Should I sacrifice Perfidulo?
Then Hellhound realized that he already had a tailor-made scapegoat.
“Your Highness,” he said, attempting to sound deferential. “My asset within Andrews’ inner circle believes that Johanna Krupp is a traitor—”
“Belief is not proof!” Amad snapped. “I want facts! And squelch that contemptuous smirk or I’ll lop off your worthless skull!”
Blood pounded at Hellhound’s temples. His breath was coming raggedly with impotent anger, and he struggled to sanitize his facial expression. “Fact: Johanna Krupp met with Andrews and the Judge Advocate General of the Navy on February sixth. Fact: She publically attacked Pietro Marino just hours afterward. Fact: Marino caved to save his own pathetic hide, which set off the avalanche of Consortium losses within the FBI, the legislature, and the judiciary.”
He paused, graciously allowing the prince’s inferior intellect to process the information before continuing. “Fact: two days after Krupp’s collaboration with Andrews, Bolshevik 2.0 was decimated. Conclusion: Krupp engineered the Air Force One debacle—in concert with Andrews—to neutralize our media empire and awaken the public.”
The prince’s eyes became black as coal, and the antique sword crashed down, cutting a gash into an octagonal table with ivory inserts and ornate carvings on the apron. “That khayin is the daughter of apes and pigs!”
Amad railed against Krupp in Arabic, undoubtedly cursing her entire bloodline, then his irate gaze returned to Hellhound. “We need a catastrophic event to change the news cycle and regain control of the narrative.”
“Your Highness, I already have something in mind ...”
Chapter 10
Day 723
Saturday, February 11th
59
Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Brookham
Oahu, Hawaii
RYAN ANDREWS AND HIS family had spent the night aboard Air Force One, protected by Hawaii’s ballistic missile defense radar system, which could track long-range threats and guide interceptors launched from beyond the island chain.
Sleep, however, had been elusive. Ryan couldn’t stop churning recent events through his mind—Bolshevik 2.0, the human blockades, the nerve toxin, the missile.
These people aren’t going to stop until I’m dead or they’re in jail, he thought. And in the midst of all this turmoil, Rone’s priority is to meet with the Governor of Hawaii?
Was that a manufactured cover story to explain his unannounced visit to America’s fiftieth state?
Or did the governor have insight regarding The Consortium?
Rone entered the office precisely at 1100 hours, trailed by a portly man with anemic pasty skin, a long upturned nose, and short-cropped white hair.
That’s Kale Kameáloha? The governor of Hawaii? Ryan thought. He looks like a Caucasian who hasn’t seen the sun in decades.
“Mr. President,” Rone said, his voice oddly tentative as he closed the door. “There’s been a change of plans. This is Vice-Admiral Winthrop Sebastian, Fleet Commander of the British Navy.”
Dressed in a dark business suit, Sebastian seemed more like a politician than career military man; nonetheless, Ryan politely offered his hand and invited his guest to be seated.
“I’d like to make it clear,” the Brit began, “that I am not representing Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. Hence my civilian attire. I am here on behalf of the LIT Society.”
Irritated over the deception, Ryan glared at Rone.
“Winthrop contacted me several days ago,” the Admiral said, evading eye contact. “I had just finished vetting him and was debating whether to abandon White-Jefferson when the nerve toxin made that decision a lot easier and ... And there’s no risk in hearing him out, sir.”
Sebastian sat ramrod straight, his hands balled and resting on his thighs. Determination emanated from the angle of his colorless eyebrows and the set of his doughy chin. “I understand that you are skeptical, Mr. President, so please allow me to provide some background. The LIT Society was founded by eleven billionaires who have been clandestinely working against The Consortium. Through the creation of the World Bank and International Monetary Fund, this bloody cabal has conspired with corrupt leaders around the globe to issue loans and drown nations with obligations they can never repay. This odious debt is then used as a pretext to strip countries of their natural resources and sovereignty, literally enslaving and starving their populations.”
Ryan gave an impatient nod, indicating that none of this was new information.
