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Authors: A.K. Lawrence

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BOOK: At Wit's End
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The bottle rolled on the floor and whiskey drained into the carpet. Wit watched the spreading stain and decided it looked too much like dr
ied blood. He raised tormented eyes to meet Hirsch’s steady stare. “Pun intended?” he quipped with a shaky voice.

He knew Hirsch was correct about the liquor. He didn’t know what had taken over him. Certain things should never be allowed to become habit and he’
d been turning to that crutch long enough. He decided he was done with the dangerous pattern.

Wit
clapped a hand on Hirsch’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We need to find my girl before those bastards kill her. I may kill them before we’re all said and done. Ugh, I need to brush my teeth.”

Several alerts waited on Wit’s Command Center when the
now clothed men entered the fortified office. While Wit read those Hirsch began reading his file on The Brotherhood for the fifth time that day. His eyes were blurring at the information and he was now sure he hadn’t missed anything. He needed a new avenue to explore.

“Let’s see which database is better,” Wit startled Hirsch from his thoughts, “IGGY came up with a name for us. Roger Ingerhoffe. He’s buried under several layers but I think I have him. His signature is on the paperwork for the tax exempt status for their supposed church.
They recently changed their status from a business to a religious institution.”

“Now we’re moving,” Hirsch turned to his keyboard. Both men entered the information Wit read off from the alert and hit enter at the same time. “What about GPS?” he asked. “Can you track her phone? As soon as I call for that information you and I will receive a whole lot of official attention.”

“I’d rather avoid that,” Wit replied.

“As would I, for now,” Hirsch cautioned. “This is exactly the kind of situation the FBI was created for, you know. If this goes in a direction I’m not comfortable with I will call in the cavalry. Are w
e understood? Wit?”

“Fine.” Wit acknowledged grudgingly. He had an image of bursting into the room
where Marie was being kept, guns blazing, and saving and the day. The fact he had never shot a gun away from a shooting range meant very little to him at the moment. “To answer your question, yes, I can track her. I don’t even need IGGY for it.”

A few moments later Wit’s brow creased. “Even if her phone were off
I should be able to get her GPS. It’s an emergency services thing.” He looked sheepishly at Hirsch. “Sorry, sometimes I forget who I’m talking to. Give me a few minutes. I can try a few other things. IGGY is going on the job after all.”

“I have information on Ingerhoffe,” Hirsch told him. “I’ll look through it while you do that. Let me know if you need me.”

“This makes no sense,” Wit grumbled a short time later.

“What’s that?” Hirsch asked.

“There is no current signal. I’m assuming the men who took her destroyed her phone. She’s going to be upset about that.”

“You can buy her a new one.”

“You’re right.
I tracked her previous cell tower usage. I can see pretty much everywhere she’s been lately and, I’ll tell you this, there’s no way she’s been doing what the signals claim.”

“What do you mean?”

“This map,” Wit turned to a map of the United States, “isn’t large enough to show everywhere she’s been. Somehow the records have been changed or someone has some serious skills. Jamming with redirection? It’s not completely unheard of but high on the unlikely scale.”

“What do you mean?” Hirsch asked.

“Well, I can bounce my computer’s signal all over the world through different routers and techniques you are more than well aware of. If I connect a phone to the computer I can make the calling number anything I want from anywhere in the world. If it’s traced it would come back to some rum bar in Jamaica or a research lab on Antarctica.”

“The things you can - and have - done
disturb me immensely,” Hirsch told him.

“And make
s you proud at the same time?” Wit smiled sadly. “We’ve talked about this. People out there are going to know how to do these things and more. Isn’t it better to have someone on the side of the angels watching them?”

“It
goes back to that saying; gaze into the abyss and it gazes back into you. I worry about you.” Hirsch told him.

“You shouldn’t.”

“No? What about that little detour when we came in?”

“That won’t happen again.”

“Tell you what. We’ll save this conversation for another day, one when I can’t personally guarantee that you’re on the side of the angels.”

“They’re called White Hats,” Wit told him.

“I know. I also know your hat is Grey. We will be revisiting this subject. Can you or IGGY get past whatever they did?”

“No,” Wit shook his head, “not any time soon. Even using borrowed Super Computers I don’t think I could do it.”

“Damn,” Hirsch exclaimed. “Okay, we’ll skip technology for now and go back to the old fashioned investigative techniques. I have some background information on Father Roger Ingerhoffe.”

“What’s the location?”

“Greentown, Pennsylvania. It’s near Promised Land State Park.”

“Never heard of it,” Wit replied, “but I’ll know a lot in a few minutes. It looks like there’s a lot of forest around there.” Wit zoomed in on the satellite image.
“That is the kind of forest that breeds militias. I’m telling you.”


There are militias in Delaware?” Hirsch asked incredulously. “That’s one of the white bred states in the Union. They’re harmless. Generally we get shell corporations through Delaware but other than that I have no idea about the crime populace or make-up.”

“Exactly,” Wit told him. “Who would think to look there?” Before he could continue with his theory his cell phone began vibrating across the desk.
“I don’t know this number.”

“Answer it on speaker,” Hirsch told him. “I want to hear this. If it is them, don’t antagonize them. Let them have control of the conversation until we can figure out what they want. Stay calm. Can you do that?” The look on Wit’s face concerned him. Was there
such a thing as murderous fear?

Wit nodded gravely and tapped the two buttons. “This is Bradley Witson,” he answered.

 

Roger Ingerhoffe and Uncle Henry left the room, ensuring the door was securely locked. It went against
Ingerhoffe’s nature to lock an individual up, take away their right to freedom, but in this instance he had to. The two men awaiting trial were too important to the Brotherhood’s future plans and he would do whatever he had to in order to protect his flock.

