The Omega Consensus was intended to bring hope and provide a blueprint for a better tomorrow. Instead, it became a weapon—twisted, silent, and deadly. Blackmail runs through its veins. Greed drives its pulse. No one knows how long it’s been compromised. No one’s talking. Oil prices spike. Fingers point. And in the shadows, Al Amorta Ujung waits—an extortionist syndicate with its sights set on the throat of the United States. They don’t want money. They want control. And they’re willing to burn the world to get it.
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The clinic used to be a Minangkabau family home. Brightly painted wooden moldings and colorful glass pieces topped the building. Objadu and Erik tiptoed around, hoping Dortha wouldn’t notice them.
“She’s eager to eliminate any hint of fun,” Erik told his young protégé. “Dortha’s an old sourpuss.”
“She is almost as dear to me as my mother,” Obi said. “But I’ve seen her scold an Al Amorta soldier until his tears flowed.”
“She has that effect on people,” Erik said. “So, are you really planning to flee? I see you’ve stashed your gear in the weeds by the pond.”
“You saw that? And you said nothing?” Objadu sighed. “I suppose that soldier saw it too, then. Perhaps I should kill him before he can report me.”
“Those are disturbing thoughts for a Minangkabau youth,” Erik said. “Perhaps you should share this with your father. Or consult your mother. Wisdom seems to be a woman’s domain.”
“That’s what my mother says.” And he laughed at the old man. “What if I were to ask for a Merantau? My Uncle did it many years ago; he never came back.”
“Yes, Chandrah. He was a good young man, but he was captivated by the outside world. He broke your grandmother’s heart and your father’s as well. It’s a Minang’s right to go on a journey of self-discovery, but one is expected to come back.”
“I don’t want to hurt my parents or my grandmother,” Objadu replied. “But I don’t want to grow old in this place, either.”
“Such deep thoughts,” Erik said. “Listen. It’s so quiet. The young ones are napping. Why don’t we play a game of shuffleboard? We’ll discuss this some more, Obi. I can see the heat of emotion weighing you down. It’s a bad time for decision-making.”
“Do you think they have shuffleboard tournaments in London or Paris?”
“If I were in Paris, I’d be sipping a fine wine and eating quail stuffed with truffles,” Erik said. “I’d visit the Eiffel Tower and drink espresso on the Champs Élysées. But my real dream is to play shuffleboard in Miami. Just another old codger with artificial knees living for the next game of checkers in the park.”
“You want to live in the country that abandoned us? The ones who left us at the mercy of these soulless men claiming a religion of nameless gods who permit murder?”
“Son, I wish I could tell you that some other country is better and its motives are purer, but that’s not true. There probably isn’t a finer flag to pledge your allegiance to.”
“These thoughts weigh heavier than the air.” Obi hugged the old man. “Let’s play our game. I’ll wager a glass of lemonade.”
“Maybe you could retrieve your luggage from the pond. You’ll probably find your big fish inside,” Erik laughed. “We need to be stealthy. If Dortha catches us, she’ll ruin the day.”
Inside the clinic, Nurse Dortha Myers was flipping through Mature Bride magazine while the printer churned out a thick stack of paper. It was usually bad news—either the Al Amorta had a new rule, or the Americans were demanding more clones. Either way, she didn’t want to deal with it.
“Look at this,” she said, since no one was there to hear. “I could have a real wedding gown, even at my age.” The magazine featured a gray-haired bride who looked quite elegant in a simple, satin sleeveless gown. She leaned back into Erik’s chair and spun around lazily. The printer kept spitting out pages.
“Blast them,” she mumbled, and stashed the magazine in the drawer. She raised the blinds and looked out the window. The orangutans were kiss-squeaking in the enclosure, so Erik was nearby. She leaned out of the screenless casement. In the distance, she saw Erik and Objadu walking toward the shuffleboard court.
Another victim, she reflected. Poor Objadu. I hope he doesn’t have any money on him.
She grabbed the ream of paper that had fallen to the floor and tore it away from the old printer that had finally stopped its frantic clacking. The data was double-spaced.
Sanctuary Updates:
Meningitis Alert: Clone susceptibility to protozoan infection is deemed a credible threat. Check water supplies for contamination.
Clone Status: E20098 issued to NASA, Houston, Texas, assigned name Barnaby Stowbridge.
E19865 reported working in Chicago at Loyola Medical Center as a microbiologist and delivered a bi-species child on August 4.
E20028 was issued to Hoffmeister Institute for Genetic Studies, deceased under suspicious circumstances.
Dortha Myers had cared for every young person raised at the complex over the years. Her blood ran cold at the thought of any clone child’s death. And E20028 would be a child around six years old. It was a baby she’d looked after from its beginning to the day he or she was launched into the world.
“E20028,” panic gripped her. “Who is that?” Dortha hurried to the filing cabinet, flipping through the folders. When she found the number, she hesitated to look. Like a mother whose child’s school bus has flipped over, how do you search through the wreckage? But she finally looked.
“Azara,” Dortha’s tears traced her cheeks. She remembered the day she had lifted the little girl onto her knee, explaining to the adorable two-year-old that mommies and daddies were meant for very special children. Azara looked into her eyes with such longing that Dortha felt all the love her barren soul could give.
Then Azara said, “Could you be my mommy?”
She did know E20028. She knew every scrape and bump, whether on her knees or her head. She knew how she spat her broccoli back onto her plate.
“How?” Dortha felt crushed by the weight of her sorrow; her mouth was dry and her tears hot. And the questionable circumstances stood out like a beacon. She ran back to the printout and looked further down the page.
Updates:
E19985 deceased, protozoan meningitis.
E20028 deceased, issued to Hoffmeister Institute: this fake organization is a front for Senator W. Willson. CIA reports this child was involved in extortion payoffs for a known criminal. Pathology results pending.
E14556 deceased, protozoan meningitis.
Over the years, Dortha had held children in her lap and secretly fantasized that they were the result of tender lovemaking. Maternal instincts, brought to the surface by these parentless clone children, filled her empty and barren life. Now, Azara, who left the compound as little more than a baby, is dead. And for what unholy purpose was she sacrificed?
Dortha activated the compound’s sound system with a flick of a switch. The squeal of feedback deafened the soldiers in the tower directly above the speaker.
“Erik, come to the clinic, please.” Her sharp voice echoed through the complex, bouncing off walls, trees, and buildings.
“Ah, we’ve been caught,” Erik grimaced. He grabbed his cane and left Objadu to finish the game alone. “The bitch has beaten me!”
