After Empire

By Michael Tulipan

No one is better at piecing together intelligence than analyst Roger Cross. But when the Iraq invasion went sideways, someone had to take the fall. Years later, a violent terror threat to the homeland has emerged and a new White House team reaches out to the one man who can find patterns where there appear to be none.

Seemingly random terror attacks have been unleashed across the country and only one thread links them together, the number 1787. Secretly fighting a debilitating disease and down to his last chance for professional redemption, Cross partners with FBI Agent Tom Reynolds, a man whose devotion to his job threatens to upend his marriage, and his former fiancée, Anna Dunnings, a Pulitzer-prize winning war correspondent, a woman he won't let get away again.

The action criss-crosses the globe from the halls of power in D.C. to Afghanistan to militia headquarters in the Midwest to the City of Brotherly Love for one final stand. With everything on the line, can Cross solve the puzzle of 1787 or will the President unleash a top secret force of 10,000 anti-terror troops charged with one mission... preserve the nation at any cost or die trying?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Tulipan
• Release date: Aug 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310799228

Michael Tulipan

New York native Michael Tulipan has covered travel destinations, winemakers and distillers for outlets including The New York Times, Wine Spectator, Wine Enthusiast, Organic Wine Journal, Chilled Magazine, AM NY and The Huffington Post, among others. He is also the editor of TheSavvyExplorer.com.As a producer and production executive, he has worked for The Travel Channel, A&E, The History Channel and online video network iNEXTV.com. A political junkie, he founded and co-hosted the progressive podcast OutrageRadio and edited its sister website OutrageNation.com. Along with his co-host, Michael was featured in Move On's "50 Ways to Love Your Country."Michael holds a BFA in Film & Television from New York University. After Empire is his first novel.

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After Empire

By Michael Tulipan

Copyright 2015

Smashwords Edition

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Prologue: Forsyth, Georgia

Thick silence hung inside the van, ski masks shrouding faces as they rolled through the back roads outside town. A brooding group of muscular bodies, trained, expectant, wired for battle. Among them, Jesse felt himself drift in and out of consciousness, occasionally jolted awake by a pothole or sharp turn.

The target had been cased carefully, oddly placed as it was amidst a public golf course. Most of them had played rounds, often hitting balls badly and only sometimes by choice, all for a clear perspective of the building. It sat almost deceptively unsecured and that had worried a few. But the state defense force member on the team had access to the alarms and provided a precise layout of the space. They would be in and out before anyone ever knew. Assuming no one was there when they arrived.

His round of golf had come late and he was unfamiliar with most of the men sitting around him. He could pick out his golf partner, a lanky man who oddly enough called himself Toad, but no one had uttered more than two words the entire trip, a pattern continued from weeks completely devoid of small talk. Most struck him as ex-military, more than a few former contractors among them, not above selling their souls to the shadowy underworld doing the dirty jobs in the world’s backwaters. On government work, at least, he could relate, considering his FBI salary barely covered his day to day and would never compensate for the precarious nature of his mission. But he drove that thought, and the picture of his wife’s face, out of his mind. He’d be home in twenty-four hours and he needed to stay focused.

Ice seemed to run through the veins of the group leader, known simply as Rob, riding shotgun in front. The few streaks of gray in his dark brown hair betrayed a more advanced age than most of the others. It had taken Jesse weeks to get a close to Rob and when he finally managed to get a photo through to his boss, the search turned up nothing. The driver, Johnson, guided the van with precision, carefully gauging the speed limit to avoid unwanted attention. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, Johnson’s ordinary looks and bland moniker barely contained an evident cruel streak.

The van turned onto Country Club Drive and headed up to the fork that would take it around a bend to the local armory. Inside would be a cache of weapons and ammunition, purpose unknown.

The corner off the main road hid a squad car with Deputy Reggie Willis stuffed inside. The lights were off and Willis was listening to the radio reports trickle in. In his hand, a turkey sandwich with mayo. Willis had positioned the car about forty feet past the streetlight that illuminated the intersection, cloaked from the view of any passersby. He did not hear the van but saw it slide past in the darkness.

That’s odd, he thought. Nothing going on at the armory at 2:30 in the morning and definitely not at the country club. Was that a Tennessee license plate? He placed the sandwich down on its wrapper and quickly folded it over. Then he pulled the cruiser onto the road and followed the route taken by the van.

The van pulled off behind some trees just south of the gate. The men jumped out fully armed with M4 assault rifles, backed up by hunting knives strapped to their legs and 9mm Glocks holstered on their sides. The property was surrounded by a single chain link fence, 8 feet tall and wrapped in barbed wire. Not even electrified, it served as little more than a barrier between the armory and teenagers or wildlife. Bolt cutters made short work of the links and men flooded through.

