Standing in the middle of all of this activity was Linchpin’s IT/Tech Specialist Sherman Peabody, his brow furrowed as he studied the tablet in his hands.

  Flint smirked as he looked at Peabody, who was dressed in garb consistent with every other occasion Flint had seen him. The twenty-something man who was the focus of energy in the room at present was unique, to say the least. What made him unusual was that here, in a room of professional intelligence personnel, was someone wearing long pajama pants, a scruffy terry bathrobe over an oversized t-shirt, and fuzzy bedroom slippers. His mousy brown hair was in a perennial state of ‘bed head,’ enhancing the impression that he’d just rolled out of bed minutes before. Flint watched as Peabody’s fingers swiped furiously at the tablet’s screen and his eyes darted furtively from monitor to monitor.

  “What’s up, Sherm?” Flint greeted him as he walked into the communications center. Peabody’s eyes darted quickly to Flint, his cheeks coloring briefly. “Mornin’,” he mumbled as he cast his eyes quickly downward as if the human interaction was too much for him to process.

  In the corner of the room, Flint observed Seven engaged in an intense conversation with one of the Intel Recon directors. They were absorbed by something on a tablet the director was reviewing with Seven. Seven glanced up in his direction, furrowed his brow and resumed listening to the director.

  Super. He’s chapped at me about something, I guess.

  Flint strolled over and stood by Peabody, glancing at the tablet in his hands. Nervously, Peabody shifted almost imperceptibly away from Flint. Flint knew he was uncomfortable but also knew how to set him at ease. “Sherm? I know you’re busy. I just wanted to give you something.” Flint reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a three-pack of Orange Tic-Tacs: Peabody’s favorite. It was rare to see Peabody without seeing him subconsciously popping one of these in his mouth at regular intervals.

  Peabody’s reaction was if a cloud had passed clear of the sun. He brightened immediately, casting a shy glance at Flint as he murmured, “Thanks,” and put them in his robe pocket. He relaxed visibly, and straightened slightly, allowing Flint into his personal space. Flint gave him a wink and said, “No problem, buddy. Listen, Dr. Malloy suggested I come and see you. He said you had figured out something really important, and I thought you might have something to share with me.”

  Peabody turned to Flint, his brown eyes searching Flint’s. “Did he really say that? You’re not teasing me, are you?”

  Poor guy. Flint thought. “No, man. Seriously, Dr. Malloy thinks you’re brilliant, and that nobody else could figure out stuff the way you do. He told me once that you have the ‘most capable and brilliant tech mind in the world today,’ and I’m quoting him directly.”

  Peabody was heartened by Flint’s encouragement. His face, once a mask of fidgety intensity, seemed almost tranquil, even though he continued to work with the tablet almost instinctively.

  Peabody nodded at the three screens displaying the frozen image of the young woman. “Recognize her?”

  Flint studied the paused image of the young woman. The shock of recognition struck him like a taser charge. “That’s the dead young woman who was staring at me last night at the scene of the gym bombing!”

  “That’s right. It was her arm and mobile phone you brought in.”

  Flint grimaced, “Ugh. Do you know her name?”

  Peabody nodded and tapped his tablet’s screen, bringing to life the video on the three large screens overhead. Flint stood quietly, transfixed by the manifesto delivered by Phoebe Washington. As she concluded her rant, Flint turned to Peabody, whose somber expression signaled the other shoe had yet to drop.

  “Flint, she’s the first, but she’s not going to be the last.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Flint studied Peabody’s too-young, too-earnest face. “What do you mean?”

  Peabody swiped and tapped furiously on his tablet, causing the three screens to display different files selected by the young IT expert. “Take a look at these screens,” he indicated by nodding toward the first, which displayed a live view of the Church of the Divinely Redeemed Sisterhood website and chat room. As Flint watched, message after message pinged to life on a message thread entitled “CDRS Sister Dies in Gym Bombing.”

  Flint’s eyes swept through the excerpts of the messages as they appeared underneath the topic heading. While some were critical of Phoebe’s action, a disturbing number of the comments were supportive and others saw the event as a rallying cry for more of the same. Responses from the group administrator of the chat room were couched in vague platitudes, bemoaning the loss of life, but less than condemning of Washington’s deed. Jesus. Some of these women think she did the right thing!

  Seven had quietly joined them and was now standing shoulder to shoulder with Flint. “How did you know, Stryker? How did you know she was involved in this?”

  Flint blew out a deep breath. “I didn’t know, sir. Honestly, I went out of curiosity after hearing the explosion and was just walking around the scene of the explosion and found her severed arm and the mobile. My Precog was on hyper-alert, so I just grabbed it and ran. I figured it was important and this might be the kind of case where Linchpin does the most good.”

  “It turns out that was a good bet, Stryker. Although, technically speaking, removing evidence from the crime scene is tampering with evidence, I won’t tell if you won’t.” He gave Flint a hard look, which indicated he’d damn well better not.

  Flint shrugged and replied flatly, affecting an air of innocence, “I never saw it, sir.”

