Jagoby dismissed the empty threat, roused his laptop, and projected a video onto a forty-inch monitor.
“The first assassination bid,” Gorka Schwartz was saying with a thick Hungarian accent, “the one involving the heart attack gun, was masterminded by Governor Zeller of District Nine and Johanna Krupp, speaker of the House. They’ve been having an affair for years; and as compensation for killing Andrews, Krupp promised to nominate him for Scaffidi’s vacant seat on the Supreme Court.”
Krupp’s complexion paled. Arrogance reconstituted into primal fear. “That ... that video clip is—” She stopped short as if to avoid disclosing a secret then changed tactics. “That is not Gorka Schwartz! That’s an imposter!”
Jagoby removed a stack of documents from his briefcase and plopped them onto the conference table in front of her. “These are text messages exchanged during the planning phase of the assassination plot.”
Frowning, she grabbed the stack, opened it to a random page, skimming for several seconds—long enough to establish that the documents were authentic—then shoved them away from her.
As if sensing her distress, the Pomeranian began licking Krupp’s face. The wayward eyebrow fluttered downward like a one-winged butterfly and was immediately lapped up by the dog.
“Ju-Ju, no!” She attempted to retrieve it, then swatted the Pomeranian in frustration, knocking it to the floor and eliciting a pained yelp.
“If your evidence is genuine,” Krupp said, her voice cracking. “Why haven’t I been arrested?”
“Because the FBI and DOJ are headed by Consortium operatives,” Jagoby said. “We’re talking military tribunals. That’s why I’m here.”
Her hands began to shake; her lips quivered, and tears of self-pity welled.
Unmoved, Ryan rocked forward in his chair. “I’m offering you a chance to save your own neck. Sing like a canary to help us drain the congressional swamp, and we’ll take the death penalty off the table for you and any family members implicated in corruption. But if you disclose this agreement—to anyone—the deal is null and void ... And we WILL be listening.”
“Can-can I have some time to ... to consider your offer?”
“No. The deal expires the second you walk out that door.” Ryan was battling a smug grin and losing. “And it requires a show of good faith. Credible evidence against a Consortium asset. Right here. Right now. So what’s it going to be, Madam Speaker?”
24
U.S.-Mexico Border
West of El Paso, Texas
ABBY’S FOREHEAD RESTED against the side window of a Humvee, which was cruising along Route 9, transporting her back to the southern border. The situation had mellowed since the mass shooting, a temporary respite while the caravan awaited reinforcements.
It was a cloudless February afternoon, in the midsixties with a nine-mile-per-hour southerly breeze; the kind of day that always dredged up memories of Sugar Lake. And Bradley.
Abby had spent most of the night online, poring over international news and sleuthing for hints regarding the status of his mission. There’d been a terrorist attack in New Zealand, a 4.5 earthquake in North Korea, and an explosion at a Saudi Arabian military base. Given her father’s deep-seated contempt for Dopey Prince Al-Waleed Amad, she was betting that the kingdom had been Bradley’s destination.
“Did you see that?” Wachter asked, pointing toward an unmarked white bus headed east toward El Paso. “Another mystery brigade of soldiers, like the ones that flew into Langden with no gear.”
“I raised the issue with Fitz. He says it’s legit,” Abby said, omitting details about the classified operation that her commanding officer had shared in confidence.
Wachter’s cellphone buzzed, his thumb flicked the LCD screen, and he frowned. “I just got a text from your father, but it’s all gobbledygook.”
Abby smiled wistfully at the string of emojis.
“When I was in elementary school, my dad and I used to text in a secret code,” Abby explained, extracting a pen from the sleeve pocket of her BDUs. “Each emoji represents a letter. The first one is wearing a monocle, so that’s an M. A smiling devil means to advance one letter beyond the next emoji; so smiling devil plus Hug is H plus one, or an I. Star struck is S.”
“And a frowning devil means to backtrack one letter?” Wachter asked.
“Exactly.” She scribbled MIS onto her palm, and muttered, “Star struck is another S. Hug plus one is I. Open mouth is O. Neutral face is N.”
“So the first word is mission,” Wachter concluded.