“Because you pulled a blinder, brilliantly rebranding Consortium propaganda as fake news, the LIT Society believes now is the time to decapitate the serpent.”
“Good luck,” Ryan said curtly. “I’ll be rooting for you.”
Sebastian’s cheeks flushed, and he tendered a flustered smile. “We, uh, were hoping to form an alliance, Mr. President.”
Ryan eyed Rone.
Did he already negotiate the terms of this so-called alliance? Without my knowledge?
“Frankly, Mr. Sebastian, I don’t trust secret societies run by unelected, anonymous leaders who anoint themselves as decision makers for all nations.”
The Brit’s lips parted, his jaw waggled, and his voice was slow to catch up. “Understood, but if the LIT Society failed to maintain its secrecy and anonymity, The Consortium would’ve eradicated us long ago. Case in point, Vladislav Volkov—despite his unmasking, the breach was contained. You see, we use a binary code system that makes use of private servers. Members upload bits of information; artificial intelligence compiles it, formulates a stratagem, and executes it by issuing covert orders to individuals. Arti—that’s our nickname for the software—facilitated Bradley Webber’s journey home from North Korea.”
Ryan harrumphed. “Which culminated in his abduction and torture.”
“Mr. President,” Rone said, his assertive tone and posture reconstituting. “But for Gim Chong Lee’s encryption code, you would be dead and Johanna Krupp would be bombing Moscow. I think the LIT Society has earned an opportunity to be heard.”
“Point taken,” Ryan conceded. “But let’s cut to the chase. What do you want from me, Sebastian?”
The Brit leaned forward like a runner at the starting block. “We have specific and credible intelligence regarding events scheduled to occur on the fourteenth of February. High-value targets will be in attendance, and in order to decapitate this beast, we need you to designate the triumvirate, along with elements within the U.S. government, as enemy combatants and deploy assets to neutralize them.”
Ryan recoiled, distancing himself from the unlawful suggestion. “I don’t have that authority. American citizens have a presumption of innocence and a constitutional right to due process—”
“Actually, sir,” Rone interrupted, “precedent exists for the extra-judicial execution of a U.S. citizen. In 2010, President Obama declared that Anwar al-Awlaki represented a continuing, imminent threat to U.S. persons and placed him on a ‘kill list’ without indictment or trial. And in 2011, he was dispatched via drone strike.”
“We also interned Japanese citizens during World War II,” Ryan argued. “A precedent doesn’t make it right.” Adamant, he folded his arms across his chest. “I’m sorry, Rone, but executing a citizen without due process is un-American.”
Sebastian’s thin lips contorted into a patronizing grin. “Yet you followed through on the extra-judicial assassination of Aaron Burr. I fail to see how this is any different.”
Inwardly, Ryan winced.
Was that a veiled threat? Aimed at blackmailing him into becoming a LIT Society puppet?
“Burr was about to surrender to the Chinese,” he countered. “He posed an existential threat to the country. And there’s a huge difference between the burden of following an order and issuing one.”
The Brit’s face tightened like a clenching fist. “What a load of codswallop! You have bent, broken, and maimed rules throughout your career and, now, you’ve suddenly found moralit
y?”
“It was always about morality!” Ryan barked, his voice exceeding the customary decibel range of a Commander in Chief. “I massaged the rules because I honestly believed it was the right thing to do. That IS NOT the case here.”
Sebastian’s hands shot upward. His fingers clawed empty air and contracted into fists, accompanied by a guttural groan. “We don’t have time to bugger around. We’re dealing with an enemy that doesn’t play by any rules. They traffic, rape, and sacrifice children for fuck’s sake.”
“I despise those satanic pedophiles as much as you do,” Ryan thundered, “but you’re asking me to shred the Constitution that I have fought my entire adult life to protect. Our rights are only as strong as the rights of the most reprehensible criminal among us.”
Sebastian’s expression hardened. “You do realize that you are only in power because the LIT Society helped put you there, right?”