Dr. VandenHeuvel hurried as fast as his old legs could go, grumbling all the way. Obi had just won the last of his pocket change, and the day was taking a turn for the worse.
“It’s probably Malof. Dortha knows what to do,” he growled. “She just doesn’t want me to have any fun.
I wonder — he’s had a headache since Monday, and now he has a fever. Maybe I should do a spinal tap. Ah, but that’s so invasive for a little one.
Erik looked up at the clinic window. Dortha was standing there. Usually, when she was angry, she crossed her arms and looked like a tyrant. Now, she appeared like an old woman with a broken heart. This was a sign of bad news.
Erik hurried, something he rarely did for anyone these days. His once-black whiskers were now white and snowy, forming a halo around his head. The children compared him to Santa, and in a way, they truly were his children.
He passed by the orangutans, who watched him from behind the fence of their arboreal enclosure. They sounded like rabble threatening to overthrow their king. Natagna was once again defending his status as alpha male.
A stream running through the reserve supplied fresh water for the Omega Project’s Pongo pygmaeus population. The orangutans lived isolated from the rain forest; nearly one hundred of them were spread over thirty-five acres of enclosed forest preserve.
It was feeding time, a noisy part of the day. Manu, Objadu’s father, opened the access door and poured fresh food into the feeding area. Natagna held his durian fruit in the air and let out a call that could be heard for several kilometers. Nearby children echoed Natagna’s cry as if they were his backup singers.
Erik opened the door where Dortha was clutching the windowsill.
“What is it?” the old doctor asked. “Has something happened?”
“Read that printout over there. It’s Azara; she’s gone.”
“Gone?” Erik said. “She left years ago. Have you lost your mind?”
“Dead, Erik. She’s gone. Some Senator used her as part of a blackmail scheme, and the extortionist was a known criminal. We sent her to a terrible death, God knows. And I think I understand what’s wrong with Malof.”
The old man’s pain knew no boundaries, nor did his rage. …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………End
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Objadu crouched in the weeds at the pond’s edge. The heat was intense, and the smell of burning vegetation thickened the air. The young Sumatran pretended not to notice the reflection of a soldier in the water. The terrorist sat atop the wall behind Objadu. The crack of a rifle and the orangutan’s cry confirmed that Al Amorta’s ammunition was live. Objadu listened for the thud of another noble creature being taken out by Jah Lo’s men. The soldier chuckled, gloating over his kill. Objadu wanted to take him out for good.
It’s a crime, Objadu thought to himself. While children play nearby, they kill innocent animals. To the youngsters, gunfire was a common part of the rainforest symphony.
The children’s laughter filled the air as they played beneath a massive acacia tree, nestled in the mountainous region near Padang. The Omega Compound, rich in Indonesia’s mysterious culture, featured houses built like exotic, stilted hats.
Erik VandenHeuvel leaned on his cane as he made his way toward Objadu. The soldier looked down at the old man, then turned away to survey the jungle floor.
Two kids twirled a jump rope while a little girl’s singsong voice filled the air. Amarh’s red curls bounced in time to the brisk rhythm. Dr. VandenHeuvel paused to watch them.
“Down in the valley, where the green grass grows, there sat Amarh, as sweet as a rose. Along came Malof and kissed her on the nose. How many . . .”
Amarh’s feet caught in the rope, and she fell into a giggling heap. The others followed suit, laughing along. After handing out a handful of candy, Dr. VandenHeuvel limped over to the pond.
The young Minangkabau native and the old Dutch doctor represented a clash of cultures. Objadu pushed the canvas bag further into the rushes. Nothing the old man said could stop his upcoming flight.
Dr. Erik settled onto a bench in the shade of a durian tree at the water’s edge. His escape plans consumed Objadu, but he tried to act nonchalant. The children still played nearby, but neither man paid them any attention. An Al Amorta Ujung soldier swung by, making another tour of the wall, and stopped briefly overhead. The silent vigil continued until the intruder tired and moved on.
“I knew I’d find you here, Obi,” Dr. VandenHeuvel’s tone was conspiratorial. “Your father said you’re eager to make a water garden.”
“Is this as close as I’ll ever get to freedom? The edge of these walls?” Then, seeing the old man’s pain, he recanted. “I’m sorry, I know this was a dream for you and my father, but it has become my nightmare.”
“I agree with you, Obi. When your father and I found this site, we both said, at the same time I believe, that we would build our clinic here.”
Objadu stifled a yawn. The heat of the sun made him sleepy. He’d heard this tale at least a thousand times.
“Now we are prisoners of the Al Amorta and their foolish two thousand gods. None of us can understand how we ended up prisoners in our own country.”
“It all started when . . .” The old man droned, and Obi sighed. There would be no escape from this retelling. “I was tracking an orangutan family, tagging them for study.”
“And this was a Catholic school?” He humored the old man out of love.
“Missionaries constructed it during the Dutch occupation.”
“I have heard many stories about those times,” Objadu looked away; it was hard to hide his feelings from the old doctor.
“The English were quite rude, and the Dutch were even worse. It was not a proud moment for my people. We built this research facility in 1952. You weren’t even a sparkle in your father’s eye.”
Obi smiled. It was a strange thought to imagine his parents in the middle of passion.
“I wanted to study the orangutan with the help of your people. In return, I would provide medical care. Our biggest mistake was trusting outsiders. First, it was the Americans. They weren’t so bad. Then, when they discovered my identity, they used us. Soon, Al Amorta came along and used them.”
The old man looked up with a menacing glare at the soldier walking the wall. “Two thousand gods, indeed.”
“The Americans certainly haven’t paid the price we have,” Objadu said. Erik could see he was a very angry young man, just as Manu had warned.
“It’s about oil, Obi. Americans will do almost anything for what they call black gold.”
“If you lie down with pigs, the smell gets on you.”
“You are so right,” Erik said tiredly. “But we never seem to realize that at first. Now, we’re in a tight spot.”
“You can’t reason with fanatics,” the younger man said. “You just have to wipe them from the face of the earth.”
“Omega began as an ambitious mission. The Americans said they supported technological progress to benefit the world. They provided funding, and we enjoyed our good luck.”
“In truth, we built our own prison.”
“It is said, Obi, that we are ultimately our own jailers. We tend to think the enemy of our enemy is our friend. More likely, the enemy of our enemy is also our enemy. When that band of terrorists discovered the Americans were cloning people, the response of the great United States was to get in bed with them. That was doomed from the start.”