Is my dad relaying a message from Bradley? she thought, her pulse accelerating at the prospect. “Astonished, Cowboy, Cowboy, Open mouth, Monocle, Partying, Lying, Hug plus one is I, Star struck, Hug, Explode, Drool.”
Seemingly intrigued by the rudimentary cipher, Wachter said, “Accomplished. Mission accomplished!”
Pride and gratitude ballooned inside Abby. Bradley had eradicated the mind-control technology; then, with equal parts enthusiasm and fear, she continued to decode.
“Upside down, Neutral, Astonished, Beaming, Lying, Explode, Thinking, Open mouth. Unable to ... Poop plus two is R, Explode, Astonished, Cowboy, Hug. Unable to reach ... Star struck, Explode, Vomit plus two is X, Zipper minus one is Y.”
Abby felt as if she’d been shoved off a cliff, plunging into turbulent layers of grief.
Was Bradley killed in action? Or captured?
Is he being tortured right now?
“Unable to reach Sexy?” Wachter asked dubiously. “Who the hell is Sexy?”
Abby sucked in a breath to forestall another bout of emotional incontinence and conjured up a half-baked cover story to avoid disclosing Bradley’s Sugar-Lake nickname. “I asked my dad for two favors before leaving Langden: To research the drugs that shrink prescribed, which he accomplished; and to convince my mother to stop watching the fake news.”
The Secret Service agent regarded her with a quizzical squint then redirected her attention to a GNN news crew.
“Vultures,” she grumbled. “Lying, manipulative vultures.”
The Humvee veered onto the shoulder of the highway and had barely braked to a stop when reporters descended on the vehicle.
Abby kicked open her door, corralled her gear, and slung a backpack over her shoulder; then, gripping her helmet and rifle, she marched toward the deuce and a half.
Reporters jabbed microphones into her face and peppered her with incendiary questions.
“Did your ties to Ryan Andrews allow you to skirt court-martial?”
“Do you regret firing on those migrants in cold blood?”
“Do you want to apologize to the victims’ families?”
Abby crossed into a restricted area, ditching her interrogators, and said, “All inquiries should be directed to TEradS Headquarters.”
I can’t believe the fake news is doubling down.
Despite indisputable video evidence, GNN continued to shamelessly promote the delusional narrative that Abby had slaughtered women and children.
If my scope camera hadn’t been recording, she thought, her nose crinkling at a foul odor, I would be facing murder charges.
Abby fetched a bottle of water from her backpack, removed the cap, and downed several gulps as if the liquid could extinguish the wildfire of emotion raging inside her. Overwatch had been her refuge, a reprieve from dwelling on Bradley and the baby, and now the media had closed off that escape route.
“Yo, Abi-frail!”
The Sniper she was tasked with relieving leapt from the truck’s roof, landed directly in front of her, and gave her water bottle an underhanded swat. While Wachter expertly flung him onto the ground, the uncapped beverage shot straight up, tumbling and spitting an intermittent stream of water onto Abby, before embedding itself into the dry desert sand.
“Bruh, I was just playin’,” Lance Corporal Shane Locatelli said, chuckling. “Abi-frail and I go way back.”
He had tagged her with that inglorious moniker the first day of Scout
Sniper training, and during the twelve-and-a-half-week course, he had performed this mischievous baptism dozens of times. Locatelli had always been quick to needle Abby, but even quicker to lend assistance. He had literally pushed her up a hill during a 23-mile march, and she’d never forgotten his good-natured refrain: Keep movin’, Abi-frail! Keep movin’!
“Wachter, this is my buddy, Lance Corporal Schmuckatelli!” she said, blotting her face with her sleeve. “You’ll have to excuse his screwed-up sense of humor.”
Her bodyguard extracted his knee from the back of Schmuckatelli’s neck, and the Sniper jumped to his feet and greeted Abby with a one-armed, brotherly hug. “Did-ja get that sergeant’s chevron for leaking the scope footage to Patriot Anon?”
“Hell no!” Abby knew that her father had posted the footage to an anonymous Internet board, but had no idea who had authorized its release.
“It was a brilliant move,” Schmuckatelli rambled. “Exposed the fake news for the traitors they are.”
