 
Rebels & Lies

By

Brian Cotton

SMASHWORDS Edition

Published by: Brian Cotton through Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by Brian Cotton

Cover Art Copyright © 2012 by Gregory Dejaynes

gregory.dejaynes@topper.wku.edu

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing by the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
For Chrissy,

My best friend and the best wife a man could ask for
"When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one"

-Edmund Burke

"Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written:

'It is mine to avenge, I will repay,' says the Lord."

-Romans 12:19
Table of Contents

Chapter .01

Chapter .02

Chapter .03

Chapter .04

Chapter .05

Chapter .06

Chapter .07

Chapter .08

Chapter .09

Chapter .10

Chapter .11

Chapter .12

Chapter .13

Chapter .14

Chapter .15

Chapter .16

Chapter .17

Chapter .18

Chapter .19

Chapter .20

Chapter .21

Chapter .22

Chapter .23

Chapter .24

Chapter .25

Chapter .26

Chapter .27

Chapter .28

Chapter .29

Chapter .30

Chapter .31

Chapter .32

Chapter .33

Chapter .34

Chapter .35

Chapter .36

Chapter .37

Chapter .38

Chapter .39

Chapter .40

Chapter .41

Chapter .42

Chapter .43

Chapter .44

Chapter .45

Chapter .46

Chapter .47

Chapter .48

Chapter .49

Chapter .50

Chapter .51

Chapter .52

.Epilogue

# Chapter .01

Consul Williamson, a man who pushed sixty-five but looked healthier than a twenty year old athlete, stepped up to the podium. The flocks of reporters waited in anticipation for his daily press conference. The Consul reached into his jacket pocket then held up high a tattered American flag arm patch. There were several gasps from the crowd as they flashed their cameras. They recognized the red, white, and blue insignia as being the mark of the resistance...and of a past way of life that met its end.

The rapid flashes of the cameras made the crowd look like a strobe light. There was a lot of chatter as each reporter started to beg answers from the Consul. He regained control with a motion from his hand for them to quiet down. There was instant silence: nobody disobeyed his orders. He looked onto the silent crowd with a brief moment of silence. The flashes from earlier created dots of various colors that grew brighter with each blink. With a sigh, he began his briefing.

"This flag," Williamson said, "represents that same weakness that we so easily defeated years ago. The United Society of Reason has already freed you from their tyranny, persecution, love of violence, child pornography, and overall depravity. Let it be known that anyone who is seen supporting this flag or harboring the terrorists who bear it: you will be found. We will give this city, her citizens and brave protectors, justice: publically. Let it also be known..."

***

Five days passed since John Paxton lost another comrade. His name was Zach, a youngster barely nineteen years old. Paxton could still remember vividly the broadcast the next morning. He had to stop himself from throwing something at the television screen. The Consul, smug as ever, stood before his slaves and celebrated Zach's death. Not only that, but he had the audacity to mock a way of life that far surpassed what the USR called great. His fallen comrade had ten times the amount of courage to what the USR called brave. The time would come when Williamson would know...when they all would know...

Stay focused on the mission.

A light mist started to fall from the black night sky. The tiny droplets prompted Paxton to fit the hood of his sweatshirt overtop his thinning salt and pepper hair. He checked the time on his blue indigo watch and the date next to it. For the first time in the day, the milestone he reached started to hit home. Sixty, it was his damned birthday again. When he was young, the mere thought of turning sixty seemed so far out of reach he thought it would never happen to him. The hair that grew thinner everyday was not enough. Neither were the aches and pains he felt when he got out of bed each morning. No, now he was reminded once more: time ran short.

He began his walk down the deserted streets of what used to be a hopping downtown. It was in a city, much like this one, that Paxton proposed to his wife upon returning from the war. The joy he felt when she said yes overwhelmed him to the point where he forgot about the damn ring in his pocket. Back then, it seemed like life was easy, apart from fighting for Uncle Sam.

Back then. Those hated words again, but it was all he could say about a time when there were things such as freedom, liberty, and civil rights. What was left drove him to the point of madness. All around the empty metropolis were armed guards on every corner. Every move, spoken word, everything was now under heavy watch. What was wrong with these people? Paxton knew that, in order for him to reach true happiness again, he must see it all change. Not a day too...

"Watch where you're walking!" an Agent in full riot gear called out.

Paxton backed away. After several deep breaths, he composed himself. He looked to the man he bumped into. The letters "USR" in bold yellow across the chest: his enemy. The wheels inside the Agent's head began to turn. Paxton kept his composure and stared right back into the enemy's eyes. He wondered if an arrest, a beat down, or a warning was to come. The Agent would take great joy in beating the shit out of a leftover, Paxton knew, so he began to brace himself for the worst. Maybe a little common courtesy would do the trick.

"Sorry about that," Paxton said with a forced politeness.

"Stand up against that wall, citizen."

Paxton obeyed. He turned and pressed his body and the right side of his face against the concrete wall. The cold dampness of the concrete caused a chill to run down the spine. Or, maybe it was fear. For a person, no citizen, over a certain age, it didn't matter what the Agent would find. Old age was enough to get locked up in a cell for the rest of time. Paxton cursed himself under his breath while the search began.

The first thing to come was the increased heart rate as the Agent's hands moved along both arms then down to his chest. The hands moved down inside the pouch of the sweatshirt. Paxton took in a deep breath as the Agent reached inside his khaki pants. The search was almost over now. After a quick silent prayer the pair of hands went down along the legs of his pants.

"Move along, citizen." the Agent ordered. "Be more careful next time."

"Thank you, sir." Paxton wanted to vomit. "Have a nice night."

The Agent reached for his night stick. "Just get the fuck out of here, leftover."

Luck was something not to be pressed, a lesson learned long ago in the Marine Corps. Paxton didn't say anything else and continued his walk: his mission. Despite the momentary set back, he remained confident in his steps. The mark for this mission was Ryan Kaspar. Kaspar, a man in his mid-twenties, lived alone with his mother in a beat up old apartment in the inner city. No other connections could be found during their initial investigation. No close friends, girlfriend, nothing.

The part that excited Paxton was Kaspar's involvement in illegal, bare knuckle boxing. Throughout his career, or so Paxton was told, this kid never suffered a defeat. A lot of the men he faced in the ring had a distinct height and weight advantage. There were only a couple of things that could keep him alive for so long. Kaspar had been blessed with an unusual amount of grit, not to mention a refusal to lose. Perfect attributes for a man about to be drafted into a guerilla war.

As he continued his walk, something to the right caught Paxton's eye. A group of men and women were lined up against the wall of a building. Three Agents were aggressive in their pat downs of them. The USR's search for the resistance had intensified of late. Deep down, Paxton knew he was ultimately responsible for what was happening to them. His initial impulse was to run over there, take the Agents out, and let the people that he tried to save everyday go. Maybe he would give them a chance to make a way for themselves in this messed up world. It was not feasible, so Paxton moved on.

He was almost there when a sudden urge attacked. The old veteran's brain sent out the signal. It craved nicotine and he was lucky enough that the Agent missed the cigarettes hidden inside his hood. To the left was a darkened alley. Paxton walked inside it and rested his back against the brick wall. The cigarettes were taped to the inside of his hood. He ripped the tape clean from the fuzzy cotton. He then pulled the box of contraband to his eyes. Inside, three cigarettes and half used box of matches rested.

Only three left...son of a bitch.

He broke off a match and lit one of the cigarettes. He took in a deep breath and let the nicotine do its work. Paxton kept a watchful eye on his surroundings. The ban on smoking initiated by the USR resulted in extra caution. Not to mention the increase in price on smuggled smokes. He did find a sense of revenge in it all, however. Each cigarette seemed all the sweeter. His attempt at another drag became interrupted by a sound at the far end of the alley.

Three young men, gang members no doubt, approached the aged veteran. One wore a red hooded sweatshirt, the biggest of the three. His two cohorts, one in gray the other in blue, followed close behind. The old soldier looked to them and a wave of disappointment overcame him. These hoodwinks were about to ruin one of his last smokes.

"What up, old man?" Red asked.

"Just enjoying a smoke," Paxton replied, holding the cigarette in the air. "Care for one?"

Red burst into laughter then looked to his buddies on both sides and they joined in. While they laughed, the instincts within Paxton kicked in. He measured them up. Red would be the tough one, he looked to weigh about one ninety-five, solid muscle. The two skinny ass clowns who accompanied him, well, they didn't pose a threat.

Red turned to Blue. "Check his wallet."

"Let's see what you got." Blue said as he began to move in.

Paxton kept shifting his gaze from Blue, to the hoodlums behind. He caught a glimpse of Blue pulling out a knife from his pocket. What little light that penetrated the alley flickered off of the rusted blade.

Keep your cool.

His arms remained at his sides, the burning cigarette in his lips. He waited for the punk to get close enough. Blue seemed to be so cocky with that piece of shit blade in his hand that he approached with little caution, seeing nothing but an old man. Blue, and the others, were about to learn a harsh lesson. Paxton was not an ordinary old man.

It happened in an instant.

Blue extended the knife over his head and prepared to strike. Paxton moved his left arm straight up. He caught the enemy's wrist with his forearm. He shifted his body weight forward and landed a punch to the side of Blue's face.

He moved Blue's knife hand backwards and delivered his knee into Blue's groin. Paxton pushed the hoodlum's wrist backward. The terrible snap was overshadowed by Blue's cries. After grabbing the black handle of the knife from Blue's open hand, he stabbed the kid in the gut. The mugger fell to the ground in agony. Paxton threw the blade to the pavement in anger.

Gray moved in next, he took a wild swing which was easily ducked under. A fierce right hand punch to the exposed throat sent Gray crashing to the pavement, gasping for breath. The tough one would be next.

Red ran in on Paxton and sucker punched him in the left rib cage. The old man turned and was met by another punch to the chest. Red grew cocky now and went in for the killing strike. Paxton blocked the punch with his left forearm and, at that precise moment, hooked the back of Red's head with his right arm. Paxton drove his knee into the attacker's midsection and let go of his grip. Unable to breathe, Red's upper body bent forward, and his face made an acquaintance with Paxton's knee.

The attacker fell to the pavement, his face a bloodied mess. Paxton turned and looked to the ground for his cigarette. He found it and was amazed to see that the cherry at the end still lit and the cigarette still intact. He noticed some debris on the filter and started to rub it off with his thumb. A funny thought occurred to him: what did it matter if the dirt from the ground mixed itself with the carcinogens from the tobacco?

Leaned up against the wall, he took several drags in quick succession. Sounds from the would be muggers scrambling around to his left gave him a sense of fulfillment. He heard Gray telling Blue that they would patch him up, that they wouldn't let him die. Red, the supposed leader, said nothing and ran the fastest out of the alley.

With the cigarette depleted, Paxton threw the used butt to the pavement and put it out with the heel of his military boot. After he taped the box of smokes, he refitted the hood over his head and continued his walk. Two critical errors made already: one because of his stupidity and the other because of his addiction.

He wondered if these mistakes were a prelude of the mission still to come.

# Chapter .02

The first time Ryan Kaspar knocked someone out an intense feeling of pleasure consumed him. His opponent laid flat on his back, the extended arms twitched, making him look like a crucifixion victim who suffered from epilepsy. In the midst of the unpleasantness, Kaspar tried to fight back a smile. It was the only fight he lost.

The official entered the ring with a black duffel bag overstuffed with credits. Enough credits to live on for the next month, to keep that cracked and yellow stained roof over Mother's head, enough to endure more of her cooking. Kaspar took the bag from the official. He unzipped it and looked down into its contents, another smile. The official grabbed the victor's right arm, extended it upward, and the crowd roared...

What would be the result tonight? He was summoned to fight the monster that went only by Razor. The behemoth stood at six foot four, weighed a solid two hundred sixty pounds, not an ounce of body fat to be found. He had brought his personal kill count up to six just last week, after he bludgeoned a poor, skinny father of four. The father, with no job and government welfare spent up, had nowhere else to go. He gave his life for the prize fighters and greedy bookies when, without mercy or an ounce of empathy, Razor killed him with one punch.

Kaspar breathed in and another river of vomit flowed through his mouth. Why couldn't that spaghetti dinner taste as good coming out as going in? The citrus bile only added to a flavor that came straight from hell itself. He tried to catch his breath while his frozen blue eyes stared into the mixture of toilet water, half eaten noodles, and a reddish-orange sauce. The sight caused another wave to pour through. When would it end?

Someone started to pound on the stall door.

"You quite done?" Danny, Kaspar's trainer, demanded.

"Just enjoying mother's cooking a second time around." Kaspar replied. He stood and flushed the mixture. He wished the sound of the commode would drown out Danny's voice.

"Never knew your mother's cooking to be that good."

Kaspar ignored it and grabbed the one hundred percent recycled tissue paper to his right. He used the sheet to wipe the remains from his stubbed chin. After throwing the tissue in the toilet, he opened the stall door and stared at his beloved trainer. Why did he take it from the old man all the time?

Danny stood a full half foot shorter than his fighter and gave up one hundred pounds with it. Kaspar estimated that he could knock the ornery old man out with half a punch, maybe even a third. At least his trainer cleaned himself up on fight night. No white T-Shirt with yellow stains under the arms. No baggy sweatpants or khaki moccasins, either. Instead, a nice, clean white T-Shirt, blue jeans, and black tennis shoes.

"Ready to go out there, or are you just going to blow chunks again?" Danny asked.

"How about I practice my knockout punch on you?" Kaspar replied.

"Jokes! He's got jokes!"

"What if I wasn't joking? Calm down."

Danny shrugged his skinny shoulders. "Calm down? You expect me to calm down? I am about to enter the biggest fight of my career, but my fighter is jerking off in the toilet, enjoying his vomiting sessions."

"I'm fine," Kaspar said. He turned and walked to the row of sinks. "Nerves. Just nerves."

"You really are turning pussy on me, aren't ya? I can smell that stank from a mile away."

"You want to step in the ring? Be my guest."

"You don't pay me to fight your battles for you. They don't pay you to be a little chicken shit. You want to get evicted from that rank apartment you hide yourself in?"

Kaspar ignored Danny again, something he got better and better at each day. He turned on the faucet and splashed the ice cold water on his face. He kept telling himself to get a grip. The odds of a victory were slim enough without bringing doubts into the fight. Danny was right, after all. This was the biggest fight for Danny as a trainer, for Kaspar, it might turn out to be the fight of his life. Win, and get a huge pay day. Lose...and...

Don't think about that.

It was hard not to think about it, though. He couldn't help but envision Mother if he lost. She would be forced to make a way for herself out here. Away from the simple pleasures of knitting and watching old reruns of her favorite soap operas. The same soap operas she used to watch before everything changed in the blink of an eye.

Kaspar took a mouthful of the water and swished it around in his mouth, spitting out what remained of the vomit. He took another mouthful and swallowed. He felt the cold liquid run down his throat. It was now or never time. He took one last handful of water and rubbed it into his buzzed sandy blonde hair. Kaspar turned off the faucet and looked at his own expression in the mirror.

He thought about what must be done tonight, that strategy that he and Danny had gone over endlessly. The fight would all be over in a matter of minutes—maybe even seconds. No time to be nervous now. There was only time for getting his head in the game. His expression turned stone cold.

"You ready now?" Danny asked.

"You don't even know."

***

The steaming hot plate of spaghetti tempted Kaspar as he went in for another mouthful. He spun his fork around the organic sauce and limp noodles. His front teeth cleared the fork of its tasty contents. He chewed as he looked across the table at his mother. Jenna Kaspar had not taken a single bite. She kept a blank stare at her plate. She looked up and gave that same look to her son. It was like she was looking at him for the last time.

Kaspar dropped his fork into his plate. "What's wrong?"

"Hmm?" Mother asked with a blank expression.

"You haven't said a word.Haven't even taken a bite."

"What do you think is wrong, dear?"

Kaspar paused. He reached down for his fork and shoved another mouthful in and swallowed. Never before did the pre-fight ritual feel so awkward. He knew now that he should have never disclosed Razor to her. Kaspar cursed himself and his unwillingness to keep things from her. She continued to stare back at him. He dropped his head and worked on his plate again.

"Don't ignore me, son."

"I know what's bothering you."

"Then, why did you ask?"

Another forkful; Mother remained expressionless.

"I don't know, just never seen you like this before." Kaspar replied.

Mother's expressionless face changed. A single tear rolled down her right cheek. He felt nothing but guilt at the sight of it. For the first time ever, he considered walking away, to be done with it, to take her advice and get a real job to occupy his time with.

A real job? What was that anyway? Be like the slaves who worked for the Crimson Corporation? Those people who were beaten by their slave master's whips—their impossible deadlines and low wages—and took it all in with a smile and a sense of entitlement? Be like that kid at the diner who was forced to skip school so he could support his family? Or, how about that pimply faced guy at the lobby desk, who found a way around the government health regulations and still became obese?

No. Kaspar had to fight Razor so he could win that prize.

"I do not want you to go!" Mother cried out.

A single, warm tear could be felt running down Kaspar's own cheek. He hated to see her like this. He hated having to put her through this before any fight, but this one was different. There was a legitimate chance he was not coming home.

"I have to," Kaspar replied.

"You keep saying that, but you do not. You do not have to if you change your mind."

"You don't understand. This fight—this prize—will feed us for weeks if I can win."

"If you can win?"

"I can go out, I promise you that I will go out and find work after this fight."

"Promise me," Mother said in between short breaths, "that you will not fight tonight."

"I can't."

"Then, at least promise me you will come back and that you will never fight again."

Kaspar shook his head. Why did he have to go through this? All week, he tried to not think about the consequences of entering the ring with Razor. Mother, she seemed to only be interested in the negative: that Razor outmatched, outweighed, and most of all outclassed her son.

"Listen, don't you worry about me." Kaspar said.

"How can you ask me to do that?"

"Because, I won't lose, I never have."

"Your ego is going to get you killed." Mother replied.

"What would you have me do?"

"Go out there and find something for yourself. Something, I do not know, meaningful? I hate to see you waste your youth in a boxing gym."

"I'm feeding us and paying the rent, how is that meaningless?"

"That's not what I meant."

"So, what then?" Kaspar demanded.

"You need to find someone special..." Mother started to say.

"Now, there is the best advice I've gotten all day. Yeah, just shack up with some woman, get her pregnant, and then leave her ass to raise the kid alone?"

Mother slammed her fist on the table. "Goddamn it, Ryan, you are not your father!"

"Damn right I'm not."

"And, you know something? You just need to get over your hatred. You don't know what the times were like back then, do you? You weren't around for the Purge, were you? You were lucky."

Kaspar smirked, Mother had struck a nerve. "He's my father, he could at least have checked in from time to time. Checked in on me."

"You weren't the only lucky one," Mother said with moist eyes. "I was lucky that I could find a doctor to deliver you without reporting it. Sure, he left us, but it was not like he didn't have a reason."

More excuses. Kaspar hated that about Mother, always the first one to make an excuse. He didn't know what his father looked like, didn't even know his name, but at least father got the benefit of the excuse. Sure, he must have been scared for his life, but he should have been there for his family. Not run off like a coward.

He stood up from his seated position and walked over to the garbage can. He scraped off the remains of his half eaten dinner. He could not stomach another bite; his appetite long gone. Kaspar walked his plate over to the sink and placed it inside. One last look at his still weeping Mother and the guilt clouded him once more.

"Please," Mother cried, "come back to me in one piece."

"I will." Kaspar replied.

# Chapter .03

About to be introduced into the ring, Kaspar shook off the thoughts about his dinner hours before. Outside the red curtain in front of him lay the arena that the leaders of the illicit boxing ring built. It only had five rows of wooden benches stacked on top of one another, but with the hundreds of citizens who crowded each other every fight night, it felt like a coliseum. Danny said it reminded him of old Madison Square Garden, whatever the hell that was.

There was a different buzz in the air for this fight, however. The combatants would be Kaspar, unbeaten in twenty-seven bouts. He would fight Razor, unbeaten in fifty, with six kills, the heavy favorite for this fight. The negative thoughts were erased from his mind. There was nothing but a deep feeling of anticipation now. His heart rate increased, the adrenaline flowed through his veins, and Kaspar fed off of it. Time seemed to inch its way along.

Come on, just announce the fighters and let's be done with it.

The roar of the crowd outside told Kaspar that the official for the fight had entered the ring and it was about damned time, too.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Kaspar heard from the other side of the curtain. "Tonight is a special night. Two undefeated fighters will collide in this ring. We ask that nobody enter the ring at any time, nobody throw anything into the ring, and that you all enjoy tonight's fight. For those attending for the first time, the rules are simple. Bare knuckle boxing and the only way to win is by knockout. Are you ready?"

The roar of the crowd gave the official his answer.

"Introducing first, a man with twenty-seven wins and no defeats, a man that we have all grown to love for his tenacity and fighting spirit. He stands six foot two, weighs in at two hundred fifteen pounds—RYAN KASPAR!"

Once he stepped foot outside the curtain, the once loving crowd cried out in boos. Kaspar would fight their hero tonight, and no matter how much they cheered him on in previous bouts, he would be public enemy number one. The crowd of men and a few women (who dared not step in the ring with him) shouted obscenities.

He didn't care what they said about him, but Kaspar heard someone shout something about his bitch mother, and he almost lost it. He turned and looked into the crowd, trying desperately to find that person and beat the shit out of him. He felt Danny's hands on his back and continued his walk forward.

Danny pulled the cheap blue ropes up and Kaspar bent down to enter. His feet met the white mat which did little in the way of cushioning the fighters from the hard concrete underneath. Blood spatter from previous fights stained the ground. There was one red blotch on the mat that Kaspar always looked at. It reminded him of that first knockout when the blood from his opponents mouth spilled everywhere. He walked over to his corner and peeled off his moist black shirt. He stood in his black shorts while Danny wrapped white tape around the knuckles on his fists.

"Remember," Danny said as he taped, "this guy is going to come in hard, looking for the kill early. Just survive that initial burst and he'll be worn out."

Kaspar nodded his head. He liked how his trainer put it: survive. Survival was something foreign to him. Most nights his opponents were like that desperate man Razor killed. They lacked size, but they made up for it by lacking any kind of fighting ability. Now, during this fight, he would have to learn how to survive on the fly.

The once rowdy crowd grew quiet with anticipation. Kaspar started to rub his right fist into his left hand. Their hero was about to be introduced into the ring: the man that they all hoped would beat the underdog into bloody submission. A strange feeling hit Kaspar as he stared down that red curtain in the back corner. His body started to tremble. He did not know if it came from adrenaline or fear. It was probably a mixture of both.

"And, now," the official shouted to the crowd. "Your champion, with a record fifty wins without a defeat. Standing six feet four inches tall, weighing in at two hundred ninety-five pounds—RAZOR!"

Razor, with his jet black Mohawk and thick black chest hair, ran through the curtain so hard he almost ripped it down. The crowd roared to life in awe. Once he reached the entrance to the ring, he ducked and slid underneath the bottom rope. Kaspar put up his guard. Razor came charging in at him.

The official tried to get in between them so the fighters could touch fists, but Razor shoved him to ground. Before Kaspar knew it, the behemoth was in his face with a murderous look in his eyes.

Kaspar raised his arms up in defense. Somebody on the outside rang the bell. Razor threw a flurry of lefts then rights in quick succession. Kaspar managed to block most of them, only three or four shots landed in his face. With the sheer amount of adrenaline flowing in his veins, the hard hits felt like love taps.

A shot snuck up on Kaspar and landed in his left rib cage. Razor was starting to change tactics. He moved his arms down and blocked another shot to the ribs, but left himself exposed to a shot to his right eye. He kept from falling somehow and moved his body backward. Razor continued his flurry of punches.

"Get outta there!" Danny screamed.

Kaspar moved left. Razor came in hard with another quick flurry of lefts and rights. Arms protecting his face, Kaspar moved his body from left to right in anticipation of the blows. Kaspar tried to remain composed, kept telling himself that he'll just wear himself out at this pace. He didn't know, however, how many more shots he could block before the big one came.

"I'm gonna fuck you up!" Razor shouted.

Razor backed away from his assault and raised his right fist. He taunted Kaspar with a motion to come get some more. The crowd roared, but Kaspar knew that this was only a ploy on his opponents end to catch his breath and play to the crowd.

He wasn't worn out, yet, just be patient...

Out of nowhere, a right hook connected to the right side of his face. Kaspar's head snapped in that direction. His neck was the only thing that kept his head from flying into the crowd. His entire body went stiff like a dead man's and the left side of his body hit the hard concrete.

1...2...3...

"Get up!" Danny shouted.

He could see a vision of Mother sitting on a street corner. She had an empty, rusted canister in her right hand and she begged for loose change. Nobody gave her any.

4...5...6...

Kaspar sat next to her, an empty can in his hand as well. Impaled, unable to work, he should have listened to her all along.

"GET UP!!!" Danny cried once more.

7...8....

He started to come back to his senses. The shouts of the crowd were audible once more. Kaspar was back on his feet just before the ten count. The official moved in front of him to check his vital signs. The official stared with amazement that the fighter hadn't toppled back over, yet. Everything seemed to spin. Kaspar felt no strength in his legs, yet he still stood...

Razor shoved the official out of the way. He went in for the killing blow. Kaspar managed to raise his right forearm in time. The block followed up by a hard right hook to Razor's face. The visions while he was on the mat created a new found vigor deep inside.

The monster was stunned. Nobody ever fought back against him. The underdog followed with a left hook. Razor raised his arms in defense, but was hit by a left and a right to the torso. Kaspar rose up and hit his enemy with two shots with his right, then one with the left. The crowd went into a stunned silence.

The behemoth backed away and rubbed at his cheeks. Kaspar stayed back and remained cautious. Razor no longer played to the crowd. Instead there was nothing but an intense focus in his eyes. The sleeping giant had been woken up.

Razor approached with caution. Kaspar raised his arms in defense.

"Your father," Razor said in between breaths, "must have been a real bitch to have a son like you."

Something inside snapped. Kaspar looked to his opponent, who looked back with a grin on his ugly face. The pain in his eye and body went away. He no longer felt woozy from the knockdown. He could feel his face burn red with anger. Razor just smiled and went in with a finishing hook. Kaspar ducked underneath it and hooked his opponent's throat. He used his right leg and swept Razor's feet from underneath him.

Both men crashed to the mat. Kaspar landed on top. He started to swing at the monster's face below him. Right, left, right, left. He landed blow after blow until he could feel the official's hand rest against his shoulder, but he didn't stop. Father would be ashamed to have left his son. What did this fat son of a bitch know about family, anyway? When he came to, Razor spit out three blood stained teeth. Kaspar's eyes went wide at the sound of the word disqualified.

What have I done?

Kaspar stood and backed away. Two men rushed in to check on the fallen, bloodied mess that lay on the mat. Two pairs of hands grabbed at Kaspar's shoulders. H turned and saw Danny, who looked shell shocked right back at him. The trainer said nothing and led his fighter out of the ring. The crowd started to throw empty bottles of water and half eaten veggie sandwiches onto the mat.

Danny kept his grip on him all the way back to the locker room. Once inside, he shoved his fighter forward. Kaspar lowered his head and found a bench to lie down on. He rested his back and head on the hard wood. Danny approached with a red face.

What have I done?

# Chapter .04

"Just what was that?!" Danny demanded.

"I'm sorry." Kaspar replied.

"Sorry? That ain't gonna pay my rent this month, is it?"

"I lost control."

"Well, we could all see that. Disqualified! Do you know what that means?"

Kaspar rubbed at his aching cheek bone. "Yes."

"Damn it!" Danny shouted. He found a plastic trash can and kicked it across the floor.

"Relax." Kaspar said.

"Don't tell me to relax." Danny began his approach. "You just took a beating for nothing. You had him, he was tired, you broke his spirit, and then you pissed it all away."

"I snapped, I'm sorry."

"Ain't that just too bad? Let me look at that eye."

Kaspar relaxed his body as best he could. Danny knelt down in front of him and touched the eye lightly. It caused a wince. The sharp pain stung like trapping a hornet in one's hand. Slight pressure was applied; a growl of pain. Danny let go, stood up, and sighed.

"What's it looking like?" Kaspar asked.

"There's going to be a hell of a lot of swelling, but it doesn't look like he broke anything."

Kaspar breathed in. "What do you think my father would say? I mean, if he saw the fight, if he was here, right now?"

"'Damn, son, you look beat the hell up.'"

"I'm being serious."

"Hell, I don't know, kid. Never met the man."

"That makes two of us." Kaspar replied.

"Don't let that man ruin your life."

Kaspar laughed. Danny walked over to the cooler in the far right corner and filled a plastic bag full of ice. He walked back over and placed it over his injured fighter's cheek. Kaspar winced again and closed his eyes.

"I did beat the shit out of him, though." Kaspar said.

"Damn right you did."

A sound interrupted the conversation. In walked Howard Walker, the founder of the illicit underground ring. Kaspar did not bother to open his eyes, but the old man's gasp gave away who it was, and it prompted another laugh.

"What's he laughing at?" Walker demanded, pointing his right index finger.

"I don't have a clue," Danny replied. "What can we do for you, Mr. Walker?"

"You can start by explaining to me what happened out there tonight."

"I beat the shit out of Razor." Kaspar said in between laughs.

"You're a funny man," Walker said. "A broke man, but a funny one."

"Hey," Danny interjected. "Go easy on the kid. He had a rough fight."

"Yeah, well, that little stunt he pulled out there cost me a lot of money. It's a DQ, nobody wins and nobody gets paid. I've got my bookies all over my ass right now. Your fighter, he ain't getting a fraction, and he's going under review effective immediately."

"Don't you think that's a little unfair?" Danny demanded.

"What's so unfair?"

"Look at Razor. Is he above your rules? He's killed men, he shoves officials out of the ring, yet he doesn't ever—ever—get disqualified."

Walker moved his finger to Danny. "You leave that up to me."

"You listen to me. You point that finger at me ever again and I'll make sure that it never points at anyone else."

Walker looked taken aback. He turned around and walked straight for the door and slammed it behind him. Danny wiped the grin off of his face and walked back over to his fighter, who continued in his hysteria.

"Let's get out of here." Danny said.

***

Paxton fought through the angry crowd as he headed for the exit. This Kaspar was about as much as he expected. He never gave up, he stood up to his enemy, despite being undersized and outmatched. One thing did bother him, though. When his mark exploded, something was said to him. Whatever that something was, it unleashed a demon inside. What was said? Could it be used during their recruitment of him? Or, would it be a deterrent, a signal to stay the hell away? He would soon find out.

Once outside, he reached down and grabbed a black mobile phone. The blue indigo screen came up upon opening. Paxton touched the address book, then the number two. It auto dialed a number. It rang three times.

"This is Robert," a light voice said.

"Clarke, Paxton."

"How did it go?"

"Not entirely sure, yet."

"So, what happened?"

"Our mark really went to town on his opponent; he had a look in his eyes, like he would have beaten the life out of the man if the official didn't break it up."

"He won, then?" Clarke asked.

"Not exactly. He got disqualified."

"Should we continue? I mean, is a head case like that worth the trouble?"

"I think we should," Paxton replied. "He's got an anger problem from what I could see. We can use that."

Paxton pressed END on the phone and felt a craving for another cigarette. He darted his way to a darkened alley and retrieved his smokes. He lit up, took a puff, and blew out the smoke. All the while the wheels in his head started to turn. Could this Kaspar fellow really cut it as a soldier in this war? The team would have to be certain that he had no connections whatsoever with the USR. The ally that led him to Kaspar seemed to think that an impossibility, but there would be no room for mistakes. After verification that he was clean, they would move in.

The cigarette depleted, Paxton threw the used butt onto the pavement and put it out with his boot. One question rang through his head as he walked back to his van.

How could he convince this kid to join?

# Chapter .05

USR Agent Travis Forte threw another cigarette down onto the tile floor. He used the heel of his polished black shoe to put it out. His eyes moved forward to the suspect sitting in a chair before him. The suspect, a sixty-eight year old man who needed a cane to walk, began to shake without control when Forte began his approach.

The Agent couldn't help but feel a little bit of sympathy for his suspect, but he shook his head the more he thought about it. This was not a real man he would be dealing with today. Forte looked to the suspect's hands, each individual finger separated by silver duct tape. He would have fun with this one.

Forte moved his gaze to the terrified man's eyes while he reached for his pocket knife. He pulled it out then waved the sharp, fresh blade in front of the leftover. It was almost getting too easy for Forte, one of the lead detectives in the hunt for the resistance. He caught him another one and only one question filled his mind: can I get anything useful out of him? Forte wiped the sweat off of his red freckled brow which matched his fiery red hair.

"We have the letters, Mr. Roberts," Forte said. "We know that you are working for them. We just want to know who else is involved."

"I told you already, I have no idea. I only found those letters in my mailbox." Mr. Roberts replied.

"You think that's going to fly in the face of the judge?"

"What judge? I'm heading straight for the noose."

The Agent shook his head. Forte didn't want to do this the hard way, but this little man gave him no choice. The blade moved in close to the right index finger. Mr. Roberts's eyes widened with fear. It moved Forte to press further.

"We all know you are going to die for your treachery. The only thing you should concern yourself with right now is how much pain you go through."

He pressed firm on Mr. Roberts's right index finger, holding it in place. With a quick jab motion, the blade entered underneath the nail bed. The screams from the old man were ignored as the Agent kept digging. Once at the end, he flicked the knife upwards. Forte let the nail remain upright. The suspect's pant leg was used to wipe the blood from the blade.

"Now, who sent you the letter?" Forte demanded.

"I don't know!" Mr. Roberts cried. "I only received it!"

"Then why didn't you contact the authorities?"

"Look at me now, that's why."

"Come on, you know that's bullshit."

Next up was the middle finger. Forte used the edge of the blade to tickle the end of that finger. He inserted the blade and took his time with this one. A yell of inaudible words stopped him. He pulled the knife back out and looked up into Mr. Roberts's eyes.

"Yes?" Forte asked.

"I'll tell you, I'll tell you..."

"Go on."

The sweat on the suspect's brow increased. The intense pain in his fingers, the heat of the room, all added to the stress of having to sell out one of his friends. Mr. Roberts panted in pain as his lips moved with no discernible words.

"I can't hear you." Forte said. He waved the knife around in air.

"It's just...some guy. Lives by himself in an old apartment on the outskirts of the city. Doug Miller. But, that's all I know."

"You got an address?"

Mr. Roberts waited for Forte to pull out a small legal pad before he gave the address. Forte jotted it down and placed it back into the pocket on the inside of his coat. He stood up from his knelt position; a smile revealed his tobacco stained teeth. He looked at the suspect's scared eyes as he reveled in his handiwork.

"Okay, friend, we'll see if this checks out." Forte said.

"What now? What happens to me?"

"I hate to say it," Forte said, he looked down at the blood stained blade. "But, you lied to me."

"You haven't even checked the address, yet."

"I'm not talking about that. When I asked you at the beginning, you said that you knew nothing. Now, after a little coercion, you all of a sudden remember."

"But," Mr. Roberts cried, "I gave you what you wanted to know."

"You let us be the judge of that," Forte said, his eyes never left the blade in his hand. "You shouldn't have lied to me."

Without warning, Forte knelt back down and reinserted the blade into the suspect's middle finger. Through the wails of pain and orders for him to stop, Forte finished it off. He left the nail standing straight up; it matched that of Mr. Roberts's index. He sat the blade down on the table next to Mr. Roberts.

"You think about that knife while I'm gone," Forte said. "And you think long and hard about ever lying to my face again."

***

William Sullivan placed the bottle of wax back onto the counter top. He balled up the used diaper cloth and dropped it into the laundry basket next to him. The shined, gold USR badge glistened with the light. He was slow to come to grips with it, but he no longer liked what he saw when he looked at the badge. The belief that was once there when he started his work as an Agent was near its end. He no longer accepted what it meant to be Agent...what that responsibility continued to force him to do.

Three years and counting since the promotion that allowed his wife to buy her dream home. He was surprised, even a little shocked, that it took him this long to start having second thoughts and regrets. After attaching the badge to the black leather belt, Sullivan used the small silver key to open the locked drawer to his left. The drawer slid open and inside sat a black Glock 17. He inserted it into the hip holster on his right side. As he did every morning, he hoped that he wouldn't have to use it today.

With one last look in the mirror, he made sure that the buttons on his shirt aligned in perfect harmony with the gold buckle of his belt. The buckle, in turn, aligned in sync with the zipper of his black pants. His father always told him to be respectful, act respectful, and dress respectful. The least Sullivan could do was keep one of his father's commandments.

"You look fine, Will," Julie Sullivan said as she walked in behind him.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Sullivan replied, looking at his wife's reflection in the mirror. She did it to him again, last night. She wore that black night teddy that Sullivan bought her last year, the one that drove Sullivan wild.

"Did you ever hear back from your interview?"

"Not yet, but they must have interviewed about a hundred people. You know how hard jobs are to come by?"

"You didn't even go, did you?"

"Look, Julie—" Sullivan started to get out.

"No excuses."

Sullivan sighed, "Is everything all right?"

No answer, Julie turned and walked out of the room. Sullivan heard her footsteps going down the stairs. She continued her assault on him to find another job. He kicked himself for thinking that her demands would quickly go away. That was one of the most attractive features she had, her head strong attitude. Her strawberry blonde hair, long legs, and gorgeous smile added to it.

Sullivan always lied to her when he told her he went out looking. He would rattle off some excuse, the one this morning his favorite, but Sullivan knew that there was no way out. His soul had already been sold to USR. He would never escape, so he just had to learn to live with it. Julie would never understand. He just hoped that one day, by some miracle, she would come to the same realization and things would return to normal.

Before he walked out of the bedroom, he walked back over to the bed. He pulled out the .38 Special he kept underneath his pillow. He ensured the safety was on before putting it back. Sullivan then began his descent down the stairs. He turned the corner and walked straight ahead for the kitchen. There, seated at the dining room table, sat the only reason that Sullivan could try to live with what he did.

"Daddy!" David Sullivan, six years old, cried.

"Davie, good morning," Sullivan replied with a smile. "Did you have good dreams last night?"

"I sure did, let me tell you!"

Sullivan laughed, "Go ahead."

Davie began his story as Sullivan walked over to the table and took a seat at the head. He looked up at Julie, who worked on something on the stove. The smell of pancakes hit his nostrils. No wonder Davie was in such an uppity mood this morning.

"Daddy?" Davie demanded. "Are you even listening?"

Sullivan shook his head and returned his attention to Davie.

"I'm sorry, son, go on."

"Anyway, like I was saying, I dreamed I was a super hero and I was putting away bad people. I was just like you, Daddy!"

"It's ready, boys." Julie said. She reached over for the plate of pancakes and brought them over.

"You need any help with that?" Sullivan asked.

"No."

Why even bother? She was as cold as ever this morning. Sullivan could not place any blame on her, but he tried to. He tried to reason with himself that if she wasn't happy with what he did for a living, she should go out and get her own damn job. At the end of the day, she was not the one who paraded around like a protector of the city all day, doing whatever was necessary to root out...

Not at home.

"You ready for another big day at school?" Sullivan asked.

"Sure am! I'm learning all kinds of things!" Davie replied.

"Really? Like what?"

Julie brought over the sugar free syrup and a pitcher of orange juice. Sullivan thanked her, but got no response. She left the kitchen for the living room. She would sit there all morning, by herself, just like every morning of late. He wanted to ask her if she was hungry, but again, why bother?

"Well," Davie said, breaking up Sullivan's thoughts. "In History we're learning all about how the colonists stole the Native's land. My teacher says that we shouldn't even be here, that the world would have been better off it never happened."

More horror stories? Sullivan hated sending his kid off to that school every day. It seemed that only negativity was taught, but he knew that it was the only way for Davie to get his education. The education he would need to become something...better than his father. Sullivan's dream for his son was in the medical field. At least then, Davie could do something noble.

Davie shoved a mouthful of pancakes into his mouth and the sound of smacking lips drilled into Sullivan's ears. He grabbed his son's arm and gripped it tight.

"Davie, eat slowly and chew your food." Sullivan ordered.

"Yes, sir."

Julie always made a fuss about how Sullivan was too hard on their son. Sullivan never looked at it as being too hard, or not letting the boy grow up, but he would not raise a disrespectful slob. He would instill the same discipline in Davie that his own father instilled upon him. At least then, maybe...

Julie walked back into the kitchen, "The school bus is almost here. You got all your things?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"It's Mommy, you don't have to call me ma'am."

"Okay, Mommy."

Davie stood up from his chair then walked his plate of half eaten pancakes to the trash can. After scrapping off the remains, he walked the plate to the sink and rinsed off the remaining syrup. He ran back over to the table, grabbed his book bag, and ran out the front door to wait on the bus.

Julie moved to the sink and turned on the hot water. Steam filled the kitchen as she grabbed a bottle of dish cleaner. Sullivan placed his plate gently on the counter next to the sink. He tried to grab her hips, to breathe in her scent like he used to do. She moved the side when she felt his hands. Sullivan didn't know how much longer he could take this from her. If not for Davie, he might have left a long time ago. He just couldn't do that to his son, or to Julie. As irrational as it was, he still loved her even though he received nothing but her cold shoulder in return.

"You need any help with that?" Sullivan asked.

"No. You are going to be late for work if you don't hurry."

"Why are you—"

The sound of a gag reflex filled Sullivan's ears. Julie bent over to the other sink and wave of vomit flowed out. After a deep breath, she did the routine once more. Sullivan moved over and rubbed at her back. Julie began to breathe heavily. Sullivan moved the tap over to the other sink and turned on the cold water. His wife washed her mouth out with it.

"You okay?" Sullivan asked.

"I'm fine, just something I ate."

"That looked pretty bad. You need me to take you to the doctor?"

"I said I'm fine. You go off to work. I'll clean this mess up."

"Fine," Sullivan replied. "You just give me a call at the office if you need anything."

"Just go."

Sullivan went in to kiss her cheek, but he pulled himself back. She was not his favorite person right now and she wasn't feeling well. He turned his back to her and walked towards the front door. He unhooked his jacket from the coat hanger. After he slid both arms inside, he used the mirror on the wall to ensure it looked perfect. He took one last glimpse at his wife. Sullivan watched as she took another drink from the tap. He wanted with all his heart to walk in there and make sure she was okay, to make sure that she knew he still loved her.

Why bother?

# Chapter .06

There laid a helpless man on the ground. The two Agents's sticks flew in quick furies over top him. The man tried to cover himself with his arms, but each attempt came up in vain. Kaspar looked through the fogged glass door, his frozen blue eyes underneath his shades were glued to one of the Agents. The Agent lifted up his night stick for another shot. A droplet of blood rolled down the handle then fell to the pavement.

A third Agent, who stood watch at the front door, made eye contact through the clear Plexiglas shield over his eyes. Kaspar maintained the eye contact until the Agent looked down at his watch. The clock above Kaspar read six twenty-eight. He looked back out in contempt: the poor, anxious bastard was outside merely two minutes before the mandatory curfew was lifted.

The Agents picked up their dangerous offender and dragged him away from the scene. The man's face a bloodied mess, he cried out for help. Help that would not come his way. No one dared cross a USR Agent. Kaspar sure as hell wasn't going to.

Both clock hands reached the six, signaling the end of the mandated USR curfew. The agent posted at the front door motioned with his right hand for Kaspar to come out. He opened the door and looked to the Agent. The Agent just looked back, no expression on his face, unfazed by the beating that just occurred seconds ago.

"Busy day already, huh?" Kaspar asked.

"Might get busier if you don't move along, citizen." the monotone Agent replied.

A simple nod of the head and Kaspar moved away from the Agent. The chill of the morning air forced him to grab the skull cap from out of his jacket pocket. Once it fit snug overtop his forehead, he was ready to go. Straight ahead, the downtown skyline could be seen, behind the fog and underneath the morning gray sky.

Once he arrived deep in the heart of downtown, he caught his first glimpse at them: the slaves. He watched as they scurried around with their morning decaf coffee and briefcases. They weren't all bad, though, as the woman with the soft auburn hair proved. The light breeze of the morning caused her hair to blow ever so slightly. Through his sunglasses, he caught a glimpse of her eyes.

She stood five foot nine, maybe five foot ten. Her athletic legs were interrupted by a skirt just below the knee. She wore a matching blazer and, even in the chill of the morning, her light colored blouse was buttoned down just enough to give him a hint, but left much more the imagination. And, she smiled at him.

Kaspar felt a rush of positive energy and self-doubt. He opened his mouth, breathed in, and tried to think of the perfect thing to say. In an instantaneous bout of schizophrenia, her smile turned into a scowl. She stared into Kaspar's covered eyes and gave him a look that said "stop eye fucking me."

Kaspar had a look of shock right back at her, but he didn't say anything. The hell was her problem anyway? Oh well, maybe it's for the best. She would just leave him once she found out about the illicit activities he was involved in. The activities which forced him to sneak out of the apartment early this morning, to make it out before Mother saw him. He was unable to keep his promise. Even if that woman would overlook it and stay, Kaspar knew in his heart that he would have just left her at the first sign of trouble.

He continued his morning jog. Over to the left, the reason for the woman's rudeness reared his ugly head. A USR Agent, who stood well over six foot tall, peered through the clear Plexiglas shield. If any more of a hint was needed, it was found upon passing the free "Pregnancy and Family Planning Clinic". The USR had begun to get more aggressive in their population control tactics. The clinic was basically a way of saying, "get a free abortion or get arrested." If the woman had been polite and continued to smile, maybe even talk, to Kaspar, the Agent was well within his rights to break it up. It was simply not worth the trouble.

He took a right turn at the corner. His destination came into view. Kaspar crossed the street and approached the alleyway where Danny would be waiting for him. An unfamiliar sight met his eyes. It was another woman. She stood no taller than five foot six. Her black leather jacket matched her hair, cut just below the shoulder, and the black lenses over her eyes. Her leather covered arms were folded across her chest. She looked away as if she didn't see the man who approached her. It struck Kaspar as odd. This wasn't a place for a woman to just be hanging about all alone. Though, she did look like she could handle herself well enough if it came to blows.

But, what the hell was she doing here? There was only one way to find out. He began his approach. The mysterious woman tenses up as he got closer. She kept her bronzed face turned away and only looked towards him when he was just outside her personal space.

"Hey," Kaspar said. "I've never seen you here before."

"I'm meeting someone here." the woman said before she turned her head away once more. "Go on about your business."

Kaspar persisted. "Have you seen a cranky old man walk by here? I think my friend is running late."

"No. And, I better get going."

"But, I thought you were..."

She didn't give Kaspar the courtesy of a goodbye or even to let him finish his sentence. After he admired her back side as she walked away, he reached for the old rusted door. The door was locked. Kaspar let out a curse.

"By god," Danny said from off in the distance. He reached into his jacket pocket for his keys once he arrived at the door. "You are only on time when the shit doesn't matter."

"Did you see a woman in black walk past you just now?" Kaspar asked.

"Yeah, she looked like a butch, but I'd still take her."

"Have you ever seen her here before?"

"No, I haven't. Why? This is a public street, you know?"

Kaspar sighed. "I don't know, she just felt out of place, I guess."

"You're just being paranoid." Danny replied.

"Let's hope so. You think she might be one of Razor's girls or something."

"What?" Danny demanded. He fought with the lock on the door. "Razor doesn't have girls, okay. Just calm down, we've got a lot to talk about this morning."

It took several half turns, but Danny managed to get the door unlocked. He turned the door handle and, with a shove from his skinny shoulder, pushed the sticky door open. Kaspar had to catch the door with his right forearm before it slammed in his face. Ornery old man couldn't even hold the door open for him.

Kaspar walked inside the ancient garage that was abandoned years ago. The stale air attacked at his nostrils. The loud sneezed echoed off the old walls. Danny had taken over this old shithole when he decided to train. He used what little credits he had on him to buy it. The garage made for a makeshift boxing gym. Kaspar used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe at his nose. The light, which hung from a long metal wire, took two flashes in quick succession before it illuminated the room. Danny let loose of the chain then headed for his desk.

"When are you going to clean this shithole up?" Kaspar asked, he continued to rub at his red nose.

"You are this close to eating your own tongue." Danny replied, inching his thumb and index finger together.

The old chair creaked when Danny's old ass sat on it. Kaspar took a seat in front of him. The trainer reached down and pulled out a small legal pad from the breast pocket of his stained white shirt. He started to jot some things onto the yellow paper. There was a long moment of silence.

"What are you doing?" Kaspar asked.

Danny didn't look up from the pad. "Trying to figure out what we're going to say to Walker today. Figure out some sorta compromise to get us back in the ring."

"Did you hear anything about Razor?"

"Yeah, they rushed his ass to the hospital last night. They say he's going to make it, though, and word is he's going to want a rematch. That might be our ticket back in."

"How so?"

"Haven't you wised up, yet? Razor runs this show, son. Now take off those glasses and let me look at that eye."

The eye was a dark red, swollen mess, but saw improvement after a long night's sleep. After obeying Danny's order to get ice out of the freezer, Kaspar returned to his chair. He arched his head back and let the frozen bag rest on the injured mess.

"The swelling has gone down a little bit," Danny said. "But that bruise is going to be pretty nasty for a few days. You're lucky he didn't break your eye socket."

"When are you going to have some faith in me?"

"When you stop getting DQ'd. Don't be a smartass."

The comment went ignored. Doubts clouded the mind instead. Could this really be worth it? How many more fights would he survive before luck finally ran out? How many more busted up eyes, broken ribs, and soreness everywhere would have to be endured? How many more broken promises to Mother?

"Danny," Kaspar said.

"What?" Danny looked up from his note pad.

"What if I wanted to quit fighting? Right here, right now, I decide to give it up."

"What about your mother?"

"That's why I'm considering this."

"You got any job offers or anything you haven't told me about?" Danny asked.

"No, I actually haven't even started looking, yet."

"Well, you know that if we can't convince Walker to give you a little something..."

"I know."

"Well, you'll find something. Jobs are scarce, but I know a guy who could put your lazy ass to work."

"What about you?" Kaspar asked.

"Don't worry about me. It's your life, I'll find something."

Kaspar thought about it for a moment. Leave now. Surviving against Razor once was one thing, but twice? It was time to leave. To start a new life, one that Mother would appreciate. To not have to sit around on fight night, wondering if her son would come home alive, not empaled. It would be rough at first, but something would be found. Maybe his old trainer's friend could be the start to a new life.

"Okay," Kaspar said, he leaned his body forward and removed the ice pack from his eye. "Who is this guy you know?"

"I can set you up an appointment tonight." Danny replied. He looked down at his watch. "Oh, shit!"

"What's wrong?" Kaspar wondered as he watched Danny scramble around for his things.

"Believe it or not, I do other things than babysit your ass all day. Got something I have to do. Be seeing you."

# Chapter .07

Sullivan watched DeMarcus Wilcox raise his monstrous boot into the air. The force of the kick caused the framework from the old house door to go splintering into the air. George Mason, another one of Sullivan's partners, entered the house first with his Glock raised.

"USR, nobody move!" Mason shouted through his thick facial hair.

Sullivan sighed as he watched Wilcox storm in second. His eagerness to get in a kill before lunch rivaled Mason's. Why did the captain insist on keeping these two thugs around? They were muscle bound freaks who indulged themselves in violence and steroids. For what little they knew in actual investigations, they made up for in results. Good enough results to keep the Consul off of the department's back, at least.

Inside, Doug Miller, their suspect, sat on his couch. The book he once held plummeted to the floor. Sullivan caught a glimpse of it. The book had a black cover. The light of the room bounced off of the gold lettering. Sullivan harbored a ridiculous thought: maybe it was not a book outlawed by the USR.

Mason ran over and forced the aged man out of his seat. He pressed Miller's body against the chipped wall, his body fully pressed against the suspect's back. The force of the pressure caused the old man to struggle to breathe. Wilcox came in for "support". He pressed the barrel of his Glock into Miller's throat. Sullivan walked over to the couch. He reached down for the black book the old man had been studying. The gold letters that glistened read "Holy Bible". Damn it, one nail in the coffin. Suddenly, Sullivan's wish that he not have to use his weapon seemed to be a jinx. He placed the book onto the coffee table before he approached the three men.

"Are you Doug Miller, you son of a bitch?" Mason demanded.

"Yes, why are you people here?" Miller replied.

"Mason," Sullivan said, he reached out for his partner's shoulder. "Let go of the suspect."

"Hell no."

"Let him go. That's an order, Agent. Wilcox, holster that weapon."

Both agents looked back to Sullivan who did not budge. He looked right back at them with squinted eyes. Wilcox sighed, moved his gun away from Miller's throat, and holstered it. Mason seemed to be a bit more defiant today, but when his superior motioned with his head to sit the suspect back down, he budged. Mason let go of the man's shirt. A hard shove sent Miller flying back to the couch.

The suspect took a moment to collect himself. Once collected, he took a seat back on the torn, yellow seat cushion of the couch. He wiped the saliva from his lips and sniffed his nose. Sullivan approached him, got down on one knee to look into the man's scared eyes. A rush of thoughts attacked his psyche all at once. The damn bible didn't help this man at all. It still amazed Sullivan how stupid these citizens could be sometimes.

"Mr. Miller, my name is William Sullivan, an Agent with the USR. These...gentlemen behind me are Agents George Mason and DeMarcus Wilcox."

"What is this all about?" Miller asked.

"We have reason to believe that you have been supplying citizens with anti-USR rhetoric."

"What—what reasons do you have?"

"Listen to me," Wilcox said, he moved in front of Miller's face. "We don't need to tell you anything."

Sullivan sighed, "Wilcox, begin the search. Take Mason with you."

"Yes, sir," Wilcox's eyes never left Miller's until he turned around. He walked to back bedroom of the house with Mason.

Idiots, Sullivan thought. Miller recollected himself once more. The suspect lowered his head when the loud sound of objects being thrown in the bedroom rang through the air. Sullivan could feel something inside of Miller drop. The sympathizer knew he had been caught.

"What's going to happen to me?" Miller asked. He placed his lowered head into his palms. He rubbed at his thinning hair with the tips of his fingers.

"It all depends on if we find anything." Sullivan replied.

The noises in the background grew more intense. For their lack of actual investigative skills, Mason and Wilcox excelled at finding things that others wanted hidden. Too proficient, in fact, and Sullivan knew it. They would always deny it when he would bring it up, but the two thugs planted evidence with regularity. There was no way in this world they were that good. Not those morons.

"What's going to happen to me?" Miller asked again, his entire body trembled now.

"I told you already," Sullivan said. He stood from his knelt position. "Do you have something back there?"

Miller nodded his head. Sullivan let out a silent curse. He hated this part of his job, the part where he had to give citizens like this one bad news. If he only followed the rules, did what the USR told him to do, Miller would not be in this position. It was his fault. Sullivan could not take responsibility for that. He often wondered what it must feel like, to be sitting in peaceful bliss, only to have armed men...

"Found it!" Mason's voice boomed from the back.

Mason walked out of the back bedroom with a pile of stacked papers in his hand. He held them up in the air for Miller to see. The suspect said nothing while his face grew red. Sullivan looked from his partner to the citizen. Tears ran down Miller's cheeks now. After a deep breath, his old ass flew off of the couch...

A gun shot.

Miller's body crashed the floor. Sullivan felt a wave of panic, his body seized, he reached down to unbuckle the holster on his left hip. The cries of pain relieved him. Whoever shot him didn't kill him, yet. Maybe the old man would get his day in court. Sullivan wanted to slap himself the moment that thought entered his brain.

The loud cries from Miller filled the small house. Sullivan approached him and got down to one knee. He scanned the body. The gunshot wound was found to back of the left leg. Miller winced in pain and tried to get up. A firm hand placed on his back prevented that.

"Flesh wound," Mason said. He holstered his weapon with his free hand. "Maybe you should consider keeping that weapon hot."

"He posed no threat." Sullivan replied.

"From where I'm stadin', that suspect tried to escape, and would have if not for me."

"Sullivan," Wilcox called out from the bedroom. "You better take a look at this."

"Watch him," Sullivan ordered. He stood back up and walked for the bedroom.

"He ain't goin' anywhere." Mason replied. He moved in on Miller's writhing body. A smile crept on his face at the sight of the leaking gunshot wound.

There was a trunk in the back of the bedroom by the cracked window. Wilcox stared down at the contents. Sullivan approached with his heart racing. He reached in. His hand grasped a thick piece of cloth. As he moved his hand up, he pulled out the clean, crisp folded American flag. His shoulders dropped in disappointment. The final nail in Mr. Miller's coffin. He handed the flag over to Wilcox and exited the room.

It was time to deliver the bad news.

# Chapter .08

"Have they gotten any word from this guy, yet?" Sullivan demanded. He slammed the shiny wooden door which read "Capt. Donald Fitzpatrick, Resistance Unit" shut behind.

Fitzpatrick jumped at the sound. "No, they haven't, but give them time. They'll come through. They always do."

When the resistance first began to run wild on the streets, the USR deemed it necessary to put an RU in every department of each major city. Since he joined the RU three months ago, Sullivan did his part. His personal arrest count climbed to thirty within his first six weeks. The USR gave him a promotion for his efforts, along with two dip shits to sweeten the deal. Last week's attack, though, proved to everyone that work still needed to be done.

"I—we—don't have time for this." Sullivan said. "Let me go in there and reason with him."

"Maybe they'll rile him up so bad that he'll start talking."

"No, he won't, not this one. I can guarantee you that."

"How do you know?" Fitzpatrick asked.

"Instinct.That same intuition that got me where I'm at now."

"You know that they are not going to like this."

"Who cares? We need the Intel. I can get it."

