The guys aren’t taking chances, she thought, recalling that weaponized drones had induced suicides at Edgar Air Force Base.
She trudged toward TEradS headquarters, lugging Matthew and her gear, growing more nauseous and weary with each step. Across the tarmac, Soldiers were pouring from the ramp of a C-130 and piling into an unmarked white bus. Something about the scene seemed off, unnatural and downright unnerving, but Abby couldn’t pinpoint the reason.
Sniper’s observational skills? she asked herself. Intuition? Or crazy-ass hormones inciting paranoia?
5
Undisclosed location
2300 hours local time
WITH THE OWL PERCHED on his shoulder, Bradley Webber skulked up an ancient stairway toward a massive bronze door. The security forces stationed at the entryway were jesterlike statues, fast asleep under the spell of the owl. Python had nicknamed it Warbird and modified its software, permitting Bradley to bypass the laptop and interface with the drone through thoughts. It was a formidable force multiplier, but would it be enough to acquire the high-tech weapons platform?
Gorka Schwartz’s involuntary confession had revealed the existence of a dark project, a device capable of neutralizing White Rabbit in a solitary blow.
It sounds like something out of a science fiction movie, Bradley thought. Then again, so did the owl.
He tiptoed through the massive doorway and entered a long corridor with a polished marble floor. Under the greenish cast of night vision, the arches of the vaulted ceiling glowed like neon-green ribs, and every square inch of wall was adorned with ornately carved patterns that seemed both regal and archaic.
Hey, Warbird, Bradley thought, rousing the owl as if ordering a Gaggle search. Guide to target.
An electronic voice began whispering in his mind, expertly shepherding him through a maze of hallways.
Python did one hell of a job upgrading the owl’s code, he thought. I owe that guy—big time.
The cyber guru had sanitized the Athenian Grove debacle, altering satellite footage and falsifying armory records.
Why was he so eager to put his ass on the line for Abby and me?
A foreboding uneasiness shuddered through Bradley. Would Python expect Abby to repay that favor? Would he retain evidence to blackmail her?
His wife’s parting words barged into his mind.
I’m not going to absolve you of your guilt, Bradley, or your responsibility to this baby. Go! Repeat the mistakes of your father. I wish I’d never met you!
He recalled the pain glinting in her steel-blue eyes, the betrayal in her quivering chin, and the memory rattled his composure and amped up the ache in his chest. Why couldn’t she understand that he was doing this for her and the baby?
“Turn left.” The owl’s electronic voice jolted him back to the present.
Damn it! I allowed myself to become distracted.
Bradley slanted a glance at the drone roosting on his shoulder, blaming it for his lack of focus. In just a short time, the technology had fomented overconfidence and laziness, bad habits not easily broken.
If the owl stops functioning, the mission has to go on, he chided himself. I have to get back to basics; depend on my senses, wits, and training. I can’t disappoint Ryan.
Anguish flared, a burning white-hot guilt over misleading his Commander in Chief. Bradley had said that his marital discord had been resolved, but neglected to mention that the resolution was, in reality, a dissolution.
Fuck! I let my mind wander again!
Pulse throbbing in his throat, Bradley halted beside a set of solid wooden doors that stretched ten feet tall and were studded with iron nail heads. He rested a gloved hand on the serpentine molded handle and directed the owl to electromagnetically sedate everyone within range.
Concerned that the palace’s thick stone walls would diminish the range of the signal, he tentatively opened the heavy medieval door, and the creak of its iron hinges succumbed to the raspy purr of snoring.
The room was cavernous, packed with sixteenth century furniture, opulent urns, and lavish tapestries. A kingly bed sat atop a raised platform, enclosed by four gilded pillars that supported a canopied ceiling. The mahogany headboard was shaped like a majestic crown, bearing a hand-carved royal coat of arms with tufted purple panels on either side.
Hey, Warbird, Bradley thought. Rouse target. Silent. Acquire thoughts.
He smirked, watching the roly-poly man flail like a tortoise on its back.