Abby donned her helmet, climbed onto the roof of the deuce and a half, and requested a situation report to change the subject.
“It’s been quiet,” Schmuckatelli told her. “No charges, no bricks, no gunfire. But they’re fond of hurling urine-filled balloons and excrement. Hence the notes of shit-trus in the air.”
Wachter bounded into the truck bed, and the ensuing rocking sensation made Abby queasy. She unfolded the bipod attached to her rifle and settled in behind the scope. Gas masks dangled from the necks of Soldiers assembling the wall of concertina wire, a precaution following yesterday’s dispersal of aerosolized fentanyl.
Thoughts of the fallen Medic generated a glut of guilt, and Abby’s heart catapulted into a rapid, erratic rhythm. Her eyes began to twitch involuntarily.
Is this a side effect from the miscarriage? she wondered. A result of my hormones being out of whack?
The thought evaporated into a dull fog. Concentration became impossible; and, with each passing second, it was getting harder to breathe.
Disoriented, she blinked at an object soaring against a backdrop of blue sky. It looked like a giant owl with neon-purple feathers and the tail of a serpent.
Am I hallucinating?
Or is that an enemy drone?
Fear flooded her nervous system; her heart became a jackhammer. Then an explosion of brilliant light oversaturated Abby’s vision and sent her careening downward, submerging her into a darkness that was encroaching from all sides.
25
Undisclosed Location
WHO THE FUCK IS shooting?
A burst of bullets skewered Bradley’s interrogator. Two tunneled into the Aussie’s chest, a third ripped through his throat nearly decapitating him, and he slumped into a gory heap. Then a squad of North Koreans converged with their rifles trained on Bradley.
Adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream, dulling the ache of his paracord-bound wrists which were still supporting his body weight.
Why did North Koreans attack Night Sector? he wondered. Are there competing factions within The Consortium vying for bragging rights? Or is there a lucrative reward for my capture?
Unlike the Aussie, these soldiers asked no questions. One dropped onto all fours, and the squad leader mounted his human stepladder, hacking at the paracord with a hatchet.
As Bradley plummeted onto his backside, the Axe Murder Incident of 1976 rushed to the forefront of his mind. Captain Bonifas and Lieutenant Barrett—who’d been conducting a tree-trimming mission inside the demilitarized zone—had been brutally murdered by North Korean soldiers wielding axes and knives.
Is that why they didn’t shoot me? Because they’d rather butcher me?
Two soldiers hefted Bradley onto his feet and ferried him through the woods. His bound hands hung limp in front of him. Deep purple grooves ringed his wrists, and his fingers were throbbing in sync with his heartbeat. The squad leader was on point, five yards ahead with Bradley’s backpack dangling from his shoulder. A fourth man was dragging the Aussie’s corpse and bringing up the rear.
After traversing a mile of uneven terrain choked with thorny underbrush, they emerged onto a pair of parallel ruts too overgrown to qualify as a dirt road. The soldiers shoved him into a Type 63 armored personnel carrier and pitched the dead man onto the seat beside him. The partially severed head flopped down onto Bradley’s lap, and he groaned, debating whether his fate had improved or deteriorated.
During the drive, he eavesdropped on the soldiers, who were conversing in Korean. Two insisted that a suitcase nuke had razed White Rabbit; the remainder argued that high-tech explosives had done the deed; then the discussion shifted to punishment.
“Lynching is too merciful,” the squad leader stated matter-of-factly. “They have disrespected the Dear Leader and their presence has defiled our nation. If it were up to me, I’d sentence them to the brazen bull.”
Bradley cringed.
Damn Volkov for implanting too much information into my brain!
The ancient torture device was a hollowed-out, brass bull with a hinged door on one side. Victims were imprisoned inside the belly, a fire was kindled beneath it, and the doomed souls were slowly roasted to death. The inhumane contraption had been designed to amplify bloodcurdling screams and mimic the bellowing of a bull.
Bradley groped for the lock of Abby’s hair.
Damn it! I must’ve dropped it when the tranquilizer knocked me out.
It was more than just a clutch of hair, more meaningful than a wedding band. For almost two years, it had been his constant companion, his source of strength; and now, he’d lost the comfort of having a part of Abby with him.
