Authors: Mary E Palmerin,Poppet
Copyright © 2016 Poppet / Mary E Palmerin
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Cover designed by Poppet. Cover model: Gints Valdmanis
Nothing can derail destiny
Table of Contents
“‘Woe! Woe to you, great city,
where all who had ships on the sea
became rich through her wealth!
In one hour
she has been brought to ruin!
~ Revelation 18:18
ogeyman. It’s only after a moment that I realize central is addressing me via using my code name. “Agent Hearse, position 15,” commands through the concealed comms in my ear.
Instinctively I do another visual sweep, seeing nothing untoward in the immediate vicinity of 1515. Behind that closed door is the biggest secret of this modern world.
Dressed in a business suit outfitted with more weaponry than a combat armory I pretend to answer emails on my cell-phone, employing the infrared app in the phone-disguise gadget to sweep the small foyer on the 23
floor, up and down, looking for evidence that our mission is compromised.
I have a feeling, a strong one, the kind that cannot be ignored because it’s beginning to drain my brain of logic. My training is bellowing battle in my blood. We are under threat, we are under attack, we just don’t know it yet.
Pulling the nerdy spectacles from my hankie pocket, I don them, again masquerading like a farsighted moron, using the phone high and low, feigning looking for a better signal because my gut is telling me we’re being monitored, except now I’m using the spectacles designed to pick up radio frequencies. There’s a bug in here, I’m pretty darn sure of it.
It’s only when I move to the window, looking down at the sunny city of Nok Kundi, that I spy the telltale device attached to the inside of the window latch.
Lifting the pretend-phone to my ear, I speak to the offshore superior in my comms, “Listen Sherri, I know you’ve been cheating on me sugar. You’ve been a code red for months. I knew you were trouble when you went to
“Code red in room 1515. Confirm Hearse,” demands urgently in my ear.
“Oh yes,” I laugh into my phone, quickly chewing the magnetic gum up in my mouth and jamming it over their minuscule device. “The mother is compromised,” I hiss, shoving the phone into my pocket, instead drawing my sidearm and rapidly striding to guard the hotel door containing the matriarch.
Knocking on it precisely three times, I call to the interior, “PTA meeting at 03h00. Ma’am, we need to go or you’ll be late.”
The door opens and the first lady steps out, worry in her gray eyes, looking beyond me for the threat. “David? I thought the PTA meeting wasn’t until four?”
“My girl aborted,” I tell her, using code, letting her know the situation is dire. We’ve been compromised and it’s an inside job.
Eight people in the entire world know that the president is just a hand puppet. The system is matriarchal and always has been. We don’t interview presidential candidates, we interview their wives.
She’s here in Pakistan making a deal with the Priory of Fidai. They have a shortage of women, we need a better price for crude oil. Human trafficking has never met a need more altruistic.
This is patriotism at its finest, moving the unwanted to a lucrative market in a trade deal set in stone for the next decade. We’re overpopulated anyhow. Young women have already been trafficked for decades and the public hasn’t stepped up, there’s no outcry, they’re too busy worrying about the next terrorist threat behind the veil titled ISIS.
I don’t exist, and neither does the container of teenagers that flew in with us as a sign of good faith. If you interrogated and tortured me I’d still tell you this is a charity event for the first lady, an olive branch between warring nations. Go ahead and assassinate the president, we don’t care about him. JFK was shot, Jackie got the sympathy of the nation, everyone would’ve died to protect her after the Oswald scam; it ensured she was universally loved. That’s how it works. The king has to die to protect the queen, and right now my nation’s queen is compromised in enemy territory.
“Your girl aborted? Postpone the PTA at the school. Sorry to hear your news, David,” she nods to me, comprehending, fully. After all, I used code. Who has a PTA meeting at three in the morning?
The elite team I’m on has one objective, protect the matriarch at any cost. That means out of the four of us, one of us is dirty. That, or the president has finally had enough of being the poster boy. The first lady runs the show, pretending to be a docile extra in a political pantomime so she’s never a target, yet he’s the one who takes the fall and ire for every decision she makes. She holds the meetings while he poses for journalists and campaigns, his character assassinated over and over again for the right to bear arms, the foreign policy, and the rapidly depreciating value of the dollar.
What you don’t know
hurt you. Ignorance is not bliss, but it sure makes for happy voters. They need to think the country is run by an alpha male who sends young men into wars, keeping the country ‘free’. If you need war you’re not free, how does the populace not see the obvious? We go to war to obtain minerals, land, secure trade routes, and decimate our enemies before they even consider attacking us.