Seriously? he thought. THIS ... is who The Consortium designated to safeguard the weapon?
Realizing that his target wasn’t fit enough to right himself, Bradley grabbed his arm and hefted him onto his feet.
The man was in his eighties, bald with a buzzard’s beak of a nose. Sunken dark circles and labored breathing elicited sympathy; his demonic aura, revulsion.
Finally, the old geezer managed to compose a thought: I ... I must be dreaming.
“No such luck, your evilness,” Bradley whispered menacingly into his mind.
His target’s gaze locked on to the owl, and his soulless eyes widened in terror. All powerful Moloch, he prayed, deliver me from this monster!
The tiny hairs on Bradley’s neck prickled.
An ominous energy began zipping through his veins, and then he heard a catastrophic sound.
6
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
ABBY ENTERED TERADS headquarters, jettisoned her heavy rucksack, and eased the sleepy toddler onto a chair, delegating her baby-sitting duties to Major Fitzgerald’s clerk. She plodded into her CO’s office and snapped to attention, ignoring the throb of her wounded arm and intermittent pangs of nausea.
“At ease, Sergeant Webber.” Fitz had the protruding brow of a caveman, a broad nose, and a hairline that made him appear much older than his thirty-seven years. “And welcome back to Langden.” The former Army Ranger hesitated, his probing gaze sweeping over her like an X-ray. “You look pale. Are you all right?”
It was a tailor-made opportunity to disclose her pregnancy, but how could she share the news with her commanding officer before her parents? They would never forgive her. “I’m fine, sir. It was just a rough flight.”
Fitz’s lips pursed, and he gave a slight nod; an indication that although he wasn’t buying her explanation, he wasn’t going to press her. “I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I know your dad is anxious to see you. He’s been working as an advisor to President Andrews, using our former briefing room as his office, and he’s been hounding me—literally every day—about transferring you back to Texas. How do you feel about returning to Team 6A?”
“I’d like that, sir.”
“Correct answer, Sergeant, since I’ve already reassigned you.” Fitz’s light-hearted smile faded, and grief began flickering in his dark eyes. “I heard about Bradley’s aircraft going down in that snowstorm ...”
He doesn’t know the crash was faked, Abby thought, feeling a twinge of guilt.
“... and I want to express my sincere condolences. Bradley was a great man, a hell of a Soldier, and I know that he loved you more than life itself.”
And my last words to him were vicious. Abby’s teeth gnashed. The muscles in her throat tensed, but the tears were unstoppable.
Seemingly uncomfortable with her emotional display, Fitz rubbed a hand over his angular chin. His lips parted as if to speak, yet words were slow in coming. “I know this is traumatic so I ... I arranged for you to talk to someone.”
Abby stared, tongue-tied, as her brain translated someone into shrink.
“With all due respect, sir,” she said, struggling to steady her faltering voice, “I don’t need psychiatric assistance.”
“Abby, within two weeks, you were kidnapped, your husband and your team leader were both KIA, and your father lost his hearing. That’s a lot to contend with.”
“I’m coping just fine, sir.”
“Sergeant, that wasn’t an invitation. It was an order.”
Indignati
on surged, her tears intensified, and an ill-advised accusation gushed from her mouth. “Sir, I’ve always regarded your command as gender neutral, but I believe this particular order is biased and discriminatory.”
Fitz recoiled. His mouth tightened with impatience. “Tomorrow. 0900 hours. Lieutenant Malvado’s office. Dis-missed.”
Abby retreated and slammed the door behind her, giving vent to her frustration, then stalked toward her father’s office. A Secret Service agent with a shaved head and the physique of a linebacker announced her arrival with a text message.
Seconds later, the door swung inward. “Abby! Welcome home!” Her father greeted her with a 50,000-watt smile and swept her into an anaconda-like hug that aggravated the dull pain in her lower back. His hair was now more gray than sandy-brown, and his athletic build was slipping into the softness of middle age, but a childlike joy still twinkled in his green eyes.
