by W. R. Benton
“You mean run over them with a truck or car?”
“That's exactly what I mean. This shit has to stop and it will, if enough die while protesting.”
“They may join a partisan group, sir.”
The General laughed and then said, “Hell, Bill, the Liberals have no partisan groups; they have very few weapons, except what the criminals can get their hands on. They're a soft bunch, more at home on a sofa watching TV than hiking in the woods or camping.”
“What do you want done with the bodies?”
“Use a backhoe and bury them alone, placing their names on wooden slats, if they have any identification on them. Dump all without an ID in a common grave, or take their fingerprints and find out who they are. I'm sure most of them have a record of some sort. Personally, I'd place them in one big hole and fill it in, but the media won't like this massacre as it is, so no reason to give them more fuel for the fire.”
Chapter 5
Sue was terrified of the town, especially since she'd had to identify Jesse's body in the morgue. He'd been cut and torn apart with nails missing, tongue cut out, ears, nose and lips missing, and just butchered. She'd never seen a human body so mangled in her life. One look and she had to turn her head, because there lay the man she loved, the father of her children, sliced to death. She noticed he'd been decapitated, but someone in the mortuary had sewed his head back on.
She went home to be alone, and after pouring four fingers of whiskey in a glass, she downed the drink and poured another. She didn't have a drinking problem and kept the booze for visitors, but she felt the drink was needed, to calm her down. At times on the way home, she'd had to pull off and stop in a parking lot to cry. She loved Jesse, even as weak as he was as a man. He was a gentle man and couldn't understand why differences in the world couldn't be discussed and an agreement reached. She'd told him many times war was needed at some point in the history of all nations, but he'd strongly disagreed at the time. Now he was dead—murdered.
She moved to the computer, taking her drink, with the intent of telling close friends and family that Jesse was dead. She booted up the system and a few minutes later she tried to gain access to the internet, but received the following message in red letters.
“The internet has been hacked and shut down. The internet is now under the control of the New World Order. We are demanding the amount of $2,000,000,000 each from all countries of the world to make it active again. The payment must be made to a Swiss bank account, #0172091100, using the following bank routing # 076300197. If payment is not made, we will permanently destroy the internet as you know it, so this is no bluff. Those who pay will immediately have service restored.”
She took a sip of her whiskey, shook her head, and muttered, “Shit.”
She then walked out of the house to check her mail box by the door. She finally got Jesse's life insurance check, or so it looked like, and some bills and trash mail. Suddenly, a van rounded a corner, pulled on to her street, squealed to a stop, the doors flew open, and a machine-gun on a tripod began firing. A shot struck her mailbox, knocking it from her home. She'd left the front door unlocked, so she swung around, and pulling her Ruger .45 auto, she returned fire. She knew the machine-gun operator was struck, because the gun stopped firing. Stepping inside, she emptied one magazine and then fell to the floor.
The machine-gun opened up again and the rounds easily passed right through the house, destroying most of what she owned, while she laid on the floor screaming, as she placed a fresh magazine in her weapon. Her son, six years old, ran into the living room and right to her, where he began crying. She laid on top of him, not thinking, but .50 caliber machine-gun bullets could easily penetrate the wall, both of them and exit the house and hit another a mile away.
Minutes later guns stopped firing, so she raised up and looked out the busted window, and saw two men wearing black suits approaching the house. When they were almost to the door, she shot both and they fell to the ground screaming. The van took off at that point and were soon gone from view.
Calling 911, she said, “I just had a van full of men shoot up my house. I defended myself and while I'm okay, two of them I shot may be dying. They're at my front porch.”
“Can you reach them now and give first aid?”
“No, they're still armed and I'm not going outside for any amount of money either, because I have a child with me. My husband once told me injured men can kill too. I need the police and ambulance here quickly, or the ambulance won't be needed. They were shot with a .45 auto.”
“I have the police and ambulance on the way.”
“Okay, but I hope they hurry. I have —”
One on the bloody men suddenly appeared in her doorway. He'd taken a round high and in the shoulder and his chest was covered in blood, and a gun was clearly seen in his right hand. Sue raised her pistol and fired three shots at the man, two to the middle the chest and the last took him low, just about an inch below his belly button. He gave a loud shriek and then fell to the floor screaming and kicking.
The 911 operator asked, “What was that sound? It sounded like gunfire. Are you okay and safe?”
“I think you need the undertaker for this last man. He looks to be dead, but yes, I'm fine and so is my child.”
“The van may return, so be ready for it to show at any time.”
Minutes later a cop car pulled into her driveway and once at a complete stop, the officer got out shaking his head. He was speaking into a microphone as he neared.
At the door, she stood waiting as he moved toward her.
“Mrs. Stovall? Sue Stovall?” he asked.
“That's me, and they have destroyed my home. Most of the windows are broken out, the walls all pock marked, and most of my furniture ruined by the machine-gun fire. Who would have done this, and why?”