“One of the soldiers told me that they believe their two thousand gods have named them as the chosen people. The Al Amorta Ujung are no more chosen than the Jews, Christians, or the martyrs who die in the name of Islam.”
“No man is above another. Even now, the Americans won’t recognize the threat the Ujung pose to the world. Al Amorta Ujung used American dollars to build their empire. They have enslaved their own people.”
“Is that really any different from what the Americans do? They enslave the clones in Sanctuary.”
“Not all of them. Some have been integrated into outside lives and don’t even remember us, Obi. Mind control is a magical science.”
“Magical? Or maniacal?”
“Perhaps both,” Erik conceded. “But American corruption cannot compare to the evil deeds of Al Amorta Ujung. They condemn Western culture and commit atrocities in the name of their many gods. Their master plan is to sway Indonesia and then the world away from the teachings of Muhammad.”
“But Islam is the foundation of Indonesia,” Obi said. “The Western world decries Islam at their peril. The Al Amorta makes the most fanatical Muslim seem as meek as a lamb.”
“You must be very careful, son,” Erik warned. A soldier was approaching, and he seemed very interested in their tête-à-tête at the pond. “They have sophisticated equipment, and they can listen to our conversations from a great distance. We must be stealthy to outfox the Al Amorta.”
Obi looked up to see the soldier spit deep into freedom on the other side of the wall.
“If it weren’t for the American lust for oil,” Objadu said, “the Al Amorta would have no power.”
“It’s the way of the world, Obi,” Erik said. “We can send a man to the moon, but an engine that runs on something other than fossil fuel seems out of the common man’s reach. Electric — not convenient enough. Recharging stations are few and far between. No one has a one-hundred-mile extension cord,” he chuckled. “Fuels from plants? Other than corn, the creators seem to always meet with foul play, or something blows up somewhere mysteriously.”
“It’s blackmail,” Objadu insisted. “If the Americans hadn’t dabbled in cloning, they wouldn’t be paying the Al Amorta extortion rates for oil.”
“Jah Lo’s men have become unbearable. The guards wear those silly camouflage uniforms, as if clothing alone could help them blend into the rainforest like chameleons.”
“Sometimes, in my dreams, I dive into the pond. I’m a fish,” Obi said.
“A huge fish,” Erik chuckled.
“And I swim through the culvert to Freedom. Nobody notices.”
“Nobody except the Al Amorta soldier who fries you up for dinner, Obi. This is all my fault. Now, the Americans send for children before they are old enough to leave. I lose track of them. It was never my intent to lose the children.”
“What I wouldn’t give to be free—I’d give my very life.”
“A man is never truly free,” Erik said. “After climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.”
“Did you make that up?”
“No, an old gentleman named Nelson Mandela did. He concluded that thought by saying that he dares not linger, for his long walk is not yet finished.”
“Profound ideas,” Obi agreed. And they walked toward the clinic, shoulder to shoulder, an elderly doctor burdened by regret and a young man hoping for an opportunity to accumulate some. ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………End
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The Great Fall split the country like a busted jaw. East went clean—tight suits, clipped orders, everything in its place. West went feral. No mail. No government. No taxes. Just dust, desperation, and the kind of silence that gets you killed. A militia’s forming—ragged men with rusted shotguns and twitchy eyes. They march like they mean it, waiting for the East to blink. Then Jake Barnes shows up, all questions and shadows. George “Lefty” Ho watches him from behind the bar and feels it in his gut: something’s coming. And it’s not wearing a badge.
The Omega Consensus was supposed to be hope. A blueprint for a better tomorrow. Instead, it became a weapon—twisted, silent, and deadly. Blackmail runs through its veins. Greed drives its pulse. No one knows how long it’s been compromised. No one’s talking. Oil prices spike. Fingers point. And in the shadows, Al Amorta Ujung waits—an extortionist syndicate with its sights set on the throat of the United States. They don’t want money. They want control. And they’re willing to burn the world to get it.
Hallie Ruben was furious. No one needed to tell her she was at the bottom of the totem pole when she got the dead horse assignment. It wasn’t a prize, that’s for sure.
A top anchor was riding in the air-conditioned comfort of the WQIP minivan. The young person sitting next to her was fiddling with his camcorder, and her efforts to ignore him were fading.
“I’m not the star anchorwoman,” she broke the silence she’d imposed at the start of their journey. “But they don’t have to rub it in by giving me a Boy Scout with a Brownie Starflash camera instead of a camera crew.”
“Gee, you’re not a big deal at WQIP?” Martin Fishbein looked at the woman beside him. She was old, at least thirty. “I never would have guessed.”
“Jennifer Chambers is the shining star, my boy. She gets a limo, and I have to drive myself. She just flashes her smile, bats those fake lashes, and swivels those–oh, I forgot. You’re just a kid,” Hallie said, giving him a sharp look. “Are you messing with me, son?”
“You seem bitter.” Martin avoided eye contact. His experience showed that satire paired with a good stink eye often led to a slap upside the head.
“They give me all the crappy stories—usually some grocery store short-weighing beef. Now I have to cover a reject from the glue factory that’s bought a ticket to that great ranch in the sky. Totally unfair.”
“Might be interesting,” Martin tried to spin it so her hysteria would die down.
“So what if Mr. Green buries Black Beauty in his potato field?” Hallie snapped. “Who cares?”
“I guess someone’s abilities don’t say much about their assignments. Image is everything, you know.”
“A deep thought from someone who likely started their morning by tossing papers onto front porches. What’s your name?”
“Martin Fishbein. I’m in the Internship Program,” he proclaimed as if he’d just earned a graduate degree. “I’m a senior at St. Charles. Next year I’ll have a full ride at Notre Dame.”
“I didn’t ask for your life story,” Hallie muttered. “Just like my girls. Always spilling more details than are called for.”
“You have daughters?” His interest grew noticeably. “How old are they?”
“Watch out, sonny. Hannah is twelve, and Ruth is ten.”
“Definitely jailbait.” He smiled, his braces blinding her.
“You need to keep your lips down, Marlin. I left my sunglasses at home.” Hallie watched as the terrain shifted from urban sprawl to rural countryside. “Call me Ms. Ruben; my friends call me Hallie.”
“It’s Martin, not the fish,” he said. “I heard they found this horse carcass buried in a field. Must be a slow news day.”
“It was actually a viewer who reported it,” Hallie explained. “They get things wrong all the time. It’s probably just an old hank of hemp. Usually, you wouldn’t see Jennifer Chambers going out on a story like this.”
“It’s a nice ride anyway,” Martin said. “Look up there. A bleeding donut. I’m hungry.”
