Secession: The Storm (21 page)

He flipped open the cheap phone, punching the numbers from memory despite having never used them before.

Heidi Clifton’s political wizard, one of the most powerful men in Washington, had trouble pushing the “send” button. His finger, shaking with rage and fear, finally managed to strike the right key.

“Yes,” answered a mildly annoyed voice.

“It’s me. I’ve got a problem, and I’m not sure who else to call.”

There was a complete change of tone from the other end. “Tell me about it. You know I’m always here to help if I can.”

“There is a paper trail that I suddenly wish didn’t exist. I thought with your connections, it might disappear.”

“Go on,” came the reply.

Poot Terrebonne’s index finger slowly traced the outline of her naked hip, his hungry eyes assessing every aspect of the curve and angle constructed by the underlying bone and muscle.

“Time’s a wasting, Poot,” she stated with an impatient voice. “I charge by the hour, ya know. Girl’s got to make a living.”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “I’m flush with cash and intend to take my time. Been a while since I had a lanky one like you.”

“How’d you fill your pockets so quick? I know you just got out of Huntsville last month. You got work already?”

“Ain’t none of your business,” he replied coldly. “I did a job over in Houston, so you’ll get paid. Now just lay there and be pretty… and quiet. I hired you for those legs and what’s between ’em – not engaging conversation.”

Rolling her eyes, the hooker smirked, “No need to be short with me.” She regretted the words immediately.

Poot inhaled sharply, slapping her face with a lightning-fast strike. “Bitch!” he hissed, eyes wide with rage.

Rubbing her stinging cheek, she instantly apologized. “I’m sorry, Poot. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just a saying.”

Like so many vertically challenged men, Poot was well known for his uppity attitude and quick temper. The Cajun’s appetite for tall women was legendary as well, more than a few of the escort services in New Orleans familiar with his tastes and desires.

Despite the arrogance and obvious compensation for his lack of stature, Poot had a fair reputation among New Orleans’s working girls. He didn’t get too rough, nothing too kinky, paid in cash, didn’t last long, and preferred his female companions to be lean and leggy.

Her customer’s frustration was further elevated when his cell phone sounded from the nightstand. Already thrown off his game plan, Poot reached for the annoying device as if he was going to fling it against the wall.

One glance at the caller ID changed his demeanor immediately.

Holding a “be quiet” finger to his lips while nodding at his companion, Poot answered with a congenial tone. “Yeah.”

His eyes lost focus as he listened in silence. A minute later, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, losing all interest in the woman beside him. “Yeah, I’m available,” came his less than verbose reply.

“Baton Rouge?” the prostitute heard him say.

“Just the files? That’s all they want?” he uttered a few moments later.

“I’ll need the money up front to pry them loose,” Poot continued. “Probably take five to ten large for a federal case. Meet me in the Quarter at the usual place… 20 minutes. I’ll head up to Baton Rouge first thing.”

Poot punched the “end” button, staring blankly at the phone as he gathered his thoughts. He then stood abruptly, reaching for his trousers.

He flipped three one-hundred dollar bills at the girl, growling, “Get dressed, and get out of here. Right now.”

Smiling at the unearned bonus, she shrugged and began to comply. “Call me any time, Poot. You got my number.”

A mob of reporters gathered in Bethesda’s pressroom - standing room only. First up was the candidate’s primary medical doctor, the distinguished gentleman providing a positive report on Heidi’s physical condition.

The campaign then pulled a huge surprise on the media, parading out the always-popular President Clifton. With his customary smile and high-handed waves, he spoke to the throng as a relieved husband and caring family man.

Somehow, the ex-chief executive managed to pull off a conflicting message, convincing the onlookers that his wife was in excellent spirits, while at the same time expressing her remorse at the loss of life resulting from the incident. Walking the razor’s edge as if it were a casual stroll in the park, he portrayed Heidi as strong, resilient, and ready to lead, yet deeply touched by the deaths of her co-workers.

Aaron was always amazed at Jeff Clifton’s performances. The press seemed to suffer from amnesia regarding his indiscretions while serving in the Oval Office. One radio commentator had dubbed the former chief executive “the Teflon president,” and the handle seemed to fit. Clifton’s famous denial, “I never had sex with that woman,” was now commonly used as a punchline, signaling a big lie that had resulted in practically no consequence. “I never inhaled,” was another of the former president’s oft-referenced jewels.

And then came the encore.

