The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga (36 page)

The iron countenance of the King shifted in an instant to the concerned monarch—a worried father of a nation.
 
“My friends, we are on the cusp of all that we have sought our entire lives and the lives of those before us, may they rest in peace.”
 
He stared off into the distance, absently fingering the signet ring of Charles II.
 

“We are so close to achieving our goal.
 
We simply cannot afford this foolishness."

The clipped British accent and well-chosen words stung more than any physical rebuke.
 
Reginald felt warmth rise up his neck.

"Of course, Majesty," he said.
 
As he dipped his head, he glanced out the corner of his eye and saw the old samurai break his stoic countenance with a slight smile.

You’re on my list, old man.

The King glanced off screen.
 
Reginald idly wondered where the King currently held court.
 
The Windsors had known about the Monmouth family’s existence for hundreds of years and had come close more than a few times of snuffing out the troublesome line of Stuarts.
 
The assassins of MI6 were some of the best in the world—they never rested and neither could the King.
 
Thus, His Highness continually moved from property to property, all heavily guarded by the best mercenaries and ex-special forces soldiers money could buy.
 

“We will cement our grip on global power with help of events that are unfolding in the not-so United States.
 
We are after all, at a crossroads," he said, one articulate eyebrow perfectly arched.
 
The King was nothing if not charismatic.
 

Reginald wondered what Great Britain would look like, how efficient and prosperous it might be if King Charles IV sat on the throne instead of the current Usurper.
 
He wondered what course history might have taken had the sons of Charles II held the throne over the past few centuries.
 
Would any of them even be here now?
 
The United States would undoubtedly not even exist.
 
The Stuarts couldn’t possibly have bungled the Revolution any worse than the Hanoverian Windsors.

There was an interesting thought: no United States.
 
Reginald’s
 
family might still be alive today—his older brother William would still be jet-setting across the Continent, enjoying his freedom before he was welcomed into the Council.
 
Reginald thought about the mansions, the people he employed, his personal wealth—all of it came to him unexpectedly at the expense of his family, thanks to the government of the United States.
 

Reginald hid a frown.
 
U.S. intelligence had decided that Archibald Tillcott, 8
^th
Earl of Dunkeith, had significant ties to terrorist organizations and needed to be arrested.
 
Reginald ground his teeth.
 
They had succeeded in eliminating a terrorist threat in France but had killed his father in the process before he could be detained.
 
His mother overdosed on barbiturates shortly thereafter.
 
The medical examiner had ruled her death accidental but Reginald had always suspected her shame at her husband’s actions had been too much to bear.
 
The international press had hailed the mission as a resounding success, ignoring the fact that the United States had eviscerated his family and left him an orphan.
 

This had been both a blessing and a curse—as second son, Reginald’s brother had been groomed to
 
follow in his father’s footsteps.
 
George was supposed to be the one to join the Council and inherit the family fortune.
 
At first Reginald had raged against the injustice and callousness with which his family had been destroyed, but as time went on and he grew accustomed to his new position, Reginald began to accept what fate had handed him.

The Earls of Dunkeith had been staunch supporters of the Stuarts for centuries.
 
They’d remained loyal to the true heirs of Charles II at the cost of life and liberty for a dozen generations.
 
Now all that remained of the proud bloodline was Reginald.
 
He promised himself as soon as the Cleansing was over, he’d get about finding a suitable mate—perhaps a few concubines as well—and ensure the family continued into the next generation.

On the monitor in front of him, Murata-san politely bowed his head.
 
The movement jarred Reginald back to the matter at hand.
 
“As you say, Majesty,” the old man acquiesced.
 
“Let us move on to other matters.”
 
The King turned to listen politely to his old friend.
   

The shriveled man from Kyoto held the attention of the entire Council as he folded his hands on his desk.
 
His age and wisdom were unsurpassed on the Council and as the eldest statesman, his voice carried almost as much weight as the King himself.
 

“I believe we must discuss the Cleansing,” said Murata-san.

The Cleansing: the systematic depopulation of the King’s enemies through the use of the weaponized strain of The Pandemic.
 
It had been his father’s idea, but Reginald had been the one to make it a reality.
 
The concept was simple—eliminate the opposition, offer the cure to the common man and watch as the King became savior to Great Britain and the world.

The fact that Reginald would stand to make an enormous fortune selling the vaccine on the side made the idea all the more enticing.
 
In one fell swoop he would cement his position in the King’s Council and regain his family’s fortune and prestige.
 
The ancient Scottish line of Dunkeith would once more be a force to be reckoned with.

The King nodded gracefully.
 
"Quite.”
 
The King turned his ice-blue eyes on Reginald.
 
“I fear this business in the Colonies is beginning to slip beyond even your capable grasp."

Reginald ignored the jab.
 
Everyone knew without the Dunkeith network of spies and informants, the Plan would have taken decades longer—decades King Charles IV did not have.
 
He wasn’t a young man anymore and the older he grew, the more impatient he became.
 

“I remain confident that everything is well in hand, Sire.”

The smile vanished from his regal face and the King slammed his fist down on a desk on the other side of the planet.
 
His face morphed into a mask of rage.
 
The transformation was so immediate and intense Reginald instinctively pulled back from the monitor in surprise.
 

"Do not mistake my patience for weakness!" the King roared.
 
