Chapter Twenty-Four Tyler #2
“Jesus, man”—I palm my neck—“I get you’re the feelings-monger of the group, but are you that bored—”
“Don’t insult me or my fucking gig to deflect,” he counters sternly. “It’s not cool. But I’ll drop it.” He shakes his head and softens. “So, where is our French menace and my favorite pup?”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean Beau?”
“Hell no, he’s a straight-up bitch, and more of a snob than his father.”
I chuckle. “They’re meeting us for dinner. We’re headed there now.”
“Yeah?” His smile widens. “Good.”
“You know, he probably isn’t a fan,” I state of his pet name for Cecelia. One Sean created while they were together.
“I couldn’t give a fuck less,” he clips with a shrug that reeks of finality. Though Tobias and Sean made amends after we took Antoine down, they’re still finding footing in their new dynamic.
“You’re in a rare mood,” I state, watching him closely.
“I’m ready to spit some lava,” he delivers, expression dimming. “Please tell me we have something on those fucks.”
‘Those fucks’ being the terrorist group that announced itself by sending an execution to news stations, grotesque parts played on air to boost ratings.
Though we got the feed down within minutes, it was too late.
That footage looped worldwide for months.
Six months later, just as we were starting to scratch the surface, they struck again.
This time, kidnapping two hundred and forty-six Americans off the streets or from their homes within an hour.
In broad daylight. But these weren’t just any Americans.
They held coveted positions across US cities—chiefs of police, firefighters, case workers, doctors, specialists, prominent lawyers, and even a Supreme Court judge.
All were killed without a single demand, eighteen hours before discovery. Not a shred of evidence left among the pileup of bodies. Outraged, Americans screamed for justice, pressing Preston to stop the culprits before they attacked again.
The attacks have been happening mere months apart since, each more catastrophic than the last. Their most recent claim—the slaughter of close to a thousand innocents at an international football game in Madrid.
The special task force assembled in week one by our president is a front created for the benefit of the public.
The real task force is made up of those visibly and invisibly inked.
Heading that charge with me is Donovan, as well as Tobias, who saw the original footage while trying to win Cecelia back.
T joined us on the hunt right after securing her at his side.
Since then, Tobias has been hell-bent on snuffing them out and completing Dom’s task list.
The hardest part of taking Preston’s punches during their reign of terror is that we don’t have enough intel to satisfy him or the public.
“We’ve finally got something,” I state.
Sean instantly animates. “This lead solid?”
“Donovan found scattered but solid evidence pointing to three suspects holed up in a house not far from here. We’ll take them alive tonight and pump them for everything we can get.”
“And what if they cut off their own tongues with a bullet before we get to them?”
“That thought’s been my only fear since we decided to see it through,” I answer gravely. “As of now, we have no other leads.”
“Jesus, man.” Sean pinches his nose. “We’ve caught nothing on tape? Even with all the mixed media?”
“Nineteen thousand hours of footage on loop, twenty-four-seven, with fresh eyes on it—and fucking nothing. Of the two hundred and forty-six taken, none were connected in any way except for their respected positions in the American hierarchy.”
“Yeah, like when a kid says they want to be a cop, a firefighter.”
“Exactly,” I say. “What happened on our soil was a purposeful pissing on our dream, and that’s the most we can make of it.”
“And Spain?”
“Most-watched sport in the world. They wanted views of the slaughter, and since they’ve claimed that massacre, it changes everything. Even with Spain starting their own task force, we’re running lead.”
“That’s all we’ve got?”
“There’s nothing substantial, Sean,” I relay again, just as frustrated.
“No indication of religion involved?”
“Nothing suggests it. No trace of the typical. The attack on Spain means there’s no specific grudge against American ideals like Al-Qaeda’s issue with us.”
Sean kicks back, brows pinched. “They’d need serious cash and connections to pull this off without a trace, so we need to find how they’re funded—or by whom.”
His line of thinking echoes Tobias’s rule—follow the money. “We’re already digging,” I assure.
“Good, because even Bin Laden, as outrageous as his agenda was, had a wealthy family backing him.”
Another truth that has us scrutinizing the globally wealthy, their acquisitions and associations.
“If they have a backer,” he continues, “and we can pin them, it’ll make this a much smaller world.”
“We’re painstakingly combing everything we can. Preston’s doing recon on some influential Southern families now.” I don’t mention why, or its connection to Larissa.
