Delphi Initiative Read online

  Chapter Seven

  Clive Jackson tapped his hands on the dash of the 1986 Tahoe to a Linkin Park song, a joint in his mouth and half can of energy drink topped off with Bacardi in his hand. He was amped up; he was excited and ready to crack heads. Everything he’d trained for was coming down to tonight. They were about to light this city on fire. He looked in the mirror—in the back, his best friends, Eric Garcia and Jordan Talbot, were bobbing their heads. They’d been sitting in a used car dealership across from a Cleveland convenience store since they’d gotten the call at just after midnight. It was time to go, time to make a difference.

  “Da fuck man—are we doing this or not?” Jordan asked.

  “Oh, we are doing it, brother,” he said, laughing then taking a long drink from the can. “We are about to set it off.”

  Jordan was the youngest of the three-man wrecking crew, and he fit right in even though the kid had never served in the military like the rest of the trio. Well, technically, Clive hadn’t served either. He’d been discharged in his second week of basic training for what the medical people called associative disorder. It was all bullshit, and he saw no reason for the others to know the truth. And besides, what could they say?

  It wasn’t like Jordan was any better. The loser had tried three times to join and every time he failed the drug screen. And Garcia—Clive grinned thinking about it—that dickhead managed to make it all the way through training and to a unit in Texas. Then got the boot and did some time for selling drugs to kids at the base school.

  He laughed, considering their history. It was all bullshit. They were good people, but the Army just wasn’t ready for them. But now the world would see what they were capable of. Thanks to Chris putting them all together, they were going to make history. His phone buzzing on the console pulled him from his thoughts. He lifted it and turned down the volume on the radio.

  “It’s CJ, talk to me,” he said.

  He looked in the mirror and could see his friends leaning forward in their seats, anxious for the go order. He shot them a wink as he listened to the man on the other end, Chris Meyer. The dude was cool as hell, and he had loads of bank and connections. He was going to make shit right with the trio. Finance them to do the dirty work that the police and corrupt politicians were afraid to do. By the end of all of this, it would be a changed world and guys like CJ would be there to rule over it.

  “Clive, it’s me,” the voice said. “How’s it looking out there?”

  CJ rolled down his window and scanned the front of the mom-and-pop convenience store. It was late but, as usual, on this part of town, there were people gathered around the twenty-four-hour entrance. A man smoking a cigarette leaned against a wall to the right of the door. More were gathered near a set of parked cars, listening to music. But they aren’t the target, he thought, scanning left along the front of the building.

  “We got something to shoot at,” CJ said. “Something really good.”

  “Okay, then make it happen. Meet me back at the shop in twenty.”

  CJ looked at Garcia in the mirror, and the man got out of the Tahoe. He walked two spots over, gave the lot a 360 scan, then opened the trunk of a Malibu and pulled out a canvas bag. The car had been parked there hours earlier by Chris. The trio was instructed to wait until the go signal before grabbing the bag, just in case they were stopped by police. CJ laughed. They were also told not to get high or drunk, but hey, a man’s gotta work the way a man works.

  Garcia returned to the SUV and passed Jordan a MAC-10 machine pistol with an extended magazine. He then moved to the front and dropped in beside CJ. Garcia closed the door and lowered his window. Then he leaned forward and, with his weapon pointed at the floor, checked the action and gave CJ the thumbs up.

  Jordan fumbled with the weapon in the back. He locked the magazine then looked up at the gang members across the street, at least a half dozen men holding court over a bus stop bench just to the left of the store entrance. “Yo, do you all think it’s ironic that we are in here getting baked before we kill a bunch of ghetto trash for selling drugs?”

  Garcia shook his head. “Nah, it would only be ironic if they were our dealers. Turns out they ain’t.”

  “But yeah, I mean, technically we’re a gang same as them. How does it make us any better?”

  Clive shook his head. “You are thinking too much. They are criminals, and the cops won’t do shit, so now we have to.”

  “Just like war, baby,” Garcia said, his eyes locked on the bus stop.