“We have allowed you free rein in this matter out of respect for your father and the sacrifices your family has made to the Cause.”
 

The King's visage softened appreciably and he adopted a more paternal gaze.
 
"Do not think us overly harsh, Reginald..."

Overly harsh?
 
There's a laugh.
 
Reginald gave a slight shake of his head.
 
"Nothing could be further from the truth, Majesty.
 
I—”

The tablet sitting on his desk next to the camera blinked on, a red dialog box flashing on the screen.
 
Reginald glanced down and read the message.

It was from Jayne:
“First case of mutated flu in Europe officially confirmed.
 
German soldier in Berlin, left Boston on routine rotation three days ago.
 
Infected his wife and child.
 
Child infected half his school.
 
Spreading faster than in US.
 
It’s shifting.
”

Reginald looked up to see approximately half the Council looking away from their own cameras.
 
He cursed his luck.
 
So much for having a well-placed source in Europe—he couldn’t even get a five minute head start.
   

The King brought his royal gaze back to the camera.
 
"I see most of
 
you have heard the news," he said.
 
His frown deepened.
 
“The flu has been transported back to Germany.
 
According to my sources,” he said, glancing off-camera, “it is now spreading in Berlin.
 
Over a hundred cases in the last 12 hours.
 
And it’s worse than the strains running amok in America.”

Reginald could feel a trickle of sweat work its way between his shoulder blades.
 
In one way the King was right—things were moving faster than even he had anticipated.
 
“Begging pardon, Sire—if you'll recall—I specifically ordered that any troops from Europe crossing the Atlantic must be placed in quarantine for at least one week before being allowed to return—"

“Assigning blame at this point in time is naught but a waste of energy.”
 
The King sighed. “The worst-case scenario we have all planned for has arrived,
 
albeit faster than we had anticipated, but not wholly unexpected.
 
The question remains, what are we to do?”
 
The exiled monarch glanced around as if he were in the same room with the other Council members.
 
“Or, to put it more specifically,” he said as he returned his icy gaze to Reginald, "what exactly are
you
going to do about this, Dunkeith?”

Reginald nodded.
 
"Antiviral stockpiles in our respective countries are completely under Council control. We should begin administering courses to the highest echelons now—after ourselves, of course—and implement Phase 2 of our plans immediately.”

“Phase 2?
 
Now?" sputtered a wide-eyed Don Diego Reyes-Perez, one of the regional Council-governors from Spain.
 
"But we are not ready.
 
Phase 2 was not scheduled to begin for another two months."
 
The man's image turned as if looking toward the King.
 
"Majesty, we need more time."

The King sighed.
 
"As the Saxons were fond of telling our illustrious ancestors, ‘time and tide wait for no man’.”
 
The King shook his head sadly, the expression of empathy plain on his face.
 
“We understand your fears, Diego, but there is nothing to be done.
 
We must get on, if we are to stay ahead of the Cleansing.”
 

The King gripped the carved armrests of his throne, his Stuart signet ring glittering.
 
“We all knew this day would come," he said, spreading his hands magnanimously to encompass the Council.
 
Reginald’s eyes followed the golden, jewel-encrusted ring on his right hand.
 
“We have all made the necessary arrangements.
 
We must simply put those arrangements into action a little earlier than we’d expected.
 
The most important thing is to keep calm and carry on.”

“Agreed, Your Majesty,” Reginald said.
 
“Unfortunately, the Americans have retaken Test Subject 14 from our Russian friends.”

“Good heavens,” muttered Lord Stirling.

“Quite,” said Reginald.
 
“They are in the process of bringing him to Colorado.”
 
He held up a hand to forestall the objections that were about to explode from the lips of several Council Members.
 
“I have my people in place and as soon as the Source lands, they will take steps to secure the blood samples we need to devise the cure."

“Ah yes," said Lady Ainslie Howard, oldest and longest-serving woman on the Council in its thousand-year history.
 
"The infamous blood samples.
 
Tell me, my lord, will we ever acquire the samples that you lost?"
 

"The plane carrying
 
Subject 14’s samples was shot down," Reginald said with a preferential nod towards Lady Howard, "thanks to the Russians.”
 
He glared at Igor Voroshilov, the only Russian on the Council.
 
"Had they been able to control themselves and follow my orders, we might well have the cure in our hands right now.
 
Instead, their trigger fingers got itchy and they shot down the plane carrying the most important element of the Cleansing.
 
Now I have to pick up the pieces.
 
The only way to do that is to infiltrate the government complex underneath the Denver International Airport."

"I take it you have agents in place?"

“I do, Majesty.
 
In fact, I predict very soon I will have not only one President in my pocket, but two."

Lady Ainslie widened her eyes in admiration.
 
"Quite impressive, Dunkeith.
 
One day you must share with me your secret for placing people in such…positions.”

Reginald inclined his head politely.
 
The old woman was always throwing little innuendos like that toward him.
 
He suppressed a shudder.
 
"My pleasure, madam.”
 

He examined the rest of the Council.
 
"We knew this day would be upon us, eventually.
 
However, I’ve evidence that the weaponized strain the North Koreans unleashed has mutated.
 
It is undergoing an antigen shift."
 
Reginald’s statement caused more than a few mumbles.

The King raised his hand then cleared his throat for silence.
 
"This antigen shift was predicted by our analysis.
 
It is nothing to be surprised at—how severe is it?”