Henry finally slid his cell phone into his pocket. “The men are ready and waiting for your orders, sir.” He continuously scanned the hallways as they walked. As the second in command it was his job to make sure their home base and other properties were maintained and he kept a running list of projects for the men and women to work on. “The third wing will be open next week, sir. There were some issues with the plumbing.”

“Did you ask Linda to look at it?”

“I did, sir, and she’s been changing out the pipes and fixing leaks.”

“It’s good we met Sister Linda when we were in Nebraska,” Ingerhoffe commented. He had gone to a rally and met Linda and Rhoda, two women unhappy with the state of politics and humanity in their state. By the end of the week Linda and Rhoda had left with Ingerhoffe. Linda was in charge of plumbing and Rhoda ran the Residence with an iron fist.


Yes, sir, it is.”

The men walked through a large common area room, one
in which guests watched television, played games or read books or newspapers and now used as a call centre and the heart of the Brotherhood’s operations.

The temperature in the room was quite high compared to the rest of the resort. Brother Marcus had explained that the number of running computer
s alone would be enough to cause that. Add in the hot bodies of the people manning those computers and the temperature went up exponentially.

Father Roger was satisfied to see each desk had someone sitting at it, diligently working and recruiting, even though it was well after 10:00 at night. Not everyone in the country went to bed
early and Roger Ingerhoffe had a particular affection for the night owls. He recruited the people who called between the hours of 1 am and 4 am heavily.

Three hallways branched off of this common room. Each led
to a different wing of the resort. The East Wing was dedicated to the residences and was where Roger and Henry had come from after leaving Marie. There were 300 rooms spread over three floors and almost half of them were filled with men, women and children. Recruitment had gone well since the United States had elected her first black president.

Father Roger touched shoulders and gave smiles of encouragement as they walked through the hub. Henry noted the deference Father Roger received and made note of anyone who seemed less than enthusiastic. It
was important to keep up morale.

A PA system squawked overhead and requested Brother Jacob to the kitchens. It had been an ingenious idea to use the old system rather than have too many people using cell phones and radios at the same time. Using low tech communication methods was the best way to stay under the radar of people who would wish to stop the Brotherhood from advancing their goals. Father Roger was known for preferring the use of
handwritten letters over email and his flock understood and followed suit.

“Have you seen Brother Marcus?” Ingerhoffe asked Henry.

They had entered the hallway to the North Wing and the noise ebbed. If the common area was the heart of the operation, the North Wing would be the brain. Henry and Roger made use of two of the hundreds of rooms. Marcus made use of the third – and last. No one was allowed in this section without being accompanied by one of the three men. No gate needed, Father’s request was enough of a deterrent.

Brother Marcus had been with Roger and Henry for nearly
10 years. He had been recruited online for a very special operation. One wouldn’t know it to look at the man as he had the look of a perpetual 12 year old with shaggy hair and a face plagued by acne but he was nearly 40 years old.

“Not yet,” Henry replied. “I’ll check his office. If he’s not there I’ll use the PA. I understand he’s been spending a lot of his time in the shed lately.”

“It’s good that he’s curious but I need him here,” Roger said. “It’s time to make the phone call. You sent the picture?”

“Yes, Father, of course.”

“I’ve told you to call me Roger when we’re not around the others. This Father thing gets weird after a while and you’ve been with me since we were in high school. That makes you family,” Roger said impatiently.

“And that’s what makes you the Father,” Henry laughed. “God, I hate being called Uncle.
It reminds me of pedophiles. ‘Come here little girl,’” he said in a leering tone. “It’s disgusting.”

“It won’t be much longer. We’re making good progress. How are the Reds doing?”
The Reds were the True Mission. They had been infiltrating Washington D.C. for nine years. The moniker was a shortened version of the capital’s NFL team. “Are there any problems I should be aware of?”

“The Secretary of State’s office is proving more difficult than we thought. Samson is working a few angles. I have a few contingency plans prepared in case he ultimately fails,” Henry answered.

“Keep me informed. I may appear busy running this place but you know where my heart lies,” Roger reminded him.

“I do. I’ll find Marcus and meet you in your office. It’s past time to make the call. We gave Witson more than enough time to imagine Marie blown to pieces.”

“Such a beautiful girl,” Roger whispered. Henry thought he heard him humming the nursery song again. Eccentric behaviour or something he should worry about?

The three men stood over the phone in Father Roger’s office. Marcus wore headphones attached to a laptop. After a few moments he aimed a finger in Ingerhoffe’s direction and indicated the line was ringing. Brother Marcus had used tricks none of the others would ever understand to bounce the phone number to China and back. He was confident Witson could not track the call.

“This is Bradley Witson.” The man’s voice wasn’t very strong. Roger had been correct in giving the young man time to think of his beloved with a bomb strapped to her chest in what could be called a homicide vest.

“This is Roger Ingerhoffe.” No need to deny his identity. If Witson hadn’t figured out that much by now it would only have been a matter of time. “I have Marie here with me though she can’t speak right now.”

“If you’ve hurt her I’ll be very upset,” Wit warned him. “Bad things can happen when I’m upset.”

“Are you really threatening me?” Ingerhoffe let loose a rolling laugh. “You know I hold all the cards. I have no desire to hurt you or Merrily,” he told him, “but I will if you leave me with no choice.”

Wit swallowed his anger. What had he just called Marie? “I can’t apologize for it.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. No one is going to get hurt if you do precisely what I tell you. First, however, do not call the authorities.” Ingerhoffe paused and looked at a notebook Marcus had placed in front of him. “We want to keep your friend Hirsch safe also, do we not? Keep him out of this.”

BOOK: At Wit's End
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