Choose Freedom: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series (The Boston Brahmin Book 6) Page 6

  The revelation also set into motion a series of events that resulted in Morgan’s stroke and the promotion of Sarge to the head of the Boston Brahmin. Arguably, the same events possibly resulted in the death of Steven. Julia tried not to stretch too much when connecting these dots, but all of these things had bothered Abbie in the last couple of weeks.

  “Abbie, I know you miss him terribly. We don’t know for certain what happened. Florida is a long way from here. He may have gone to Tennessee. He may be recovering from his injuries. Please don’t assume the worst.”

  Abbie managed a smile as a few more tears rolled down her cheeks. “I know, Julia. I’ve held out hope this entire time. I want to believe that he’s okay. But the beating was—”

  She began crying again and Julia tried to comfort her by holding her tight. Julia pulled away and wiped Abbie’s tears with her shirt sleeve.

  “Now you listen to me, Abbie Morgan,” started Julia. Julia took Abbie’s hand and placed it over her heart. “Do you feel your heart beating?”

  Abbie sniffled and answered, “Yeah.”

  “Missing Drew is hard. Whenever you do, I want you to place your hand over your heart like this. Do you feel that?”

  Abbie nodded and provided a muffled yes.

  “That is your beating heart. Your life. That’s called purpose. You’re alive because of Drew. You’re alive for a reason. Don’t give up on Drew or yourself.”

  “Okay,” sniffled Abbie, who immediately gave Julia a hug. “Thank you, Julia.”

  “I’ll always be here for you, Abbie. Sisters, right?”

  “Yeah, sisters.”

  The commotion coming from the kitchen indicated that dinner was being served. Donald and J.J. led the procession with the turkey and deer, followed by the Boston Brahmin matriarchs carrying bowls of canned vegetables and boxed stuffing. A post-collapse Thanksgiving really wasn’t that much different as long as you stored the right foods and had the ability to hunt.

  Around the large open living area of 1PP, all of the Boston Brahmin and the Loyal Nine took their seats at the table. Even the proverbial kids’ table was set up for Rebecca and Penny Quinn, and their welcomed guest—Katie.

  The sounds of folding chairs sliding on the floor and jovial conversation filled the air alongside the smells of Thanksgiving. John Morgan took his seat at the head of the table. To his right, Sarge slid into the chair and Julia sat next to him. To Morgan’s left, the chair and place setting remained empty in honor of Steven.

  The group gradually quieted, allowing Morgan, with his still-weakened voice, to speak. “Henry, would you do us the honor of saying the Thanksgiving blessing.”

  “Yes, sir,” responded Sarge as he reached for Julia’s hand and gently squeezed it. Everyone bowed their heads and took each other’s hands.

  “We thank you, Father, for having created us and given us to each other as family. Thank you for being with us in all our joys and sorrows, for your comfort in our sadness, and your companionship in our losses.

  “We thank you for our friends and family, for our health and our blessings. We ask that you send help to those who are hungry, alone, sick, and suffering. We open our hearts to your love and ask your blessing through Christ your son. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Morgan spoke again. His tired, raspy voice managed the words, “Thank you, Henry. For the first time, we’re all together. Husbands, wives, and friends. Let us vow that this tradition will never be taken for granted and shall continue for the rest of our years.”

  “Toast!” said Lowell, who raised his glass to salute the proclamation.

  Glasses clinked and silverware dug into the meal. The customary acclamations were made throughout dinner.

  “This turkey is excellent.”

  “I love the baked apples, Aunt Stella.”

  “This is my first taste of deer meat. I had no idea.”

  “How about another drink, Cabot old man?”

  “You don’t need to ask me twice, Lowell!”

  The sounds of laughter and conversation filled 1PP. The sounds of family.

  Sarge whispered to Julia, “Whadya think?”

  She didn’t have to ask what he meant. She replied with a smile and a nod.

  Sarge stood and clinked his wineglass with his spoon. He lifted it into the air as everyone gave him their attention.