Fitzpatrick sighed. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of smuggled whiskey. "Go on. Just don't piss them off, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

Sullivan turned out of the office. His shoes squeaked on the freshly shined tile floors. As he walked towards the interrogation room, he heard all the chatter from the Agents who scurried about. They moved around, talked, some yelled, but all were feverous in their attempts to find the resistance. Same as him...

He felt a thud on his chest. His failed attempt to pay attention caused him to bump into an elderly man in expensive clothing. He couldn't catch a glimpse of his face, but he tried to say he was sorry to the man's back. The smug on the guy radiated off. Sullivan could swear that he smelled.

Thoughts of little Davie clouded Sullivan's thoughts. The closer he got to the interrogation room, the more intense the thoughts grew. He wanted to raise his son right in this insane world. How could he go home tonight, look at Davie in the eye after what he was about to do, and say he loved him? He would send an "evil" man to his death. Maybe beat the shit out of him first. Sullivan apologized to his son before he turned the corner.

Mason and Wilcox stood outside the interrogation room, taking a little breather. They had their arms folded over their monstrous chests while they exchanged jokes. Upon approach, Sullivan noticed fresh blood stains on Mason's shirt.

"The fuck you doin' here?" Mason demanded. He unfolded his arms.

"Fuck yourself," Sullivan replied. He avoided eye contact and looked straight through the double sided mirror at Miller, who sat with his head down. "Have you got him talking, yet?"

"No," Wilcox replied, "he's a tough one, but we'll get him talking."

"We don't have time for that. This whole department is up my ass. Let me through."

Wilcox laughed and moved in front of the door. "Hey, pussy, this is our job."

"Out of the way," Sullivan ordered once more.

Mason laughed this time. "Let him through, Dee, I gotta see this."

"You've got five minutes." Wilcox said. He moved away from the door.

"Don't you forget who is in charge here, Agent." Sullivan replied.

"You won't be for long," Mason said from behind. "I can guarantee you that."

Sullivan ignored the comment. What did they know about anything? He used the silver door handle to open the door. The suspect looked up at the sound of the door opening. Sullivan looked away upon the sight in front of him.

The two ass clowns had fun with this guy, that much was certain, but how extensive was the damage? He noticed lacerations along both cheeks that stained the stringed white hairs. Another gash on the top of Miller's forehead, the blood mixed in with what remained of his white hair. Sullivan cleared his throat and grabbed the heavy metal chair at the far end of the table. The legs squealed on the tile floor as he dragged it to get closer to his suspect. When he got close enough, he noticed that the two barbarians at least had the decency to bandage up the wounded leg.

"Doug, you remember me, right?" Sullivan asked.

Miller's head remained down. "How could I forget? You people stormed into my home and took me prisoner for nothing."

"Nothing? That's a bold statement."

"How bold, Agent?" Miller's head moved up. "What have I done that is so evil?"

Sullivan struggled to maintain eye contact with him. Both eyes sockets were a swollen, dark red mess, the bones shattered underneath. A clinch of the teeth revealed that three of the man's teeth were knocked out. Blood stained the teeth that remained. Sullivan had to clear his throat and regain his composure before he continued.

"I can list off a number of things. Inciting rebellion, making false statements about our government, religious indoctrination...pick one."

"So, what are you going to do? Rough me up some more? Shoot me again?"

"Mr. Miller," Sullivan placed both hands on the cold metal table and interlocked his fingers. "I've decided to call off the dogs for a moment. Try to talk some sense into you."

"Those bastards out there are real animals." Miller replied. He swished the cold water inside of his mouth before he spit out a mixture of blood and saliva on the tile floor.

"That's not very sanitary."

"Fuck your sanitation."

Sullivan smirked, "You learn that kind of talk from the good book?"

"There are a few lessons in there that you could learn."

"Look, Doug—"

"Mr. Miller, you're no friend to me."

"Fine, Mr. Miller. If you don't want me to let the big dogs back in here again, you'll tell me what I want to know. I promised you I'll be more...diplomatic than those gentlemen outside."

"Only a sick person like you could call those men outside gentle."

"That hurts."

"The truth has been known to do that."

Sullivan looked down at his watch. "We don't have a lot of time here. I need some answers. I need them right now."

"What answers?"

"Don't play dumb. I read your letters, by the way. Cute."

"What do you mean, 'cute'?"

Sullivan leaned in closer. "I mean, it's cute that you poor, ignorant fools think you can change things with just words scribbled on paper."

"You starve us, inject fear on us, and you think that's okay?" Miller started to get feisty. "Don't think for a second that I'm not aware of why you make us take those damn supplements every day."

"The supplements are for your own health. Don't bring that conspiracy theory shit here. You've let those letters brainwash you. Or maybe you've just grown too senile?"

"I remember...remember what it was like before your government stole it all away from us."

Leftovers, Sullivan thought, they always say the same thing during these interrogations. He stood from his chair and began to crack his knuckles. The look in Miller's eyes was a mixture of fear and defiance. The suspect didn't dare look away like a coward, but he still feared what came his way.

"Enough games. You've worn my patience thin."

"I'm telling you, you won't get any—"

Sullivan walked behind the old man and pressed both of his thumbs on top of Miller's broken eye sockets. He applied a little pressure; just enough to give this little prick something to think about. Quick panting came, but no cries, yet. The hope remained that Miller would say something—anything—so that an intense torture session could be avoided.

"Come on, Mr. Miller, think!" Sullivan ordered.

Nothing. Please, just say something, anything.

"I can't hear you."

Silence.

A full force of pressure on the shattered eye sockets now. Something deep inside said to let go. Cries from Miller for the pain to stop. Thoughts of little Davie in shock at what his father was doing. It was all ignored. This man had information that the USR needed. Now was not the time for guilty consciences.

Say something!

"Okay...okay..." Miller cried out.

"What?" Sullivan replied. He relieved some of the pressure.

"I'll tell you what I know!"

The Agent took in deep breath before he let go of Miller's face. He took a seat back in front. Sullivan peered into the man's eyes: what he could see of them. He conceded for a few moments to give his suspect a chance to collect his thoughts. He just hoped that the Intel he might receive proved to be useful.

"Go on," Sullivan finally said.

"Okay, umm," Miller said in between pants. "There's this woman. She's about my age, I think. She lives in an apartment, near downtown."

"Her name?"

"Jenna...Jenna..."

"Take your time." Sullivan replied with a hint of sarcasm.

The wheels inside Miller's head started to turn. Sullivan's eyes never left the old man's. Why was it so hard to remember?

"Kaspar...yeah, that's it. She lives alone, all by herself."

"Is she the source, or just another carrier?"

"I don't know..." Miller replied.

The 'I don't knows' started to get under the Agent's skin. Miller had to give him something he could go to Fitzpatrick with so the torture would stop. So Miller could go to his death in peace. A name would do nothing; achieve nothing. A clinch of the fists, which caused cracked knuckles in Sullivan's hand, and the old man threw up his arms in defeat.

"I swear to God, I don't know." Miller pleaded. "Please. I just know she sends them out."

"What's her address?" Sullivan demanded.

"2765 Sycamore Street. Her apartment number is...oh, hell, I don't remember. But that's the building."

Sullivan stood. "You're sure that this is all you know?"

"Why would I lie?"

"We'll see if this checks out."

Sullivan turned his back on his suspect and walked towards the door.

"You know something?" Miller asked.

Sullivan stopped in his track. He turned to face the suspect. Miller sat there, beaten to hell, and still wanted to say something to him. Though the Agent would never admit it out loud, he envied the old man. Miller believed in something higher than himself. The only thing Sullivan believed in was doing enough to get by. To do just enough to care for his son and for a wife who no longer loved him in return. This man had nothing, yet he still stood firm and did not waiver. If not for the torture, the old man would have said nothing and accepted his death.

"What now?" Sullivan asked.

"You're a coward. All of you are cowards."

A nerve was struck. Sullivan paced back towards Miller. He leaned against the metal table and gripped the side with both hands for support. His grip so tight it caused his knuckles to go pale.

"I'm a coward?" Sullivan demanded.

"That's right."

"Look at yourself. Look at this band of...terrorists you associate yourself with. Always hiding in the shadows, right? You cling to your...Bible and a way of life that has long since passed. And, you? You sold out one of your comrades because you couldn't stand a little pain."

Sullivan wanted to finish the job that his partners started. He leaned his body upright and peered down at Miller. The old man looked away. Something started to come from his vocal cords. They were...words to a song? It took a few moments for the Agent to make out what the song was. Then he heard them. Those words that the USR taught him, to all citizens, were never to be spoken of again.

"Oh, say, can you see..."

Complete defiance towards his captor. For the government that Sullivan served every day. Miller remained devoted to that old way of life. What was it about a country with no morals that attracted the old fool?

"Sing all you want," Sullivan said. He straightened his back. "All the way to the gas chamber."

When Sullivan turned, the singing grew louder. He had all that he could take from Miller. All the disrespect he could take in one day: the Bible, the flag, the letters, and now the singing. It was enough to cause a civilized human being to throw up. Sullivan opened the door and slammed it shut behind him.

"That how we pussies get it done." Sullivan said as he walked passed his partners.

"Blow me," Mason said to Sullivan's backside. "Better yet, go blow Fitzpatrick again."

# Chapter .09

The maggots inside the pit of Sullivan's stomach started to do their thing again. He could feel them crawling around. The only thing he wanted to do at the moment was pull over to throw them up. He did all he could to keep his pale hands from shaking on the steering wheel. A squint of the eyes and the words "Sycamore St." could be read on the green sign in shined white letters.

The eagerness of the dip shits did little to relieve him of his pain. Mason sat in the front with Wilcox in the back. They both examined their Glocks with murder in their eyes. Fitzpatrick just didn't want to listen anymore. After a lengthy debate on leaving the two trigger happy morons behind, the decision was final. They were both going. If there was a problem, a meeting could be set up with the Consul.

A part of Sullivan just wanted to pull the car to the side of the road and be done with it. If Mason and Wilcox had anything to say about it, he would give them both two in the chest and one in the head. He thought better of it, though. There was still the roof that needed to be kept over the family's head. There was also the he money that still needed to be earned to keep Davie in school so he could earn a better education. Not to mention the preservation of...

"This is the street boss," Wilcox said from the back seat. He cocked his pistol, placed it back into the shoulder holster, and left the strap unbuckled.

Sullivan cleared his head. "I got it."

Take some deep breaths. She's an old woman. She'll come out quietly.

"Just making sure you're not having second thoughts," Wilcox replied. "That I don't have to use my weapon on you."

"Wilcox, shut the hell up for five seconds."

Mason sighed, "Both of you shut up."

The right blinker clicked and the squad car's wheels turned in that direction onto Sycamore. The apartment building sat ten feet in front. The bricks on the outside of the building showed their age. The once bright red vibrancy was now a sea of gray and faded red. Sullivan was careful with his parallel parking. He parked in between a black Suburban and a blue Town car.

"Damn it," Wilcox sighed. "You drive like an old man."

"Whatever you say," Sullivan replied. He pulled out his Glock from the hip holster and began to inspect it. "Weapons check."

"Way ahead of you partner." Mason replied.

"Let's do this shit." Wilcox added.

"Remember," Sullivan instructed, "we are here to gather Intel. Don't start shooting unless she pulls something."

Mason said, "Trust me, we know what to do. You just make sure to cover our asses."

"If you two have some predetermined plan then this assignment is over right now."

"The fuck?" Wilcox blurted. "I think the real issue here is if you have something up your own sleeve, pretty boy."

"I'm just saying. If you two already have it in your heads that you are going to kill this woman, without gathering any information from her, then we're done."

"Let's just get this over with, Sully." Mason said. He opened the car door and began his walk towards the apartment building. Wilcox followed quickly behind him.

The charade could be ended at any time, Sullivan thought as he followed his two partners into the building. They kept the straps on their holsters undone, a tactic used by a gunman with shooting on the mind. His thoughts of killing the two monsters and driving back home to his family clouded his mind once more.

"Jenna Kaspar," Mason asked the lobby attendant, his booming voice heard through the open glass door. "Where is she?"

The lobby attendant struggled, "Ap...apartment 404, sir."

Sullivan could see the uneasiness of the boy. Hell, who could blame him? He had armed men in front of him, after all. If anything went wrong, who was to stop an Agent from killing him and walking away home free? All one had to do was say that he was a suspected member of the resistance and...bang!

Wilcox pulled out his 9MM, "You're not lying to us are you, kid?"

"N...no...it's just that Ms. Kaspar has never caused any problems."

"It's because she's busy plotting against the government..." Wilcox said.

"DeMarcus," Sullivan interrupted, "holster that sidearm."

"Yes, sir."

Mason and Wilcox jogged to the elevator, Sullivan followed at a slower pace behind. His heart raced now. It felt like it would explode out of his chest. This whole thing stank like a rotten corpse. He knew the intentions of the shit heads in front of him. He just needed to keep it together. To do his best to not let the nerves get the better of him. There had to be a peaceful solution to all this. A way to get that old lady out of there...alive.

Sullivan fit into the tightly packed elevator. A sense of claustrophobia hit him as the double doors screeched shut. Mason hit the number four. The ancient elevator rumbled and shook to life. 1...2... There was an increase in Sullivan's heart rate. He could feel the beads of sweat start to accumulate on his brow. The leader hoped his subordinates couldn't sense the nervousness that ate away at him...4. A light Bing and the two doors struggled themselves apart before they stopped on either end.

With conviction, Mason and Wilcox exited the elevator and moved down the hallway in desperate search of apartment 404. Sullivan followed behind. He tried to compose himself as he did. This was the type of job he had done dozens of times before. The only thing left to do was to get over his anxiety. Just get the job done and get out.

He arrived at the door, his two partners on either side of the frame. In front, were the rusted numbers "4" and "4". All that remained of the "0" was a dark circle overlapping a smaller one. The number had rotted away from the door years before. Sullivan breathed in one last breath and started to bang his right fist against the wood.

No answer from the inside.

"USR," Sullivan called out. "We only want to talk Ms. Kaspar, please open up."

Nothing but silence.

Sullivan banged his fist against the door three more times. When there was still no sign of life, he nodded towards Wilcox. The bigger of the dipshits walked over to the door and took in a deep breath. His left boot shattered the door's foundation. The three men moved in with swiftness, guns drawn.

"USR!" Sullivan cried out. "Nobody move!"

The target sat on the couch in a stunned silence. A yellow knitting project lay on her lap. Sullivan's eyes narrowed onto her. He aimed his Glock 9MM at her fast pumping chest. The mark looked at him and tears welled up in her eyes. The sight in front of him penetrated his soul. The image forced the Agent to lower his handgun.

"Sully, what the hell is going on?" Mason called from the kitchen.

"We're bringing her in." Sullivan replied. He holstered his pistol and extended his right hand. "Ma'am, I need you to come with us."

"Why?" Mother asked. "I've done nothing wrong."

"Ma'am, we have evidence against you. Evidence which links you to the resistance. We need to come in and..."

"Bitch, drop that ugly piece of shit and put your hands behind your head!" Wilcox demanded. He moved in and brushed against his superior's shoulder. His right hand with his pistol aimed at the head, his left arm extended reaching out for the old woman.

"Wilcox, lower your weapon and stand down!" Sullivan ordered. Wilcox did as ordered and backed away.

"Are you with us, sir?" Mason asked from Sullivan's left. "You're sure you're not working for them?"

"What makes you think that?" Sullivan asked, turning his body to face Mason. "We need answers, information, and she is going to give it to us. Isn't that right, ma'am?"

"What answers?" Mother replied. "What have I done?"

"You're a fucking leftover," Mason said, he inched his body closer to Mother. "We know that you're sensitive to the rebels. Don't play dumb shit with us."

"What?" Mother asked again.

"You're sending out letters, you worthless whore."

"Letters? I have no idea..."

"I think that's resisting arrest, sir. I'm going to have to use necessary force."

"Mason, if you don't stop undermining me..." Sullivan said.

"You'll do what?"

While the two Agents bickered back and forth, Wilcox kept his eyes on Mother's lap. She was fidgeting with something underneath the blanket. What it was, he did not know, but he trained his eyes on it. The Agent moved his gun towards Mother's head and her eyes grew to the size of softballs.

"She's got something underneath..." Wilcox began to say.

BANG BANG BANG!

Sullivan looked with horror to the terrible sight in front of him. The smoke from the barrel of Mason's gun could be seen from the corner of his left eye. His partner executed the poor woman: two to the chest and one to the head. He couldn't hold back any longer. He fell to one knee and felt like passing out. Behind closed eyelids, Sullivan told himself to pull it together.

Sullivan opened his eyes, "What the hell was that?"

"She had something under there," Mason said. "Self-defense."

"Self-defense?"

Sullivan got back onto his feet and walked with wobbled legs to the dead woman. He pulled the yellow blanket back. The knitting needles once held with weathered hands lay flat on her thighs. Sullivan wiped the sweat from his brow. How was this possible?

"Knitting needles?" Sullivan cried. "Are you kidding me? Were you afraid she was going to rub your skin with them?"

"How was I supposed to know?" Wilcox demanded. "She could have had anything underneath there."

"Why didn't you ask her to freeze and show you what she had?"

"She's working for them," Mason said, he moved closer to the body. "Who gives a rat's ass?"

"I do," Sullivan replied. "Now, we'll never get anything from her because you two fucked this whole thing up."

"I'm sorry to say this, sir," Wilcox said as he approached. "You seem a little...I don't know, disappointed in this result."

"She was an aging woman."

"Who cares? She was a leftover and she was working for the enemy."

"Let's just get out of here. Report back to Fitzpatrick."

"What about the evidence?" Mason asked. "Don't you want to find the evidence?"

Sullivan turned, "Like it matters, now. We'll get a cleanup crew to come here and find all that. Let's go."

The three Agents left the apartment. Sullivan led the way, making his way past the terrified tenants that started to crowd the hall. He heard the two neophytes behind him bark orders for them all to return to their units. After giving the order for a cleanup crew through his walkie, Sullivan pushed the down arrow by the elevator and waited for it to open up.

What have I done? What have I become?

# Chapter .10

Kaspar saw a black and white pull off the side of the street in front of his building. He watched it speed off into the distance. He wondered what business the USR had in this rotten place. With tired legs, he willed himself to the front step of the entrance way and pulled the fogged glass door open. The blast of cold air felt good against his hot, bare arms. He glanced over to the lobby attendant who looked like a ghost.

Kaspar approached the boy. "What's up with those Agents?"

"I don't know, man." the boy replied.

"What were they doing here?" Kaspar persisted, he moved himself over to the desk.

"I don't know...all I know is that they were asking for your mother."

His heart sank and mind raced. What would Agents want with Mother? Did Razor's people have something to do with this? Ridiculous. What would an illegal street fighter want to do with the authorities? Then, like a streak of lighting, it donned on him: her age.

"You told them where we lived?"

"Yes...yes, sir. They were Agents. I wasn't going to lie to them. They didn't ask about you..."

"I don't give a shit about myself. Did they leave here with her?"

"No."

Kaspar's eyes grew wide. He cut off his conversation with the boy and ran straight for the stairs. The once tired legs no longer ached. He pushed with all that was inside of him up to the fourth floor in record time. He opened the door and fought his way through the tenants and noticed the horrible look in their eyes. Their faces gave away that something very bad happened.

When he arrived at his apartment, he noticed the door had been knocked off of the hinges. His stomach turned and he didn't want to walk in. With reluctance, the prize fighter moved his legs into the apartment. It didn't take long for him to arrive at the couch where the most horrifying sight he ever saw came into view.

Mother lay motionless on the couch. A half made yellow blanket on her lap, two bullet holes in close proximity on her chest. One matched it right between her eyes. Her eyes...they were opened wide despite the fact their owner was dead.

Kaspar approached Mother's dead body and fell to his knees. He sobbed without control. Every time he tried to breathe his lungs collapsed. He was forced to breath in small breaths. His lungs contracted with violence each time. When the sight of Mother's opened eyes could no longer be handled, Kaspar shoved his eyes into his opened palms. The tears saturated the skin with a vengeance.

When he peaked his head up, he saw something lying on the floor. Out the corner of his tear filled eyes, the yellow blanket could be seen. Knitting was Mother's one true passion. The only thing she lived for other than her son. Kaspar grit his teeth together and the tears flowed once more. What had she ever done to deserve this? A loose piece of the blanket hung from the lower left hand corner. After a slight tug, it separated from the rest of the project. Kaspar placed the torn piece into the right pocket of his sweat pants. He stood up and gave a slight kiss on Mother's cheek.

"I'm sorry," Kaspar cried. "I'm...so sorry."

Kaspar rubbed his damp right hand into his short sandy blonde hair. What now? He thought about what Mother had told him, about quitting fighting altogether and finding a higher purpose in life. He disappointed her by going through with the fight anyway, despite her pleas. Did she die disappointed in her son?

Thoughts raced to the nameless father. If there was any justice in this world, Kaspar knew that he would have suffered a similar fate years ago. Mother was the only person...the only one who would always be there for him. Now she was gone; taken by the USR for nothing...for being an old lady; a "leftover".

Kaspar looked down with closed eyes. "They will pay for this. I swear to you, I will find them and..."

Footsteps.

His eyes darted toward the front door. Kaspar hoped with everything inside that the person responsible would walk through. A figure wearing a black jacket over top a black shirt walked in. He recognized the dark clothing from the alleyway in front of Danny's gym. The intruder wore a black helmet with tinted glass over the eyes giving no hints towards the owner's identity. He or she approached Kaspar with a second helmet in hand. Kaspar's eyes grew in both shock and anger. What the hell was going on?

"Put this on," a female voice said. Was she the one from earlier?

Kaspar did not move. "Who the hell are you?"

"I don't have time to explain."

"Were you the one from this morning?"

"Look, mister, put this on and..."

A USR Agent moved in from behind her, three more behind him. They each held their 9MM handguns at the ready. Kaspar remained in his knelt stance but put his hands straight up in the air. The woman was more defiant and stood, her body remained stiff as a board. The lead Agent walked past the woman and slowly approached Kaspar. Two approached the woman on each side. The last one approached her from behind.

"Put your hands up!" the Agent behind the woman shouted.

She remained still. The Agent moved in from behind. When he touched her back shoulder, the woman's helmet covered head flew back. The force of the blow broke the Agent's nose and he fell to the ground. She lifted the black helmet in her hand swiftly to stun the left Agent. She spun the helmet violently to her right. The battering ram knocked the right Agent out cold.

The intruder dropped the helmet. She spun to reach for the right Agent. She grabbed him underneath the arms and held him up before he fell to the ground. The Agent in front of Kaspar turned. He raised his handgun then pulled the trigger five consecutive times. The rounds ripped into his partner's midsection. The woman pushed the human shield forward with her left forearm. With her right hand, she reached into her jacket.

She retrieved a P99 hand gun. She pointed the barrel beside the shield's ear. Three rounds rocketed out of the gun. One round hit her target's shoulder. The other two tore holes in the wall. The intruder shoved the Agent forward into the man in front. The force of the impact knocked the gun out of his hand. She fired three more shots: two the chest, one to the head.

The left Agent regained his composure. He aimed his pistol at her. The woman dropped to the ground and rolled across the floor. The Agent fired consecutive shots which ripped through the wooden floor. She finished her roll. She raised her weapon and fired. One shot between the eyes.

Kaspar looked at the carnage in front of him. A fear he had never felt before froze him. Who this woman was no longer mattered. To get the hell out of here was all that mattered. The screams of the tenants filled his ear drums. He wanted to join them in their screaming. Nothing came out. His mouth just stayed open. The woman retrieved the black helmet and approached.

"Put this on." the intruder ordered once more.

He obeyed this time. The helmet fit snug over his head. It became a minor struggle to get it all the way down. He flipped the tinted visor down and followed the woman out into the hallway. All the tenants from the hallway retreated back into their rooms. The woman continued to lead the way. She held her P99 up with her right hand; poised to kill any Agents who might linger through the hall. She walked to the elevator and pushed the down button. It took an age for the old doors to open. The two walked inside. She pressed the L button. The doors struggled to close once more.

The two said nothing while the elevator struggled its way downward. Kaspar's mind was scrambled. He looked over to the woman through his visor. Who was she? What the hell just happened? What about Mother?

A strong jolt from the elevator left Kaspar stunned. He could not remember the last time he used this damn thing. The doors opened with a screeching cry. The woman walked out with her gun held up. Kaspar once again followed close in the rear. Behind the desk, the lobby attendant dropped to his knees in fear. He reached up for the phone...

"Don't." the woman said. Her tone was strong enough that the skinny hand left their sight.

Her pace quickened and Kaspar's as well behind. Once outside she sprinted towards a black motorcycle parked against the sidewalk. The woman replaced her hand gun back into the holster inside her jacket. Kaspar did not know the model of the bike. It had two head lights in front and a silver inscription which read "Triumph" along the gas tank. The bike's sleek design told him that this particular bike must have cost this woman a small fortune.

"Get on." she said. The engine roared to life.

Kaspar lifted his left leg over the seat cushion and inched his behind onto the seat. Before his right foot was off the pavement the bike roared forward. The bike raced like a rocket out of hell. The woman maneuvered the bike along both sides of traffic. She avoided the cars on either side with sweeping turns from left to right. The sound of the car horns were deafened by loud roars of the engine. Kaspar's grip on the woman tightened. He could feel the firmness of her breasts along the top of his forearms. He was never a ladies' man, yet here he found himself, groping this one and holding on for dear life.

Sounds of sirens came from behind. Kaspar heard a loud curse. The woman turned left down a one way street: going the opposite way. He closed his eyes and buried his covered head into the woman's back.

"Get off me!" she screamed.

Kaspar moved his head off her head just in time to see a honking car speed in their direction. The woman veered left onto the empty sidewalk. She maneuvered back onto the pavement and took the next right. The two were with traffic once again.

The sirens returned. The squad car's tires screeched along the pavement as its driver took a hard right to follow the bike in hot pursuit. What now? The woman's right hand jerked downwards on the handlebar. She tried to say something that Kaspar could not hear.

"What?" Kaspar yelled.

"Reach in my jacket," the woman screamed. "Take a gun!"

Kaspar moved his right hand inside her jacket and felt around. His hand reached the shoulder holster. He took hold of a gun, yanked it out, then his arms returned to their death grip along her midsection. The woman took another right.

"You have to shoot the tires out!" she yelled.

"What?!"

"Shoot the..."

A sharp left turn. The car in front slammed its brakes and pulled to the right. On the opposite side of traffic, a car blared its horn. A sharp right avoided that car. The driver of the squad car remained in hot pursuit as he calmly avoided the obstacles in front.

"The windshield is armored!" the woman cried. "You have to shoot the tires out! You can do it!"

Kaspar gripped the handle of the gun. He prepared to turn his body around What the hell did she think he would do? The handling of a gun was completely foreign to him. The idea came to his head that all he would have to do was point and shoot. After a deep breath, he moved his index finger towards the trigger. He wasn't ready to die, but what choice was there? Kaspar, still trying to get a firm grip on the handle, felt his thumb hit some type of lever. The magazine went crashing to the pavement.

"Are you kidding me?!" the woman screamed. "Hold on!"

A jolt propelled the bike forward. Kaspar held on as the force of the acceleration sent his body into her back. His heart never beat faster. The sirens got closer. The woman continued to accelerate. The cars in front moved to right. It made a clear path for whatever the woman had in her mind.

"Don't you move!" she yelled.

She gripped the brakes. Kaspar could feel the bike's tail start to move up. He closed his eyes and squeezed the wild person's midsection. The back tire lifted off of the pavement. The tail continued its rise. Kaspar's grip on the woman was now so tight that her circulation was cut off.

The woman rode the bike on its nose tire for several feet. She steered left; a car on the opposite side blared its horn before the driver narrowly avoided them. Kaspar could feel the weight shift and his head go light. She completed the 180 endo and pulled out a P99 from her left holster. The back tire slammed onto the pavement.

She fired consecutive shots into the front and back tires of the squad car. The Agent started to roll his window down to fire back. Control of the car had already been lost. A car coming on the opposite side of traffic slammed into it. The woman accelerated the bike forward and steered right into an alleyway.

"Are you crazy?" Kaspar yelled.

"If you weren't such a..."

She slammed the brakes. They just missed a speeding car on the other end of the alley. Without taking time to breath, she accelerated the bike at a lighting pace onto the street. The bike rocketed past both lanes of traffic into another alley straight ahead. Another set of sirens could be heard, but the bike was long out of sight. She took a left once out of the alley and sped along traffic. She took the next left before finally taking a right hand turn onto a quieter street.

"I think we lost them!" the woman yelled.

"Your mind must be with them!"

# Chapter .11

Sullivan waited in front of Fitzpatrick's desk. On either side of him sat the two bastards who gunned down the defenseless old leftover: Mason on his right, Wilcox on his left. He thought he understood his mission. To find and eradicate the resistance within the USR by any means necessary. Like today's mission, however, sometimes what his captain sent him out to do didn't make the most sense.

What would that woman have done if they just left her alone? What kind of information did Fitzpatrick think they could get out of her? Sullivan thought about it the entire ride back to the station. He tried with everything in him to come up with one, just one, justification for her death. Nothing came to mind.

Sullivan turned at the sound of the door opening behind him. Fitzpatrick strode in and eased the door shut. He had a stack of manila folders in his left arm and he walked over to his desk. Fitzpatrick sat the folders neatly on his desk. He pulled the expensive leather chair back. He sat down and took in a deep breath.

"That was a good job today," Fitzpatrick said. "You did me and the department proud."

Sullivan replied, "Thank you, sir."

"Why you thanking him?" Mason demanded.

Fitzpatrick leaned forward, "What are you talking about, Mason?"

"Mr. Sully had a crisis of conscience out there today."

"Will, what is he saying?"

"I wanted to bring her in for questioning." Sullivan replied. "Maybe get some valuable Intel from her." He turned to Mason and looked square in his eyes. "But these two gunslingers you sent me with couldn't hold it long enough."

Wilcox butted in, "That's our job, sir. To eliminate the resistance. Dead to the last man...or woman."

"An old woman. Who posed no threat whatsoever to us. We didn't even find anything in there, did we? We sure as hell can't question her now." Sullivan replied.

"She must have sent all her letters out." Mason said with a grin.

Fitzpatrick leaned back. "Were you able to find anything? Please tell me this operation had some merit."

"No, sir," Sullivan replied. "We found some knitting projects. She could've poked Wilcox to death with one of those plastic things."

"Fuck you, Sully..."

"Enough!" Fitzpatrick cried out. "We wasted a lot of good time out there today. Mason, Wilcox, you two sons of bitches need to cool your trigger fingers."

Mason cleared his throat, "Maybe Sully over here should stop being a pussy."

"Listen, you..." Sullivan said.

"No, you listen!" Mason shouted with a red face. "You could have gotten us killed today. Yeah, she only had a knitting needle, but what if she was packing? Wilcox would be dead for sure. Me, too. Only you and that woman would've made it out alive."

"What the hell?" Sullivan replied.

"She would have spared you, because you are working for them."

Fitzpatrick held up his hand. "Whoa, whoa, you know how we feel about making such accusations around here."

"Just speculating," Mason replied. He stood the pointed his index in Sullivan's face. "You put my life at risk again and I'll bury you."

Sullivan stood as well. Mason crossed the line. It was one thing to kill a leftover in cold blood with no evidence. It was another to bring Sullivan into it, and in the process, putting his family at risk. He balled his fists and fought back every urge to slug Mason. His face grew red and his breathing heavy.

"That's quite an accusation," Sullivan said through gritted teeth. "You have any proof?"

Wilcox stood from behind, "Plenty. You didn't want us killing one of your own people. I get it. You hide behind that badge and feed secrets to them. Think about it."

Sullivan's heart rate increased with the reddening of his face. He felt surrounded and his self-defense instincts started to kick in. He could feel Wilcox's hot breath against the back of his neck. Mason just stood in front of him, not wavered by Sullivan's standing up to him.

"Enough," Fitzpatrick called from behind his desk. "Mason, Wilcox step outside."

"But, sir..." Mason said; his gaze still on Sullivan.

"Get out now!"

Wilcox's eyes met Sullivan's as he walked from behind. He grabbed the gold door handle and exited first. Mason gave another point at Sullivan before he followed his ass mate outside. He slammed the door shut behind him. Sullivan wondered how the glass stayed intact.

"You don't believe him, do you?" Sullivan asked. He sat back down in his chair.

"No," Fitzpatrick replied. "They just want your job. But you should take extra precaution out there. You know how it works."

Sullivan sighed, "I understand. Where do we go from here? We found nothing at that leftover's house."

"I don't know. Forte is out there, though, he'll find something for us to do."

"Aye, Captain."

"How's your boy doing?"

The one thing that Sullivan promised himself he would never do was to bring his family to work. No matter how hard he tried to keep the two separate, Fitzpatrick would bring up little Davie out of nowhere. Why? What did his son have to do with any of this?

"Got straight A's on his last report card." Sullivan said.

"Smart boy. You're raising a regular old genius. Maybe he'll grow up to be like us someday."

"Like you said," Sullivan sighed. "He's a smart boy."

The door burst open and startled both men inside. The two dick wads entered with an attractive brunette who held a small phone to her ear. The expression on her face told Sullivan that something big had just gone down. Mason and Wilcox matched each other with stupid grins. Not a good sign, either.

"Sir," the brunette said.

"Yes," Fitzpatrick replied.

"We've got trouble. There was a shooting at that apartment your men were just at. Three Agents are dead and one more is in bad shape."

"Still think she's innocent, Sully?" Mason demanded.

"William," Fitzpatrick said and stood from his chair. "Take your two partners and get over there now!"

What the hell was going on?

# Chapter .12

The woman stopped the motorcycle in front of a small, one bedroom house. Kaspar recognized it; he made frequent visits to that old piece all the time. It was Danny's house. What were they doing here? Did this have something to do with that man he said he knew? Kaspar lifted his right leg over the seat. Once on his feet, struggled to take the helmet off. He placed it on the seat cushion and followed the woman. She kept looking from side to side to ensure that nobody followed them here. After two rings on the door bell, Danny arrived and hurried both of them in.

Once inside the woman took off her helmet. She shook her jet black hair loose. She had to be that same woman from the alley earlier in the morning. No doubt about it. Just what had Danny gotten into? More importantly, why did he lie about it? The woman looked over at Kaspar then to Danny.

"Here's your boy," she said. "He's a real butch."

"Just who in the hell are you, anyway?" Kaspar demanded.

"The name's Krysta, but you can just call me Krys."

"Well, Krys," Kaspar said. He bowed his head, "It's nice to meet you, you fucking lunatic."

"I just saved your life, Thumbelina. How about a thank you?"

"Well, thank you all the same. But with that crazy driving you could've gotten us both killed."

"And," Krys said, "If I hadn't have saved your sorry ass they would've killed you. So, what exactly is your argument here?"

"Krys," Danny said. He walked over and rubbed at the woman's shoulders. "He's under a lot of stress, why don't you let me talk to him?"

"Sure," Krys said. She turned towards the door. "I have to get back anyway."

"You watch yourself out there." Danny said.

"I'll be fine."

Krys walked out the door, holding her helmet in her left hand. Kaspar watched as Danny stared down her backside. It was confirmed now; Danny had lied to him earlier. He felt like punching the old man in the face. Outside of Mother, Danny was the only person he thought he could trust. He couldn't trust anybody now.

"Danny, what is going on?" Kaspar asked.

"Have a seat in the living room." Danny replied. He looked around the neighborhood before he shut the door and locked the dead bolt.

Kaspar walked into the living room and took a seat on the couch. His nerves calmed, but the anger burned inside of him still. He rubbed his fists together while he rocked his upper body back and forth. Confusion joined with anger and sorrow in the consummation of his mind. Her death not fully sunk in, all he could think about were her eyes. Her wide open eyes...

In an attempt to get his mind off of Mother, he looked around at the old pictures that Danny had posted on the walls. He saw pictures of Danny and Ruth on their wedding day. That stupid grin on Danny's face made him look like the happiest man on the planet. There were also pictures of the fighters that he trained in the old days. Kaspar noticed one with a mean looking black man, with some kind of tattoo on his face, holding a title belt in the air.

Danny entered the living room, which broke Kaspar's thoughts from the pictures on the wall. The old man had two mugs with steam shooting up from the tops. He handed one to Kaspar before he took a seat on his recliner. Kaspar put the mug to his lips and let the bland tasting coffee burn down his dry throat.

"What the hell is going on? Why did you lie to me?" Kaspar demanded.

"Lied about what?"

"That woman. The woman you said you didn't know. Why did you lie about that and just who in the hell are you anyway?"

"Easy, boy, easy."

"Don't you tell me to take it easy. I just saw my mother lying dead on the couch—just had my life flash before my eyes with that crazy woman you said you didn't know..."

"I'll give you some answers once you calm your wily ass down!"

He sipped at the hot coffee once more. Danny was right, no matter how hard it was to agree with him. Calm down, get the answers, and then beat the shit out of him. Getting all hot and bothered right now would serve no purpose. What was done was...the answers would come. He just needed to know who killed Mother so the favor could be returned.

"You calm now?" Danny asked.

"Yes," Kaspar replied.

"Good. First things first, I guess. I've been dishonest with you for a while...a long time actually. Pretty much from the day we met."

"I knew it..." Kaspar replied. He had to force himself to not lose control again.

"I haven't been training you just to fight and win money. I've been working for someone else...someone who is deep within the resistance."

Kaspar took another sip, "The resistance? Who is this person?"

"He's a leftover, just like me. He's known nothing but war. So, needless to say, he started his own little war once the USR started getting bigger."

"Unbelievable."

"Well, believe it, son. You'll be the third person that I've trained for him. One of my guys just bit the dust. You see that on the news?"

Kaspar did remember the news broadcast from the other day. The Consul held up a tattered American flag. He remembered, to a round of applause, the Consul vowed to hunt down and kill all the resistance members. He remembered Mother making a comment about what that flag meant to her before she spaced out on him and forgot what she was saying. The spacing out increased with each of those pills she was forced to take.

"This is crazy," Kaspar replied. "Danny? You of all people?"

"That's right. But, you're not ready, yet. You've still got your own personal shit that you need to take care of first."

"Do you know who killed my mother?"

"Not specific people, of course. But, we do know that the USR was responsible for it." Danny said. He sipped at his coffee.

"The USR? Why?"

"From what we were able to dig up, someone being interrogated—tortured—implicated her as sympathetic to the resistance. That, plus her age, and you've got a recipe for arrest or...well, you know."

"That's bullshit. Bullshit. All she did was watch TV all day and knit and..." Kaspar paused. He felt a warm tear roll down his cheek.

"Krys was sent in to save your mother, but she didn't make it in time. You're just lucky she was able to get your patty ass outta there."

"I'm glad," Kaspar used his arm to wipe away the tear, "that you guys have an excellent sense of timing."

"I'm sorry. I liked her and I know how much she meant to you. If there was anything that could've been done..."

None of this made any sense, Kaspar thought as Danny's words started to fall on deaf ears. Kaspar started to rock back and forth on the couch once more, his arms folded across his chest. Nothing but questions filled his mind now. Questions that needed answering. Answers that he started to doubt would come.

"Did you give her up?" Kaspar asked without looking at Danny.

"What?" Danny replied, shocked at the question.

"You know," Kaspar looked over at Danny. "As a means of getting to me?"

"No."

"You sure about that?"

"What's gotten into you? We tried to save her."

"What about me? The USR knows who I am now. They'll come looking for me."

"They rely too much on their technology," Danny replied. "We've erased you from their system. You'll be fine."

"Erased me?"

"They no longer have a file on you. So, unless you are face to face with anyone who saw you today, you'll be fine."

"Who's the leader? He's that guy you talked about who might have work for me, right?" Kaspar demanded.

"Yes. I was going to introduce you to him in due time, but like I said, you're not ready. But, they just lost a man, so maybe."

"Maybe I should go it alone. You know? Find the killers myself. Nobody to get in my way."

"You'll be dead within the hour," Danny said. He fished a cigarette out of his chest pocket and pulled out a lighter. "The resistance, they have the tools necessary for you. I just don't know if right now is the right time."

"Could there be a better time?"

Danny nodded. "I see your point."

The smell of burning tobacco attacked Kaspar's nostrils. He looked over and saw Danny held one out for him. Kaspar accepted it and placed it in between his dry lips. The old man lit the cigarette for him. A deep breath forced a violent cough. It drew a laugh from the old man.

"When can I talk to him?" Kaspar asked. He ignored the laugh.

"I can arrange a meet up tonight. Just be on your best behavior. Don't go messing this up."

"I've already done enough of that."

"Meet him at the corner of Fifth and Main. Eight-thirty: sharp."

***

The bodies of the dead Agents lay on the near rotten floors for Sullivan's visual delight. The coroner bumped into him from behind with the black bags. The Agent with the broken nose sat on the couch where the leftover's body had been. He held a handful of gauze over the nose, the blood still leaked through. Somebody had some fun, all right.

"Did you see anything?" Sullivan asked while he approached the Agent.

"Yeah," he replied. "There was this guy. Pretty tall, I suppose, looked like he could handle himself in a fight."

"Did he look like he knew her?"

"She was probably his mother. He must've lived here, too. One of the bedrooms is full of men's clothing and shit."

Son of a bitch, Sullivan thought. He cursed himself for leaving the scene and leaving the cleanup to these neophytes.

"Did he do all of this?" Sullivan demanded.

"No," the Agent replied. He pulled back the gauze for a moment and the blood flowed still. He replaced the gauze and squeezed at his nose. "There was this...woman, I think. She did the shooting, sir."

"You think it was a woman?"

"This person sure as hell didn't have a typical male body if it was a he."

"Describe this person."

"About five seven, maybe eight. She wore a black jacket, dark jeans. She had on this black helmet with a tinted visor, so I can't tell you what she looks like or nothin'."

"And 'she' did all of this?" Sullivan asked to reiterate.

"That's right, sir."

"No backup or anything?"

"No, sir. She moved so fast. I didn't even see the blow comin' that knocked my ass out."

"Tell me more about the man that was here. Did he say anything? Do anything?"

"He just stayed on his knees. Held his hands straight up in the air like a good citizen."

"Describe him for me a little more." Sullivan said.

"I don't know, man. Details are still a bit hazy. Sandy blonde hair, buzzed. Scruff on his face. Blue eyes."

"Is that all you have for me?"

"That's it," the Agent replied. "I was knocked out when that girl had her fun. I didn't see the shootin' take place."

"All right. Get yourself to the hospital and get that nose cleaned up."

"Thank you, sir."

The Agent stood and saluted Sullivan with his free hand before he walked out. Pointless, Sullivan thought. He heard the Agent slam his fist into the doorway before he walked out. Sullivan shook his head and walked towards the back. Inside what was presumed now to be the leftover's son's old bedroom stood Mason and Wilcox. They already started ripping the place to pieces.

"You find anything in here?" Sullivan asked.

"No, we haven't," Mason replied. "Clever asshole didn't leave a shred of anything."

"That's just lovely. Let me know if you find anything."

Wilcox folded his arms across his chest, "That pussy with the broken nose, he have anything useful?"

"No."

"That's just great detective work, Sully." Mason replied.

"Just keep on doing what you're doing. Let me know if you find anything. If there is anything to find."

Another dead end.

# Chapter .13

Kaspar looked down at his watch. The impatience within grew stronger. Eight-thirty sharp his ass. It was almost twenty 'till nine now. He looked away from his watch before he zipped up his track jacket. The chill of the night started to get to him. Curfew's approach moved at a rapid pace and the only thought in his mind was that this man had better show up. Another part of his mind continued to tell Kaspar that the old man was full of shit. Danny, a member of the resistance? Not a shot in hell.

A large, African-American man started to approach, causing Kaspar's heart rate to increase several beats. The dim street lamps made it difficult to make anything out of the man. What could be seen, however, would make anybody want to turn and run: USR in bold yellow letters across the chest. Panic took over now and his mind raced for a quick way out of this.

Maybe he was just on patrol. Kaspar looked away and tried to act natural. Did Danny set him up in a trap? How stupid could one be to listen to a man who built an entire relationship on a lie? That whole erasing you from the system sounded like pure horse shit, too. A glance back over and the Agent continued his approach.

The thought of running sprang to mind. With all that gear on, not to mention the man's size, Kaspar had an easy advantage in terms of speed. The problem with that idea was clear. The Agent had a gun and a radio. He knew where the others were on patrol, so he had back up, too. Kaspar erased that idea from his mind and remained still.

Act cool. Act natural.

"Can I see your identification, citizen?" the Agent demanded.

"Yes, sir." Kaspar replied. He reached into his pocket and handed over his USR ID card.

The Agent pointed his small flashlight into Kaspar's eyes. Kaspar squinted as his eyes adjusted to sudden bright light. The Agent moved the light away onto the ID card before he moved the light back on to his face. Kaspar's heart raced like he just ran a marathon and the thought of running suddenly seemed like a good one again.

The Agent broke the silence, "Ryan Kaspar?"

"That's right."

"Follow me."

Instincts crept in as the Agent led the way down the street. Kaspar looked for any exposed pressure points he could use to stun the large man in front of him. Once stunned, he could take the Agent's gun and blow his face off with it. Despite a damn good effort, Kaspar could not keep his legs from shaking.

What now? What is this Agent going to do to me? They thought Mother was a rebel, they'll think the same about me. They'll blame that entire shooting on me and throw me in the gas chamber. Goddamn you, Danny.

The two men arrived at an abandoned antique shop on the other side of the street. No one bothered to buy the property and the windows had long been busted out. The wooden door in front showed its age and years of non-maintenance. The Agent grabbed the wobbled door handle and forced the door open.

"Step inside," he ordered.

"What for?" Kaspar asked. He felt the immediate urge to slap himself.

"Step inside, now!"

The inside proved to be a bigger mess than the outside. The light that penetrated through the broken windows revealed dust and broken glass on the dirty floor. A pack of rats ran down the hall along the floorboards. Maybe they could feast on Kaspar's flesh when the Agent got done with him.

"Down the stairs." the Agent ordered.

Kaspar moved towards the circular, claustrophobic stair well in front of him. The rusted metal stairs cried with each step down. The feeling that these stairs led to his death could not escape. He hoped it would be quick, like how he imagined Mother's death. Just give one to the head and be done with it. No need to prolong it. Then again, the USR were inhumane pieces of trash that needed to make examples out of citizens...

Don't think like that.

The unknown was about to be discovered. Once at the bottom of the steps, the Agent behind pressed Kaspar forward. A light bulb hung from the ceiling and only gave a dim light. The sound of glass crunching underneath two pairs of boots and rats clawing through the walls filled the air. A doorway at the end provided a sense of ironic relief. Just get this over with...

Inside sat a wooden table and three individuals. They all wore the same black getup that the Agent behind had on. One older gentleman sat at the head, two men standing on either side behind him. The man on the right looked out of place with his thick black rimmed glasses and scraggly white hair. The one of the left looked no taller than five foot five and wore a cocky smirk. He stared into the Asian man's squinted eyes then looked elsewhere to the left and a familiar woman stood leaned up against the wall: Krys. She provided a brief sigh of relief. She did not go through all that trouble today just to give him up...right?

"You weren't followed?" asked the leader in a raspy voice.

"No. All's clear." the Agent replied.

"Take a seat, Ryan."

Kaspar sat down on the chair in front of him. The loose legs of the chair made comfort impossible. He looked into the old man's eyes and didn't like what he saw. Suddenly, those uneasy feelings made themselves at home once more. The whole room felt like a prison and no one was coming to save him. In an attempt to relieve some of the tension, he looked back at that familiar face. She just looked expressionless back at him. The tension remained.

"Who are you people?" Kaspar demanded.

"The name's Paxton. Danny sent you here?"

"That's right."

"What are you doing here?" Paxton asked.

"Excuse me?"

"You must have a reason for being here to put Danny through the trouble."

"Danny told me that he knew the leader of the resist..."

"You watch that kind of talk, boy scout." Paxton interrupted.

"I'm sorry, I..."

"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again."

Kaspar looked around the room. Every single pair of eyes looked with intent at him. There was no doubt that these people would kill him if they deemed it necessary. Kaspar cursed Danny once more under his breath. He breathed in deep and tried to relax.

"So," Paxton said. "What brings you here?"

"I wish to join your...endeavors." Kaspar replied.

"Why?"

Kaspar paused and his mind went blank at the search for the perfect answer. He went with the first thing that came to him.

"I look around this city," Kaspar said, "and I don't like what I see anymore."

"Don't bullshit me."

"What do you want from me, huh?"

"What do I want from you? You came here, remember? What do you want from us?" Paxton demanded.

In his mind, the scenario played out much different. Kaspar expected to be offered a job on the spot, to which he would respond in a positive manner. What he didn't expect was to be interrogated and that old ass man did very little in helping to prepare. To hell with this...

"Maybe this was a bad idea, Mr. Paxton. Sorry to waste your time." Kaspar said. He tried to stand, but felt two bear claws grip at his shoulders.

Paxton sighed. "I guess what I'm trying to figure out is if you are working for them."

"Them?"

"You know who I'm talking about."

"You think I'm working for the USR? After they killed my mother? Fuck you." Kaspar cried.

"Who knows? Maybe deep down you really hated her and you used her death as a way to get in good with me. Tear us up from the inside."

"Fuck you."

"Or, maybe you are just trying to prove something to that old man of yours..."

"Enough!" Kaspar yelled. His face beat red with rage and his knuckles white.

Kaspar looked around the dim lit room and caught nothing but ice cold stares his way. Except for one. Krys, she had this grin on her face, when Kaspar got a glimpse of her, she bit her bottom lip. She had a half frown, half smile as she tried to hide it. What was her problem?

"You know," Paxton said, bringing Kaspar back to reality. "We usually monitor our potentials for weeks before we arrange a meeting. We made a special exception for you."

"Why?" Kaspar demanded.

"Danny vouches for you. And, Danny is one of the few people that I trust."

"He did, huh?"

"Yes, he did. So, what are you really after?" Paxton asked.

"Revenge. To find each and every one of my mother's killers to put them in a body bag."

"Anything else?"

"I'm no patriot."

"Money?"

"I don't need it."

"Serving your community even?"

"No." Kaspar replied.

Paxton sighed, "Fine. If retribution is all you seek, we might be able to help you with that. Just don't get it stuck in your head that this is all about you."

"Fine."

"We need to get moving. We'll explain everything later. Just know that we don't have time for loose cannons. You step out of line—and you're done."

Kaspar's nerves calmed once more. He thought about the strange and unexpected turn of events. He was a prize fighter, he disappointed Mother time and again by entering the ring, and the only reason he did it was to keep her away from the dangerous world. That dangerous world found her anyway. Now, he would live the life of a vigilante, a mercenary. He would look over his shoulder now and every night his job would be to eradicate the USR, taking out the Agents that watched everybody's move.

No. His job would be to find those responsible for Mother's death. All that peace and we are the world shit could come later. He would find those responsible and, if that meant he must masquerade with these people for a while, then so be it.

"So, that's it?" Kaspar asked.

"That's it, unless you have any questions." Paxton replied.

"What is your aim?"

"Our aim is to bring back a world without fear, without control. I remember, as Danny did, what life was before."

"And committing acts of terrorism is the solution, right?"

It became Paxton's turn to grow a red face. He squinted his eyes and gave Kaspar a look of sheer anger. Paxton leaned his body forward and slammed his fists on the table.

"Who said that?" Paxton demanded. "The television reporters? Those politicians out there? Have you really been listening to them?"

"I'm just saying..."

"Don't just 'say' anything! If you think we're just a bunch of terrorists then get out of my face. Go out there and continue boxing or whatever it is you want to do. Go it alone for all I care and see how long your little revenge mission lasts."

Serves him right, Kaspar thought while he tried to fight back a grin. After all the old veteran accused him of earlier, a slight sense of satisfaction grew at seeing the leader get flustered.

"They will brand me a terrorist now, an enemy of the state." Kaspar said.

"Yes, they will. Do you know how much I hate wearing this shit?" Paxton pointed to the USR letters embroidered on his chest. "I'd rather be branded an enemy of the state than to be part of the state. Can you live with that?"

"I don't care."

"Do you have any other questions?"

"When do I start?" Kaspar asked, anticipation in his voice.

"Right now."

# Chapter .14

Kaspar looked down at the bloodied face of Razor. The behemoth lay unconscious on the blood stained mat. Kaspar raised his fists in the air and pumped them up and down in celebration. The crowd cheered him on and a smile broke across his face. The ring official carried with him an oversized duffel bag, no doubt filled with enough credits to live on for a long time. The prize fighter unzipped the bag to examine the contents. Inside, all he saw was Mother's face. Her eyes were wide open despite the fact that she was dead. He dropped the bag and tears flowed down his cheeks. Something could be felt in his right palm. A bloodied American flag patch rested there...

The van braked to a stop, jolting Kaspar from his sleep. He tried to get his bearings back as he looked around the van. His left shoulder ached from leaning against the window. He looked towards the bench in front of him and was met with a concerned face.

"Hey," Krys said, "you okay, man?"

"I'm fine. Just a bad dream."

"What kind of dream?"

"You wouldn't understand." Kaspar replied.

"Fine. We're here." Krys said. She stretched out her back and let out a yawn.

The short Asian man stood up and undid the back double doors. He moved out followed by Krys. Kaspar felt a sharp pain in his left eye as he rubbed at both eyes. Another round of ice packs would be necessary before the eye became a swollen mess once again. He stood and ducked his head from the roof and hopped out of the van. His feet landed on the tiny rocks of the driveway.

Kaspar stretched out his back then looked forward. An old two story building stood in front of him. The exterior looked like it had been abandoned years ago by the look of the chipped white paint and black shutters. There was nothing but forest surrounding the place. They took him to the middle of nowhere. At least they knew how to pick a safe house.

After a yawn, he followed the others to the front porch. Paxton reached into his pockets and fished out a set of keys. It took four different keys to unlock the four deadbolt locks that ran down the door. With all the deadbolts undone, he unlocked the handle with a fifth and final key. With the door opened, Paxton walked in and flipped on the light switch.

The others entered the old building first, Kaspar followed behind the Asian. A short right turn took him into the living room. Two well-worn couches rested on the damaged wooden floor. On the coffee table sat newspapers and propaganda letters the USR sent out like clockwork. The couches faced a thirty two inch flat screen television.

Something caught his eye in the back. There were stairs that led to the second floor and a banister at the top. Over the banister hung that evil flag with its red and white strips, the fifty white stars and blue background on the left hand side. The sheer size of the flag made it look like an idol that these people worshipped. Did he get drafted into a rebellion or a cult? It would be any moment now before they asked him to bow before it or put his hand over his heart. Kaspar stared at the flag and, for the first time, wondered what in the hell he got himself into.

"Come on," Paxton said, interrupting Kaspar's thoughts. "Follow me."

Kaspar shook his head and followed the leader through the kitchen into the garage. Paxton opened a door in the garage and led the way into a large storage room. A flick of the light switch and the illumination revealed that the storage room had been turned into a briefing room. There were three rows of tables and chairs, a podium in front, another American flag at the left, and a large projection screen.

The others filed into the room. They took their places in front of the podium and stared at the new recruit. Kaspar stared right back at them. Nobody made a sound. There were no sudden moves. It was another stare down. Didn't these people have voices? Were they not allowed to speak unless given permission?

Another thought crept in as he stared at his new squad mates. What in the hell was this? From all the news reports the USR put out, he imagined the resistance being something on a much larger scale. Kaspar's initial thought at the abandoned shop was that there would be more rebels to be met later. That thought turned out to be dead wrong, apparently. There were only six of them, including Kaspar. Where was all the high tech equipment, the military grunts, the special ops stuff? Just how full of shit was the USR?

Paxton took his place at the end of the row, next to the big black man with the shined bald head.

"Time to introduce you to the team." Paxton said.

"Okay." Kaspar replied.

"Big guy here is Ron Kilbourne. He's our specialist in explosives. He did as much for the USR before he defected and joined our side. He's also my second in command. Come to him if you need anything."

"Nice to meet you." Kilbourne's gruff voice said.

"You were with the USR?" Kaspar asked.

"Sure was. But, I got out when they started asking me to do some wild shit."

Kaspar started to ask another question, but Paxton moved down to the skinny guy with the glasses. Glasses man looked up and rubbed at his red nose.

"Skinny guy here is Robert Clarke. He's our...eyes you could say. He's a real high tech nerd."

"I'm not a nerd," Clarke said, he adjusted the glasses on the rim of his nose. "I'm just a guy who happens to be good at what he does. When you guys go out on missions, I'm the one who keeps your rear ends in one piece."

"Good to know," Kaspar replied.

Paxton moved down the line to Krys. She stood there with her arms folded across her chest and no facial expression.

"You've already met Krys."

"Yeah, so he knows my skills on the bike, right?"

Kaspar said nothing.

"She can handle herself," Paxton continued. "Her skills on the bike do come in handy as does her skill in infiltration. Quiet as a mouse, she is."

Up next came the short oriental guy, with the same cocky expression on his face.

"Yung Li, double black belt in Tae Kwon Do. Li knows Danny quite well. He trained him in another one of those underground fighting leagues."

Li took a bow in front of Kaspar and didn't say anything. Kaspar nodded at the bowing Li and wondered what in the hell he was doing. He thought about the assertion from Paxton that this tiny kid was a double black belt. Could he be taken in a fight? Kaspar thought so. Maybe he would find out one day.

"So," Kaspar said. "Was Danny an old prick to you, too?"

Li moved his head up and nodded a yes.

"Yung, he doesn't talk much. He's still working on his gun fighting but if things get to close quarters...well, don't be the other guy." Paxton said.

Li smiled.

"Well, I guess that leaves me. We do have rules which I can explain to you in the morning. Right now, you need some rest. Everyone is dismissed."

