The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3) Read online

  Her mom would’ve looked at her with calm eyes and told her that everything would be okay, and mom would have smiled. But dad just reached into the back seat and grabbed the diaper bag. He would do whatever needed doing from moment to moment and not think about what might or might not be. And that’s what Mel needed to do too. Take action, moment by moment.

  “Have you heard from Mark?” he asked.

  She inhaled and her chin shook. “What if he was there when the tower collapsed?” A rattling breath escaped her throat.

  Her father offered no words. He squeezed her shoulders, whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, and held it out. She dried her cheeks before carrying Hope inside the house. Her father followed and Boxer trailed after them into his home away from home. The dog practically lived here before Hope was born, when Mel and Mark had worked the same shift.

  “Dad, I’ve got to report to the BAT right away.” The Intelligence Division would organize their response to Manhattan from the Brooklyn Army Terminal. And her locker and firearms were there as well. Being in new-mommy mode, she hadn’t worn a gun in months. But now she suddenly felt naked without her Chief.

  She lowered Hope into the portable crib her dad had already set-up in the wide doorway between the kitchen and dining room. “I brought a two-day supply of formula and I won’t be able to pump—”

  She swallowed, unable to continue speaking. She placed her palm on the baby’s abdomen, and felt her lungs expand with each breath. She didn’t want to leave her. When would she be back? She swallowed back tears. Would she come back?

  “I’ll pick up some formula later, and diapers, too.” Her dad’s voice cracked, and he faced the sink. She heard him exhale, just the way he had at her mom’s funeral mass, when he was trying so hard to be strong and not cry. He filled Boxer’s dog dish with fresh water. “Call me as soon as you hear from Mark.”

  Her eyes filled with tears and she nodded. “If I can.” She watched Hope sleep while Boxer gulped water. Everything looked so darn normal. Would life ever be normal again? She sniffled. Or would they just accept a different level of normalcy? She cringed, already mourning what had been.

  Her father stepped over and looked down at the baby.

  “If something else happens, Dad, take them and go.” Mel placed her hand over her heart and pushed out the words. “Don’t wait for Mark and me.”

  Tears crept down his cheeks. Something she hadn’t seen since her mom died.

  “If it comes to that, I’ll drive them to the Pocono house,” he said.

  She nodded and held out the handkerchief he’d given her. He wiped under his eyes and smiled through tears.

  She hugged him and pecked him on the cheek, and blew a kiss to her baby, her Hope. Thank God she was still asleep. It would be so much harder to leave if she were awake. But she had to go. Intel needed all personnel available to identify the next target. By leaving, she would help keep her baby safe. Her stomach tightened.

  Boxer followed her to the front hallway. She patted his head and slipped out the door. His whines turned into yelps, and her stomach twisted into knots.

  Chapter 7

  Mark couldn’t get to the towers quickly enough. He was still a half-block away and forcing his way through the crowd. Suddenly, a loud explosion rattled his body. Smaller explosions began popping out from the top of the south tower down to the lower floors.

  Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang.

  The south tower was collapsing, floor by floor! He spun around and sprinted faster than he thought possible. Retreating, and chased by a dark swarm of dust.

  A business-woman hunkered between a lamppost and a mailbox. She seemed transfixed by the cloud of debris heading her way. Mark skidded to a stop and grabbed the slight, gray-haired woman by her upper arms. He pulled her into his chest the way he had lifted little Hope hundreds of times, and charged down the street.

  Thick dust swarmed around every corner and swirled down every street. An unbearable blast of lingering heat hit him hard. Incredibly hot wind pummeled him, and the world became instantaneously darker than night. He could no longer outrun the dust cloud; they were lost within it. Mark stood still, not knowing where to run, and the woman nestled her forehead against his chest. He was consoled by her touch. They were strangers no longer and accepted death together.

  A disorienting fuzziness filled his head, a putrid thickness threatened to overcome him. It was so hot and dark, and unreal.