  “I,” started Sarge, and then he looked down at Julia and smiled. She could feel herself blushing. “We have something we’d like to share with all of you.”

  They all gave Sarge their undivided attention.

  He continued. “Julia and I are going to have a baby!”

  The room erupted with laughter and praise. Morgan grabbed Sarge by the hand and shook it repeatedly as he produced the biggest smile Sarge had ever seen on his godfather and mentor. Shouts of congratulations came from the men and I knew it from the biddies. It was a touching moment, which caused all of the women to burst out in tears as they came to hug Julia.

  Then Cabot and Lowell started singing and were quickly joined by their fellow Boston Brahmin.

  And this is good old Boston,

  The home of the bean and the cod,

  Where the Lowells talk only to Cabots,

  And the Cabots talk only to God.

  Julia knew that one day the story of the Boston Brahmin would be written. But they would not be remembered in history books or documentaries, as no one would believe it. Their account would most likely be the storyline of a fictional work.

  After this Thanksgiving, Julia hoped the narrative would accurately reflect that all of them were family.

  PART TWO

  December 2016

  Chapter 11

  Saturday, December 3, 2016

  10:00 p.m.

  Chesterfield Street

  Hyde Park Neighborhood

  Boston, Massachusetts

  After O’Brien eluded them, Katie and Smalley returned to the offices of the Boston Carmen’s Union. They spent all night rifling through file cabinets, ledgers, and union members’ files, looking for clues as to the whereabouts of Elkins and any of O’Brien’s trusted associates.

  In his haste to escape, O’Brien had left everything behind, including a small spiral notepad featuring the Boston Bruins logo emblazoned on the cover. There were copious notes and corresponding dates from the time of his appointment until the day of the attempted prisoner swap. After November eighth, it appeared O’Brien was no longer interested in keeping this personal diary.

  At dawn the next day, Katie instructed Smalley to retrieve their vehicle and bring back a truck. Smalley returned within hours, and every piece of paper and computer device on the premises was loaded for delivery to 100 Beacon.

  Katie and Smalley worked continuously, rifling through the paperwork and, after powering up the computer devices, searching every conceivable file for clues. They both agreed the name Marion La Rue held some significance. His name was contained throughout O’Brien’s diary and appeared in several hidden files Katie found on O’Brien’s smartphone.

  Katie immediately dispatched a team to La Rue’s home address on Chesterfield Street in Boston’s southernmost neighborhood of Hyde Park. This part of the city was developed along the Neponset River in the late seventeenth century. Unlike its adjoining neighborhoods of Mattapan, Dorchester, and Roxbury, Hyde Park remained relatively stable socially and economically. Its saltbox-style homes were stacked closely together and were all similar in design.

  Two nights ago, Katie and Smalley had set up a surveillance operation across the street from La Rue’s home at 108 Chesterfield Street. Their view of the house was obscured by a FedCorp van. FedCorp was a general contractor that performed underground utility installations throughout greater Boston. A large trench had been opened up at the intersection of Edson Street. An abandoned Boston PD cruiser blocked access to the temporary dead-end, leaving vehicular traffic only one means of escape.

  As she arrived for the third night of watching the home, s
he was beginning to lose hope that this lead was of any value. Her research into the union files provided her nothing on Elkins. The only possible reference was a cryptic note written in O’Brien’s diary, which read R. E.—Mass—OH. This entry was part of seven others similar to it. Katie surmised O’Brien was making a list of people for some specific purpose. She and Smalley ran several scenarios back and forth but couldn’t pin down the meaning.

  Katie’s mind was wandering as a glimmer of light caught her eye in a window several homes away from La Rue’s. “Smalley, did you see that?”

  “No. What?” he replied.

  “The house on the corner. It’s hard to see it from here, but I swear I saw a light flicker in one of its windows. Let’s go check it out.”

  “Why? It’s not the house we want,” objected Smalley.