Hallie saw the sign on a bright yellow Quonset hut. It had a large donut with red jelly oozing like a waterfall, and it read Momma’s Bakery. Her stomach growled.
“I’m going to grab something to eat. Is that alright with you, Marlin?”
“It’s Martin. I don’t have any money. Are you paying?”
“Not for yours, sonny. Maybe you could wash some windshields. Or better yet, sit in the car.”
Hallie pulled into the gravel lot. She had barely parked when a reckless driver in a fancy roadster splattered her car with gravel. Hallie opened her door, just missing the man’s custom Vette. She looked back at Martin.
“Marlin, is that who I think it is?”
“Looks like that dweeb from Channel Five, Lance Strong.”
“Maybe this isn’t such a dud, Marlin. He wouldn’t be out here to see his Aunt Tillie.” She looked at Lance, who was on his cell phone and didn’t realize she was alive.
“Alright, here’s the plan. I’ll go in and make some small talk to see what kind of scoop I can get. You don’t want to seem excited in front of another reporter.”
“Makes sense, some kind of way,” Martin said. “You want me to come with?”
“No. Stay here. I’m incognito,” Hallie said, turning and heading for the bakery. Lance Strong looked up, but he didn’t seem to recognize her. Of course, he didn’t; she was nobody.
Martin Fishbein watched his mentor. She was a middle-aged woman with attractive legs and wind-tousled hair. All she needed was a matching babushka for her denim jumper. But I like her, he thought. She seems so genuine.
Glass cases lined the worn linoleum floor, showcasing a variety of colorful donuts. A red-faced man stepped out from the back room, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Help ya?” The tone of his voice showed he didn’t want to help her at all.
“Yes,” Hallie said crisply. “I’ll have a grilled bagel with a side of fat-free cream cheese, please, and a cup of hot tea.”
“Got no bagels. No tea either,” he wiped a rag across the counter, rearranging the bacteria.
“Just give me any pastry you have, baked or fried—I really don’t care. I assume you have coffee.”
“No prob,” he said, waving the rag toward her. “Aren’t you a little far from Slickerville?”
“Pardon?”
“City slickers, I can sniff ‘em out, ya know.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. I think we got off on the wrong fried cake here, friend. I’m Hallie Ruben, a reporter for WQIP.”
“Ah-ha. I’d better get Gussie to toss another batch in the fryer. You gotta be here about the bad doings up north.”
“Yeah, they give me all the crappy jobs.” She accepted the glazed donut and a cracked mug filled with rich brew.
The baker gave her a puzzled look and moved down the counter to assist Lance Strong. Hallie chose the table by the window and took a bite of the pastry. It was heaven.
“What’s the fat content in those?” Lance examined the pastries as if calories could leap onto his waistline just by being near them.
“How should I know? I’d say they’ve got about as much fat as your wife’s backside.”
“Coffee, black—that’s it.”
He sat at the neighboring table, with his back facing her. The phone in his shirt pocket was playing some strange music.
“Lance here.” His voice sounded flat and canned. He looked smaller than on TV and a bit pale now that she got a good look at him. But smooth. Very, very smooth. “I want at least a ten-minute slot for this one, Sam,” Lance Strong barked. “And don’t screw this up. If we don’t nail this down, I will personally see to it that your aged mother dies picking remnants of your ass off the face of the moon.”
He slipped his phone into his pocket, turned, and looked at her. He looked like he was about to say something, then he was out the door before she could whistle Dixie.
“I’ll have two more glazed donuts, please,” she purred. The baker flashed a wide grin. Denture paste peeked above his bridge line, a pinkish pulp. Somehow, being single didn’t feel so bad.
“Around here, some say I’m the guy to see when you want info. Of course, I wouldn’t go spilling my guts to the likes of that one who just left.”
“I know what you mean, sir,” Hallie whispered. “That’s Lance Strong. From TV, you know?”
“Damn, I saw that fancy man from a mile away. I know his kind. I am not talking to someone like him. Now you,” he winked. “That might be a different story, if you catch my drift.”
“Ah, the dead horse. Glad you brought it up. What could be so newsworthy about a deceased horse that would grab a top news anchor’s attention across the county line?”
He looked around the room, then leaned over the glass case.
“Heard it on the scanner an hour ago. It’s not a horse–it’s a kid.”
“A goat?”
“A child. A little one. No one’s saying who it is, though. Just take the road north through town and continue on Cedar Creek Road until you reach Territorial. You’ll be looking for O’Bryan’s farm. Look for the two-track.”
“What’s a two-track?”
“A rut for each tire,” he chuckled. “Rumor has it that it’s a little girl. The cops, they stop for their complimentary, ya know, and I hear ’em. Elmo Carter was blowing off steam to another country boy. Seems a furner is nosing around like a hound dog on rabbit stink.”
“A furrier?” Hallie asked in confusion.
“You know, a furner, from some furn country.”
“Oh, a foreigner.” She smiled. It was like visiting Greece—a whole new language. She felt like she needed a Berlitz course in Backwoods English. “Now that’s very interesting!”
“Good luck to ya’.” He waved his greasy rag, and she imagined a thousand germs splattering on her unprotected face.
Martin Fishbein looked rather surly when she returned to the car. She dug through piles of old newspapers that hadn’t been read until she found the road map. She had frosting on her chin in the mirror.
“I see we had a nice, tidy little breakfast,” Martin’s voice cracked somewhere between bass and tenor.
“I’ve been working. This dead horse is really a kid. A very dead kid. This story could make my career,” she said, handing him the donuts and the road map. “Here, make yourself useful.”
“You’d better hurry. Once the word gets out, they’ll send the real crew.”
“The baker gave me directions, so we won’t need to stop at the police station. We’re going to get the drop on WCRP.”
The road hummed beneath the high-quality tires all the way to Cedar Creek.
“Look!” Martin shouted. “It’s the WQIP crew and WCRP, too.” The police station was the size of a gift shop, and a crowd of gawkers surrounded it.
“We can beat them,” she said and then stomped on the gas pedal. The rogue news crew arrived at O’Bryan’s farm fifteen minutes later. The shoulder was empty, except for one Cedar Creek patrol car. She parked next to it. The insignia was slightly crooked on the door, as if it had been put on as an afterthought. Or maybe it was one of those magnetic decals that peeled off at night and ended up being Bob’s Pizza Delivery.
Hallie opened the road map and figured out precisely where they were.
“Okay, Marlin. We’re going to walk through those woods and see how close we can get to those people over there.”
“You mean that policeman standing next to the guy on the horse out in the field?”