Jesse had been assigned to the second group led by an arrogant fifty-something man with Popeye-esque arms named Jewels. Rob led his men towards the building while Jesse and the others fanned out in a semi-circle, charged with guarding the perimeter and backing up the first group in case they needed more hands to carry the satchels of weapons. He took up position near a tree just off the driveway running from the main gate to the building, hoping to drift towards the entrance and get a sense of what he was dealing with. For the moment, he held formation.

Willis drove his cruiser past the concealed van and continued up the drive. At the fork in the road, he paused and contemplated checking the armory or the country club first. Probably some late work being done at the club, he reasoned, turning up the road towards the entrance. When the gate came into view, he found it shut tight with no signs of life. Huh. He swung the car around and cruised down the hill.

Jesse watched the first men lug out several large duffel bags. No one could tell him how many weapons were in the building but the Field Office decided against inquiring for fear of setting off alarm bells. So he’d have to track them as best he could and see where they were headed. A team of agents waited a few miles away, easily alerted if needed.

A sweep of headlights caught his eye, the police cruiser rolling up to the armory gate. He waved his arm at the man to his right and crouched in the darkness. Problem was, there was no way to warn the next man to step out of the building carrying a bag of weapons. This is going to go down fast, he thought, pulling out his cell, ready to make the call when it did.

Willis pulled into the lip of the driveway, the headlights finding a closed metal gate, but no van. He sat for a second and wondered where it could have gone. Maybe it had pulled off in the darkness, a couple teenagers in search of some seclusion. Well, I’ll just leave ‘em too it, he thought, remembering when he’d tried the same thing with Holly back in eleventh grade.

The man stepped out of the doorway without seeing the cruiser and Jesse fixed his gaze in the direction of the car.

Willis thought he saw movement. Man or animal? Neither should be on the grounds. He popped the door open.

The man saw the door open and dropped the bag, slipping back inside.

Willis’ feet hit the ground and he flipped on his flashlight.

The figure to Jesse’s right began to move towards the fence, stealthily, until he reached it and began following it towards the gate. Another followed, the tall one he knew to be Toad.

The high beam of the officer’s flashlight dropped off just in front of the doorway, inches away from the now-abandoned bag.

Just go away, thought Jesse. You’re about ten feet from becoming a department tragedy.

Slowly the beam began to make its way across the driveway, traveling over the empty pavement. Finally, Willis flipped off the light and turned towards the car. A snap froze him in his tracks.

Toad had just stepped on a branch. He froze in his tracks as the flashlight flipped back on.

Slowly the light swept towards the sound as the first man crept closer to the fence. The cop was seconds away from the end. Jesse fingered the 9mm. If he took a shot at the car, they’d be on to him. But the cop would back off, regroup and maybe let them get out with their stash. He obviously hadn’t found the van, Jesse reasoned, because if he had, he’d already be dead. If he was truly lucky, the task force was scanning police frequencies and would be minutes away. If.

Willis unhooked his holster and drew his weapon. Something struck him as very wrong. A van, something inside the fence, it didn’t add up and he wasn’t taking chances.

The light found a shape and before Willis could react, two shots rang out. He dropped to the ground in a heap.

Suddenly men started running. Jesse remained in position. There was nothing he could do and he choked back tears for someone he didn’t know. Stay in the game. Get the stuff tracked and find out what’s going on. This is bigger than that cop or you.

A hand landed on his shoulder and he reacted with a start.

Relax, said Rob. We got bags piled inside the door. Help them load into the van. We probably have ten minutes or so before all hell breaks loose.

Jesse hurried across the open ground towards the door. Inside, a pile of duffel bags had been set in a row. Pick up one and get it to the van, grumbled a voice he knew belonged to Jewels. Jesse did as he was told and made his way across the grass towards the opening in the fence. As he reached the van, he circled around back and found Johnson waiting. He took the duffel bag wordlessly and pointed to another man waiting at the edge of the street.

Help him move the body and car out of sight.

No problem.

Jesse followed a few steps behind until they reached the cruiser.

Willis lay in a pile just beneath the beams of the headlights, his flashlight still emitting a stream of light. The other guy crouched down and felt for a pulse. Then he leaned over and flipped off the flashlight.

Zeke’s a damn good shot. Help me get him in the back seat.

Yeah.

Jesse opened the back door and circled around to Willis’ feet. He crouched down and grabbed hold of each leg.

On three, we stand.

Jesse nodded and the guy counted, One, two, three.