  “Doesn’t matter,” replied Katie. “If there is a warm body in there, they might have seen something or know more about La Rue. Let’s go.”

  They quickly worked their way down the sidewalk, using parked cars for cover. The small four-thousand-square-foot lots required all of the homes to be packed close together and in close proximity to the street. In two days of surveillance, none of the teams who took shifts reported activity in any of the homes. Despite the apparent abandonment of the street, Katie wasn’t going to take any chances of being mistaken for a looter. Each time they moved closer to the target house, she stopped and made sure they weren’t detected.

  They reached the intersection and Katie led them down Farrin Street so they could get a look at the back of the home at 102 Chesterfield. The house was a two-story structure with white aluminum siding. A small room addition had been added with a cedar deck that led into the backyard. The sky was clear and the full moon provided her a perfect view of the rear entry. Like the surrounding homes, the cold weather had killed much of the plant material. There was little or no cover for them to use if they approached the home.

  Katie shuddered as the below-freezing night air began to settle into her body. She chose the evening to conduct her surveillance because she knew O’Brien to be a heavy drinker. If she needed to surprise him, it was better to allow him to get inebriated before she overtook him.

  “Look,” said Smalley. “The sliding glass door just opened. Someone is coming out.”

  Katie crouched behind a Buick that was parked half on and half off the sidewalk. They were close enough to hear the sound of a lighter being used. Then she heard the distinctive sound of the male species relieving his bladder in the grass.

  “He’s taking a leak,” said Smalley.

  “Yeah, no shit,” said Katie. “Is that cigar smoke?”

  “I think so.”

  “That’s O’Brien. He’s moved locations. I wonder—”

  The sound of a large plastic recycle bin crashing down the deck stairs prompted several dogs to begin barking and an angry response from O’Brien.

  “Fucking thing!”

  Katie used the distraction as an opportunity to raise her head and get a better look. It is O’Brien!

  “He’s not getting away this time,” said Katie. “I don’t like splitting up, but last time, sticking together didn’t work out so well.”

  “This is probably his car,” said Smalley. Katie pulled out her SureFire flashlight and illuminated the front seat. An empty liquor bottle and a carton of cigarettes lay on the passenger side. She looked around the dash for the keys. Bingo! She tried the door handle and it was unlocked. After carefully removing the keys, she pushed the door shut.

  “He may have another car down the street,” said Katie.

  “I know what you’re saying about splitting up, Katie,” started Smalley. “But we could easily shoot each other in a dark, unfamiliar house. I like my chances of chasing fat boy down in the street better than us potentially taking each other out with friendly fire.”

  Katie thought for a moment and realized he was right. Sarge’s insistence that O’Brien be kept alive was not lost on her. She didn’t want to disappoint Sarge further. Besides, O’Brien was her only lead to Elkins.

  Katie tapped Smalley on the arm as they rose in unison and ran around the car, approaching the deck in a low crouch. The barking dogs continued but didn’t raise alarms with O’Brien. If anything, the dogs provided them some cover as a distraction.

  Katie remained hidden behind the house’s exterior wall as she gently opened the sliding glass door. She ducked her head in quickly and found the open sitting room to be empty.

  “Hurry, we don’t want the cold air coming in to alert him,” she whispered to Smalley. The two entered the room and took flanking positions against the side walls. The smell of cigar smoke floated through the hallway to the main house.

  “Gin, asshole,” came a voice from a room down the short corridor.

  “Fucker, are you kidding me? Already?” said another male voice.

  Katie realized they were playing cards. The flicker of a candle flashing through the hallway emanated from a room just to her right. It was probably the kitchen. Tension filled the air as she indicated to Smalley to remain still and listen. She wanted to take a moment to get her bearings and assess the situation. She strained to hear voices or activity from other people.

  The laughter and conversation between the two men continued as they shuffled and started a new hand. Katie, satisfied that these two men were the only ones awake, decided to make her move. She could see Smalley’s face in the soft glow of the candle’s reflection. She used hand signals to indicate for him to follow her and take the occupant on the left side of the room. She’d take the right side. It was time.