“No, I mean the lion tamer who’s whipping the big cats through the fire hoop at the circus.”
“I see why you’re assigned crappy stories,” Martin said as he packed up his gear. “And I know why you’re single.”
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CEDAR CREEK, MICHIGAN Chapter 5 A Midwest Cop Shop
Detective Hank Bradford searched through a pile of misdemeanors and the occasional felony, looking for his electric bill. Not much was happening in Cedar Creek except for the chaos in the outer office.
“And you have to PUSH the dang button to use the intercom, Sheila. It doesn’t just come on by itself,” Barney Deters shouted. He was Cedar Creek’s beloved Police Chief, so he was forgiven for being a man just a bit too old for the job.
Sheila Crane, the new part-time dispatcher, muttered a response, but Hank couldn’t hear it from his office. He was just relieved because her voice had an irritating nasal quality that seemed to drill into his brain and drain gray matter out through his ear.
“See? Like that,” Barney wheezed, pushing his thinning white hair back. The on-the-job lessons weren’t making him feel better.
“Yes, I KNOW,” Sheila wailed. “I don’t see how I can push that, and then not let the other one pop up, and then the person on the line is gone and…”
The buzzer hidden under the doormat announced a visitor. Hank knew the commotion would be delayed until some unlucky citizen’s concerns were addressed. Still, he was hesitant to go to the reception desk.
Troy Hunsacker was at the counter. Before Sheila could greet him, Esther VanderLaan burst through the door and stood right behind Troy. Hunsacker had a bag of empty beer cans.
“No even-steven trades today, Troy,” Barney admonished. “You go right back to Dell’s and get your money for those danged cans. We speak only greenback here.”
“Man, I need my car,” Troy grumbled. “I was at the bowling alley last night, and Ernie’s Towing stole it. I wanna press charges, too.”
“Just pay the tow fee, Troy. You called them,” Hank hollered from his office doorway. “Don’t you remember? You called them because you’d locked your keys inside.”
“Oh,” Troy said. He looked down at his plastic bag. “You guys don’t have any empties, do you?”
“Hold on, son,” Barney said as he entered his office. When he stepped out a minute later, he was holding a twelve-pack of Zippy Soda cans. “Here. Ernie will be glad to get your heap out of his lot.”
“Thanks, Chief,” Troy said.
Esther pushed Troy aside with her cane. When he didn’t move quickly enough, she prodded him. She wasn’t gentle. Troy obeyed and stepped back.
“BARNEY DETERS.” Mrs. VanderLaan slammed her purple plastic purse onto the countertop.
The phone rang again, and Sheila turned her attention to the switchboard, making a quick escape. Barney stood like a snow-capped mountain—nowhere to hide, with no place to run.
“Why, hello there, Esther. How’s the old rheumatism treating you?”
“Stuff it, Deters. I’m a Christian and you know it,” Esther wailed. She was as deaf as a post.
“I come to tell you there was funny goings-on at the Reverend Carrington’s house last night.” Esther snapped her purse open and grabbed a fistful of tissues. “I swear there’s more comings and goings over there than a common bawdy house.”
“Now, Esther. You know the Reverend keeps a respectable home.” Barney edged toward his office. First chance he got, he’d make a run for it.
“My dog, Sunday, woke me up at the crack of dawn, sniffing and whining. I let her outside, and who do I see pedaling down the street on his bike?” Ester pounded on the counter for maximum effect.
Barney knew she was talking about the town’s most mentally challenged citizen, Fly Carrington. Who just happened to be the helpless child of the widower, Reverend Carrington. He played dumb. He wanted to say, “Hi, Fly.” But he held his tongue.
“Reverend Carrington riding a bicycle?”
“Not the preacher, you old windbag. Get the wool out of your ears.” Esther was shouting, and this wouldn’t seem so strange if she had teeth. As it was, she was barely intelligible with her lips flapping like window shades. Hank peeked out of the office, worried that Esther’s head might start spinning and fly clean off.
“Hey, Mrs. VanderLaan,” Hank said.
“I’m not paying for you to mow my lawn, sonny,” she shot back. “And then, after Fly Carrington came up the road, Mike O’Bryan pulled out of the driveway next to the church cemetery. Now I ask you, what are those two up to in the darn middle of the night?”
“Maybe it was a conspiracy,” Hank said, grinning. He was surprised she didn’t vault over the counter and bash his brains in with her cane.
“I was watching that Carrington boy, Barney Deters. Neat as you please, the little piss-ant opened the basement window and slipped down smoothly. You mark my words; he’s probably out raping and pillaging.” Esther patted her brow with the wad of tissues. “A person’s not safe in their own home ‘round here. Lord knows what that drunk, O’Bryan, was up to.”
“You know Fly’s harmless, Esther. He wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Barney reassured her. “And Mike may tip a few, but he’s got no record.”
“Well, I never. I said nothing at all about your fly, Barney Deters.” She grabbed her purse and slammed the door so hard that it made the calendar on the wall shift askew.
“Looney tunes old broad,” someone whispered.
“Uh, can I cut in here for a minute?” Sheila asked. Her headset hung crooked. Hank grabbed a cup of coffee from the ancient coffee maker.
“Steve’s on the phone.” Brooks was a rookie and the only road officer employed by the City of Cedar Creek.
“And? Well, what? Are you going to tell me, or is this a game of twenty questions?” Barney snarled slightly.
Hank interrupted. “What does Steve need, Sheila?”
“He’s at the O’Bryan place. It’s about that horsetail sticking out of the ground. Turns out there’s a dead body out there.”
“Great Grandma’s panties, can’t they tell the difference between a horse and a person?” Barney barked.
“Well, why don’t you just ask him yourself?” Sheila wished she were back at Thunderdog Lanes, handing out rented bowling shoes that reeked of foot gas.
Barney pressed the speaker button, and Hank came over to listen in.
“Yeah, Steve. Go ahead and tell us.”
“Sir, it’s a little redheaded girl. She’s buried up to the topknot,” Steve coughed nervously. “Sir, what should I do? Over.”
“Hold the fort, Brooks. Don’t let the civvies touch anything. Hank and I will be right out. And quit saying ‘over’. It makes you sound like some rookie jerk.” Barney looked at Hank, who was examining flotsam in his coffee.
“Some evil SOBs got to pull off a big city crime and dump it out here in the wilderness, like we don’t have enough problems,” Barney fished for his keys.
Hank’s mood was downcast.