"I have questions." Kaspar replied, the others filed their way out of the room around him.

"Sleep on them. You'll have all day to ask away tomorrow. A lot will be explained to you and we've got some stops to make as well. Robert here will show you to your room."

"Follow me," Clarke said.

Paxton remained in the situation room as Kaspar followed the skinny guy out. He followed back into the living room and to the stairs. They began their accent upwards when something...beautiful caught Kaspar's eyes. Krys walked across the hall in nothing but a black sports bra and gray sweat pants. She had a work of art going down her rib cage. A red rose with some red petals falling down her bronzed skin.

"Eyes to yourself," Krys said without a look over, "Mr. Kaspar."

Kaspar moved his eyes away and focused them on Clarke. They reached the top of the stairs and into a narrow hallway. The wooden floors here made more noise than the ones at the old apartment. At the very end, to the left, Clarke opened the white painted door.

A small bedroom waited inside. No decorations on the walls or anywhere else, save a picture of a bald eagle in a gold frame on the night stand. I really am joining a cult, he thought. The hope was that at least this cult would provide him with a gun, and train him how to use that gun to kill as many USR before his own death. Kaspar moved to the white cot and took a seat. His ass fell straight down.

"That bed's kinda old." Clarke said.

"Tell me about it."

"There's some clothes in that closet. They belonged to...well, he was about your size."

"I'll be wearing a ghost's clothes, then?"

"Yeah, sort of. Just watch yourself when you talk about Zach. We are all still stinging from it."

"So, that was his name."

"If you need anything, I'm in the room directly across from you. Have a good night."

Kaspar stood as the door closed. He walked over to the closet. Not much in the way of clothes hung inside. A few pairs of jeans, plain short and long sleeve shirts, and white tees folded on the shelf above. He shut the door and stripped down to his boxers.

The tears started to flow once more. Kaspar buried his head into the soft white pillow and didn't try to stop them. He felt a sharp pain in his left eye, but ignored it. No matter how valiant the attempt, he could not get his mother's eyes out of his mind.

He hoped that joining this rag tag band of rebels would make the pain go away.

# Chapter .15

Paxton led the way to a small storage closet. The day already turned into an interesting one for Kaspar. He had the fine pleasure of enjoying a plate full of bacon made from one hundred percent pork. Kilbourne put it best as Kaspar devoured the stuff, "Better than that tofu shit you're used to." That farmer, who lived twenty-five or so miles to the left, would sure be in for it once the government found out he slaughtered animals for human consumption.

The lights flickered on and finally there was something that resembled progress. Inside laid racks upon racks of guns bolted to the walls. Along the two walls were submachine guns and assault rifles. Kaspar listened as the old leader rattled off their names: MP5, MP10, MP7, LWRC PSD, M4 Carbine, and UMP9. Several shotguns at the end to the left: Remington, Sawed off, Lupara. It was all gibberish to Kaspar. By the time Paxton got around to how many shells a Remington could carry, his attention had wavered to the point of half listening. On the far back wall were the side arms: P99, Glock 17 and 19, Smith and Wesson 9MM.

"You ever hold a gun before?" Paxton asked. "I mean, before yesterday?"

"No."

"We'll have to get you used to it."

Kaspar chuckled.

"What?" Paxton demanded.

"Nothing, it's just that, I'd always heard stories about how Americans loved their violence and clung to their guns."

"We used to have the right to carry weapons for self-defense. But, I guess the new USR laws served you a whole shit load of good, didn't they?"

Kaspar nodded. The old man had a point.

Paxton reached for the rack of hand guns and held out a black and silver P99. Kaspar took hold of it, the barrel pointed straight at Paxton's chest. The leader took hold of the barrel and moved it away before Kaspar knew what happened.

"Be careful. The safety's on, but accidents do happen. Always practice safety when you handle one of these, you get me?"

Then don't hand it over with the barrel pointed to you, Kaspar thought. He fastened the weapon into the thigh holster given to him after breakfast. Next came the MP7, which Kaspar slung over his shoulder with the black strap. He led the way out of the storage area, with Paxton taking the lead shortly after they walked out.

They were soon out in the back yard. The cool chill of the morning air caused goose bumps to form on Kaspar's bare arms. He told himself it was the air, at least. There was something overwhelming that brewed inside that was most likely the root cause of the bumps. On his thigh and over his back was the power to swiftly take the life of another human being. The very thing that took Mother away he would have to wield in order to find inner peace.

The large, beautiful lawn housed several wooden shelters. The shelters were open in the front with paper targets nailed to the back. The loud crackle of gun fire filled his ear drums. The others got a head start on their weapons training for the day.

"Cease fire!" Paxton cried.

The crackling continued until Paxton raised his voice. He was heard this time and the rebels ceased fire. Kaspar was led to the shelter at the far end. The others stared him down until he reached it. He felt a certain level of discomfort with strangers, trained killers at that, staring him down with loaded guns in their hands.

In front of the last shelter stood a waist high wooden table with the words "DEATH TO THE USR" inscribed with a combat knife across. Paxton ordered the rookie to inspect his weapon and prepare to fire. Kaspar pulled the P99 out of the holster and looked down at it, dumbfounded. He looked wide eyed at Paxton and shrugged his shoulders.

"This is the safety," Paxton said with a sigh. He walked over to Kaspar's position and pointed it out. "Switch it off."

With the safety off, Kaspar held the gun up and pointed it towards the paper target in front. He took in a few deep breaths and couldn't shake the awkwardness of not knowing how to shoot a gun. Not only that, but he could feel the eyes of the others squarely on him. His right index finger on the trigger, he was ready to fire...

"Remember," Krys said with a smile. "Don't release the clip until it's dry."

Kaspar turned to the woman and scrunched his eyebrows together. He felt the urge to point the weapon at her. Not to kill her, of course, but to give her a little scare. The smart side of his brain told him not to do it. He wouldn't last five milliseconds with all those others who actually knew how to handle their firearms. He put Krys's comment on the back burner and refocused his attention on the target.

"Krys, shut up," Kilbourne said.

"Yes, sir!" Krys replied, she gave Kilbourne a fake salute and her smile remained.

When Mother died, Kaspar tried to imagine what the killer must have looked like. He put together this image of a man with a skinny face and a long, narrow nose. The eyes were fire red and the killer's smile revealed brown, rotten teeth. The black outline of the human head became replaced with this face. The killer stood tall and skinny in front of Kaspar. Kaspar pointed the handgun in his direction and aimed for the head. He pulled the trigger four times...

All four shots missed wide. The sound of Krys's laughter could be heard over the ringing in his ears. In a fit of frustration, Kaspar slammed the gun down on the table and cursed aloud. He then spit out of his mouth and looked at the paper target. One three inches to the left of skull, the second shot missed the left shoulder by two inches, the third an inch above the head, the final shot three inches northwest.

"Goddamn it," Kaspar cried. "Tell that woman to shut her mouth."

"Krys, you are not helping." Paxton said. He reached out and touched her shoulder.

"Sorry, boss, just having a bit of fun." Krys replied.

"Let him get better. We don't want him shooting us out there."

"Yeah," Kilbourne chimed in. "You won't be laughing when he accidently blows your head off."

Paxton walked over to Kaspar and looked him square in the eye. Kaspar moved his head to the left avoid the old veteran's gaze. Undeterred, Paxton continued to move forward until he invaded the neophyte's personal space. Kaspar could feel the old man's hot breath and instinctively backed away.

"What was that?" Paxton demanded.

"Huh?" Kaspar replied.

"I said: what the fuck was that?"

"I missed."

"You didn't just miss. I've seen men stricken with palsy shoot straighter than that." Paxton breathed in and looked towards the bullet hole. The sight caused him to shook his head once more. "Pathetic."

"I'll go again," Kaspar said. He began to raise the gun at the target.

"No, you will not go again. You are wasting my ammunition and my time. You shoot too fast, like a high school boy on his first lay."

"I should slow down, then?"

"No, you shouldn't..."

In a blink Paxton's gun was pointed in Kaspar's face. Kaspar stared down the barrel of the gun then at its owner. The old veteran's eyes told him that Paxton would fire the weapon without a second thought. He backed away out of instinct and held his hands in the air.

"You see," Paxton said. He lowered the gun back at his thigh. "You've got to think quickly as well as act quickly."

"Okay."

Kaspar aimed the gun back at the paper target and breathed.

"What did I say? Holster that side arm, now!" Paxton shouted.

Was all this really worth it? Kaspar kept asking that question as he put the gun back in the holster. He could not shoot worth anything. If he went out on his mission of vengeance right now, he would get nothing but a quick death. Paxton ordered him to step aside and he did. He watched as Paxton aimed the gun at the target.

BANG BANG BANG!!!

A look of shock filled Kaspar's face when he saw the target. Two shots center mass on the chest and one dead center on the head. The shots were fired so fast that it didn't even appear that there was any aim involved. It was like Paxton had been gifted super human abilities with a handgun. How in the hell did he do that?

"That's how you shoot." Paxton said.

"How'd you do that?" Kaspar asked, still in shock.

"I clung to my weapon and I aimed. Come over here."

Kaspar walked over to Paxton who clicked the safety back on. Paxton held the gun straight at the target and pointed to a knob at the end of the barrel.

"This is your sight," he said. "You get the top of that in line with the two pieces in back. That's how you aim. You'll also want to absorb the recoil when you fire. Use your right arm for that. You left hand and arm are used to support the weapon. Now, you may go again."

Paxton stepped aside. Kaspar reached down and pulled the side arm out of the holster. He pointed the gun at the target. He breathed in deep. He straightened his right arm and used his left arm to hold the gun in place. He stared down the sight and aimed for the head. He took a breath and fired one shot.

It landed above the head again. Only this time it was missed by mere centimeters.

"Progress." Paxton acknowledged. "Again."

# Chapter .16

Sullivan sat in Fitzpatrick's office without answers. Fitzpatrick flipped through a report at a feverous pace behind his desk. Sullivan wondered as he sat awaiting his next assignment how long it would be before the city grew tired of it and fired him. How long before the USR would rip apart the entire RU and start with fresh faces? He would settle with Mason and Wilcox getting the chop. Maybe then he would get some partners who actually knew what they were doing.

One thought continued to fester in his mind. He could not help but think that if there was a hell, it had Sullivan's name in permanent marker on the guest list. That old woman, she didn't deserve to die, Sullivan knew. But, that was not what bothered him so. If she did have any information on the resistance, that was gone. The resistance continued to run wild and would commit more acts of terrorism. He could have stopped it, or at least disrupted it, but he failed to reign in his partners. That would surely send him to that awful after life.

"Looks like Forte found something," Fitzpatrick said. He looked up from his report.

"He's going to have my job soon." Sullivan replied.

"Don't be like that. He doesn't have the leadership qualities you do. All he cares about is money."

"What did he find?"

"A young couple...they live in a busted up old apartment in downtown. Thomas Everson and his girlfriend, Francis B...erlovski. Ha, the fuck is she from?"

"What kind of evidence do we have?" Sullivan asked as he leaned forward. His interest had been piqued.

"Another one of Forte's suspects implicated them. Yelled out their names in between the screams."

Sullivan rubbed at his forehead, "At some point, we are going to have to rely on real, concrete evidence."

"These rebels are elusive, cunning, and smart. They don't leave behind much in the way of evidence, so we'll just have to make do with what little blessings we get. Keep the citizens happy and the Consul off our ass." Fitzpatrick replied.

"Whatever you say."

"Take Mason and Wilcox with you again."

Sullivan sighed, "Hopefully they don't shoot the place up again."

Fitzpatrick handed the file over to his top man. Sullivan flipped through the mug shots and read Thomas's profile. He clerked at one of the local grocery shops to make ends meet. They drew credit from the government to feed and clothe themselves. Something struck Sullivan as odd. He could feel something was wrong in the pit of his stomach.

"It's off." Sullivan said with his eyes still buried in the file.

"Excuse me?"

"Look at their ages, sir. Twenty-one and nineteen? Barely out of school? This Thomas kid grew up an orphan and was raised in the camps."

The camps were the schools that picked up orphans. In the beginning, there were still a lot of leftovers that were imprisoned. As a result, someone had to take care of their children. In response to this, the USR set up academies where the young were taught their philosophies and of the wickedness that came before. A majority of the boys who grew up there joined the military or became Agents upon graduation. Thomas was one of the few who did not meet the requirements to join either. He was tossed to the wolves and forced to make his own way.

"They were implicated," Fitzpatrick said again. "By a man in no position to lie, at that."

"Do you even believe your own bullshit?" Sullivan asked.

"Come on, our job is tough enough as it is. If it makes you feel any better, I'll give the no kill order to Mason and Wilcox."

"Like that's ever stopped them before?"

"Don't worry about it. They are two kids who don't contribute anything to our great society. Who cares?"

"Is that justice?" Sullivan demanded.

"What is justice?" Fitzpatrick replied. He leaned forward in his chair and pointed his index finger at the window. "Seeing those rebels out there tearing our city apart, spreading their ridiculous theories and philosophies?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Take Mason and Wilcox with you. Bring those crooks in and we'll have a nice little chat with them, clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Maybe you were right about Forte. Get your ass over there."

"On the way." Sullivan said.

The Agent stood and saluted his boss before he turned and walked out the door. Nothing about this assignment sat well. The suspect's profile reeked of innocence. Just what was this all about? Some poor schmuck gets tortured and yells out names of people he knows, saying anything to stop the pain?

Sullivan walked into his office and touched at the small device inside of his ear. He dialed Mason's number into his wrist watch and awaited the bastard's voice. When the voice shot through, Sullivan ordered him to bring Wilcox into his office. He informed Mason of the new assignment and ended the call. The quicker the conversation the better.

He sat down in his chair, let out another sigh, and leaned back. He rubbed his fingers through his hair and something caught his eye. On his desk rested a golden framed picture of his son. Little Davie looked so happy, so full of life in all of his photos, this school picture especially. The innocence of youth slapped Sullivan in the face. He reached over and laid the picture down.

He hid his face from his smiling son.

***

Paxton threw the used cigarette butt outside the opened window. He looked over to the passenger seat. Kaspar lay on the bench; his black bag covered face looked straight up. He might have been asleep, lost in a sea of dreams. Paxton thought about checking on him, but thought better of it. If he were asleep, it would be best to let the kid get the winks in while he still could.

The more the miles went by, the more Paxton began to question himself about his latest recruit. The kid couldn't shoot worth shit, not to mention his emotional issues. Desperate times called for desperate measures, however. If Zach were still around, there was no way in hell they would even consider a punk like Kaspar. But, the larger question at hand became how to convince the members of The Committee to let him join.

The Committee, as Paxton explained it over breakfast, was a secret alliance formed by former politicians and young idealistic men. They had a Chamber in every major city across the country. Once the battle was won, the members would align themselves together to form the new government that would resemble that of old. That, of course, depended on whether or not the politician messed it up again or not.

Paxton tried to focus on the road again. The truth was, he hated these long drives back and forth, but he knew they were necessary. Times like these, with nothing but the paved road ahead, forced him to think about his wife again, his beautiful Randi. He remembered when he came home from North Korea, before everything went to shit, the look on her face when he walked into that gymnasium. She gave him that smile which originally caught his attention. The lights from the ceiling hit her eyes in such a perfect way that they lit up the entire room. He reached to her and wrapped his strong arms around her...

"We almost there?" Kaspar asked, the bag over his head muffled his words.

"Yeah, kid." Paxton replied.

"Good."

Kaspar couldn't remember how long it had been since that son of a bitch made him put that thing over his head. He thought he could get the better of Paxton, though, and tried to memorize the turns and how long in between. He gave up after the third left, which was preceded by four rights in quick succession. Upon giving up, his thoughts went back to Mother, of course. After about an hour on the firing range, he started to get a feel for shooting.

It won't be long now, Mother. Pretty soon, I'll be gunning people down like John.

The van came to an abrupt halt. The loud clicks of the emergency brake filled Kaspar's ears. About damn time. He sat up and cracked his back, then took off the black mask when given the order to do so. The back doors of the van opened up and Kaspar hopped out the back. With that bag over his head so long, the sunlight ripped into his corneas, forcing him to squint. There was nothing familiar about his surroundings. They were in an alley way in between tall buildings he never saw before.

Paxton reached into his pockets and fished out a security card while Kaspar followed him to the back door. The old veteran swiped the card then entered a five digit pass code. The air tight lock released with a long hiss. They entered the building then arrived in a dimly lit lobby. There was not a window in sight. No chance for the USR to get a peek or a shot in. Armed men, dressed in black fatigues, surrounded the room. M4 Carbines rested in each of their hands, an American flag attached to their thick Kevlar vests.

Kaspar could feel that familiar feeling that increased in annoyance. The feeling of not knowing what was going on would soon drive him to madness. He just wanted to...feel as if he was in the loop, if for nothing else that his own mind's sake. The eerie silence of the room didn't help matters at all. All those guards were so damned quiet. None of them moved, save for one guard who checked his wrist watch. It wasn't enough to have to meet The Committee, but the silence added to his nervousness. Somebody say something...

"Let me tell you something, kid." Paxton said.

"What's that?" Kaspar asked, his eyes continued to dart around the lobby.

"Just answer each of their questions with a 'yes, sir' and you'll be fine."

"What questions should I expect?"

"Remember how I grilled you last night?"

"How'd I do?" Kaspar asked, but he already knew the answer.

"You failed miserably."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence."

"Oh," Paxton said, "one more thing."

"What?"

"The Committee wants patriots, not vigilantes. Keep your little revenge mission to yourself."

Paxton led the way to the front desk. The silent armed guards kept their gaze on the two men. Seated behind the desk a plain looking receptionist sat. When her eyes met Paxton's, an all too pleasant smile grew from ear to ear.

"Ah, Mr. Paxton, how are you today?"

"Not bad, yourself?" Paxton replied.

"Just fine, thanks."

"How are Isabella and Isaac?"

"Ike brought home straight A's and Bella's learning to talk a bit better, sweetheart."

Paxton chuckled, "So, you can actually make out what she says?"

"Ha, just a little bit. What brings you here today?"

"New recruit," Paxton said. He motioned for Kaspar to step up to the desk. "We need to introduce him to the Board."

"And, what's your name, sugar?" the receptionist asked. Her pleasantness gave Kaspar the creeps.

"Ryan."

"Well, I'm Amy. It's so nice to meet you."

Amy stuck out her skinny hand and Kaspar embraced it. He applied little pressure to the handshake, wouldn't be much of a first impression if he shattered every bone in the poor receptionist's hand.

"It'll be just a moment." Amy said and stood up from her chair. "I'll let them know you're here. Y'all just relax out here for a moment."

Easy for you to say, Kaspar thought. He knew that this would be the only legitimate shot he had to exact revenge. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed Paxton's teaching and the resistance's weapons to pull it off. The nervous energy inside of him intensified when he tried to think of what The Committee would ask him. He tried to come up with as many bullshit responses before he would have to go in there.

"Stop that." Paxton said.

"Stop what?"

"Worrying. It's all over your face. If you want to make it through this, calm down and cowboy up."

A door opened to the right and Kaspar looked over. Out walked Amy, with that same creepy smile on her face. What was she so happy about? She informed the two men that The Committee members were ready. Paxton stood and led the way to the door. Once they reached the door, he gave a light shove to Kaspar's chest.

"Wait out here," Paxton ordered. "Let me go in first and butter them up for you."

"Sure, take your time."

Paxton sighed, "Just take a seat over there."

There was a small wooden bench on the opposite side of the door. Kaspar walked over to it and sat down. His head went straight to the floor. He wondered how long the old man would be in there for. He hoped that it wouldn't take long. Ever since Paxton told him to keep his lust for revenge private, that was all Kaspar could think about. No matter how hard the fight, he knew deep down it was a losing battle.

Killing the men responsible...was all he lived for now.

# Chapter .17

Sullivan stood by the rotten frame of the doorway. Inside, Thomas and his girlfriend Francis were supposedly constructing their plot to bring down the mighty USR. The drive here didn't put to rest his doubts about the suspects. In fact, the doubts increased. He announced a brief moment before that there were Agents outside who just wanted to talk. No response, yet. Another knock on the door, this time he put more force behind his fist. No response.

"USR!" Sullivan yelled. "Don't make us kick the door in!"

"Sully," Mason cried. "Quit dicking around over there and kick that door in!"

Sullivan glanced over at Wilcox who gave him a blank stare back. His heart began to race and failed in its attempt to escape the ribcage. He turned his body to the door. It wouldn't take much to kick in this piece of shit. Behind the full force of a right kick, the door gave way and splinters from the door frame flew through the stale air. Sullivan retrieved his Glock and pointed it straight forward. From behind, he could feel his two partners pushing him out of their way.

No sign of the suspects in the living room, the young pricks would force the Agents to search for them. They were found huddled together inside of the bedroom closet. Thomas struggled to cover up Francis as she screamed aloud. Sullivan peered into the young boy's terrified eyes. They were not the eyes of a hardened rebel who plotted against a powerful government.

"Thomas Everson?" Sullivan asked.

"Yes, officer?" Thomas replied.

"My name is William Sullivan, I'm with the USR. We just want to talk."

"Tommy," Francis cried. "What is this all about?"

"I don't know, sweetheart. Can you at least explain to us what's going on first?"

Sullivan started to say something before Mason moved in towards the closet. Sullivan tried to move forward, but his shoulders were met with the powerful grip Wilcox's hands. Mason pulled out his Glock and pointed it straight in Thomas's face.

"What do ya think this is?" Mason demanded.

"I...don't know, sir." Thomas replied.

"Move into the living room and sit your asses on the couch. You don't speak, move, or shit without our permission, do you follow?"

"Yes." Thomas replied. Francis nodded her head.

"Now, move!"

The scared kids got up from their huddled position inside the closet. Sullivan couldn't bear to look the two in the eye when they walked past. Mason and Wilcox started to walk out of the bedroom, but Sullivan told them to huddle up. They did so and shook their heads at their boss.

"This doesn't feel right," Sullivan said.

"What doesn't?" Wilcox asked.

"These are not members of the resistance, I guarantee you that."

Mason moved forward. "Look, Forte is good at what he does, unlike you. Look at the old man he brought us last time. If Forte says they're rebels, they're rebels."

Wilcox chimed in, "Yeah, just who are you working for, anyway?"

"I'm just saying, my gut is telling me they are innocent."

"Well," Mason said. "My trigger finger's tellin' me that you are one of them. And these two are valuable assets to you."

"What are you talking about?" Sullivan asked. He moved in towards his accuser.

"Let's go question our suspects," Wilcox said. He moved to the door. "Find out for ourselves."

Asshole, Sullivan thought. He shook his head and followed Wilcox into the living room. Mason stayed behind and started to flip the bedroom, looking for a good spot to plant evidence, no doubt. Outside, Thomas's eyes were filled with fear, Francis's with tears. Sullivan holstered his weapon upon approach. The scared boy wrapped his scrawny arms around his lover. Much like Sullivan used to do with Julie.

"Stay away from her." Thomas cried.

"Nobody is hurting anyone," Sullivan replied. "We just need to talk, like I've been trying to tell you."

"Talk about what?"

Wilcox intervened, "Talk about your involvement with the terrorists you see on the news every day."

"Do I look like a terrorist to you?" Thomas pleaded. "I couldn't even hack it in the academy."

"I'm thinking that's why you joined. Hm? Prove us wrong? Is that whore you're banging right now your payment from them?"

"Don't you call her a whore!"

Wilcox pointed his gun at the scared woman. She screamed and Thomas moved his body on top of hers. The Agent kept the gun trained on Thomas. The Agent began to laugh at the pathetic sight in front of him. The boy's face remained determined. He was ready to die for his girlfriend. Sullivan turned to Wilcox, whose laugh was gone, his eyes trained on the sitting ducks.

"DeMarcus, lower your weapon." Sullivan ordered.

"Hell, no." Wilcox answered, ready for the kill.

"I said lower your weapon. Go to the bedroom and help George, now!"

"Fine," Wilcox replied. He lowered his weapon but did not holster it. "But, when I find something, I'll be back for this Tommy boy bitch."

Wilcox turned his back and avoided eye contact with his superior. Thomas's attention now focused on Sullivan, but his body remained on top of Francis.

"I just want to talk." Sullivan said again. He inched towards the couple.

"You stay away from her." Thomas said.

"Just relax. Nobody is getting killed here today. Not on my watch."

The boy kept his eyes on Sullivan. He moved himself slowly away from Francis and sat down next to her. The tears from the poor woman's eyes caused her black makeup to run down her cheeks. The Agent reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

"What is this all about?" she asked, her voice shaken.

"Miss Berlovski, someone has implicated you and your boyfriend as being members of the resistance. We're only here to check things out, so remain calm and you'll make it out of here."

"Be calm?" she asked. "With those two mad men in here? That black guy just now, he would've killed us without blinking."

"Don't worry about him. He knows who's in charge." Sullivan lied.

The loud banging noises from the bedroom, not to mention Wilcox's manic behavior, did nothing in Sullivan's increasingly vain attempts at calming the couple down. The gears inside his head started to go into overdrive. He didn't want to see an innocent couple be sent to prison to await execution. They would be lucky to last that long, he knew, with Mason and Wilcox in the other room.

First things first, keep them calm. If one or both panicked right now and did something stupid, there would be no way out. They would be shot dead and left to rot on their torn furniture. The sight of that old woman's eyes crept back into Sullivan's mind. Not today, no innocent blood would be spilt. Get them out of here alive and worry about the rest later. Give Fitzpatrick a chance to change his mind. No matter how slim a chance that would be, it was better than the alternative.

"How long have you two been living here?" Sullivan asked.

"Almost two years," Thomas replied over a loud thud from the bedroom. "What are they doing in there?"

"Looking for contraband. Just standard procedure."

"If they break all my stuff in there, do I get reimbursed?"

"Afraid not, but your mind should be focused on getting out of here alive."

"Okay...what are you going to do to help us?" Francis asked.

Sullivan bent down to one knee and motioned for the two to come closer. They obeyed. He kept his voice no louder than a whisper.

"I believe you," Sullivan said.

"Then why are you here?" Thomas demanded in a low voice.

"It's my job, I can't disobey my orders."

"What about those men?"

"They are...more determined to see you killed here today."

Francis wanted to scream, but Sullivan placed his right index finger over his lips. She contained herself, but more tears started to flow down her freckled cheeks. She moved in towards Thomas, placed her arms around his neck, and squeezed. The boy kept his full attention on Sullivan.

"What are you going to do about them?"

"I'm working on that, but you two have to remain calm. Don't give them any reason to kill you. Cooperate with us. Let us take you to the station and..."

"No way." Thomas said, his voice grew a notch louder. "We won't last ten seconds in there. I went to the schools, you know. I know what happens to people who are accused of such a crime."

"You want to be shot?" Sullivan asked. He checked his voice and lowered it. "Believe me when I tell you that those two men would love nothing more than to execute you right here."

"Found something!" Mason called from the bedroom.

"Oh, shit." Sullivan said. He stood back up and his heart rate quadrupled.

He looked back down at Thomas with wide eyes. The only hope now rested with the young couple to give into reason and cooperate. He hoped that the girl would not screw this whole thing up with her screams. Sullivan looked behind to Mason who held up a letter in the air like a trophy.

"Where did you find it?" Sullivan asked.

"In the floor boards—behind the desk. Sneaky bastards."

The smell of bullshit filled the air. Mason moved in on the young couple and Thomas resumed his position on top of Francis. Wilcox moved in with his gun trained. Sullivan moved in front of the men and held his right hand out.

"You guys put that there!" Francis screamed.

"You shut up!" Mason shouted. "We have a witness who swears you are resisters. And now we find this. Coincidence—I think not."

"Now," Sullivan said, "let's just wait a minute here."

"The time for talk is over, Sully." Wilcox said. "Get out of the way before I kill you first."

Sullivan held his ground. He remained in front of the two dipshits. Wilcox moved his gun from the couple to his superior. Mason grabbed him by the side with both hands and moved Sullivan out of the way. He shoved the letter in Thomas's face. The boy's eyes began to water for the first time, no longer capable of staying strong for his girl.

"Tell us who sent this to you or we'll kill you!" Mason demanded.

"It's not mine. You planted that and you know it."

Mason balled his right fist and slugged the boy in the jaw. Thomas kept his head to the side and panted. The boy moved his fear stricken eyes to Sullivan. Get us out of here alive, the eyes said. Come through on your promise. Our lives are now in your hands.

"They'll talk at the station." Sullivan said.

"Why?" Mason replied. "So you can sweet talk the cap into letting them walk?"

"No, we can get a lot more done over there without you two flashing steel in their faces."

"You seem awful concerned for their safety." Wilcox said. "You are one of them, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not." Sullivan said. "And, I would advise against making such accusations in the future."

"You little bitch," Wilcox fired back. "What are you going to do about it? Blow Fitzpatrick's wad again to get another promotion?"

"We are taking them in. Come on, Thomas, settle your girlfriend down and..."

"No, I've had enough of your charity. Dee, do the girl first."

"With pleasure," Wilcox replied.

Mason's monstrous hands grabbed the skinny boy's shirt and tore him off of Francis. She started to scream without control once more. Thomas did his best to fight Mason off, but it was no use. The Agent threw him off of the couch. When he tried to get up, his face was met by Mason's boot.

Wilcox aimed and prepared to fire.

"Wait," Thomas said underneath Mason's boot. "Wait, wait. I'll tell you what I know, just don't pull that trigger."

Sullivan's curiosity piqued. Mason lifted his boot off of the boy's face. Thomas picked himself up. Maybe Sullivan had under estimated him all along. What did he have up his sleeve? The boy took a seat on the torn couch.

"What do you know?" Mason ordered.

"I..." Thomas searched his mind for an answer. "Don't know much. I...only deliver messages, you know?"

"Not good enough." Mason said. He fired a round into the couch and aimed the gun at Thomas.

"Oh-kay. I meet with them...once a week, today actually."

"Where?"

"Down by the..."

"Stop stuttering." Wilcox demanded. He moved his gun and fired a round into the wall inches from Francis's left cheek.

"You've got guns, I'm rattled."

"Get un-rattled."

Sullivan could see the wheels turn inside of Thomas's mind. He searched for something, anything, to get off of that couch alive. The Agent wanted to help but knew he couldn't. It was all up to the boy to do something to buy some time. In his mind, Sullivan urged Thomas on.

"I know one of their leaders." Thomas said.

Good job, buy yourself some time, that's good.

"Who?" Mason asked.

"If I tell you, promise you'll let us go."

"I can promise you the girl," Mason replied. "I can't promise you. Speak!"

"It's him." Thomas said. He pointed his index finger towards Sullivan.

The two shitheads turned to face their superior. Sullivan kept his eyes trained on Thomas. To save his own neck, the boy betrayed him. Mason moved in on him. He put his hands in the air and told them to wait a minute. The boy moved back over top of Francis who put a death grip around his neck.

"Well," Mason said. "Lookie what we got here."

Wilcox chimed in, "I knew it. All this time you've been pussy footing around, wanting us to spare this guy or that guy. Now, we know why."

"Now," Sullivan said. His eyes were wide as he held both hands in front. "Wait just a minute here. He's lying."

"Prove it."

"You've got him scared shitless over there, what else is he going to do?"

"You promised to get us out of here." Thomas cried.

"You shut up!" Sullivan yelled back.

"William Sullivan," Mason said. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to surrender your firearm and come with us. Now."

Heart racing now, Sullivan was forced to come up with another solution. If the two clowns in front of him bought the bullshit being sold, they would kill Sullivan in an instant. Not only that, they would go after his family for fear that they, too, were aiding the resistance. His wife would be the next to go. And, then, little Davie...

He shook his head. Pull yourself together, get back in control.

"That kid over there is lying to try and get out of this!" Sullivan cried.

"Why?" Mason demanded.

"Don't be naïve. Didn't the little shit, just ten seconds ago, swear that he was not a member of the resistance? You put a gun in his face and, all of a sudden, he is? Come on, you've been an Agent long enough."

"I lied..." Thomas said. "I am a member of the resistance and he is, too. I see him at all of the meetings."

Sullivan turned to Thomas, "What are you trying to gain here? What do you think is going to happen? They kill me, sure, but do you really believe that you are getting out of this alive? You've just signed your own death warrant."

"An exchange..." Thomas muttered.

"Now, we're talking." Wilcox said.

"What kind of exchange?" Mason asked.

"I'll leave town, right here, right now. I swear to you that I'll cut all ties with them. I'll take Francis with me and go. He's one of their leaders and..."

"Choose your next words wisely, boy..." Sullivan said.

"You can take him. Just let us go."

Mason turned back over to his superior and shrugged his shoulders. Sullivan's mind ran a marathon, he tried to help the boy out, but the boy's own ignorance doomed him. The cold truth was that Mason and Wilcox were going to kill the couple anyway. The boy did not know who he tried to make a deal with. But, Sullivan knew, all too well.

"I don't buy it." Mason said. He turned his attention back to Thomas. "Not Sully over here, his nut sack ain't big enough for something like that."

"He plans out the operations...I'm telling you the truth. Just let me go."

"George," Wilcox said, his gun moved from Thomas to Sullivan. "I think he's telling the truth. Let's do Sully in, let them go. They are insignificant anyway."

"Dee's right," Mason said, his gun moved to Sullivan. "As always."

A decision needed to be made and fast. The boy already made his and Sullivan knew the score. The USR, so desperate to find the members—leaders—of the resistance that the mere mention of being a part of it put one on the fast track to public execution. It was just like Fitzpatrick said. Sullivan cursed himself and his conscience. He peered into the boy's scared eyes, Francis was out of view behind him.

Wilcox moved in and reached for the gun attached to Sullivan's belt. Mason with his gun trained to his superior's head, a clean shot if any swift movements were attempted. The sight of the couple huddled together on the couch brought back good memories of when he and Julie were on good terms. He thought about how they used to hold each other, just like that, all night long...that settled it. He could not put his family through that, even though his wife hated him right now, there was still a chance...

A strong pair of hands gripped the gun in the holster.

"You want me to prove my innocence?" Sullivan asked.

"What?" Mason asked.

"We all know this guy is full of shit and you are going to kill him anyway."

"How are you going to prove your innocence?"

"Put that gun down and I'll show you."

"I won't put the gun away until you prove something to me. Do what you gotta do. Dee, let him be."

Wilcox released his grip on the weapon then took a few steps back. Sullivan kept his stare into Thomas's tear filled eyes. There were only two options, as he saw it. He could turn and put a bullet in Mason's head, but then there was the other one who also had a gun. No time to do both of them in, and the young couple on the couch would be killed, anyway. Mason preserved his clean shot on Sullivan and started to breath heavy. Sullivan didn't want to kill the boy, but there really was no other option.

He betrayed me, Sullivan thought, and now I have to betray him. Davie, forgive me.

"You promised..." Francis whispered from underneath Thomas.

No reply, he gripped the Glock 17 from the holster and pointed the barrel right between the boy's terrified eyes. Thomas pushed his girlfriend away, but she came back to him. Another push and this time Wilcox took hold of her arm as she screamed for help which wouldn't come.

Sullivan ignored it all and Thomas kept his mouth shut for once. One deep breath and a squeeze of the trigger. The cap of the bullet flew through the air. The bullet penetrated through the front of the boy's skull and created a chunky, crimson mess behind him. Wilcox let the girl go and she climbed on top of her former lover. She opened her mouth to scream and it took two seconds for her to muster the strength to do so.

"Congratulations," Mason said. He holstered his gun and clapped his hands.

"What are you talking about?" Sullivan demanded.

"You passed the test. We didn't buy that kid's story for a second. We just wanted to test you, see if you had the balls to go through with it."

"You bastards..."

"He was going to die, anyway," Wilcox said. "And, hey, you just proved in some sense you are not one of them."

"Go to hell, the both of you."

"You killed Thomas!" Francis cried. "You promised to get us out of here and you killed him, you monster!"

Wilcox grabbed the woman's skinny arm and threw her off of the couch. Her body hit the matted carpet and she was ordered to clean herself up. They were taking her in; there would be no point in Sullivan trying to convince Fitzpatrick, now. She would die in the gas chamber, no doubt about that.

Sullivan stared at the boy's dead eyes. He could not move nor could he think straight, he just stared and the guilt came faster than he thought it would. Mason's hand on his shoulder did not register. What had he done? More innocent blood was shed today and he was the culprit. All so he could save his own skin. Was Julie's life worth more than Thomas's? Was little Davie's? He cursed Mason and Wilcox in his mind as he stormed out of the apartment. His heart sank at the three popping sounds from inside.

The Agent tried to avoid as much contact as possible with the petrified tenants who started to flood the hallway. The blood of the innocents had to be put to an end. He was forced to pull the trigger, but not just because of the boy's betrayal. It was also because of them. Did the resistance not understand that? If they didn't, he would make sure that they did. A new determination burned inside.

He would find them. He would kill them all.

# Chapter .18

Paxton allowed the double doors behind him to shut. The vastness of the large room caused a small echo as they did. In front were rows of wooden chairs with a stage at the far back. On top of the stage rested a large oak desk, its surface with a fresh shine from the multiple wax jobs it received on a daily basis. At the back of the stage stood a large American flag with its pole inside a pure gold flag post. The Committee members were already filed in. They were seated behind the oak desk with emotionless, intent looks on their faces.

The Committee said nothing to Paxton while he walked down the aisles formed by the chairs. He walked to the podium that stood in front of the stage. He moved his eyes down the desk at each of the members. They all wore the same attire: black suits with white shirts and black ties. All of them except for the decorated general who sat at the far left end of the desk. He still showed off his former Army uniform with all the medals which included the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Pat Roberson, a former Senate member from Mississippi, sat at the center of the table. He served as The Committee's leader. On the far right side sat Gregory O'Leary, former Congressman from Boston. Nicholas Olyphant sat next to Roberson on his right side. Before the USR, he was a rising Senator from New York who almost made a presidential run. A natural politician, he used his charm and charisma to win over voters, but ultimately lost in his bid for the White House. Billy Hayes sat next to Roberson at the left. Hayes, the youngest member, was picked up by The Committee at a young age where they raised him and schooled him on the American way. He was well on his way to becoming a true leader within the rebellion. General Hank Blackman sat next to him, Blackman was the only one that Paxton respected and he trusted him whole heartedly.

Paxton approached the podium and cleared his throat. He watched as Roberson peered at him through those gold rimmed glasses and clear lenses. The nervousness grew inside. It was never a good thing when he stood in front of his superiors and not one of them greeted him.

"Mr. Paxton," Roberson said. "How is the old chum today? We weren't expecting you back here so soon."

"I've gotta new recruit. Wanted to run him by you fellas today."

"A new recruit? John, why are we only hearing of this now?"

"I apologize that it's short notice. But, Danny vouches for him. He trained him in the boxing ring for months."

"You've gone through the normal procedures, then?"

Paxton cleared his throat, "Not exactly, sir. But, Danny vouches for him."

"That's not good enough, soldier." General Blackman said.

"General, sir, with all due respect, we just lost a man, right? We're shorthanded and this guy just fell into our laps."

"Just fell," Hayes joked. "Like an angel from heaven?"

"Something like that," Paxton replied, not finding the humor.

Roberson cut in. "So, you haven't run the proper background checks on him? You haven't made sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he isn't a USR sleeper?"

"Not necessarily." Paxton replied.

"What do you mean, not necessarily?" Blackman demanded.

"I mean to say that I have reasonable suspicions that he is not a sleeper."

Olyphant's turn, "I don't like it. Guy just pops in out of the gray and you just up and offer him a job? Up and bring him here? You've already gotten one man killed this week and now this. You are getting reckless."

The burning sensation in Paxton's cheek told him his face turned red in anger. He didn't know this Olyphant character very well, but what he saw of him, said that Olyphant was a prick. The guy was a peace loving fanatic and, as such, didn't respect the sacrifices that Paxton and his team made every day and night, the sacrifice that Zach made. Damn politicians.

"Let me explain." Paxton said.

"This had better be good," Roberson said. He looked down at his gold Rolex. "You know how valuable our time is, especially now."

"Danny went through the normal recruitment routine with this Ryan Kaspar. Ryan fought many fights and never lost one. He had this fight with Razor, got DQ'd and it looks like he will never fight again. Cost the bookies too much cash."

"And this," Olyphant again, "helps his cause how?"

"Shut up for five minutes and let me tell you."

"That's enough!" Roberson ordered. He slammed his fist into the table. "You will speak to us with respect, Mr. Paxton."

"Yes, sir, my apologies." Paxton said.

"Now, please, go on."

"He found his mother dead on her couch. Danny arranged a meeting, everything checks out on his end. From what I could tell, this was no set up. He's genuinely angry and wants to see an end to the senseless killings."

"So," Roberson said, "you're sure this isn't a case of you being desperate."

"I've still got good men. But, you of all people should know, we are always operating under some degree of desperation."

Olyphant shook his head, "I must admit that you have become so reckless that we should be in discussion about your future with us. You lose a man, that's fine. I can understand your situation there. But, you've also caused a media circus with your charades, not to mention the USR sending more and more of their Agents out there every day. And, now, you bring this...bastard in here who you admit to knowing little about all because that wiseass Danny says he's clean. I say, the answer is no."

"What the hell would you know about what we do?" Paxton demanded.

"I would say I know a lot."

"You don't know shit. You sit here all day behind that desk of yours while my men and I are out there, bleeding and dying. All you know how to do is talk and, quite frankly, I'm tired of hearing it."

"You little son of a bitch."

"Come on, let's go. One on one, right now, maybe your balls will finally drop."

"Enough!" Roberson cried. "Bring the little bastard in here. Let's see what he's like before we make any rash judgments. But, I will warn you, if this turns around to bite us in the ass; you're through, Mr. Paxton."

"Understood," Paxton replied.

***

Kaspar sat on the old wooden chair and wiggled his now numb ass around. The nervous energy remained, but the intensity of it dropped somewhat. This reminded him of the times when he would wait outside the principal's office for beating up some punk kid who talked shit in the school yard. He remembered how his mother would have to leave work to talk with the principal. Growing up, his mother needed every job she had, and even lost a job once because of him.

The attempts to memorize his answers to their questions were abandoned long ago. He had been sitting out here so damn long that he did not care what they asked, he just wanted to get it over with. He told himself over and over again that this rebellion seemed to hurt for good men and, not that he was one, they would let anybody join at this point. Kaspar was about to abandon the chair and walk around when he heard the double doors open up. The look on Paxton's face brought back the intensity of his nervousness.

"Your turn, kid." Paxton said.

Kaspar stood up and walked through the double doors that Paxton held open. The old veteran let the doors shut. Kaspar thought this whole time that Paxton would be in there with him. Maybe coach him up or something. Wrong again.

He looked forward at the five sharp dressed men behind some desk on the stage. Kaspar looked down at his attire, his white tee and blue jeans, and felt out of place, like a fish out of water. He put up a cheap grin but nobody behind the desk smiled or said anything to him. The grin was lost and he stepped up to the podium.

"You must be Ryan," Roberson said.

"Must be." Kaspar replied.

"I'm...sorry."

"That's correct, sir."

"What brings you here?"

"I wish to join Paxton and his crew. Blow some shit up, you know?"

Kaspar heard a laugh and looked over to the older gentleman, Olyphant. He gazed into the old man's eyes and wondered if it was genuine or mockery.

"Blowing shit up is not what we specialize in here." Olyphant said.

"And, who are you?" Kaspar asked.

"Nicholas Olyphant. But, I think the better question is who you are."

"I'm a nobody who wants to be a patriot."

"Oh, that's bull, son. Bullshit. You want nothing but to avenge your mother's death, am I right?"

"Listen, Mr. Olywhateverthefuck, I'm here to stop that from happening to anyone else." Kaspar almost believed his own lie.

"You little shit. Nobody talks to me that way."

Kaspar held out his wrists, "I just did. You going to arrest me, now?"

"No, but I'll make damn sure that you never..."

"Nick, cool it." Blackman said. "You ever been in combat before, Mr. Kaspar?"

"No, sir, not really."

"Then, you don't know what it takes to succeed in a combat situation?"

"Not yet, sir. But I can learn...I'm eager to learn." Kaspar replied.

"I'll bet you are," Blackman replied. "But there are certain things that you cannot teach like instinct and ingenuity."

"Put a gun in my hands and I'll give you ingenuity."

"You've got spirit," Roberson said. "I'll give you that much. What is it that you really want? Be honest."

"When I saw my mother dead..." Kaspar paused to swallow the lump in his throat. "I swore I would find those responsible. Not just for my own personal fulfillment, but so they couldn't do it to anyone else. I watch the news, you know, I see the reports. I just never thought it would happen to me." Very nice bullshit.

"Why," Hayes asked, "didn't you try and do something about this problem sooner?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was because I was...content with my life, I guess. I made some money..."

"Illegally," Olyphant said.

"And, I suppose what you do is legal, right?"

"That's different. We're making a difference...trying to make a difference."

"I made a difference to her. I made it to where she didn't have to go out there with those trigger happy Agents and their prejudice against the elderly."

"I guess what we're tryin' to figure out is whether or not you are a sleeper." O'Leary said.

"Me?" Kaspar demanded. "A sleeper with the USR, are you kidding me? They killed my mother."

"Maybe you used that as a way to infiltrate us."

"You know what? You're right. I gave in my own mother just so I could fuck around with you people. That's exactly right, sorry to waste your time."

Kaspar gave a fake salute and turned his back on The Committee. He was right. This was one giant waste of time that could've been spent out there or at the shooting range. It was a terrible idea, anyway. Kaspar did not care for this Committee or its snarky leaders. Just go on about your business and...

"Wait, Mr. Kaspar." Roberson called out.

Kaspar turned and refaced them. They all still had blank, expressionless faces that stared at him. What else did they have to say to him? They might as well blame Kaspar for his father leaving. Hell, just go ahead put all of the USR on his shoulders. He shook his head and returned to the podium.

"We like you, kid. Well, all of us except Mr. Olywhateverthefuck." Roberson said and he chuckled. Olyphant's face turned red as he stood and glared at Roberson. Kaspar wanted to give him the middle finger to top off the sundae.

"Like me?" Kaspar asked. He turned his head back to the table. "Why?"

"You've got spirit, like I told you. Sure, you're, uh, people skills need some work, but you are all right, kid."

O'Leary leaned forward, "Sorry about askin' you all of those questions about your mother, but it had to be done."

"That's fine."

"This," Olyphant cried, "is an outrage! This little prick just showed a complete lack of respect for authority and you're just going to..."

"Nick," Blackman said.

"What?"

"Shut up."

Olyphant's dumbfounded face turned two shades darker. He stormed off the stage. His loud footsteps echoed throughout the empty room, as did the loud slam of the door. The loud echo of the door caused Kaspar to flinch, but his focus remained on the men. He hoped that one day he would run into Olyphant after The Committee kicked him out. Nobody to protect him then...

"Don't worry about Nicholas, he'll be fine." Roberson said.

"Who said I was worried about him?" Kaspar asked.

"Listen, he's right about one thing. You must show us more respect. However, you are in, that is, if you still want in."

"Of course I do."

"Listen to John," Blackman said. "He knows what he's talking about. He'll make a soldier out of you, yet."

"Yes, sir."

"And, please, don't go and mess this up," Roberson said. "We're taking a huge risk with you...Mr. Paxton is taking a huge risk with you. We'd hate to see our cause jeopardized because of you."

"I won't let you down, sir." Kaspar promised.

"Go on about your business. If you need anything, John knows how to reach us."

Roberson shooed the newly christened rebel out of the room with his right hand. Before he turned to the exit, Kaspar saw the others huddle around each other. The sounds of low voices filled his ear drums. He wiped the perspiration off of his forehead as he walked for the door. Outside the Chamber, Paxton sat on the chair, his head nodded up and down.

"Wake up, old man." Kaspar said.

Paxton's head shot up. He looked left to right a couple of times to gain perspective on his surroundings. He was losing to old age. That old age took away his balance, instincts, and his warrior's edge. Back in the killing fields of North Korea, there was no way in hell he would have fallen asleep like this.

"How'd..." Paxton said, his speech interrupted by a deep cough. He cleared his throat, "How'd it go?"

"I'm in."

Paxton stood and a look of shock matched with a sly grin filled his tired face. The kid did it, he actually pulled it off. He put on a full blown smile and stuck out his right hand. Kaspar embraced it. The two men shook hands for the first time.

"Welcome aboard, soldier." Paxton said.

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, it's time to meet Joe Young."

# Chapter .19

"Prick."

Paxton's taunt shook Kaspar away from his inner thoughts. A peek outside of the passenger side window revealed the reason behind it. An Agent was in the middle of beating an older gentlemen who looked to be around fifty. The Agent relented for a moment; the man tried to get up, but was met with a surprise riot stick to the face. As the van pulled forward, Kaspar could see the blood come out of the man's mouth.

A pair of old hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that the knuckles turned white. Paxton wanted with everything in him to turn the van around and help the innocent out, but he stayed the course to Young's place. He let out a sigh and rested his grip. He spit out the open window and, in his head at least, told the old man that he would be saved. Those people outside just needed to hold on...just a little bit longer.

"Asshole," Kaspar said as he leaned back in his seat.

"Tell me about it," Paxton agreed and wiped his lips with his free hand. "We are the cause of that."

"We are?"

"That's right, kid. In an effort to 'protect and serve' the USR has given its Agents full reign over the cities. Ha, back then, they used to talk about the police state like it was some kind of wacked conspiracy theory."

"How did you...we...cause that beating?" Kaspar asked.

"We've been busy, reckless that Olyphant would say. They are trying to smoke us out and, in turn, they are getting restless." Paxton smirked, "They just can't get rid of us quick enough. There's now a Resistance Unit in every major city across the country."

"Is there a Committee in every city, too?"

"Most."

"Are we the only rebel team here?" Kaspar asked.

"No. There are at least two others, The Committee tells me, but God knows how many there actually are."

Kaspar rubbed his chin, "You ever get in contact with them?"

"No. We will never see or hear from any of them. They don't know who we are, we don't know who they are."

"Smart plan," Kaspar quipped.

"Yeah," Paxton replied, "it is smart. One of us gets captured and, when the torture starts, we can't give them any answers."

"I see."

"So, how does it feel?"

Kaspar looked puzzled, "How does what feel?"

"To be drafted into a war."

"I feel the same, I guess."

Paxton laughed, "That'll change. Trust me on that, kid."

"So, who is this Joe Young character we're going to see?"

"Joe Young is our weapon's dealer. He receives shipments from various gun runners, stolen weapons cache's from the USR and overseas. He gives us a good deal on his inventory."

"How do you get funded to buy from him?" Kaspar asked.

"The Committee funds us."

"How does The Committee get funded?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"You said you'd provide me with answers."

Paxton sighed, "The Committee's hackers steal money from the USR. Not a whole lot, nothing that would be noticed to the blind eye."

"How's that?"

"The amounts they steal at a time are very small. But, of course, that builds up over time. We are almost there."

The fake USR van took a sharp left and entered into a dank alleyway. Paxton applied the emergency brake then cut the engine off. Kaspar opened the passenger side door and hopped out of the van. Paxton reached behind him for two black duffel bags. He gripped them in his strong hands, and then got out of the van himself. The rain from the night before created puddles of water into the various pot holes in the unkempt blacktop. After Kaspar took a deep breath, he immediately regretted it. The smell of mildew sucker punched his nostrils. The sheer wickedness of the smell forced him to cough and look away.

"You'll get used to that," Paxton said. "I almost don't smell it anymore."

The old veteran led the way to a chipped wooden door, with remnants of green paint all around. Paxton reached up with his fist and banged on the door three times, took a moment, then banged four more times. Something inside barked with violence. Kaspar knew that on the inside was a really big dog.

The wooden door opened. In the doorway stood a middle aged Puerto Rican with a thick steel chain in his left hand. The chain led to the collar of a brown and white Pit Bull Terrier. Kaspar's heart began to thump and the speed of which caused his head to go light. He tried to ignore it and got a good look at the guy in the doorway. He had a mean look on his mustached face, a shaved head, and the wife beater he wore revealed two arms covered in tattoos. They all ran together and it took a good, hard look to make out any of them. Save for one of a naked woman with large breasts on the left arm and the tip of a cross which ran down his chest.

One thing Kaspar knew for sure was that this man's real name was not Joe Young.

"What's up, homes?" Young called out. He nodded his head upward in a swift motion.

"Hi," Kaspar said, his eyes focused on the dog. "Fine specimen."

"Oh, this bitch? Name's Daisy. She's a mean fuck. What's the matter, ese, you scared of dogs or something?"

"Something like that."

"Hold on," Young said.

The Puerto Rican walked back inside and dragged Daisy across the tiled floor in the kitchen. Young yelled inaudible words in Spanish and the sound of a loud dog cry filled the building. Kaspar almost felt sorry for the poor mutt...almost. The gun runner reappeared seconds later.

"Sorry 'bout that, but she knows when Papi's angry not to misbehave." Young said. He turned his attention to Paxton. "S'up, John?"

"Joe," Paxton said.

"So, who the hell is this?"

"Ryan. New guy."

Young laughed along with Paxton. Paxton reached up to his gun dealer and grabbed his hand. Young pulled the old man in close and the two bumped their fists on each other's back. Kaspar watched the whole thing in a state of confusion. Was this some kind of man love ritual? He looked around the alley. He just couldn't shake the feeling that the three were being watched.

"Come on," Young said. "Let's get inside, no?"

Inside the small apartment was a shit hole. Clothes laid around everywhere, the trash can in the corner of the kitchen over flowed, and the pungent smell of marijuana filled Kaspar's nostrils. The thick, heavy aroma of hash caused his eyes to water. He glanced over at a cracked window in the living room and saw where Young grew the plants. Kaspar coughed again.

"That's the colonel's secret herbs and spices," Young said. He grabbed the joint behind his ear and lit up, "Care for a taste?"

"No," Kaspar said in between coughs, "thank you."

"You're missing out, homes."

Young took a hit on the joint and held the smoke in his lungs. He breathed out seconds later with a laugh. The sound of the dog barking up a storm from her cage in the kitchen caused Kaspar to think about the Doberman who harassed him every day on the way home from school. Poor dog got hit by a car one day, not that Kaspar or the owners gave a damn.

"You going to burn up all day or are you going to sell me some guns?" Paxton demanded.

"Chill out, man. I'm almost done." Young replied, smoke escaped his mouth as he talked. He took one last hit and put the joint out. "Let's go."

"Grassy ass." Paxton replied.

Kaspar followed the other two into the kitchen and saw his would be tormentor. She snarled and showed her menacing teeth, the hair on her back stood straight up. He could tell that Daisy wished the metal bars of the cage weren't blocking her from her next kill. Young lifted his boot and kicked the front of the cage twice. The rattling sound of the metal caused Daisy to back down and stick her head underneath the torn quilt inside.

"Sorry again," Young said.

"No need." Kaspar replied.

Young reached to the wall and opened the skinny, red wooden door. Inside, the stair case was narrow, Young didn't appear that he could fit through, but he managed to squeeze in. Kaspar grabbed at the hand rail and the piece of wood fell off. The gun runner stopped and looked up over Paxton's shoulder.

"You messin' up my place, bro?" Young demanded.

"No, this thing's just a piece of shit."

Young laughed, "I like you, homes."

"Come on, Joe," Paxton said. He gave a slight shove to Young's back. "We haven't got all day, you know."

"All right, all right, seriously."

Down in the basement sat rows of guns on metal racks. Everything from hand guns, assault rifles, submachine guns, and shotguns. It was the weapons cache at the hideout on steroids. Along the walls hung grenades with boxes of ammunition and fully loaded magazines laid on the shelves. Kaspar headed straight for the gun racks to get a look at Young's product. Paxton started to fill one of the duffel bags full of ammunition.

"Pick out something nice." Paxton said.

"Yeah," Young said. "I've got lots and lots to choose from."

"Where'd you get all this?" Kaspar wondered.

"I've got my connections. Don't worry about it."

Kaspar looked around at the large inventory of handguns on display. After several moments of searching, a pair of black handguns caught his eye. He wondered if this is what Mother meant by "a twinkle in her eye". He couldn't take his eyes off of them; they were unique from the others. Kaspar grabbed one and inspected the barrel, which read "Pietro Beretta-Gardone V.T.-Made in Italy".

"Beretta 92," Young said, a grin on his face as he walked over. "Nice choice, homes."

"Why's that?" Kaspar asked, his attention on the handgun, he moved it up and down to get a feel for the weight.

"They stopped producing those some years ago, it's a classic. Not many left, actually, I just got those beauties in a few days ago. It's a great character, so strong and elegant."

"No shit." Kaspar pulled the chamber back and pressed the chamber release, it slid forward in a nice, smooth motion. "I'll take both."

Young's eyes widened, "Both? That's some serious dinero."

"You find something, kid?" Paxton asked, a full duffle bag slung over his right shoulder.

"Yeah," Kaspar said. He picked up both pieces and stared at them. "I think I did."

"Beretta 92? How come you didn't tell me you got some of those in?"

"I was gonna, but it looks like the cherry over here beat you to it." Young replied.

"You seriously want both of them?"

"Yes," Kaspar replied. "I'll put it on your tab."

"All right, let's go then."

Young walked over to his wooden counter. He flipped it open at the end and let the strong piece of wood slam down. He walked over to his laptop and started to punch some numbers into it. The amount owed showed up on a small, rectangular screen in blue indigo. Paxton chewed on his bottom lip as he looked over at Kaspar who already had feelings for his new toys. The old veteran reached in his pocket and handed over a plastic card to his dealer.

"You need a receipt?" Young asked.

"No. Let's go, kid."

