sympathy, but Barron took comfort in the fact that her eyes were full of…what? Pity?
She’s just as trapped as I am. A fleeting fondness for her blossomed in his heart. They were kindred spirits, of a twisted sort. This is a show—she isn't really happy to see that agent die. She doesn’t like this…but she must play her part.
“Reginald knows everything you do, love,” Jayne said sadly. She straightened her back and adjusted her jacket. “Take him,” she said, her voice as sharp as a whip.
The two beefy agents moved behind the desk to grab Barron’s arms and lift him effortlessly. He cried out and cursed to no avail. Their grip was like iron—there was no way he could break free in his drug-weakened state. Perhaps, before he had been seduced by Jayne, he might've been able to escape, but not now.
"What you want us to do with him?” asked the one on his right.
Gruber turned to Jayne.
She thought for a moment before a slow smile spread across her face. "Just hold him here while I make a phone call."
"What’re you going to do?" asked Barron. He hated how scared he sounded.
"You," Jayne said, playfully pressing a finger on his lips, “need to stay quiet for this."
Barron turned his head. “Whatever you think you're going to get away with—you won't! Whoever you try to contact is loyal to me! The Cabinet—"
“Love, who did you think found and hired those people?”
President Barron blinked as he stared at Jayne. She was right, of course—the entire time he thought he had surrounded himself with sycophants and devoted followers, he'd been digging a hole and lining it with people who were devoted to someone else.
Reginald.
Barron’s shoulders slumped. His defiance crumbled, and he sagged in the iron grip of his captors.
He had failed his country, Denton—even Reginald in some sick, twisted way. The deaths of all the people in Atlanta were on his hands. He could almost smell their blood. The iron taste of it filled his mouth. He had failed his own family—he supposed he would never see them again. He wondered if they were even still alive—Barron didn’t suppose it mattered anymore.
He stared at the phone with hatred. Even when he tried to correct the mess, he had failed. All he’d wanted to do was make one phone call and fire that asshole, Jones. But no—he’d failed at that, too.
Jayne strolled around his desk, stiletto heels clicking against the floor. She picked up the receiver. "Alice? Yes, dear. It's time for that phone call, thank you."
Barron fumed. Alice picked up instantly after Jayne had come in the office, yet when he needed a call…
Jayne waited patiently with the phone pressed against her ear. She flipped her head to the side and moved her golden mane over her other shoulder. She winked and offered a knowing smile to the President.
"Yes? Is this Mr. Tennyson Jones?” She nodded. "Good. I need to talk to you." Her brow wrinkled in concern for a moment. "No, not about that. You've done admirably well—who am I? This is Jayne, dear."
A startled squawk emanated from the phone and she smiled. Jayne nodded. "Yes, dear—that Jayne. Do you know why I'm calling?"
Another pause. The smile grew. "That's right, dear. Your little run at anarchy is complete. We thank you for your service, but you are sadly no longer needed. I shall expect an electronic copy of your resignation within the hour. You are hereby ordered to terminate and cease all activities pertaining to the prosecution, persecution, and re-education of all American citizens—regardless of their loyalties to either President.”
Barron allowed himself a smile. "He'll never stop, you know—he’s insane.” His quiet remark earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs. He doubled over and muffled his cry. Slowly, he rose and held his breath, waiting for the ache in his ribs to dissipate. Barron turned and looked at the profile of the agent who had struck him.
"I understand how much work you've put into the Program—" Jayne said patiently. She paused, irritation evident on her face. "What you fail to understand is—" she stopped again, listening. "Mr. Jones, we both work for the same—"
President Barron found himself grinning, despite an angry stare from the lead agent. Gruber nodded, and Barron felt another swift blow to his ribs. He gasped in pain and fell to his knees, only to be hauled back to his feet again.
"I don't care what you think, and I don't care what you've been told. I’m giving you an order directly from him.” Jayne rolled her eyes. “Do…you…understand?" she said slowly in a dangerous tone.
“You,” she said, "need to realize that we are all cogs in the same great machine—we must all play our parts. Your part is finished, Tennyson. You knew going into this—"
Jayne rolled her eyes again and jutted her hip to the left as she leaned against the desk. "You're not listening to me—this is your final warning: shut down your operation and reassign your people per the orders you have been given or—"
Jayne sat there staring at the ceiling. She held the phone away from her head and looked at it with indifference as Tennyson Jones continued to yell. She shrugged her shoulders and hung up. Jayne looked at Barron and winked again.
"Oh well," she said flippantly. "There's more than one way to skin a cat.” She picked up the phone once more.
"Yes, Alice, it's me again—put me through to T7-421."
T7-421? What’s that? Barron shot a questioning look toward Gruber. The agent ignored him and watched Jayne.