Taking offense, a rush of resentment heated Ryan’s body. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think you own me? That I’m beholden to your hoity-toity secret society? Fuck that! And fuck you!”
Rone charged toward Ryan’s desk, inserting himself between them. “This isn’t productive. We need to dial back emotion and find a way to work together.”
“That’s the only way The Consortium will be defeated,” Sebastian added. “The LIT Society can’t do it without the U.S., and the U.S. can’t do it without the LIT Society.”
Ryan wasn’t so sure about that, but he was certain that the secret billionaires’ club could become a formidable enemy and that the prospects of prevailing over them and The Consortium—simultaneously—were slim. “Mr. Sebastian, if your billionaire buddies are hell-bent on dispatching these high-value targets, maybe they should hire freelance mercenaries.”
“Our paramilitary wing was obliterated when Volkov’s forward operating base was razed,” Sebastian told him. “And three days is insufficient to vet, brief, and position teams of professional assassins.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President,” Rone said. “This country has made mistakes in the past and later rectified them. Why can’t we wield the extreme tools these criminals created against them, do a mea culpa, and change the law so that these unconstitutional powers can never be invoked again?”
“Are you suggesting that the end justifies the means?”
Rone’s mouth clamped shut, and his head lolled to one side.
He doesn’t get it, Ryan thought. The weight of the nation was resting on his shoulders. He was responsible for safeguarding the life and liberty of every citizen as well as future generations.
“I’m sorry, Rone. I just can’t look the American people in the eye and justify the execution of U.S. citizens without due process.”
The Admiral gave a pensive nod and said, “What if there’s a way around that?”
60
Oahu, Hawaii
ABBY KEYED IN THE CODE Admiral Rone had given Bradley, depressed the thumb latch, and opened the solid wood door. A balmy breeze greeted her, and she gaped at the stunning view. A creamy-colored travertine patio surrounded a rectangular pool and led to an arc of lush grass that was stippled with stepping stones and enclosed by bushes with delicate purple flowers. Beyond the property, the Pacific Ocean stretched to the horizon in exquisite shades of turquoise and a deep-blue so vibrant that it seemed artificial, as if someone had dumped dye into the water.
“Holy shit,” Bradley muttered, dropping his military-issued satellite phone onto a teak console table. “CJ was living large before the pulse.”
“How could he afford this?” Abby asked, slowly pirouetting. The U-shaped, five-bedroom minimansion wrapped around the patio, and an exterior staircase and walkway connected its five bedroom suites.
“CJ owned Hawaii’s largest helicopter tour company,” Bradley told her. “He used embezzled seed money from Consortium coffers to start the business.”
Sounds like a death wish, Abby thought. Is that the reason Missy Love was brutally attacked and left for dead? Why Matthew was kidnapped?
Unlike the United States mainland, the Aloha State had been beyond range of the electromagnetic pulse. Electric, communications, and rule of law had never been lost, but the economy had floundered mightily as the island chain transitioned from tourism to a more agrarian way of life.
Every room of the multimillion-dollar house was plastered with family photographs, intimate moments from CJ’s wedding day, random holidays, and precious images of Matthew when he was an infant. The sight of his chubby, smiling cheeks stoked the feeling of loss that was still smoldering inside Abby.
In response to her mood swing, Bradley wrapped his arms around her. “Why don’t you change into that sexy bikini you bought at the commissary and we’ll catch some waves?”
Exhaling a doleful sigh, she deferred to his request, and they spent the next three hours drifting on a lotus blossom pool float built for two.
“Let’s get married, right over there on the beach,” Bradley said, pointing toward the shore. “Ryan can be my best man. Franny can be your matron of honor. And we can turn this into an extended honeymoon.”
“But my parents aren’t here,” Abby protested. “My dad’s supposed to walk me down the aisle.”
Bradley’s enthusiasm dipped then rapidly reconstituted. “I’m sure Ryan can cook up an excuse to fly the former President to Oahu. And there’s plenty of room for your folks to stay here. What do you say?”
Squinting and using her hand as a visor, she said, “I’ve heard of dead men voting, but can they apply for marriage licenses?”