Kaspar's eyes remained fixated on the twin Berettas in both palms. These would be it, he thought to himself. These would be his tools of vengeance. It took another yell from Paxton to break the spell the weapons put on him. He placed the Berettas in the duffle bag by his feet and slung it over his shoulder.

He walked up the stairs with a renewed sense of hope.

# Chapter .20

"We've got two more stops to make." Paxton said. He took a right turn when the light turned green.

"Where to?" Kaspar asked, his head rested against the window.

"A friend is waiting for us at this small sandwich shop downtown. That's stop one."

"What kind of a friend?"

"His name is Greg Boler," Paxton said as he took a left. "He works for the USR."

"For the USR?" Kapsar asked, puzzled.

"Relax, he's undercover. He really works for me."

"He just gives you information, then?"

"That's correct. We meet every week...here." Paxton said. He pulled the USR van into another alleyway and drove to the end. The alleyway connected to the back lot of the sandwich shop.

Kaspar opened the passenger door while Paxton moved to the back. In the back, the old veteran fumbled around with a duffle bag. He grabbed two black jackets that read "USR" in bold yellow letters. He exited the van and tossed one of the jackets to Kaspar. Both men slipped on the jackets before they walked into the shop.

Inside, the dim light from above accented the maroon colored carpet and the rusted yellow paint of the walls. There was a good crowd this day, with about twenty or so citizens scattered about for the lunch rush. Kaspar looked around and noticed how everyone seemed to grow uptight at the sight of men who wore USR attire. One lady in particular refused to look up from her plate of salad and watery dressing.

Paxton found his undercover in the far back corner. Greg Boler sat alone at the table with nothing but a half empty glass of water in front of him. Kaspar got a good look at Boler before they reached the table. The undercover had a clean look about him, a fresh crew cut and a smooth face with not a strand of facial hair to be found. There was something odd about the man, though. He kept looking around from side to side like he was going through a nervous breakdown. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead and dripped onto the table.

"Greg," Paxton said, "nice to see you today."

"Oh, John, what took you so long?"

"Had things to do today."

Paxton took a seat in front of his mole and slid over for the new recruit to take a seat beside him. Boler got a look at Kaspar. The two made eye contact with one another. His face went expressionless, then turned to the look of a man ready to pull his gun out to blast somebody. The two remained dead locked in a staring contest...the type where no one gave a shit who smiled first.

"Who the fuck is this?" Boler demanded.

"Who the fuck are you?" Kaspar demanded right back, his eye brows scrunched together.

The other customers inside heard the confrontation and turned their attention to the table. Kaspar immediately cursed himself for letting his temper get the best of him once more. He also knew that the same question going on in his mind went on in the rat's: what if one of the customers happened to be an Agent?

For his part, Paxton remained calm, he had to. He ignored the other customers and kept his focus on Boler. He patted the mole on the back. The situation must be put to an end before it escalated. It would be a damn shame to be thrown in prison, getting Boler killed in the process, over a little tissy fit.

"It's cool, Greg," Paxton said. "Compose yourself."

"Sorry, sir. Who are you, anyway?" Boler asked again.

"I'm Ryan," Kaspar replied. He stuck out his right hand which Boler embraced. "New guy."

"New guy, eh? Where'd you dig this one up at?"

"He was a prize fighter. Danny's friend."

"You know Danny?"

"Yep." Kaspar replied.

"He's a prick, ain't he?" Boler asked with a smile.

"Sure is...sometimes."

A young waitress walked over to their table. She wore a pleasant smile on her face while she approached. Two things jumped out at Kaspar from the very start: her emerald green eyes and auburn hair, his heart started to do that thing again. She carried a note pad and a pencil in hand; her smile got wider upon approach.

"How are my Agents today?" she asked.

"Just fine, Traci," Paxton replied. "How about you?"

"I'm here. What can I get for you fellas today?"

"I'll have the usual." Paxton replied. Traci knew exactly what to write down on that cute little notepad of hers. He really liked her, not only was Traci good at her job but she was good looking to boot.

"Usual here, too." Boler replied. She wrote down his order.

"And, for you, sweetie?"

Kaspar picked up a menu and flipped through it at a rapid pace. His mind raced for something, anything, to say to the attractive waitress, but nothing came to mind. He found something he might like towards the middle of the menu.

"I'll have the BLT, please." Kaspar replied. "And, how are you? Your hair looks really nice."

"I'm here and thank you." Traci said. "I'll get that order out for you guys in just a second."

Paxton looked over at Kaspar and made a gun out of his index finger. He pretended to shoot the thin air and then made a motion with his other hand. The hand flew out of the sky and crashed onto the table which caused a laugh from Boler.

"Crash and burn, kid." Paxton said.

"Ha ha." Kaspar replied.

Paxton turned his attention to his mole. "So, what do you have for us today?"

Boler took a sip from his water and moved his nervous glance around the restaurant. It took a few seconds, but he grew satisfied that there were no off duty Agents in the café. Kaspar sipped at his water and tried to get a feel for this Greg Boler guy. He felt...uneasy about this whole situation. Boler did work for the USR, so what were the chances he was...

You're thinking too much, Kaspar told himself. He took another sip of the water and let the cold liquid run down his throat. Chill out, Paxton seems to trust the guy, so it's cool. Then again, how much can the old bastard be...

Stop it.

"I think..." Boler said, then hesitated.

Traci came out with everyone's order. She slid the bowl of Garden Vegetable soup in front of the mole. Paxton's salad was filled with thick leafy lettuce and what looked skim milk poured on top. Then, the BLT for the new guy. The sandwich contained three large slices of Tomato, a healthy amount of lettuce, and one slice of that tofu shit in the middle. He took a bite and grimaced. These damned rebels ruined him.

"Go on," Paxton ordered.

"I think there is something going down tomorrow night." Boler said.

"What do you mean?" Paxton demanded. He swam his fork around the salad for a little bit and contemplated taking a bite. He thought better of it.

Boler looked around with that nervous glance again; the one that started to get on Kaspar's last nerve. This guy was nothing but a giant pussy. Kaspar wondered just how difficult it was to get into the USR as an Agent. This guy, from his too clean look to jitteriness, managed to get in. He didn't seem to be the type of guy cut out for this spy stuff. He seemed to be more at home doing nothing.

"There's this underground church," Boler said with a voice just above a whisper. "They meet up in this abandoned house, in the basement once a week. The USR has found out and they keep a watchful eye over them. They have confirmed that this is, indeed, an illicit practice of religion. They plan on taking them out tomorrow."

"You got an address for me?" Paxton asked. He pulled out a pen and slips of paper from his jacket pocket.

"Sure." Boler said. He gave him the address.

Paxton jotted down the address then placed the pen and paper back in his pocket. He took a bite of his salad and regretted it. The big gulp of water didn't do a good enough job to wash out the bitter taste. He wondered why he always ordered this piece of shit salad but, then again, no matter what he ordered here would taste like shit based on USR health regulations.

"Anything else I should know? Names?"

"No, not really. Access to their names is above my pay grade."

"Greg," Kaspar said, he placed his sandwich on the glass plate.

"Yes?"

"Let me ask you something. You work inside the USR, right?"

"Of course, why?"

Kaspar's eyes were focused solely on Boler, "You ever hear the name Jenna Kaspar?"

Boler bit his bottom lip. "No, can't say that I have."

"Really—name doesn't ring any bells?"

"No, it doesn't."

"Can you look into that name for me?" Kaspar asked.

Boler placed his spoon back into the steaming bowl of soup. He shook his head no. Did anyone know about Mother's death?

"No, no, and no." Boler replied.

"What do you mean, no?" Kaspar demanded.

"Look, I'm putting my ass on the line enough as it is. I don't need to be drawing any extra attention to myself by snooping around in someone else's department."

"But, you just told us about this church, I don't understand."

Boler started to answer, but Paxton held up his index finger. He sighed and looked over at the kid, the poor bastard was more ignorant about how the world worked than he anticipated. Paxton took a sip of water and patted his new recruit on the shoulder.

"Greg works for another department separate from the Resistance Unit, so he's not privy to what goes on in there. He works for Citizen's Affairs. He finds out about missions, like this church, from his superiors." Paxton said.

"Why can't you just..." Kaspar started to say.

"Because..." Boler said, his face turned pale. "I'm having panic attacks, okay? I don't know how much longer I can...I can't do this spy shit anymore. John, when can I get back into the unit with you?"

Paxton sighed, "Greg, we need a man in there, and you are the best man for the job."

"How do you figure?"

"Because, you know how to keep your mouth shut. You've just got to hold on...just a little bit longer, okay?"

Boler slammed his fist on the table. "Really? Just a little while longer?"

"Speak your mind."

"You've been giving me that same song and dance for the past seven damn months. I can't take this anymore, always looking over my shoulder. I even sleep with my gun. Let me tell you something. From where I'm standing, it doesn't look like you and the boys are making all that much progress."

"We will," Paxton reached over and rubbed at Boler's shoulders. "Just have some patience, son."

"Patience?" Boler demanded. He hunched his back and leaned in closer to Paxton. His voice was low and shaky, "They are going to find out, sooner or later."

"What are you suggesting, then?"

"Let me quit. Join the frontlines with you guys."

"You are on the frontline," Paxton replied. "More than any of us, I can guarantee you that."

"I'm not cut out for this."

"If you don't believe in our cause anymore..."

"It's not that," Boler said. "I assure you it's not that."

"Like I said, we need someone on the inside. If you quit your current job, you will need to find a replacement."

"I can't trust anyone in there. Besides, that would mean exposing myself..."

"It's a tough call, I'll give you that. But, you do know who you can trust, right?"

"Yes, sir." Boler replied, he took another spoonful of soup.

"Well, then."

"I guess I can hold out a little while longer."

"That's a good soldier." Paxton replied, unable to contain the smile.

"Make sure you tell Krys hi for me." Boler said.

"Will do."

The old veteran turned to Kaspar and motioned for him to get up. Before he left the table, Paxton reached into his pocket and threw some credits down. It was enough for all three lunches plus the tip. He winked at Boler who put away his own wallet. Paxton told him to cheer up and exited the café with Kaspar. Outside, the thick gray clouds began to leak moisture down the atmosphere. The two jogged towards the van to escape the approaching down pour. Kaspar scratched at his head while the engine roared to life.

He met The Committee, the arms dealer, and the rat. What next?

# Chapter .21

On the way out of the grocery store, Paxton told Kaspar all about how the USR did their best to starve out the poor. With their high taxes, low wages, and high unemployment rate, a lot of people were forced to take to the streets without a place to call home. The two picked up several items from the grocery, not much, but enough for at least some of the homeless to get by on. Upon approach at an old park, Paxton talked about how beautiful the place used to be, how it was once a haven for parents to take their children to. Now, it became a slum, a place for the homeless to congregate and fight for everything they could get.

"These people," Paxton explained, "have nothing. You think that rinky apartment you lived in was bad? You ain't seen anything, yet. You ever make it out to the park?"

"No, I guess I never really had a reason to." Kaspar replied.

"Too busy preparing for your fights?"

"Something like that."

"Well, prepare to have your eyes opened."

Paxton pulled the van over and parked it to the side of the front entrance. Once out of the van, he ordered Kaspar to take off the jacket. When the kid pointed towards the sky, Paxton re-enforced his command. They did not want to be seen wearing USR attire. Not here. With reluctance, Kaspar threw the jacket into the van and felt the rain dribble at the top of his forehead. Paxton pulled out a hooded sweatshirt from the back.

"Where's mine?" Kaspar asked.

"Should've been more prepared." Paxton replied. He pulled the hood over his head and took the lead.

"Son of a bitch."

The two men each carried a brown paper bag full of groceries in each hand. Paxton took the lead down into the park. Kaspar followed behind and awaited the eye popping, jaw dropping sight that his new boss promised. The once green grass of the park now had become overrun with dead weeds and thick mud from the rain. The USR failed to maintain this once rich property because their eyes, and money, were on other things. At least, that was how Paxton put it.

Once at the top of the hill, the promise that was made came true. Kaspar's jaw dropped wide open at the sight. He mouthed, "holy shit". There were poles of rotting, splintered wood which held up cloths of different colors. It was like a concentration camp; almost as if the USR gathered up all those who were unworthy and forced them to live in those make shift tents. Suddenly, Kaspar's own life didn't seem so horrible. He couldn't fathom living in something like this, but apparently that's what the people down below did. How could he have never heard of this place? Nobody, not Mother or Danny, not even the news which seemed to cover everything talked about it.

The two men treaded down the hill, careful not to let their asses fall into the mud, and approached the tiny huts. Kaspar saw nothing but skinny, starved men, women, and children huddled together. One little girl got up and ran towards them, a bright smile on her face. Paxton laid his bag on the wet ground and picked her up. He gave her a little kiss on the cheek. He reached into his bag and pulled out a loaf of bread. The girl's eyes brightened up even more as she snatched the bread from Paxton's hand and ran back into the hut.

"Thank you, John." the girl's mother called out from inside.

"It's no problem, Margie." Paxton replied.

"Who's that with you?"

Kaspar looked down at the middle aged woman, her face covered in dirt. When she stepped out from the hut, the rain drops caused the dirt to run down her face like make up. He wanted to give her a smile, but he felt too sorry for her to do so.

"This is Ryan," Paxton answered. "New guy."

Margie put her smile on, "Well, Ryan, it is so nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too, ma'am." Kaspar replied.

"Come on inside, you two, before you catch something."

The two men ducked their heads under the cloth and took a seat on the once soft, now crusted blankets. Kaspar leaned his body back unto a wooden pole and felt the whole structure move. He moved back up and hunched his back over in an attempt to get comfortable. There was no way to get comfortable, not in this place, he wondered how its residents did it. Paxton sat Indian style beside him and started to pass around loaves of bread and vegetables to the hungry.

Kaspar did the same. He turned to his right and saw an old man lying down on his back. It looked to be a struggle for him with every breath. Kaspar pulled out a loaf of bread and handed it to him. His smile revealed that all of his front teeth rotted out a long time ago. He tore open the plastic covering and dove in. He shoved two pieces of bread into his mouth a time.

"Slow down, Charlie," Paxton said. "That bread's not going to run away."

"Yes, John." Charlie replied.

All of the homeless inside worked together to pass around the food. They each made sure that the person beside them had at least a little something before he or she dove in. The rain started to come down hard, with loud cracks of thunder from the distance. Kaspar felt a sorrow he never felt before while he watched the hungry devour the food. How could this have happened? How could fellow human beings allow it? Where was the USR? All that preaching about what great society this was? How could they allow this?

"So," Margie said, "it's Ryan, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," Kaspar replied.

"How'd you get mixed up with this fellow?"

"He offered me a job...an...opportunity that I couldn't refuse."

"What was that?" Margie asked with great interest.

"A chance to...clean this city up."

"Well, he's doing a great job of that, aren't you, John?"

"Yes, we're trying, at least." Paxton replied.

Kaspar listened as all the people in that long hut ate, talked, and laughed with each other. He never in his life heard so much joy and, given the circumstances they were in, he could not understand it. The rain continued its downpour from above and he wondered if this cheap hut would hold up. All it would take to bring this thing down was one big gust of wind.

"How's the fighting going?" Margie asked.

"We're doing our best, but we lost one." Paxton replied.

"Who?"

"Zach."

Margie's eyes began to tear up. Paxton pulled her in close and wrapped his strong arms around her. Her body vibrated from the crying, Paxton continued to rub at the back of her arm. He whispered something into her ear. Kaspar got a good look into his boss's eyes. They that told him that it was women like Margie that they were fighting for. Margie, she reminded Kaspar so much of Mother. A clap of thunder high above caught everyone's attention and the hut went quiet for a moment. A gust of wind blew past. The structure began to teeter from side to side.

"He was such a sweet kid," Margie said as she back away from Paxton. "Such a sweet kid. Was it quick?"

"Yes, it was." Paxton replied.

"And, this youngster here is taking over for him."

"Yeah, he is. He can't shoot for anything, but..." Paxton replied with a laugh.

Margie started to laugh as well. Kaspar looked over at Paxton who shrugged his shoulders and the new guy allowed a laugh, too. The first good laugh he had since he could remember. A strong gust of wind struck and one of the cloths flew into the air. The people in that section of the hut moved with earnest to the section beside them, which now became cramped. The people didn't seem to mind, though. They all pulled each other close to ensure that nobody got wet from the rain.

"You got a hammer and nails?" Paxton asked.

"Sure do," Margie said. She reached behind her and grabbed a rusted tool box.

Paxton retrieved the hammer and a few nails. He motioned for Kaspar to join him outside. Kaspar ducked his head under the cloth and followed the leader to the now drenched blanket. The heavy rain water pounded on top of his head. The frigid drops of water made him shiver. They reached the red cloth and carried it back over to the hut. Kaspar held the cloth in place at each of the four poles while Paxton hammered the cloth back in place. Once completed the two men entered the hut once more.

"That blanket'll take a while to dry," Paxton said. "But, it should hold."

"God bless you," Margie said. "Bless both of you. Do you believe in God, Ryan?"

"I'm not sure there is a god. If he is around, I don't see any of his work."

"He's working. He's always working. It's just not too obvious sometimes."

"Yes, ma'am."

Kaspar started to sneeze and even with his best attempt to hold it back the burning inside of his nostrils made that impossible. He let out a loud sneeze then rubbed at his red nose. Margie pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to him. He took it from her and rubbed at his nose before he sneezed again.

"I guess that's our cue to get out of here." Paxton said.

"You men be careful out there." Margie said.

"Sure thing, and, Margie."

"Yes."

"Keep your head up. We are making headway on them. Peace will come soon and you won't have to live like this anymore."

"I believe you. Thank you again for the food."

"Don't mention it. Ryan."

Paxton moved out of the hut and jogged towards the hill. Before Kaspar could get out, he felt a soft hand grab at his arm. He looked behind him at Margie, and she just smiled back at him.

"You're hurting," Margie said. "I can see that in your eyes."

"I'm...fine." Kaspar replied.

"Just don't forget to find the joy in your life, even while you're out there fighting...doing what you have to do."

"I won't."

"And...remember us."

Kaspar got out and took one last look inside the hut, at all the people inside. The vision of the little girl smiling and eating bread haunted him. He could not take it anymore, so he looked away and jogged towards the hill. Paxton already reached the top. He stood there awaiting Kaspar to hurry his ass up. Upon the initial climb, Kaspar slipped and got Zach's jeans muddy. He picked himself back up and reached the top. On the way down, he added caution to his steps.

"How come I never knew about this place?" Kaspar demanded.

"Nobody cares," Paxton replied. "Not the USR, not the media, nobody. Like you said, you never saw a reason to come down here."

"Are there more places like this?"

"Yes, but we can't help them all. We couldn't possibly help them all. Somebody else is going to have to chip in and help out."

"What about the other resistance groups?"

"They help some, I presume, but there are too many camps like this one."

Once inside the van, Kaspar walked into the back in search of a towel. He found a stack of them underneath one of the benches and started to work on his wet hair. He sneezed again as the van's engine roared to life. Only one thought breached Kaspar's mind while the van moved forward.

Remember us.

# Chapter .22

The USR won another victory in their war on terror today, as two members of the resistance were brought to justice in their apartment. Three of the USR's finest took part in the raid, though the USR, per government policy, will not release the names of the Agents. Consul Williamson had this to say, however:

"What happened today was another victory for our great society. I don't know how many times I have to come up here and warn the resistance that they will be found and executed. It's unfortunate that these two young people, however foolish they may be, had to succumb to their fates in this way, but..."

Kaspar fired three rounds from his Beretta 92. He peered at the paper target in front to see how accurate he was this time. One of the rounds hit the target just below the stomach, the other two missed. He grimaced, slumped his shoulders, and shook his head. Paxton hadn't told the others yet, but Kaspar knew that there was a mission to come very soon, and he had to be sharp out there. At least he hit one out of the three, but that wouldn't do. The Agent would still be alive to blow Kaspar's brains out while his guts spilled to the floor. Kaspar aimed his weapon again and prepared to fire.

"Whatcha up to?" Krys's voice off in the distance asked.

He looked behind him and there she was; his tormentor from earlier in the day. The sun began its descent behind her as she walked closer. While she did, Kaspar tried hard to figure this woman out. She seemed to have split personalities that could be switched on command. He had already seen Krys kill without hesitation, but somehow he could tell that she was not a killer by nature.

"Practice," Kaspar said, "if you don't mind."

"Knock yourself out." Krys replied, she held a P99 in her right hand.

Kaspar turned his attention to the target in front of him once more. He fired three more rounds into it. The shots to the chest were missed, but he managed to hit it in the gut twice. The shot to the head went wide left. He cursed and heard three shots fired in quick succession beside him. He peered over to Krys's target sheet.

"Is that what you're trying to do?" she asked. Two shots hit the chest, the final at the top of the head.

"Yes." Kaspar replied.

"Try again."

He breathed in and focused on nothing but the target in front. His hands kept steady, his opened eye in sync down the sight. He pulled twice, then moved the gun up and fired once at the head. Kaspar lowered his weapon and looked at the results.

"Son of a bitch." Kaspar said. He placed the gun on the table then leaned forward with both arms.

"Don't let it get you down," Krys said. "You think I learned to do that overnight?"

"I've got to get this down, otherwise how am I ever going to..."

"Listen, man, you just need to relax."

"Relax? You expect me to relax while my mother's killers are running free out there?"

Kaspar picked up the gun and fired three more times, his aim less careful. He nailed the two shots to the chest, but once again missed the head shot.

"Well," Krys said, "at least he'll suffer a bit before he goes."

"That's very funny."

"I know it is. Get that stick out of your ass."

"Ha."

"You've been out here a long time," Krys said. She placed her gun on the table and motioned towards the house with her head. "Why not take a breather?"

Kaspar followed Krys towards the back porch without a reply. The woman took a seat on one of the wooden steps. When Kaspar took his seat next to her he made sure not to sit too close so she wouldn't invade his personal space. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. He took a drag. Next to him, Krys made a fanning motion with her hand in front of her nose.

"Why do you do that?" she asked.

Kaspar took another drag, "What?"

"That."

"I don't know."

He looked down at the burning end of the cigarette before he dragged on it again. The smoke caused him to feel light headed; the nicotine cured the craving that grew more intense each day. He looked up at the setting sun which created a palette of orange, red, and dark blue.

"Beautiful..." Krys said as she stared off in wonder.

"Sure is," Kaspar replied in between drags.

"Not much of a talker are you?"

"Not much."

Krys looked over at Kaspar and smiled. "But, you are a real pain in the ass."

"I guess..." Kaspar started to say, his speech interrupted by a cough.

"Not much fun is it?"

"We're all gonna die, right? Might as well enjoy the little things." He held the cigarette high.

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

Kaspar peered into her eyes, "School me."

"The little things are...like that." Krys pointed out towards the setting sun. "Not killing yourself."

"Yeah, well, keep your judgments to yourself."

"You know, wanting to help you out is not judging."

The two sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. His smoke had long since been over and the sun completed its descent to the bottom of the sky. Kaspar looked over at Krys who just stared off into the sky.

"You okay?" Kaspar asked.

"Hmm?" Krys replied.

"I don't know, you just look like you're deep in thought, I guess."

"I was...just thinking..." Krys said and laughed, "Talk about redundancy, right?"

Kaspar let out a laugh. His eyes stared deep into her brown eyes. He felt something force him to look away. He reached into his pocket for another cigarette, but felt the woman's hand over top his. Why did she care?

"Come on, can't it wait?" Krys asked.

"Sure, I guess it could."

"Good. So, how was your day?"

"What do you mean?" Kaspar asked.

"What I said."

"It was okay, I guess. You know, got to meet some people...Greg says 'hi' by the way."

Krys rolled her eyes, "Tell me about it, that guy's had his eye on me for a while."

"Both eyes, probably."

Krys let out a fake giggle and said, "How are you holding up? Everything going well?"

"Everything except for the complete boredom."

"Don't worry soldier," Krys said. She gave a playful punch to Kaspar's arm. "You'll be fightin' in no time."

Krys straightened her back and stretched her upper body forward. Her black tee scooted up as she did and Kaspar caught a glimpse of the bottom of the tattoo. He stared at it and tried to figure out...

"See something you like?" Krys asked with a wry smile.

"That tattoo," Kaspar said. His eyes met Krys's again, "It's...nice."

"Nice? Ha-ha, nice?"

"Yeah, nice."

"Can't you think of another word, I don't know..."

"Beautiful?"

She was taken aback. "Something like that."

"What does it mean?"

"Well," Krys smiled, "you know how roses represent love and everything? Well, this rose is dying—"

Kaspar interrupted with a laugh, "I'd like to meet the son of a bitch that broke your heart."

"Not like that, think higher, like the world. There's no love left, not that I can see anyway."

"Who did it for you?"

"Ron, he's really good. All those tats on his arms? He did those himself, too. I've got another one."

"Where? Let me see." Kaspar said.

"I'm not letting you look there..."

Kaspar could feel his face burn while Krys just laughed. She lifted up her shirt almost over her head. She turned her back towards him and he saw the white...bird tattooed on her shoulder. The wings were spread out wide with blood splatter here and there on the body.

"A bloody pigeon?" Kaspar asked.

"A dove...it represents purity, you know? I told Ron to add the blood splatters to contrast the life I'm forced to live now. I got it made the first time I killed a man." Krys replied. She let the shirt down.

"When was that?"

"Right after I first joined up...I shot a man and stared into his dying eyes right before he passed."

"How'd you deal with it?" Kaspar wondered.

"I can't get his face out of my head, that's how. His eyes, they were so filled with fear and...I'm sorry, I just can't talk about it."

"You are awful hard on yourself, you know that?"

"Yeah, well, I've killed people."

"They would've just done the same to you."

Krys squinted her eyes, "Not everyone wants to kill somebody, you ever think about that?"

Kaspar rubbed at the stubble of his chin, "What are you doing here, then?"

"I fight for those people you saw at the park today. People like your mother, who are killed for no reason. You really loved her, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did," Kaspar said. He fought hard against the lump that began to form in his throat. "She was the only person who...my father, he didn't give a shit about us, just took off and left."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"So," Kaspar said in desperate need to change the subject. "These people you kill. What about them?"

"It's necessary," Krys replied. "But, that doesn't mean I have to feel good about it."

"They are the enemy."

"But, they are still human beings. A lot of those Agents out there only do it because it's a paycheck to put food on the table."

"That's not an excuse. Don't make excuses for them...they are a part of a criminal organization that murders innocent people..."

Krys interrupted, "So what about you, then? You just here for the kill? Hunt down those men who killed your mother and return the favor, right? That all you care about?"

"Fucking A."

"I see, well, I'm sure you'll get your chance."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, it seems like nobody has any clue as to what happened other than she's dead."

"All the same, I hope you get what you're looking for." Krys said. She stood and headed for the door.

"Have a good one." Kaspar said with his back to her.

"You too," Krys said. The door creaked when she opened it. "And, quit smoking."

The door slammed behind him as Kaspar flicked the Zippo to light another one. He sat there staring off into the distance while he smoked. His thoughts went back to that hut. How joyful they were at the sight of something as simple as bread. Was Mother's life worth more than theirs? He went in for another drag...

"Hey, Kas," Ron's deep voice called from the patio door.

"Yeah?" Kaspar asked, he turned his body around.

"Boss needs us now."

# Chapter .23

Paxton stood in front of a large projection screen, the red and white stripes of the American flag reflected on his face. He looked towards his team members, who were filed in at the desks, eager to hear what was to be said. The old veteran figured that this would be a simple mission, though he was careful to keep that information from the others. Get in, get them out, and make a run for it before the USR showed up.

"We've got a congregation of worshippers," Paxton said. "They will be meeting together for their weekly service tomorrow night. We've learned from Boler that the USR have planned to raid that service then."

Paxton nodded his head towards Clarke, who worked the projector in the back. The projector was hooked into his military grade laptop. After a couple of clicks the picture of the house popped up on the screen. Paxton stepped away from the screen, the reflection on his face moved away with him. The sound of his comrades moving forward in their seats filled his ears. He knew that they were all eager; they had not been out since Zach met his fate.

"Our mission," Paxton continued, "is to get them to safety."

Krys spoke up, "Why not just tell them not to attend?"

"We don't know who they are or how to get in touch with them...Boler has no access to that Intel. This is an abandoned home as well, people. He only knows when this is going down." Paxton looked up and saw a raised hand. "Yes, Ron?"

"Do we know how many men the USR will send in?" Kilbourne asked.

"No, we don't. But, we do know the approximate time of their arrival, which will be a few minutes after the service is scheduled. They'll want to get as many members as they can. We get in ten minutes before, get the religious folks out...and pray there aren't any stragglers."

Kaspar leaned back in his chair and, with his head buried in his palms, shook it from side to side. He removed his hands and looked towards Paxton. He seemed so sincere about all this, but why? Kaspar raised his hand.

"Ryan?" Paxton called.

"What's our angle in all this?" Kaspar wondered.

The entire room went silent. Kaspar could feel every pair of eyes on him. He looked around and felt about five inches tall before he caught the stern look from Paxton. The leader stood there and pondered at the question without an answer.

Krys had a look of disappointment. "What do you mean 'what's our angle'?"

Kaspar cleared his throat, "What I mean is, we've got some church goers, and that's all well and good. Worship whoever you want, but aren't we exposing ourselves a little bit...too much?"

"These people will die," Paxton said. "At least the lucky ones will die right away. Do you know what happens to people who break away from what the USR considers the perfect way of life?"

"I have an idea..."

"No, you have no idea!" Paxton cried. "Those less fortunate will be tortured, the USR will demand where the other congregations are, and the cycle continues. These poor people will die knowing that they betrayed their faith and their fellow believers."

"But," Kilbourne chimed in. "Isn't this almost exactly how we lost Zach?"

"I've told you before," Paxton said. "That he sacrificed his life for the greater good...which is more than any of us can say. We can't just stop..."

"Nobody's suggesting that, Pax. But, maybe new guy has a point here. Sure, a little collateral damage is never welcomed, but we could focus our time on other things."

Paxton folded his arms across his chest, "So, just let the USR butcher them, is that it? Is that really your suggestion?"

"My suggestion," Kilbourne replied, "is that we cut our losses and focus in on recruitments. Get our forces stronger then go after the big guns. I mean, we going to go in with junior who's under trained and can't shoot straight?"

Too bad, Kaspar thought as he shook off the comment, he was just starting to like the guy. Paxton's demeanor changed completely. He was starting to grow nervous with the thought of losing his team's morale. Kaspar started to feel bad about his comment. In truth, he could care less either way, so long as some Agents met their demise. He had no clue that he kicked at a hornet's nest.

Krys slumped back in her chair. She rubbed her hands slowly through her hair. "I can't believe that we are even having this debate. Those are innocent people we are talking about. We have the proper intelligence and the manpower to save them, but here we are, arguing over whether it's the 'smart' decision."

Li, the Asian kid who never spoke, spoke up, "I agree, we can't turn a blind eye to this."

"Thank you," Paxton said. "Now, Ron, if you want to sit this one out with the rookie then that is your choice, and we can live with that. But, we are going to save those people, do I make myself clear?"

"I never said that I wanted to sit this one out." Kilbourne replied. "I'd never take a mission off, you know that. I just question the timing."

"And, I've taken it under advisement, anything else?"

Kilbourne shook his head. Everyone turned to Kaspar who shook his head as well.

"Very well," Paxton said. "Moving on, we know that they meet for worship every Tuesday night at around 7:00. We will sneak in there at 6:50 and get as many to safety as we can. Li?"

"Sir."

"You will be watching the front door, be our eyes."

"Understood."

"Krys, Ryan?"

"Sir." Kaspar said.

"Yes, sir." Krys replied.

"You two will be with myself and Ron. We are to escort the people to safety and keep them as calm as possible. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." they both said.

"What about me?" Clarke asked from the back.

Robert Clarke was the closest person that Paxton had to a friend. Paxton sighed and placed his hands on his hips. Every mission, Clarke wanted to be a part of the action, but everyone (including Clarke) knew that he was not cut out for it. Yet and still, he volunteered his services, and grew more upset each time he had to "sit one out".

"You'll be staying back," Paxton replied. "You'll be our eyes to the outside, watching enemy movements and keeping track of radio traffic."

"That's it?" Clarke demanded.

"Isn't it always?"

"Yes, but I want to be out there. I want to fight with you guys."

"You are fighting with us," Paxton replied. "You can trust me on that. We need you back here. We need someone with your technical skills to keep our asses informed out there."

"I understand, John."

Paxton watched his friend's head go straight down. He felt like shit every time he had to do this. A part of him wanted to train his friend, but the more thinking part of his brain informed that Clarke could never handle combat. That killer instinct that every soldier needed...Clarke did not possess, nothing even close to it, actually. He belonged behind a desk, not that there was anything wrong with that. Clarke was extremely prolific at what he did. He saved the team on more than one occasion with the perfectly timed flood of Intel. Paxton remembered the day that Clarke told him that he didn't feel like a part of the team. Despite constant reassurance, his friend still felt the same way. What Clarke didn't realize, what Paxton knew, was that his role in this war would be felt in the long run.

"Good," Paxton replied. "Any question, you come see me. Dismissed."

The lights above came to life and illuminated the room once more. Kaspar watched the others get up from their seats before he stood from his own. He stretched his still sore body, but he knew that he was almost fully recovered from his run in with Razor. He started to walk out before Paxton's booming voice rose.

"Can I see you a minute?"

"Sure," Kaspar replied. He turned and faced his superior.

"If you ever think of undermining me again..."

"I wasn't undermining..."

"Don't interrupt." Paxton said. "If you ever even think of undermining me again in front of my team, think long and hard about it. I give the orders here, you understand me? If you are not fully with us, if all you seek is vengeance, then see your way out. But, as long as I'm in command, you will obey my orders. I told you before, if you have concerns, you bring them to me or Ron in private. Do I make myself clear?"

"As day," Kaspar replied. "May I go now?"

"Go on about your business, soldier."

All his talk about freedoms, liberties, and all he does is parade around like a dictator. Kaspar shook his head and walked outside towards the firing range again, his trigger finger with an insatiable itch. The thought of going it alone struck his mind once more, but he shook it off immediately.

He needed them...for now.

# Chapter .24

The day took forever, that's all Kaspar could think about. He lost track of the number of hours he sat on the old cot, the one that dipped straight down at the slightest introduction of weight. The thought of how nice his old mattress was helped Kaspar to get his mind off of the mission to come. The color of the sky outside revealed that the long day was nearly over. The inevitable was about to come.

Another thought struck his mind. He walked towards the closet and searched for the pants he had worn when he first arrived. He found them and dug into the right pocket. Nothing. Where in the hell was it? His hand entered the left pocket. He found what he sought at the bottom. He pulled it out and looked at the torn yellow fabric...

A knock on the door forced Kaspar's mind back to the present. He opened the door to find Paxton standing there. He held a pair of hangers with black clothing. He looked at the old man. The two had not spoken since last night. Kaspar wanted to keep it that way as he grabbed at the hangers without saying a word.

Paxton broke the silence. "This is one of Zach's. Might be a bit snug, but it should do until we get you fitted for one."

"Thank you..."

"About our little disagreement last night..."

"Don't worry about it," Kaspar said. "I stepped out of line."

"Did you really mean what you said, though?"

"It just seems trivial to me, but you are the boss, so I'll do as you say."

"Nothing is trivial when it comes to innocent lives."

"Yes, sir. Trust me, I know that all too well."

"You have my word, as soon as things settle down, I will help you find them."

"I appreciate that," Kaspar said. He turned his body towards the bed with the hangers in hand. "I'll be out in a minute."

The door shut behind while Kaspar walked the hangers over to the bed. He laid the black suit on top then took off his clothes. He stood in his boxers, stared down at the suit, his heart picking up the pace in the process. He worked on the long sleeved black shirt first. He tried to get comfortable inside of it, but Paxton was correct in the assumption that it would fit snug. It would just be something that had to be dealt with for now. After he zipped the top up he worked on the pants, which too fit snug.

After he tucked the top into the pants, Kaspar moved around the room and tried to get used to the tight fit of the suit. Zach's street clothes fit just fine. Just how skin tight did they need to make these outfits? Kaspar's thoughts returned to that yellow fabric.

This is for you, Mother.

Kaspar found a safety pin on top of the dresser. He used the pin to attach the fabric over the right side of his chest. He played around with it a little bit which brought a smile to his face. Mother, she loved to knit, this was the last remaining evidence of that. Kaspar thanked the stars that he was able to find this little keepsake. To remind him of the real reason he joined up with these people.

Now or never time. Kaspar walked out of the bedroom and walked downstairs to join the others. They were gathered around the living room all decked out in black as well. The only difference being that they were outfitted with Kevlar vests. He sure hoped that he would get one, too. Maybe it was part of rookie hazing to make the newest team member go on the first mission without it. A ridiculous thought, but with everything that Kaspar had seen so far, it didn't seem outside the realm of possibility. He glanced over and saw Kilbourne and Li inspecting their submachine guns. Kaspar desperately wanted one of those, too.

"You scared?" Krys asked from behind.

Kaspar turned and made eye contact, "No, not of them."

"Who are you scared of, then?"

"Myself. I'm scared that I'll go in there and not know what to do."

"Just listen to your gut...and hope that your shooting has improved."

Kaspar chuckled. On top of sitting on that old cot all day, he managed to spend the entire morning at the range. There was at least some improvement...during the three round bursts he hit the target every time. Maybe not in the most strategic spots, but to Kaspar, it didn't matter. He even got to shoot a little bit with the UMP submachine gun and found that he enjoyed firing an automatic more than a pistol.

"We'll see." Kaspar said.

"What's that?" Krys asked. She used her index finger to point at the yellow on Kaspar's chest.

"It's a reminder." Kaspar replied.

"Of what? What is it?"

"It's from my mother, she used to knit these blankets, all day, it's all she did. This is from the one she worked on when..."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"But, still..."

"I just need to remember why I'm doing this."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Kaspar asked.

"Just remember," Kilbourne's booming voice said, "to stay calm and don't let that patty ass of yours get the best of you."

Kaspar started to say something back, but the room grew silent. Paxton walked in with Clarke close behind. The old veteran carried a flak jacket in one hand and an LWRC PSD in the other. Kaspar took this as a cue to move in.

"Flak jacket," Paxton said as he extended it to Kaspar. "Could save your life."

"Sounds good." Kaspar replied. He fit both arms into the jacket and fastened the buckles around his chest.

"PSD, one of the finest weapons you'll ever fire. Take good care of it and it'll take good care of your enemies."

Kaspar took the gun from Paxton. He slung the strap over his neck then adjusted the strap so it wasn't so loose.

"I filled spare magazines for it in your jacket. Remember, the safety is on, so if we get into a tussle, make quite sure you flip it off."

The comment got a laugh from everyone in the room, but Kaspar did not find it funny. Did they all just think he was some kind of jackass? Paxton extended his own PSD in front of Kaspar and showed where the safety was located. He also showed how to switch the gun from semi-auto, to three round burst, and to full auto.

Kaspar looked to Clarke who had even more items for him. Clarke handed over one of Kaspar's Beretta pistols in a thigh holster, which he fitted around his right thigh. The nerd had something else: an American flag patch with Velcro on the back. Kaspar was instructed to attach the flag to his right arm and he did so. Clarke also had a pair of black gloves, which fit a little loose around the fingers, but would do just fine. One final item on display surprised Kaspar the most.

"To conceal our identities." Paxton explained.

It was a black Balaclava with some kind of solid black eye pieces attached to the eye holes. The jet black lenses perfectly reflected the light from above. Kaspar tried it on and, like the outfit, fit snug over his head. He rubbed his hands along all sides of it to try and smooth it out. He looked over to Paxton through the tinted lenses.

"You sure you're ready for this?" Paxton asked.

"Let's find out," Kaspar replied.

***

Like so much else throughout the day, the ride into town seemed to take ages. Unsure if the cause was nervous anticipation or just adrenaline, Kaspar's stomach began to crawl with pests. He rubbed his gloved hands together and his bent legs moved up and down. Mask off, he glanced around the back of the van at Krys and Li. They seemed so calm, so in control, self-assured. He wondered if there would come a time when he could ride into a mission like that. His thoughts of the inevitable unknown reminded him of the old pre-fight jitters he would get. But, something inside of him said that this would be a little different...

"Hey, man," Krys said. "Calm down."

"What?" Kaspar asked, his mind crashed back down to reality.

"I said calm down. You're giving me the creeps."

"It's just nerves, I'll be fine."

"Just get a hold of yourself."

Krys slung the PSD from over her shoulder and began to inspect it. Li sat at the end silent as always. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deliberate. Kaspar looked down and noticed that the flak jacket covered Mother's fabric. He played around with it until it rested on the side, in full view so the USR would know she was being avenged.

He reached down and pulled his 9MM Beretta out of the thigh holster. He pressed the magazine release next to the trigger. He stared down at the gold casing of the top bullet. Kaspar wondered which Agent would get the first one. With the magazine replaced, he slid the chamber back and replaced the gun to his thigh.

All that remained now was the wait. The long and seemingly unattainable time when...

The van's brakes slammed down hard. The force of the stop caused Kaspar to slide down the bench a few inches. The engine cut off, nothing but silence for a few brief moments. The double doors in the back flew open with Paxton and Kilbourne waiting outside.

"We're here," Paxton said. "Remember, in and out fast, this is a simple job so let's not get ourselves killed. Game faces."

Everyone reached down and slid their masks on. Kaspar was the last one out of the van. Paxton parked it in the large backyard, with its tall weeds and brown grass. The large tire marks from the vehicle added to the wonderful scenery.

"How many inside?" Kaspar asked.

"We don't know. Can't be too many, not many cars parked in front." Paxton replied.

"They all going to fit in there?"

"We'll make them fit. Let's move out."

The team moved to the front. All of the homes in this abandoned neighborhood were run down. Kaspar wondered what this place must have looked like before. He imagined kids playing in the streets, everybody with a smiling face, not a care in the world. The target house seemed to take the worst of it. The once yellow paint long since rotted away, along with the wood underneath. The front porch had seen better days, evidenced by the gray wood and deep holes.

"Li, you watch our asses out here," Paxton said. "Everyone else inside."

Li stood watch out front, both hands attached to the PSD. Kaspar kept up with the brisk pace of the others as they entered the deserted home. Shards of glass from the broken windows were scattered all over the decayed wooden floor, which caused a crunching sound underneath the team's military boots. They moved to the basement door, the joyful sound of singing could be heard from down below.

Paxton opened the door with caution. He gave a hand signal for the others to move down. Kilbourne took the lead, followed by Krys and Kaspar, with Paxton taking the rear. A sudden burst of screams interrupted the music. Shouts of calm down were ignored and only intensified the cries.

"We're not here to hurt you!" Kilbourne shouted. "The USR are on their way right now."

# Chapter .25

"Who are you people, then?" a middle aged man with thinning hair asked.

"We are the real police." Paxton said, he moved to the front. "The real protectors of this city."

The congregation looked to have spent a lot of time turning this basement into a church. A large cross made of thick tree branches hung by the back wall. The floors were remodeled, the glossy wood shined from the lights above. There were ten people huddled down here, seven seniors, three middle aged. No one under the age of thirty gathered in this makeshift church. They were all dressed in their best clothing. Though, for some, their best wasn't all that attractive. Most of the elderly wore old suits with holes and stains. Everyone grew silent upon Paxton's approach. He moved his right arm over and pointed to the American flag patch. There were gasps then, for most a sigh of relief, but a few grew more fearful at the sight.

"They've found us? How?" an elderly man asked.

"Who is your leader?" Paxton asked.

"I am." the man replied.

The aged man, with no hair left on his head, wore an all black suit with a white square over top his wrinkled throat. A cheap, weathered cane helped keep the man upright. He walked towards Paxton, his aged legs shook with each step. The shakes in his hands on the cane seemed to be in rhythm with his legs.

"How did you find us, my son?"

"What's your name?" Paxton replied.

"Father Mark Francis."

Paxton grabbed Francis by the shoulder, "Look, Father, we're here to get you and your people to safety."

"Take off the mask," Francis said. "Let me see your face."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. You're just going to have to trust me. Gather your flock. Tell them to go to the van out back."

"Don't trust him, Father!" one of the women called out. "How can you trust a man that won't let you see his face?"

"Yeah," a man chimed in. "We've heard about you people on television, you're nothing but thugs."

"Listen!" Paxton cried. "If you don't trust us, then that's fine. Let the USR deal with you. If you want to live, you'll go outside into our van."

"He's right," an old woman said. "We have to leave now."

"Let us preach the gospel to the USR!" a middle aged man cried out. "That's what God would want!"

"The USR," Kilbourne said as he walked towards him, "doesn't care about your god. They will torture you—make you denounce your faith—before they kill you."

"If that's God's will then let it happen!"

Paxton sighed and shook his head. So much for a simple extraction, he thought the mere mention of the USR coming would scare these folks into escape. He should have known better, though. He remembered the churches at the beginning of the USR, how defiant they were. He once saw with his own two eyes a church burnt to the ground with the members still inside. Paxton had never been a religious man, the horrors of war stripped that from him, so he couldn't bring himself to understand it. Was it out of sheer stupidity, hard headedness, or something even crazier like faith?

Paxton raised his hand. "Okay, we can try this the easy way, then. Whoever wants to stay, stay. Whoever wants to escape, escape. But, we must hurry, so if you are leaving with us, go up the stairs now."

"You all should leave," Francis said. "I'll stay behind."

"No, Father," a elderly man pleaded. "I'll stay with you."

"You must go on, Fredrick, to spread the Word. I will stay and spread the gospel to our captors."

"I'm staying," Fredrick said. "I'll teach them with you."

"We don't have time for this." Paxton stated. "We're leaving now."

"Father," the elderly woman said, "you take care. I'll go on. We will build another church."

"Everyone who's leaving," Kilbourne said. "Raise your right hand and follow us up the stairs."

Seven of the worshippers raised their hand and followed the rebels up the stairs, Paxton in the lead. Kaspar stayed behind for a moment. Why didn't the three save themselves? What good would it do to rot in prison before their execution? The three men stared back at him, Fredrick the only one without fear in his eyes. The Father stood straight, stiff as a board, unafraid to stand up for his faith. Francis motioned with his head for Kaspar to leave.

"You guys better hurry," Clarke's voice said through Kaspar's ear piece. "They are about a mile away."

"Move it!" Paxton shouted from upstairs. His PSD held high, the stock rested on his shoulder, he moved fast towards the back door. "Li, you see anything, yet?"

"No," Li said through the ear piece. "But, I hear sirens from afar."

"Okay, meet us in the back right now."

They all burst through the back door. Paxton moved towards the van, lowered his gun, and then opened the double doors. The worshippers all took their seats on the benches, Krys and Li sat on the floor. It sure would be a tight fit, Kaspar thought to himself, he wondered what would happen next.

"They're pulling in," Clarke shouted. "Get out of their now!"

The sound of high pitched sirens came from the front of the house. Kaspar could hear the rumble of the tires over top the gravel driveway. He reached behind and slung the PSD over his chest. Visions of Mother's dead eyes filled his mind. He looked down at the yellow piece. He knew what he had to do. He switched the safety off on the PSD then moved the latch to full auto.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Paxton yelled from the front of the van.

"Making things right," Kaspar replied. "Maybe one of those men out there was involved..."

"Snap out of it!"

"You guys can leave," Kaspar yanked back the slide next to the chamber. "I'm staying behind to preach a little gospel of my own."

Kaspar moved towards the house, but Paxton's strong hand formed a death grip on his left shoulder. He looked back and swung his left shoulder free. He moved forward once more and the death grip returned, this time with a clicking sound. Kaspar turned and stared into the barrel of a handgun.

"You're coming with us," Paxton ordered. "Or, maybe I should just kill you myself."

The sirens ceased. The sound of the heavy vehicle doors slamming shut echoed in the night air. Clarke said something through the ear piece, but Kaspar paid no attention to it. Right now, Paxton had it, full and undivided. The Agents kicked in the front door and shouted inside.

"Would you really?" Kaspar asked.

"Care to find out?" Paxton replied. "Get in the van, now."

Reason finally set in. Kaspar ran towards the opened double doors. He found himself a spot on the floor near the back before the doors slammed behind him. The engine roared to life as Paxton floored it towards the old dirt road near the back yard. Kaspar's rear end jumped up and down from the bumps in the road, nearly matching his heart rate.

"What is wrong with you?" Krys demanded before she slapped Kaspar's covered cheek.

"I was trying to save those people in the basement." Kaspar replied.

"Sell that to someone else, cause I'm not buying it."

"Don't worry about it, then."

"We will worry about it," the elderly woman said. "You could've gotten us killed back there."

"She's right," Li, the man who never spoke, said.

"Fine," Kaspar said. "Then I apologize, whole heartedly."

Kaspar could feel his body shift right along with the sharp turn. Clarke filled the ear piece with instructions for Paxton on what was going on. None of the Agents caught on to the fact that the resistance was just there. Nobody followed.

"You guys were lucky," Clarke said. "And, when you get back, I need to give Ryan a piece of my mind."

***

"Hello, gentlemen," Father Francis greeted the uniformed Agents. "Have you come to worship the Lord our God with us?"

There was laughter from the men. They wore digital urban camouflage with thick Kevlar vests with the bold white letters "USR" across their chests. They held their P90 submachine guns against their shoulders, aimed at the three men who stayed behind. The leader of the assault team stepped towards Francis. The Agent grew disappointed when the little man didn't waiver or bow to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

"I'm afraid not," the leader said. "We're here to bring you to justice."

"Under what crime?"

"Spreading your evil, tyrannous views on the good citizens of this city."

The third man spoke up. "We're here under our own free will. What tyranny do you speak of?"

"I can think of several acts, but we don't have time for that." The leader replied.

"Have you found God in your life, Mr..." Francis started to ask.

"No, because there is no god. And, if there was, it would side with us versus your...hate mongering."

"Hate mongering?"

The leader smiled. "Yes, hate mongering and exclusion of those who believe different from yourselves. Now, let's go."

The third man lost it and ran towards the stairs. The Agents let loose automatic bursts from their weapons. The barrage of bullets tore through the man's back and he crashed to the floor. The blood from the bullet wounds stained the once pristine floor. Fredrick gasped. He looked over in fear to Francis. Francis shook his head no and held his finger to his lips.

"I'm not ready to die," Fredrick said.

"You should've thought about that," the leader replied. "I'm afraid there is no way out for you...unless you denounce your god and this filthy religion you practice."

"Okay," Fredrick pleaded. "I denounce it. What do you want me to do?"

"You no longer believe? After all this time you've been worshipping? I don't believe you."

"I swear it..." Fredrick cried. He fell to his knees, hands behind his head.

"Fredrick!" Francis shouted. "Get up. Stop saying that nonsense."

"I don't believe, I swear it, I don't believe any longer."

"Then," the leader persisted. "Why do you come here?"

"I was going to report them. I swear on the almighty USR I was."

"Fredrick!" Francis shouted again.

The leader pointed his handgun in Francis's face. The Father's lips shook and he went north, south, west, east with his right hand. He expected to be gunned down at any second. The leader just laughed at the sight in front of him.

"Stop with that and keep your mouth shut," the leader ordered. "I'm not going to kill you, yet."

"What about me?" Fredrick asked as he picked himself up off the ground.

"You have proven yourself."

"Really?"

The sound of a gunshot echoed through the basement. Fredrick fell face first to the ground; the bullet tore straight through the front of his skull. Francis looked away. A stream of tears escaped his closed eye lids. The leader laughed again as blood leaked through the bullet wound.

"To be a coward," the leader said. "Let's see if your god will forgive you for your betrayal. As for you..."

"What is it?" Francis asked, his head still looked away.

"You are coming with us. We have some questions for you. Boys..."

Four Agents moved in. Their P90's were now slung over their shoulders. They had their night sticks out and ready. They hit Francis over and over again until his frail body hit the floor. The frail man, tears flowing from his eyes, felt two Agents pick him up from his armpits. They carried him up the stairs and out to their truck. Francis said nothing, he only prayed.

Not just for himself...but for the men who captured him.

***

The bodies were dumped somewhere downtown. The worshippers would have to figure their own way home. There was no chance for them to get their vehicles back. Kaspar wondered what they would do now...and why the team took the risk of rescue in the first place. Another thought crept in: what if Paxton had let him go?

"Another successful mission," Krys said. She took the Balaclava off of her head and shook her hair loose.

"You call that a success?" Kaspar asked. He took his own mask off.

"Yeah, we got them all to safety."

"Not all of them."

"That was their decision, not ours. We can't make that choice for them."

"What are they going to tell the USR people, then?"

"Nothing," Krys replied. "They didn't see anything."

"They'll be able to tell them how many of us were there."

"The USR has no idea how many of us there are. Remember, we have rebel forces everywhere."

"But, you can't see any of them or make contact, right?"

"Exactly. I thought John explained all of this to you, already."

"He did."

Krys played around with her hair, "So, what then?"

"It doesn't make any sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense," Krys replied. "It's just the way it is."

The back of the van remained silent until it screeched to a halt in front of the safe house. The team filed out and headed for the front porch. Kaspar started to walk through the front yard before that damned death grip returned to his right arm. He turned to face Paxton, who stared deep into his eyes.

"What the fuck was that?" Paxton demanded.

"I already told the others," Kaspar shook his arm loose. "I was going to save those people in there. Maybe bring some actual justice to them."

"You just get something straight, you little bastard: we don't have time for loose cannons on this team. I thought I went over this with you before. Do you get me?"

"John..."

"You will address me as 'sir', soldier, now answer the question."

"The USR took my mother from me, so please forgive me if I..."

"Let's get another thing straight," Paxton said. He pointed his index finger in Kaspar's face. "We, all of us, have lost something in this war. It's not just you, not just your mother, and you need to get that in your head. Now, do you get me?"

"Yes, sir."

Paxton lowered his finger, "Good, now go inside and think about what could've happened had we been caught."

How much more of this could he take? Kaspar told Paxton the day that they met what his true intentions were and the old veteran let him in anyway. Now, all of a sudden, he was made to look like the bad guy when he tried to exact some small amount of revenge. The more he got to know Paxton, the more he grew to hate him. He had long since passed the dislike stage. Where was all this help that Paxton promised...and why did he let him in the first place?

He felt anger towards himself, too. Who knows, maybe that squad that raided the church was the same one that killed Mother. He would never know now, all because he was too chicken shit to go in there and do the right thing.

"Were you really going to shoot me?" Kaspar asked.

"No," Paxton replied. "But, maybe I should have considered it. Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

"What's going to happen to them? The ones who stayed behind, I mean."

Paxton looked straight down. "They are not our responsibility any longer."

"Bullshit they're not. They are going to die, right? And we just left them there."

Paxton looked up and smirked. "You know, individual free will was one of the first things they took from us. I wasn't about to take that from them. They wanted to stay so I let them stay. You have a problem with that? Fine. Just don't ask me to apologize for it."

"No, sir."

"Now, go get some sleep."

Paxton walked past Kaspar and ran his right hand through his thinning hair. He yelled out an inaudible curse before he threw the front door open, which slammed behind him. Kaspar stood outside so he could try and slow down his racing mind. He felt the cool, light breeze brush against his cheeks. He closed his eyes...

I'm sorry, Mother, but I'll get them next time. I promise.

# Chapter .26

Sullivan walked through the glass doors of the USR precinct and let them shut on their own. He wished he could object to coming in during his off time, but it wasn't like he left in the middle of a loving dinner with the family. He spent the nights alone in his office, played around with his son a little bit, but his time was consumed with trying to figure out who the resistance members were. The lack of disappointment from his wife when he had to go back in messed with Sullivan's emotions...but he grew used to it by now.

Despite not having a true relationship with Julie, he began to feel concern for her. The vomiting attacks worsened, but she still refused to go to the hospital. He just hoped that it would all go away soon. He lied to himself and pinned the blame of her attitude on her not feeling well. What was wrong, anyway? With the advancements of USR medicine, these types of illnesses were almost non-existent: especially given his standing within the population.

Sullivan found Fitzpatrick's office and swung the door open. His boss sat behind his desk and quickly put away the smuggled liquor. The look of surprise went away when he realized it was only Sullivan and not someone above him. He pushed his paper work to the end of the desk for Sullivan to read.

"What is so urgent?" Sullivan asked. He sat down and began to look through the papers.

"CA made quite the find this evening." Fitzpatrick replied, he grabbed the bottle of liquor once more and took a swig.

"An underground church, right? What of it?"

"They captured the leader, ah, Mr. Francis. He's with George and DeMarcus right now."

Sullivan rubbed at his brow. "What are they doing to him?"

"Interrogating, what else?"

"That's not what I was wondering..."

"It doesn't matter," Fitzpatrick leaned back in his chair. "What does matter is the information this man can provide."

"What kind of useful information can this leftover provide for us?"

Fitzpatrick leaned forward, "There were five vehicles in front of the house. Guess how many were inside?"

"Less than five?"

"Exactly. Three men to be precise."

"What's your point?"

"They had help. Someone must've moved in and escorted the rest out of there."

"The resistance?"

"Had to have been."

Sullivan's leaned forward. "Did the Agents find anything? See anybody?"

"No," Fitzpatrick replied, he took another swig. He offered some to Sullivan who waved his hand in protest. "They had to kill two of the men, but were able to keep Francis alive...for now."

"That's good news, I guess."

"We need to find out who helped them. See if this Francis character saw anything or heard any names."

Sullivan pondered on his boss's words. The resistance, it had to be presumed, helped to rescue some illegal worshippers. But, why leave the three behind? Did this Francis and the two others really want to die this bad? He shook his head at the thought. Deep down, he knew this Francis would not have anything of use. The resistance was too good at eluding capture to leave any evidence behind...especially if they left people behind to die. It would be nothing but a waste of time.