“This is going to be terrible for the folks around here. We’d better get out there in a darn hurry and act like we know what we’re doing,” Hank said, itching for a cigarette. “We don’t have any missing kids around here, so it must be a kid from another county.”
“Or state. Like I said, if some maniac is dumping victims in our jurisdiction, it makes us look bad. God Almighty, a kid—that’s beyond evil. What’s this world coming to?”
“It’s Armageddon, Barn. Look, they have us surrounded like the Alamo,” Hank said as he stared out the front window. “It’s the scanner crowd. You’d think people would have better things to do than gather around those annoying squelching machines, waiting for the next human tragedy to be announced.”
“At least the press isn’t aware of it yet.” Barney grabbed a few items, including a couple of rolls of crime scene tape. “Hank?”
“Yeah, boss,” he replied.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of strange that O’Bryan was out late last night and a body was found on his farm?”
“I guess it is, Barney. But Fly Carrington bikes out that way all the time. He was out last night as well. Meet you in the car.”
Hank looked around his office and spotted his shotgun propped in the corner with a plastic grocery bag hanging from its sight. He grabbed the weapon, slipped a pack of hidden cigarettes from the drawer, and headed for the cruiser. He ignored the shouts from the scanner buzzards and looky-loos.
“Let’s go!” Hank muttered, slamming the door of the car.
Barney jerked the wheel quickly away from the curb and accelerated.
“Son of a bitch, Deters. You drive like an old man with a hat.”
Barney looked at his friend and grinned. He winked at Hank before letting out a deadly fart.
“Hear the horn?” Barney’s eyes twinkled. “It’s Gabriel calling your name!”
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The Omega Consensus was supposed to be a source of hope, a blueprint for a better tomorrow. Instead, it became a weapon—twisted, silent, and deadly. Blackmail runs through its veins. Greed drives its pulse. No one knows how long it’s been compromised. No one’s talking. Oil prices spike. Fingers point. And in the shadows, Al Amorta Ujung waits—an extortionist syndicate with its sights set on the throat of the United States. They don’t want money. They want control. And they’re willing to burn the world to get it.
Available in print, but also serialized online to read absolutely free. Chapters drop twice each week on Mondays and Thursdays. Subscribe to receive email updates.
Here is chapter one of our serialized novel. If you missed the prologue, you can find the link for it on the table of contents page.
CEDAR CREEK, MICHIGAN Chapter 1 BAD SMELLS AND FAIRY TALES
“Willson Estate.” Digby’s deep baritone startled Richard Underhill.
“I want to speak to Senator Willson. Now!”
“The Senator is indisposed, sir.” Digby Brown felt his butler’s job was an endless series of never-ending tasks that involved nothing but dumbbells and nincompoops.
“Would you like to leave a message?”
“No matter where he is, or what he’s doing, you tell that old sack that Richard Underhill wants to have a chat.” Underhill’s voice was annoyingly whiny.
“Are you a constituent, sir? Because I can give you his Senate Office number.” Digby then started the list he’d repeated nearly every day to upset Virginians wanting to complain about a government screw-up.
“Listen, Jeeves, and listen carefully. You tell Mr. High and Mighty that Richard Underhill has a situation.” Richard looked down at Sarah. The dead child was curled up on his bed. “You tell him to take this call if he wants to keep that fancy-ass title of his.”
“Can you hold, sir?” Digby had already pressed the record button to start the machine, just in case the FBI needed to hear this. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yeah, Jeeves. Do that. Go ahead and fetch that old SOB,” Underhill settled onto the pillows next to the dead child. “I’ll wait right here.”
Digby poked his head into the library. The Senator was deep in conversation with Senator Armitage.
“Sir, I hate to bother you, but there’s a fellow named Richard Underhill on the phone, and he seems eager to speak with you.”
“Blast!” Senator Willson jumped out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box and ran across the room. Percy Armitage looked angry; he didn’t like to take a back seat to anyone.
“I take it you want to talk to this Underhill person?” Digby whispered.
“Yes, damn it,” Willson growled, then turned back to his colleague.
“Excuse me, Percy. This could be very important.” As he hurried down the hall, the Senator snarled, “Digby, get Percy a scotch.”
When Willson reached for the phone, he hesitated. He knew whatever it was Underhill wanted could be a potential political land mine. He pressed the receiver to his ear.
“This better be good. You are one sick, bloodsucking bastard,” Willson hissed.
“Well, well. It appears that some tension is present. I have a bit of a dilemma, Senator.”
“What’s that? Spit it out, Underhill.”
“That’s not a nice way to talk to your favorite blackmailer, Senator,” Richard said in a somber voice. “It’s a good thing I don’t hold grudges. It’s about the kid you got for me. Just like Humpty Dumpty, the stupid little girl broke into a million pieces. I don’t suppose you can get me another.”
“You are a perverted little runt,” Willson hissed. “I’m not getting another innocent child for you to torture. My God, what have I done?”
“There’s no need to get personal, Senator. I think you’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with.”
“You creep. I know exactly who you are: a short, balding pervert who can’t get over being called freak face in elementary school. Do you think it’s fair retribution to ruin a child’s life? Now you’re a murderer.”
“I swear I didn’t murder her. Shit, I’m a lot of things — evil things — but not that.”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with, Underhill. We’re both involved with some dangerous people, and we’re in serious trouble.”
“Willie, it was just an unfortunate accident. Someone’s got to get this dead kid out of my house—a little clean-up operation, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t call me Willie—ever. I know you have an emergency card for that child. It tells you exactly what to do if she gets sick or dies. Find that card in the crawl space where you live and follow the instructions. I’m done dealing with you.”
“Do you want everyone to know about the Sunshine Boys Resort? Like, say, your constituents?”
“Don’t threaten me. I have people who can make you disappear.” Willson slammed the phone down and slid a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue.
The pain in his chest had been worsening lately. It took two tablets before he could join Senator Armitage to discuss strip-mining in Appalachia.
On the other end of the line, in rural Southeastern Michigan, Richard Underhill sat holding the dead receiver.
“Crap on a cat,” he muttered. “Where the hell is Emily when you need her? Oh yeah. The bitch left.”
His wife wasn’t coming back, that was obvious. It was hard to believe she found such courage somewhere, packed up her two boys, and left.
This is entirely her fault. None of this would have happened if Emily had been here. She’s like that emergency brake the train engineer pulls. Without her, I have no control over my accelerator. How’s a guy supposed to curb his primal urges without some whiny bitch to hold him back? This is her fault.
He went to the closet and searched through the shoes until he found the lockbox hidden beneath the floorboards. The box was heavy, filled with evidence of his past sins. He opened it carefully, as if some of them might escape.