  Seven smirked and continued, “I’m sure local law enforcement is going crazy trying to figure out where her other arm is. We’re sharing everything we know with the Feds, so I’ve got that angle covered.” He looked at Peabody, who was still feverishly tapping and swiping his tablet, watching the resultant image and video changes on the monitors. Seven shook his head in wonder at the young IT prodigy. “As you know, Linchpin’s specialty is all the weird stuff. Our forte is handling the things that don’t fit neatly into the little boxes that fall within the boundaries of other government and para-government agencies. And this CDRS thing fits squarely within the parameters of weird. Based on what Peabody has found, and the chatter he’s discovered, he sees things coming to a head in a 48-72-hour timeframe. He seems to think that this CDRS group could be the harbinger of an unimaginable shitstorm if things continue the way he thinks they’re trending.”

  Flint’s brow arched in puzzlement. “What does he think is coming, sir?”

  Seven eyed him evenly, his tone matter-of-fact, “He thinks that this bombing is the precursor of even more attacks, and possibly an all-out gender war, and it is being spearheaded by the CDRS.”

  THIRTY

  Stunned, Flint could do little more than stare open-mouthed at the huge visage of Phoebe Washington’s screen capture on the overhead monitor.

  “Seriously? This bombing by one poor, unbalanced woman is surely an isolated event perpetrated by someone who was an outlier.”

  “At first glance, you’d think so, but Peabody here has done some digital digging and has found some information that is not readily accessible by the rank and file.” He nodded at Peabody, whose fingers readily gained entry to another level of web access known as the dark web.

  Flint watched as Peabody flipped through several browser windows until he found the one he was searching for: ‘CDRS - Divine Cleansing.’ His fingers swiped until he was in a restricted access area that required numerous passwords and entry protocols.

  Once they had gained access to the area Seven wanted Flint to see, Peabody enlarged the detail area of several intensely secretive message threads. Seven pointed out one particular thread from a user identified as ‘FeebW.’ “From all the evidence we’ve sifted through so far, this exchange represents the last exchange in an ongoing conversation between Phoebe Washington and an unidentified ‘Administrator.’” Flint quickly read through the transcript of the most recent exchange and saw immediately that there was a significant amount of coaching and what an attorney would classify as ‘leading the witness.’

  “It looks like this young woman has been carefully guided through a thought process by the system administrators,” Stryker observed.

  “This is just the tip of the iceberg,” Seven replied grimly. “If you go back to when she first signed in on the CDRS site, you will see a systematic, step-by-step undertaking by the Administrators to guide Ms. Washington to a predetermined psychological outcome.”

  “She never had a chance,” Peabody mumbled, barely audible.

  Seven, shocked to hear Peabody speak, agreed. “It’s true. She was skillfully manipulated by someone who was very adept at psychological exploitation. Her first conversations were innocent enough; it appears Ms. Washington had some genuine grievances concerning harassment in the workplace which was handled badly. From there, it was just a matter of patience, playing the long game and winning her trust.”

  Flint continued to peruse the exchanges, shaking his head at how cleverly the administrators had guided Ms. Washington along the path they had wanted her to take.

  “…And Stryker?” Seven added, pausing to let Stryker turn his attention to him. “There are hundreds of other conversations with other women in the same vein. Each woman is somewhere in the process of being converted into a dedicated believer in a form of eugenics — at least as far as men are concerned. It will take weeks to determine which pose credible threats.”

  Flint looked from Seven to the large overhead monitors still displaying the plethora of online indoctrination interactions with disaffected women, and back to Peabody, who was, by now, biting his already too-short fingernails to the quick.

  “Jesus,” he murmured in quiet trepidation. “An army of highly pissed-off women. We don’t stand a chance.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Suddenly, Peabody opened another tab on his tablet, activating several smaller monitors, and the room was suddenly filled with a cacophony of talking heads all talking over each other. The screens displayed an assortment of the local and cable news broadcast coverage of the previous night’s bombing.

  Everyone in the room stood riveted as their eyes moved from one screen to the next. Screens were filled with scenes of incredible carnage from the night before; damaged buildings and vehicles, sheets covering body parts strewn everywhere, and miles of bright yellow caution tape. Small fires were everywhere, and the scenes were overlaid by a thick haze of billowing black smoke. Emergency personnel and police were as thick as ants, hustling about, but working carefully, surveying and cataloging every possible clue.

  It was a sobering sight, and everyone’s mouths were either open in abject horror or a grim, tight line. Many cringed and turned away at the sight of the bloodbath before them, and more than a couple excused themselves to head elsewhere.

  Seven abruptly turned to Peabody and whispered fiercely, “You do whatever it takes to monitor the chatter from that CDRS site both on the dark web as well as any other platforms that you can find it on. Set up whatever protocols you need to establish to track any message threads, webcasts, or anything else this group does. You have it on my authority to do anything you need to do to identify any threats or upcoming events, so we can cut them off before this happens again.”

  Peabody averted his eyes and nodded timidly, focusing once again on his tablet to carry out Seven’s instructions.

