Body Shop Page 3
A soft knock on the door heralded the arrival of his two guests. One of his security team opened the door, nodded his head, and pushed the door wide. General Young entered, followed by Simpson. Flocke doubted they’d had an opportunity to introduce themselves. The general’s two deputies remained outside, available to support their Storm Detachment commander if required. Flocke smiled to himself; in his opinion, his security team were capable of protecting him and his senior people against any action from adversaries internal or external to the American Eagles.
Flocke pushed his notepad away. The other men had left their electronic devices outside, in the careful hands of his security team. They earlier had searched the meeting room for eavesdropping and recording devices before allowing him to enter. No one had noticed the small cleaning bot located beside its charging base.
He waved the two men to come forward. “Gentlemen. Take a seat. No, this end of the table so I don’t have to shout. Thank you both for coming. I have a short agenda, and we’ll cover it in less than an hour.”
Flocke waited for the two men to seat themselves. Both wore brown uniforms. Young had MAWA badges pinned in his collar, and Simpson had the same, plus a small gold cross, shaped almost like a dagger, but with a double quillion. He wore a white reversed collar, a symbol of his religious status. Young set himself in the next chair but one; Simpson sat on the other side of the table. Flocke thought his new religious leader was being cautious.
He sat for a moment reflecting on the two men. Effectively, they would be his deputies. Young’s head was completely hairless except for eyebrows and eyelashes. He had bright blue piercing eyes; it was difficult even for Flocke to look into them for more than a few seconds. Young’s career had included a four-year stint in Afghanistan as a ranking officer with one of the contract companies tasked with eliminating a resurgent ISIS force. His last assignment had ended ignominiously; he had taken a squad of twenty men deep into terrorist territory. The team, in a pre-dawn raid, had surrounded a village supposedly controlled by the fanatics. One of Young’s men had taken over the software controlling three drones circling high above their location. At Young’s direction, the software hacker had triggered the release of six rockets targeting the collection of houses and other buildings. When the projectiles hit, his men had opened fire. The attack was short, vicious, and deadly. Villagers, terrorists or not, fought back. As a final step, Young had ordered his software hacker to crash the drones into the center of the compound, where they exploded into flames, adding to the death toll and destruction. At the end of the firefight, Young was the only survivor of the freelance military squad. There were no survivors from the village.
Young had returned to his base with a detailed narrative of the raid that no one was able to disprove. He had been subject to both military and civil legal actions; neither had prevailed. His employer had terminated his assignment.
Flocke, a year later and after an extended period of deliberations, had decided to appoint the man to spearhead his Storm Detachment and to head his officer corps. So far, he thought, he had made the right decision for the American Eagles.
Bishop Lee Simpson was an entirely different man. His brown uniform was tailored and pressed. He was clean-shaven and his blonde hair was combed back. He claimed to be able to trace his ancestry to the Mayflower. His grandfather and on his death, his father, had been pastors of an evangelical mission in South America where somehow—Flocke did not know the full details—Simpson senior had run afoul of the dictator who controlled the small country. As a result, the entire family was kidnapped and jailed. Lee Simpson escaped and fled to the US, and it was rumored the other family members had been murdered in prison. Mutual friends had introduced the intelligent and dedicated young pastor to Flocke, who had recognized attributes, strengths, and an attitude in Simpson that would provide him with more control over his American Eagles. He had ignored the man’s weaknesses.
Until now, Simpson and Young had not met, and Flocke made the introductions. He said, “Paul, Bishop Lee Simpson will head our American Eagles Seminary. He’ll train and provide ordained pastors who we’ll allocate to brownshirt squads as discussed. I’d like to start with the Storm Detachment so that we set an example for the rest of our force. I’ve previously discussed with you the need to maintain genetic purity within our Eagles. The bishop’s pastors—given the demands we’ll place on him and his seminary, some may be junior—will be tasked with ensuring the loyalties of our men, and they’ll enforce the genetic standards we’ve established.”
He addressed Simpson, “Lee, General Young commands our Storm Detachment. He has direct control of ten thousand men. They’re trained to the highest standard they can achieve as civilians, that is, without experiencing direct participation in military engagements. Of course, he is also my senior officer, responsible, via his officer corps, for all our Eagles. Your first graduates—our new pastors—will be allocated to Young’s Stormers. Four senior pastors—those who you rate highest—are to be placed in the headquarters’ echelon. The remainder we’ll allocate to front-line companies, one pastor to one hundred Eagles. The pastors will report to General Young regarding any disciplinary matter of an operational or military nature. They’ll report to you regarding genetic purity or religious matters. It’s a shared reporting line; I can’t see any alternative.”
The two men exchanged nods and reached across the table and clasped hands. Flocke half expected them to arm wrestle.
Bishop Simpson said, “I welcome the opportunity to serve. As we’ve discussed, I foresee no difficulty with your proposals. My training staff are designing a course based on your outline, and my seminary will graduate fifty pastors within six months. I’ll commit to provide a further fifty recruits with similar backgrounds at the end of the second six months. The first one hundred have had prior religious training. After that, the recruits will mostly be fresh, without prior religious training. They’ll need experience.”