“Not a problem. Ryan came up with a ballsy resurrection scheme. Python used DeepFake technology to create a video clip of me hiking out of the Rocky Mountains with my Grizzly Adams beard, and he planted articles online that document how CJ and I survived on squirrels since the plane crash. And the timing couldn’t be better. The story will be overshadowed by the Air-Force-One fiasco. Ergo, it won’t get much scrutiny. Therefore, as of 0600 hours this morning, I’m officially alive again ...! So, what do you say to a Hawaiian beach wedding?”
A confounding energy jangled through Abby, excitement mixed with the surreal sensation that she was dreaming.
“Wait, wait, wait! I need to do this right.” Bradley slid off the float, dropped onto one knee in shallow water that reached to his waist, and repeated the proposal he’d made on that fateful night in Fruitland Park. “I love you, Abby. Will you be my wife?”
Eyes welling, her voice choked with emotion, she croaked, “Of course!” and slithered off the float.
His left arm clamped around her waist, drawing her down onto her knees and hugging her tight against him. Bradley’s mouth closed over hers, salty and possessive. His right hand cupped her face, then his gentle touch slipped lower, fondling and caressing.
“Uh, I, uh ...” She pulled back from his embrace and ensnared his wayward hand. “Little kids are playing on the beach right over there.”
His captivating hazel eyes met hers, burning with desire and tinged with impatience, then he lifted her into his arms and slogged through the knee-deep water, carrying her back toward the house.
“Let’s get married and stay here forever.” His voice was husky and simmering with barely checked passion. “Everyday can be just like today. No more bullshit wars. No more high-risk missions. Screw it! From now on, it’s just you and me ... in a tropical paradise, eating and sleeping ... and making babies.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Abby purred, her fingers combing through his wet hair, “but a tad unrealistic. I don’t think CJ will tolerate permanent house guests. And then there’s the whole go-AWOL-and-get-court-martialed thing.”
“I’ll get Ryan to reassign us.” Bradley ferried her into a secluded niche where a hammock dangled between queen palms. Sitting down as if it was a swing, he eased Abby onto his lap. “There’s a live-fire, high-angle training site for Marines on top of Ulupau Crater.” A cocksure and nostalgic grin bedecked his freshly shaven face.
“I should be a shoo-in with my instructor credentials.”
Perplexed, Abby said, “Uh, what credentials?”
He recoiled in mock indignation and vented a low, throaty chuckle. “Forgetfulness is a punishable offense,” he said, tugging at the tie string of her bikini top. “I taught you to shoot in the hilly terrain of Sugar Lake. Remember?”
Head tilting to the side, she rolled her eyes. “Hell, if handing out scope manuals qualifies as a credential, I could be an instructor.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” He gave her derriere a good-natured swat then his fingers glided over the wet fabric, squeezing and stroking. “As I recall, there was an index card involved, too,” he said, an undertone of laughter spoiling his reprimand. “And then there was that shooting range I engineered with the dishes and saucers.”
Tickled by the memory, Abby said, “And you think the Marine Corps will accept that as a qualification?”
“Not a chance in hell.” He paused, depositing a trail of tantalizing kisses along her neck. “But Ryan knows that you dispatched that sniper team. And he already acknowledged that we’ve both carried more than our fair share of the burden.”
Bradley kissed her with a devouring intensity. He peeled off Abby’s wet bikini top and flung it aside, striking a monstera leaf with a wet slap, and his hands roamed, massaging and kneading bare skin.
Then his military-issued satellite phone began to ring.
“Aren’t ... you,” she whispered against the insatiable demands of his lips. “Gonna ... answer ... that?”
“Hell no!”
“But what if ...” Seduced and intoxicated by the sensuous warmth of his mouth meandering along her neck, Abby’s voice trailed away taking her thought with it, and it took several seconds for her to recover. “But what if it’s President Andrews?”
Bradley tugged at the tie string of her bikini bottoms and said, “He can leave a message.”
The Power of We the People Page 24