Suddenly, a light bulb went off.

"The resistance must have a mole inside CA." Sullivan thought out loud.

"I'm sure they have several moles," Fitzpatrick replied. "That's news to no one."

"Give me a list of everyone inside CA. We need to start questioning them."

"We'll do so first thing in the morning.

"Good."

"I need you," Fitzpatrick said. He took a swig and his lips puckered. "To go in there and see what your two partners were able to gather."

"Very little, I presume."

"Just go."

"Right on it."

Sullivan stood from his chair and walked out of the office. He walked through the empty hallways of the precinct. Most of the staff was at home...home enjoying a nice family meal, no doubt. Home...where he should be right now, trying to patch together his failed marriage. To let little Davie know how much he loved him. No, he was stuck here, but that came with the job. He approached the interrogation room.

"Has he said anything of use, yet?" Sullivan demanded.

"No, not yet." Mason replied.

Mason stood outside, a glass of water in hand. He stared through the double sided mirror and watched. Wilcox's shouting could be heard through the speakers on the ceiling. Sullivan looked inside the double mirror, as well. The dip shit inside looked to be enjoying his time alone with Francis. All Wilcox managed to get done was hearing his own voice yell obscenities and questions that the little old man couldn't answer. Each non-answer was met with another back hand across the face. Sullivan approached the edge of the mirror. He pressed the little red button.

"DeMarcus," Sullivan said, "come on out of there. Let the man breath for a moment."

"Right on it, boss." Wilcox replied.

Wilcox held up the back of his hand in front of Francis's face once more. The little man braced himself for another blow. The Agent lowered his hand, laughed, and called him a pussy before he walked out. Sullivan looked into his partner's focused eyes; he saw nothing but rage and bad intentions.

"Nice of you to join us, Sully." Wilcox said.

"Well, it's a real pleasure to spend my evening here, with you fellas."

"You might want to consider watching that mouth of yours."

"You might want to consider conducting an actual interrogation yourself, Mr. Wilcox." Sullivan replied.

"You want to talk to him?" Mason asked. "Soften him up for us?"

"Just let me through."

"I'm sure you'll get some great Intel, Sully." Wilcox said. "Let's just see if this one implicates you, too. Then, we've got another issue entirely on our hands."

"He won't," Sullivan breathed in deep. "Because I'm not. Did you get anything out of him?"

"Just getting warmed up." Wilcox replied.

"I'm sure you are. Wait out here."

Sullivan walked over to the water cooler in the far corner. He took one of the small plastic, bio-degradable, cups and filled it to the top with cool water. He opened the heavy metal door to the interrogation room with his free hand. Inside, he caught a glimpse of Francis, who looked to the ground in silence. When he did look up, he had the look of a man in pain...yet, there was not an ounce of fear in his eyes. He was another one of those damn idealists, ready to die for a cause, no matter how futile it might be. Sullivan placed the cup of water in front of him before he undid the chains around the wrists. There would be no threat for the tired, beaten old man of trying anything. Besides, he was a religious man, too weakened by his Bible reading to do anything anyway. Francis grabbed the cup and drank the whole thing in one large gulp.

"Listen," Sullivan said. He took hold of the metal chair at the far end and dragged it against the floor to the front. "I don't want to waste each other's time. I've got my family at home, eating dinner alone. And, you've...got other things on your schedule."

"Do you love your family?" Francis asked.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Have you taught them about their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?"

"We don't have time for this," Sullivan replied. "Like I said, let's be polite enough not to waste each other's."

"Fair enough."

"All right, first things first, I suppose. How many citizens meet with you for worship every week?"

"I like how you say that," Francis said. "Citizens? You can't refer to us as just people, can you?"

Sullivan squinted his eyes, "Just answer the question."

"Well, I would say...anywhere between...seven to ten people meet with us for worship."

"Same place?"

Francis smiled, "Same Christ time, yes."

"Don't get cute with me, leftover. I was pulled from home so I could talk to you."

"Pulled from home? From the same family that you love so much, yet haven't taught how to reach God's Kingdom?"

There he goes again. Sullivan knew at this rate, they wouldn't get anywhere if this prick kept trying to convert him to weakness. He didn't need a crutch, not now. He could handle his own problems with the brain that nature provided.

"I don't want to be rude," Sullivan said. "You know and I know that worshipping any kind of god, especially your god, is illegal. Let's cut the bullshit and get to business, okay? Did seven to ten citizens..."

"People."

"Whatever...did ten people meet up for worship tonight?"

"No, it was just the three of us. But...your boys already took care of them, didn't they?"

Sullivan smirked, "I'm sure they were hostile."

"You know that's a lie," Francis replied with a pointed index finger. This little man might have some fight in him after all.

"Really? I'd be shocked. We've got such great young men in our department."

"Great men? They shot one of my brothers in the back, killed the other one while he was on his knees, begging for his life. Made him denounce..." Francis stopped and bowed his head once more.

"I see. But, we both know that there were more than just the three of you there tonight."

"No, I'm not lying to you."

"Ha," Sullivan chuckled, "isn't one of your commandments 'Thou shall not lie?'"

"I see you've studied the Word of God." Francis replied.

"I've only studied that book so that I can know my enemy."

"How are we your enemies? We are peaceful practitioners of our faith."

"I don't doubt that. You certainly don't have the look of a man who would harm any living being. But, do we really have to go over your history?"

Francis went on the defensive. "The history where we donated money to starving children in Africa? The history where Christ Jesus died for our sins?"

"No, Mr. Francis, actual history. Remember the crusades?"

"I won't disagree that that was immoral. But, you can't pin that on us."

"Just imagine if there never was a religion," Sullivan said. "No Jews, Christians, Catholics, Muslims...whatever. All of the atrocities of history's past would not have occurred."

"Yes, they would have, because we have fallen short of the glory..."

"Enough!" Sullivan slammed his fist on the metal table. "I didn't come here to be preached to. We found five cars outside that house."

"So?"

"So, did two of the cars drive there themselves?" Sullivan demanded.

"They were abandoned there. They've been sitting out there for decades."

"Ninth Commandment, Mr. Francis."

"How about pleading the Fifth, then?" Francis asked with a laugh.

Sullivan joined in on the laughter. For a man about to be killed, tortured first in all likelihood, at least he still kept his humor intact. It was too bad, Sullivan thought, that they could not have met under better circumstances. He might have liked this old fellow. Even if he believed some bullshit book written centuries ago, Sullivan couldn't help but admire the man's courage. He believed in something...that was more than anyone could say about Sullivan.

"I'm afraid," Sullivan continued, "that that piece of trash document has been proven false, as well. No pleading the fifth for you. Now, how many cit...people were at your little get together?"

"You are right about one thing," Francis said. He cleared his throat, "I cannot give false testimony. There were ten brothers and sisters with us tonight."

"Very good, now we are getting somewhere. Where did they all go, I mean, if we only found the three of you there?"

"They managed to escape."

"How? They could have no way of knowing we were even coming."

"We had help," Francis replied.

"Who helped you?"

"I don't...I don't know any names. I can't even tell you what they looked like."

"Why not?"

"They all had on these...black things over their faces. Even had their eyes covered. I tell you, they looked like phantoms, they did."

"Phantoms," Sullivan leaned forward, "they are evil. Just like those men were."

"How can you say they are evil? Look at me...look at the two innocent brothers who were murdered by your boys."

"You and the people who died tonight are not innocent, you get that straight."

Francis sighed, "None of us really are."

"And, they are evil because they are spreading lies and dangerous beliefs...kind of like what you do, actually."

"So it seems."

"Now, if you can't tell me names or descriptions, then that's fine. They wore a disguise, fair enough. But, could you tell me how many there were?"

"I counted four, but I know they were talking to someone over the radio. The leader, he kept touching his throat and talking into something. They were getting help from the outside."

"Any kind of description of them that would help us?" Sullivan asked.

"One was a woman. That's about all I can tell you."

"How do you know that?"

"I'm a man of God," Francis replied with a red face. "But, even my eyes go places they shouldn't."

"Is there anything else you would like to add?"

"Like what?"

"Like," Sullivan replied. He pulled out a legal pad. "The names and addresses of your fellow worshippers. You can't ID the resistance, but I know you can ID them."

"No, you cannot ask me to do that."

"I can and I am. Who are they? Where do they live? And, if you don't mind, where are the other underground churches located?"

"I will not." Francis replied.

"Okay," Sullivan said as he stood. "Just remember when my two colleagues walk back in here that I gave you the chance to save yourself."

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no one. For thou art with me."

"You better hope he is. I'll be seeing you."

"No," Francis replied. "I'm afraid you won't. But, I'll pray for you all the same."

Sullivan walked out of the interrogation room and eye balled his two partners. He thought about it for a second before he motioned with his head for them to move in. The sound of cracked knuckles and the sight of the smiles sent a chill down Sullivan's back.

They opened the door and Francis cried out in terror.

# Chapter .27

Consul Williamson stood in front of the podium; the television cameras filmed his every move. He looked down at the crowd and smiled. The crowd chanted his name; the television cameras panned the audience. Some held up signs that spoke out against organized religion. Others held up Bible's with the words "EVIL DOCTRINE" tapped over the covers. Williamson held up his hands and motioned for the crowd to quiet down.

"We have witnessed yet again the rebellion's love of wickedness and evil. This United States of America founded itself on Christian principles. Thankfully, we are no longer a Christian nation, or a Muslim nation, or a Jewish nation, but we are a nation of non-believers and we are more powerful for it!"

Williamson held up his fists and the crowd screamed in acceptance of their great leader. They called out saying 'Religion is evil' and other chants of that nature. Williamson held up his hands again to quiet the crowd. He looked back into the camera in front of him.

"This rebellion just saved a religious group who spread their wickedness to an untold amount of people." Williamson said. The crowd booed and Williamson held up his hands again to quiet them. "They want us to live by the Bible, but what Bible are they reading?

"Perhaps we should live by Leviticus, which tells us slavery is okay? Or, how about Deuteronomy, which suggests stoning your children? Maybe we should stick by the radical Sermon on the Mount, whose faithful application will lead to our enemies destroying our great nation? I don't think these fanatics have been reading their Bibles. Or, the scary version is that they are."

"ARREST THEM ALL, ARREST THEM ALL!!!" the crowd cried in front of Williamson.

Williamson smiled and held up his hands once again. The crowd grew restless and continued the chant for several moments before Williamson was able to quiet them down. Williamson stood in silence for a moment and looked down at his followers.

"We will. We will catch them as we have caught one of their leaders today. Let it be known, once more, that anyone who is caught harboring these fools or practicing their radical religion will be caught and given justice. We know that the evil rebellion, which represents that weak nation we suppressed, helped some of their members to escape. We need you, all of you, to find them and bring them to us. That is all. Long live the USR."

Kaspar woke from his sleep and rubbed at his eyes. He felt a sense of relief when he felt no pain in his left eye. Nothing but a nasty green mark remained. He moved his body up from the cot and twisted his back which sent a ripple through his vertebrae. He threw on a pair of sweatpants then walked out of his room. He noticed that Li's door was cracked open a bit. Not a sound could be heard inside. Kaspar wondered what was going on as he gave the door a light tap.

"Come in," a low, quiet voice said from inside.

Kaspar walked in and saw Li, who sat in the middle of the room on a white pillow. There were white candles circled around him. So, this is what the quiet man did every morning. Before Kaspar could get around to figuring out what was going on, he was met by a smile.

"How are you today?" Li asked.

"Just fine," Kaspar replied. "What are you doing in here?"

"I'm just meditating."

"What's that and why do you do it?"

"It's to strengthen my spirit. You just concentrate on nothing but your spirit and it empowers you."

Li must have gone off the deep end, Kaspar thought. This explained a lot to him, though. Instead of communicating with his comrades, he communicated with his spirit. Kaspar could remember one time when he communicated with his own spirit. The drugs he experimented with to help with pain did that. He didn't need meditation.

"Spirit?" Kaspar asked.

"Yes, my parents taught me. Care to try?"

"Not sure if I can," Kaspar replied. He didn't really want to, either. Even if it were possible to talk with one's spirit, he was sure there would be nothing there he would want to see.

"Come on," Li said as he motioned with his hand for Kaspar to come over. "It's not hard. Have a seat."

"Okay."

Kaspar walked in close and sat down outside of the circle of candles.

"Just close your eyes and take deep breaths." Li instructed.

Kaspar closed his eyes then took a deep breath, he exhaled slowly. He repeated this with his eyes still closed. What was this Li guy talking about? Maybe he had gotten a hold of those pain killing drugs. He did know Danny, after all. A wave of relaxation began to take over him, but nothing in the way of spiritual enlightenment. He was about to open his eyes, there were much better ways to get relaxed that didn't involve sitting on a hardwood floor. Then, he saw it...the vision caused him to hold his breath in.

Mother was sitting down on a rocking chair. She moved it back and forth, a look of joy in her eyes. She had in her hand a yellow blanket. Mother carefully knitted around the edges, her project almost completed. Kaspar stared at her, nothing but confusion in his mind. Was this for real?

Kaspar moved in with a slow stride. He gave a look to their surroundings. There was no floor below, nothing above, nothing to the sides. They were...somewhere in a void of white. He continued to move in, but no words would come out of his mouth. She just sat there and knitted, completely oblivious to her son's presence here.

She looked up and forced Kaspar to freeze. Mother stared into his eyes, her eyes wide open, that same look that Kaspar could not get out of his head. He got his wits back about him and moved in closer. Mother shook her head no. No words were spoken by either party. Kaspar tried to move in again, but was met with another head shake no.

Kaspar opened his eyes and gasped for breath. During the entire vision, he was unable to breath. He felt lightheaded and continued to pant. Li took a break from his own meditation. He looked to Kaspar who had a blank expression towards the cream colored wall. Li's smile turned into a look of concern.

"You okay?" Li asked.

"What?" Kaspar struggled to get out, eyes still to the wall.

"I asked you if you were okay."

Kaspar shook his head, "Yeah...yeah, I'm fine."

"Did it work?"

"You could say that." Kaspar replied, he rubbed at his eyes.

"What did you see?"

"I'd...rather not talk about it, Yung."

"That's good," Li's smile returned. "It's your meditation, your spirit."

"I think I'm going to go downstairs now, maybe get some fresh air, or something to drink."

"You do that."

Kaspar stood up and started to walk out of the room. With each step he felt a wobble in each of his legs. He tried to tell himself to snap out of it, but he couldn't get the vision out of his head. Why was she shaking her head no? Was he going crazy?

"Ryan," Li called.

Kaspar turned his head, "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For meditating with me," Li's head went straight to the ground. "No one here has ever done it."

"It's no problem," Kaspar replied. "Thank you for showing me."

"If you ever want to meditate again, just let me know."

"Sure thing. I'll see you downstairs for breakfast."

Kaspar turned his head and walked out the door. Was that really Mother?

Sullivan sat at his desk and awaited the next Agent from Civilian Affairs to walk in. He had the next man's file opened at his desk: Greg Boler. Boler, according to the file, became an Agent five months upon graduation from one of the schools two years ago. He went through the Academy and passed everything with flying colors. After showing great progress and conviction he was transferred to the CA two months ago. Boler carried with him an immaculate record: no citations, write ups, or anything of the sort on his file. The guy was squeaky clean...and that scared Sullivan.

"Afternoon, Detective," Boler said through the open door. "You wanted to see me?"

"That's right, Greg." Sullivan said, he closed the file and set it aside. "Come on in, have a seat."

"Thank you, Mr. Sullivan."

"It's Will."

"Thank you, Will." Boler replied as he sat. "How can I be of service to you?"

"I'll get straight to point," Sullivan leaned forward. "You see that thing about the underground church on the news?"

"Saw it this morning, just got briefed on it, too. Why?"

Sullivan studied his subject. Boler just sat there, looked him straight in the eye, acted like everything was just natural. He didn't look to be worried, nervous, or anything. Much different than the other Agents that Sullivan interviewed during this long, boring process. Something didn't add up, though. Then again, maybe this guy was just good under pressure. A little too good?

"Well," Sullivan continued, "it appears that there were actually more than just the three men we found there. More like ten."

"Okay. How'd you find this out?" Boler asked.

"We questioned the leader. He calls himself Father Francis or some bullshit. He confirmed, with me, that there were more than three."

"So, how did the others get away?"

"You tell me." Sullivan replied. He studied Boler's eyes the whole time.

His subject looked away for a moment, the first sign of nervousness. Sullivan kept his gaze on him, he noticed Boler's forehead starting to show signs of perspiration. He watched as Boler reached up with is right hand to wipe away the sweat.

"You need a tissue?" Sullivan asked.

"No," Boler replied. "It's just hot in here."

"Feels fine to me, Agent."

"It's your office, I would hope so."

"Let's just stop dodging the question," Sullivan said. "How do you think they go out?"

"They heard the sirens coming?" Boler replied.

Sullivan shook his head, "No way. They were long gone by the time SWAT showed up."

"They got help, then, right?"

"That's right. They got help from the resistance. At least some of them."

"Did this Francis give you any details at? Any identifiable marks or anything?"

"No, they were wearing masks. Nothing distinguishable, save the breasts of some woman."

"I'm sorry, sir, but what does this got to do with me?" Boler asked.

Now, we're getting somewhere, Sullivan thought. Boler's sweating continued, he tried to play it off like it was hot or something. Sullivan almost laughed at the thought. He kept his office at a chilly sixty-five degrees. Still, though, nothing definitive. The other Agents, after all, did the same routine. They blamed their sweating on how hot the room was or that their wives made them bad food and they felt sick. None would fess up to the fact that they were nervous, which they had every right to be. They knew what would happen if they were accused of something like aiding the resistance. Sullivan knew all too well what it was like. It made a man want to kill himself before the USR could finish the job.

Boler kept his eye contact, though. He didn't look away like most of the others. He swallowed a few more times than usual, too.

"Everything," Sullivan replied. "You're in CA, your department knew about the church, knew the times they met, knew what day the raid would take place, everything. So, when our SWAT guys move in, and the resistance already had the room cleared out, it raises questions."

"Are you accusing me?" Boler asked.

"No, not at all, just wanted to make you aware of what's going on. Do you know of anybody we should suspect?"

"I can't think of anybody right off the top of my head, but I'll sure keep my eyes open."

"Make sure that you do. You come to me first if you see or hear anything out there, you got that?"

"Yeah, of course, sir."

"Good. Be sure to watch out for yourself, too." Sullivan said.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

Sullivan rubbed at his forehead, "I mean, I'd hate for you to end up in the hands of a guy like Travis Forte. He works with me inside of my unit, you hear of this guy?"

"I know the name, but that's it, why?"

"Well, if we find somebody, who we think might be working for them, we turn to Forte. He's really, really good at getting answers out of people. You see, what he does is, and this is fucked up, by the way. He lines up their fingers and takes out his knife. You know what he does?"

"What's that sir?" Boler asked, his eyes wide and voice shaken. "He cut their fingers off?"

"Close, but not quite, he goes after the fingernails. He digs the knife in and snaps the nail right off. We got some bastard who's noble and won't talk...well, let's just say that after two or three nails, they start talking. Works every time."

"Okay."

"Okay? Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"No, sir. But, my eyes and ears are open...wide open."

Boler stood and saluted Sullivan. Sullivan returned the gesture. He kept eye contact with his subject. Now, without a doubt, Boler knew he meant business. Sullivan sat back in his chair and breathed in a deep breath. This was the fifth Agent to see him today, the fifth different story he told, as well. The feeling of boredom intensified with each one. He knew it was necessary, but all he wanted was to be out of this damn office and out there, on the streets, hunting down the resistance. Instead, he sat in his office and was lied to by who knew how many men. Fitzpatrick and the others were convinced that there was only one rat, but for all Sullivan knew, the whole department was compromised.

He reached down for the next file and read the name aloud before he picked up his phone.

# Chapter .28

Paxton looked into Boler's eyes and saw a look of fear he never saw before. His mole had always suffered from anxiety, but there was something different this time. Maybe the USR finally caught onto him? Nonsense, Boler probably got spooked by something that shouldn't spook him. His face was a mess of perspiration, he kept looking around, his hands looked like they were convulsing.

The anxiety attack started to get to Paxton, as well. When Traci placed her soft hand on his shoulder to take his order, he grabbed her skinny wrist with applied pressure. She looked down at him in shock, but didn't say anything: she still thought he was an Agent. Once he realized who it was, his thoughts of snapping the wrist passed. He apologized before Boler mumbled his order to her. She turned with hesitation to Paxton.

"And...for you, sir?" Traci asked.

"The usual," Paxton replied. "Sorry again."

"It's okay, I'm sure that being an Agent is stressful."

Their food arrived minutes later and Boler still had said nothing to Paxton. The old veteran played around with his food. He entertained thoughts about actually eating some of it this time, but again, thought better of it. For Boler's part, he seemed to be in a hungry mood, taking in spoonful after spoonful of his soup. Paxton placed his fork down and peered into the mole's eyes.

"Greg," Paxton said, "I appreciate you coming out here and everything, but if we don't have anything to talk about..."

"Look, man," Boler blurted out, "they know."

"What?"

"The church you guys saved, they know someone inside CA tipped you off."

"How do they know that?" Paxton asked. He took a bite from his bitter salad.

Boler started to look around, again. Paxton reached up and touched him on the shoulder which Boler promptly brushed off. For the first time, a bit of sympathy over putting the kid through this swept over. There were other times before when he would feel sorry for his rat, but never sympathy. Back when Boler first agreed to this job, he was so overwhelmed with excitement about being on the inside. He must have felt like top dog amongst the resistance. Now, he was a pitiful man who wanted nothing more than to go home.

"You said to be patient," Boler replied. "But, I can't wait any longer."

"Listen, Greg, just stay cool and you'll make it through this."

"No, you listen," Greg dropped his spoon and wiped the sweat from his brow. "I'm done, all right? I asked you to get me out of this and all you said was to be patient, but I can't do this anymore. I don't even know why I'm meeting with you right now."

"I'm sorry for any trouble I've caused..."

"Sorry? Sorry's not going to cut it this time, they are onto me!"

The lunch crowd inside the diner looked directly at Boler. He looked straight down and it was Paxton's turn to grow nervous. Paxton held up his right index finger over his lips. What he wanted to do was smack Boler over the head. How stupid can one be? It would be one thing to think the USR was onto you, but a simple phone call would have been fine. Instead, the silly son of a bitch wants to meet face to face. He grabbed his cup of water, took a large gulp, and placed it back down in front of him.

"Okay," Paxton said in a low voice. "You want out? You're out. We'll figure something out, but you can't join with us again. Not right now, anyways."

"What am I supposed to do, then?"

"Pack up your things and get out of here."

"What? That's it."

"That's all we can do right now. You've been saving your credits, right?"

"Yeah."

"Pull them out of whatever bank you have, they're going to freeze your accounts once they realize you've skipped town."

Boler leaned forward. "Fine, that's great, just skip town, then they'll know for sure?"

"You can't stay here. You know what they would do to you?"

"Yeah, they'd rip out my finger nails with an Army knife till I spilled my guts."

Paxton's curiosity piqued. He sat up straight in his chair. "What are you saying?"

"It was something they told me today...what I wanted to tell you."

"What's that?"

"They've got this guy named Travis Forte. He works in the RU. Apparently, he takes his combat knife and rips out his suspect's finger nails, one by one, until they tell him what he wants to know."

Those bastards, Paxton thought. The scowl on his face scared even Boler a little bit. Of all the tactics to use, this was one of them? Torture...it had its place, but it was to be reserved for the truly evil, not innocent men and women. He made a mental note of Forte's name. He must have been a prominent Agent within the RU. Forte would have a wealth of knowledge that the team could use. Paxton turned his attention back to Boler.

"Do they know anything, Greg?" Paxton asked.

"No, they don't. Not from what I was told, anyway."

"Who was this guy who questioned you?"

"William Sullivan, from the RU."

"You got anything on this Forte guy?" Paxton wondered.

"Sure, I looked into his file. You know they keep detailed records on all their people right?"

"Yeah, it's a good thing Clarke's got you covered."

"He eats lunch at the same place every day, a place downtown called The Red Horse."

"The Red Horse?"

"Yeah, that's where he'd be most vulnerable. Take him then." Boler said.

"We'll get him, what about you?"

"I'm out of town today, as soon as my shift is over, if I can make it till then."

Paxton patted Boler's shoulders again. "You'll make it, just keep your eyes peeled and don't act suspicious."

"They are going to know for sure it was me when you guys take out Forte."

Paxton sighed, "I know."

"I wish I could help you guys out more...I really do."

"You've help out enough...probably more than you should have. I'm sorry again."

"The best of luck to you guys. I mean that."

"I'm going to make this up to you, I swear to God I will." Paxton lowered his head and rubbed at his hair. "I don't know how, but when this is all over, look me up."

"When this is over?" Boler said with a hint of laugh. "How much longer do you think you can keep going like this? How do you expect to take them all out?"

"I don't...I don't know, yet. But, once people become more informed..."

"Yeah, good luck with that. The public, they hate you. Why keep going?"

"Because...it's the right thing to do."

"The right thing to do? Do you still believe that?" Boler demanded.

"With all that is within me...yes. You don't know what it was like before...you don't know how much the USR has taken from you. All you know is what I've told you, you've never experienced it for yourself. If you did, then you'd know what I'm talking about."

"Well," Boler stood. "I hope you're right."

"I am."

***

Kaspar sat on the back porch. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with his Zippo lighter. He stared off into the distance, breathed in the smoke, and wondered what to do next. The smoke escaped his mouth. He had already fired enough rounds at paper targets to the point where he no longer felt the need nor the want to. Paxton left without saying anything. Clarke sat around at his computer like always, Krys waxed her bike for the umpteenth time, and Kilbourne seemed like an asshole.

Li, well he was a nice enough guy, but not very interesting, apart from that trippy meditation thing. The look on Mother's face when she shook her head "no" began to wear at Kaspar's mind. Just like her eyes the day he found her dead, he couldn't get the most recent image of her from his head. The more he thought about it, the more he came to realize that there were only two explanations for it: either she was saying it was not his time to join her or that Kaspar should forget about getting revenge for her. Could there be any other explanation?

"I'm bored," Krys said from behind.

Kaspar took a drag from his cigarette and looked back. Krys smiled at him, Kaspar returned the favor. He took another drag.

"I see you are still into killing yourself," Krys said.

"I see you're still into riding my ass." Kaspar replied.

Krys winked, "You wish."

The two of them fixed their gaze into the distance without saying anything. Kaspar took several puffs on his cigarette before offering one to Krys; more out of being a smart ass than politeness. She shook her head no and grabbed her nose before she moved several inches apart. What did she want?

"I was thinking about taking a ride on the bike, care to join?" she asked.

"With the way you drive? No thanks."

"I was going to go to the city..."

"What do you mean?" Kaspar wondered.

"I don't know...grab a drink, have a conversation, maybe kick your ass in pool..."

"Now who's been spending time at the wishing well?"

"Is that a challenge, Mr. Kaspar?"

"No so much a challenge," Kaspar replied as he let smoke escape his mouth. "As stating the facts."

"You think you can back up that talk, big boy?"

Kaspar took another drag and looked over at her. She smiled to him and winked. He could not contain the smile on his face. Smiling, something that Kaspar seemed to do more and more each day, each time he was with Krys. He thought about what she was trying to do or not to do, but after a moment, he no longer cared. What could it hurt? Maybe a little time away from this place would do his mind some good.

"I thought going in without permission was forbidden." Kaspar said.

"It is...that's all a part of the adventure." Krys replied.

Self-doubt crept in. "I...don't know..."

"Fine, you just stay here and suck on that cancer stick. It is so much more entertaining out here. Be seeing you."

Krys stood and headed for the back door. Something inside of Kaspar told him to wake his stupid ass up and follow her out. He took one last drag and threw the remainder of the cigarette into the yard. He stood and called for her to wait up.

"Get your ass ready," Krys said when she turned. "I'm not going to wait around forever."

"Yes, your highness." Kaspar replied with a bow.

"Just get ready, smartass."

Kaspar ran up the stairs and into his bedroom. He threw on a pair of jeans, a white tee, and his blue jacket. He noticed Clarke eagerly typing away at his laptop computer. Kaspar tried to say hello, but Clarke did not acknowledge him at first. Something on that screen captured his attention. Kaspar didn't spend too much time trying to figure out what it was.

What are you doing? Kaspar asked himself as he walked through the opened garage and approached Krys's bike. He walked up to the bike. Krys revved the engine twice before she looked back. Someone began calling to them from behind. It was a deep voice, fucking Ron Kilbourne's deep voice.

"What are you two doing?" Kilbourne demanded.

"Just taking junior over there out for a spin," Krys replied.

"You two just make sure you get back before Pax does."

"No problem, Daddy."

"I'm just looking out for you." Kilbourne said.

Krys sighed, "I'll be fine. Don't you worry yourself about me."

Kaspar looked back and nodded at Kilbourne, who acted like he wasn't there. Kilbourne turned and walked away, back to the weight room no doubt. Kaspar ignored the apparent rudeness and approached the side of the bike. Krys held out a black helmet for him. He took it and struggled to slip it over his head. She played around with her hair a bit and then slipped her own on.

"Sorry about that." Krys said.

"About what?"

"Him, Ronnie. He treats me like I'm some kind of child or something, I don't know. Ever since I joined up, he's always like, 'Krys, don't do that' or 'Krys, stay away from that.'"

Kaspar still struggled with his helmet. He tried to get it as comfortable as he could. What was with these things, anyway? He thought about ditching the damn thing, but then remembered his last adventure on a motorcycle with her. He gave up trying to be comfortable. He just hoped that if there was to be a wreck, the discomfort would be worth it. He wrapped his arms around her waist, careful not to go too far up this time. Krys revved the engine a couple of more times, all the while Kaspar could smell something through his helmet. It smelled of lavender, and it was nice, really nice in fact, to the nostrils.

"Like he said, he's just looking out for you." Kaspar said.

"And, that's awful sweet of him, but I'm a big girl."

Kaspar tried to change the subject, "What kind of bike is this?"

"It's a Speed Triple," Krys replied. "Fine beast, ain't she?"

"Speed Triple, well that's a cute..."

Without warning, the motorcycle flew forward. Krys slammed down hard on the brake. The tires squealed on the pavement below, which sent her riding partner slamming into her back. Kaspar felt himself flying off the back of the bike before she slammed down on the brake. He could feel his heart attempt to jump from his throat. All the crazy woman in front could do was laugh.

"You think that's funny?" Kaspar demanded.

"That is," Krys said between laughs, "why they call it a 'Speed Triple'."

"You almost gave me a heart attack. You're insane!"

"That's what you thought of me when we first met, right?"

"You haven't done anything to change my mind, either."

She continued to laugh. "We better get a move on. We don't want to be out when John gets back. It's a forty-five minute trip into town."

"I just hope he doesn't see us on the road." Kaspar replied.

"He won't, I take a different route."

"Oh, I can't wait to see this. You go in a lot?"

"Yeah, lots of times. I've got to get away from this place, you know?"

"I hear that."

"Let's get going, then."

# Chapter .29

The black Speed Triple rocketed out of the back road and onto the main road into the city. They were just outside city limits, so Krys finally let loose of the accelerator. Kaspar still had his arms wrapped tight around her waist. The whole trip up, he had no time to think about how stupid of an idea this was. His only thought, as the bike went in excess of one hundred miles per hour, was what would happen if one of the tires blew.

They reached the entrance, guarded by four Agents with assault rifles in hand. Krys slowed the bike to a stop behind the three cars in front. The drivers and passengers all showed their credentials and were allowed admittance. Krys reached into her jacket and retrieved two ID cards; she held them between her index and middle fingers.

"Oh, shit." Kaspar said.

"Don't worry," Krys replied. "I've got your ID card. We'll be fine."

The Agent to the right made a forward motion with his hand. Krys inched the bike closer then handed over the two cards. She took off her helmet as the Agent pulled out a scanner. The red lasers inside swept over both cards. He waited for a response from the machine.

Kaspar's heart began to pound. What did she mean it would be okay? What ID card was she talking about? The Agent looked to him and motioned for Kaspar to take off the helmet. He did so, with a struggle, then the Agent stared him down. The scanner beeped twice, he looked down and read the response. It was the gas chamber, for sure, Kaspar told himself.

"Here you go, miss," the Agent said, he handed the card back. "You two be safe on that thing. And, remember, we are in condition yellow, so no gasoline will be sold until sun down."

"I understand," Krys smiled. "Have a great day."

"Move along."

The two riders slid their helmets back on. Krys revved the engine and the bike moved forward again, this time with discretion. She drove the bike around a couple of blocks until they arrived at a little place with a sign that read "Crimson Keystone" in bold, red letters. Krys pulled the bike around back and cut off the engine. She stood and took her helmet off; her soft brown hair blew along with the wind as she shook it loose. Kaspar took off his helmet and placed it on one of the handle bars.

"What the hell was that?" Kaspar demanded.

"What the hell was what?" Krys asked, walking in front.

Kaspar picked up his pace to get beside her. "My ID card? How did we get past security? When did I have a fake ID made?"

"Shhh, keep your voice down. You aren't supposed to know about that because we're not supposed to be here, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, that's right. There's probably a good reason for that, too, right?"

"Cry me a river, we're fine." Krys replied.

"How'd we get past that check point?"

"The USR keeps a database on all of their 'citizens'. Thanks to The Committee and Robby's expertise, we've been able to wipe our slates clean, so to speak."

"But..."

"Enough questions. I came here to relax, not babysit."

Krys pushed open the back door to the little restaurant. Kaspar never came here, although he had seen the sign outside several times. Inside, there were news reports on all of the TVs, per the usual. The Consul would get on there and spout out some propaganda, and like always, Kaspar didn't give a shit what he was saying. The dim light gave the place a nice, warm feeling, though it was nearly deserted. He remembered seeing a lot of bikes parked out front when he'd walk by, the few men inside were all bikers, just the place for a lady like Krys.

There was a tall table in the back corner by the window that Krys picked out. It took a step at the bottom of the stools to reach the seats. She fumbled around with her leather jacket and sat it against the back of the chair before she took her seat. Once at the top, she started to play around with her hair again, Kaspar messed around with his jacket and managed to slip it off from his seated position. He let it rest on his thigh.

Krys sort of hiccupped, "Excuse me."

"You okay?" Kaspar asked.

She didn't answer. She hopped her tight ass off of the seat and jogged towards the lady's room. What was wrong with her? Maybe all that wild riding on the bike finally caught up to her. Served her right.

Kaspar took a moment to get more familiar with the surroundings. There was nothing but leftovers in here, old men whose glory years had long since passed. Even the bartender was a leftover. He kept reaching underneath the bar and handing out what looked like carbonated apple juice to the old men. What the hell was this place? All the men laughed and acted like they had no sense of self control.

One particular man seemed to be eyeing Kaspar down. He had a long, white beard, stained yellow at the lips. His sleeveless leather vest revealed tattoos to which the ink started to run with his old age. He had a fat lip and he spit brownish saliva on the ground, wiping it with his leather boot. Animals, these leftovers seemed to be. It was men like him, and Danny, who caused Kaspar to think about what life must have been like before. Did everyone live as animals?

"What do you drink?" Krys asked from behind, a white hair piece in her mouth.

Kaspar turned, "Are you all right?"

Krys held the back of her hair in place with her left hand and then used her right hand tie the hair piece in. She let go and her hair fell into a pony tail. She looked up at Kaspar with a raised eye brow.

"I'm fine. Drink?" she demanded once more.

"What do they have here?"

"What do you think they have? If you want, you try some of that old school stuff, but I think it might be a little too crazy for you..."

"Just get me a grape juice, then." Kaspar said.

"Okay, just wait here."

Kaspar leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a glance at Krys as she walked up to the bar. He felt uneasy, like that Boler guy, this being his first time in the city without Paxton to protect him. He glanced around and tried to put his mind at ease. He noticed Krys walking towards the table with two tall glasses, one with juice, the other with water.

"You okay, man?" Krys asked. She slid the glass of juice towards Kaspar. "You look all uptight or something."

"Yeah, I'm fine." Kaspar replied. "Just water for you?"

"For now," she winked. "Don't want to get to wild right off the bat."

Kaspar laughed, "You sure about that?"

"What, you want to see me get wild?"

She did that thing with her eyes again. She opened them wide and Kaspar stared into the brown beauties, the light from the outside reflected off of the dilated eyes and they were now beaming. Kaspar could feel his face burn and he quickly looked down at his juice. He picked up the glass and took a sip.

"How'd you learn to ride like that?" Kaspar asked.

"From my dad. That was his most prized possession, that Speed Triple." Krys replied.

"Did he race or something?"

"Something like that," Krys paused and sipped at her water. "He was in a gang, actually."

"What kind of gang?"

Krys laughed, "The type of gang where he buddied up with other bikers. They rode around town together, had each other's backs...and did some illegal stuff, too."

"What kind of illegal things?"

"They ran guns, sold drugs, stuff like that. He used to bring me here all time when I was a kid. I would just hang out, be one of the boys, you know?"

Things about Krys were starting to make a little bit more sense. Kaspar just couldn't understand how a woman with her features, her beauty, could have turned into such a tomboy. He tried to imagine what his own father was like, the more that she talked about hers. Was he a gun runner, riding around on a bike like Krys's. No way in hell. His father was a coward; he'd take Krys in a one on one fight.

"Is that why you like to be called 'Krys'?" Kaspar asked.

"I guess so," Krys replied. "He just always called me that and it sort of stuck."

"What happened to him, if you don't mind my asking?"

Krys lowered her head, "He was gunned down. They allowed some guy, who turned out to be an undercover, into the gang. The USR stormed this bar one night...and they took everyone out."

"I'm...sorry."

"I come here all the time now; it makes me think about him."

"What happened to you after that? What about your mother?" Kaspar asked.

Krys took another sip before she answered, "My mother died during child birth, it was always dad who took care of me. With him gone, I got put in one of the schools. They tried their best to brain wash me with all their bullshit, but I knew better. My dad taught me better."

"Were..." Kaspar took a sip of juice. "You in a motorcycle gang, when John picked you up, that is?"

"I was. My crew and I, we didn't get involved in any big time illegal activity like my dad's. Basically, we just stole food and credits and gave it to the poor. That's how I came to know John...you met Margie, right?"

"Sure did," Kaspar replied.

"I was on one of my runs that day, when I saw John. He told me what he was up to, told me he had been following me, and that he had a job for me. He offered me a chance to, as he put it, save this nation. I didn't really care about the nation, but I did care about Margie and all the others I helped out every day. I left my crew and joined up with John. What about you?"

"Me?" Kaspar asked. He took a big gulp of juice and placed the glass down.

"Yes, you, how'd you get into boxing?"

"Well, I just started to fight people, because I was pissed off at the world all the time. I learned about the underground from a buddy of mine. I met Danny and he took me under his wing. Said he saw a ton of potential in me and that I would win all the big fights."

"Good old, Danny," Krys said, she raised her glass and took a sip. "Always has something interesting to say."

"Interesting? He's a perverted old leftover."

Krys chuckled, "He's made comments to me before."

"He made comments about my mother...I can't imagine what he would have said about you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Krys demanded. She slammed her half empty glass on the table and stared down Kaspar.

"Well," Kaspar stuttered, he searched his mind for a reply. "Ummm...you know...just look at you."

"You think I'm just a piece of ass, don't you."

Her once big, dough eyes grew small. Kaspar could feel his heart beating fast. He searched not only for something to say to her, but also for an answer as to what her problem was all of a sudden. She was an attractive woman, surely she's been told that before, why the attitude?

"No...I don't...what I meant was..."

Krys burst into laughter and pointed her index finger towards Kaspar. He looked dumbfounded back at her and a smile snuck up on his lips. The smile soon turned into laughter. The two laughed together for a moment and, suddenly, all seemed right with the world for just this one moment.

"You should have seen the look on your face." Krys said.

"I didn't know if you were being serious or not."

"So...you like what you see, huh?"

A light bulb went off, "Ha, you baited me into that, didn't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't know for sure, so you played me to see if I'd come out with it."

"I know what I've got," Krys replied, her smile gone.

"Really? I mean, it would make sense, I'm not judging you at all. You know, bringing me out here, all alone..."

"I brought you here," Krys said, she hopped off her seat. "To kick your ass in pool."

"I guess we better get going then." Kaspar replied. He hopped off of his seat, as well.

"You sure you're ready?"

"I should ask you the same question. Get your pen and pad ready, Miss Ortiz, school's about to start."

"I'm all yours..." Krys said.

They left their drinks at the table and strode towards the pool tables. Krys grabbed two cue sticks off of the wall, she handed one to Kaspar. She then took the rack that lay on the green carpet of the table and placed it in the middle. As she did, Kaspar rounded up all of the balls from the pockets.

"What should I beat you in first?" Krys asked.

"Pick any game you like." Kaspar replied, he put the balls into the rack.

"Okay," Krys bit her bottom lip and looked towards the ceiling. "Eight ball it is."

"Let's do it."

"You want to break?"

"You've been the shit talker," Kaspar replied with a smile. "You break."

Krys placed the cue ball in front of the triangle of balls. She rubbed the square peg against the end of her stick for a moment then lined up her shot. Her eyes focused solely on the target in front of her. Kaspar found himself unable to take his eyes off of her while she concentrated.

She took another deep breath and was about to shoot when she felt something along her backside. She jumped at the sharp pinch and stood straight up. Kaspar had been too focused on Krys that he failed the see the man from earlier move in on her. Upon closer examination of his sleeveless vest revealed several blood stains at the left breast.

"There some sweet ass in this place tonight, eh, sugar?" the biker asked, his smile revealed several missing teeth.

"So sweet," Krys replied, "it'll rot the rest of your teeth out."

"That's not polite."

"Hey, leftover," Kaspar said. The biker looked him in the eye, the smile gone. "We're just here to shoot around a bit. Leave us be."

The biker turned to Krys, "Who's this?"

"He's my friend. Just please, leave us alone."

"I don't think so, sugar. Not until you show me what you've got under them clothes."

"Sir," Kaspar called, his face red with anger, he slammed his cue stick on the table. "Leave us alone, huh?"

"You mind your own fucking business, super boy. I'll take over from here. Fellas!"

Kaspar looked around, three of the biker's cohorts moved in to surround him. Why did he agree to come here? Of all the places to go, Krys picked a biker hangout spot. He continued to move his head around. The sound of a switchblade caused him to look towards the leader again. The animal moved in on Krys, who put her hands straight up in the air and backed up until her back hit the wall. There was going to be a fight now: the trick would be to make sure it wasn't a fair one.

The three men who moved in on Kaspar were too busy cracking their knuckles and grimacing through their rotten teeth that they were not prepared for what was coming their way. Kaspar reached forward and grabbed the white ponytail of the leader. He yanked back and chopped at the knife hand. He slammed the leader's head against the fresh waxed surface of the pool table.

Kaspar felt a sharp blow to his right side. Without looking, he landed a hard right hook to that attacker's cheek. The biker spit out blood before Kaspar landed another hook to the cheek, knocking him out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see another biker take a swing at him. Kaspar ducked and landed a punch to the groin, followed by an uppercut, the force of which broke the biker's nose. The attacker backed away, his nose now a gyser, and fell to the ground crying out in pain.

The final biker moved in on Krys. She poised herself in a defensive position. She awaited the biker to make the first move. Before he could do anything, he fell to the ground in pain. When he fell, she could see Kaspar standing upright. He had shoved his knee into the biker's back. Kaspar swore that he could hear a couple of vertebrae crack.

Kaspar looked down at the mess of bodies on the ground. Krys looked to the bartender, he gave her nod. The bartender knew her father; no way would he turn her in. One of the bikers lay on the ground, he tried to mumble something. Kaspar moved in and kicked the fallen enemy on the side. The biker winced in pain before he received another kick. Kaspar then bent down and started to wail on his enemy. Blow after blow after...he could feel Krys's hand on his shoulder, but he ignored it. A left, a right, a...

"Ryan!" Krys called out. "Do you want us to get arrested?"

Kaspar said nothing and stood up, his face red with rage and his breathing quick. He looked over to Krys, she looked afraid...afraid of the monster that stood before her. He took a moment to calm himself before the two ran outside towards the bike. Kaspar slammed his helmet on as the engine roared to life.

This was a good idea, after all, Kaspar thought. Lots of practice.

# Chapter .30

Paxton looked feverously around the situation room. There was still no sight of Kaspar or Krys. He looked down at his watch and cursed to himself. Li and Kilbourne looked at the American flag shining on the projector screen. Kilbourne had a wry smile on his face, Paxton unable to figure out what so happy about the situation.

The doors swung open and in walked the two missing parties. Everyone looked back at the sound. Krys ignored it; she walked to an open seat in front. Kaspar gave them a nod and took a seat in the very back. Paxton folded his arms across his chest.

"How nice of you two to join us." he said.

"Sorry," Krys replied, "we got held up."

"Got held up? Just what were you two doing?"

"Took Ryan out for a ride, that's all. The bike was having problems, but I managed to fix them."

"We'll talk about this later." Paxton said, not buying the bullshit. "Right now, though, we've got a situation on our hands."

Clarke clicked on his laptop which caused a mug shot of Forte to shine on the screen. Kaspar noticed that this prick was a mean looking Agent. The smug look on Forte's picture made him want to punch a hole through the wall. Or, better yet, put a bullet through it.

"I had an emergency meeting with Greg this afternoon," Paxton continued.

"Is he okay?" Krys asked.

"Not exactly, he's been made. He thinks he's been made, at least."

"Does that shock you?" Kilbourne wondered.

"No, it doesn't. But, from how he was talking, I do believe they may have nailed him. RU is confronting CA about our extraction from the underground church the other night. They now know they have an informant...it's only a matter of time before they find out who. He's out, leaving today."

"Where does that leave us?" Li asked. "How will we get Intel from the inside now?"

"You let me worry about that." Paxton replied. He pointed with his laser at the mug shot. "This is Travis Forte, a detective within RU."

"How deep is he involved in that department?" Kaspar asked, wide eyed.

"He's one of their best interrogators."

"Then, he would know something..."

"Let's not jump to conclusions."

Kaspar sank back into his chair. He reached into his pocket and fished out a cigarette. This was not the time to discuss it. He would have to wait until they apprehended the son of a bitch. That would be the time...the time when he might get some real answers. Best to just shut up and listen right now.

"Moving forward," Paxton said. He gave a nod to Clarke and a picture of The Red Horse appeared on the screen. "He eats lunch here, every day. He eats alone, so he'll be vulnerable, that's when we'll take him."

"This is risky," Kilbourne blurted.

"I know it's a risk, but there's a high reward. Think of all the information we can get from him. We must apprehend him and see what he knows."

"This guy is looking for the RU, am I right?"

"Yes, Ron." Paxton replied.

"He's looking for us, you follow. So, what you're suggesting is going out there and apprehending him...revealing to him who he's searching for?"

"What do you think is going to happen in there?" Paxton demanded. He stared deep into Kilbourne. "Turn him loose? Let him run back to his superiors?"

"I see." Kilbourne replied, he leaned back in his seat.

"Kaspar?"

"Yes?"

"You know this place well, don't you?"

"Sure do," Kaspar replied. "Ran past that place every morning."

"Good," Paxton said. "You are going to follow him out."

"Me?"

"Yes, you will follow him out. Then, when the time is right, you'll grab him and bring him to us, which will be...." the slide changed to an abandoned convenience store. "Here."

"You want me to tail him?" Kaspar asked again.

"That's right. You know the area, you're the perfect man for the job. Or, should I have Krys do it instead?"

Kaspar looked towards Krys who gave him a sly grin back.

"I can do it." Kaspar said.

"Good. You bring him to us and then we'll take care of the rest. He eats lunch at noon every day. You follow him out; our stop is on his way back. Just...make sure you don't get made."

"I won't."

Kaspar stood outside the entrance to the restaurant. He wore a baseball cap and a hooded sweatshirt. The hood sat affixed on top of the hat. He also had a wire running up his neck into an earpiece. He psyched himself up for this moment, this chance to make up for what happened at the church. Not only did he want to make the team proud, he didn't want to let himself down, either. This Forte, he must know something about Mother.

He listened with intent, but nothing could be heard so far. His watch read twelve thirty-seven. Any minute—second—now and their target would exit the restaurant on the way back to the office. He took a moment to breath in the fresh afternoon air. The air was always clean and it seemed to get fresher by the day. Kaspar looked up to the gray sky, it reminded him of a story Mother once told him. She said that the sky once was blue...she talked about how beautiful it was. When the USR took over, they launched aerosols into the atmosphere to fight Global Warming (or, did she say Global Climate Disruption?) and the once blue sky faded to gray.

"Should be coming out any minute now," Paxton said through the ear piece.

Kaspar regained his focus. He ignored the business men and women who walked passed. He looked towards the entrance, still no sign of Forte. His watch now read twelve forty-six. What was keeping him?

"He's going to be running late," Clarke's voice said. "That's going to work in our favor."

Forte's ugly mug walked out of the restaurant. About damn time, Kaspar thought. The dark red hair, red freckles, and the pits along his face gave him away. Clarke confirmed it was him through the ear piece, Paxton ordered there to be no screw ups on this one. Kaspar took a deep breath, then held his head down, his eyes up at the target. He remembered Paxton's instructions: just follow him and don't get made.

The mission officially had begun. Kaspar followed close behind Forte. When Forte's paced quickened, so did his. He hated the inconvenience that his mark's tardiness brought about. Forte would have to walk faster than he thought. But, Clarke was probably right, as usual. He's running late, his attention to his surroundings would be lowered. Lowered enough, Kaspar hoped, to not notice he was being tailed.

Kaspar got to within inches of him and he slowed down, something inside told him he was too close. Kaspar bumped into a middle aged business man. The man gave him a dirty look which he ignored. At least the man didn't get too upset and cause a scene which would have blown the entire operation.

Forte's red hair was still in view, the Agent picked up the pace. Kaspar did his best to keep at a steady stride, but the flood of human traffic during this lunch hour increased the difficulty. The mark seemed to be a pro at this. He bobbed and weaved his way through pedestrians like they were nothing. Kaspar kept bumping into people on both sides. Someone bumped him on the left shoulder. He didn't see it coming and nearly tumbled onto the pavement. As he kept himself up, his eyes remained fixated on that red hair. There was no way he was going to lose his mark.

"You're almost at the checkpoint," Clarke said. "Pick up the pace and grab him. Remember: quick and silent."

With his pace quickened, Kaspar started to nudge the people in front of him away. As he got closer, the nudges turned to shoves. The men and women started to yell at Kaspar, but he ignored it and continued to move forward. He got to within a reach of Forte, but an elderly man blocked his path. His focus on Forte, he grabbed the collar of the old man's shirt and yanked back. The force of the pull caused the old man to fall backwards. He let out a yelp when he hit the ground.

The yelp caught Forte's attention. He turned his body backwards and looked to the man on the ground. Kaspar looked away, but he knew he had been caught. Just have to buy some time and...

Before Forte could reach for his gun, Kaspar landed a sharp punch to the right eye. Forte took a wild swing which Kaspar ducked underneath, followed by a counter left hand to the chin. He grabbed the mark's stunned body and forced him to turn around. A second later, Forte had the barrel of a Beretta 92 shoved into his right kidney.

"Keep moving," Kaspar whispered into Forte's ear.

Forte obeyed, he kept his legs moving forward and allowed his attacker to direct him. The sound of cries and footsteps from those running away filled the street. Kaspar looked around, gave everyone a fake smile, and told them to move along. He also scanned the ground for Agents that might be on watch. The streets were flooded right now. He doubted that he had caught any of their attention. He didn't see any move his way, at least.

It seemed a bit odd, but that didn't matter now. All that mattered was getting Forte to that little white door in the alleyway where the others were awaiting them. The only fear he really had was that one of the bystanders called the police with his or her phone. This gave Kaspar that extra incentive to move forward.

The alleyway came into view. Kaspar angled his mark's body towards it and led him to the little white door. His free hand forced Forte's head into the wall. He buried the gun deeper into the kidney. Kaspar looked over his shoulder to ensure that nobody followed him in there. When satisfied, he ordered Forte to bang hard on the door until someone answered.

After three hard knocks, the door remained closed. Kaspar started to grow impatient. He kept looking around, waiting for an Agent to blow him away. Forte, for his part, kept his damn mouth shut. That saved him from being hurt...prematurely. Another look over his shoulder revealed no one coming into the alley, yet the door remained closed.

Kaspar started to tell Forte to bang harder, but the heavy metal door finally creaked its way open. Krys stood inside the open door way, her eyes grew wide at the sight of the mark's beaten face.

"Come on," she said. She took a step to the side to allow the two clean entry.

Kaspar led the mark inside and the door closed behind them...

The back of Forte's head collided with the front of Kaspar's. Kaspar stammered backwards in shock. His gun dropped to the ground. Forte moved in to finish him off when he was met with a chop from Krys's hand to his throat.

Forte gasped for air and kneeled to ground, unable to breath. Krys retrieved a P99 from inside her jacket. She pressed the barrel of the 9MM to the side of the mark's head. Forte, still gasping for air, held up his hands. Krys moved the gun upwards. Forte followed up along with the motion of the gun. Once he stood upright, she reached down and pulled the gun from out of the holster on Forte's hip.

"I would advise you not try something like that again." Krys said.

"Who—who are you people?" Forte demanded in between gasps.

"Just shut up and move."

His senses began to return. Kaspar shook his head a few times and rubbed at the sore spot right in the middle. Krys had saved him once more. He started to get the feeling that he would owe her something at some point. He continued to rub his forehead and followed the two down the narrow hallway. The door at the end of the hallway was left open, Kilbourne stood at the entrance.

"Get this piece of shit out of my sight." Krys said as she shoved Forte's body forward.

"With pleasure," Kilbourne replied. He grabbed Forte's shoulders and led him to an empty chair in the middle of the empty room.

"You okay?" Krys asked. She started to rub at Kaspar's shoulders.

"I'm fine..." Kaspar said in between pants. "He just...just got the best of me, that's all."

Krys looked at the red mark on his forehead. "You're going to need some aspirin when we get back."

"Shit..." Kaspar felt like he was going to pass out.

"You sure you're okay?"

"I said I was fine."

Kaspar felt embarrassed by all this. How could he let that red haired punk get the best of him like that? It was stupid, he felt now like he'd gotten lazy. That tune up at the bar didn't seem to be much of a tune up after all. He should have been more mindful...

"I'm just making sure he didn't hurt you."

"Screw you," Kaspar replied, the throbs in his head increased in intensity.

"Calm down," Krys said. "It happens."

"It doesn't happen to me."

"I hate to break it to you, but it kinda just did."

"Let's just get in there and get this over with."

The pain in his forehead moved down to behind his eyes. He followed at a slow pace behind Krys through the hallway and into the deserted room. It felt like someone had both hands inside of his eyes and pinched every nerve in sight. He leaned his back against the wall once inside and continued to rub his forehead.

Kaspar noticed that this room had been deserted years ago. All that remained were stained white and black tile floors, complete with little brown pellets of rat droppings. He noticed Forte on that old wooden chair. The legs were loose; they wobbled with each feigned attempt at escape. Kilbourne looked to have a firm grip on Forte's shoulders as Li wrapped silver duct tape around the mark's midsection. Next came the legs and finally the arms were taped to the arm rests. There would be no way for this man to break free and start swinging at people. Then again, he was outgunned five to one, so it wouldn't make much of a difference, anyway.

Forte looked wide eyed at his abductors as Kaspar reached into his pocket for his pack of smokes. Kaspar shook one loose and lit up with his lighter. The nerves inside of Forte caused an involuntary shake of his body. His lips trembled, Kaspar fighting back a smile the whole time in between drags. Where was the smug, arrogant face now? This Agent had tortured innocent people, then led other Agents to arrest and murder more innocent people. So proud of his work he must have been...now he sat there like a coward seeking a way out.

"Who are you people?" Forte demanded with a shaky voice.

"That," Paxton replied, he rubbed his hands together, "is none of your concern. What is of your concern is that you have information that we want."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on, Travis, don't play dumb. It offends me."

"How do you know my name?"

"I know lots about you," Paxton replied. He knelt down to get to eye level. "I know that you torture, arrest, and kill innocents."

"It's you guys..." Forte said. His eyes grew wider.

"Yeah, oh darn, right?"

"When they find you..."

"They won't, as your precious RU has already proven."

"We know you have somebody on the inside, when we catch him, he'll talk."

"I'm sorry to tell you," Paxton said. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. "But our person on the inside is way better than you, you're not catching anyone."

"We'll see about that."

Paxton took several drags on his cigarette. When finished, he threw the butt onto the ground and rubbed his military boot into it, smothering what was left. He moved in closer cracking his knuckles as he did. He knelt down once more and backhanded the right side of Forte's face.

"Enough chit chat," Paxton said. "Let's get down to business."

"I ain't telling you shit." Forte replied. He spit onto the floor.

"I don't want you tell me 'shit'. I want you to tell me who your next targets are."

Kaspar waited patiently enough. He threw his cigarette to the ground and moved in on Forte. This pumpkin haired bastard had to have known something, he was sure of it. He worked for the RU, which charged its Agents with rooting out the resistance. Mother...she was charged with aiding the resistance.

"Hold on a sec..." Kaspar said, he held his right arm in the air.

"What are you doing?" Paxton asked.

"I've just got something to ask him."

Kaspar kneeled down on one knee and the two engaged in stares. He did not want this to get too ugly, but the truth would be known today. The red eyes of Forte caused something inside of Kaspar to burn.

"I've got nothing to say to you." Forte said.