He looks happy, Abby thought, at peace with his handicap.
“I missed you so much!” he said, dragging her into the office and allowing the door to fall shut.
“I missed you, too, Dad. Thank God you’re—”
And then she caught herself.
He can’t hear me.
Intuiting her distress, he said, “I can read what you’re saying with this.”
His cellphone had been retrofitted with a bulbous blinking red light, and the words she’d uttered were displayed on the screen.
“So you’re communicating with a voice-to-text app?”
He glanced at the phone, creating a conversational pause shorter in duration than text messaging, and excitedly said, “That’s right. And Ryan has a computer genius working on some code that will allow the app to bypass my damaged ear and relay sound frequencies directly to my brain. I’ll be able to hear again!”
The owl’s technology, Abby thought. He’ll be able to hear his grandchild’s voice. I need to tell him about the baby ... But if he finds out ten seconds before mom, there’ll be holy hell to pay.
“That’s awesome, Dad!”
“So where’s your little second-in-command?”
“Matthew’s with Fitz’s clerk.” Abby took in the Spartan office: bare walls, a desk, two chairs and a computer. “I hear you have a position within the Andrews administration.”
His head dipped to read her statement and bobbed up enthusiastically. “I’ve taken over the Patriot Anon posts. Ryan thinks it could be an effective end around the fake news media.”
Patriot Anon was a series of intel drops initiated by Vladislav Volkov and posted to an anonymous messaging board to awaken Americans.
Grateful that The Consortium hadn’t destroyed her father’s spirit or sense of purpose, Abby’s smile widened. “That ... is a fantastic idea.”
“So, are you okay?” her father asked. “Ryan didn’t get into specifics, but I know Bradley’s facing an extremely dangerous mission.”
Tears welled, the dull ache in her back escalated to a sharp pain, and she buried her face into his shoulder.
“Sweetie-pie, if you can’t control it, you have to give it to God,” he said, rocking her as she wept. “Remember what Gramps used to say: The good Lord always provides.”
“You don’t understand,” Abby sobbed. “I was angry and I said horrible things to him, nasty, bitchy things that I didn’t even mean. And now it’s too late.”
There was a pause while he read her confession. “Trust me,” he said. “Bradley knows how much you love him.”
I need to pull myself together, Abby thought, withdrawing from his protective embrace and smearing away her tears. “I’m going to head over to the barracks for a quick shower. Can you bring Matthew home with you?”
Reading her statement, his head began to shake. Disappointment glistened in his green eyes. “You’re not staying with us? At the house?”
Her mind whirled, grappling for an excuse. She didn’t want to admit the real reason, that she’d become emotional nitroglycerin and preferred to keep her crazy mood swings private.
“Six people and one bathroom?” she asked, feigning a smile. “Sounds like cruel and unusual punishment.”
He scanned the device and replied, “Sounds like Nirvana, having my little girl under my roof again ... Maybe I should have a chat with Fitz about your berthing arrangements.”
“Don’t you dare!” Abby gave him a peck on the cheek and hurried out of the office before he could respond.
Matthew was awake, sitting cross-legged on a waiting-room chair, contentedly flipping through the pages of an outdated phonebook and yammering as if reading himself a story.
He looks just like his daddy, Abby thought. Her mind reverted to a picture on Gramps’ desk—Bradley as a toddler wearing a Dr. Seuss book as a hat. Will our baby resemble him? Have his mannerisms? His—
“Ah-bee! You w-ook w-ary pwitty!” The toddler batted his blue-green eyes, his face flushed, and he proffered a flirty smile.
“I think somebody has a crush on you,” the clerk said, peeking above a computer monitor and extending a barracks key. “Major Fitzgerald reinstated your former room assignment.”
Abby threw Matthew a kiss and thanked the Private, adding, “Don’t worry, my dad will collect the little Casanova in a few minutes.” She crammed the key into her pocket and, as she hoisted her rucksack from the floor, the pain in her back exploded.
