PIPER'S, INC. 2 - JUDAS KISS

Orwell

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Permission to use actual names of real people who have a relationship with the author, and are characters in the book, was granted beforehand by the actual people via personal correspondence, and/or per their requests.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, controversies, conspiracies, or real persons– living or dead-is entirely coincidental. Content of this work is protected by the 1st Amendment of the Constitution of the United States:

The First Amendment to the United States Constitution prohibits the making of any law respecting an establishment of religion, impeding the free exercise of religion, abridging the freedom of speech, infringing on the freedom of the press. . .

Foreword

Before the blood spilled out, her blood, there were the deafening blasts. They were short, rapid, snapping explosions so loud that conscious thought seemed to freeze instantly.

Her reflexes went dull, her movements ground down to lethargic lurches, as if her body was injected with muscle relaxers. The ringing in her ears was now a hollow, distant drone. She clenched her eyes shut then opened them again for clarity.

The mist was still thick, billowing green and ominous in some places. She didn’t know who was killing or who was being killed. The shapes and shadows moved so fast, frantically bouncing, rolling and dodging in and out of her vision that she could not identify the people on the ground until she tripped over them. Confusion, panic and chaos blurred in the fury of the ear-splitting mayhem. It was all around her when she approached blindly and cautiously into the wall of green fog.

FOCUS, GODDAMN IT! she yelled within herself, THEY NEED HELP! The wailing and moaning were haunting, but more chilling were the screams – twisted mouths expelling their last breaths and cries for help, for loved ones and for religious redemption.

I’M NOT WAITING ANY LONGER! She rushed in despite the warnings, and made it only a few steps into the mist before she was hit – twice – in rapid succession. A sizzling pain tore through both her leg and her chest, penetrating flesh then bone. Her body burned as if impaled by two lightning bolts but she dared not scream. In truth, she couldn’t scream if she wanted to; the impacts slammed the wind out of her and all she could do was pant.

Dr. Katarina Valero, callsign Stroke, collapsed when the bullets struck her left thigh, just missing her pelvic bone and femoral artery, and her upper chest just below the clavicle. Her motor functions ceased and she went limp. The natural organic scent of freshly cut grass entered her nose as her body slammed onto the green. She struggled to roll over to keep the wounds facing upwards so she wouldn’t bleed out into the soil.

She swallowed but her throat was dry. Her heart stammered erratically in her bleeding chest. She turned her head as the blasts of gunfire continued without abatement above her through the mist. Now at ground level, hidden by other fallen bodies, she looked from side to side viewing all the horrific carnage. Another slice of eternity lasting about 20 seconds ensued before the gunfire ended. She remained motionless as she tried desperately to listen for those she thought were still alive.

Besides a few sporadic blasts of distant gunfire there was only eerie silence laced with weakening groans and whimpers of dying men. She saw one man looking at her about two yards away, unmoving and silent. His mouth was frozen open as were his bulging lifeless eyes. She turned away from his stare. Other than her head, her body was done, paralyzed and now she felt the blood spreading throughout her entire upper torso.

If this is how it ends for me, then let it be.

She looked to the blue sky which was now coming into view through the green haze. She wanted to die looking at the Sun, or clouds moving, or a bird flying overhead, but none was available in her final moments. At least she had the innocent natural fragrance of the grass. With her eyes closed, she inhaled deeply as tears slid down her face.

This would be fine, she determined. This would be a good death – silent, satisfying, brave. Her nose searched for the grass with every breath and she was not disappointed - the bullets, the bodies and the blood did not hinder the wholesome fragrance of this last ethereal connection to the Earth.

She tried to open her eyes one last time and was surprised to see a bold, blue sky. She heard the sound of voices yelling, coming closer. It won’t be long now. I’m ready. She tried to smile and utter her final words as she pictured one last image before fading to black – the face of the man she loved. One last whisper. . .

Temujin, I’m sorry.

Prologue

SIX MONTHS PRIOR

White House

Oval Office

President Turo Marin Sanchez’s glassy eyes glimmered as he gazed at the licking tongues of the fire. With the fireplace crackling and a snifter half-full with cognac in his hand, he settled into his personal ritual of introspection. All lights in the room were turned off while the warmth and glowing dance of the flames comforted him. As per this ritual, he undid his two top buttons, loosened his tie to a lazy noose and rolled up his sleeves.