  The woman’s body trembled against his. She was still alive! So he must be too. There was hope. He’d get them to safety somehow. He swung her over his shoulder like a bag of laundry and pulled his shirt collar over his nose and mouth. He took a deep breath, a horrible soot-filled breath, and inhaled enough oxygen to get him moving again.

  * * *

  As soon as the vehicular traffic on Broadway and Duane Street belonged exclusively to emergency vehicles, Richie joined Lieutenant Jordan on the sidewalk. They directed the constant but dwindling flow of pedestrians toward Brooklyn and Midtown. Richie pointed at the smoking towers to convince a reluctant man to cross the Brooklyn Bridge walkway.

  Light suddenly pulsed from one of the towers. “Lieu, look at the south tower,” Richie shouted. “Do you see those flashes?”

  Lieutenant Jordan nodded as he stared up. “Detonations, like on the barges right before the Fourth of July fireworks finale.”

  “Look—more! In the middle of the tower. About thirty floors below the impact zone.” Red and orange flashes were popping all around the building, travelling upward.

  “Sparks?”

  “Weird flashes of light . . .” Richie gasped and gripped the lieutenant’s shoulder as cement suddenly pulverized into dust in midair. In mere seconds, nothing remained of the building except a huge cloud of smoke. “What the hell just happened?”

  “The tower—it’s gone,” Lieutenant Jordan whispered. His voice was lost in the chaos.

  “We gotta get down there!” Richie fished the car keys from his pants pocket and began running to Duane Street.

  “We’ll take the car as far as we can.” Jordan was trotting right beside him. “Pop the trunk. I’ll inventory the first aid kit on the way.”

  Richie peeked backward before opening the driver’s door. Broadway was still clear, but a group of people were staggering across the street, carrying someone.

  Jordan slammed the trunk lid and moved toward the passenger-side door.

  “Lieutenant, wait! Look on the corner!”

  He looked up. “Hell, I’ve got the kit. Let’s patch him up and then go.”

  * * *

  Like a blind man, Mark waved his nightstick in front of him until he heard a clunk. He slid the cocobolo back into his gun belt and groped along a gritty brick wall. The brick ended and his hand glided over a smooth surface. A glass door! He shoved with all his might. It didn’t budge. Locked! Would they die after all?

  “Pull.” The woman’s voice rasped in his ear. “Find the handle and pull.”

  He jabbed the glass with his palm until he found the handle. And pulled. They toppled inside.

  Into a deli. A deli with cool, clean air.

  As Mark settled the shaking woman into a chair, she threw her arms around his neck and held on tight. “Don’t leave me.”

  “You have to let go.” He firmly untangled her arms and placed her hands onto her lap. “We’re going to be okay now,” he said, patting her hands.

  “You saved my life.” She reached up again and gave him a quick hug.

  “And then you saved mine.” He should have known. Pull, don’t push. He hadn’t even thought of the simple action. Had God placed her in his path so they would survive together? God? He hadn’t thought about God since . . . he didn’t know when.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder and held out a bottle of water and a roll of paper towels. Mark looked up to see a deli worker.

  “Thank you.” His crud-lined throat was so damn dry. He gulped half the bottle, and took a breath.


  “De nada.” The worker then handed water bottles and paper towels to people who had followed Mark into the store.

  Desperate to clear his nostrils of soot and God-knows-what, Mark poured water on a paper towel and wiped under his nose before washing the woman’s face with a fresh wet paper towel and handing her the bottle.

  He peered out of the glass door. Grayish-white soot engulfed everything. “Turn off the ventilation system!” he shouted at the deli-worker.

  The worker shrugged and held out his palms.

  Mark rushed to an air vent and stuffed it with paper towels, and then hopped onto the counter to reach another vent.

  “Oh, oh, oh.” The worker dashed to the back of the store and switched off the air conditioner.