  Seven turned to Stryker next, his jaw set, and his brow furrowed. He glanced at his watch and said, “Stryker, we’re going to formulate a plan of action going forward this afternoon at 1:30. Be in the Situation Room on Level 1. We’ll do a full Sitrep breakdown with Surveillance, Recon, COMM, Intelligence, and Insurrection Control. I’m meeting with Agent Eckles in my office in ten minutes to develop an investigative and possible neutralization strategy.” He paused and studied Flint’s serious expression. “You okay, Stryker? I understand you brought in this Washington woman’s arm last night. Very fortuitous for us.”

  “I’m good, sir. Yeah. I can’t take much credit, though. My Precog was going off, and fortunately, I didn’t ignore it.”

  Seven scoffed. “I don’t get that ‘Precog’ stuff, but it turns out to be very helpful sometimes, doesn’t it? Certainly, we’d have eventually discovered her link to the CDRS, but having it so quickly after the bombing has us at least a day ahead of the curve.” He checked his watch again. “Get going, Stryker. I understand Ms. Jeong came in very early this morning, probably while you were still sleeping off your afternoon drinking binge with Porterhouse.” Flint rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, and quietly attempted to interject, “Sir, I—.”

  Seven waved him off. “Save it, Stryker. Agent Jeong has been doing some research on this group, and wants to see if the two of you can gain some additional insight into its leadership.” He looked up at one of the overhead screens just as an EMT loaded another corpse into a body transport. He shook his head and added, “I hate this crap. Every time some fringe group gets all worked up, the body count rises. We’ve got to get out in front of this — now!” With that, he pivoted and, with long quick strides, was gone in seconds.

  How does he know everything? He knew Cinder and I went out drinking while I was on duty? Crap. He closed his eyes and shook his head wearily. I’ll be lucky to draw any assignment other than alien abduction probe victims for months!

  His mobile vibrated in his pocket. He withdrew it and saw that it was a message from CJ. “R U COMING OR NOT?” The message was followed by an even more rudely inappropriate emoji that he didn’t even know existed.

  He smiled inwardly. It was good to know he could still make a beautiful woman’s heart rate quicken.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Seven hurried down the corridor back to his office. He was focused on his thoughts from the exchange he’d just had with Stryker and Peabody, so he was momentarily surprised as he turned the corner to see Dr. Malloy standing at his office door. Malloy was not alone, for standing with him was Serafina Ferrari.

  The three of them comprised the triumvirate that oversaw the day-to-day and long-term operations of Linchpin. They each had their areas of expertise and worked closely together to determine which division of Linchpin would be best utilized in any given situation. As Weapons Tech Specialist in charge of Strategic Deployment, Ferrari was a warrior and one who was invaluable in any operation that demanded strategic thinking as well as decisive action.

  As he approached, the two of them looked up from the tablet that Malloy was holding. Ferrari spoke first. “Gracious, Seven, you look as if you are about to stroke out.”

  He didn’t speak as he pressed his thumb on the secure access panel by the door, and then held the door open for them to enter. Ferrari took the cue and entered first, followed by Malloy. He entered after them and closed the door behind him.

  “Have a seat,” he said, nodding at the two chairs by his desk. He quickly removed his suit jacket and hung it on the hook on his door. As they got settled, he moved to the cabinet behind his desk and removed three glasses and a bottle of Basil Hayden’s. “I’m going to have a drink. Do either of you care to join me?”

  “A little early in the morning for the ‘Breakfast of Champions,’ isn’t it, Seven?” Serafina smiled, her one eye twinkling as she nodded in response.

  “I’ll have a touch,” Malloy agreed. “A bit of fortification after the events of the last 48 hours wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

  Seven poured each of them a healthy serving of the whiskey and handed the other two their glasses before falling heavily into his chair. “It’s been a helluva two days, Malloy, no question.” He took a hearty gulp of his drink as the other two contented themselves with more modest swallows.

  Malloy nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, Ms. Ferrari and I were discussing the explosion, and the surrounding drama of the Church of the Divinely Redeemed Sisterhood.”

  “It’s disingenuous when legitimate complaints get appropriated by those with a specific agenda,” Ferrari said grimly. Sipping her drink, she added, “As a woman, I’ve had to overcome some obstacles along the way that most men have never faced, but changing the system isn’t about destroying it. The frightening part of the CDRS storyline is the underlying current of sexism coupled with patricide.”

  “It’s a recurring strategy that demagogues use to build their power,” Seven agreed. “Find your base, pander to them, push the right buttons, add new converts, rinse and repeat. Before you know it, you’ve got a real following. In this instance, it’s all handled under the guise of a pseudo-religion.”

  “What do we do about it?” Malloy asked, looking from one to the other.

  Seven sighed. “I’m not sure. I have some thoughts, but we have to be careful. We can’t be seen as ignoring the civil liberties of the group or its followers, no matter that we’re not an officially-sanctioned government organization. If we handle this the wrong way, a lot of people higher up on the food chain than we are will get antsy, and we’ll have to either go dark or cease operations. We have too many irons in the fire around the country for that to happen, so we have to tread carefully with this operation.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21