“No shit? He’s already going in?” Sean’s eyes crinkle, his worry clear.
“Light sniffing, nothing heavy, and it wasn’t my call.”
“So, who are these assholes we’re going after tonight?”
“The suspects”—I hand him a tablet—“are Alexander Hamilton, Samuel Adams, and Patrick Henry.”
Sean squints. “Founding Fathers? You’re fucking joking.”
“Sadly, no. These are their legal names, the changes filed the morning the two hundred and forty-six disappeared—and they didn’t have Social Security cards in their prior names.”
“The hell?”
“We’ve gone over this, man. Generations of people can’t be traced because some operate like us and have for hundreds of years.”
“As if the government doesn’t exist.” He nods.
“Either that, or they’ve found a way to digitally erase their pasts, like many of us, which could be the case here.”
Sean studies their profiles. “So we’re flying on the assumption anyone involved might change their name to a Founding Father before striking?”
“If so, they’re not just hiding behind aliases—they’re mocking democracy itself.”
“But they’ve struck internationally, so the names don’t exactly fit if the US isn’t the lone target.”
“That’s where you come in,” I state. “Put your tinfoil hat on. We’re looking for motive.”
“Tinfoil hat,” Sean mumbles, scrolling the tablet. “Reminds me of what Dom said before he died.”
“What’s that?”
“That we’re better off believing in conspiracy theorists and each other than the news—and before Pres came in, our own government.” He leans back, fingers drumming his jeans, itching for a smoke.
“Be careful with that shit,” I warn.
“My searches are untraceable,” he grumbles.
“Nothing’s untraceable. Not anymore.”
“Public library VPN,” he spits confidently.
“If you’re driving states over without cameras, maybe. But that’s not our world anymore,” I snap. “Don’t fucking go there. Ask me—I’ll dig or find someone else to do it.”
“It was a library in the sticks with no equipment, asshole, but fine,” he grumbles. “You’d think you’d find me something more James Bond for research, considering the year and our positioning.”
“I’m not Bond. Russell probably has something safe enough if you want to dig.”
“I’m being careful,” he sighs, “and using mostly books, so stop the lecture and hear me out.”
“I’m listening.”
“So, in researching older influential families, based on Dom’s inkling that there’s a link, I dug up legit evidence of corruption among several old families.
Some proven, others mythical. Theories of groups existing without proof, but are in theorists’ books and inevitable internet debunkings.
One being the Olympians, also known as the Committee of Three Hundred.
Supposedly, the most powerful—bankers, real-estate moguls, media owners—band together to make the real decisions and run the world. ”
“But it’s utterly unproven.”
“Yeah, have you Googled Ravens lately, asshole? Find anything on us?”
“Point taken.”
“No, answer me. Why?”
“Because we make sure of it,” I relent. “We misdirect any search close to the truth with AI.”
“And groups like this can’t? They didn’t think of it first?”
“I hear you, but we need proof. Americans need it. That’s what we need in order to use the legal system, if it comes to that.”
“That’s the crux, isn’t it? Burden of proof. Since we can’t prove the groups exist, what we need to focus on is the propaganda tied to these mythical groups—because the propaganda exists, and that’s powerful enough.”
“I’m following.”
“One prominent agenda is population versus sustainability. Many dismiss it as batshit—”
“Because it is,” I interject.
“But the Georgia Guidestones do exist, brother, have since 1980.”
“Erected by someone also batshit,” I counter.
“Or is someone swaying others to believe as they did, or sending a warning by propaganda. My point is, haven’t we learned not to dismiss batshit by now? Planes into skyscrapers? A pandemic shutting down the globe? This is our world now.”
I nod. “Go on.”
“The Guidestones, our so-called ‘American Stonehenge,’ etched a blueprint suggesting we keep the population to five hundred million to know everlasting peace with nature.”
“Right.”
His expression hardens. “Tyler, there were 4.4 billion people when the stones went up. Even if some agreed in theory, the suggestion to cut the global population by ninety percent wasn’t taken lightly.
Forty-two years later, people still visit a monument suggesting mass genocide will bring harmony. ”
I give him a slow nod. “Sad truth.”
“Maybe I’m way off, but if they’re changing their names to those of Founding Fathers before mass murder, this feels along those lines.”
“You’re right, it’s out there.”