“It's almost like a gang related drive by shooting” the officer said.
“Well, by God, I'm in no gang. I did have my husband kidnapped, tortured and killed, and then dumped in a park. According to the CIA, the New World Order did the killing. I'm thinking I need to move.”
“Yep and with a new identity, which the CIA or FBI can provide for you.”
“Does the CSA have those organizations?”
“Sure they do, but less people working there. Many headed to Union country the second we split into two nations.” He handed her a card with the address and phone number of the CIA. He then informed her to state her life was in danger and the police asked her to call them. “Tell them all about your husband too, and the NWO threat. They can even insert your life's history, all false of course, into the computer and you'll be a different woman then.”
“What do I do now?”
“As soon as the crime lab gets here, I'll take you to a reasonable motel, get you a reduced rate, and find you a room. I'm afraid your life and your child's is going to be greatly changed. I'd be on the phone with the CIA as soon as you get in the room. Someone wants you dead, and the first attack and now this makes that very clear to me. Oh, and once you are given a new name, Sue Stovall will be dead to all friends and family.”
The new CSA President, John Grant, received a phone call from Frankfurt, Germany near noon a week after he'd taken office.
“Guten Tag, Herr Präsident. I hope you are feeling well this day.” A voice the President didn't know spoke, and it surprised Grant that the unknown man's English had absolutely no accent.
“Who are you, and how did you get my number?”
“I work for the New World Order; surely you've heard of us. I wish to offer you two billion dollars to work for us. Now, before you tell me no, your last President died because he refused to go along with our ideas.” The man's tone of voice and speech made it clear he'd spoken to others about this subject before.
“You didn't answer my questions; Who are you and how did you get my number?”
“I'm simply called The Boss and as for getting your number, that was fairly easy. Money does buy answers, sir,
and it also buys telephone numbers if one knows the right people.”
The line went dead.
The Boss said, “I think something needs to be done to get his attention so he knows I'm not playing with him, because he just hung up on me. Get one of our agents to place, oh, I think four bullets through his windows this evening, right after the lights go out for the night.”
A man dressed in black, just like The Boss, said, “I'll issue the order, sir. It will be done. There is a Miss Adolpha Hanish waiting to see you.”
“Show her in, please, and then see to your duties.” The Boss moved to his desk and was seated when she entered.
She was wearing cut off jean shorts, which accented the delicious shape of her legs and rear, but it was the red half-tee that seriously caught his attention. Her large bosom got his attention right off, and partially because her large nipples were clearly seen. The tee was a vee-neck and the cleavage was alluring, and it was cut right at the bottom where the curl of her lower breast curved upward.
It's almost as if she's teasing me and I'm old enough to be her father, but she is one beautiful woman and any man that loves her is extremely lucky.
She moved to his desk and then he motioned for her to sit in the overstuffed leather chair on his left; she did so, and crossed her long legs.
“Guten Tag, Boss.” Adolpha said, as she leaned back, letting the tee rise enough so The Boss could see a good portion of her breasts. They looked firm to him and when she caught him looking, she simply winked.
“Guten Tag, Adolpha, and how may I assist you today? I must say your clothing is enough to get any man's blood to boiling.”
“Even yours, Herr Boss?” She leaned forward and her breasts looked much larger as they hung from her torso.
“Yes, even mine, my dear.”
“Good then, because I'm on fire and need a man. I want an older and mature man to love me, but roughly, after I make him very happy.” She stood, walked to the Boss's chair and sat on his lap as she kissed him, while grinding her rear on his lap. He moaned and she knew then, he was hers.
The President of the Conservative States of America completed his speaking engagement about the progress of the Civil War to Americans on television, and well over 2,000 people live in a large warehouse. His security had been run ragged as they made every attempt to keep him safe and the speech went fine, with no interruptions or assassination attempts. He was forced to wear a bullet proof vest under his suit, and the President disliked it immensely.
While speaking, he said, “We, the Conservative States of America, will not pay ransom to global terrorism by paying the ridiculous price of two billion dollars to have access to the internet. I currently have our best trained computer gurus working on this issue, and expect to have access within a week, if not sooner. Our best guess is a private Russian citizen is demanding this ransom, but we have absolutely no proof of who it might be.”
Later, after supper and a shower, he was lounging in the living room of the White House when his wife turned all the lights off and they sat watching television as they cuddled. They had very little time together, or so it seemed to the First Lady, due to his schedule, which was grueling at best. He was up at all hours and constantly on the go from the early to late hours.
The phone rang just as something shattered a window and flew across the room, striking the far wall with a loud thud. There was no sound of the bullet being fired, so it's a professional holding that gun, the President thought. He's using a silencer. I thought all these windows were bullet proof!
Shoving her onto the floor, he lay on top of her, as he said, “That was a bullet, so stay down until security checks things out.”
A few minutes later, two security men ran into the room and seeing him on the floor, one said, “Four shots fired, Mister President, with four windows struck. This was no assassination attempt, but a show of ability, sir.”