"I think you do," Kaspar replied, eyes filled with rage. "Does the name Jenna Kaspar mean anything to you?"

"No..."

"Not this again," Paxton said. He sighed and touched Kaspar on the shoulder. "Look, we'll get the answers to that later. We don't have a lot of time here."

"This little son of a bitch knows something..."

"Jenna Kaspar?" Forte said with a laugh. "I don't know that name."

"What kind of work do you do?" Kaspar demanded.

"I...round up your comrades and bring them to justice. Same thing that's going to happen to all of you, now that I know who you are."

"Jenna was...my mother. She was killed by your people." Kaspar said. He reached to his back for something.

Paxton noticed it and grabbed hold of Kaspar's wrist. Kaspar tried to wiggle his way free, but the grip proved to be too strong. The old veteran kept his grip as the kid looked over at him. He felt sorry for him, but now was not the time.

"Go stand in the corner," Paxton ordered. "Let us handle the interrogation."

"He knows something..."

"I don't know that bitch you're talking about," Forte said. "But, I'm sure if I saw her..."

The comment sent Kaspar's rage ablaze and, with it, an adrenaline rush. He broke free of Paxton's grip. He pulled out the Beretta from the waistline of his jeans. He pistol whipped Forte along his right cheek. The whip caused a nasty gash on his face, the blood poured out instantly. Kaspar went in for another blow, but the oxygen from his lungs failed to come up.

Paxton moved his hand back and waved it in the air. He didn't feel good about sucker punching a comrade, but he couldn't allow anyone to jeopardize this operation. He watched as the kid wheezed. Paxton motioned for Kilbourne to help him up.

"You wait outside," Paxton said as he looked over him. "Ron, take him."

Kaspar tried to breath and fight off Kilbourne's monstrous grip at the same time. When it became apparent he wouldn't escape, Kaspar concentrated fully on catching his breath. In between wheezes, he caught a glimpse of Forte as he was being dragged out. The Agent had a grin on his face, the grin made the urge to pull out a gun and shoot out those yellow teeth stronger.

He felt his body fly when Kilbourne gave him a shove. Without saying a word, Kilbourne turned and walked back into the makeshift interrogation room. Kaspar said nothing, either. Instead, he picked himself up off the ground then walked to the front door. He moved over to the corner on his left. Sitting down, he let out a laugh. There was an Agent in there who might have, in all likelihood did, know what happened to Mother. Hell, that Forte bastard was probably the one who pulled the trigger.

If only the others would give him the time to get the answers. They could continue their game later while Kaspar went out and brought about true justice. They refused to give it to him so all Kaspar could do was sit on the old floor and laugh. The laughter soon turned to sadness. He thought for a brief moment about barging into the room to take out Forte. The logical part of his brain kicked in. He was outnumbered and he wouldn't stand a chance.

He used all of his strength to stand up and smoke another cigarette instead.

# Chapter .31

"It looks like you have some dissention in your ranks." Forte said with a laugh.

Paxton raised his right hand and punched Forte on his cheek. Then, before the Agent could move his head forward, he was struck again. Paxton looked down at the scared, yet defiant, look on his enemy's face. The gash from Kaspar's pistol whip continued to leak blood. The old veteran aimed for it with one last strike to Forte's face. He shook the pain off of his hand and used the Agent's shirt to wipe off the blood.

"He's still a green horn," Paxton said. He grinned, "But, we're not."

"What now?" Forte demanded. "You going to hit me some more?"

"It depends. Do you have anything to tell me?"

"I already told you, you ain't getting nothing outta me."

"Fine, have it your way."

Paxton folded his arms and walked away. He took careful steps backwards. Kilbourne moved in front and started to crack the knuckles on his monstrous hands. Upon approach of the Agent, he began to rub his hands together and flexed the muscles in his arms and chest. Forte's expression turned to complete fear, his body shook, his heavy breathing turned to fast panting.

Kilbourne landed a sharp blow to the midsection. He reached back and landed another one, this time a cracking sound rang through the room. Paxton hoped as he watched his comrade land the punch, that a few ribs were broken. Another blow to the midsection and Forte began to cry out in pain. Kilbourne ignored it. He landed a blow to the right groin...then to the other one. The punches moved up to the face, one cheek and then the other. Kilbourne then used his powerful right hand to form a death grip around Forte's neck. What little movement the Agent could muster was spent wiggling around in the chair.

The Agent's lips turned blue, but Kilbourne kept his grip until he felt a tap on the shoulder. He released the grip and Forte gasped for air. Paxton took to the front again. He stared down at the enemy, allowed him to catch his breath for a moment, while he fumbled around with something in his pocket.

"You got something to say to me now, don't you?" Paxton asked.

"...Fuck...you..." Forte managed to get out.

"You want to play games, is that it?"

"No...no, games, please..."

"Okay, then, who is your next target?" Paxton demanded.

Forte looked up and, with what little strength he had left, he spit in Paxton's face. Paxton backed away; he used his shirt collar to wipe away the white and red mixture on his cheek. He shook his head and took a tight grip to the black handle inside of his pocket. He did not want to do this, but the bastard gave him little choice. Despite the insistence that Forte didn't want to play games, that was exactly what was to happen. He held up the handle of the switch blade for his enemy to see.

"You know," Paxton said. "I've heard some interesting rumors about you. I've heard that you like to dig your victim's fingernails out. Is that true?"

Silence.

"IS THAT TRUE?!" Paxton demanded once more.

Silence again. Paxton pressed down on the handle and a freshly shined blade shot up with a flicking sound. Forte's jaw began to tremble as his interrogator waited for an answer...anything. Nothing came, so Paxton approached and took hold of the trembling index finger on the right hand.

"Last chance, bub." Paxton said.

Forte spit in his face once more. The old veteran didn't bother to wipe the saliva off this time. There were more pressing matters now, like getting answers. He looked back and signaled for Kilbourne to move behind. Kilbourne obeyed and held down the Agent by the shoulders. Paxton dug the sharp blade into the index finger, underneath the nail. He ignored the cries of pain and reached the end of the nail bed. With a sharp flick upward, the nail went flying into the air and landed next to Forte's foot.

Krys stood in the back of the room and couldn't take it anymore. She buried her face into her palms while she walked to the door. Paxton looked back to see her walk out and that thing inside of him began to eat away at his soul. It kept telling him to stop it, but he ignored it like always. The struggle within himself began once again.

He did not want to take pleasure in what he was about to do.

Kaspar heard the sound of footsteps coming from the hallway. He threw the half smoked cigarette to the ground and looked towards it. It was Krys, her head low, with nobody else to accompany her. What was going on in there?

She walked to the wall adjacent from him and leaned her back against it, head still straight down. No words came from her trembling lips. No sound except for the heavy breathing. She finally looked up and when she did, Kaspar could see tears roll down her cheeks. He walked over to her and stood beside.

"What's going on?" Kaspar wondered.

"Nothing..." Krys replied. "Just John's usual routine."

"What routine is that?"

"He's...questioning our mark right now."

Kaspar's eyes lit up, "He's torturing that man in there?"

"Yep, he's using the same methods that they use. I thought we were supposed to be above that...I guess I just don't get it."

"If he's not giving any answers..."

"That shouldn't matter! He's a human being."

The tears continued to leak down her cheeks as Kaspar breathed in and turned his head away. He searched his mind for something to say, but since he didn't disagree one tiny bit with what was going on in there, he remained silent. The USR...they took away Mother...they committed horrible acts against their own people. Why should it matter if the same brand of justice was brought back to them?

"It's necessary," Kaspar said.

"No evil is necessary," Krys replied. She looked into Kaspar's eyes. "You of all people should know that."

Kaspar looked away, "If you were in that position, if you knew something the USR wanted, do you think they would spare you...that?"

"No, they wouldn't. And that's why we are fighting them."

"Why stay, then? If you know this goes on?"

"I don't know...I want to make a difference, but not at the expense of my own humanity. I don't want to be like them...like John."

Krys moved in and rested her head in Kaspar's chest. Kaspar, unsure of what to do, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and just stood there. He held her and began to run his left hand down her soft hair.

Neither spoke.

# Chapter .32

Paxton finished with Forte's left index finger. He made sure the nail stuck to the blade this time. He held the blade in front of the Agent's eyes. Gone was the look of defiance and fear...all that remained was sheer terror. With a flick of the blade, the nail went airborne. The Agent followed it with his eyes.

"Okay!" Forte cried out. "I'll talk!"

"Come out with it, then." Paxton replied.

"First, what kind of guarantees do I get..."

The blade penetrated underneath the middle finger's nail. Paxton didn't take his time with this one. The blade was in and out within a matter of seconds. The unexpectedness of the motion caused Forte to cry out louder than the other two times.

"The only guarantee you get from me," Paxton said, holding the nail in front of Forte. "Is that I leave the rest of your fingernails intact."

Paxton used the Agent's cheek to wipe the nail off this time. He wiped the blood on the blade with Forte's pants. Forte looked around the room at a frantic pace, possibly looking for an escape which wouldn't come. Maybe, in his wormy brain, he thought that other Agents heard his screaming and were coming for him. He wouldn't have much time to wait; he still had seven more fingers and ten toes to go.

"Ohhhkay...okay," Forte panted. "What do you want from me? What do you want me to say?"

"Don't play games with me," Paxton replied. He held the blood stained blade up. "Or, shall I take another one?"

"No, no...please...no more."

"You have a family, don't you?"

His eyes gave away the answer. Paxton took out a phone and started to press buttons on it. A new look of fear, with a hint of sadness, filled the Agent's facial expressions. Paxton talked into the phone, he told his men to get into position.

"You wouldn't dare harm an Agent's family." Forte said, anger in his voice.

"Does it look like I care?" Paxton replied, looking down at the blade. He looked back up to Forte. "You don't seem to care about your own wellbeing, and that's fine. If I was you, I wouldn't care, either. But, think about your family, Travis. I didn't want to do this, but we are running short on time."

"If you even think..."

"You can save them, you know."

Forte looked straight to the ground. "What do you want?"

"Let me be clear. If I even think that you're lying, I will send my men into your home to kill your family. Clear?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Paxton slid the blade back into the handle and placed the knife back into his pocket. Games again, this Forte prick just wouldn't listen to reason. He motioned with his head for Kilbourne to back away. Kilbourne did so and the Agent moved his stiff neck in circles and breathed in heavy.

"You better start convincing me." Paxton ordered.

"Okay, okay, man. But, listen, I'm only in this shit because the pay is good..."

"Spare me," Paxton reached into his pocket. "Or should I continue?"

"No," Forte cried, the chair's legs shook with violence. "No, not that!"

"Then start talking!"

"Our next target is Howard Anderson, some guy I interrogated..."

"Tortured." Paxton corrected.

"Fine, tortured, you hypocrite. Like I was saying, we interrogated some guy who said that Mr. Anderson was a member of your resistance. We are going in to take him tonight."

"Where?"

"At his apartment, man. Some little piece of shit for him, his wife, and six year old daughter."

"Six year old?" Paxton asked. A new type of rage burned in his soul at the mention of the little girl. "What's the plan for her?"

"Raise her in the schools, show her our way of thinking, you know."

"Just what we fucking need," Kilbourne said from behind. "Another fascist."

"Look at yourselves, then judge me, okay?"

Kilbourne grabbed at Forte's shoulders, "What does that mean, little man?"

"You people are just like us. Just like us, all right? You just hide behind those damned stars and stripes. You pretend that you are doing something noble for those people out there." Forte spit on the ground. "You condemn me, that's fine. But, you are doing the same exact thing that I would be doing to you."

"Now, you listen to me," Paxton said, his face red with anger. "I am nothing like you. You and your boys at the USR have pinned us into a corner, we've just taken the gloves off. We would never murder innocent women and children..."

"What about your wars, leftover?" Forte asked.

"Wars are different...a little collateral damage is unavoidable." Paxton replied.

"Collateral damage? Does it make you feel better...calling your victims that?"

Paxton could feel his blood boil in his veins. He wanted to reply, but he bit his lip instead. He cursed himself under his breath for letting Forte get to him. The situation had gotten out of control and it was up to Paxton reclaim it. No more games, he grew angry at himself for giving that piece of shit the time of day.

"Enough! Where is the apartment?" Paxton demanded.

"15...15...Baxter. Umm...second floor, 218."

"When's the raid?"

"I don't know the exact time...I just know it's when the little prick gets off work."

"Where does he work?"

"I don't know." Forte replied.

Paxton retrieved the knife and press on the handle. The blade shot up in the air. Forte's eyes widened at the sight of it. His body started to do that tremble thing again.

"I don't know where he works! We never know where these citizens work, it's forbidden for us to know. We are only permitted to take these shit bags in from their homes."

Paxton put away the knife confused, "I believe you."

"Have I convinced you enough, then?"

"I guess we'll find out."

"What about my family?"

"I guess," Paxton replied, "we'll find out."

The old veteran stood and retrieved a Glock .45 from behind him. He pulled the chamber back then clicked the safety off. Forte's eyes never left the gun. He tried to speak when he saw Paxton begin to attach the silencer to the barrel.

"What the hell is this about?" Forte demanded. "I told you what you wanted to know!"

"Yes," Paxton replied, "you did, and I thank you. I never said you'd be getting out of this alive, though, did I?"

"What's killing me going to prove? Killing an Agent in cold blood..."

"It won't be the first time. But, let me ask you one last question."

"What else do you want from me?" Forte demanded.

"That name...Jenna Kaspar, are you sure you don't know it?"

"No, I've never heard that name."

Paxton pulled the gun up and aimed it at Forte's forehead. He used the curved "U" shape and the metal pointer at the end to aim: easy shot. The Agent would be dead before he felt any pain from the bullet entry. He breathed in, the look of a hardened killer in his eyes. What was one more body?

"Wait! Wait!" Forte cried out.

"Last words," Paxton replied. "Make them count."

"Tell my wife and kids that I love them."

PSST!

The silencer made the shot of the gun come out like a whisper. Forte's lifeless head now hung to the left. Paxton looked at the mess he created as he twisted the silencer off. He motioned with his head for Kilbourne and Li to get out. He gave the lifeless body one last look before he joined them.

"What happened?" Krys demanded, wiping away at her eyes.

"It's done." Kilbourne replied before walking outside.

Li said nothing and joined Kilbourne. Paxton refitted his Glock into its holster and walked into the lobby. The look on Krys's face caused a hint of guilt in his stomach. He tapped her on the shoulder and motioned for her to leave.

"What happened to him?" Krys asked.

"He's expired. We've got to get out of here."

"So, you just killed him?"

Paxton scratched the back of his head, "Of course I did. He's USR, the enemy. We've been over this."

"How are we supposed to..." Krys started.

"Krys, we've been over this. If you want to talk about it, we can back at the safe house."

Krys turned and walked out without saying anything or even looking at Paxton. Kaspar looked deep into his boss's eyes and did not like what he saw. A horrible thought filled his mind: is this what he would have to become to avenge Mother?

"Let's go." Paxton said.

"Sir," Kaspar replied.

Kaspar led the way outside. At the far end of the alley, the USR van awaited them. He looked over to his right and saw a woman. She stood there terrified. Kaspar wondered if she heard the screams coming from the inside. Did she know...

"Let's go!" Paxton barked.

Paxton ran towards the van at a pace uncommon for a man of his age. Kaspar looked away from the woman and did the same. He climbed into the back of the van and, before the heavy double doors closed, he heard one last thing.

A terrible scream.

# Chapter .33

"What did you see?" Sullivan asked the petrified woman in front of him. He had his notepad and pen at the ready. All he needed was for this woman to calm down and tell him her story.

"I didn't really see anything," the woman replied, her eyes still aimless. "I just heard these...cries—screams. They were coming from inside there. I was too scared to go in there by myself."

"Why didn't you call the authorities?"

"I was too scared. I just stood here, listening. After a while I saw some people running that way," the woman pointed to the end of the alleyway. "They got into one of your vans and took off."

Sullivan looked at her, confusion sent his thought process into a tail spin.

"I'm sorry, citizen," Sullivan said. "But, one of our vans?"

"Yes," the woman replied. "It had the insignia on it."

"Describe it for me."

"Well, it was all black, had the letters USR in yellow. It was a pretty big van, a full sized one. I thought maybe you guys apprehended a criminal and those people worked for you."

"Watch that kind of talk. What happened then?"

"I walked in and discovered a dead man in there. He's strapped to a chair with duct tape wrapped around his body."

Sullivan looked up from his notepad. "Those citizens you saw, did you get a look at any of their faces?"

The woman shook her head. "No, not really. One of them was a younger guy, though, that much I can tell you."

"Heights? Builds? Any distinguishing marks at all?"

"No, they were running fast and I was scared."

"Okay," Sullivan replied, he scribbled something in his notepad. "You can go and wait with those Agents over there. They'll probably ask you some more questions."

"Yes, sir." The woman replied but didn't move.

"You can go now."

The woman nodded her head. She turned and walked towards the Agents at the end of the alley, deliberate in her steps. Sullivan threw his pen to the pavement in disgust. They were here, he was sure of it. They could've been the main leaders or, hell, for all he knew the last remainder of them. There would be no way to know for sure now, as the only witness knew nothing.

"Fuck!" Sullivan cried.

"Sully," Mason called out. He and Wilcox walked past the woman and towards him. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes, George, a very big fucking problem."

"What is it?"

"That woman didn't see anything, but they were here, no doubt about it."

"Well," Wilcox said with a bit too much eagerness, "let's go ask the dead guy."

The three Agents entered the building. Sullivan looked to the ground. He saw there were three used cigarette butts. Filthy motherfuckers, he thought to himself. They walked down the narrow hallway and opened the door at the end.

Sullivan paused and looked at the dead man in front of him. Forte's lifeless body sat there, his head hung to the left. He felt his two partners push against him from behind, eager to get a look at the sight. The sudden wave of the beginning stage of human decay swept over him. He turned and vomited onto the stained floor.

"You okay, boss?" Mason asked.

"You can't smell that?" Sullivan demanded. He pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped at his lips with it.

"Smell what?" Wilcox interjected. "You're not cut out for this part, are you, Sully?"

"Sorry I'm not as comfortable around a dead body as you are."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Mason looked around the floor and noticed more used cigarette butts. He smiled at the memory of Forte, who would always sneak in smoke breaks. Either nobody noticed...or nobody cared.

"Looks like our boys like to smoke." Mason said.

"Nice observation," Sullivan replied. He steadied his body and composed himself. "Take a look around the room. See if you can find something more useful."

"Sure thing."

Instead of doing any real detective work, the two numbskulls played around with Forte's dead head. Mason pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and snapped them on. He then grabbed a pen from his pocket and shoved it through the bullet wound. The two men laughed with each other, had themselves a little fun at the fallen comrade's expense. Sullivan, for his part, wanted to vomit again. He never understood his two partners, how they could take so much pleasure in seeing a dead body from a fellow human being. They were monsters from another breed...a breed that Sullivan did not wish to know.

Upon further inspection on the ground, Sullivan found something that disturbed him to the core. He found Forte's bloodied fingernails, the damn ground was littered with them. He bent down in between his two partners and pulled up Forte's hand. Three fingers were missing their nails. What kind of barbaric monsters were these people? He stood, looked to Mason and Wilcox still playing with the dead head, and fought back the urge to smack them upside the back of their heads. Like he did when little Davie misbehaved.

"You fellas going to do anything?" Sullivan demanded. He started to inspect behind Forte.

"No, we're not." Mason replied, eyes still on the bullet wound.

"And, may I ask why not?"

"No, you may not, but I'll tell you anyway. According to Cap, we can't—what did he say—contribute to an investigation. He said that you've been bringing up concerns about our detective skills so, we're just going to sit back and see how far you can make it by yourself."

"Fine," Sullivan replied. His attention focused on the hole in the back wall. "Not like I'm not used to it anyway."

"Have fun." Mason said.

"Just don't cum everywhere beating off to that dead body. We don't want to contaminate the crime scene."

Wilcox snapped his fingers to get Sullivan's attention. "Maybe you were behind this shooting."

"What have you smoking, Wilcox? I was with you guys all day."

"Just an observation. Think of it as a nice way of saying fuck off."

"Of course," Sullivan said as he gave a fake salute to Wilcox.

Wilcox focused back on the dead body. "Fucking Forte, he had it coming."

"What do you mean?" Mason wondered.

"He was reckless, always going with his balls hanging out, only a matter of time before they got clipped."

"You're a shithead," Mason said.

Sullivan let the two talk, his eyes resumed their fixation with the small hole in the plastered wall. He held his handkerchief up to his nostrils, but the smell still crept its way in, only now it was manageable. He tried his best to ignore the blood and brain fragments splattered everywhere around his target. He reached into his pocket for his pair of gold tweezers and a clear baggie. Sullivan was forced to drop the handkerchief. He held the tweezers in his mouth, the baggie under his arms, and snapped on a pair of gloves.

After some fumbling around inside the hole with the tweezers, Sullivan could feel something. He grabbed it and pulled the round from out of the hole. He stared at it and recognized it as a 9MM. Probably from a Glock or any number of handguns that could be bought on the street from the gun runners. He stared at the bent round and noticed the size and weight of it.

"Armor piercing round," Sullivan said to himself.

"What are you talking about?" Mason demanded.

"While you two were circle jerking each other, I found an armor piercing round behind Forte's...head."

Mason and Wilcox stood; they gathered behind their boss and looked at the round in between the tweezers. Sullivan held it up to the light, the blood stained gold casing glistened along with it. He then dropped the round into the plastic bag, sealed it shut, then held back his gag reflex again. The smell seemed to have gotten worse, but there was no gag reflex, no emotion at all from his two partners.

"What are you going to do with that bullet?" Wilcox demanded. "You know damn well they bought that shit from the underground, right?"

"Of course," Sullivan replied. "But, this looks like a USR issued round."

"You're shitting me." Mason said.

"Afraid not. But, if you did some real detective work, you would know the difference between our ammo and that bullshit you buy illegally."

"What now?" Wilcox asked.

"We'll take this to forensics, see if they can find anything, which I doubt they will. They've never turned up anything before, at least."

"So," Mason observed, "we're chasing our own tails, then?"

"Not exactly," Sullivan replied. "We'll hit up all illegal gun shops that we know of, maybe that will turn something up."

"Maybe?" Mason quipped.

"Yes, maybe, as in we'll see. You got a better idea?"

"Yeah, I do. Forget this case and move on to the next one. It's a dead end."

Sullivan was taken aback. "Forget this case? That's your plan? One of our own is sitting here, dead, killed by the resistance, and we just turn a blind eye?"

Wilcox chimed in, "Your detective work has turned up nothing but dead ends. I'm beginning to think that you don't want these cases to be solved."

Sullivan dropped the baggie into his jacket pocket. He turned to face them. The implications that his partners brought at his door step had gotten more than old. Ever since they made him kill that boy—that boy who he knew could not have been a member of the resistance...

"You got something you want to say? Go on and say it."

"I've always had my suspicions with you, that's not secret." Wilcox replied.

Sullivan pointed his index finger at Wilcox. "Let's get something straight, you want my job, then that's fine. Do a good enough job under me and get yourself a promotion. This accusing me of shit is going to end now."

"Who says I want your job?" Wilcox inched closer. "I want the rebels caught and killed as much as you do...or, should I say, as much as you make it appear."

Without warning, Sullivan reached back and sucker punched Wilcox square in the jaw. Wilcox composed himself then went after Sullivan with a killer's look in his eyes. Mason stepped in front of him and he whispered something in his left ear. Wilcox stood down. He dropped his arms and pointed at his superior.

"You'll pay for that."

"Anytime, Dee." Sullivan said.

Wilcox rubbed at his jaw as he turned and walked out of the room with Mason. He slammed his fist on the doorway before he walked through it. Sullivan watched, he shook the mild pain away from his fist, and smiled. A great sense of relief, maybe even joy, filled his body. He wanted to do that for a long time and, at last, he found the courage to do it. He knew that their working relationship would only get rockier from here.

For a fraction in time, he would enjoy it.

Sullivan stood in front of Fitzpatrick's desk, the Captain busy flipping through paperwork, and awaited his answer. He rubbed his sweaty palms together, his heart racing along with his mind. When the wait got to the brink of unbearable, he wanted to snatch the paperwork from his boss and demand answer. He decided against it. It wouldn't help his cause, anyway.

After what seemed like an eternity, Fitzpatrick dropped the paperwork down on the desk and rubbed at his forehead.

"Have a seat, William." he said.

"I'd rather stand, sir." Sullivan replied.

"Fine. Stay as you are, the answer is no."

"What?"

The request which had just been denied was for Sullivan to lead the raid on the apartment. The resistance would no doubt show up there tonight, after all that torture, they most likely got that much out of Forte. The paperwork on Fitzpatrick's desk outlined the planned arrest and capture of Howard Anderson. The resistance would move in at some point to try and "save" the family. Sullivan wanted to be the one to bring the bastards in.

"I talked with Consul today," Fitzpatrick replied. "He wants you away from this thing."

"With all due respect to you and the Consul, but this is my case. I have to be there."

"You are too valuable to this department, William. Stay away, for your family's sake."

Sullivan clinched his fists. "What does that mean?"

"Relax," Fitzpatrick said with a smile. "I didn't mean it like that. This is going to be a dangerous one. I'd hate to make beautiful Julie a widow, or for your son to grow up without his father."

"I have a dangerous job. I put my ass on the line day and night for this department. The resistance is getting closer to us. Look at what they did to Forte."

"Did you ever find anything out from the CA?" Fitzpatrick asked, trying to change the subject.

"I did. This killing today confirms it. I told Greg Boler from that department about Forte, and look what happened. They even ripped the poor bastard's fingernails out."

"Boler," Fitzpatrick rubbed at his chin, "he didn't show up for work today."

"Can you blame him? He's probably skipped town by now."

"We'll send units to his house right away, just in case."

"Sir," Sullivan pleaded. "Let me ask you one last time: let me be there tonight."

"Absolutely not. CA is running this op, same as usual."

Sullivan stood and pointed. "They are sending those boys to their deaths. That I can guarantee."

Fitzpatrick grimaced. "Get that finger out of my face. I don't like this anymore than you do, but that's an order straight from the top. All we can do is hold our breath and hope that they apprehend the suspects."

"Sir, I cannot back down from this. Forte was one of my men. Do you know what they did to him?"

"Yes, I read the report."

"Let me refresh your memory," Sullivan sat back down. "They shot him dead...in cold blood right after they tortured him."

"As I understood it," Fitzpatrick looked to his computer screen, "he did the same thing."

Sullivan was taken back a moment. He couldn't believe what he heard come from his own boss's mouth.

"What are you trying to tell me, sir? That it's fine?"

Fitzpatrick rubbed his forehead. "No, that's not what I'm trying to say. He got what he dished out. Let's admit something. Travis was not exactly high up on the morality ladder. It was just an observation."

Just an observation, there was that phrase again. Sullivan sat down then tried to relax himself on the chair while he played with his smooth chin. He soon came to the realization that Fitzpatrick was not going to see his view of things. It was futile to try any longer. He reasoned that he would have to take a stronger route instead.

"Let me tell you something," Sullivan said. He leaned forward, "Travis Forte might not have been the greatest human being to walk this earth, but he was one of us. We have to show them that we will not just sit on our hands while they kill our own people."

"We will get them," Fitzpatrick replied. "Just let CA take care of it. Again, this is an order straight from the Consul's office. I will not allow you to go. I will not be thrown in prison for you, no matter how great of a detective you are."

"There's something else."

"What?"

"I look around at all the bad shit that's going on, out there. The resistance is the cause of it. I will see to it that it all ends, tonight. Let me go."

"One final time, stay away. If I catch you out there, I will have your badge, do you read me?"

Sullivan stood and saluted the Captain. "Yes, sir."

He turned and opened the door, letting it slam behind him. Once in his office, he clinched his fists. Sullivan could not let this go. He could not put this in the hands of the imbeciles over in the CA, this mission was too vital. He would go, hide in the shadows, and if he got his chance, he would grab one of them and make the arrest. They wouldn't take his badge if he brought in a member of the resistance. How could they?

Sullivan pulled his leather chair back and sat. He began to plot out his actions; weighed in on the pros and cons. He reasoned that the pros far outweighed anything negative that could happen, including losing his badge or his life. When he began to question his decision, he quickly silenced that negative voice in his head.

This was ending tonight: one way or the other.

# Chapter .34

Howard Anderson fumbled around for something in his pocket. Once his fingers reached the keys, he pulled them out and sighed. It had been a long, grueling day at work. Some deals he had been responsible for turned sour, for no reason apparent to him. He worked on that sale for the last three months. Everything appeared on the surface to be going smoothly. Just a day ago, the buyers were enthused by what Anderson sold to them. Then, at the drop of a hat, they backed out.

Anderson unlocked the door to the tiny one bedroom apartment. It wasn't much, but it was better than some of the places his co-workers lived in. It was only temporary, too. There would be other deals to make. If his bosses didn't fire him, that is. The time would come when he could afford the dream house his wife fantasized about for the past year. It was a fool's hope, he knew, but that dream kept him going.

He laid his jacket against the back of the red couch, which stood facing a small, sixteen inch flat screen television. He saw his wife cooking something in the kitchen in the back of the apartment. Over to the right was the door which led to the bedroom.

"Hi, honey." Ashley Anderson said.

"Hey," Anderson replied.

His wife put up that smile and, for a moment, he forgot about the hard day he endured: the low wages, the demanding boss, the deal of his career falling flat. The smell of tomato sauce hit his nostrils. He breathed in his wife's cooking and smiled. He hadn't told her about the day, yet, but it was almost like she accessed some type of telepathy in her mind by cooking up his favorite meal. He walked into the kitchen, pulled his wife in close enough to feel her heart beat against his chest, and kissed her.

"Where's Frankie?" Anderson asked.

"She's in the bedroom, working on homework."

"How has she been doing in school?"

"Straight A's on her report card today." Ashley replied.

"Ain't that something? She's such a bright young girl."

"Sure is...oh, darn it, the sauce!"

Ashley ran over to the stove to shut off the burners. She moved the pot of sauce over to a cool spot on the stove. Anderson could not help but laugh. He got the "look" from his wife and Anderson shrugged his shoulders. He walked over to the dinner table where an empty plate, silverware, and a glass of ice water awaited. He took a sip of the water and the cold liquid relaxed him as it went down. He was home. He raised the glass to his lips again...

BOOM!!!

The loud explosion forced Anderson to drop the glass to the ground. When it hit, the glass shattering resembled what just happened to his front door. Ashley screamed and bee lined towards her husband. Anderson stood and stumbled backward as the SWAT team poured their way in. Six Agents made up the squad. They were armed with P90 submachine guns, all of them pointed in his direction.

Stay in the bedroom, Frankie.

After the initial wave of Agents made their way in, a seventh man entered. His getup was different from the black fatigues the others wore. Instead, he bore a gray and red uniform. The long top went down past his knees, the collar up to his chin, with the wrinkled skin of his throat exposed. His long nose curved up in the middle and in his skinny, wrinkled hands, he carried a small leather book. Anderson's grip on his wife grew tighter as the old man approached and looked at him with small, red eyes. Anderson looked into those eyes and saw nothing behind them.

"Howard Anderson?" the leader asked with a voice void of any emotion.

"That's me," Anderson replied. "What is this all about?"

"You are under arrest. For conspiring against the USR and her leaders."

"What are you talking about?"

"We've come across some information from an informant. He has implicated you as aiding the resistance that has been terrorizing our city."

"What?" asked a stunned and confused Anderson.

Ashley looked into her husband with wide eyes. "Is that true?"

"Sir, I believe you are mistaken." Anderson said. "I work for the Corporation and have no ties whatsoever with the resistance."

"We don't make mistakes, Mr. Anderson." the leader said. He pulled the book up to his eyes, licked his right index finger, and began to thumb through the pages. "You have already confirmed your identity. I'm afraid that you'll have to come with me."

"But..." Anderson tried to get out.

"But, nothing, it says right here on page twenty-nine, article seven: Any citizen accused of conspiracy against the USR are to be brought to justice to answer for their crimes. You are coming with us. If you are innocent, then you have nothing to fear. You will have the opportunity to prove your innocence."

"How can I do that?" Anderson demanded. "I watch the news, I know how this works."

The leader looked up from his book. "Think of your wife and child. Do you want them to be involved in this?"

Anderson gripped his wife tighter. He cut off all circulation to the rest of her arm with his grip.

"No. You keep them out of this."

"That is up to you, Mr. Anderson." the leader said as he put the book into the deep pocket of his coat. He extended his hand towards his suspect.

"What's going to happen to him?!" Ashley demanded. Her tears began to flow freely down her soft cheeks.

"That," the leader said, "is not of your concern."

"He's my husband!"

"Then he's obviously not a good one, putting you and your child through this. Mr. Anderson?"

"It's okay," Anderson said. He looked deep into his wife's eyes and released his grip. "Your job is to take care of Frankie now, okay?"

"How can I do that without you?"

"You'll find a way."

Anderson move in for one last hug and kiss, but a pair of strong hands clamped down on his shoulders. Another Agent slammed his riot stick to the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel. He looked up at his wife and the tears started to run down his own cheeks. He had pretended to be strong up to this point, but the sight of his wife didn't allow that anymore, his heart couldn't take it. The feelings of sadness were quick to turn to dread when he felt the cold metal handcuffs around his wrists.

A horrible sight entered into his vision. Frankie stood in the open doorway to the bedroom. Anderson looked into his daughter's moist eyes and his heart broke in half.

"Daddy!" Frankie cried.

Frankie ran towards her father, but Ashley snatched her up before she could reach him. The little girl wiggled her way free from her mother's grip. She approached her father and squeezed tight around his neck.

"Where are you going?" Frankie asked.

"Daddy's got to go away for a little bit. You need to go back to your room and finish your homework. Dinner's...almost ready. Go back there, now."

"Daddy, no, don't go!"

"You have to stay behind and be strong for your mommy. She needs you know more..."

"Enough!" the leader cried. "We must go now!"

"Good bye." Anderson said. The Agents behind him lifted him up off the ground. They forced him to turn around. He got one last phrase out, "I love you."

The feelings of confusion grew more intense. He saw two men, dressed in all black, with black masks on. They kneeled in between the opened door, their PSD's aimed and at the ready. The resistance, Anderson thought, are they here to save me?

"Everybody down!" Kilbourne yelled through his Balaclava.

"Now!" Li shouted from beside Kilbourne.

With what strength remained, Anderson forced himself free from the grip of the Agents. Ashley forced her daughter to the ground and lay down on top of her. She covered her ears and let out a scream.

The shooting started. Kilbourne let out a three round burst to the leader's head. The three bullets caused a spray of crimson to shoot out before the leader fell to the ground dead. Li sent two three round bursts in quick succession to the two Agents who were escorting Anderson. The Agents fell to the ground. The armor piercing rounds shredded their Kevlar. They lay on the ground and gasped for breath.

Two of the remaining Agents moved to cover in front of the couch. They fired blindly as they did. Kilbourne and Li took cover at each side of the doorway. Kaspar stood at the end of the line beside Krys. His body began to sweat profusely underneath the jump suit. He wanted to storm the apartment and start shooting Agents, but he knew that he had to be patient. He looked down at the yellow fabric. He had to keep his cool, for her.

Kilbourne moved his masked head slightly into the doorway. He caught a glimpse of an Agent moved backward, looking for cover. Kilbourne sent a three round burst into him and moved his head back to cover.

Ashley closed her tear filled eyes and began to scream once more at the sight of the dead bodies in front of her. Anderson heard his wife's screams through the ringing sounds in his ears. He looked behind and saw his family. He had to protect them. He tried to keep low as he moved back to them. One of the Agents in front of the couch pointed his P90 at Anderson and fired. The burst tore its way through Anderson's back. He fell to the ground dead. The sight forced Ashley to scream louder.

"NO!" Ashley cried.

"MOVE IN!" Paxton ordered from the hallway.

There were three Agents left: two in front of the couch and one in the kitchen. The one in the kitchen kicked over the table, the glass cups and plates shattered on the floor, he took cover behind it. Ashley started to crawl at a snail's pace towards the bedroom. She lost her grip on Frankie, who ran into the room, shutting the door behind her.

The two Agents in front of the couch raised their P90's over the back and fired automatic bursts blindly towards the front. Kilbourne and Li kept their heads low and took cover behind the couch. Paxton started to move in but moved his head back at the sight of the gun barrels. He held his hand out for Kaspar and Krys to wait.

The automatic burst tore through the wooden walls of the apartment. Kaspar ducked his head low when a round penetrated the wood right above his head. His grip on the PSD tightened. Stop firing so I can get in there and blow you away.

Kilbourne and Li remained patient behind the couch. The clicking sound of the Agent's automatics told the two rebels that their guns were dry. Li held up his hand, Kilbourne nodded his head in acknowledgment of the wait signal.

Li moved his head over the side of the couch. He saw the armored men reload their weapons. The Agent in the kitchen tried to yell out a warning before he fired at the couch. It was too late. Li switched to full auto and held his index finger on the trigger. The automatic burst filled the Agent on his end with rounds. Li moved back to cover.

The second Agent finished his reload. He tried to raise up to get a shot on Kilbourne. Kilbourne rose first. At point black range, a three round burst tore through the Agent's Kevlar.

"Clear!" Kilbourne yelled. He dropped back down to cover.

The last remaining Agent dropped his P90 and ran for Ashley. The rest of the team entered the apartment and aimed their PSD's at him. He forced Ashley off of the ground before anyone could get a clean shot. He pulled out his sidearm, a Glock, and pressed the barrel to the woman's ear. The Agent forced her to the right, towards the small hallway that led to the bedroom.

"Let her go!" Paxton ordered. He thought he had a clean head shot but hesitated. "You've got nowhere else to go."

"Drop your guns, or I drop her, got it?" The Agent cried out.

"You can walk out of here or not, your choice."

"The same applies for her. Maybe you should think about that."

He reached the bedroom door with the woman. Making sure his head was covered by hers; he reached down and twisted the door handle. A kick from the back of his left foot forced the door open.

Kaspar stood in the back, watching the entire scene unfold in front of him. The Agent back peddled with the woman into the bedroom. Kaspar looked into Ashley's terrified eyes and couldn't help but think of Mother. How she must have had the same look on her face before she met her fate. He wanted with all his soul to squeeze the trigger, but what good would a stray bullet do for her?

The screams from the little girl filled the apartment as the door slammed shut. The waiting game had officially ended. The others remained calm and were careful with their movements. Kaspar raised his PSD to his shoulder and ran towards the room as fast as he could.

Not today. Not another family. Not this time.

"Ryan, no!" Krys cried.

Kaspar ignored it. He ran straight for the door and kicked it open. As he entered, the crack of a gunshot assaulted his eardrums. Ashley's lifeless body crashed to the carpet. Kaspar's breathing quickened. Frankie bent over her mother's carcass. Tears and screams came out of her.

BANG!

BANG BANG BANG!

The Agent fell. The three round burst to his face gave him an instant death. Before Kaspar could get his shot off...that coward...that bastard!

The little girl was shot in the chest. She was still alive, but struggled to draw a breath. She did not cry and Kaspar wondered if she felt anything at all. He knelt down and lifted her off of the ground. Krys let out a cry before she stormed out of the room. The others stood there in stunned silence.

"It's okay," Kaspar mumbled to Frankie. "It's okay."

A cough came from the girl. She continued her vain attempt at breathing. Kapsar looked into the eyes of a dying child. It wasn't fair. She should be playing with dolls or learning new things from her books. So full of life she must have been. But, now at such a young age, she breathed her final breath.

Why didn't you come sooner? You weren't fast enough! My family and I are dead now because you were too slow.

Her head fell straight backwards. Kaspar cursed himself under his breath. He carried her to her mother. He placed her on Ashley's chest and then wrapped Ashley's arms around her daughter's body. When Kaspar stood back up, nothing but rage consumed him.

Mother, she was one thing, but a little girl? What kind of monsters was he really dealing with?

Kilbourne and Li moved to the living room and kept their guns trained at the shattered frames of the front door. Krys stood in silence by the shot up couch. Her PSD lay on the ground. Li bent down and picked up the gun, handing it to Krys. She took it from him and pointed the barrel at the front door as well.

Back in the bedroom, Paxton touched Kaspar on the shoulder. The old veteran knew that they would not have much time. Someone no doubt had called the emergency number at the sound of the gun fire.

"You did all you could." Paxton said.

"It wasn't good enough for them."

Kaspar moved past Paxton into the living room. The others began to file out. He felt a nudge from his leader behind him. In that instant, nothing else mattered to Kaspar, not even his own life. He felt the urge to go out in a blaze of glory, taking out as many Agents with him as possible. It was not just personal anymore, he thought, trailing behind the others out of the apartment.

They had to be stopped. They had to be.

***

Sullivan stood outside the apartment building. The high pitched sirens in the background filled his ears. He waited with his hand attached to his department issued Glock. He knelt down by a waist high bush when he saw two armed men walk at a brisk pace: it was them. He noticed the all black attire and black masks that hid their identities. He thought better of trying to take two of them down at the same time. The men started to race towards an armored USR van, just like the one the witness described to him earlier. He watched as two more run outside. Sullivan's heart rate began to increase. Four on one weren't terribly good odds. Then it happened. He almost couldn't believe it.

Kaspar walked out of the building, PSD at his shoulder, ready for anything. The sirens began to get closer. Kaspar hoped within himself that he could catch some of the Agents before they stormed the building.

Sullivan waited for the last gunman to move past him. No way of knowing if he was the last one, but Sullivan didn't have the time or the patience to wait and find out. He kept his upper body low, moved his feet quickly but with little sound, and his gun hand rested on his tailbone. The roar of the van's engine filled the night air. Sullivan moved fast. His plan now became to take the man hostage. Those resistance cowards would flee for sure, eager to get away before the Calvary arrived. He made his move.

Kaspar froze. He felt the barrel of handgun pressed against the back of his skull. He dropped his gun and raised his hands straight up. The sound of the sirens grew louder. They were getting closer.

Not like this, Kaspar thought, not now.

"Don't you fuckin' move!" Sullivan barked.

Sullivan reached down Kaspar's thigh, his hand moved towards the Beretta inside the holster. He started to unbuckle the holster as the van began to move. Sullivan had what he came for...

A sharp blow to the head caused the Agent to fall to the ground, unconscious. Kaspar looked over and could tell by her height that Krys was his savior. She used the stock of her PSD to hammer in Sullivan's skull.

"Let's go!" Krys yelled.

He said nothing and followed her into the back of the van. They each grabbed a door in the back and slammed them shut as they entered. Kaspar sat down on the bench. The van, with Kilbourne behind the wheel, zoomed forward. After several long minutes, Paxton shouted from the front that they were clear.

They had made it. Thanks to Krys, Kaspar had made it. The Andersons did not. Kaspar ripped the mask off of his head and threw it to the ground. He then slammed his fist into the side of the van. Thoughts of Mother filled his mind. He looked down at the yellow fabric and talked to her. He told her he was sorry, but his eyes were opened now.

In that moment, he wished it didn't take the life of a small girl to bring him back.

# Chapter .35

There was silence inside the safe house. Kilbourne sat with Krys on the couch. His arms were wrapped around her shoulders as she wept, her head buried in his chest. Li sat on the opposite couch, alone in thoughts, mask still on. Paxton and Clarke were in the briefing room, trying to figure out what happened and how to prevent it again.

Kaspar stood alone in the kitchen. His right hand gripped the handle of a random PSD he found on the ground. Mother entered in his thoughts. He knew that he couldn't quit now; she would want him to continue fighting. This could not be allowed to happen to another family. Kaspar could not bear to witness it again.

With both hands, Kaspar raised the PSD and began to slam the stock into the wall behind him as hard as he could. He started to shout incoherent obscenities as the stock tore through the drywall. Tears started to run down his red cheeks as he continued his assault.

Krys freed herself from Kilbourne and ran towards the kitchen. She approached Kaspar, who did not see her in the midst of his outburst. He slammed the stock against the wall one last time. Kaspar leaned his back against the wall and slowly slid down. Once his behind hit the floor, he buried his face into his gloved hands.

When Krys sat beside him no words were said. Not even the feeling of her arm around his neck could erase his anger. He moved his face, which was still red, from his hands. Tears, more from his anger than sadness, leaked from his eyes. Krys reached up with her index finger and wiped them away. She inched closer and rested her head on his shoulders. Kaspar moved his arm up and dangled it over her shoulder.

A loud banging noise from the back of the house caused the two to jump and focus their attention that way. Paxton and Clarke walked through the kitchen. Clarke's eyes became fixated to holes that Kaspar created in the wall. Paxton looked down and motioned for Krys to step away. She did, walking back into the living room. The old veteran knelt down and looked his young recruit square in the eye.

"Ryan," Paxton said, "pull yourself together."

"Don't you tell me that," Kaspar replied.

"Blaming yourself is not going to bring them back."

"Nothing can bring them back...but, I could have saved them."

"Step into the briefing room with me."

Paxton reached down and gripped Kaspar's hand. He jerked upward to help Kaspar to his feet. Once on his feet, Kaspar wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his jumpsuit. The two walked to the briefing room then took seats opposite each other. Questions ran through Kaspar's mind. The answers would most likely elude him for the rest of his days. Why did this have to happen? Why couldn't a family just live in peace? Why...

"How are you feeling?" Paxton asked. He knew the answer.

"Like shit." Kaspar replied.

"I figured as much. Listen, you have to pull yourself together. This will not be the last time you see something horrible like that."

"What was it like?" Kaspar wondered. He had to know what he was fighting for. "Before the USR, I mean."

Paxton shrugged, "It wasn't all sunshine and rainbows, but we did okay. We had our freedoms, our liberties. If you thought the president was an asshole, you could say so publicly. Nobody arrested you, tortured you, or shot you dead because of it."

"Did this kind of thing happen?"

"No, the police back then, they protected and served like they are supposed to. If you were accused of a crime, you got yourself a fair trial. The Andersons...well, they just got executed."

Kaspar thought about what Paxton had just told him. He spoke of freedoms and liberties, but what did that really mean? Those words were foreign to him. Not even Mother taught him about that, even though she had experienced them at one point in her life. Kaspar reasoned that, perhaps, she did not want to teach them to her son because she knew he would never experience it himself.

She must have been right. He had never felt free at any point in his life. Not even now, even though he was what Paxton would call a freedom fighter. He was forced to join them so that he could avenge Mother. Now, he would be forced to stay the course to prevent any further tragedies like the one tonight to happen again. When would it end?

"I can see why you fight so hard, now." Kaspar remarked.

"If you lived during the reign of the US of A, you would feel the same. That scene you saw, that little girl dying in your arms, that's why I fight. That's why, if I have a USR Agent in my sights, I shoot to kill."

"What happened?"

"We..." Paxton paused and cleared his throat. "Lost sight of our ideals...our principles. We got so spoiled with our freedoms that we got lazy. Then, the government got greedy and started spending endless amounts of money. They borrowed so much that there was no way for them to pay it back. That was when the USR stepped in, albeit slowly at first."

"How?"

"The government knew that they had to pay back their debt, even if it seemed insurmountable, or else they would lose their power and influence. They started to garnish wages to pay it back. Printing money at such a fast scale that the dollar became nearly worthless, which is why we have what they call credits now. People began to speak out against it, violent riots ensued. That's when they took away our freedoms of speech...our free will...everything. Eventually, a new kind of consciousness began to form. What you see now, that's years and years of fear mongering."

"What did you do? I mean, after everything started to go downhill."

"I joined a local militia. It was small, filled with war vets like myself who could see what was happening. We fought back against the military like police force...but then...Randi..."

Paxton paused and Kaspar looked away. His leader had never talked this openly about himself before. Kaspar finally began to understand the man, even if just a little. He understood now how Paxton could have turned into the wild man that he was today. The pain and guilt the old man felt every day must have driven him to it. Kaspar finally realized what had happened during that interrogation of Forte...those eyes after the Agent was put down. He had become a hardened killer, with nothing else to live for except the destruction of the evil USR.

A realization came with the understanding: Kaspar would have to become Paxton in order to see justice through. Not just for Mother, not any longer. That was something that Krys failed to realize. There could be no prisoners, no stones left unturned. The USR, they didn't play by anyone's rules but their own. Why shouldn't those who resisted take the same approach?

"I'm sorry, John." Kaspar said.

"You don't need to apologize to me."

"I can see why you hate politicians now."

"Damn hypocrites..." Paxton said. "That man, Forte, do you think I did the right thing with him?"

Kaspar took a moment to ponder the question. He remembered what Krys told him, about how they were fighting against the very thing that Paxton did to the Agent. The Agent was tortured and killed, but they were able to extract vital intelligence from him. If only they had been faster...

"Damn straight you did." Kaspar replied.

Paxton rested his head into his palms. "I'm not proud of it. I can never look Krys in the eye after I do it. She's right, you know, it is wrong."

"Then why do you do it?"

"For that family," Paxton said. He raised his head. A look of determination was the only expression to be found. "We were late tonight, but for any other family out there...that's why. I know it's not right. I'll eventually answer for it in this life...or the next. I will never be sorry for it, though."

Kaspar reached and patted Paxton's arm. "These USR nut jobs are nothing but pure evil. What you did to Forte is not something you should feel guilty about. He deserved it. All of those Agents out there, they deserve it, too. They deserve anything they got coming. Anything you or I do to them."

"I hope you are right," Paxton replied. "I really do. But, something deep inside of me tells me you're not. Tell me something, though."

"What?"

"Is revenge still the only thing that drives you, even after tonight?"

Kaspar looked down at the yellow fabric. "My eyes were opened. I'll be honest, before tonight that was all that I cared about. But, seeing that little girl..."

"Don't you ever forget her." Paxton interrupted. "I know it's hard, but you keep that memory in your head. Little children like that need to grow up in a world where they don't fear their government, but work alongside it."

"Trust me. I could never forget something like that."

"I know that my father, and his father before him, didn't fight in all those wars just so this could happen. They fought and died for this country. And, God as my witness, I will fight until I die."

"I hear you. I just wish I could understand you better."

"You will, someday. Why don't you try and get some sleep?"

Kaspar stood and gave a nod to Paxton who nodded back. Kaspar started to walk but stopped and turned. The old war machine didn't look like himself any longer. He just stared off into the distance. Was this the real John Paxton? Kaspar shook his head then turned and walked out.

Everyone else seemed to have scurried off to their beds. Only Clarke remained in the deserted living room. He sat on the couch and typed away at his laptop at a furious pace. Kaspar sat down on the couch opposite him. He watched for a few moments. Clarke seemed so fixated on his computer screen he didn't notice there was someone else there.

"What are you up to?" Kaspar asked.

"I was just sent something," Clarke replied, eyes still focused on the screen in front. "Something big, I just can't access the USR's main frame to see it just yet."

"Who sent it to you?"

"Someone from The Committee."

"Did they mention at all what it was about?"

"No, just that they found something that should be considered urgent. I just...can't get into their Goddamn systems."

"Robert, get a grip."

"That's funny," Clarke said. His eyes finally met Kaspar's. "Coming from you, the man who tore a hole in our wall."

"Hey, you don't know what's like, okay? You don't know what it's like to see families get gunned down right in front of you, when you have the ability to stop it, but are just too slow."

"And, you don't know what's like to be forced to stay behind and watch it all unfold through a computer monitor. If you want to cry about feeling helpless, don't bring it here."

"That's awful tough talk coming from a computer whizz."

"Call me what you want, but I'm busy right now. Good night."

Kaspar said nothing as he stood and walked up the stairs in slow steps. He was spent emotionally and physically. Once inside his bedroom he stripped down to his boxers. He lay down on the bed, which never felt more comfortable, and his mind raced as he shut his eyes.

Within seconds, he succumbed to sleep.

# Chapter .36

"The republic was shown another glimpse into the lawless, ruthless nature of the resistance today." Consul Williamson said into the microphone in front of him. "These radicals who fight with such tactics are only proving to everyone the reason why the ones before us failed in the first place."

Behind the Consul stood the apartment building where the latest incident with the resistance took place. A female correspondent moved slowly, the building behind her, and talked about the shootout. How the resistance moved in on a family whose only crime was their devout support of their government.

"Now," the reporter said, dread in her eyes, "the innocent civilians who have fallen prey to these ruthless killers live in fear of what will happen next. Will you or your family be next?"

The camera cut to an angry middle-aged man. He held a sign that showed his full support of the USR and its leaders.

"The killing must stop," he cried into the camera. "If I have any say in it, I will personally take out each and every one of these terrorists."

"I don't understand," another female citizen said into the microphone. "Why can't they just accept that the world has moved on? They are only causing more pain and suffering for their own little crusade."

"We don't want them, we don't need them, just go."

Sullivan stood in Captain Fitzpatrick's office with sweat beading on his forehead. Consul Williamson stood next to Sullivan's boss behind the shined oak desk. They had not given him permission to sit, yet. The fact that the Consul decided to show his face today meant nothing but bad things to come. Sullivan continued to press the ice pack to the fresh stitches on the side of his head. Williamson leaned over and whispered something in his boss's ear. The Captain merely shook his head at everything whispered to him.

The inescapable was coming. Sullivan knew that he was about to be reprimanded for disobeying a direct order, but he was so close. He would take whatever punishment they would give him at this point. The only fear he had was soon pushed away. There would be a good chance that the Consul was here to take Sullivan's badge from him. If he did, then so be it, Sullivan thought. He would bring down the resistance on his own time.

"Have a seat, Mr. Sullivan." Williamson said.

Sullivan obeyed. He pulled one of the chairs in front of him back and sat down.

Williamson continued, "I've been here with your Captain all morning trying to figure out what is going on in this department."

"Consul," Fitzpatrick said, "we just need to sit down and calmly figure this thing out. Will over here is one of the USR's very best. He was only doing what he thought was right."

"That's right," Williamson quipped. "Disobeying a direct order from a superior is 'the right thing to do'. Thanks for the enlightenment."

Sullivan was reminded of why he never had any respect for the Consul. He would always come up with some smartass remark if anyone tried to reason with him. The reality was no match for the saint that Williamson made himself out to be on the television sets. He was loud, arrogant, and listened to no one's voice, save his own.

The detective's thoughts then shifted to Julie and his little Davie. Julie had been sick for a while now, but she still refused to seek medical care. Sure, if he got suspended or fired he could seek the resistance on his own, but how then could he afford his son's education? Suddenly, that fear that he suppressed earlier came back to haunt him. He was sure now that this was no "talk". It would be his termination.

No, you cannot put your son through that.

"Sir," Sullivan blurted, "with all due respect, I nearly had one of those rebels before I was blindsided."

Williamson said nothing at first. Instead, he forced Fitzpatrick out of his chair and ordered him to sit down next to Sullivan. There was shame and embarrassment on the Captain's face as he stood. Sullivan felt bad for his boss, but the greater part of his psyche feared for his own position at the moment. Fitzpatrick's job security was not at risk here. He could get over the embarrassment later on today while he looked for another detective to take Sullivan's place.

"Mr. Sullivan," Williamson said once at Fitzpatrick's chair, "just what were you thinking last night?"

"I already told you," Sullivan replied. "I was trying to apprehend a member of the resistance to bring him in for questioning. I nearly succeeded..."

"That's what makes the USR so great, isn't it? Nearly succeeding? I'll tell you something you did succeed at: disobeying your damn orders! Acting like one of those citizens out there would act is not why you are a detective in this department! You are supposed to be above that."

"I was only doing my job, sir. What I was hired to do."

"Your job is to obey orders, is that understood?"

Sullivan leaned forward. "The resistance is wreaking havoc out there, sir. You just spoke about it earlier this morning. Something has to be done about them, sir, and I'm trying my best."

Williamson's face turned a shade red. "The resistance is for the big fish. You just remember you're nothing but a flounder in this pond."

"Sir," Fitzpatrick interjected, "if I may."

"Go on, Donald."

"Like I've been telling you, the detective here is one of my best men. He acted on impulse last night, that much is true, but he had his reasons. Reasons I believe are justified, given the fact that the resistance has been at large for months now."

"You stand by his actions, then?" Williamson demanded.

"To an extent, yes."

"Then, that doesn't say much for your leadership skills, does it? Maybe you are the wrong man for this job."

"Sir..." Fitzpatrick started to get out.

"Enough is enough. Detective Sullivan, you are on indefinite investigative leave while we try and sort this situation out."

"Sir, I've got a family to feed." Sullivan pleaded.

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you went rogue. But, don't you worry your sorry little ass about it, it's with pay."

Fitzpatrick sighed, "Sir, I believe that it is my call on who to suspend under my employ."

"My say supersedes yours!" Williamson cried. "So, unless you want a nice, fat suspension of your own, you will keep your mouth shut."

Sullivan wanted to say something further in his defense, but decided against it. There was no talking, much less reasoning, with a man like Williamson. You just say 'yes, sir' no matter how in the wrong he was. Maybe this could end up working out. He would at least still get a check for a couple of more weeks. It would give him more time with Julie to patch up their relationship, what little was left of it, anyway. Not to mention more time with Davie...

He felt a vibrating sensation on his left thigh. Sullivan reached into his pocket for his black cell phone. The caller ID read "DR. RODGERS" in black letters against the blue indigo background. He looked up at Williamson who gave him permission via hand signal to step outside and take the call.

"This is Will," Sullivan said once outside.

"Mr. Sullivan," the female voice said through the ear piece, "have you got a moment?"

"Of course I do, what's wrong?"

"It's your wife..."

# Chapter .37

Sullivan walked into the waiting room and scanned it with his eyes. He caught a glimpse of Davie seated next to his Aunt Mary. Upon approach, Mary said nothing. She just looked down at the ground like there was no hope for her sister. When Davie saw his father, the confused little boy's eyes lit up and he embraced Sullivan with a hug around the neck.