“Good. Paul, what do you think?”
“I’m happy to work with the bishop and his pastors. We’ll undoubtedly encounter some rough patches; however, I’m confident we’ll be able to resolve those without taking up your time.”
“Now, while I have you both here—the issue in California. Paul, do you have any news for me?”
“Yes. Pitera conducted a successful raid, and his preliminary report stated they captured this woman—the one who is McIntosh’s bodyguard and, we believe, is also his lover. Apparently they overdosed their captive, and she’s been unconscious for thirty or more hours. I’m waiting for an updated report. The woman is under restraint, and Pitera plans to use her to trap McIntosh. I’ve sent a small team to assist. We’ll end up with McIntosh, I’m confident. If he and his woman don’t cooperate, we’ll—”
“Very good. Thank your men for me. When you capture McIntosh, don’t eliminate him until I give the word. I have questions I want him to answer, first.”
“I’ll let you know when we have him under control.”
“What’s happening with Pitera?”
“We’re monitoring the colonel. I’ve two of my men embedded in his operation, and he’s unable to scratch without a report reaching me. We’ll have to deal with him soon, I suspect.”
“Once we have identified a suitable replacement, you can take action.”
“As we discussed?”
“Yes. I have another topic for you. I’ve succeeded with my negotiations to take over the Gitmo lease. After the president applied some pressure, SECDEF agreed to dispose of the property, and I’ve signed a sub-lease. It will be our responsibility from the beginning of next month. Anything remaining on the base is ours to use as we see fit. Move your trainers as soon as possible after the first of the month. Oh, you can headquarter your Storm Detachment there, too, if you wish. Give me some recommendations.”
“Very good. Gitmo’s nicely isolated. We can function without media or nosy neighbors interfering. I’ll prepare my men for relocation.”
; Flocke was about to end the meeting when a message flashed on his notepad. It was highlighted urgent. He said, “Excuse me. I have to call back on this.”
His face paled with anger as he listened.
“You said all accounts? Gone, just like that? Check everything. Talk to the banks. I’ll have more than their asses if we can prove they’ve been negligent. I want a full report. Yes, I’ll be finished here shortly and I’ll come straight to the office.” He disconnected and dropped his cell phone.
He hit the table with an open hand. It stung. He cursed. “Damn the man.”
“Something I can help you with?”
‘What? Oh, yes. It seems our favorite colonel has been caught with his fingers in the money jar. My financial people are investigating, and they suspect he’s moved millions—all our funds—out of the main HQ accounts. All accounts have been zeroed out. Every one. I’ll kill him.” He snarled. “He’s a dead man.”
“How good is your financial team?”
“Top tier. Four of them, recruited from major international banks, plus a man I’ve had working for me for over fifteen years. They know what they’re doing.”
“Where has the money gone?”
Flocke was barely restraining his anger. He said, “They’re tracing the transfers. One million dollars ended up in a Pitera-controlled account that he thought he’d hidden from us. The banks apparently have only nominal details of the other transfers. The banks are all claiming the transfers were properly authorized. The money has gone offshore, of course.”
“I’ll head to California,” Young said. “I have a small support group ready to move out at an hour’s notice. We’ll take control.”
Simpson added, “General, I have two men available to help. While they’re key to my seminary plans, they have significant financial experience and can help you.”
Flocke waited for his general’s reply.
Young said, after a moment’s reflection. “Good. This will mark the commencement of our cooperation. I’ll message you our departure details. We’ll be flying one of our own aircraft.”
Flocke said, “I want his head. No, not literally. You know what I mean. Both of you, go, make your arrangements. Paul, get this done. Report twice a day. Be aware we’ve lost all our funds. I’ll have to tap into some of our backers, and that’s going to be extremely embarrassing.”
oOo
Chapter 5
The ping sound from his computer caught Toby’s attention. The message was anonymous; there was no text and a GIF of a dancing clown was the only visible content apart from attached video files. He clicked on the message icon and it repeated the clown GIF, but in a larger format. Intrigued, he decided to download the files.
“Darwin, do you know anything about the latest message I’ve received? It has files attached.”
“No, Toby. I checked and it’s not a virus. Do you want me to run the videos?”
“No. I can do that.”
Toby clicked on the first file and watched it with increasing concern. It ran for sixty seconds. In the video, someone pushed open a door and knocked over a care bot; the camera source focused on the fallen bot. He clicked the second video. It apparently was from the perspective of a bot rushing towards an armed man who fired a shot to one side of the camera and who then aimed at the camera. The video ended; the armed man presumably had shot out the camera. The third video was from further away. The first man aimed his weapon and fired at a man; Toby did not recognize him and assumed he was Billie’s stepfather. Next the video showed another man holding a hypodermic and injecting the contents into someone’s arm. He looked closer. It was Billie’s arm. These were the men who had kidnapped Billie. His anger grew. He watched as Billie collapsed. Billie was lifted up and carried out of the room.