“Ability? Why shoot out windows?”
“To show you they can kill you when they choose in this place, or so I think. That's the only reason I can think of, to be honest. We have others out on the streets now looking for the shooter and choppers in the air looking as well using thermal gear, sir. We tried to call you, too.”
“The call was heard at the same time the window shattered, so I didn't worry about the call.”
“Atlanta is a large city, and I'm sure some innocent folks are out, too.” the First Lady said, as the President moved off of her and stood.
“They'll find him, I'm sure of it. They've already found where the man waited, at the tall building just outside the fence on the west side. It's a park-house, but used mainly during the day by those employed in government.”
“Did they find empty brass?”
“They found no brass, but they did find where he'd been smoking and a number of butts were picked up, as well as a puddle of urine where he'd relieved himself while waiting. A sample of the urine was taken. They will be taken to the lab and the technicians will check the DNA.”
“How on earth did you find his location so quickly?”
“One of the men near the fence saw the first muzzle flash when the man fired his rifle, and called it in. Of course, more than one man saw the other three shots. We were all alerted by then. The shooter was in no hurry and spaced his shots out.”
“Alert the crew on Air Force One that I want the aircraft ready for my trip to Jackson, Mississippi, but we'll leave earlier than scheduled. Say, oh, in an hour.” As he spoke, the President didn't want to sound like a coward, which he wasn't, and he had the military medals to prove it. He was worried about his wife and didn't want her here until they caught the sniper. He'd plan a number of cities to visit and be on the road until they discovered how the bullet proof glass was punched through or caught the man.
“Strange that a bullet pierced this glass.” the other agent said out of the blue, saying exactly what the President was thinking.
“Not really. A round made to pierce armor will penetrate bullet proof glass, but those rounds are controlled and not easy for the man on the street to purchase.”
The President said, “How do we know it was a sole man just out to kill me? It may have been a part of a larger organization.” The New World Order came to mind immediately, and from what he knew, they'd have access to anything the UN had.
“Only two organizations that I feel would want you dead, Mr. President: The United States or the New World Order.”
“Exactly my thoughts as well. Let's investigate this as show of force, by one of those two groups. I know the US is on the NWO's payroll, so it may be a combined effort.”
“Then again,” the First Lady said, “it may have been just a man who dislikes you, honey.” she said, and didn't like the idea of a professional killer after her husband. From what little she knew, they rarely missed when they wanted to kill, so her fear increased.
Seeing the fear in her eyes, he said, “Honey, we'll leave for a few days and I'm sure all of this will be investigated and a suspect nabbed by the time we return.”
“I hope so. What kind of life will we have if we're scared to death in our own temporary home? I'll go pack, because it'll give my mind something new to think about. I had no idea that was a bullet that broke that glass.”
“Yes, let's both pack and let the Secret Service do their jobs. They're experts on this and I'm sure all will turn out fine for us.”
“Sir, until the windows are replaced, we'll have a man in each of the rooms. I'll be in here if you have need of me.”
“Very good, so keep me informed of this at all times.”
Agent D2 chuckled when the cops ran right past him, obviously looking for the active shooter. He was dressed as a homeless man, filthy, five days worth of beard on his face, and pushing a shopping cart which contained his disassembled rifle and ammunition. He carried a wine bottle in his left hand as he stumbled along, pushing his cart. Right after the shooting, he'd poured some wine on his clothing and took a long drink, all as
part of his cover.
“Hey, you!” a cop in blue yelled at him.
“Me?” D2 asked, and blinked his eyes a few times. “I ain't done nothin'.”
“Yeah, you. Did you see anyone go by you with a gun?”
“Y . . . your damned straight I did, and it was a rifle he was packin'. He didn't point it at me, but he was running that way.” He pointed north.
“What was he wearing?”
“White long sleeve shirt and uh, jeans, yep, jeans. He was wearin' them blue jeans they buy all cut up and nasty lookin'. He had black hair and I couldn't see his eyes, it was too dark.”
“Did you see his face? How was he built?”
“Not for long, officer. He looked dark complected to me, like one of them A-rabs, with the beard and one of those funny hats that look like a towel wrapped on his head. I saw that gun and got the hell outta his way. He was about five feet and ten inches tall, and maybe a hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Dispatch, be advised our suspect is possibly wearing a turban, close to six feet tall and maybe a hundred and fifty pounds. He is wearing a beard and packing a rifle. If he still has the gun, he must have transportation nearby, or planning to ditch it.”
As he waited for dispatch to acknowledge his comments, the officer pulled out a small book and pen. He turned to the bum and asked, “What's your name and where can I find you if I need to speak to you again?”
Knowing his talk with the cop had gone on long enough, he took a long drink from his wine bottle and started to move away, when the officer said, “I need your name and where I can find you.”
Standing with his hands in his coat pockets, D2 smiled as he felt the handle on his .38 snub nose pistol.