"What's going on, Mary?" Sullivan demanded. He moved Davie away from him and back into the chair.

"She...had another spell." Mary replied. "She called me over and when I got there, she was passed out on the floor, so I brought her here."

"Let me get this straight. You found her passed out?"

"Yes," Mary replied.

"Shit, why won't she ever listen to me?"

"What do you mean?"

"She's refused to let me bring her to the hospital."

Sullivan took a seat and placed his head into his palms. He brushed back his hair with both hands and tried to calm down. His mind raced for an explanation. What could it be? Something she ate? When he could no longer take asking himself why, he stood up and walked over to the receptionist's desk. He demanded answers from her, but she told him they knew nothing right now. As soon as they did, they would call him back. Feeling a sense of defeat, Sullivan turned and walked back over to the chair to sit down. He was met by another bear hug from Davie.

"Is mommy okay?" Davie asked.

"I'm sure she is, son." Sullivan replied. "She's just a little sick and they are trying to figure out the cause, that's all."

Sullivan leaned back and his right leg began to shake involuntarily. With his arms folded across his chest he tried once again to get calm. What were they doing back there? Did it really take this long to investigate something as simple as a stomach virus? That was what scared him the most: the sheer amount of time they took back there with no answers.

Doctor Rodgers moved into the waiting room. Once Sullivan saw him, he sprang out of his chair and rushed the doctor. To bystanders it must have looked like he was trying to mug the rich doctor. Rodgers kept his cool and calmly extended his right hand towards Sullivan. The detective didn't embrace it. Rodgers led the way back to a secluded hallway.

"How is she, Doc?" Sullivan demanded.

"I'll be honest," Rodgers replied. "It's not looking good."

"What do you mean? What's wrong?"

"Did you know about her vomiting spells?"

"Of course, I've been insisting that she come see you, but she's refused."

"Well, there's something going on inside of her, but I have no idea what it is."

"It's not just a simple stomach virus?" Sullivan asked.

"It's...something I've never seen before. From the looks of it, though, it's some kind of poison."

"Poison? Are you serious?"

"Yes, but like I said, I can't make out exactly what it is."

Sullivan stared at his doctor. No expression to be found, no sadness or anger, it just hadn't sunk in, yet. There was one thing that bothered him about the whole ordeal. With all the advancements in medicine over the past decade, he grew shocked that there could even be a poison out there one could consider new.

"What's your prognosis?" Sullivan wondered, not wanting to hear the answer.

"She's slipped into a coma," Rodgers replied. "She's on life support right now, that's the only thing keeping her alive."

"Is she going to die?"

"I'm afraid that the agent inside of her has eaten away her intestines and moved into the bloodstream. We can't stop it."

"Doc," Sullivan pleaded. "Be real with me, please."

"Yes, she is going to. We can only keep her on life support for so long. I wish we could keep her plugged in longer so I can identify the agent, but I'd lose my license and probably be imprisoned if we kept her hooked up any longer."

Sullivan could now feel warm tears trickle down his cheeks. He took a step back from the doctor then kept himself from falling over. After clearing his throat, he pushed Rodgers out of the way. He opened the door to see Julie, unconscious with tubes that ran up her nose, an IV injected into her right arm. He moved in and touched her forehead. It was so cold. Why was she so cold?

He sat down on a chair next to the bed. The tears had stopped, sooner than Sullivan thought they would. The memories of the good times had all but faded. All that entered his memory were the rough times of the past few months. He would never know if another job opened up if things would have gotten better between them. Suddenly, he began apologizing for not listening. Sullivan should have left his detective job sooner.

Why did he take that promotion when it came along? So that he could move his wife and kid into a fancy house? So he could send his son to the best schools in the city? All of a sudden, none of that materialism mattered any longer. His promotion within the department got him all that, but it also caused his wife to grow distant. She never said it, but Sullivan always wondered if she had grown to hate her husband. There would be no way of knowing anymore.

Now, Julie was on the brink of death, a vegetable unable to hear the words "I love you", so they never came out. Sullivan stood and kissed his wife one last time on the forehead.

"You rest in peace, now." Sullivan said before his exit.

"It's your decision, at least for right now." Rodgers's voice said once the door opened.

"What is?" Sullivan demanded.

"You can make the decision to pull the plug now, before regulations force our hand. At least, it can be yours to make..."

Sullivan became overcome with grief at what the doctor just told him. It's your decision. His decision to what, kill his own wife? He turned and walked down the hallway. Without turning to face him, he told the doctor to do it. Sullivan could not bear to be in the same room when they did it. The sight of his unconscious wife gasp for her last breaths that wouldn't come did not interest him. Right now, he had a very disappointed little boy to console.

When he reemerged in the waiting room, his facial expressions gave everything away. Mary looked into her brother in law's eyes for a moment and then quickly looked away. Overcome with grief, she began to weep. Sullivan walked over to his son. He stood and stared at him for a moment. Davie looked back with confusion in his eyes. Little Davie, he was such a great kid. Julie sure had raised him well...

Sullivan slumped down in the chair next to his son. No words were spoken at first. There really wasn't much that could be said to make the situation any better. Instead, his mind began to race. He thought about what Rodgers told him. That his wife had been...poisoned?

The resistance! Of course it was them. This kind of thing would be right up their alley. They must have known that Sullivan was getting closer to them. Shit, he had one of their operatives damn near arrested just last night. They must have tried to poison him. Julie was an accident...it all made sense. Look at what they did to Forte. The resistance tortured him before they shot the poor bastard dead in cold blood. They obviously had no issues with murdering Agents.

"Is mommy okay?" Davie asked, breaking up Sullivan's thoughts.

"Son," Sullivan searched for the right words. "Mommy is very sick."

Davie's eyes started to water. "How sick?"

"She fell asleep...the doctors...they can't get her to wake up again."

The sound of Mary crying out caused Sullivan to jump. He then let his own tears flow free again. This time he didn't try to fight them back. Little Davie started to cry as well. Sullivan pulled his son's head close to his chest and let the boy cry. He reached up and pulled Mary in, too. He wrapped his arms tight around her with his right arm and held Davie close with his left.

"I can get her to wake up, Daddy!" Davie cried. He forced his way from his father's chest. "She always wakes up when I sing to her in the morning. Just let me back there!"

Davie started to hop off of his lap before Sullivan's strong hand clamped to Davie's arm. The son looked to his father and tried to wrestle himself free with no success. The sight caused Mary to cry harder. Sullivan pulled the boy up with all of his strength. Davie wrapped his arms around Sullivan's neck and squeezed.

"You can't wake her up," Sullivan said. "No matter how hard you try...she's gone, son."

Sullivan rubbed at Davie's hair while he contemplated his next move. He still had that armor piercing, USR issued round with him having not turned it over, yet. He would have to go and talk to Billy King. King was an old informant who ran an underground gun shop. He would have to know something.

He moved his son away from him. Davie sat down on the chair, his eyes pointed straight down to the white tile floor. Sullivan stood and hugged Mary. He whispered something in her ear. She shook her head in acknowledgment. Sullivan patted his son on the back before he walked towards the exit.

"Where're you going, daddy?" Davie asked.

"Daddy's got to go back to work," Sullivan lied. "You just stay here with your Aunt. I'll be home soon."

"Just stay here, daddy!"

"Davie, there are things that need to get done. I'll be home soon, just stay with your Aunt, she'll take care of you, okay?"

"Okay," Davie replied, his head back down. "I love you."

"I love you, too, son."

# Chapter .38

Sullivan sat in the driver's seat of his hybrid car and pulled out his pistol. He cocked the chamber back then released it. After a deep breath he secured the Glock 17 back into the shoulder holster. Through the windshield he could see Billy King's place, a little run down shop in the bad part of town. Sullivan couldn't place the last time he came to visit the horny son of a bitch. Even though he never got any good leads from the gun dealer, Sullivan knew he needed him. King ought to consider himself lucky that he was allowed to run free for so long. That would all change today.

The bright sun stung at his eyes, which forced a squint. A little bell rang from above at the opening of the door. Inside, all was quiet. No shoppers and no sign of King. It was a small store, which specialized, on the surface, in small household goods. The bastard also ripped off who knew how many customer's with those glass jewels he sold. It was a good cover, good enough anyway, for what really went on in the basement.

The front counter was made of glass, with fake jewelry inside. Sullivan walked behind it towards the office in the back. There was a strange sound coming from inside the locked door. It was...a moaning sound from a woman who just reached her climax. An ear pressed against the door confirmed it. It was a woman crying out in pleasure. King was still the dog he always was and would be. Sullivan knew where the majority of the money King made dealing fake jewelry and guns went to.

With a balled fist, Sullivan slammed hard on the door. The moaning never paused. King's shouts of hold the fuck on forced Sullivan to back away. A brief entertainment of shooting the door handle off was pushed aside. Might as well let the man enjoy himself; could be the last time. Sullivan decided to be patient. The answers would come as soon as King did.

Moments later, the door swung open, and out walked a skinny brunette. She had the look of a woman who just slid out of bed. Strands of hair pointed in all directions, her thick red lipstick was smeared all over her face, too. The plaid miniskirt she wore showed off her ass cheeks from behind and did little justice for her skinny legs. She worked on her black blouse as she walked by. The hooker buttoned it up halfway then worked on pushing up her breasts. She turned.

"Hey, babe," she said. "Want some love?"

"Sorry," Sullivan replied. "But, no."

"What's the matter, you married or omething'?"

"I...was."

"I'll bet you I'm better than she ever was."

The brunette pressed her body up against Sullivan's. He tried to back away, but she grabbed a hold of his belt and squeezed. A fire had been lit inside, but there was no time for this. Julie wouldn't approve anyway...

Sullivan felt an ache in his heart. "I doubt that."

"Come on, just for fun." The brunette said with a giggle. "If you're good, I might even give you a discount."

"Don't waste your money," King said. He tucked in his polo shirt over his pot belly then worked on the zipper of his blue jeans. "Don't bother my customers. Just get the fuck out!"

The brunette looked at King's bearded face and her bottom lip dropped. Right when it looked like she would start to cry, she turned her body and marched towards the front door. For a moment, Sullivan felt sorry for the girl. She had just been intimate, shared her body, with a man who didn't give a rat's ass about her. At the end of the day, she was still just a whore that the jobless rates and high taxes forced her to become.

King used a brown paper towel to wipe the sweat from his brow. Sullivan turned his attention his former snitch. His fist slammed down on the glass counter. King began to look nervous, which was a good thing for the Agent.

"Goddamn," King said. "I love when 'dem bitches wear miniskirts."

"I'll bet you do." Sullivan replied.

"What's up, Will? It's unlike you to come bargin' in here unannounced."

Sullivan reached into his pocket to retrieve a small plastic bag. He held it up for King to see. It contained the bloodied round which ended Forte's life. The round made a pinging sound when it hit the glass counter. King looked wide eyed down at it.

"Where'd you get that from?" he asked.

"You tell me." Sullivan demanded.

King picked up the baggie and inspected the bullet. His bottom lip underneath a pair of stained front teeth. He pulled out a small magnifying glass to get a closer look.

"Armor piercing 9MM," King finally said. "Looks like the kind only you guys should have."

"Let me refresh your memory, Billy." Sullivan moved in closer. The smell of body odor attacked his senses. "You know the laws. Only USR personnel and the military are permitted to carry firearms. Never citizens. You break these laws everyday with your...business. Not to mention illegal prostitution."

"What's this about?"

"To go back to your first question, I found this round inside of a wall...it went straight through a decorated Agent's brain." Sullivan replied. He breathed in and regretted it. "What this is about is you telling me who has access to USR issued rounds."

The wheels began to turn in King's head. Sullivan stared right through him without even a blink. All the while the Agent just hoped that King would come out with it...before things started to get messy unnecessarily.

King took a step back. "I don't like what you're implying here."

"Nobody cares what you think. An Agent is dead. You know how serious my boys over at the department take that sort of thing? We have reason to believe that the resistance is behind that shooting. If you provided them weapons..."

"Hey! We have a partnership, you and I."

"The sole purpose of that is for you to provide me with information."

"I don't like this. You haven't been in to see me for months. Now, all of a sudden, you barge in here and throw out accusations?"

Sullivan took a step forward. "Do you sell USR issued, armor piercing rounds?"

"No."

"Then who does?" Sullivan asked. "You must know something."

"Haven't a clue."

Sullivan smirked. He could feel his face redden and his body began to tremble in anger. There was no time for King's bullshit, especially not today. Back when the two had a working relationship, King would tell all about the other dealers in the city. Bragged about how he would crush their businesses, with his being the only one open one day. He was lying right now, Sullivan was sure of it. King was protecting a high quality associate. It usually didn't take much coaxing to get the coward to spill his guts. Something was off...

"Haven't a clue?" Sullivan mocked.

"That's right."

A smile crept onto Sullivan's face and his informant relaxed for a moment. In that instant, Sullivan grabbed a chunk of King's damp hair then slammed his head into the glass counter, cracking it. He kept his grip on the hair and pressed King's face into the glass. The informant gasped and breathed heavy through his nose. With his free hand, Sullivan retrieved his Glock. He cocked the hammer back then shoved the barrel to the back of King's head.

"You better start talking right now," Sullivan said. He clicked the safety off. "Or else Bubba down at the jail house is going to dress you up in a skirt and make you his bitch."

"Shit, man, let me go." King mumbled.

Sullivan cocked the hammer back. "Or, maybe I should just kill you myself."

"Come on, Will, let's talk this out."

"We can start with you. You're withholding vital Intel from an Agent. You know what would happen if I blew your head off right now? I'd get a pat on the back and a pay increase."

"Why would I lie?! You've got a gun to my head..."

"And my trigger finger itches."

When King tried to wiggle his head free, Sullivan's strong left forearm dug into the back of his neck. Only a matter of time, now, the threat of jail time and death would eventually get the answers to come out. The barrel of the gun was pressed harder.

"Okay, okay, okay." King said with a shaky voice. "I'll tell you what I know. Just...ease off."

Sullivan held his ground. "Convince me."

"There's this Puerto Rican guy...calls himself Joe Young."

Sullivan eased off and backed away. He kept his gun trained at King. The informant turned then wiped the blood from his top lip.

"Joe Young, huh?" Sullivan persisted. "You got an address?"

"Sure," King replied. He gave him the address.

"I'm going to get in my car and leave." Sullivan holstered his pistol. "You have yourself a good day."

"Sorry for lying to you. Joey's one of my biggest partners."

"Remember who I work for the next time you think about lying to me again."

Sullivan walked out from behind the counter. He walked straight for the door and back to his car. Joe Young must have been at least one major supplier for the resistance. Maybe he would meet with them again. Only this time, he cared nothing for bringing them in.

The bullets in his own gun would provide the necessary justice.

# Chapter .39

Paxton opened the driver's side door then stepped out. Krys did the same on the passenger's side. They both closed their doors then walked to the back of the van. Each slung a black duffel bag over their shoulders before slamming the double doors shut. Paxton walked up to Young's door and knocked twice. The sound of Daisy's violent barks rang through the apartment.

A few seconds later the door swung open. A half-dressed Young looked through his bloodshot eyes at Paxton then Krys. His eyes grew wide at the sight of her and he smiled. Krys shook her head. Paxton gave his dealer a judgmental look.

"Don't judge me, ese." Young protested.

"No judgment here, compadre." Paxton replied. He held out his hand. "Score a loose?"

"Sure thing, bro."

Young pulled out a pack of smokes and shook one loose. Paxton took a hold of it then put it between his lips. He pulled out his Zippo and the tobacco caught fire. After just one drag he was already coughing. When would his body finally have enough? Krys patted him on the back as he coughed several more times.

"You should quit." Krys suggested.

"Oh," Young said after catching sight of Krys bending over to help her leader. "I see you brought that ass with you today."

"Joey," Krys said. She stood upright and raised her eyebrow. "How are you today?"

"Just fine now, mami."

"Not today," Paxton cut in, still short of breath. "Rough night."

"I'll show her a rough night...anytime."

"Please..." Krys replied.

Young led the way inside. Daisy had been locked up in her cage already. The three made their way to the basement. Young yanked on the swinging light above, causing the room to illuminate with light. Krys headed straight for the ammunition rack. She started to fill her bag full of pre-loaded magazines for the PSD.

"Make sure," Paxton said, not looking up from the rack of grenades. "You get plenty of ammo for the PSD's."

"Already on it."

"Good girl."

***

Sullivan parallel parked his car behind a black van. Once out of his car he examined it. He found the USR insignia on it. Old King came through after all. He fought his initial instinct to call it in. He was on suspension and didn't want to get thrown into the brig for taking the law into his own hands.

He stood outside the chipped wooden door and took several deep breaths. He yanked his Glock from the holster then clicked the safety off. This would be it. It would all end now, one way or the other. After a three count, he lifted his right leg and kicked at the door. The old door flew open without a fight.

Sullivan moved in quick, but stopped on a dime when he heard the loud barks of a very big dog. His eyes scanned with earnest around the trashed living room. He found the source of the barks in the kitchen. The pit bull terrier was locked away safely behind the thick steel bars of its cage. It continued to bark and snarl as Sullivan got closer. So much for the element of surprise.

***

The unmistakable sound of Daisy barking startled Paxton and Krys in the basement. Who could that be? Had the USR finally gotten a beat on them? Paxton dropped his bag and moved towards Young's desk. Young pulled out a shotgun then he started to load shells into the chamber.

"Joe?" Paxton said.

"You get out of here," Young said. He loaded the last shell and pumped the handle. "Go now. I'll take care of that gringo upstairs."

"We're not leaving you here." Krys said.

"I appreciate that, mami. I will fuck...I mean, thank you later."

"You are such a..."

"No time for this," Paxton barked. "Leave the bags; we've got to move fast. Joe?"

"What?"

"Good luck."

Young held the shotgun up to his chest. "I don't need it."

The sound of the footsteps from above inched their way to the stairs. Daisy's barking grew louder with each step. The intruder was getting close. Paxton led Krys to the double wooden doors which led up to the alleyway at the side of the building. There was no way of knowing whether or not there would be an ambush awaiting them. It was a chance they had to take...the only chance they had at escape was through those doors. Paxton gripped his Glock with both hands then drove his shoulder into the doors and they flew open. The old veteran popped his head out with his gun at the ready. No sign of the feared ambush.

Paxton kept his gun trained in front of him while he awaited Krys. Once she reached the top, she retrieved her P99 from the holster underneath her jacket. The two moved forward, their guns drawn, and their pace urgent. When they reached the end of the building, they flattened themselves against the side. Paxton moved his head over the side with caution. There were no sirens; no signs of the USR. What was going on?

With a hand signal, he motioned for Krys to move. She drew her P99 once more and moved towards the van. Once she made it safely, Paxton made a run for it. He flung the driver's side door open, ignited the engine, then floored the van forward.

"Make sure nobody follows us." Paxton ordered.

Krys stared at the rear view mirror. "Already on it."

***

Sullivan walked through the kitchen to a door that stood about a quarter of the way open. They must be down there, he thought. He used his left leg to move the door open the rest of the way. The hinges cried. His position was already given away, though, thanks to the dog. He pressed his back against the wooden wall to the right side of the stairs. Sullivan inched his way down, his Glock 17 gripped with both hands.

He reached the bottom and stood still for a moment. He moved his head along the wall to get a feel for his surroundings. There was nobody down here anymore. Sullivan cursed the dog one last time. He moved his head a little further and saw a counter with no one behind it. Nothing behind it except for the barrel of a shotgun...

Sullivan moved quickly back behind the wall. A blast from the shotgun caused his ears to ring. The buckshot tore a hole in the wall. Sullivan moved up before another wave of buckshot tore through the wall again. He pointed his gun through the second hole then fired two blind shots.

"What's up, Motherfucker?" Young cried out.

Young let loose another blast. The wall that once provided some cover began to shrink. Sullivan moved up a couple of steps. He took in deep breaths to try to slow down his heart rate. He had to think fast. The shells in the shotgun wouldn't last forever, but his target down those stairs had a full arsenal available to him. Sullivan had to think of a way out of this...

One more blast from the shotgun tore through more of the wall. Action needed to be taken and fast. He could not allow himself to be a sitting duck for much longer. Sullivan inched himself down further and looked through now shattered wall. As he tried to get a better look at the shooter, he saw the barrel of the gun again. The blast rang through the air. Sullivan cursed himself again. Maybe he could talk him down.

"This is the USR! Cease fire and..." Sullivan was cut off by one final shotgun blast.

"Fuck you!" Young cried. He pulled the shotgun down and started to reload.

Sullivan blinked his eyes several times. He needed to make a decision and fast. He used his ears. Over the barks, he heard the sound of shells being loaded. If he was ever going to have a chance, this was it.

The Agent ran down the rest of the stairs then made a bee line towards the gun racks in the center of the basement. Young pumped the shotgun then stood fully loaded. Still out in the open, Sullivan pointed his gun that direction and squeezed off two rounds. He slid the rest of the way along the slick cement. Young fired off another shell. The boom, then the clinging sound of buckshot hitting the metal guns, filled the room.

Sullivan scanned the weaponry in front of him as another shell was fired off. He found several MP-5K's hanging on a rack. Where did this guy get his weapons from? He kept his head low and reached up for one of the submachine guns. He pulled the magazine out to find that it was preloaded. Sullivan held the MP-5K in his left hand with the Glock in his right.

There was another blast as Sullivan spun his back from behind the rack. Young pumped the shotgun then ducked quick when he saw the Agent. Sullivan squeezed the trigger of the submachine gun. An automatic burst of 9MM rounds narrowly missed their target. He spun back around and scanned the weaponry once more.

Something caught his eye on the back rack to the far right. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the grenades. Young fired again. Sullivan did a roll to the rack beside him. It took him only seconds to find what he searched for. He did not want to kill this man...not yet, anyway. He searched past the frag grenades and took hold of a flash bang. He ignored another shotgun blast and took hold of one of them. He moved back to cover.

Sullivan counted to three in his head. At three, he pulled the pin and tossed it as hard as he could over his head. He covered his ears with his hands. He kept his eyes shut. The flash bang exploded behind the counter. The near unbearable ringing sound penetrated his hands. Young cried out from behind the counter. There would not be much time before the grenade's effects would wear out.

With both guns drawn, Sullivan moved towards the counter. Once behind it, he saw Young rub violently at his eyes while he writhed on the ground.

"Freeze!" Sullivan commanded.

He wanted to keep this man alive, but he caught a glimpse of Young reaching for something behind him. The shotgun was dropped to the ground and out of reach. Sullivan demanded that Young freeze one more time, but the gun runner didn't listen. A round fired from the Glock. It penetrated the left shoulder. The reaching ceased.

"The fuck you want with me, ese?" Young cried.

"Take your gun," Sullivan said. "And toss it over the counter. Slowly."

Young did as ordered. He took hold of the PPK-S from the small of his back then tossed it over the counter. Young struggled to get himself upright. Sullivan placed the MP-5K on the counter, but kept his Glock trained on the center of his target's head. He knelt down, took hold of the shotgun, and then tossed it over the counter.

There was a stool beside him. Sullivan grabbed it and moved it towards Young. The gun runner picked himself up off the ground. He sat on the stool and looked right into the gun barrel pointed at his head. He laughed.

Sullivan ignored the laughter. "Can you hear me?"

"The ringing is still pretty bad, homes." Young replied. He put pressure on the wound. "But, I can hear you. What's your beef with me?"

"It's simple," Sullivan replied. "You've been supplying weaponry to the resistance."

"Right to the point, I like that. But, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Take a look at this," Sullivan reached into his pocket. He pulled out the baggie and tossed it at Young's lap. "Armor piercing, standard USR issue. I must know. Where do you get all these weapons from?"

"I got my connections. But, you can't prove a fuckin' thing and you know it."

"Prove what? I've already got you with this small arsenal down here. I can toss this place, though, and find more, just like that. A simple death sentence is going to get a lot more painful for you, 'homes'."

"You fuckin' stupid."

"Supplying weapons to the resistance? That's a whole 'nother ball game than just selling to ordinary citizens, comprende?"

"Don't you try and speak broken Spanish to me, gringo!"

"Oh," Sullivan smirked, "did I offend my little Puerto Rican friend?"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck me? It looks like you're the one who's fucked here."

"You can't prove nothin'. You know how many arms friends I got?"

"Let me get something straight," Sullivan said. He moved his face closer to Young's. "I can make it look like anything. Maybe you sold them weapons, maybe not. But, I saw a black van outside with USR insignia on it. Just like the one described at the scene of an Agent's murder. If that's the case, you sold those rounds to the resistance, which led to the death of a decorated Agent. I'd say you better start answering my questions right now. We can cut a deal."

Sullivan kept his gaze on the Puerto Rican. He could see the gun runner was contemplating something. Sullivan just hoped that Young would come out with it. Tell him where the resistance hideout was. Shit, he would settle with just descriptions of what they looked like if Young didn't know that. Young's eyes moved from the barrel, to Sullivan, then back to the barrel.

"Okay," Young said. "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know who the resistance members are." Sullivan replied. "I want to know how I can find them."

"I can't tell you that."

Sullivan fired a warning shot next to Young's right ear. He pointed the gun back at Young's forehead.

"What?" Sullivan demanded.

"I don't know who they are, bro. You know how many people come into my shop? How am I supposed to know?"

"You never see anybody come through here who buys an unusual amount of guns or ammo?"

"No, nothing unusual, you think the resistance is that stupid?" Young asked.

Sullivan pressed on. "You better start giving me facts or make up some names real fast. I am so far from fucking with you."

Young bit his bottom lip. "How about...your mother?"

Sullivan let out a sarcastic laugh which drew laughter from Young. He wanted with all his might to punch Young straight in the grill to wipe that smile from his face. His eyes never leaving Young, Sullivan pulled out his phone and started to punch in some numbers. He put the phone on speaker.

"Donald Fitzpatrick." a voice said.

"Sir, its Will."

"William, what are you up to?"

"My wife's dead..." Sullivan replied. He regained his composure. "I think it was the resistance trying to get to me."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm in an old, trashed apartment in the alley of West Liberty. I've got a high priority suspect in my custody."

"William," Fitzpatrick barked. "What are you trying to do?"

"I have to find them, sir. I don't care what the Consul says or does to me afterward. They killed my wife..."

"What do need from me?"

"Send back up units over here, ASAP. Take him in and get some answers. He says anything; I'm the first to know, right?" Sullivan asked.

"Of course," Fitzpatrick replied. "I'm sending backup units your way, now. Just get out of there and let us do our jobs."

Sullivan pressed the END button then placed the phone back in his pocket. He looked to Young, who still had that grin on his face.

"You hear that? Backup's on the way."

"So what?"

"You really don't know who the resistance members are do you?" Sullivan asked one final time.

"None whatsoever."

"I'm not buying your bullshit, you hear me? You have one last chance. Once those black and whites roll in here it's going to be mucho trouble for you. I won't be able to stop them."

"I ain't sayin' nothin'. I ain't scare of them, you, or nobody. Let them come and get me, you'll see."

"Have it your way."

Sirens wailed over the sound of the still barking dog. Sullivan pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his belt. He slapped the cuffs on Young then led the gun runner upstairs. When they walked past the dog, Young said something to it.

Once outside, a sea of USR Agents flooded the alleyway. When Sullivan handed Young off to the Agents on scene, Young looked back. Sullivan could not be sure with the sunlight beaming in his eyes, but he thought he saw something. It was a smile straight from Young's lips as he was being escorted into the squad car. It was not that smug smile he had seen before. More like an 'I beat you' smile.

What was going on?

# Chapter .40

Paxton walked into The Committee's Chamber and saw only Pat Roberson seated at the stage. Paxton called this emergency meeting, his expectation being that they all would be here. Krys waited outside in the lobby. Against his better judgment, Paxton drove straight here from Young's shop once he was sure that they were not being followed.

"Mr. Paxton," Roberson called from the stage, "what can I do for you today?"

"Where are the others?" Paxton asked.

"They are attending to other matters."

"Fair enough. I'm sure you heard the news by now."

"What news do you speak of?" Roberson chewed on his bottom lip before speaking again. "The news where you shot up an apartment or the news of you losing your dealer?"

Sarcasm, Paxton thought, just great.

"The news of Joe Young being arrested." Paxton replied.

"I knew that, I was being facetious."

"Sir, I..."

"Hold it." Roberson said. He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with a white cloth. "You've become reckless, Mr. Paxton. Our patience with you and that crew of yours is growing thin. How's the new guy coming along?"

"Just fine," Paxton replied. "Sir, we need to talk about finding a new dealer."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Sir..."

"You've just cost us a valuable asset in this war, one that will not be easily replaced...if at all."

"I'm sure there are others..."

"You're not listening," Roberson cut in, slamming his fist on the table. "We can't do anything for you right now. No quick fixes this time, I'm afraid."

"What are we supposed to do, then?" Paxton demanded.

"Have you considered laying low for a while, until we can find you someone else?"

"Sir, laying low is not what I do. You know that."

"Far too well, I'm afraid. You lost Boler, our contact within the USR. Now, within a matter of days, you lose Young, too? That is unacceptable, soldier."

"You see what's going on out there, don't you?" Paxton pleaded. "And, you expect me just to tell my people to lay low? Don't worry about it for a while?"

"That's not what I'm saying at all," Roberson replied. "We are in a guerilla war here, son, and because of that, we must choose our battles with wisdom. That is something you have failed to do since...well, since almost minute one. How much weaponry do you have at the moment?"

"We've got enough to get us by, for the moment, anyway. But, we are going to need another supplier."

"Good, you can sit on that while we try to work something out. Anything else?"

"No, sir."

Paxton saluted Roberson; even though that was one of the last things he wanted to do at the moment. He did not get a salute back. The old veteran turned his back on Roberson and walked for the doors. What a waste of precious time. He would never understand Roberson. Did the politician not realize that they were at war? Sure, Roberson was pretty good at throwing the word around, but he didn't understand the costs. He never fought in an actual battle like Paxton and so many others in this new war did. In war, you did what was necessary to win. You cleaned up the mess after you won.

"Mr. Paxton," Roberson called out. "I didn't dismiss you, yet."

Roberson cleared his throat. When Paxton turned, his boss motioned with his right hand for him to return to the podium. Paxton obeyed the gesture. What next?

"Have you talked with your tech guy, lately?" Roberson asked.

"Yes," Paxton replied. "He said that you guys sent him something. He's been trying to hack in ever since. Why?"

"Well, that item we sent might have larger implications that we originally anticipated. Has he had any success?"

"No, sir, he's trying his best."

"We might have a way to get the information we need."

"Really?" Paxton asked, his curiosity now piqued.

"Yes, but it is going to require your team to infiltrate a USR precinct in order to get it. After hours, of course. You'll have to download it straight from one of their hard drives."

Paxton folded his arms across his chest. "You're joking, right?"

"Afraid not. But, you can do it, it is possible. Staffing is light after hours; budget concerns. Infiltrate the building. Download the files. It's the only way. Mr. Clarke is good, but I'm afraid this is beyond his skill, its serious business. Can I count on you?"

"Why is this so serious?"

"We think it might have something to do with the water supply, but we can't know for sure until you download those files. Again, can I count on you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Roberson said. "And, please, for all that is good and just don't make a big scene out of this. You've been on the TV far too much recently."

"We'll try not to, sir. Am I dismissed?"

"Yes, you are. Good hunting."

"Thank you, sir."

The two old men saluted each other. Paxton lowered his arm then turned for the door. On his way out, he could hear Roberson standing up from his chair and walking out. Krys was outside the door when Paxton opened it, eagerly awaiting his presence. She was chewing at the end of her hair.

"That's a filthy habit." Paxton said.

"Look who's talking," Krys replied. "What's the word?"

"We've got to fend for ourselves as far as weapons are concerned."

Krys sighed. "That's good news."

"It gets even better," Paxton said. He grabbed at her shoulder. "You have to infiltrate a USR building tonight."

***

Paxton applied the brake on the USR van inside the Precinct 28 parking garage. He left the engine running just in case. The van would not be much of a disguise if an Agent came snooping around, asking too many questions, but it would do for now. He didn't expect Krys to be in there very long in any case. The 28 was chosen because of the multiple escape routes available to Paxton should they need to escape.

Since this particular mission dealt with computers, Clarke insisted on joining them this time. Once again, Paxton played the role of heart breaker. He explained that Krys was very good at infiltration. All she would have to do once inside was turn over control to Clarke. He could do that from the safety of the safe house.

Kaspar sat at the back of the van, his mask off, it rested on his shaking knee. He did not like this mission one bit. Sending Krys into a USR building, no matter how lightly guarded, all by herself. Did they want her to get killed? He watched as Krys threw on her mask, eager to get out there, to get on with what Kaspar hoped would not be a suicide mission. Why not send everyone in? He cared nothing for Paxton's explanation that it would draw too much attention. His only care, at the present moment, was for Krys's safety.

"Robert," Paxton said into his mouth piece, "we're in position."

"All right, John," Clarke said through the ear piece. "Just give me a few more seconds."

"Move your ass."

Back at the safe house, Clarke typed away at a lightening pace. He clicked his mouse around at several items. He reached the 28's security system; his typing resumed. He reached over for a handkerchief and wiped away the beads of sweat that began to form on his forehead. Clarke then managed to fully hack into the security system after what felt like forever. He clicked around on each of the security monitors and sent each of them looping pictures of empty hallways and corridors. Clarke made the real images available to him on the second of his three monitors.

"Good to go." Clarke said.

"What's security like outside the building?" Paxton asked.

"Alarm systems are offline. I've unlocked the electronic locks on all the side doors. Come on, John, you know me better than that."

"Good work," Paxton said. "Keep Krys informed."

"Will do."

"Krys," Paxton said. He turned to face her. "You're on."

"Yes, sir." Krys replied.

Krys moved back to the double doors and swung them open. She pulled out her silenced P99 to inspect it. As she did, she felt someone grab her by the arm. She turned and faced Kaspar.

"You be careful," Kaspar said.

"Don't worry about me," Krys said. She moved her arm from Kaspar's grasp. "I'll be fine."

Krys shut the double doors behind her. She took a deep breath then moved with a quick yet quiet pace out of the parking garage. She arrived at the target building. With her back pressed against the cool concrete, she moved sideways and turned the corner. Around the corner there was a side door that led to the main offices. One of those offices was for the archives.

"Robby," Krys whispered into the mouthpiece under her mask.

"Hold on a sec," Clarke replied.

Clarke scanned the security monitors on his second computer screen. He saw two guards patrolling at the moment, but none of them were in position to catch Krys enter the building. There was one, however, who held a submachine gun posted in front of the door.

"You've got one bogey," Clarke's voice said. "He's posted right in front of that door."

"Copy." Krys replied.

Krys started to grow anxious when Clarke didn't say another word for a moment. She started to scan the area with her eyes, awaiting a guard that was unseen to him to take her out. Her hands began to shake a bit with the increase in her heart rate. She kept her silenced pistol below her waist, gripped with both gloved hands, her right index finger rested on the trigger.

She couldn't take the silence any longer. "Robby?"

"He's still there." Clarke said.

Clarke kept his focus on the guard in front of the door. He tried to keep track of all the other feeds, but his main priority right now was that door. The guard stood with barely any movement. The only movement he made was to put his hand in front of his mouth while he yawned. That was good: he was tired from boredom.

Back in the van, Kaspar's nerves started to get the better of him. He pleaded one final time for Paxton to let them all go in, but his request was ignored. So he sat back, hands gripped to his PSD, listening with intent to his ear piece.

Come on, Kaspar thought to himself. Move, you son of a bitch.

Clarke watched as the guard looked to his left then to his right. The guard then moved down the hallway. Clarke was about to give the order for Krys to move in, but he paused. The guard looked back over his shoulder one last time. Clarke tapped at his lips with his fingers while he watched. He waited. The guard turned and opened a door. It shut behind him. No time to wait any longer. It was now or never...

"Clear." Clarke said.

Krys slid the silver door handle down and walked through the door. She entered the lobby with her gun drawn. She did a quick sweep from left to right then headed for the archives. Her feet made little sound under a quick but steady pace. She pressed her back against the end of the wall, the men's restroom located to her immediate left. Around the corner was the hallway which led to the archives. She needed to reach the last door to the left. She moved her covered head around the corner to get a good look at the hall. Nobody was posted there.

"Get moving!" Clarke shouted. "Your bogey is coming out of the restroom!"

The door creaked open. The guard walked out, looked to his left and his right and saw nobody. He moved back to his post in front of the door, yawning as he did.

Krys's heart rate picked up as she moved down the hallway. She caught a brief glimpse of the guard when he walked out. She was lucky to be alive and she knew it. Her pace quickened as a result. With her silenced pistol at her waist, she kept her eyes peeled and ears glued to the ear piece. She reached the last door to the left. It read "ARCHIVES" in bold, black letters against the glass. Krys reached for the door handle. When she was inside, she made sure the door was shut as quietly as possible behind her.

After a brief sigh of relief, Krys moved to the main computer in the back of the room. She wheeled the chair back, took a seat, and then moved the mouse. The USR insignia over took the computer screen.

"Okay," Krys said. "I'm in."

"Good," Clarke replied. "Now, do exactly what I say."

"I'm all ears. Just keep your eyes on those bogies."

Clarke began to bark out instructions. After following his orders, Krys could see the mouse pointer move on its own. She always wondered how Clarke pulled off what was like magic to her. How he could remote link his computer to another one miles away like it was just another day at the office. She spun the chair around with her pistol in both hands, pointed at the door, ready to fire if anybody had the misfortune of walking in.

"Krys," Clarke said. "You need to stay focused."

"I'm focused on that door. You just stay focused on getting that Intel."

Clarke typed away at the third computer, the one remote linked to the archives. He kept looking over to the middle monitor, to ensure that no one would catch Krys by surprise. He looked around at all the files. It took him a few seconds, but he found the one he was looking for. He double clicked on it. What he saw caused his eyes to grow wide.

"Umm, John?" Clarke said.

"What is it?" Paxton demanded.

"This is pretty major, just like The Committee said."

"How so?"

"Well, it's," Clarke looked over to the middle monitor. "Oh, shit, Krys!"

Krys jumped for her seat, her gun still aimed at the door.

"What?" Krys asked.

"You've got two bogey's moving in your direction. Take that memory stick I gave you and stick it in one of USB ports. We need to download this. I have no time right now."

Krys pulled out the memory stick from the pouch next to her right breast. She scanned the computer for a USB port. She found it, stuck the memory stick in, then ran to the left of the room. She hid herself underneath one of the computer stations. She held her pistol up next to her cheek and waited.

0.4...3.9...8.2...

The doors flew open and the two guards entered the room. She could hear the sound of the feet walking against the tile floor. They were also conversing with one another. Krys could not make out what they were talking about nor did she care. She focused her mind. She had to be ready to kill these two men if circumstances called for it. Krys kept a firm grip on her pistol. She hoped that she wouldn't have to use it.

"Just shut up," one of the guards said. "Go get that roster sheet off the printer for the boss."

Clarke's voice was clear and steady over the ear piece. "You cannot let them see that download. They will know there's an intruder. They will raise the alarm and you'll never make it out of there. Take them out, now."

***

"What do we do?" Kaspar demanded from the back of the van. His grip tightened on his PSD as he started to make his way toward the back.

"We wait," Paxton replied. "We can't just go storm in there now, it'll raise the alarms. Krys is fine. She'll make it out of this."

"What if she doesn't?" Kaspar pleaded. "We have to go in there right now!"

"No!" Kilbourne shouted. "We all feel the same as you. Storming that building will not only get yourself killed...but her as well. She has to make her own way out of this."

Kaspar sat back down. "Fine. But if things start to look bad, I'm going in there after her."

***

Precision would be the name of Krys's new game. She breathed heavy underneath the cubicle. Her hands damp under her gloves. She had to take the both of them out at nearly the same time. If not, if her aim was slightly off, they would raise the alarm...

"Krysta!" Clarke shouted. "He's almost there, you have to..."

Krys popped up from her hiding spot. She eyed her two enemies who stopped in their tracks, alarmed at the sight of the intruder. The guard close to the computer tried to draw his gun. He took a bullet to the throat instead and dropped to the ground. Krys moved her pistol with a calculated fury towards the second guard. He was already darting towards the alarm. Three trigger pulls later and he had three bullets in his back. He dropped to the ground as well.

"The download is almost complete," Clarke said. "Get that memory stick and get the hell out of there."

The blood from the guard's throat was still fresh on the screen when Krys arrived to the computer. She holstered the P99. Her eyes became transfixed on the screen. She gave the memory stick nervous taps as she watched the download progress.

82.8...93.4...99.2...100

She yanked the memory stick out so hard she almost ripped the end of it out. She replaced the stick back in the pouch on her flak jacket. Clarke informed her that the coast was clear in the hall, but she would have to do something about the guard by the side door. Krys thanked him for the good news then treaded past the dead bodies back out into the hallway.

Once again her back was pressed against the wall. She sidestepped her way to the end. A diversion would be necessary to get that guard moved from his post. Inside one of the pouches of the flak jacket rested spare magazines for the pistol. She took hold of one and tossed it down the hall.

"The fuck was that?" the guard posted at the door called out.

The guard shouldered his submachine gun and walked towards the hall. When he reached it, Krys could see the barrel of the gun. She grabbed at it and yanked it from the surprised guard's hands. The gun crashed to the ground. Krys spun and aimed her pistol. The guard did a chopping motion. The force of the chop caused Krys to drop the weapon.

He grabbed Krys by the throat and back peddled her towards the wall. When she hit the wall, Krys could feel her head become light. In desperation, she kneed the guard hard to the groin. He backed off and released his grip. He composed himself with almost inhuman quickness. He threw a punch. Krys ducked and his fist met the wall. The guard breathed heavy in pain. Krys pulled out her combat knife. She thrust the sharp, pointed end into the guard's gut.

The intruder ran for her pistol, picked it, then sprinted towards the side door.

"Robby?" Krys said.

"You're clear to the garage, but hurry."

Krys ran as hard as her legs could take. She flung the door open then made a break for the garage. Once inside, she grabbed both door handles and the doors flew open. She entered the van and took a seat on the bench.

With the engine still running, Paxton put the van into the first gear, and then slammed his foot on the gas. The tires screamed on the cement pavement. The van shot out of the garage.

Krys tore off her mask. She made contact with Kaspar's concerned eyes. She ripped of her mask and showed him the memory stick. She smiled at him. Krys moved towards the front. She handed the stick into Kilbourne's awaiting left hand. Kilbourne took the stick and inserted it into the black laptop that rested on his lap.

"Pretty impressive, huh?" Krys asked aloud as she moved back to her seat.

"Pretty impressive," Kaspar replied. "Or pretty stupid. What were you thinking, agreeing to do that?"

"I told you I would be fine. You think that was the first time I've had to sneak into a building?" Krys fired back.

"What if they would have caught you in there?"

"Then I'd be dead. But, they didn't catch me, did they?"

"I...guess you're right."

Krys's eyes lit up. "You were worried about me, weren't you?"

"Of course I was. You were going in there all alone..."

"Is Mr. Tough Guy Boxer getting sentimental on me?" Krys asked. Her eyes grew wider which forced Kaspar to feel that strange feeling again...

"Yeah, well, don't get too excited." Kaspar replied.

"Who said I was excited?"

Up front, Paxton listened with great interest to what Clarke was explaining to him. He listened with disbelief as Clarke revealed what was going on with the water supply. Apparently, the USR had pumped a top secret, experimental drug into it. The funny thing about the drug was that it only seemed to affect women, based on the reports Krys managed to download.

"Holy shit," Clarke said.

"What now?" Paxton wondered.

"You're not going to believe this...how could this be?"

"Just spill it already!"

"The team leader for this operation is..."

Paxton listened to Clarke rattle off the name. He cursed out loud then slammed his fist onto the dash board. Paxton ordered Clarke to run that name by him again. He just couldn't believe what his friend was saying to him. Clarke repeated the name.

"Any possibility that that's a mistake?" Paxton asked.

"None," Clarke replied.

Kilbourne moved the computer screen over for Paxton to take a look over. The name was there, in bold letters, clear as day.

That name...how could it be?

# Chapter .41

Kaspar looked to the front. Something caught his eye out of the windshield. This neighborhood...it looked too familiar. He searched his mind for a moment. It took a few seconds of reflection to realize where they were. It had been a while since the last time he was here, when Krys helped him escape his apartment.

"Hey, boss," Kaspar said. "What are we doing here? Does Danny have a recruit for us or something?"

Paxton sighed. "Yeah, kid, something like that."

"Well, that silly son of a bitch picked a funny time to tell us about it, right in the middle of an operation."

"This operation hasn't ended."

Kaspar could feel his stomach turn. What could that mean, this operation hasn't ended? Did Danny know something vital? But, how could he, if he only handled the recruiting part? Kaspar decided just to sit and wait. He didn't have the heart to ask Paxton what he meant. He looked around the back and saw Krys's eyes staring into his. Kaspar looked away from them and stared down at his gloved hands. He rubbed them together. What did it all mean?

The van came to a halt. The team threw on their masks then filed out. Kaspar was the last team member out. His feet hit the pavement. He grabbed the double doors and slammed them shut. With his PSD slung over his shoulder, he started to make his way towards the house. Something grabbed him from behind on his arm.

"Ryan." Paxton said through his mask.

"Yes, sir?"

"Danny...he's been playing both sides."

Kaspar gripped his PSD with both hands. "Run that by me again?"

"He's been working for them."

"No way," Kaspar said. A wave of denial hit him. "Not Danny...there's no way."

"I'm afraid it's true. Robert confirmed it for me."

"Then there's a mistake."

"No," Paxton said. He shook his head. "There is no mistake. His name is all over those reports we just got. He's signed off on all of them."

"No...no."

"Ryan, I know this is going to be difficult for you. But, I need you to stay calm in there. We need whatever Intel he has." Paxton said in a soft yet stern voice.

"Look, we'll get the information from him. But, I'm sure there's some kind of explanation for all this. If he is working for them, then how come he helps you with your recruiting?" Kaspar wondered.

"That's what we're here to find out. Can I trust you on this?"

"Yes, sir." Kaspar replied. He reaffirmed his grip on his gun.

"All right," Paxton replied with a head motion to move in. "Showtime, kid."

Denial still filled Kaspar's mind as he followed Paxton to the house. There's no way, he kept telling himself. Not Danny, not the man who became like a father to him...the father that he never had. When he reached the front porch, his fists balled together in anger as another thought entered: Mother.

The front door's foundations where shattered after a hard kick from Kilbourne's boot. Everyone filed through the front of the house with their weapons drawn. Kaspar was last once more, his PSD shouldered, his finger on the trigger and ready to fire. Danny walked through the back hallway with his robe on and a drink in hand. He didn't look surprised at all, almost like he had invited guests over for drinks.

He was ordered to place his hands on his head by Paxton. Danny did so. His glass went crashing to the ground and shattered on the tile floor. The light brown liquid moved in all directions. Danny showed a look of disappointment.

Danny walked across the kitchen to the dining room. He pulled back one of the chairs next to his table and sat down. He pulled a pack of his cigarettes out of his bathrobe and laid them on the table. Danny moved his eyes across to each of the masked vigilantes in his kitchen; he didn't say a word to any of them. Kaspar had to fight back every impulse inside to shoot Danny in his face and be done with it.

Answers first. That was the only thought that kept him from pulling the trigger.

"You all can take off those masks," Danny said. He opened the pack of smokes and shook one out. "I know who you all are."

Kaspar was the first to rip his mask off. Moisture started to build up in his frozen blue eyes; tears that were all parts anger, fatigue, and sadness. He looked Danny square in the eye, the only thing his old friend could do was look away. Kaspar kept his gaze on him, as well as his PSD aimed right at the chest.

"Ryan," Paxton said as he took of his mask. "Lower your weapon."

The order went unheard. The PSD remained aimed. His trigger finger ready to fire if Danny so much as made a move or a sound. Just do it, Kaspar said as his trigger finger began to tremble. Do it!

"Kaspar!" Paxton yelled.

"Sir," Kaspar replied.

"Remember what we talked about outside."

Kaspar lowered his weapon. He shook his head as he did so. Danny breathed a sigh of relief. At least he would get to live a little bit longer, a prospect that Kaspar did not want to acknowledge. He wanted the treacherous son of a bitch killed right here and now. He breathed in then spit on Danny's carpet. He rubbed the saliva in with his boot. Kaspar turned his back to his new enemy; the only thing he could do to prevent something stupid happening. He looked at Krys as he walked into the living room. Her face, which had given him comfort before, did not do so. Not now.

"Just a matter of time, I guess." Danny said. He placed the cigarette between his lips.

Paxton stepped forward. "Danny, just what in the hell is going on?"

"I guess you figured me out, eh, John?"

"Just answer the question. We've got you signing off on USR documents. Documents that name you as a team lead for one of their operations. Is that true?" Paxton demanded.

Danny removed the cigarette. "Yes."

"Why? What caused you to turn?"

"Whoever said anything about turning?" Danny asked with a laugh. "Has it even occurred to you that I've been working with them this whole time?"

"How is that possible?" Paxton wondered.

Danny laughed and replaced the cigarette back between his lips. He took his Zippo, using the flame to light up. He took a slow drag. He laughed in between drags. Danny stared at the five faces that looked stone cold right back at him.

"We need you."

"What?" Paxton demanded.

Danny took another drag. Paxton pondered in the brief moment of silence what he was just told. Danny had been a double agent, playing both sides at the same time. Or, was he only playing one side? Something about that statement, 'we need you', caused his heart to sink and mind to race. He gripped his Glock with both hands. Danny had better start answering his questions right now.

"You ever notice," Danny said between puffs, "how every time you guys cause a ruckus, the USR seems to get bigger? The enforcement on the streets grows. The arrest counts stack higher."

Paxton gritted his teeth. "You've been using us...this whole time."

"Life's a bitch, ain't it, soldier?"

Escalation. A term that Paxton was very familiar with; something he knew would happen when he built his rebel unit. His team would fight the corruption around them. The USR would step up enforcement as it would be necessary for them to fight back. They would grow desperate to find the 'terrorists' responsible for the chaos in the city. Paxton was desperate, as well, to see things change; to aid in the destruction of the USR. In that desperation, it never dawned on him that he could be used so that the tail end of escalation could take place. Paxton's breathing grew heavy.

"How deep does this shit go?" Paxton demanded.

"You think there are other rebels out there, don't you?"

"Of course there are."

"We've been able to eliminate them." Danny took a drag. "One by one, we've just focused the media attention on you guys."

"Why just us?"

Danny laughed. "We know you very well, John Paxton. We knew that you would stop at nothing to bring this whole big, bad, evil government down. You've been playing your part...very well."

"Played my part?"

"That's right. We've been playing you all like instruments. And, we government types do enjoy a good symphony."

While he rocked back and forth on the couch, Kaspar couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't listen to Danny's voice any longer. He couldn't care less about being used. Only thing was on his mind. Something had to be done about it.

Right now.

# Chapter .42

"Enough of this bullshit!" Kaspar yelled from the couch.

He charged at Danny from behind. Kilbourne saw him. He reached out and grabbed Kaspar by the arm with his strong hands. Kaspar could feel adrenaline flow throughout his entire body. It allowed him to break free. With a clinched right fist, he landed a sharp hook to Danny's cheek. That same right hook that Danny taught him how to harness in what seemed like a lifetime ago. The force of the blow caused the old man to spit out his cigarette. Kaspar reached back for another, but his arm became entangled with Kilbourne's.

"Did you give up my mother?" Kaspar demanded. Tears flowed down his red cheeks.

"Yes, of course I did." Danny replied.

"You son of a..."

"You should blame yourself for that one, my boy."

"The hell I should!"

"I knew you would not join this rebellion without...extra incentive." Danny said.

"What are you talking about?" Kaspar asked. He dropped his hands to his side, fists still clinched together.

"You're a selfish person. You never cared about what was going on around you. The only thing you ever cared about was proving something to your old man. I knew that, for you, something would have to be taken away..."

"Don't you dare try and bring her death down on me."

"If you had been a good boy, she'd still be around."

In a fit of rage, Kaspar yanked the Beretta from his thigh holster. He held the barrel to the side of Danny's head. He felt something then. It felt like cold steel. Kaspar looked to his right. Paxton had the barrel of his Glock resting on the side of Kaspar's head. He didn't care, though. All he needed was a fraction of a second. If his trigger finger, in this case, was faster...

"Ryan!" Paxton ordered. "Back off!"

"To hell with you and your orders."

"I mean it. I'm not screwing around with you this time. I will put you under."

The smile that crept on Danny's face made the itch to pull the trigger that much stronger. Paxton pulled the hammer of his pistol back. Reason finally sank in and Kaspar lowered his weapon. Dying now wouldn't solve anything. After all, Danny was only partly responsible for Mother. The real killers were still out there. If Forte was of any evidence, there could still be some measure of revenge to be had...once the interrogation was finished.

Kaspar pointed his index finger. "You piece of shit."

"We need answers," Paxton said as Kaspar turned to walk away. "You did the right thing."

"Answers, answers, answers," Danny said. He fished out another cigarette. "You want some real answers, Ryan?"

The question had its desired effect. Kaspar turned and faced Danny, who was busy lighting a cigarette. He took a drag but didn't say anything. Kaspar approached once more. He could feel everyone's eyes on him. He ripped the still burning cigarette out of Danny's mouth.

"What answers?" he demanded.

"How about this: who killed you mother?" Danny replied.

"Who?"

Danny said nothing. He leaned back and smiled again. Kaspar inched the burning end of the cigarette closer to his face.

"Who?!" he demanded once more.

"Their names are: George Mason, DeMarcus Wilcox, and...what that third guy's name? Oh, yes, William Sullivan. They ran the operation that led to your mother's death. I don't know who exactly pulled the trigger, but those are the three monsters you've been searching for."

The tears flowed free. Kaspar used his gloved hands to wipe the tears away. He engraved those names in his memory. Wilcox. Mason. Sullivan. Those three names...they were the only things that gave his life any meaning now. He walked for the front door. He felt a soft hand grip his shoulder. He turned and faced Krys.

"Ryan, wait." Krys pleaded.

"I've waited long enough." Kaspar replied.

He shrugged the woman's hand off of his shoulder. Before he walked out, Kaspar got one last look at Danny. Danny smiled. If his smile was an attempt to enrage Kaspar further, he succeeded. Nothing but burning anger could be felt inside. He walked off the porch then reached for his cigarettes. He grabbed one and lit it. Footsteps were heard behind him.

"Ryan, please wait!" Krys called out.

Kaspar didn't turn. He paused to give her a chance to walk beside him. She gripped his arm again. Kaspar used his free hand to take a drag. Why did she want him to stay so bad? She knew that the only thing he had been living for was revenge. He knew now who he had to deliver justice to. He weighed in on the other option available to him. Which would be to stick around, maybe get killed during one Paxton's missions? All the while being used by the USR; not knowing who to trust. He looked down at Mother's fabric and his decision was made.

"She wanted me to make something of myself." Kaspar said, breaking the silence. "Every day she kept telling me to make something more out of my life."

"You still can," Krys replied. "Stay with us. Those three will get what's coming to them."

Those brown eyes of hers always told the full story. Kaspar could read Krys like an open book. He could see the concern she felt for him right now. He just couldn't understand why. He took a drag then looked away.

"This whole time, I've thought of nothing but myself." Kaspar said.

"You can change all of that."

"I can't let those men go free. I can't leave it up to chance. I have to make things right."

"You'll catch up to them eventually."

"That's not going to cut it for me." Kaspar turned and stared straight into her eyes. "I'm going after them now."

"I get it," Krys replied, the look of concern replaced by one of frustration. "To hell with everyone else, right?"

"I cannot live with myself until those...dogs are put down."

"You're impossible. So, go on, then. What's holding you back? Certainly not me or those suffering people out there."

He watched as Krys turned her back to him. His mind and heart raced. The right thing to do all of a sudden became muddled. The only thing that was clear as day was that he had only two choices, and he needed to choose one now. Kaspar looked down at the yellow fabric on his flak jacket. Mother was taken and for what? So that her son could be recruited into a rebellion only to be used by the same USR that took her?

Kaspar closed his eyes and looked to the sky. He tried meditating again, concentrating only on his breathing.

With eyes still closed, he asked Mother what he should do.

# Chapter .43

The front door opened. Paxton paused from his questioning to see Krys walk in...alone. Just as the old veteran had predicted, the kid's only motivation this whole time had been to find his mother's killers. Paxton couldn't bring himself to blame Kaspar for it. If Paxton ever found out who killed his wife...he would have done the same.

Paxton regained his focus. He grabbed Danny by the chin to force the old man to look him in the eye. Danny's looking away like a coward had long grown tired. It was time to face the consequences. Paxton looked deep into his enemy's eyes and saw nothing but a soulless man. A broken individual who had already accepted what was to come his way. This brought about a sigh of relief. No use in doing things the ugly way if they could be avoided. He released Danny's chin. Danny looked down again and fished for another cigarette.

"What have you people been doing to the water supply?" Paxton demanded.

"Hmmm," Danny mumbled with a cigarette hanging from his lips. "It's too late to stop it, now."

"Answer the question!" Kilbourne demanded from behind.

"Don't try to intimidate me, Killy. I ain't afraid of an overly muscular pussy like you."

Kilbourne got close to Danny. He grabbed him by the back of the neck then applied pressure with his thumb to Danny's pressure point. Danny wailed out in pain. He dropped his cigarette into the ash tray and kicked both of his feet up and down. After several taps on the table, Kilbourne let go. Danny cursed out loud as he grabbed at his aching neck.