  Twenty minutes later, Mark held his palm against the glass door. It was warm but not hot. He couldn’t see a thing out of it. It was coated with the same grayish-white crap that covered his uniform. He stepped outside and froze. Downtown Manhattan was unrecognizable.

  It was Armageddon.

  * * *

  Richie flagged down the group and directed them to lay the injured man on a cement bench in front of 26 Federal Plaza. Lieutenant Jordan bandaged the man while Richie asked a security guard to radio for an ambulance. None were available.

  Dust-covered office workers had begun to trickle up Broadway. A pedestrian with paramedic experience offered to help treat the injured. Soon the first aid kit was empty.

  Richie looked across Broadway. All the stores were closed. Surely some workers locked themselves inside. He turned toward the lieutenant. “I’ll get supplies from Duane Reade.”

  “Good thinking,” Jordan said with a nod. “I’ll see if I can get inside the fruit market for water.” Two uninjured New Yorkers rushed across Broadway with Jordan.

  A young business-man offered to help Richie and followed him to the drug store. Richie knocked on the glass door and the manager appeared. He pointed to his shield. “Open the door,” he shouted through the glass.

  The man held the door open just wide enough for them to squeeze in, and then locked the door behind them.

  “We have injured people and no ambulances,” Richie said. “I need whatever first aid supplies you can spare.”

  A middle-aged man wearing a white lab coat hustled from behind the pharmacist counter, carrying an empty cardboard box. “Aisle 3, bottom right shelf, Band-Aids. Grab them all.” He dropped the box at his feet and reached for bottles of peroxide. “Cotton balls and gauze are next to them.”

  “I’m on it.” The business-man took off.

  The pharmacist looked at Richie. “Ace bandages, in the back, next to the cane rack.”

  Richie returned with an armful of bandages. The manager held open a plastic bag and Richie dumped them inside.

  The pharmacist stacked bottles of rubbing alcohol into the box. “Okay. That should do it.”

  Richie bent to lift the box. “At some point, I’ll do the paperwork and get you reimbursed.”

  “If corporate bitches, I’ll pay them back myself.” The manager held the door open. “You’ve got enough to do.”

  “Thanks,” Richie said. “But I’ll get to it, eventually.”

  The business-man tossed the supplies he had gathered into the box and grabbed the plastic bag dangling from Richie’s hand. They started out the door.

  “I’ll grab a box of gloves and be right over,” the pharmacist said. “I’ll do what I can to help out.”

  Richie lugged the box back across the street, thinking how great people were during emergencies. The next time someone put down New Yorkers as rude, he’d give them a mouthful.

  He returned to the benches in front of 26 Federal Plaza, lowered the heavy box onto the sidewalk, and looked around. Suddenly, the supplies seemed meager. In the short time that he had been gone, hundreds of people had gathered.

  Richie began directing the slightly injured over the Brooklyn Bridge, while the pharmacist starting treating those who couldn’t walk. He called Richie over and pointed at a man soaking through his bandages. “He needs surgery now.”

  Richie nodded. “Pick out four more people who need hospitalization. I’ll be right back with the car.”

  He pulled the sedan halfway onto the sidewalk, crammed it with the most seriously injured survivors, and, siren blaring and lights flashing, Richie sped to Cabrini Medical Center.

  Chapter 8

  Dewer pressed the binoculars against his eye sockets and his triceps burned. He loosened his grip a tad but refused to acknowledge the discomfort. The weaknesses of his human body would not interfere today.

  The south pillar was a pile of rubble and the north pillar would soon implode. He inhaled and shifted the binoculars slightly to the right. Building 7 stood sturdy. Not good. He growled. The computer simulation had been wrong. Flight 175, after hitting the south tower, hadn’t had enough momentum to reach the Salomon Building. Some debris had landed just east of the building but hadn’t even grazed the roof. If the Salomon Building collapsed right after the north tower fell, without being hit by a plane, it would be a dead give-away of the planted explosives. The Islamic terrorist cover story would break down. His arms shook, and he lowered the binoculars to his lap.