They struggled to get the bloated body into the back seat. The other man panted while they moved the body, and when they were done, he leaned back against the squad car and pulled his ski mask up to scalp level, breathing hard.

Jesse had not met the man with the shock of white hair who called himself Mathers. Another figure appeared and slid into the front seat of the car. He pulled up his mask and Jesse recognized him as an edgy guy named Luke.

Hold up a sec, came a steely voice. Rob was standing behind him. Jesse turned as the car pulled away.

You have a phone call to make.

Jesse’s blood froze. What do you mean?

We know who you are. Time to make the call.

If he made the call, he was dead. If he stalled maybe another cop would show up to investigate the shooting. Maybe his backup was closer than he thought and they would get him out. Maybe. He thought of Becky’s face. Her getting the call. I’m screwed.

We want them to know. Nothing they can do about what’s going to happen.

I still don’t know what you’re talking about.

The sideways kick hit him directly in the gut, dropping him to the ground writhing in pain before he knew what had hit him.

Pull out your phone and make the call. If you don’t we will start by cutting off your extremities one by one.

Jesse pulled the phone out of his inside pocket. They wanted him to call. Why? They wanted the FBI to come down on them. This kind of arrogance was a sign of lunacy. Or power.

I have a wife and two kids. I’m just doing my job.

We have no interest in you. We’re invisible. You couldn’t find us if you tried. You’re just a tool. We wanted you for this job.

What the hell? Did they have someone on the inside? How could he warn them? He had no option but to make the call.

Keep it short.

Hugo Collins materialized as Jesse dialed. He towered over the other men at six foot four, jet black hair mirrored in pools of darkness where his eyes should be. Clad in civilian clothes, unlike the others, he moved with almost machine-like precision towards Jesse.

It’s Jesse. They have the goods.

Where are they headed?

Rob grabbed the phone from Jesse’s hand and handed it to Collins. This is the end of the game. We hold all the cards and when we strike next you will know us by the force of our actions, not our words.

Who is this?

This is the end.

Collins dropped the phone on the driveway and ground it into pieces under foot. Jesse never even felt the single shot that blew through the back of his head.

Part One - All Fall Down

The oppressed should rebel, and they will continue to rebel and raise disturbance until their civil rights are fully restored to them and all partial distinctions, exclusions and incapacitations are removed.

Thomas Jefferson on the eve of America’s Independence, 1776

1 Virginia

All Roger Cross wanted was a blueberry muffin, the same one he had every single day. The girl – she seemed new but his facial recognition skills often let him down – apologized. Someone had bought the last one just five minutes earlier. Only a half dozen were delivered every day and now there were none she explained. Cross didn’t like being thrown off plan, his profession did that to him enough, and now he was faced with a day starting out off-kilter. Okay, how about corn? Then he overruled himself, not even he was that boring. Chia muffin? What the hell is that? He scanned the remnants and settled. Banana-walnut. He didn’t even know why he said it. But he pulled out his wallet and handed over three bucks anyway. Seemed like a good idea at the time, even if he was hardly in the position to throw away three bucks on a breakfast pastry.

His car had been evicted from its usual spot by a film crew, forcing him to leave it two blocks out of the way. Another irritating alteration to his routine. By the time he doubled back, doubtless every road into the city would be backed up, the daily torture from Alexandria to DC, with its ceaseless road work and confounding security enhancements, stretching an eight mile commute to laughable lengths. As he walked, Roger calculated the damage to the economy, the lost hours and worker productivity, the smog, the wear and tear on human and machine, the figures jumbling through his brain and arranging themselves in comforting, predictable patterns.

Neatly boxed in, the beaten down Acura only lacked a bow on top. Not that it was much of a sight with its misshapen bumper and rusted undercarriage. Roger pulled open the squeaky rear door and hung the jacket on the hanger he kept in the back seat, neatly buttoning it to prevent wrinkling, just as his father had taught him. The man had not amounted to much, barely achieving tenure at a community college after falling short in the Ivy League, but even in his most inebriated state, he always looked dapper.

Three minutes later, he managed to maneuver out of the tight quarters. Three interminable minutes inching forward, then backward, going nowhere fast. Just go with it Roger, he muttered to himself. Great now you’re a mutterer, the male equivalent of living alone with cats.

Turning onto North Henry, he merged into the traffic crawl. 8:39am. He would need some luck to get to the National Press Club by 9:15am. He wasn’t speaking but Nate Friedman would be and afterwards Roger would corner him. A prime consulting gig dangled just out of his reach, a vague promise he needed to turn into solid commitment or he wouldn’t need to make too many more trips up to DC. No sense having an office and a consultancy if you’re just consulting the want ads. He could do that at home, as long as he could afford one.