She waited—smiling—until the connection was established. "Authentication," she said. She listened and then nodded. "Very well: Seven-Five-Whiskey-Romeo-Alpha-Victor." Jayne waited for a moment and flashed that perky smile at the President one more time. Finally, she nodded.
"Agreed—you understand the assignment?" she asked. “That's right. Make it as messy as possible, but it has to be fast. Have fun with this one, dear. When?" She looked down at the delicate diamond-encrusted watch that hung on her slim, tanned wrist. "Oh, anytime it's convenient for you—as long as it takes place within the next five minutes."
She laughed. "Of course, it needs to be done right now, silly." She nodded again, listening. "You’re a dear—thank you ever so much. Bye-bye, now."
She hung up and stared at Barron.
"What was that about?" he asked through
clenched teeth. Every breath brought a wave of fire to his ribs. He worried that one of them might be cracked.
"Oh, Director Jones forced my hand by refusing to back down. Reginald was right—the man is quite stubborn. Once he gets his teeth into a project, he simply refuses to let go. Oh well," she said as she examined her fingernails. "That's about to become his problem, not ours."
"The man I just contacted is extremely—” the President’s phone interrupted her as it rang. Everyone in the room looked at it.
"My goodness, that was fast." She stood and picked up the receiver. "Hello, this is Jayne Renolds." She listened for a moment. "Excellent. I knew I could count on you. And you're sure there were witnesses?" She put a hand to her mouth, and her eyes went wide. "Oh my—you are good! Thank you very much. Our people will be in contact with you regarding payment within the hour.”
Barron shuddered. In less than five minutes, Jayne had made one simple phone call and ended the life of a man who had been spreading terror across the entire country for weeks. What kind of connections did Reginald have?
Oh my God, I've made a terrible mistake…
Jayne nodded. "Right about now, you’re starting to understand the power that Reginald wields. I'm assuming you're thinking that you've made a big mistake—sadly, you have.” She strolled around the desk to stand in front of him. She looked up at him and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the lips. It was a slow, tender kiss—full of regret—a kiss good-bye.
Fear gripped him and tried to pull his soul down through the floor. He felt his knees began to weaken. His heart raced; his vision narrowed.
"Yes," she whispered. She traced a finger along his jaw line. "It's been fun, but unfortunately, your services are no longer needed."
Jayne turned and looked at Gruber. "You know what to do."
The agent nodded. His cold eyes focused on the President. "I'd like to do this quickly and quietly, sir. You walk out of here with all of your dignity, and we follow you. I tell you which way to go—you speak to no one. Is that understood?"
President Barron managed to nod. "What—" he said, his voice choking with emotion as he realized the end of his life was only moments away. "What do you think is going to happen when people find out I’ve been killed? Don't turn me into a martyr. America will never follow Reginald—he’s a foreigner!"
His next few words were the last anyone would ever hear from him, he was sure of it. He wanted to make them count. "Those people up there that Tennyson Jones has been terrorizing and killing—those families we've ripped apart—all those people have been suffering because of Reginald. When they find out—"
Jayne placed one delicate finger across his lips. "Calm yourself, dear. No need to get worked up. Don't worry about what the people up there are going to think. Everything Tennyson Jones did was in your name."
King Barron.
The President started to shake his head. Jayne pressed her finger harder—painfully—into his lips to keep him silent. "The people up there don't hate Tennyson Jones—they hate you. And when they find out that I have not only removed you from power but executed the man responsible for destroying so many families…well, this country needs a Savior right now and thanks to you, that's me."
Barron stared at her. He was wrong—she wasn’t trapped by Reginald—she was just like him.
She laughed. "Get him out of here.” The two agents grabbed the President and dragged him from the room. Barron saw the open door into his office as the very gate of Hell itself. He tried to dig in his heels and struggle. Once he left his office, he knew he was doomed.
“You can’t do this to me. I'm the President of the United States!”
“We made you dear. We can unmake you,” replied Jayne in a sweet voice.
“Your plan won’t work!” argued Barron. His desperate mind envisioned millions of Americans rising up in anger—
Something hard and cylindrical pressed firmly against his lower back. He heard the soft metallic click of a hammer being cocked. Jayne appeared at his side and whispered into his ear: "Do be a dear and stop struggling," she said. “I’d hate to have to shoot you myself.”
CHAPTER 35
Denver, Colorado.
Emergency National Reserve Operations Center.
The Cave.
COOPER SAT AT THE table in the empty briefing room. His fists opened and closed of their own volition. His mind was utterly blank—he didn't know what to think, what to do, or what to feel. The rage that roiled inside him blocked out the entire world.