  He walked to his desk and dialed a number. “Hold off detonating Building 7 until I order the go-ahead.” The takeover would not be as easy as he’d expected. A shiver came over him as he suddenly understood the earlier positive energy swarm. Positive energy had substantial power against his plan—more than he ever imagined. No matter. He’d work out this little hiccup. He coughed and took a sip of water. Carrying the glass, he shuffled back to the chair by the window.

  The destruction of all three edifices would usher in the New World Order. Ceremony and tradition were powerful sigils that fed his plan. And the Salomon Building stored all trade and the World Bank records. The recent trades pointed a money trail right back to him. If the financial takeover were to happen on schedule, the derivative manipulations had to disappear today. He couldn’t afford any more delays. He wasn’t getting any younger and neither were the others.

  He ran his fingers over the folds of his neck and stared at the flaming pillar. Trapezoid-shaped Building 7, constructed as a replica of King Solomon’s Temple, had to fall today with the twin pillars. Even before construction started on the building, Dewer had offered Salomon Brothers an attractive leasing contract they couldn’t refuse. He’d secured the investment firm as the anchor tenant in the building just so it would be remembered as the Salomon Building when it collapsed—even suggested the firm change its name to Solomon, but that was quickly and firmly rebuffed. Ancient symbology combined with humanity’s fear created powerful energy, the dark loosh needed to dominate the cosmic field so his plans could reach fruition.

  Explosives had been rigged in the Salomon Building months ago; thermite sprayed on supporting columns, and detonators planted on every other floor, just as they had been in the twin pillars. The Salomon Building was proof that the pillars were destroyed by preplanned controlled demolition, and not plane crashes. The unravelling would begin and all would be lost.

  The sheeple would wake up as the mist of misinformation and shock cleared. But if positive energy didn’t get a chance to build he’d rock the cattle and they’d stay asleep. This hiccup was manageable—everything was manageable. He took a deep breath, sat back, and closed his eyes to think.

  The explosives in the elevator shafts were undetectable. The dried super-thermate looked just like paint. And bomb-sniffing dogs couldn’t detect the scent. Even if he allowed the Salomon Building to remain standing, no one would discover the thermate. But the conventional cutter charges were easily recognizable as detonators. What if someone looked in the Salomon Building’s elevator shafts, just like the elevator worker had done in the pillars?

  Dewer controlled the media, FBI Headquarters, and the New York City police commissioner. But once the local bomb squad, crime scene detectives, or fire department inv
estigators discovered the detonators, there would be no silencing them. And he couldn’t have them all killed, could he?

  The Salomon Building—a smoking gun of the whole false-flag operation—had to go, but it had to make at least a little sense. No one would believe that jet fuel had brought that one down. No matter how many times the media reported that it had.

  Today’s attack was the strategic domino. If the sheeple saw through the deception, the takeover would be delayed yet again. He’d never out-live this setback. Glancing at the flaming pillar, he held up his glass—yes, he’d manage this hiccup—and downed the water.

  A sudden buzzing in his ears and an energy bubble pressing all around his body made it difficult to think. He took a deep breath and shook the cloud away. The Salomon Building had to come down, just not exactly when planned. Dewer stood and stomped over to his desk, waking up every muscle in his body to break through the thick envelope of fuzz surrounding him.

  He dipped his fingers into the water pitcher and sprinkled cold water on his face. With a sigh, he picked up his phone and dialed. “Can you detonate Building 7 without the cover of a plane crash?”

  “I’d have to send my men inside the building to set office fires visible from the south-facing windows. And then remotely detonate the thermate.”

  “How fast can you get it done?”

  “NYPD has secured the perimeter.” An intake of breath. “I can’t get through.”

  “Disguise your crew as utility workers.”

  “It’s risky. Very risky.”

  “How long will it take?” Dewer drummed his fingers on his desk.

  “Seven hours tops.”

  Dewer ran his fingers over his mouth. He didn’t like it, but he’d make it work. “How much?”