He cursed; his anger now unconstrained. He wanted these two men. These videos, he suspected, would lead him to whoever had planned Billie’s kidnap and the murder of her stepfather. His Toby In The City vblog audience would help. Toby copied the videos to his vblog and added text and audio. He offered a reward for the first person who replied with accurate identification of the two men. The amount was substantial—it would attract hundreds of people who were engaged in solving puzzles on the Internet of Things.
For a moment, Toby wondered whether he was placing Billie in greater danger by pushing out the vblog to such a wide audience—he had more than half a million regular followers, and his general audience could reach a million or more. He decided if he could obtain identification of the two men, he’d be able to find where Billie was being held. Speed would be crucial. He’d need to organize her rescue before her captors could react.
He clicked the send button.
Within seconds, Bronwyn’s image appeared on his computer screen. She said, somewhat preemptively, “Those videos were recorded from bot cameras. Where did you get them?”
Toby explained. “They were anonymous.”
“I can confirm they’re genuine. They were recorded by the bots in attendance on Billie’s stepfather. I’ve commenced a search to find out where the files were stored. I’m also trying to identify the sender. I’m accessing all the files Darwin should have checked. Also, even though the FBI conducted a search of street and security cameras that might have videos before and after the time these were recorded, I’ll re-check.”
“It’s critical now to find where they’re holding Billie.”
“Agreed. I’m also searching cloud storages wherever I can gain access, in case there are more videos similar to these three that could help our search. Some of the clouds have very strong encryption, others not so much. It’s a laborious task. Let me know if you receive any more messages. I’m fully committed.” Bronwyn disconnected somewhat abruptly.
Toby monitored the replies to his vblog, identifying and reading those who claimed knowledge of the two men. He needed identification and confirmation; multiple messages with consistent details were a priority.
Colonel Pitera tried to ignore the buzz of his cell phone. It stopped. His focus was on this woman who would get him access to McIntosh. She would make the call to her lover or he would ensure she suffered. It didn’t matter to him that she would suffer anyway. He currently had some of Flocke’s thugs monitoring his every move and, in his opinion, the sooner they returned to Washington, the better for all concerned, but mainly for his own peace of mind.
He had uttered his threat as a casual statement, aware of its potential to create fear. He watched the young woman.
She didn’t move. Her face was ashen. He could almost smell her fear. He didn’t realize it was anger.
He smiled, showing the white of his teeth.
“Miss Nile, I mean every word. I don’t have any patience left in this matter.”
He stepped out from his desk and approached the woman where she sat, bound by chains. He enjoyed the symbology. He held out a cell phone, a disposable flip-phone.
“Make the call.”
The woman’s hands shook, and she dropped the phone. It bounced and slid under the chair.
Pitera cursed. He indicated for Mitch to recover the phone and waited while his man retrieved the device, and placed it back in the woman’s hand. This time she did not drop it. She played with the flip lid for a moment.
As the colonel watched, he observed a sudden and marked change in the woman’s expression, in her entire demeanor. He couldn’t account for it. One moment she was full of fear, and the next, she was almost relaxed, her fear transcended.
Billie listened as Bronwyn spoke softly. “Billie, we’ve been searching everywhere for you. They must have held you underground or in a shelter of some kind. I’ve located your position, and I’m sending the details to Toby and Drexel. I know Toby’s been out of his mind. He has a squad of bots with him, waiting for news and details of your location. I’ll try to connect you through to him.”
Billie looked up at the man who had instructed her to call Toby. She said, “Who are you? Why are you threatening me?”
Billie played with the flip phone. “You’ve kept me locked up in a basement freezer, you and your two hoods. You’re all bullies. You keep threatening me; is it because I’m female? You’ve got me chained up as though I was a deadly threat. Why?”
“I think Mitch told you what would happen if you misbehaved. Do you want him or me to deal with you?”
The colonel raised his hand to launch a backhand blow. His own cell phone buzzed. He looked at the caller ID and answered the call.
Bronwyn relayed details to Billie. “It’s a person called Vince. He’s from Pitera’s finance team. They have a problem.”
Pitera was almost snarling his anger, “I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed until later this afternoon.”
Bronwyn continued, “His finance department can’t pay the payroll company that issues their checks; all the brownshirts’ funds have disappeared. Pitera’s payroll is for a thousand employees. Their bank balances are zero and I think they’ve lost bitcoins, too. ” There was a giggle in her voice. Billie struggled to keep a smile from her face.
Pitera didn’t hide his anger and frustration. “Damn it. That’s impossible. Check with the bank again. Talk to the manager. Use my name.” He disconnected.
Pitera returned his attention to Billie. “I’ve had enough of this time wasting. Stop stalling. Call your friend, now, otherwise Mitch will show you what pain can do to a person.”
Billie entered a number into the flip phone. Behind the scenes Bronwyn had patched Toby into their conversation. He said, “Billie, thank goodness. I—we’ve been so worried. Bronwyn relayed your comments. Say yes, if you’re okay.”
“Yes.”
“Bronwyn’s given me your location. I estimate we’ll be there in thirty minutes. Can you stall?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean, yes, yes?” questioned Pitera.