You want to know why 9-11 had to happen? Easy. It was written, it’s a prophecy, and we’re in the business of making sure prophecy and policy follow the same agenda. Revelation 18 vs 18. It had to be the World Trade Center because it contained the nation’s wealth, it had a view of the port, and the world froze to watch the desecration of what was once the world’s tallest building fall via news channels. Babylon fell. Twin towers. Symbolically, dual rulers just like the kind sworn in in ancient times. One nation under God.
I’ve been doing this for so long I know shit very few folks know. There is a script and no one may deviate from the rehearsed agenda. People can’t even begin to imagine the truth, they can’t think in waters that deep. Chemtrails do far more for the cause than drones ever will. The population has been subliminally coded to react to the numbers 911, it’s the emergency number, inciting the entire nation into an immediate climate of panic. Everything was planned, the script followed, the hive is intact.
With our first lady behind me, and Cooper to our six, we take to the stairwell up to the roof, to the Hawk ready to fly us directly to the aircraft carrier. The fleet think this is a peacekeeping mission. They’re clueless, in the dark, ignorant, just like the rest of the marionettes in this godforsaken play.
Escaping into the heat, fleeing across the roof with the rotor blades already sending a tornado of dust into our eyes, I shield the matriarch by body-blocking her to any sniper in the vicinity, helping her in, then climb in next to her, Cooper heading for the front next to our pilot while I visually sweep the vicinity, searching for the kill zone.
It’s then that the muzzle turns on me and I stare into the face of betrayal. The matriarch wants no witnesses. We’ve been compromised, that means we all die.
All of us but the Queen.
The confidentiality of this covert transaction is paramount.
I look her dead in the eye, respectfully, because it’s been an honor to serve. Her. The country. The cause.
Thin red lips, glossed in Chanel-red, quirk, and instead of blowing my brains out she takes out Cooper, then Neithe, the pilot.
She doesn’t miss a beat, shoving me towards the controls because I’m trained for every eventuality, moving to sit on Coopers’ bloody lap while we spiral because the gyro is going berserk. “Get me home, Hearse. Trust no one.”
Plan B it is.
“Yes, your majesty.”
It’s one helluva undertaking, with seven stopovers along the way until we enter the USA under false passports and disguises, masquerading as a honeymooning couple. As her alpha it’s my duty to carry extra passports at all times.
The Newark night is moonless and dark. As dark as my future. As dark as her heart.
I make the amateur mistake of turning to her and questioning her authority. “Why didn’t you pull the trigger, ma’am?”
“You wouldn’t have raised the flag if you were in on it, Hearse.”
Wouldn’t I? If I was dirty I’d do my damnedest to make myself look innocent, playing the role of a patriot. One of us is dirty and I’m itching to hunt the team down and extract the information of which one of us sold the Queen out to desert rats.
Looking beyond her I see the Social Security team moving in on our location, and when I finally use my brain I notice that special ops have already covered the building and are in position. I’m in the hot zone. Patrick Murphy loiters in the entrance to the terminal. I’d know that face anywhere, with the scar running down his right cheek. How did a German man get a name like Patrick Murphy?
I’m a dead man walking. Him being here means she knows who I am. I work for him, I work for her, and the twain were never meant to meet.
Giving her a smile I go down on one knee, holding her right hand and giving it a chaste kiss. “It was a pleasure to work under you.”
I worked under her and over her more than once. Our Queen has a lady-boner for breaking warriors. I only got to bed her often because she couldn’t break me. It’s hard to crack the clinically insane, even in her Dom gear.
We fought, incessantly, and I loved getting to punch the matriarch. She loved it too, addicted to pain because when you’re obscenely rich it becomes a challenge to find a high after you’ve consumed the smorgasbord of options so readily available. That’s why so many men in supreme positions of power end up bedding children. Sometimes the only high you can find at the top is to break the law. Every time you’re not caught you push the limit higher, seeking the rush, needing more. Power is a drug. I know, because I wield it too.
They have a backup plan if I escape. It’s an implant, so I know running is useless. Sometimes it sucks being a double agent. Life sucks, period.
Mercy sucks even more.
The bullet discharges next to me, and when I look up I spot the needle reflecting the lights from the runway.
The queen likes the pawn after all.
And yet I fall.