With perfect hair, flawless makeup and her typical conservative dress, Heidi authoritatively strolled out on the stage. There was one small bandage on her temple, her left arm in a sling.

The room went crazy, blinding camera flashes coupled with a hundred inquiries bellowed at once. She teased them, acting as if she had no intention of speaking or taking any questions. Jefferson Clifton moved to her side, taking a posture that appeared as if he were trying to protect his vulnerable spouse from the baying wolves of the press.

Grinning and nodding, she ignored the barrage of questions. It was a re-creation of Ronald Reagan stepping onto the balcony after the failed attempt on his life, waving and smiling to reassure the people.

Just when the reporters thought she was going to disappear from the stage, Heidi again shocked the crowd by stepping up to the microphone.

“If I am elected president of these United States,” she began, “I will most likely have to endure even greater remorse than what I feel at the loss of my comrades in Houston. As Commander in Chief, I may be required to order our brave men and women into dangerous war zones where they risk the ultimate sacrifice. Some may not come home.”

She paused to scan the room, her eyes focused and clear. A slight grimace had formed on her lips before she continued. “And yet, the president of our great nation must continue on. The chief executive is required to ignore personal grief and lead our people. Countless times throughout our history, our leaders have been forced to push aside individual remorse and wounded emotions in order to stay a steady hand at the helm. It’s part of the job, part of our heritage, and why we live in the greatest nation on earth.”

The fact that Heidi wasn’t reading from any prepared remarks made her words appear even more sincere, projecting a confidence that resonated across the nation’s television screens. No one had noticed her husband leaving a sheet of paper on the podium before he’d stepped away.

Mr. Clifton, standing in the shadows, swelled with pride. She had pulled it off perfectly. But then, rather than walk away, she remained at the microphone, her expression making clear she wasn’t finished.

“I also want this episode in Houston to be a catalyst to reevaluate the Second Amendment of our Constitution. My fellow Americans, it is past the time to initiate this critical debate. We, as a nation, have witnessed the massacre of children at the hands of deranged individuals who can legally possess weapons of mass destruction. And we did nothing. We have watched our sons, daughters, family and friends cut to pieces because a few individuals are afraid of their government. They quote our founding fathers, spewing antiquated rhetoric from over 200 years ago that is not at all applicable to modern society.”

She glared at the press corps, almost as if she were daring anyone to challenge her words. Her passion, anger, and determination were obvious in that moment – evident to the millions of Americans watching.

“Do we settle our political differences with rifles? What kind of society determines the winner of a disagreement via the bullet? To the people who shout ‘liberty,’ and ‘freedom,’ I ask you – what kind of liberty do those 24 dead people on that airplane have now? What kind of freedom are their children, spouses, and parents enjoying? This has gotten ridiculous, and if I am elected your Commander in Chief, I will do something about it.”

Heidi took a deep breath, pausing to grip both sides of the podium. “I have supported universal background checks since before the campaign began. I voted for every gun control measure that came across my desk as a U.S. senator. I ask my fellow Americans to reflect on our current situation as they watch the funerals of the fallen over the next few days. Please, help me add some small sense of meaning to their sacrifice… help me ensure a tragedy like this never happens again. Thank you.”

The former president almost choked, stunned that his normally on-message wife had left the carefully planned parameters of the appearance. Despite the sick feeling building in his stomach, he smiled at Heidi as she left the stage, congratulating her on a job well done.

He glanced at Aaron, making eye contact as the entourage headed back toward her hospital room. The ex-president shook his head, a frown governing his expression. “She just fucked up,” he mouthed.

They had arrived.

The first hint was the repeated sound of a helicopter passing over the area. A single fly by wasn’t anything unusual – such things occasionally happened. On the second pass, Abe’s senses snapped to full alert. The third pass was confirmation. He was sure his property was being scanned with a variety of airborne instruments.

Next, he spied Mrs. Fuller peeking through her drapes, the nosy woman’s attention focused on the end of the street, well out of his range of vision.
That’s where the initial patrol cars will be gathering, blocking traffic and mustering their forces,
he conjectured.

His lack of fear was a bit of a surprise. Despite the realization that dozens of law enforcement officers were preparing to storm his residence, he felt little emotion. Neither anger nor foreboding dominated his mood. It was the first calm he’d felt in years… since New Orleans.

He knew they would attack the front and back simultaneously. It was only common sense. What he wasn’t sure about was which end of the house would receive the most attention.

“It doesn’t matter,” he proclaimed to the empty home. “I’ve got a whole series of surprises for them.”