He popped a naproxen and bit into the muffin at one of the lights. Crap, who the hell thought this would be a good combination? Banana and walnut. Next time, just coffee, damn the stomach irritation from the medication. Hell, after today there may not be a next time.

Roger put his earpiece in and dialed Natalie. Hi, just checking in.

Morning, she answered in that familiar husky voice well-suited for any 900 number, Did you call into Dr. Shapiro back?

Damn. The dull ache in his wrist reappeared as if on cue. Uh, no. Will do that afterwards. Any messages? After a simple medical test for swelling around his ankles uncovered Lupus, he wasn’t going to be able to take much more at the moment. One abyss at a time.

Nothing yet.

Okay, shoot me an email if something comes in.

Hey boss, she paused and he knew that she knew it had come down to this, It’ll come through. You’ll see.

Thanks. She’d get a good recommendation from him. Heck, she’d be on the market five minutes and land something that paid twice as much. Loyalty had its rewards but in DC it bordered on foolish, especially with her savvy. Move up, he’d tell her, Just watch out for lecherous congressmen along the way.

The traffic crawled along Henry as it turned into the Jefferson Davis, the car sputtering ever closer to its death throes. Worse than usual, the congestion just piled frustration on top of uncertainty. Were those flashing lights ahead? All he needed.

He flipped through his music choices, needing to soothe his agitation. Coltrane, too avant garde, Pharoah Sanders, too spiritual, but Sonny Rollins On Green Dolphin Street, that would work.

As Rollins tore into his sax, the phone rang and he glanced down. Blocked ID. Never answer those, he thought, just before his finger instinctively hit talk.

Roger Cross.

Hello, this is John Hunter calling from the White House.

Yellow. Cross punched the brakes. The President’s Chief of Staff was on the phone.

Good morning sir.

You come highly recommended and I’ve reviewed your dossier. Can you come in this morning? We have something we’d like to discuss.

I was on my way to the Press Club.

Nothing is happening there today. Didn’t you see the news?

Just the weather.

A car horn behind him jarred him into motion.

Some guy with a gun got inside. He was taken out but it’s gonna be locked down for a while.

Okay. I guess I can get there in about half an hour.

Wonders never cease, he thought. Work for one administration, take the fall and slink off into the night. Then get called by the next COS.

Good. Your name will be at the East Gate. Look forward to meeting you.

When the call ended, he flipped on the radio and found WTOP.

The gunman has been identified as Jeffrey Robert Guillen, a veteran who served in both Iraq and Afghanistan. According to his blog, Guillen blames the media for the failing to cover veterans’ issues, writing, ‘The liberal media don’t care about the sacrifices we’ve made to keep America safe.’ Today, Guillen apparently took his grievance to the National Press Club. We’ll keep you posted on this developing story.

2 Washington D.C.

Special Agent Tom Reynolds occupied a cushy armchair in the compact waiting room, too wound up to read the four-week old Time on the table in front of him, dreading another fruitless round of couples therapy. Week after week, they rehashed the same problems again and again, solutions more elusive than any case he had ever worked. If he proved as inadequate at his job, he would have been demoted to data entry. Reynolds’ unique talent in life, taking down the bad guys, was all about results. He derived a sense of worth from it but also suffered from a myopic view of life during the chase. When that happened, he tended to let life slide, single-mindedly focusing on the task at hand. And she resented it, lashing out. The affair had been just that. A cry for attention, or so he figured.

Not that they ever got that far, assuming the session even happened. Five minutes late, no call. He saw the assistant eyeing him, calculating in her head how many times he had been stood up. Usually a call came, but not this time.

He stood up to leave and the assistant gave him a knowing look, half poor sorry bastard and half grow a pair.

Whenever she pulled a no-show, he just slinked off, out another $95 with no return. But something was nagging at him. You know what, I am going to use the session, he announced.

The assistant nodded, surprised, and picked up the phone. She can see you now.

He was beginning to see a pattern of behavior emerging and wanted confirmation, if not validation. Since I’m paying for it, might as well use it, he commented as he strode past.

She greeted him with a knowing smile. Good morning. Are you alone?

That’s a loaded question.

I’m sure. Have a seat. I’m glad you came in for a change.

His phone buzzed, a secure FBI line. Sorry, it’s the office. She nodded as he answered. Reynolds.

It’s Lewis. We’ve had a shooting at the National Press Club and I need you on scene.

He surprised himself by not hesitating. I can be there in twenty.

Good. Richardson is holding down the fort but I want you running this. Clean it up and keep a lid on whatever you find out. The media is already all over it.