Abby trudged from the TEradS office, feeling light-headed and weak. The strap of her rucksack slipped from her shoulder, and she began to drag it across the concrete walkway.
Maybe it’s the blackbirds, she thought, her nose crinkling at the stench. Or maybe that milk from lunch.
Noting that heavy footfalls were closing on her, Abby glanced over her shoulder, and intense fear rumbled through her synapses.
It was the guy from the aircraft, the voyeur who had rudely invaded her privacy.
Her heartbeat thumped, muddling her hearing, and crazed thoughts churned through her mind.
Was he sent by The Consortium? To exact revenge for Athenian Grove?
She made a beeline for the base commissary, ditched her rucksack beside the door, and shuffled inside.
The voyeur stopped and leaned back against the building’s stucco façade, fiddling with his cellphone.
Why would he choose to stop here? At the exact time I did? And not come inside to make a purchase?
Dressed in an Airman Battle Uniform, he looked to be in his thirties, about six foot, two hundred pounds, with thick muscular arms—not the type of guy she wanted to tangle with, especially in her condition.
Should I wait here until my dad walks past on his way home?
A derisive internal voice responded, “Re-e-eally? The TEradS Sniper needs her daddy to protect her?”
Stop acting like a paranoid idiot, she scolded herself.
Abby exited the commissary, giving the voyeur a deliberate stare, then she gasped and doubled over in pain.
Peripherally, she monitored his movements. He was still twiddling with his phone, pretending to be disinterested in her predicament while eking closer.
Abby sank into a squat beside her rucksack and rummaged for her tactical knife.
The world around her began to spin violently.
Her mouth filled with saliva, and she started to retch.
Gagging and trembling, vision blurred, Abby saw a hand seize the strap of her rucksack; another clamped around her wrist; both belonged to the voyeur.
7
Undisclosed Location
BRADLEY SPUN TOWARD the din of shattering glass. His gaze zeroed in on the shards of a broken urn, and he glimpsed the culprit slinking behind floor-to-ceiling drapes.
Stupid cat! he thought.
Would the thick stone walls of the palace deaden the noise? Or cause the sound to resonate like a pealing bell?
Praise Moloch! his evilness was thinking. That will set off the silent alarm.
Bradley didn’t have time to contemplate his options. He could already hear the frenzied footf
alls of approaching guards—or was that the thumping of his heart?
He issued telepathic orders to the owl.
The old man’s eyelids snapped shut, and his snoring resumed.
Hurriedly, Bradley shoved the two-hundred-pound patriarch onto his thronelike bed and strained to maneuver him back into his original position.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A fist was pounding against the door of the suite.
A male voice called out in Italian to Moloch’s chief emissary.
Shit!
Pulse skyrocketing, respiration ragged, Bradley flung the silky comforter into place. There was no benefit to sedating the guards. As soon as he moved beyond range, they would awaken and rally every soldier on the palace grounds.
Hey, Warbird. Invisible!
The double doors burst open, the pitter-patter of combat boots charged into the room, and lights clicked on.
Bradley batted his NVGs away from his eyes and, as his vision adapted to the brightness, he saw a guard with a port-wine birthmark hovering over the old geezer; another was squatting beside the shattered urn. Both men were wearing puffy-sleeved doublets with vertical stripes of yellow, blue, and red; and their matching puffy bloomers stretched to the knee.
They look like they went AWOL from a Disney attraction, Bradley thought, then he instructed the owl to eavesdrop on their thoughts.
The guard with the birthmark was debating whether to rouse his charge. The other guy was wondering why the urn had fallen, and Bradley implanted the meow of a cat into his mind.
Azazel, the squatting guard thought bitterly. That nuisance feline just destroyed a priceless antique.
The pope named his cat after a demon? Bradley thought. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised given that his Audience Hall resembles a serpent.
While the guards conferred in hushed whispers, he tasked the owl with a new objective, and both men began scanning the opulent bedroom, eyes wide with fear, expressions gnarled by paranoia.
The Power of We the People Page 3