He tried to visualize what they were doing. “Probably scouting the lay of the land,” he decided. “No doubt putting some long range shooters on the water tower, maybe commandeering Mrs. Fuller’s spare bedroom up on the second floor as they evacuate the neighborhood.”

He pressed the remote to turn on the television, switching to the channel that displayed his security cameras. A few days before, he’d discretely altered their direction, pointing them outward so he could enjoy the show. He didn’t have to wait long for the opening act.

The first to enter his field of view were mere uniformed patrol officers. There were six in all, sidearms drawn and taking up positions along his back fence. After a few minutes, it was obvious their job was to block any escape route.

“You guys are wasting your time,” he whispered to the television. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Movement drew his eye, the camera on the front porch detecting human shapes pressing toward the house, working along the edge of the street. “Ahhh. Now we’re getting serious,” he observed.

The advancing group contained five officers, all wearing body armor, tactical vests, and Kevlar helmets. All of them carried long guns, the familiar outline of at least three M4 rifles discernable on the grainy image. The bright, yellow letters “FBI” were stenciled across their chests.

Those first five, probably one of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Teams, paused by the low wall bordering his front yard. They were soon joined by three additional officers, two of them carrying shields, the third hefting what appeared to be a heavy battering ram.

In a flash, they were through the front gate, quickly approaching up the sidewalk and then spreading out on the front porch. Despite observing their progress, the loud banging on the door startled Abe. The sound instantly diverted his mind’s eye to the memory of being in his father’s home – 11 years ago. 

“FBI! We have a warrant! Open this door! Police!” screamed the voice.

Before Abe, or any other reasonable person, could have answered or opened up, an even louder crash sounded as the battering ram slammed against the reinforced threshold.

At least you have a warrant this time
, Abe thought, as he casually reached for the extension cord at his feet. Without hesitating, he plugged the red wire into the socket just as the ram impacted again, shaking the wall so violently one of Kara’s favorite photographs fell to the floor.

The whine of a small pump drifted in from the garage, a slight odor of gasoline accompanying the noise. Abe smirked as his hand reached for the switch that controlled the front porch light.

Only two days before, he’d replaced the factory-delivered bulb with a modified version – screwing in a unit with exposed wires that would generate a shower of sparks. The ram struck the doorframe again.

The pump was connected to what had been Abe’s mister. Used to spray a refreshing fine cloud of cold water during those intolerable summer months, he had installed the system a few years ago so Kara could enjoy the porch swing, even during the sweltering Houston evenings. 

Instead of water, the pump now drew from a 5-gallon can of gasoline he’d kept in the garage. A mist of explosive vapors soon began falling around the agents trying to breach his home.

Evidently, they realized something was wrong. He could hear excited voices on the other side of the wall, the assault against his door now halted. Shifting to watch through a tiny slit in the shutters, he flicked the switch.

A ball of flame engulfed the verandah, its red and yellow center expanding in a brilliant flash. Like the whoosh of an over-fueled BBQ grill being ignited with a match, the roar of the flames was quickly overridden by cries of shrieking, horrified men.

Abe watched as they scrambled from his porch, two of the policemen partially engulfed in flames, a third stumbling badly as if he were blind. Other officers rushed to help their injured comrades while still more policemen pointed their weapons to cover their retreat.

Abe flipped the second wall switch.

It took a few seconds for the scavenged heating elements to ignite the smokeless powder packed into the three canister bombs. He’d purchased two 8-pound containers of the propellant at the local gun store a few weeks ago, joking with the clerk about how reloading his own ammunition was the only way he could afford to target practice.

The heating elements were scavenged from inexpensive coffeemakers, inserted directly into the gunpowder. The local home improvement store had provided the pipe, electrical wire, and nails.

Each of the foot-long, steel tubes contained almost two pounds of explosive, another two pounds of nails wrapped around each. Given the dense landscaping at the front of his home, it hadn’t been difficult to reroute the electricity and disguise the devices.

Despite the amount of powder, Abe was disappointed in the size of the blast. Still, the air was filled with a hailstorm of shrapnel, four of the policemen in his yard going down, at least three staggering backwards.

Clouds of smoke and dirt rose into the air as the rumble of the explosion rolled down his usually quiet, suburban street. The echo hadn’t yet faded before he was throwing open the storm shutters.

The AR15 was equipped with an infrared optic and holographic sight. Abe shouldered the weapon and began scanning through the thermal imager. His vision was filled with an odd combination of amber, crimson, and ash. The outlines of several human shapes were clearly visible, despite the thick fog of smoke and debris still fouling the air.