General Rykker’s debriefing had lasted over an hour—fairly short as far as after-action reports went. Everything had gone about as well as expected—he’d relayed exactly what had happened, what had gone wrong and when, who died and how. General Rykker explained he’d discovered how they’d been sold out. A traitor, some SIGINT analyst on Admiral Bennet’s staff—a decorated veteran, no less—had delivered bogus intel and set the whole mission up for failure.
Admiral Bennet decided it would be best to review the team’s helmet video feeds—they were classified as evidence now that a court martial had been ordered. General Rykker pushed for a ruling of summary judgment but so far the best he could do was lock the traitor in the brig under heavy guard. Rykker declared he’d interrogate the man himself.
Cooper found out the real reason for the shortened debriefing when Bennet asked everyone else to leave and then gave him the news of Brenda's death. He had done so in private and for that, Cooper was grateful. However, courtesy didn't quell the grief that threatened to consume him.
Brenda’s dead.
He clenched his fists again until he felt the pain in his palms. He looked down at his right hand and saw a small trickle of blood on the spartan metal desk.
Bennet had announced they’d discovered a lead on the location of the organization that called the shots on the invasion and the flu. The people who worked for that organization had infiltrated the base and ultimately had taken Brenda's life. Rykker believed the SIGINT captain who compromised the San Diego mission worked for them as well.
The fact that their agent—Brenda’s own assistant—had successfully absconded with priceless blood samples from the Source and all Boatner's research had no effect on Cooper whatsoever.
Brenda’s dead.
He knew the mission to San Diego had been a trap from the get-go. He knew the information mission planners had been given about the value of that NKor base in San Diego had been a distraction to lure the SEALs and Marines away from Denver. It had all been an attempt to weaken President Harris and kidnap the Source.
Bennet had revealed that a mysterious call had come in from Washington, from a Secret Service Agent close to Barron. The man had relayed authentication codes from Barron himself that helped Harris’ command staff reestablish digital control across the Armed Forces networks.
He’d seen the war room down the hall lit up like a Christmas tree on the way to the debriefing. Two days ago, it had been dark.
Cooper closed his eyes—none of that helped. After that bit of good news, Bennet had gone on to say that the flu had gotten worse. It had shifted—pulled off some kind of medical trick that Brenda would know how to explain…
Brenda’s dead.
"I'm sorry, son," Bennet had said quietly. "There was nothing anyone could do. You should take pride in her sacrifice, though—it’s only through her actions that the Source is alive and we can still beat this virus. She died fighting—she's a hero, son. President Harris is going to award her the Medal of Honor.”
Cooper stared at the whiteboard in the empty briefing room. Bennet had left some time ago—he didn’t know when, and cared less.
Brenda’s dead, he told himself for the hundredth time. I’m the one who signed up for death and combat. I'm the goddamn SEAL. She’s a doctor—was a doctor. His dry, bloodshot eyes roamed the empty walls of the briefing room. She was supposed be safe here.
"I'm sorry bro," said Charlie's voice from the left. Cooper blinked and turned to
see his XO standing next to the table. He hadn’t heard him enter the room.
Charlie sat down heavily and sighed. "I don't know what else to say," he muttered. “If you need anything, let me know, okay? You've helped me with Aliana and CJ—I don't think I could've made it this far if you hadn't…"
Cooper nodded stiffly. Brenda’s dead.
Thoughts of his last few moments with her peppered his mind. He relished the simple happiness they’d shared, wrapped in each other's arm in the darkened lab before the mission. He closed his eyes and tried to burn the memories into his soul. He never wanted to forget the way she felt in his arms or the way her hair smelled.
The two men sat in silence for a few moments. The constant tick-tick-tick of the cheap clock on the wall behind them provided a dreary backdrop.
Cooper replayed their last moments together again. His mouth twitched in a sad smile as he remembered how her green eyes sparkled like emeralds in her lab’s dim light. He remembered the mischievous way her nose crinkled when she smiled and threw her arms around his neck that last time. He remembered the way her hair smelled, how silky soft it was, and the sweet, half-hidden scent of her perfume. He remembered the shapely curves of her body, the round, fullness of—
Cooper closed his eyes and lowered his forehead to the desk. Thinking like this would get him nowhere—he knew that. Rest—that's what his body and mind craved.
Vengeance, whispered his soul.
He wished for peace, but a faceless enemy emerged from the shadows and snatched away the tiny, bright light in his life. Cowards—too afraid to face him on the battlefield—snuck in and stabbed him in the heart. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
He looked up and stared at the whiteboard where one name had been written in neat block letters. Reginald—the one responsible.
Reginald was responsible for the death of President Denton, the deaths of all the people who had been sickened with the flu, and the deaths of all those hundreds of thousands in Atlanta. The deaths of all of his brothers in arms—the entire SEAL cadre—all of those deaths stained Reginald’s bloodied hands.
The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga Page 41