  Grinning now, Clive shook his head. “Hell, yeah, just like war.”

  Jordan looked out the window then back down at the machine pistol in his hands. “Yeah, I guess, man. Just like war.”

  Clive started the Tahoe and eased out of the parking spot and into traffic. He let his foot lightly work the pedal as they slowly rolled down the street. They were in the southbound lane, closing on the store on the far side of the street.

  “These fuckers ain’t the same as us. They hurt people, we help people,” Clive said, looking at the men up the street. He tried to keep his voice from breaking as adrenaline raked his heart.

  The same group of thugs he’d seen every damn night were sitting on the same bench near a bus stop. But the assholes never got on any bus. No, they harassed old people and trash-talked women and sold drugs. They were bullies, the same as the ones that kicked Clive’s ass daily in high school. He could see the group was alone, so hitting an innocent wouldn’t be an issue. These scumbags were about to pay a heavy price. The men were standing and yelling about something. One of the men was waving a wad of cash in his hands excitedly. Another standing behind the bench had his head back, laughing.

  Clive kept the throttle even, careful not to slow down or speed up as he passed them. Chris had warned them that men might be armed. They had to look like any other car driving down the street. He slowly pulled the wheel, veering into a turn lane to get closer. He checked his speed; exactly seventeen miles per hour, just like they trained. He looked ahead and to the right at the bench. The two men were still laughing but a third was now staring at them.

  “Da fuck is he looking at?” Clive whispered.

  The man was older than the others. He had been standing back from the group, not participating in the chaos. His eyes didn’t show fear but alarm. The man wore a long-sleeve flannel that hung open. He shouted a warning, then reached for a gun that had been hidden under the long shirt.

  Clive looked in the center mirror and could see what raised the alarm. Jordan had been leaning into the window and had the stubbed barrel of the MAC-10 extending beyond the door frame. When he looked back to the front, the man in the flannel now held a large pistol at the end of his extended arm. A muzzle flash, then a break in the windshield to Clive’s right. He winced with the pain of bits of breaking glass hitting his face. His foot went heavy on the pedal. Garcia leaned out of the passenger window and cursed. The MAC-10 exploded in his hands, firing rounds as fast as the machine pistol could spit them out.

  Jordan was doing the same, and the inside of the SUV thundered with the sounds of the weapons. As Clive pounded his foot on the accelerator, he saw the joking men dance backward with impacts from Garcia’s and Jordan’s machine pistols, but the flannelled shooter was shuffling out of the path of bullets. He side-stepped in front of the SUV, his weapon trained on the windshield. He was peppering rounds across the hood. The windshield was hit again. Clive felt a pain in his shoulder then the wheel pulled away from him. He tried to correct the steering just as the world went dark.

  A block away, atop a three-story plumbing supply building, the man known as Raul Chavez watched the chaos unfold through powerful binoculars. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling as he saw the Tahoe roll forward and stop against a light pole. Gang members had their arms up, firing blindly into the vehicle that was spewing steam and smoke from the front. He knew the occupants would all be dead.

  He watched as a door was opened and a man’s body was dragged from the back, only to be kicked and stomped by the surviving gang members. He shook his head. The scene on the ground reminded him of the streets of Cali, Colombia—cartels celebrating the deaths of rival gang members. Now, with the occupants of the Tahoe dead, the fighters had come out of the woodwork to dance over their bodies. “Savages,” he mumbled.

  He heard the sirens and lowered the binoculars to see flashing blue lights race up the main boulevard. He glanced at his watch. “Two minutes and thirty seconds; impressive response time,” he said in perfect English.

  Raul was American by birth, born to Colombian immigrants. He had grown up in the States, raised by grandparents after his parents were deported. Raul graduated from school and then college in Florida but soon left to find his roots in Colombia. After reconnecting with his family, he joined the National Police Force. Well educated in America, he quickly moved up the law enforcement chain. Finding the police were no friend to the people, he eventually took a job with La Raza de los Reyes. The Race of Kings had given him the money and the opportunity to truly help the struggling people. Even if it did mean the slaughter of hundreds of others.