An accusing, internal voice began whispering ghastly questions.
Did Night Sector really have a drone patrolling the southern border?
Was Abby targeted because I didn’t cooperate?
Regret sliced through him, molten and bitter. His chest ached; his heart felt like it had imploded.
Am I responsible for her death?
And the death of our unborn baby?
Brake pads squealed, the personnel carrier lurched to a stop, and the soldiers flung the rear doors open. The Koreans exited the vehicle, irreverently yanked the Aussie by his feet, and chucked his corpse onto the sidewalk.
Will my remains ever make it home? Bradley wondered. He stared at the dead man, feeling a surreal twinge of envy. At least his execution had been quick. And relatively painless.
His captors hauled him into a windowless, cement building, presumably the regional headquarters of the Ministry of State Security, one of the most brutal secret police forces in the world.
This could be my last chance, Bradley thought, entering a musty hallway with chipped green paint and industrial lightbulbs. Better to get shot during an escape attempt than to be burned alive.
Amped up on fear and drunk with desperation, he struck like a whirlwind; head-butting the soldier to his right, kneeing the groin of the one on the left, nailing the rearguard with an elbow to the throat; and then he began limping toward the doorway.
26
Vodvizhenka Air Base, Russia
DESPITE THE FRIGID night air, sweat dribbled along CJ’s neck. His breath was coalescing into a hazy veil, briefly obscuring his vision before vanishing, along with his hope. Arms bound behind him, knees raw with road rash, he craned to catch a glimpse of the aircraft.
Shit! Why didn’t the bomb explode?
Did I rig it incorrectly? Or is Russian electromagnetic warfare preventing detonation?
Frustration and dread swelled, voracious as a black hole, devouring him from the inside. His failure to neutralize the owl would lead to the proliferation of mind-control technology and, ultimately, to the obliteration of the country he loved.
A Russian soldier was cautiously approaching the aircraft.
They’re going to discover the bomb, CJ thought.
He heaved a despondent sigh, unable to fabricate a plausible explanation for an armed incursion into Russian territor
y.
The soldier poked his head through the open pilot’s door of the aircraft and the entire hangar dissolved into a blinding white light that seeped through CJ’s clenched eyelids and incited an instant headache. A powerful blast wave tossed him and his captors as if they were dried leaves; and, incapable of breaking his fall, CJ’s cheek slammed against the tarmac. Pain propagated through his skull. His front teeth slashed his lower lip, and a thundering roar blitzed his eardrums.
Fleetingly, he thought, Warbird is extinct. Mission accomplished.
When the rumble of the explosion finally tapered off, CJ lifted his aching head. Flames were ravaging the hangar, spewing a frothy tower of smoke. Russian soldiers were screaming, but their voices were muffled by the residual hum of the blast.
One man jerked CJ onto his feet. Nostrils flaring, panting with rage, his hatred was palpable.
The man shrieked, “Fuck you!” and jammed the barrel of a Makarov against the underside of CJ’s chin.
Awaiting imminent execution, his heart felt like it was about to burst. Memories tumbled through his mind: his childhood in Alaska, Missy’s beautiful smile on their wedding day, Matthew’s birth.
A frantic squad of soldiers intervened. One shouted orders, two extricated CJ from the melee, and the remainder attempted to subdue their angry comrade. Ranting and gesticulating wildly, the gunman impaled CJ with a murderous glare and fired off a rash shot. The bullet burrowed into the forearm of a soldier standing beside him, then the enraged gunman was hurled onto the ground, forcibly disarmed, and handcuffed.
An olive-green Tigr, Russia’s answer to the U.S. Humvee, screeched to a stop. CJ was thrust through the rear doors, and the soldiers piled in. He could feel the hatred radiating from his would-be executioner like ultraviolet light blistering sunburned skin.
The Tigr sped away from the burning hangar, passing a stream of emergency vehicles. Fire crews, medics, and military police were racing toward the blast, and CJ bowed his head. He’d assumed that the bomb was a dud. He’d never intended to kill anyone and hated the thought of a child losing their father; a wife losing her husband; and his unspoken contrition re-enraged the gunman.
The Power of We the People Page 10