This was a special night, a memorial of sorts. He turned slightly to look down at the floor a few feet away, an area of carpet in front of one of his couches. It was there that he watched his then Attorney General Will Zachary die. Tonight was the three-year anniversary of his death. It was an occasion that he had planned when he committed himself and his administration to PIPER’S, Inc.

He raised his glass to that patch of carpet in tribute. There was no remorse in his silent toast, no detailed imagery of that night, no sentiment of any kind. Sanchez was too far beyond such trifles. Zachary had to be gone, plain and simple. He was a thorn in the side of progress, and like all hard-Right politicians of yesteryear, he had to be eliminated. How ironic, Sanchez mused, that Zachary’s last dying breath would resuscitate the nation with new life.

To you, my old friend. He downed his cognac and refilled his glass.

The exploits of PIPER’S, Inc. had been a boon to Sanchez’s popularity and to his presidency. Since the night of his historic State of the Union Address, the metrics for the nation’s success had been nothing less than miraculous. Every facet of the government and the economy touched by PIPER’S, Inc. had transformed. The cornerstone of the changes was a completely rejuvenated Congress which now shunned lobbyists and worked entirely for the sake of the nation and the voters who elected them.

Sanchez, with the help of an army of Constitutional lawyers, lead by PIPER’S, Inc.’s Jasna Diamond and Robert Baggett, effectively ended the Congress members’ $174,000 annual base salary and gave each member a choice: work for the new national minimum wage of $22.00 an hour, or receive an annual salary of $53,000 - the nation’s median salary. The average number of legislative work days which had been 137 since 2001 was doubled to 274 with no paid overtime. Filibusters were eliminated and a simple majority vote was installed. These changes, for the most part, were written in the New American Constitution, the NAC, designed and authored by Dr. John Belleci and his team of PIPER’S, Inc. Constitutional scholars.

Needless to say, there was an uproar among the long-serving and corporately-entrenched representatives, senators, and the lobbyists tethered to them. They thundered their disgust on the Congressional floor, on political talk shows, and in Op Eds calling Sanchez a tyrant and a dictator who used PIPER’S, Inc. as henchmen to force his agenda. But their rants fell on deaf ears nationally. They received no sympathy from the American people who cheered the retributive moves and demanded publically for those who didn’t like them to get out.

A great number of members did just that, retiring and going back to their private businesses or seeking work elsewhere. This paved the way for new special elections to choose dedicated patriots to come forth and serve. However, those who decided to remain in their seats but were still connected to corrupt industries and dark money, began to disappear from public sight one after another. It didn’t take much thought to realize that their fates were tied to PIPER’S, Inc.; in fact, the public expected it. The organization had cleaned house in Congress, and the populace couldn’t have been more exhilarated. The newest polls rated the New Congress’ performance at 92 percent favorable - a stunning number in a stunning new economy. Sanchez raised his glass to Zachary one last time.

Will, you will never know how much you changed our nation. Good-bye, my old friend. He sipped his cognac in silent satisfaction, feeling for the first time in his life, that there was nothing he could not do.

CHAPTER ONE

The Measure of a Man

Rothschild Mansion

41 E. 70th St.

Manhattan, NY.

Every man has a price. Don’t you agree?

The guest remained silent.

Don’t be shy. I want you to speak your mind. The guest remained reticent as he studied his host.

Every man, in fact, has a price. A price to do what? That depends on the man, his needs, his desperation. We’ve come to know this fact throughout the history of Man’s existence. And today, these words ring true in your case.

Benson Roth, a seventh-generation descendant of his oligarchic family, who dropped the –schild from his surname to minimize attention to his blue blood lineage, paced slowly about the magnificent room of the mansion he now owned. An air of privilege and authority followed the man, even the manner with which he spoke carried that mark of someone educated by institutions of the highest order.

Resplendent in a three-breasted, smoke grey silk suit and a glimmering aqua green silk tie, Roth eyed his guest pensively. He beheld him with calming reassurance, not wanting to alarm or discomfort him in any way. This was the massaging period, the time when his smooth delivery and well-oiled sympathies coaxed his clients to his side. Manipulation, yes, but it was a skill Roth had honed over the years with thousands of people he needed or desired to bring to heel.

Mr. Roth, why am I here? asked the guest.

You’re here because there’s something not sitting right with you at PIPER’S, Inc. Roth spoke in a tone of a sage, a consultant who already had the answers to your ills.

Sir, I assure you that I’m paid handsomely and treated with utmost respect. Roth had heard this so many times before – the client parrying his or her way for a position of aloofness and self-assuredness. It made no difference to him.