  With his background and extensive knowledge of police tactics, he again rose up the ranks. Soon the cartel realized he would be of better use as a mole in America. Raul held a dual citizenship, and his education credentials were legitimate. He was positioned inside the Embassy of Colombia on the streets of Washington D.C. From that point on, history was being made. He liaised with American police forces on a major drug interdiction task force, using his vast knowledge of the cartels to take down rivals, while giving safe passage to his own friends in the Raza Reyes. That was when he was introduced to the men of Vortex. Soon he had joined their payroll, earning triple incomes from the Colombian government, the
cartel, and the Vortex Corporation.

  Today sitting on a rooftop, he grinned with the knowledge that a lifetime of experience and education had brought him to this moment. He was finally waging a war against the United States, a nation that had made his people struggle for a century.

  “Yes, a full minute faster than we’d expected,” came a low voice from behind, waking him from his reverie. “How’d they do?”

  Raul put the optics back to his eyes. With the approaching lights, the victorious side had ended their celebrations and were running up the street. He panned back and could see at least three dead gang members. Pathetic results, considering the firepower he had supplied the boys and the numbers that had been milling around the bench moments earlier. The clowns had obviously exaggerated their military training. The Tahoe was burning now, the vehicle pockmarked in bullet holes. The body pulled from the car lay lifeless near the rear door. He pulled away the binoculars and stored them in a backpack at his feet.

  “Three dead—it’s possible they wounded more, but not likely.” Raul squinted then continued. “Yeah, and looks like our team of shooters has been wiped out.”

  “I’ll make the report,” said the man behind him.

  Raul turned back to see the man in a dark jacket texting the information into a smartphone. The man was Russian, a former spy who had moved to America long after the fall of the Soviet Union. Like many other spies, he was able to sell his talents to the American corporate sector. And Apollo Group, like with many other things, was often the high bidders for talent.

  The man had introduced himself as Victor Kesson weeks ago. Raul knew who he was; his own embassy kept a file on the man. Not a criminal, but he was in no way legitimate. The same as Raul, they worked in the shadows providing clandestine services to their clients. Where Raul used his friends south of the border, Victor had many useful assets from Russia. Even though they had the same employer, they intentionally had no relationship in case one was captured.

  They were both just wheels in some greater, fast-moving machine. Victor read a reply on his smartphone and then nodded. He looked back at Raul.

  “It’s locked in. Their names are being leaked to the press; their social media accounts are being edited as we speak. There should be blue suits raiding their safe house within the next half hour.”

  Raul grinned. Once the call ordering Clive and his group to the car dealership was placed, a second team had staged their apartment with extremist propaganda and weapons. It would be a treasure trove of information for whatever police officer was lucky enough to open that door. Lucky in a sense as that same officer would most likely be dead in a week.

  “Some collateral damage would have been nice. A few dead gang members won’t spark many tears, but by morning there will be photos of young men with neckties and sweaters sitting in church pews,” Victor said. “Our friends at the media will do the grunt work of creating the anger for us. Instead of a drive-by on gang members, it will be white supremacist gun down youths at bus stop. We have others standing by to start up social media campaigns for the victims.”

  Raul nodded. “It’s all about the spin.”

  He laughed, having created the same sort of disinformation campaigns to gain favor for his cause in Colombia. With the right propaganda, the people would praise drug dealers and spit on the police.

  The man in the dark jacket reached for a satchel at his feet. “Pack up and move to your assigned sector and wait for further instructions. Stay off the streets. It’s about to get really ugly out there.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mark Dorsey sat in the executive conference room of the Senate Building. The last twenty-four hours had been chaos. Attacks on all continents aimed at Americans. More bloodshed within the borders of the United States. People were panicked, the police were on the run, and the citizens wanted answers. The police still on the job were a step behind, unable to find the attackers. There were no leads, outside of a few early tips that had led to stopping attacks in Minnesota and some small spots out West.