He spotted a handful of wounded men on his lawn, some lying prone, others trying to crawl away from the carnage. Abe wasn’t worried about the officers on his property. They most likely weren’t going anywhere.

He moved his aim toward the end of the street where several responders were scampering toward their downed comrades. He began firing.

At first, they didn’t seem to understand that they were the targets, many of the agents continuing to charge directly into his line of fire. That situation quickly changed when men began to drop from his rapidly barking weapon.

He switched positions, redirecting his aim to the opposite end of the street. Here there were fewer targets, but still enough to warrant the remaining 15 rounds in his magazine.

Abe pulled back, speedily slamming the heavy shutters into their locked positions. It had only taken a few seconds to fire the 30 rounds, but the smoke was beginning to clear, and he didn’t want to tempt the snipers who were no doubt covering his home. He was reasonably confident they had thermal technology as well, but had gambled they wouldn’t typically use the devices in broad daylight.

He slammed a fresh magazine into the AR, returning his gaze to the security cameras and the backyard. A smile crossed his face – the back of his home was void of any intruders. The cops had either learned their lesson or detected the explosive devices covering that side of the house. Abe wondered if they had the technology to spot the laser trip-wires.

For a brief moment, he thought about engaging the wounded men still on his property, but dismissed the urge. Dealing with their downed comrades would take resources. Plus, the remaining cops wouldn’t be so brash after seeing their mauled co-workers carried past. It was a small mercy – one the New Orleans police hadn’t shown his brother or father.

After another quick scan of the security cameras, he decided a cold drink was in order. Besides, they would be cutting off the electricity any minute, and he would need to preserve the generator’s gasoline supply. He knew that the refrigerator would soon be a luxury.

After opening a bottle of frosty water, Abe grabbed his pack and prepared to head upstairs. The armored vehicle would be next, and he could best deal with it from an elevated position.

Before he reached the bottom step, the power blinked once, twice, and then the room became dark. The police had cut the electricity. He had little doubt his cable TV, water, and natural gas would soon follow. The phone was questionable.

A grin crossed his face when the electrical switchgear in the garage did its job, the slight whine of his generator engaging just before the lights came back on. He wouldn’t even have to reset the clocks.

As if on cue, he heard the downstairs phone ring. It was either a solicitor or a police negotiator. Neither was welcome.

Sighing at the distraction, he decided to get it over with and answer the call.

“Hendricks residence,” he answered with a polite voice.

“Mr. Hendricks, my name is Sal Perkins… Special Agent Sal Perkins of the Houston FBI office.”

“Hello, Agent Sal Perkins,” Abe responded with a pleasant tone. “I’m glad you called. There have been several men trying to break into my house, and I believe they should be arrested.”

“Those are federal law enforcement officers, sir, and you know that. I’m calling to ask you to surrender peacefully. Unless you do, this can only end one way.”

Abe chuckled, the response genuine. “The last time I had a bunch of cops at the door, it didn’t work out so well. I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

“There’s no need for you to die, Mr. Hendricks. No reason for more loss of life. I’ll personally guarantee your safety if you surrender peacefully. I can be there to meet you. You have my word that none of my men will shoot.”

Abe was already tired of the conversation and saw no reason to be polite to the cop on the other end of the line. Pulling the phone from his ear, he bent slightly to return the headset to its base. The wall beside him exploded in a shower of plaster.

A string of bullets ripped through the air, a steady cadence of high-velocity lead slapping, banging, and popping into the living room.

Confusion reigned in Abe’s mind for a microsecond, his body instinctively ducking the growing cloud of grit and debris flying from the wall. Awareness came to him in slow motion, his senses so acute that he could actually hear the bullets punching through the shutters before they slammed into the walls and furniture surrounding him.

Not realizing he was still gripping the handset, Abe scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees, desperately trying to escape the wave of destruction tearing into his home. Vases exploded, picture frames shattered, and wooden chairs vibrated with the impact. The air quickly grew thick with a fog of dust, drywall, and furniture stuffing. 

They’re using the phone to track my position somehow
, he realized.
Amazing
.

And then the barrage stopped.

“You’ve just made a big mistake, Agent Perkins,” he said breathlessly into the phone, his body hiding under the coffee table. “There are some very good reasons for me to sacrifice my life. You’re going to have to come in and get me, and I’ll give you fair warning – it’s not going to be Mardi Gras.”