  She inched along the hallway wall until she reached the kitchen opening. She readied her sidearm and burst into the room.

  “Don’t move!”

  The man on the left quickly picked up a revolver and attempted to point it at her. In that split second, she had to make an assessment. If the man was O’Brien, she couldn’t kill him. He was more important and useful alive.

  The human brain could interpret images that the eye saw in just thirteen milliseconds. The processing power of the brain was unsurpassed by even the most powerful computers. Katie’s brain performed an astonishing number of calculations during those milliseconds before she fired her weapon, instantly killing the man holding the gun. He wasn’t holding the cigar.

  Smalley entered the room behind her too late to assist. O’Brien dropped the cigar and pushed his chair back away from the table, which held the blood-soaked head of Marion La Rue.

  “Don’t move,” ordered Katie. She turned her attention to Smalley. “Check out the rest of the downstairs.”

  “You stupid bitch, we would’ve given you something to eat,” said O’Brien. “In fact, we could’ve had a little party, you know.”

  The burning candle began to singe La Rue’s hair, so Katie moved it to the side while keeping her weapon trained on O’Brien. Smalley returned and told her the downstairs was clear. Then, the sound of a moving piece of furniture above them grabbed Katie’s attention.

  “How many others are in the house?” demanded Katie, sticking the gun closer to O’Brien’s chest.

  He raised his hands and pushed his chair farther away until it struck the kitchen cabinets. “Just one more, I swear. C’mon, take it easy. We can work this out. I’ve got money and some food. Really, just put—”

  “Shut up!” said Katie in a hushed tone. “On the ground, face down! Now!”

  O’Brien complied and Smalley placed his knee in O’Brien’s back while he quickly pulled the man’s chubby arms behind him. Smalley inserted O’Brien’s wrists into a set of disposable restraints and pulled the locking clip tight.

  “Watch him,” she instructed Smalley as she made her way toward the stairs. The noise came from the room directly above the kitchen, so Katie would start there.

  “Run,” screamed O’Brien from the kitchen. His exclamation was followed by the sound of Smalley kicking O’Brien in the side, knocking the air out of him.
>
  Katie heard a chair tip over and the sound of a window latch being turned. She didn’t have much time, but she had to be careful. Hiding behind the doorjamb, she turned the knob and flung it open. All Katie could see was the silhouette of a man about to exit through the window, who abruptly stopped at the sound of her entering the room.

  “Stop! Hands up! Do you hear me? Now!” shouted Katie at the dark figure cowering in the corner.

  “Yes, okay. I don’t have a gun. Please don’t shoot me.”

  “Turn around slowly,” said Katie as she raised her flashlight from the floor upwards, scanning for weapons. “What’s your name?”

  As the light reached the man’s face, Katie had her answer before he spoke it.

  “Andrew Lau.”

  Chapter 12

  Monday, December 5, 2016

  Noon

  New Hampshire State House

  Concord, New Hampshire

  Sarge and Brad stood beneath the massive marble arch entry to the New Hampshire State House’s grounds on a cold but sunny day. Surrounded by military personnel from the 157th Air Refueling Wing, Sarge was deep in conversation with Boston native Governor Maggie Hassan of New Hampshire.

  “Governor, I want to thank you again for the opportunity to speak with your legislature and the executive branches present from both Maine and Vermont,” said Sarge.

  “Of course, Mr. Sargent,” started Governor Hassan. “Our politics may have differed prior to this debacle, but it is clear you and I have the same goals—helping the people of New England.”

  “We have a plan ready to be implemented that will require the cooperation of local and state government leaders,” said Sarge. “I spoke with Governor Baker in Boston before I left. As you know, much of his legislature was either killed or wounded on Election Day. Massachusetts will be reeling from that tragedy for many years.”

  “Courage to persevere rises out of tragedy when you need it the most,” said Governor Hassan. “New Englanders will come together to help each other and survive until our nation recovers.”