  The people wanted a response, and they wanted answers, and Mark Dorsey and Apollo Group had those answers. He only needed the authority to put it into place.

  “Is it done?” Mark asked the Russian to his front.

  Tall and slender, Victor’s hard face concealed his true age. He looked a hard fifty-five but was at least ten years younger. He held his tongue but dipped his chin. The man grunted then pulled Senator Shafer from a seat and stood him directly in front of Mark.

  Charles Shafer shook his head and stepped forward, grabbing Mark by the shoulders. “Tell me you had nothing to do with this, all of this isn’t you.”

  Mark grinned slyly and turned away from the senator, looking back to Victor. “I asked, is it done?”

  Victor nodded his head. “Everything is moving along as planned. My men are all in position. The Defense Secretaries will soon be out of the picture.”

  Mark turned back to Charles. “Is it enough? Will this be enough to force the vote to implement Delphi?”

  “You’re mad!” Senator Shafer gasped as he took a step back.

  Before he could reach the door, Victor hooked a hand under his arm and pressed a stiletto blade against his rib cage, steadying the man. “I am not afraid to run this blade through you, my friend.”

  “I asked is it enough?” Mark said again. “Will it pass?”

  Shafer shook his head. “What did you mean about the Defense Secretaries being out of the picture?”

  Victor looked at his watch. He held a finger to the air then smiled. “Just moments ago, a briefcase filled with high explosives detonated in a situation room meeting. Due to the frequency and seriousness of the recent attacks, this was an all-hands meeting. In one shot we sent the might of the US Armed Forces in disarray.”

  “Why?” Shafer stuttered. “Why would you do that?”

  Mark smiled. “Well, you said we need something big—something to make the people fear the world more than they fear Delphi. Senator, you know that if we go big, then the military will eventually step in. You cannot run a coup d’état with the might of the American Military standing by. We just caused a bit of a delaying action.”

  “You are going to start a damn civil war,” Shafer said.

  The young man grinned again and stepped closer. “Now, I have done my part. It is time for you to do yours. Get your ass out on that Senate Floor and tell them how important it is that we pass Delphi and get a handle on all of this. Make sure they understand that only Delphi is capable of stopping the killing.”

  “The FBI, they’ll investigate, they’ll know it was you.”

  Mark smiled. “What FBI?”

  “It doesn’t matter now; you’ve gone too far.” Shafer looked away. “If you killed the defense chiefs, the President will never sign it. Hell—we might not even have a vote. They might evacuate the Capitol building.”

  Mark put his hands on the senator’s shoulders. “You are not paying attention, are you? They have no choice but to vote now, and to vote yes. Delphi will pass by a majority. And it doesn’t matter if the President approves or not, once Delphi is online, Apollo Group will control the messaging. We can sell this to the people, all we need is for you to control Congress long enough for us to gain control.”

  “How is that possible?” Shafer asked.

  Mark dipped his chin to Victor, who was now standing against a far wall, screwing a suppressor onto the end of a small-caliber pistol. “Once the vote passes the Senate, there will be a bit of a distraction. Victor’s friends will ensure that you all have a nice long recess.” He smiled, watching Shaffer’s face turn pale. “Oh—don’t worry, Senator, you are very safe. This isn’t about you.”

  “No, you can’t do this. Please don’t.”

  Mark laughed. “What we can’t do is stop it. All of the pieces are in place. Once the vote is final, the Second Civil War will begin. And, Senator, trust me on this, you are going to want to be on our side.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Miami warehouse was hot and damp. A desk fan perched on an ancient filing cabinet clicked on every rotation as the blade hit the rusty wire cage. Rain poured outside, only adding to the humidity inside. Tommy sat in a steel folding chair. His back hurt, his eyes burned, and his head ached. He was spent. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep and pretend none of this had happened. The trip here hadn’t been the most enjoyable, flying below radar in a thunderstorm and stuffed into the fuselage of a tiny plane built more for cargo and mail delivery than passengers.