If it’s not here, it’s in the basement. Those sons of bitches gave me papers for this kid. But where did I put that damn emergency card?
Hearing a noise, he looked back at the bed. The lifeless body still lay there; her eyes rolled back in her head like a creepy baby doll. He walked over and prodded her. She didn’t flinch.
You wouldn’t think they’d be so damn fragile. I finally got rid of the wife and have a little free time, but the kid takes a nap on me. Just dandy. Maybe I should snatch that friend of hers. Maggie’s a cute little thing — but I think her mom is onto me. Better not. Right now, I’ve got to get rid of this body or it’s going to stink like an outhouse in here.
He went back to his box, digging through the papers with his dirty, tobacco-stained fingers. He retrieved the card he had hidden recently and sat on the bed’s edge beside Sarah. He gazed at her peaceful face, noticing a faint smile that irritated him.
“Not much to laugh about now, huh?” he said, giving her a quick nudge in the ribs. Hooha, a stuffed bear, escaped her grip and hit the floor, leaving behind its signature glob of fluffy white batting.
Richard grabbed the phone and dialed the long-distance number on the card. As it rang, he drummed his fingers on the nightstand.
“Hello?” Jah Lo’s voice was that of an angry Asian male.
“What the?” Underhill said. “Where the hell am I calling? You sound like you’re in China.”
“Who is this?”
“Richard Underhill.”
“I don’t like your language, Mr. Underhill,” Jah Lo snapped.
Richard shot back, “I don’t like your accent.”
“You are calling about what number?”
“Number? I don’t know.”
“On the neck tag, I require the ID number.”
“Oh, sorry.” He awkwardly held the dead child in a strange dance, shifting her until he found the medallion. “It’s E20028. I believe you called her Azara, but I refer to her as Sarah. Is that what you want?”
“Mr. Underhill, from Michigan. That’s in the States, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. Who are you?”
“Al Amorta, Mr. Underhill,” Jah Lo said. “What brings you calling?”
“Well, Al, it looks like I have a dead kid on my hands.”
“That’s too bad for you. We’re happy to help, but you need to follow our instructions exactly if you want to see the sunrise.”
“You can’t talk to me like that. I’m a friend of Senator Willson’s.”
“We can talk to you however we want. You see, my American friend, you have unfortunately reached the headquarters of the Al Amorta Ujung. Please don’t move. I will call Sanctuary and send a unit to retrieve the clone’s body. I’d suggest you not to defy us.” He clicked off.
Richard Underhill waited beside Sarah for a long time until he heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway. He was scared, and Dicky Freak Face didn’t like feeling afraid. Not one bit.
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This is the first installment of the serialized novel, Omega Consensus. Subscribe at the end of this post to receive automatic updates as new chapters become available (twice each week).
PROLOGUE
From behind a boulder, George Ho shielded his eyes. A small cloud of dust rose on the road; a faint low rumble could be heard. Someone was approaching, coming this way.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, glancing behind him. Thankfully, his granddaughter, Aimee, was out of earshot. His grip tightened on the shotgun, and though he didn’t raise it, he was ready.
“I haven’t seen action like this since the old days,” Ho murmured.
The motorcycle came to a sudden stop just twenty yards from him, kicking up loose gravel. The helmeted rider looked quite unfriendly, and George was hesitant to face a confrontation. The old man was not much help, even with a weapon. He backed up the sidewalk; his foot slipped in the mud. The stranger noticed him.
“Lefty,” the rider shouted. “Hey, old man, don’t you remember me?”
No one called him Lefty anymore, at least not that often.
“Who the hell are you?” he shouted back. “And where did you get gasoline?”
“You son of a gun! It’s been a minute.” The rider tore off his helmet. His once ebony hair now had streaks of white. George relaxed a little. Jake Barnes still wore the rakish grin that made Senator Willson’s wife swoon.
Jake slammed his kickstand into the dirt, leaving his bike amid a cloud of dust hanging in the air.
“Well, I’ll be. Jake, you old hound dog.” George’s voice wasn’t friendly, nor was it a snarl. “What in the Sam Hill are you doing in Utah?”
“Little of this—little of that. Doing odd jobs on the side,” Jake smiled.
George Ho gave his old colleague a once-over. Jake didn’t look a day over 40, and that was a mystery.
“You been taking a bath in the Fountain of Youth, boy?”
“Nah, I’m pretty much over the hill. These old bones ache like a bad tooth.” Barnes brushed off his pant legs and sat on a mossy berm along the creek bank. “I heard you’d settled out here. It’s nice.”
“Yeah, it is. Where on God’s earth did you find gasoline, you shifty son of a bitch?”
“I’ve got some friends who got lucky. We have a supply that should last for a while.”
“I haven’t seen gasoline in years—land sakes, it’s been five years if it’s a day.” George walked over to Jake’s vintage Harley and ran his hand along the engine—it’s as hot as a damn cook stove.
“Haven’t heard the sound of an engine in so long; I almost forgot what it sounded like.”
“Gasoline is very scarce. You’ve got to trade a lot of goods to get a gallon. It doesn’t matter, though. Not many folks have a working vehicle anymore. When I passed through Tennessee, I saw a family living in a pile of cars welded together. Made quite a cozy little cottage.”
“That’s strange. Someone’s newfangled idea of a mobile home, I suppose.”
“You can’t fully understand people. Did you know some are living in dugouts carved into the side of a hill? Guess they don’t have to worry about a twister destroying their home.”
“Great idea for hill country, but some parts are really flat.”
“True, but an old cellar works for them. A bit on the dark side, but what the hell. How are you doing, Lefty? Are you well defended?”
“I can’t get used to that Lefty thing. Nobody’s called me that in years. Why do you ask about defenses, Jake? Are you planning to raid our canned peaches? Or are you after bigger game—like the old days?”
“There are bands of thieves and troublemakers around here, Lefty,” Jake’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember you being squeamish about a little violence now and then. Back in the day, you were a pretty good shot.”
“You’re out of line, Jake. The old days are gone. Nothing much happens around here. We’re a peaceful group. Sometimes an outsider comes looking to steal a cow or pig, but mostly folks just keep to themselves.”
“The Eastern Reserve has reinstated the mail system. Do you all have it?”
“Nope, word of mouth works just fine for us. I don’t miss it—no bills and no damn tax man. The government snoops are out of commission, no offense, of course.”
“Sure, none taken. I heard Nick Blake lives around here. Have you seen him?” Jake kept his voice steady, so no inflection would tip the old man off.