Yes sir. He pocketed the phone just as the door opened. Visibly flustered, Teresa nearly walked into him.

You’re here, she said.

Where else would I be?

I thought maybe you’d left.

Well, I am now. There’s been a shooting.

Figures. Don’t let me keep you.

He needed to get to the Press Club but found it impossible to leave a remark that loaded alone. I’ve been here waiting for you like some sort of idiot. Last time you called and cancelled, this time nothing. Where were you last night anyway?

Don’t start your accusations, she snapped.

I just want to know where my wife is.

I was at my mother’s.

Perfect.

They both turned to the doctor. I see we’re still not communicating.

That’s an understatement, Reynolds replied. Anyway, I have to go. Have a nice talk.

He stepped out, reminding himself not to slam the door, as much as he wanted to slam something. The assistant shot him a strange look but he ignored her and made a beeline for the elevator. Teresa could cover the bill for a change.

Seventeen minutes later, Reynolds strode through the lobby of the National Press Club, scanning the activity consuming the space. Several agents did a double-take when he appeared. Certainly Richardson had. Reynolds felt his subordinate’s eyes on his back each time he walked into the office. He knew he was just meat waiting for the cleaver to a guy like Richardson. He thought to himself, Don’t give a shit what that prick thinks. They called you in, show them what you can do.

Reynolds had spent the drive over wondering why he had been chosen to babysit the troops but hadn’t come up with a good reason. Certainly he was grateful for the distraction from his personal life, happy to be liberated off the desk job she had persuaded him to take for the alleged good of their marriage. Perhaps it was his talent for stopping screw-ups before they happened. But when a military vet walks into the National Press Club intending to play target practice with the media, someone has got to get answers. And for one day anyway, Reynolds was the answer guy.

Amy bounded over. Something else to push out of his mind, a close friendship teetering on the precipice of something much more. Just a few years removed from Cornfield, Iowa, she oozed wholesomeness with her blond pulled back hair and the slightly too bookish glasses that reminded him of his fourth grade crush. Smart exterior, vulnerable interior, easy fodder for louts and jerks, of which there had been a few.

Thankfully she was all business. We have four shell casings from the shooter, Glock. Matches the gun found on his body. He had another weapon in a backpack. Plus two thirty-round magazines.

He waited for her to move past the obvious details to the unseen. Focus on the why, he had once told her, settling into a mentorship role when he opted to give his marriage one more shot. They each learned to hide the disappointment, professionalism masking something clearly still bubbling under the surface. Anyone can see what is in front of them. Great investigators see what isn’t there. He wished someone had given him that advice when he was her age.

But get this. He was not shooting at the guards. He was shooting that way. She pointed in towards the lobby of the building. They were shooting at him but he was not firing back.

That makes no sense. As it was, this was a suicide mission. Once he sees a metal detector, he must have known he was screwed. But he kept going, thinking he could get past the guards.

That’s the point. There was no way he could have gotten past them. And he didn’t fire back.

No evidence of anyone else?

No.

Reynolds ran the scenarios in his head, none making sense.

Was the building cleared?

Far as I know

The hell it was.

Get Richardson over here.

Reynolds felt himself getting worked up. What am I dealing with? A disturbed guy on a suicide mission? Was he expecting someone to back him up and take out the guards? Something did not add up and Richardson had been running the scene before he got there.

Richardson lanked over. He was impossibly tall and built like a mountain, an ambitious career climber constructed like the thing he was meant to be ascending. His main talents, however, seemed reserved to writing endless procedural memos to the Director. His reward, buried beneath Reynolds on the slow track to nowhere. What rankled Reynolds even more, his ideas often made a lot of sense, not that he planned on sticking his neck out for the guy.

Tell me this building is clear.

I have two guys on each floor.

Well, we got a problem. This guy was the distraction for something else. I want to know what was going on upstairs.

Ten minutes later, Reynolds got the call and dashed up three flights of stairs. His knees creaked but he wasn’t waiting for the elevator. Not in this situation.

The floor was empty and as he oriented himself, breathing hard, he began to smell it. More than one body. Dead at least twenty four hours if not more. Bodies don’t smell before that. Add heat being turned on in the morning and you have advanced decomp.

He rounded the corner and found a grim-faced Richardson outside a closet. Inside, a pair of bodies hung suspended off the ground.

What the hell?

I told the guys to check every office, every closet. They found these two.

Reynolds stared at the two bodies. One was barely twenty five, a woman, roundish. Her arms were wrapped around the other victim, a man about forty. Maybe Arab, maybe Hispanic.

Do we know who they are? he