It’s not the money you have a problem with, is it? It’s the entitlement. Or, should I say, the lack there of.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Roth.

I think you do. Roth handed his guest one of the crystals of whiskey sitting on a silver tray between them. He then took one for himself and settled back on the Victorian antique armchair. He lifted his glass and the guest did the same.

To entitlement, something you unfortunately don’t have. The guest did not drink, but felt somewhat mocked by his debonair host. Roth did drink, however; in fact, he slammed it down quickly. But don’t worry, you will get that entitlement you’re looking for.

Perhaps you are confused about my loyalties, Mr. Roth. I’m a front man for PIPER’S, Inc. My role is crucial–

Crucial, yes; but indispensible, I think not, Roth cut in. He took another crystal of whiskey and sipped it this time. You may be the front man, perhaps even the right-hand-man at times, but a hand nevertheless. You will always be an arm’s length away from the head, the eyes and the brain of the organization. PIPER’S, Inc. has an infinite amount of hands. You can be replaced. Why? Because you’re not on the board, you’re not in the room for the important meetings, not at the table for the crucial votes. You know this to be true.

The guest had been holding a calm and bold stare until the last few sentences in which his steely eyes wavered and pulled to the floor. Roth knew the look but didn’t take it for granted. He leaned in.

You must know.

Know what? The guest raised his eyes to meet Roth’s.

"That there is a bigger organization out there, all around us, that dwarfs PIPER’S, Inc. in size, strength and resources.

Sir, I don’t know of such an organization.

But you do, sir, Roth countered. "It’s an organization that has been in existence for centuries controlling everything and everyone of influence. Like your organization, it’s a small group that has been deciding the fates, not of individuals, but of nations. Deciding the rise and fall, not of senators or CEOs, but of world leaders – presidents, prime ministers, emperors.

This group has been manufacturing, instigating, funding and prolonging wars the world over, why? because wars are business opportunities. Our group has been raising and crashing economies, manipulating the stock market, feeding and starving the World Bank - establishing and controlling the very pillars of power since the birth of our country. But its influence goes as far back as ancient Greece, the Romans, and even the Crucifixion, if you believe that.

Which one? The Crucifixion or the bullshit you just spewed about your group?

It’s not bullshit, sir. Before black mail, bribery and voter fraud were crimes, they were the accepted methods of control throughout ancient times. A man with your historical expertise should know this.

The statement floated and twisted in the air like cigarette smoke under a hot lamp, offending the guest.

You know of the groups I speak of.

You’re talking about the Illuminati, the Zionist Jewish Freemasons, the B’nai B’rith, the Skull and Bones – secret societies that supposedly run the world. Is this what you’re talking about, Mr. Roth?

A great tree has deep roots and many branches, answered Roth, but the trunk is its foundation. We go by different names, but the end game is always the same: world resources and global asset control. Generally speaking, we are the world’s ruling elite. A more literal title would be - the Global Capitalist Empire. And as much as we control world events, we also have contingency plans whenever that control wavers or is challenged by events beyond our control, say a great earthquake or flood, or a group of revolutionaries. Roth gave a cool but hard look at his guest. "A group like PIPER’S, Inc.

Suffice to say, we’ve been amused by what your organization has attempted and accomplished.

You mean you’re scared, countered the guest flatly. This elicited a soft chuckle from Roth.

You may be right, but our organization has much bigger fish to fry than your miniscule vigilante group. China, for instance, is the second largest economy in the world. Their military strength and technology is growing profoundly, soon they’ll perfect a network hacking system that will be more effective than yours. Their export-to-import ratio is around 65 to 35 percent. They’re producing everything for the world.

And why does that threaten you, Mr. Roth?

Because China is far more difficult to control than the rest of the world. They don’t play by Western rules, nor are they easily manipulated by our media, lobbyists and special interest groups. Roth smiled coldly at his guest.

The Chinese rule as a monolithic structure that dictates to, and holds sway over, their elite money men. Unlike our baleful Congress, their government is not controlled by their oligarchs. If a billionaire tycoon irks the government, or cheats it, he is executed, tortured or sent to a labor camp; his assets taken from him and his family scarred for life. Here in the States, such a person keeps his job, gets a promotion, gets bailed out or runs for public office. The Chinese government, not their corporate elite, controls the nation and its direction.

I understand, Mr. Roth. A nation like that would be hard to bring to heel, even with your global resources.

And that is why we must have all those assets in full control and functioning in unison here so we can eventually launch against China.

"I guess what