“He’s around. Been working on setting up a new government. He’s gathered quite a few young guys for a Western Reserve militia.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Maybe. He’s still the big boss. I guess once a President, always a President. He doesn’t have a title yet because we haven’t ratified a constitution. Funny thing is, these days people don’t care much for politics, which makes it hard to get them to leave their fields.”
“I’ve heard that. People say Blake is an approachable guy.”
“He rolls up his shirtsleeves and bales hay like the rest of us.” George watched as Jake took off his boots and submerged his feet in the murky water.
“Jake, lift your feet up.” The detective in him came as naturally as a burp after a cold beer. George’s fingers clenched around his gun. He felt like Lefty Ho again.
“Why?” Jake asked, but he quickly pulled his feet out of the water anyway. His cuffs spilled their water, and his strong calves looked shiny. The old man’s eyes locked onto Jake’s foot, and he turned as pale as an Asian man can get.
“You aren’t Jake Barnes,” George Ho said. He stood and aimed at the stranger who looked like Jake’s twin. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jake. I recognized you, didn’t I?”
“Get off my land,” George ordered. “Get your ass off my creek bank and haul that Harley back to whatever Hell you rode in from.”
“You’ve turned into a real gasbag, Lefty. I guess you deserve everything you get.” Jake shoved his wet feet back into his boots. He stomped off and mounted his dirt-encrusted road bike.
“And don’t come back,” George shouted. He fired a blast over the pseudo-Jake’s head. Then he heard a sound behind him and spun around, aiming the gun directly at his granddaughter’s pretty head.
“Good God, Aimee. I almost took your head off. You shouldn’t be here. Get home.”
“Grandpa, you’re such a grump. Why were you upset with that man?”
“That’s not a man,” Ho replied. “That’s a demon from Hell, and I sent him packing.”
“You said he wasn’t Jake Barnes. How did you know?” Aimee persisted.
“Because the real Jake Barnes lost his big toe to a shotgun blast years ago. And unless there’s some new-fangled regeneration technique I don’t know about, he’s what we used to call a dead ringer.” The air felt heavy as Lefty sighed. “That fellow had every one of his little piggies intact.”
The Harley coughed up a cloud of dust. Barnes was gone, winding his way through the hills back to the netherworld.
“Grandpa, are you scared?” Aimee asks as she slips the frog into her pocket.
“Someone walked over my grave, little one.”
He took a deep breath and knelt next to Aimee. “Do you have plans for that froggy?”
George Ho’s twelve-year-old granddaughter was his only child’s only child, Evan, who had passed away. He could see a faint memory of his son’s eyes when Aimee looked at him. His heart ached.
“That creature doesn’t look very happy, Aimee.”
“I’m going to keep him.”
“Don’t you think he might prefer his lily pad over the shoebox in your closet?”
“Oh, Grandpa,” Aimee sighed as the frog struggled.
“Frogs don’t like being shoved into pockets, boxes, or jars. And neither do people.”
“I don’t have anyone in my pocket,” Aimee giggled. “A person wouldn’t fit. Why did that man call you Lefty?”
“He called me Lefty because of this.” The old man waved the stump that used to be a hand with fingers. “Lost it in a mine accident in Angola. Blew my nose pickers clean off.”
“Grandpa, that’s terrible. Anyway,” she said. “Tell me about the Great Fall.” She sat at his feet, her long black hair forming a curtain around her slender, golden frame.
A cluster of gray nimbostrati collided with a black wall of rain somewhere near the mountains. Thunder echoed through the canyon, and the wind picked up.
“See the clouds stirring? It was the same way back then. A thunderstorm was forming, but we were all busy with our lives and got caught without our umbrellas. It’s kind of like what will happen if we don’t get up to the house.”
“I hate storms. Boogeymen come out whenever there’s lightning.”
“In the old days, boogeymen walked among us, Aimee. They were right under our noses”.
“Like Jake Barnes?”
“He was one of the good guys. But I’d bet my next harvest that he’s turned as bad as a cracked egg on a hot day. There’s something nasty afoot.”
“Because he grew a toe back?”
“Exactly. That’s not doable, is it? Plus, there’s been an unsettled vibe lately, and I really don’t like it.”
“Tell me everything about the clones, Grandpa. Tell me about Azara’s Land and Digby Brown.”
“You’d be fast asleep before I was finished,” George replied. “Anyway, I think your mother should tell you. I’m swamped.”
“You’re as unbusy as my frog,” Aimee laughed. The object of her affection was splayed out on a lily pad and looked half dead. “Tell me the beginning, Grandpa. Then tomorrow you can tell me the middle, and the next day you can tell me the end.”
“Why don’t you just ask me why the Earth doesn’t spin out of its orbit and hit the Sun?”
“Okay? Why?”
“I give up. Okay, it all started with a little girl named Sarah, and without her… well, who knows what might have happened? Her death was like a stone rolling down a hill. The whole thing picked up speed and kicked up plenty of debris along the way. Once things started to fall apart, there was no stopping them.”
“Sarah’s name was really Azara, I know that,” Aimee said. “She was a little redheaded girl.”
“That’s true.”
In the distance, George Ho saw his daughter-in-law, Helena. She stood on the back porch, waving her dish towel to get their attention.
“You get home, Aimee. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Okay, but I want to hear about Sarah and Sanctuary as a bedtime story. And about Natagna.” Aimee rushed to the house, leaving George to wrestle with the dragons of his past.
The old man crouched on the steep bank. The pond reflected the darkness of the sky and his thoughts. He zipped a blade of grass between his lips and tasted the bitterness of the weed. Like a rusty pipe with a slow leak, unwelcome memories seeped into the stew of his thoughts.
He’d been just an ordinary detective. It was a routine murder case. Thoughts of the past dragged him into a swamp of memories that pulled him back to those dangerous days before the Great Fall.
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The Omega Consensus was supposed to be hope, a blueprint for a better tomorrow. Instead, it became a weapon—twisted, silent, and deadly. Blackmail runs through its veins. Greed drives its pulse. No one knows how long it’s been compromised. No one’s talking. Oil prices spike. Fingers point. And in the shadows, Al Amorta Ujung waits—an extortionist syndicate with its sights set on the throat of the United States. They don’t want money. They want control. And they’re willing to burn the world to get it.
Monty and McCluskey – Two writers present their novel, Omega Consensus: No Tour Guides in Hell, on this website in serial form free of charge. Follow and be sure to subscribe so you’ll get notice when new chapters are published. The Prologue and several chapters are live now.
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