"What do you want to know?" he asked.

"What you've been doing." Paxton replied.

"We've got ourselves a bit of a problem...as the human race, I mean."

"Which is?"

"Over population," Danny replied. He picked up his cigarette. "We've got so many little bastards running around out there, it's made living conditions harsh. Natural resources will be all but depleted soon; available only to the highest bidders."

"What does that have to do with the water?" Paxton demanded, confused.

"We've been experimenting with a new type of genetic engineering. Let me ask the fine lady over there a question."

"What do you want?" Krys asked.

"Have you been experiencing any stomach pains lately? Any problems with vomiting or anything of the sort?"

Krys's eyes grew wide. She looked around the room at her three comrades who could only look back at her. The look of concern in their eyes the only comfort available; she felt like she would tumble over.

"Yes..." she replied.

"That's a side effect of the drug. It's still experimental and we haven't worked out all of those tiny little bugs, yet." Danny explained.

"What are you people trying to do?" Krys wondered.

"Through genetic mutation, we are trying to inhibit your ability, as a woman, to bear children."

"So," Paxton wondered aloud, "that's why it only affects women?"

Danny lit his cigarette and took a drag. "Not exactly, we have a drug for men, too. But, we can't risk the male population. That's why we only released the female drug for our experiment."

"You're a monster." Krys cried.

Krys was helped into the living room by Kilbourne. Danny made a kissing motion with his lips as she walked past. The gesture was met by Krys's middle finger.

Danny continued. "We've tried other population control tactics. We offer the free abortion...I mean, family planning clinics. We even mandated abortions, but it appears that you horny motherfuckers can't stop screwing each other. You...citizens forced us into trying something new."

"What's going to happen to Krys?" Paxton asked.

"She will die. The mutants are eating away at her stomach right now. Soon, they will eat away at the rest of her body. There's no way to stop it. No cure, because no doctor will have seen this type of thing before."

"You slimy," Krys shouted from the living room, "son of a bitch!"

"I'm so sorry that this has to happen to a beauty such as you, but that's life. You can't exactly plan it out as you want, can you?"

Paxton clinched his fists together. "Where are you manufacturing the drug?"

"You think I'm going to tell you that?"

"Yes."

Danny took a drag. "What are you going to do? Dig out my fingernails like with that other poor bastard? Fuck you."

"It's up to you."

Danny thought about the predicament he found himself in. He took another drag and brushed away the ashes into his ashtray. He then took a deep breath and brushed at his forehead.

"You pesky rodents just won't let me enjoy my smoke, will you?" Danny asked.

"I thought smoking was illegal." Paxton replied.

"Just another method of control. Care for one?"

Paxton shook his head. "No. Where is the drug being manufactured?"

"There's an old power plant..." Danny started to say.

The sound of the front door swinging open forced everyone to look to the front. Kaspar reemerged into the house. He walked up to Paxton and the two exchanged nods. Kaspar then looked into Danny's eyes: he wasn't going to let him get away this time.

"Ryan," Danny said, "how nice of you to grace us with your presence again."

Kaspar maintained his focus. "Whatever question John just asked you, you better start answering right now."

"Hehe. That's why I liked you. Like I was saying, there's an old power plant on the outskirts of the city. You should know it well: you drive past it every time you come into the city.

"Why?" Paxton demanded through gritted teeth. "Why stoop to such a low?"

"It's always been about control," Danny replied. "Like this cigarette here. You think my bosses care if I smoke? Of course not. I'm not one of you people anymore."

Paxton clicked the safety off of his Glock. "Danny, I can't believe you."

"Well, believe it, Johnny." Danny took one final drag. "I'm a sick bastard; always have been. I just hope my Ruth can forgive me when I see her again. You're going to kill me now, right? That's what you people do. And, that's why we've got you by your hairy ball sack."

It didn't matter to Paxton if what Danny said was true. Even if they were being used, justice still needed served. It was better to be used and labeled a criminal than to sit on his ass, watching from the sidelines. He pulled his Glock and aimed it at the now shaking old man. The look of fear on Danny's face almost brought a smile to his. The old man had brought about so much fear on the innocent. Now, here he was, getting his just reward.

Paxton took careful aim. "Unlike you, I'm not killing you for who you are. I'm killing you for what you've done."

"Justify it all you want." Danny replied. He went north, south, west, and east with his right hand then shut his eyes. "Go ahead and do it."

Paxton lowered his gun. He looked towards Kaspar and nodded his head. Kaspar's heart began to race. He retrieved his Beretta from his thigh holster. Danny peaked through his half shut eyes. Kaspar didn't know if he could do it; even if the old bastard had led Agents to kill Mother. Kaspar had every right to put a bullet through his head. His decision was final. No words were spoken.

This is for Mother.

# Chapter .44

There was an odd, mixed feeling inside of Kaspar. He couldn't put his finger on it. Danny was the man who gave up Mother and he finally received justice. However, Kaspar couldn't bring himself to feel happy about it. Danny...he was like a father figure, in a strange way, a friend, too. Just thinking about it forced him to slam the side of the van with his fist.

He could hear Paxton and Clarke's voices converse with one another through his ear piece. Kaspar looked over to Krys. She just seemed to stare off into the distance. No emotion and, most of all, no smile. He had to do something to cheer her up again. They were going in on a dangerous mission once more and he couldn't bear not seeing that smile again.

Kaspar leaned forward. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah," Krys replied, running her hand through her hair. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"That's what I said, right?"

"Okay," Kaspar replied. He started to look around the van while he rubbed his cheek. "Hey, I've got an idea."

"What's that?"

Kaspar looked around the van once more. Paxton and Kilbourne were talking strategy in the front. Over to the right, Li was huddled in a corner, meditating again. He thought about what to say for a moment. Krys leaned forward in anticipation. Screw it, Kaspar thought, who cares?

"I know this great place downtown. They've got pool tables everywhere and it's not as crowded with biker gangs as your place, either."

"Okay..."

"I was thinking, when all this is over, we should head over there sometime."

"You asking me out or something?"

Oh, shit.

"Not so much asking you out," Kaspar replied. "As free lessons on me. I never got the chance to kick that ass of yours."

"I don't know..." Krys's voice started to trail off. "It sure sounds like you're asking me out."

"Maybe, maybe not, what do you say?"

Krys leaned back. "I'd have to say no. You don't seem like the dating type to me."

A feeling of defeat attacked Kaspar inside. He remained undeterred, though. He stared into her wide, brown eyes as she stared back at him. Kaspar dared the woman inside his own mind to look away first. He longed to see her smile again...before the shooting started.

"Fuck you, too." Kaspar said.

Krys's eyes widened as she looked dumbfounded at him. Kaspar put on a huge grin. Krys couldn't help but smile back. The smiles soon turned to laughter. Li was shook away from his meditating. He looked over to the two crazies he shared the back of the van with. They had a primitive look on their faces. It was almost like they were going to eat each other. Li shook his head and tried to get back to meditating. He had a grin on his face, too.

"Oh my God!" Krys exclaimed. "I can't believe you just said that to me."

"You deserved it." Kaspar replied, still smiling.

"I'll tell you what you deserve, a nice kick in the ass. When?"

"When what?"

"You really are a moron, aren't you?"

Kaspar thought for a moment. "How about tomorrow?"

"I can't make that tomorrow...I'll probably be tired."

"Next night?"

"Ummm..." Krys looked straight up at the ceiling of the van. She looked back down, "You've got it."

"Okay, but, you've been warned."

"So have you, big shot."

"Hey, Kas," Kilbourne said from the front, breaking the spell. "Can you hand me that red bag back there?"

Kaspar gripped the shoulder straps of the red back. He handed the bag off to Kilbourne's awaiting hands. In that moment, Kaspar was reminded that now was not the time to get sloppy and lose track of his focus. Now, more than ever, he needed to maintain it on the task at hand. It would be a hell of a time to do something stupid like wind up dead.

Up front, Kilbourne unzipped the red back and examined the contents inside. He pulled out a large amount of C4, charges, and a detonator. After examination, he placed the contents back inside and zipped the bag shut.

"We're going to find the main processing lab inside there," Paxton instructed. "Then blow it to kingdom come."

"How big of an explosion do you want?" Kilbourne wondered.

"Big enough to dismantle the fucking things."

"What I mean is, do you want me to bring the whole building down?"

Paxton smirked. "Of course not, we're not terrorists."

***

Paxton parked the van outside of the power plant. The team filed out on his command. Before he made his exit, he said a silent prayer. When he opened his eyes, the sight before him made him sick. That plant represented everything that he and his team were fighting against. The USR manufactured a drug to further increase their control over the population. Genetic control, population control, control over the individual. He breathed in and accessed the old killer once more. Could his old bones handle another fire fight?

The team assembled behind the van. They had been waiting patiently for their leader to arrive. Paxton looked to each of them before he spoke. First was Ron Kilbourne, loyal to the end. Li, a meek person at heart, but with a will made of solid steel. His heart sank when he reached Krys. She was the constant encourager who always put the needs of others ahead of her own. If there was anyone who didn't deserve the fate she faced, it was her. No matter, tonight she would help in the assurance that that fate wouldn't be passed down to another.

He looked to Kaspar last. Kaspar had every right to not be here right now. His mother's killers were still at large, yet, he was sacrificing the one thing that drove him to this point. Was it for the greater good or something else? Maybe, for the first time, the kid learned something from what's been going on around him.

"Before we go in there," Paxton said, having everyone's full attention. "I just want to extend a personal thank you to each and every one of you. You've fought the good fight. I couldn't give a shit what Danny said to us back there. We know what we've been fighting for. In light of this Intel, however, if there are any of you who wish to leave, you may do so. No one will look down upon you for so doing so. Just, go now, please."

No one left. The only thing that Paxton saw were focused eyes loyal to him and the mission. He looked down and smiled again. They had learned well. None of them would dare leave now. Paxton knew that.

The smile went away. "Thank you, again. Here's the game plan: Ron is going to blow those machines to hell. We are going to provide him with cover fire. This is going to be a dangerous one. We are going to raid a USR stronghold; one that they will not want to give away easily. Stick to your training, instincts, and to each other. Don't get yourselves killed in there, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" the team cried in unison.

"Game faces," Paxton said. The team retrieved their masks and put them on. "Look alive and stay sharp."

Kaspar rubbed at his mask to make sure it fit snug. He looked through the tinted eye holes at the building in front. The PSD gripped tight in his hands, he allowed himself to think of Mother one last time. Kaspar hoped that he was doing the right thing by her; letting her killers go free to pursue something greater. The team stayed low as they approached the building. Kaspar held up the rear.

Up front, Paxton touched his ear piece, he ignored the static. "Robert, you there?"

"Yeah," Clarke replied through the static.

"You got a good read on security?"

"Sure do. I'm looking at the feeds right now. It looks like that lobby is crawling with tangos. It's like they are expecting you guys."

"With what Danny told us, they probably are. How many?"

"Ten, maybe twelve."

"Thanks."

"You guys be careful in there," Clarke said. "I just wish I could be out there with you tonight."

"I know," Paxton replied. "Just keep our asses informed."

"I will."

"Over and out."

The team approached the main entrance. Paxton held up his hand for the team to stop. He looked down at his PSD hoping that it would keep him alive. After several deep breaths he prepared to brief his team.

"Entrance is crawling with tangos," Paxton said with a low tone. "When we take them out it should be smooth sailing. Check your weapons."

Kaspar looked down at the PSD. He switched the safety off, moved the fire rate to full automatic, and then yanked the chamber back. In front of him, Krys was saying a quiet prayer or something. He looked to the stars and thanked Mother for her wisdom. This was the right thing to do, he was sure of it now. He just hoped he didn't end up dead for it.

The damn static in Paxton's ear made it hard to make out what Clarke was saying. Something about it was now or never. A couple of the guards had moved on to patrol other areas of the building. Paxton nodded his head. He held up his right hand with all five fingers extended. He folded his thumb in: four. Index finger: three. Middle finger: two. Ring finger: one.

From the back, Kaspar kept his eyes on the baby finger. His breathing increased; his grip on the PSD tighter. This was no time to turn into a coward. Only the moment mattered: the seconds that would determine whether he lived or died. The speed of his trigger finger being faster than his enemies...

Just drop that damn finger already, Kaspar thought. In front of him, Krys's prayer grew in sound and intensity. He looked down one last time at the yellow fabric. He looked up just in time to see Paxton drop his baby finger.

With his PSD shouldered, Paxton kicked in the front door. He took aim at one of the two Agents that guarded the door. A short, three round burst dropped his enemy. Before the second guard could get in a clean shot, he received the same fate. Paxton ran towards one of the stone pillars that ran from the marble floor to the ceiling. He pressed his back against it, ignoring the sound of the Agent's rifles and the pieces of stone flying in the air.

Kaspar followed in behind the others. Upon approach of the kicked in door, the deafening sound of gun fire caused a ring in his ears. When he entered he saw flashes from the guard's automatics from the back. Gun smoke and flying stone filled the air. He took aim with his PSD and fired as he ran towards a wooden sign in desk. Once close enough, Kaspar slid the rest of the way feet first and took cover behind it.

Behind the desk, Kaspar moved the stock of the PSD to his shoulder. He forced himself to move from safety to help the others. His upper body moved up from behind the desk. He scanned his eyes wildly as he looked for a target. There was a guard at the back who fired at someone else. Kaspar took aim and squeezed on the trigger. Six rounds spit out. He took cover before confirming his kill.

Paxton kept his cover behind the pillar. Bullets continued to tear through the stone structure. He pivoted right and found an enemy. The Agent just stood, scared shitless, his head moved around without aim. Paxton almost felt bad when he squeezed the trigger. The three rounds tore through the Agent's chest. He dropped. Paxton pivoted back.

Krys peered through the safety of the pillar she used. Out of the corner of her eye was an Agent sprinting to a new position. She moved her gun and aimed a few inches ahead of the runner. She pulled the trigger. Four rounds tore through the Agent. Krys moved back.

Kilbourne fired at a rapid pace; the pillar behind him used only when he needed a reload. He shifted his body from left to right, the red bag over his shoulder swung around with each move. To his right he took aim at an Agent behind a computer desk. To his left he hit another Agent who pivoted out from behind a pillar. The PSD went dry. In a quick motion, his back rested against the stone, he grabbed a fresh clip from his flak jacket and reloaded.

Li moved from pillar to pillar firing away with his PSD. He moved left and saw an Agent pop out of cover. The Agent took an automatic burst to the chest then a round to the head. Right beside the Agent was another one who was delivered the same fate. Li made a run for the pillar in front of him. After running full speed he slid on the slick floor for it. An Agent with a shotgun moved towards his direction. Li aimed and pulled the trigger. Nothing but clicks. A squeeze of the trigger and buckshot tore through Li's armor.

The scene unfolded in front of Paxton. "Yung!"

The Agent pumped the shotgun and fired again. Paxton moved back to safety. Shattered stone flew in every direction.

Kaspar saw the Agent with the shotgun. After he took careful aim with the PSD he squeezed the trigger. A full automatic burst exploded the Agent's armor. He looked left and delivered another automatic burst into another Agent.

Krys came out of hiding. She ran fast towards her fallen comrade. She flung the PSD over her shoulder then reached down for her P99. With her right arm in full extension she reached down for Li.

"Krys," Paxton yelled. "Get back!"

He stopped his order. An Agent came out with a clean shot on Krys. Paxton delivered a three round burst into the chest. Then sent another burst to the head.

The sound of a door opening came from the back. Three more Agents, P90's shouldered, started to fire away. Paxton eyed them. He sent several short bursts their way. The PSD started to click. Back behind the safety of cover, he reached for another clip.

Krys fired her pistol at one of the Agents. The Agent backed off to find cover. With all of her strength, Krys drug Li to the pillar beside them by his collar. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an Agent poke his head out. She sent a 9MM round through it.

The scene unfolded in front of Kaspar. He moved his head up and the thing he feared most happened. He froze. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Paxton shouted inaudible commands like he was yelling underwater. He watched Krys reload her pistol then looked right to see Kilbourne take out another one. Is this what his world had come to? Is this what it took to be free?

Kaspar saw a flash from the distance. The bullet was stopped only by the wooden desk. Splinters of the wood bounced off the dark lenses. Snapped back into reality, Kaspar aimed his PSD towards the source of the flash. The full automatic burst tore through the Agent's chest. Kaspar dropped back down behind the desk.

"That's all of them for now." Clarke said through the radio. "But get back there and set those charges. Reinforcements are on their way."

"Let's get moving!" Paxton ordered.

Paxton looked over to see Krys sitting behind Li. She had his head rested on her chest. Paxton could see that Li still drew breath. Li reached up to rip his mask off to make the breathing easier. He struggled to breathe still; his face had gone pale. His lips shook as he tried to speak.

The old veteran put his index finger over his lips. He reached down and took hold of Li's right hand. With what strength was left, his fallen comrade squeezed back. Paxton had seen death far too many times during his days as a Marine and now as a rebel leader. Seeing comrades, no brothers, die never got easier.

"You did good," Paxton said. "You can go now with honor."

"G—go on," Li whispered. "I've got this room covered. Any USR t—try to come through here and they're to—ast."

"Yung," Krys started to say.

"I j—just need to get into a good f—firing position."

Krys reached down. She moved Li sideways and allowed him to rest his back against a pillar. Li had a clear shot at the front door. Paxton picked up the PSD from the floor as Krys grabbed a clip from Li's flak jacket. Paxton handed it to her. She reloaded the gun; Li reached up and took hold of it. He moved the gun up to aim it at the door.

Several seconds later the PSD crashed to the floor.

# Chapter .45

Paxton led the way to the backdoor of the lobby. He opened the door and pointed the barrel of his PSD forward. There were no guards to be found so he relaxed. He turned and gave the signal for the others to file in. The door led to a hallway with white walls and shined, black tiles. At the end of it stood a white door. Paxton grabbed the silver handle with his left hand. With his right, he raised the PSD once more. He took a quick breath before he pushed down on the handle.

With the PSD shouldered, Paxton scanned the empty furniture and desks of yet another lobby. When he saw the coast was clear, he lowered the weapon.

"Move in." he ordered through the mouthpiece.

The others obeyed. Kaspar entered the lobby with his PSD at the ready. This lobby had an eerie silence to him. There were no guns blazing; no one shouted orders. No comrades bleeding to death. Silence. The silence made him feel uneasy. The room's lights were turned off; the only source of light came from the TVs on the wall. Kaspar looked up to one and saw Krys's handiwork on a news broadcast. He smiled underneath his mask.

Paxton touched his ear again. The static disappeared to the point that he could hear Clarke's voice clear.

"The main lab," Clarke instructed, "is in the east wing of the building. Use room A8 to gain access."

"Roger that." Paxton replied.

All the doors in the lobby were made of well-maintained glass. The doors were clean and perfectly clear with the names of each room in bold, white letters. Paxton scanned them. When he found the one he searched for, he pointed it out to the others. The door had a security reader by the handle. Paxton reached up with his PSD then fired. The glass shattered, giving the team a clear entry into the A8.

Paxton moved forward ahead of the others, kicking the loose glass at the bottom of the door. He scanned for enemies but found none. Upon entry, the lights above kicked on automatically. The illumination revealed the inside of the lab. There were shiny metal desks lined up in the middle. Again, it was quiet. The only sound came from the buzz of the lights above. At the far left corner sat a glass structure with holes in the sides, black gloves attached. Paxton saw it and figured that was where the USR created their great contributions to mankind.

Kaspar stood in the back, his PSD held at the waist. He looked around the room. Just like outside, the offices had glass doors, names written in bold white. He started to move around and in the corner of his eye one of the offices caught his attention. It read: "DANIEL JOHNSON: TEAM LEAD". The old bastard had been telling the truth. Underneath his mask, Kaspar cursed Danny one final time.

In the back of the lab stood a white, rectangular shaped object leaned against the wall. Paxton walked up to it. The machine made a soft rumbling sound. Down on one knee, Paxton examined the box. To the side he could see clear tubes that ran towards the box with the black gloves. The tubes fed a milky substance into it.

"Ron," Paxton called out as he stood to his feet.

"What's up?" Kilbourne asked. He walked over to the box.

"This is it, set the charges here."

"On it."

"Double time it," Paxton ordered. "Your only function in life right now is to set those charges, do you get me?"

"Yes, sir."

Kilbourne got down to one knee and removed the red bag from his shoulder. He pulled out the C4 first, then the charges. After he attached the plastic explosive to the box, he inserted the charges. Kilbourne started to fool around with the timer.

"Don't worry if things..." Paxton began to say.

"You've got trouble!" Clarke cried through the ear piece.

"AMBUSH!" Kaspar called from the front of the lab.

From out of nowhere, an assault team of thirteen Agents began to pour through the broken glass. Kaspar took aim and fired off several rounds before he ducked behind a desk. At the far end, Paxton turned to face the Agents. He fired off his PSD in three round bursts while he ran for cover.

The assault team came fully armed with full body armor. They aimed their M4 Carbines and fired at everything in sight. Computer monitors went up in smoke. The doors of the offices shattered, sending shards of glass into the air.

Kilbourne worked on the charges faster than he knew he could. He connected the last charge then set the timer for ten minutes. Kilbourne reached down to pick up the PSD that lay on the ground. When he turned around, he saw nothing but the flashes of the automatic weapons. The rounds shredded his Kevlar vest and he fell to the ground. He lay in a pool of his own blood. He took his last breath...

"Ron!" Paxton cried out. "Goddamn it!"

Paxton reached down and switched the PSD to full auto. He popped his head up to see an Agent storm his position. Paxton, quick and decisive with his aim, put a burst of rounds into his enemy. The other members of the assault team began to take their positions around the lab. There would be no easy escape, Paxton knew. They would soon be surrounded and picked off one by one.

He moved his head over the corner of the work station. He saw the Agents forming up on the left hand side. They were going to flank him, then take out Kaspar and Krys. Paxton could not let that happen. He would not lose any more men tonight.

Paxton shot up from his cover and began to fire away. He drew the assault team's fire. Paxton managed to take out another Agent in the process. He ducked back down. The computer monitor on the desk exploded before his head was fully down. He felt the sparks and few shards of glass rub against the back of his head.

Krys rolled over onto her back. An Agent tried to take cover beside her, oblivious to her position. She took aim. The barrage of automatic rounds took out that Agent's legs. When he fell to the ground, Krys ended it with a burst to the head. She continued to move backwards on her back. She rounded the corner of the workstation. She saw another Agent and dropped him. When she finished rounding the corner, she pressed her back against the metal desk and reached in her flak jacket for a fresh clip. With a fresh clip, she rolled her back to the right. As soon as she was exposed, automatic fire ripped apart the tiled floor in front. She moved back over and took a deep breath.

Kaspar, still at the front of the lab, poked his head over the desk. He saw an Agent fire at someone. Kaspar squeezed the trigger. The rounds tore apart the Agent's backside. A burst of fire came Kaspar's way. He ducked his head back down just in time.

In the back, Paxton had a fresh magazine. He moved his body up from cover and searched for an enemy. He found one. He took aim. Something bit into the right side of his neck. Paxton reached towards the source of the pain before he fell backwards.

"NO!" Krys yelled.

Krys stood. She took aim at the Agent who had taken down her leader. He turned only to be taken down by the burst of rounds. Krys turned and fired away at another Agent while she ran towards Paxton's position. The rounds disintegrated his body armor.

Kaspar moved his head up for a brief moment. A hail of gun fire destroyed everything in his line of vision. He ducked back down. His breathing increased. The adrenaline flowed through his body. His hands shook from his overworked nerves. Kilbourne was dead for sure. The same had to be assumed for Paxton, who wasn't in any shape to fight now, anyway. All that remained now was himself and Krys. Kaspar looked down and touched the yellow fabric with his index finger.

Mother, I'm coming...

He held the PSD up and rested the stock against his shoulder. He stood and began to yell. The Agents drew their attention the source of the noise. They all aimed towards his position. The rounds from their M4's shattered what was left of the glass office door beside him. Kaspar began to jog towards them, firing his gun away as he did. Kaspar took out an Agent before he lowered his head. He took cover two work stations over. He poked the barrel of the PSD over the desk and squeezed the trigger until the gun started to click.

Kaspar brought the gun back to his waist. He released the empty clip and then inserted a full one. There were only four Agents left. Kaspar and Krys...they had to a chance to make it out of this alive.

Hearing the yell in the back, Krys forced her body up from out of cover. She took out the Agent that Kaspar missed. She lowered herself back down. Paxton lay in front of her. Krys could see that he still breathed, but he was unconscious, blood leaked from his neck. There was nothing to be done for him at this point. He just had to hold on.

Kaspar heard footsteps coming from his right. He raised the PSD and was ready to make his move...

"Ryan!" Krys cried.

No, Kaspar thought. No, Goddamn it, no.

Krys stood and ran towards Kaspar's position, firing away. She took out the Agent to Kaspar's right. Still behind cover, Kaspar moved his head over and saw her running. He saw the flashes from her gun. What was she thinking?

An Agent got into position to fire at her. Kaspar saw him. He pointed his gun and pulled the trigger until it could fire no more. The Agent fell to the ground, his body riddled with bullets. Krys dropped and took cover at the work station in front of Kaspar. The two remaining Agents moved swiftly to her position. They were trying to surround her.

Kaspar saw it. He dropped the empty PSD to the ground. With a hand on each Beretta attached to his thighs, he yanked the guns free. He popped his body up and aimed each of the handguns at the two Agents. They saw him, turned their direction his way, and took aim at him as well. Kaspar squeezed each trigger repeatedly. The semiautomatics sent a spray of bullets towards the bogeys. He continued to pull...until each of the chambers locked back.

The Agents dropped to the ground. Krys moved up. She pointed her PSD in all directions. When she saw there were no lingering enemies, she lowered her weapon. Her attention turned to Paxton, who was slowly bleeding to death. Kaspar dropped the two empty handguns to the ground. He picked up the PSD and moved in towards Krys. He grabbed her by the arm. When she turned, Kaspar pulled her in close with his hands. He could feel on his chest that her heart was beating as quickly as his own. He then looked over at the timer.

4:34...4:33...4:32...

"We've got to get out of here now." Kaspar said.

"I know," Krys replied. She pulled away, "The others?"

"They are dead. If we don't want to lie next to them we have to..."

"I hate to break this up," Clarke said through the radio. "But, you guys have to get out now. Another van full of USR troops just pulled in front of the building. Get out now."

"Let's go." Kaspar ordered.

Krys's eyes were fixated on Paxton's body. "He might still..."

"Maybe so, but we can't drag him out of here, can we? We'd never make it past the timer. And, even if we did, the reinforcements would send us to hell."

Krys sighed, "Fine. Let's go."

"Guys," Clarke's voice again, "you really need to get moving. Those reinforcements are already in the front lobby."

"Any suggestions?" Kaspar demanded as the two began to move.

"The emergency exit is right in front of you. You see that red door in front of the bomb?"

"Yes."

"Go through that. It's going to take you outside."

"Roger. And..." Kaspar started to say.

"What?"

"I'm...sorry about the others."

"Don't worry about that now. Just get yourself and Krys out of there."

Kaspar pushed the red door open in front of him. As soon as the door moved, a loud buzzing noise filled the air. Krys tailed behind him. Once through the door, they ran fast through the knee high grass and weeds. They searched around the blackness for somewhere to go.

"What now?" Kaspar demanded.

"Umm..." Clarke's voice said. "Look to your left. Straight ahead is an old abandoned church. You can try to hide out in there."

"Copy that."

Kaspar grabbed Krys by the hand. The two ran through the tall grass towards the church building. Kaspar kept moving his head from left to right. He was anticipating an ambush at any moment. With a squint of his eyes, the decaying exterior of the church came into view. The rusted cross which once stood on the roof had fallen off long ago. It was stuck in the grass on its side.

They arrived at the entrance. Kaspar let loose of Krys's hand then played around with the door handle. The doors were locked, but he could see that the locks were rotting. He pushed Krys aside, raised his right leg, and kicked the door in. He let Krys move in front. Kaspar entered behind. He reached over for the light switch and the lights flickered on.

The lights revealed old, wooden pews. They once shined with a rich brown color. That shine was long gone, with green mixed in with the light brown color. Some pews even had the legs taken out from under them from the years of non-maintenance. In the front stood a stage with blue carpet that began to peel away from the floor. Kaspar walked across the wooden floor towards the stage. His eyes were fixed on the large, rusted cross that stood in front of rusted organ pipes.

When he reached the stage, he pressed his hands against it. He looked up at the cross then closed his eyes. He didn't know what to do, but he tried to meditate once again. He knew that the two of them would need protection from...someone right now.

"I never pegged you for the religious type." Krys said as she approached.

"Figured it couldn't hurt."

Krys placed her gloved hand on Kaspar's shoulder. Her touch calmed him, but his mind was quick to move back to the task at hand. His eyes scanned the church frantically.

"We need something to barricade that door." He said.

"I'll help you look," Krys replied.

On the stage, Kaspar saw two tall, metal bars with old candles at the top. He pointed them out. The two grabbed one then took them to the front. Kaspar took hold of the two doors then pulled them shut. They crisscrossed them inside the handles.

"Do you think it will hold?" Krys asked.

"Not for long."

"What do we do now?"

"We wait. If we go out there, we're dead. Maybe they won't check here."

"Maybe?"

"That's all we can hope for." Kaspar replied.

"And," Krys breathed in, "If they do?"

Kaspar took a moment to answer. "We make our last stand."

# Chapter .46

Before he passed out, Paxton felt a sense of peace deep within. He had died for his country, for a way of life that the world needed to see again. It took a few seconds for him to realize, when his eyes opened, that he was not dead. He moved his head around from left to right trying to get his bearings back. When he tried to move his head upward, the sharp sting from the bullet wound disallowed it. His head slammed back down to the tile flooring. Paxton moved his eyes to the right:

3:02...3:01...3:00...

Kilbourne had succeeded. A buzzing noise now filled Paxton's ears. It sounded like a fire alarm...or maybe the emergency exit had been tripped. After one more try to get up was unsuccessful, he relaxed his body to the ground. That sense of calm filled him once more. He was going to die for what he believed in after all.

The loud footsteps of yet another USR assault team filled the room. They poured through the room, swept their weapons from left to right, looking to gun down anything that moved. From out of his left ear, Paxton heard the leader of this squad curse out loud at the carnage in front. He cursed at the loss of all those Agents. If Paxton could move his lips, he would have smiled. Three men moved to the back of the lab, to an open door beside the white box. They ran down the hallway and returned seconds later.

"Find anything?" the leader asked.

"Whoever survived this," said an Agent attempting to catch his breath, "tripped the fire escape. They must've made a run for that old church building back there."

"Take some men with you and go after them." The leader ordered. "I've got an even bigger find."

The three in back called for Agents to follow them out. Several of the assault team members answered the call and followed them down the hallway. The leader kept his gaze on the man who lay beneath him. He reached for the bottom of the mask and pulled it off. Paxton winced in pain as the mask rubbed against the wound on his neck. The Agent looked down at him with a smile on his face. The old veteran coughed and blood started to come out of his mouth. The leader grabbed a handkerchief and wiped at Paxton's lips.

"He still alive?" an Agent asked.

"Yes," the leader replied. "Meet John Paxton: leader of the resistance."

Paxton wanted to say something, but his vocal cords were not responding. He spit up more blood. That calm, peaceful death was not to be, it seemed. He would now have to wait for another one. That promise he made, back when he and Clarke started this whole thing, came to mind. He always said that he would rather die than let the USR take his freedom.

"What do we do with him?"

"The Consul wants him alive...for now. Take him away."

Two Agents stood on either side. They reached down and helped Paxton to his feet. Paxton kept trying to talk, but nothing came out except for incoherent mumbles. His fallen comrades came to mind...then he remembered the Agents talk about survivors. Did Kaspar and Krys survive this? He could feel his feet drag against the tile flooring now. He felt light headed like he would black out again. He cursed the bullet wound in his neck. It took away his strength to fight back...forced him into surrender. In all his years fighting, Paxton never envisioned his end coming this way. With him being so weak.

The leader yelled for his men to hurry up. The two Agents that carried Paxton quickened their pace. They soon found themselves back in the lobby. They arrived outside moments later. Next to the USR armored vans sat an ambulance. The double doors in the back of it flew open. The doctors inside pushed a gurney to the outside. The Agents placed Paxton carefully on top then strapped him in tight. They slid the gurney back up into the ambulance. Before the doors were shut, the leader moved in. He sat down on one of the benches next to Paxton.

The emergency personnel inside were quick on their work on the neck wound. Paxton could feel an IV being inserted into his vein. He laid his head back and felt himself slip out of consciousness once more. Before he blacked out, he heard the squad leader say something to him.

"Don't you die on me, you hear? We have much grander plans for you."

***

Kaspar heard Clarke's phrase over the radio which forced him to curse out loud. A squad of at least twelve, probably more, Agents was headed straight for the church. He lifted the PSD, ejected the magazine, and a wave of fear hit him. He had forgotten that the clip was empty and he was out of mags for it. After he threw the gun to the ground, he cursed once more. He looked to Krys. She looked up at him and shook her head. Kaspar knew that they were in trouble.

"Fuck!" Kaspar yelled.

"What is it?" Krys demanded.

"What do you mean, 'what is it'? We don't have the ammo to fight back against that hit squad coming after us. We'll be ripped to..."

Krys moved her index finger over her covered lips and Kaspar quit talking. She ripped the mask off of her face. Kaspar could feel something inside as she moved in closer. He tore off his mask as well. His eyes moved from hers when she started to undo her flak jacket. She tossed it to the ground then worked on the top of her suit. He kept his stare while she wiggled her arms free. Underneath, she wore a black tank top. Kaspar's eyes grew wide at what else he saw...

Strapped around her midsection were four P99 handguns. Two were on her side, one in front, and one in back. Kaspar moved in closer, keeping his eyes fixated on her midsection...at the miracle that stared back at him.

"Hey," Krys said. "My eyes are up here."

"I was just admiring your...collection."

"Well, I always carry protection with me...just in case."

Kaspar reached behind her and took hold of the gun at her back. He did the same with the one against her belly. He held the handles and stared into her wide, brown eyes that had a hint of moisture in them. Neither of them moved for a moment. When he could feel Krys move her head close to his, Kaspar yanked the two handguns free. He moved his left index finger rubbed against the trigger...

BANG!

"Shit!" Kaspar cried out.

The gun had fired into the ground. The two looked down at the still smoking bullet hole in the wooden floor. Krys moved her gaze to Kaspar.

"That was kinda early," she said. "Don't you think?"

Kaspar could feel his face turn red. "Don't you ever tell anyone about this."

# Chapter .47

The loud boom of the explosion at the lab forced them back to reality. Clarke cried through their ear pieces that the team had assembled at the entrance. The two looked to the front doors to see them being pulled backwards. Their makeshift barricade would not last long. It already started to give way.

Inside his chest, Kaspar's heart felt like it was trying to escape his ribcage. He looked down into Krys's eyes once more and gave her a wink. The team outside yanked harder on the door. Kaspar returned attention the front. He noticed that the two walls in front of the doors would make for a nice bottleneck.

"You stay here," Kaspar said. He walked towards the right side of the entrance.

"What are you going to do?" Krys wondered. She started to take cover behind one of the pews.

"I'm going to get us some more guns."

"You be careful!"

Kaspar nodded then flattened his back to the wall. He held both of the guns in his hands and waited. The sound of tugging and then the barricade breaking away filled his ears. After one final deep breath the barricade snapped, sending the candlesticks to the ground. Kaspar and Krys's killers began their breach.

He heard the light sound of footsteps from an Agent. The Agent moved in slow, unsure what to expect. Kaspar pivoted right. He fired consecutive rounds into the stunned man's chest. The Agent fell and his P90 slid on the ground. The assault team behind him started to fire their P90's forcing Kaspar back to cover. He reached down for the fallen P90. Once he got a good grip on it he flung it in Krys's direction.

Krys moved up from the cover of the pew. She fired her guns towards the front doors. She heard the sound of the P90 slam beside her. After she took down two Agents, she ducked down. A spray of automatic gunfire tore through the decayed wood.

Kaspar moved backwards, firing his P99's as he did. He took out another Agent who tried to move in. The assault team grew more cautious at the sight of their comrade's bullet riddled bodies. They began to move back momentarily. Kaspar had his chance at one of the machine guns on the ground. He moved forward, firing a couple of rounds from each gun at the weary Agents outside.

He bent down, took hold of the shoulder strap of a P90 then turned. He made a run at one of the pews. The assault team started to move back in. Kaspar turned at the sound of their footsteps. He fired continuous rounds until the chambers locked back, taking down another Agent in the process. There was a pew right in front of him. He made one last burst of speed then launched his body into the air. As he came down, a shotgun blast tore through the top of the pew, just missing him.

Krys moved up then took out the Agent with the shotgun. She continued to fire until the chambers clicked back. She bent back down then crawled on the floor, reaching for the P90. Bullets from the assault team's weapons tore through the floor around her. Once she took hold of it, she fired the automatic towards her attackers.

Kaspar holstered the two empty handguns and shouldered the P90. He popped up to see two Agents drop as they tried to enter. He turned to an Agent who made it inside. The two killers had each other in their sights. Kaspar ignored the chunks of wood which flew around him. He aimed then took out the Agent with a head shot. Out of his left eye he saw another Agent move; flashes were coming from the weapon. Kaspar moved left then took out the Agent with a well-placed five round burst. He moved back to cover.

For a brief second, Krys moved up from her pew. A rain of automatic gunfire tore through her cover spot. She quickly ducked back down. The Agents were getting frustrated which increased their aggression. They were ready to storm the place now.

Kaspar crawled underneath the pews as the bullets flew. He crawled until he reached the set beside Krys. He moved up and rested his back against the wooden bench. He looked over to Krys. In the midst of the enemy fire, he realized that he desperately wanted to escape out of this with her. Even if it was just to see her smile again. Besides Mother, he had never felt anything about anyone like he did her. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was genuine, but there was only one way to find out...

Kaspar threw the empty P90 to the ground. He pulled the two handguns from the thigh holsters, the chambers still locked back. He showed them to Krys.

"I need more ammo." he said.

"Coming up," Krys replied.

Krys reached into her flak jacket for two clips. She slid them to the ground. Kaspar picked them up and reloaded each gun. With the clips loaded, he pressed the chamber release. Krys did the same beside him. With both guns reloaded, she looked to Kaspar. He looked back at her with a determined look and a half smile. He held the guns close to his cheeks, gritted his teeth, and breathed heavy.

Without warning, Kaspar stood and ran faster than he knew he could. He drew the gunfire of the Agents. He kept his head low, bullets flying everywhere, destroying everything in their path. He took cover behind an armrest of a pew. With his right hand still gripped to a pistol, he wiped at his soaked forehead with his wrist. Hopefully she got the hint.

She did. As soon as Krys saw Kaspar running and drawing fire, she popped her body up. She fired away with both handguns, taking out three of the Agents that aimed for Kaspar. She saw a fourth and moved her guns to him. She hit him with five rounds from each gun. The Agent fell to ground, his P90 fired bullets harmlessly to the ceiling. She fired at two others until her clips ran dry. She missed them.

Kaspar kept his head low and began to move back towards Krys. When he got to the pew to the right, he could hear the footsteps of two Agents. He moved his two gun hands up close to his cheeks again. When the time was right, his body shot up. He fired a round from each gun. The bullets tore through the throat of each target. Automatic fire came his way again. He fired away with both guns until they were empty. He ducked back down and cut a corner. His head remained low until he made it back to Krys's position.

As soon as he arrived, Kaspar rested against Krys's arm. He noticed that her guns too were empty. He sighed.

"You got any more?" Kaspar asked.

"No."

Kaspar moved his body around and stared into her eyes. Death was a certainty for everyone who walked the earth. He reasoned that there couldn't be any better way to go than like this. With someone he genuinely cared about. She fought like hell with him to escape. At the end of the day, they just ran out of bullets. His only wish being that he could spend just one more quiet moment with her.

The two nodded heads before they stood. They still had their guns in hand, held down low to their sides. The four remaining Agents moved in. They had their submachine guns aimed at them, ready to fire.

"Drop you weapons!" one of them ordered.

The two obeyed. They let loose their grips and the guns crashed to the ground. With their hands behind their heads, they froze, waiting for the barrage of bullets that would end their lives. The Agents moved in at a slow pace. Kaspar looked to the yellow fabric and hoped that Mother would be proud of him. He then looked to Krys. She did something he never would have expected. In the face of certain death, she smiled at him. That same smile that forced everything inside of Kaspar to feel warm. He smiled back then looked forward with his eyes closed.

The sound of automatic gunfire filled his ears. He waited for that white, bright light to come in from the distance. Instead, he felt a strong tug at his arm. Kaspar opened his eyes and felt his body fall to the ground. As he tumbled downward he could see two Agents drop to the ground. He landed on top of Krys and the gunfire from the entrance continued.

The two Agents that remained turned their attention to the source of the gunfire. A lone gunman fired away with an MP5-K in both hands. He took out the Agents one by one before they could even get a shot off.

Kaspar looked to see them fall to the ground. He looked down at Krys who stared blank back at him. They kept the stare before Kaspar broke it when he looked to the entrance to see who their savior was.

It was Boler. Greg fucking Boler.

"Get up," Boler called out. "We have to move."

Krys began to laugh underneath of Kaspar. He gave her a look as if to tell her that she was losing her sanity. The laughter only grew more intense. Kaspar smiled then picked himself up off the ground. He reached down to help the crazy woman up to her feet.

"Greg," Krys shouted, catching her breath from the laughter. "You just saved the motherfucking day!"

"We need to move, Krys." Boler replied.

Krys ran towards the gunman and wrapped her arms around his neck. All Boler did was pat her on the back before he pushed her away. He moved his eyes down to his thighs. He had two Glock 17's holstered there. Krys grabbed each; she tossed one to Kaspar and kept one for herself.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Kaspar asked.

"Robert called me and told me what was going on. I was on my way outta the city, but I turned around. Sorry I'm a little late."

"Well," Krys said with a smile, "at least you weren't too late...for us, that is."

"Let's just get out of here, shall we? The car is waiting out back."

The three moved out of the church. They kept their guns ready just in case. Boler led them to the side of the building. In the distance, Kaspar could hear the hum of an engine. They moved quickly towards the black SUV, the source of the noise. Kaspar reached for the front passenger side door and swung it open. Krys did the same in the back. Boler settled into the driver's seat, put the SUV in drive, and slammed on the gas.

As the SUV picked up speed, Kaspar pinched himself to make sure that this was real, that he was still alive. How did they escape that? Boler turned out to be his guardian angel...the last person on the face of the earth he would have picked out in a lineup.

"Where're we going?" Kaspar demanded.

"The Committee has a small safe house for us to hide out in case of emergencies. We'll lay low there until we figure out our course of action." Boler replied.

Boler turned the car to the empty freeway, turned on the light bar, and slammed on the gas.

# Chapter .48

Kaspar followed Boler into the old, run down shack on the outskirts of town. Boler opened the door without using a key. He flipped on a light switch and Kaspar walked in behind and gazed around at his new surroundings. The first thing that he noticed was there were no decorations, not even an American flag anywhere. It was an empty place, with stained white carpet, and torn up maroon furniture that had folded blankets resting on the arms.

"It's not much," Boler admitted. "But, like I said, we can lay low here for a while."

"Thanks again, Greg." Krys said upon her entry.

"No problem." Greg pointed to a narrow hallway in the back. "Sorry, but there is only one guest bedroom...one of you can sleep on the floor, I guess."

Krys looked over at Kaspar and gave him a wink. Kaspar wondered if it would be him that would sleep on the floor. He would give that up for Krys and suffer a long night of discomfort. He thought for a moment on sleeping on the couch. The couch, however, didn't look any more comfortable than the floor would be. Not to mention he would get to have that quiet moment with her that he desired so much during the mayhem in the church.

"You two better get some sleep," Boler said. "I have a feeling that tomorrow's going to be a long day."

Krys held out her right arm and pointed towards the door. "After you."

Kaspar started to move forward. He felt a hand grab at his arm. He looked over at Boler who fished for something in his pocket. What now? Boler grabbed hold of something and held it out for him. It was a folded piece of white paper. Kaspar took it in his hands, confused.

"The Committee told me to give you this." Boler said.

"You spoke with them? Why?"

"I'm not sure why. They just told me to give this to you when the time was right. So, there you go."

"Thanks, I guess."

After he placed the paper in his pocket, Kaspar continued to move to the bedroom. He would have to wait until morning to look at that thing. Sleep was evading him. Whatever was on that slip, he didn't want it to potentially ruin his night.

Once in the bedroom, he gave it a look. The white carpet was as dirty as the living room's. There were stains of reds, blacks, and yellows. He didn't allow himself to think about what the yellows might have been. A queen sized bed rested in the back corner, next to the cracked glass window. There was a thick, red comforter and two blue pillows. An extra blanket and pillow lay on the edge of the bed. Kaspar undid the flak jacket and placed it on the carpet. He then unzipped the top of his suit and pulled his arms out of it. He folded it neatly and placed it on the dresser beside him.

Kaspar picked up the blanket and pillow from the edge. When he turned, he saw Krys stand in front of the door. Her flak jacket already removed. She raised her eyebrow at the sight of Kaspar holding the bedding. He looked confused back at her. There was no way that he was going to sleep on that filthy ass carpet. Plus, Krys was a woman, she needed her privacy. Their moment could wait until morning, when they were fully rested.

"Where do you think you're going?" Krys demanded, her arms folded over her chest.

"Out to the couch," he replied. "There's no way I'm sleeping on that floor."

He moved the bedding underneath his left arm. With his right hand, he reached for the door handle. Krys moved her body in front of it, blocking his path. She shook her head no. When he tried to move her over, she moved in closer instead. She gave him a peck on the lips. A hint of the adrenaline that he thought faded came roaring back. He returned the kiss then moved his head back. Krys shook her head again. She wrapped her arms around his waist. The two exchanged in a prolonged kiss this time. He could taste her as she moved her tongue inside of his mouth. As the kiss grew more intense, and Krys began to aggressively direct him to the bed, one thought came to mind.

Could it get any better than this?

***

Paxton snapped back to consciousness. He looked around to realize that he was in an office. The office was decorated with very nice and expensive furniture. He looked in front to see a solid, red oak desk. When he looked down, he saw the smelling salts wrapped up in paper. The chemicals had forced him from his peaceful slumber.

He looked to the left and winced at the pain in his neck. The wound had been bandaged up. Why did they save him? Why didn't they just let him die? As he was still coming to, he could feel the cold, solid steel wrapped around his wrists. He began to move his hands.

"Don't bother," an Agent said. "You're strapped in tight."

Paxton ignored the pain and moved his head further left. He recognized the man as the squad leader from the lab. The Agent still had that stupid grin on his face. He loved his job too much, which made him a very, very evil man, Paxton thought. Paxton coughed and looked straight down.

"Where am I?" he demanded.

"Inside the Consul's office, of course. He would very much like to speak with you. He's got a lot of questions."

"I'm afraid I'm short on answers."

Paxton could feel the tape that attached the gauze to his neck start to come free. He coughed again. The squad leader moved his hand over to the bandage and pressed firm on the loose tape. The strong hand sent a sting of pain down Paxton's neck.

"Don't you worry about that neck, now, okay? We've fixed you up real good. You owe us your life, you know?"

"Forgive me if I'm not grateful." Paxton replied.

The door opened from behind them. The old veteran kept his head down as the Agent saluted the man who entered. Finally, after all this time, Paxton would get to give the vile man who lied to the innocents every day a piece of his mind. He moved his head up to the right, once again ignoring the pain. His heart sank as a familiar figure walked past him. Paxton laughed to himself in between coughs. Of course...it all made too much sense.

"I'm glad you can still find humor given your current predicament." the Consul said.

It was not Williamson. It was Pat Roberson.

# Chapter .49

"It was you all along, wasn't it?" Paxton demanded. A new kind of fury entered his consciousness now.

"Of course it was." Roberson replied. He walked behind his desk and pulled the large leather chair back.

"How could we be so foolish?"

"Don't blame yourself," Roberson replied. He took a seat in his chair. "We are just extremely proficient in what we do."

Paxton let out another laugh as Roberson grinned back at him. The Consul looked up and dismissed the Agent. They exchanged salutes and he exited the office. Roberson spun his chair around and marveled at his beautiful city. The crowd of citizens below started to form in front of the building with more coming from off in the distance. Roberson smiled once more.

"Ah," Roberson said as he spun his chair back to face Paxton. "Our guests are finally arriving."

"Guests?"

"You are scheduled for public execution tonight. Those citizens down there that you've been terrorizing will be very pleased with the fine work we've done in capturing you. They cannot wait for you to answer for your crimes."

Paxton looked up, pale faced. "My crimes? What about your crimes?"

"I'm...sorry, what crimes have I committed?"

"Genetic mutation...the deaths of God knows how many innocent women."

Roberson stared directly into Paxton's eyes. "To my recollection, nobody is innocent."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"All humans have their own sins, passed down to them from the generation before."

Paxton grit his teeth. "Cut the shit. Why are you poisoning the water supply?"

"You've already spoken with Danny, I believe?"

"Yes."

Roberson sighed. "Then he's already explained it to you."

"What's your role in all this?"

"I'm the true...Consul of this city, if that's what you want to call me. Williamson? That old fool is just another one of my pawns. He does exactly what I tell him to do."

Paxton looked at Roberson's smug face. He saw nothing but pure evil. He cursed himself for allowing the bastard in front of him to use his men for so long. It was all just one big game. Roberson created The Committee to trick Paxton and his team into doing the USR's dirty work for them. Everything that he and his crew had done...it was all for nothing. Was this truly Paxton's fate? In seeking liberty, before and after the USR, he was nothing but a pawn.

"The Committee...all lies..." Paxton mumbled. "We thought that you were going to take control once we'd won."

Roberson chuckled. "Once you'd won? Not even close, my friend."

"But...why?"

"You Americans...you had your freedom and look what you did with yourselves. Child pornography, murders, funding wars on false pretenses, corporate greed...killing yourselves with fast food, alcohol, and tobacco. We had to take back our rightful seats of power...before you animals destroyed everything."

"So, you decided to take control over the individual?"

"Exactly." Roberson said as he clapped his hands together. "Look at how low our crime rates are right now. Smoking related deaths? Non-existent now. Same goes for citizens being killed by drunken drivers. No more children being used. Hehe...no more terrorism...except for you."

Paxton clinched his fists until his knuckles were white. "You've been using us all along, to tighten your grip on the population."

"You...are wise beyond your years. But, you are not the only ones."

"Huh?"

"When we told you and Robert about our plan...that we had Committees all across the nation, that was not a lie. We do have Committees everywhere, and they all are aiding resistance fighters, like yourself, in order to spread the fear and to remind people of why the US of A was so evil in the first place."

Paxton clinched his fists. "Danny told me that you all eliminated all the resistance fighters and just used us for the media attention."

"He was correct when he told you that. The real threat, the real resistance fighters all in this region have been eliminated. As well as across the nation. Every major city has a group of American loving terrorists that we, the USR, support to further our reach of control."

"What about the individual?" Paxton demanded.

"What about it?"

"You can't just take away someone's freedoms...their liberties. And all for what?"

"Freedoms?!" Roberson said. It was his turn to get angry as he slammed his fist against the top of his desk. "Liberties?! The individual's only goal is to pursue his own interests. No matter how filthy and decrepit. He will follow his pursuits until he dies. He cares nothing for the wellbeing of others. Now, we tell you what to do, what to believe. And, in that process, we save you. Don't you see?"

"That's bullshit."

"Bullshit? Do you want me to explain what bullshit really is to you?"

"Give it a try."

"You and that rag tag group of rebels that we set up for you. You were so easy to manipulate, John. Your blind patriotism and hatred for the evil USR clouded your thinking. You allowed your own beliefs, your own morals, to be swept aside in pursuit of your vendetta."

"Everything I did," Paxton said, his breathing heavy. "Was so that others could enjoy a way of life that I once did. A way of life that my father and grandfather died for. It doesn't matter to me what it takes to it done."

Roberson sprang up in his chair. "That way of thinking is exactly why we are needed."

"I'll tell you a little bullshit of my own."

"What's that?"

"How many women do you think are going to die over your little experiment with the water supply?" Paxton demanded.

"That is all beside the point."

"How's that?"

"A little collateral damage," Roberson replied. "Even we can agree that it's needed at times."

"Well," Paxton said. He looked away and worked on the handcuffs again. "It looks like your little experiment took a set back tonight."

Roberson smirked. "You haven't learned anything, have you?"

"What?"

"Do you really think, after all I just told you, that I would allow you to destroy our product unless I wanted you to?"

Paxton said nothing. Just keep him talking, he thought. Roberson was so self-righteous that he wouldn't be smart enough to know when someone was playing dumb with him. Buy yourself some time...to get these Goddamn handcuffs undone. His brain scrambled for any trick he might have learned in the past about getting out of handcuffs. Once he got free, he would rush the bastard. Sure, the coward would trip an alarm. But, those Agents outside wouldn't be fast enough to prevent the snap of their leaders neck by Paxton's hands. Just keep focused...

"The hell are you talking about?" Paxton demanded.

"It is true that you've destroyed some of our drugs. But those were obsolete. We were going to throw them out anyway. Those men, they were to kill all of your comrades, bring you in alive, if possible. If all else failed, you and your friends would have committed another act of terrorism. Looks like we're going to get the best of both worlds tonight, though."

"You are so full of shit," Paxton said.

"Am I? How many of my men have you killed...tortured, even?"

"That's different. They are the enemy...you are the enemy to all those people outside, even if they are too blind to see it. What I do is called war. What you do is just plain, cold blooded murder."

"We are at war at all times, Mr. Paxton. At war with ourselves, culture, human nature."

Paxton looked straight down again, nothing but anger and frustration consumed him. He could not stand to listen to Roberson any longer. He couldn't stand to listen to his justifications for the murder of innocents. And, at the same time, he grew tired of the Consul trying to point the finger at him and his team as being the true bad guys. He spit on the floor.

"What about storming people's homes? Killing innocent women and children?"

"We had to root out the resistance." Roberson replied.

"Ha. You knew it was us all along. You knew all along they weren't involved and you still went through with it."

"And, you can thank yourself for that. Your very existence made all of that possible. If you had only listened to me. I warned you time and time again in my Chamber to lay low. You forced my hand, John."

"You expected me to just sit back and watch the USR, you, tear this city apart...I couldn't live with myself if I did. I can't just sit on my hands and watch it all burn."

"You see," Roberson said. He pointed his index finger. "That is exactly what I've been trying to explain to you. I pressed the right buttons, because I knew which ones to press."

"How about this button?" Paxton asked.

The metal handcuffs crashed to the floor. Roberson shot up from his chair in shock. Paxton, ignoring the pain and fatigue, summoned something deep within. His heart pounded in anticipation as he pulled himself on top of the desk. The Consul pushed a red button beside his chair. He back pedaled to the wall. Paxton moved in fast. He gripped Roberson by the neck and squeezed. The old veteran found enjoyment in watching the most vile human being alive take his last breath. The neck snapped. The office doors flung open as Agents converged on him.

Paxton closed his eyes.

# Chapter .50

When will they just let me die? The armed men behind him led Paxton out onto the roof to finish him off with a public execution. After he killed Roberson, the Agents that poured through the room didn't kill him like he thought they would. Another government official, one he had never seen on television or anywhere else before, came in with them. He ordered them to take the old veteran away. Those people outside, he instructed, didn't come all that way for nothing.

His heart began to pound as he could feel his feet reach the edge. Down there, five stories below, he could hear the cries of the people. They tried to hurl rocks or whatever they could find at him. In the midst of the cries, Paxton swore that he could hear a few cheers. His heart sank then, and a feeling of devastation overcame him.

Paxton continued to look down at the crowd. The masses down there were the very people that he was trying to save. They were also the same people that he put in harm's way in the process. That crusade was only moments away from ending.

His thoughts turned to what he did during his fight. He felt a kick at his knees which forced him to kneel. Once again, politicians had used him. Only this time, those politicians were nothing but pure evil. He thought about what Roberson had told him, about how the USR controlled him and made him do the things he did.

No, Paxton thought as he shook those negative feelings away. A black blindfold was wrapped over his eyes and tied around the back of his head. He knew that his intentions were pure. He knew that he tried to do the right thing, even if he put his own moral code to the back burner. What he tried to do was save this once great country. The feelings he had during the missions, the smiles he brought about Margie and the other's faces, and his own intentions were things that the USR could never, ever, take away.

Paxton closed his eyes underneath the blindfold. He heard the clicking sound of the gun behind him. Before the bullet tore through the back of his skull, one last, terrible thought entered into his mind.

Who will save them now?

***

"Is he talking, yet?" Sullivan demanded into his cell phone. He reached down into the trunk for the fully loaded mags.

The resistance was at it again. Sullivan watched the news this morning, they reported that not only had there been a bombing, but a highly decorated government official had been assassinated. They wouldn't reveal who it was, but warned that the loss was significant. Those terrorists just wouldn't be happy until there was no one left for them to kill, Sullivan knew. That's why they needed to be stopped.

"No," Fitzpatrick replied. "Hasn't said boo."

"Goddamn it, you guys need to get him talking."

"What are you doing right now?"

"Nothing," Sullivan lied. He looked to King, who was holding a blood soaked towel over his newly broken nose. He placed the mags into his back pack then zipped it up. "Just waiting to hear from you guys is all."

"Well, don't go around making a mess, you hear me? I'm putting my ass on the line for you."

"Don't worry about me," Sullivan replied. He ended the call.

Sullivan placed the strap of his blue backpack over his shoulder. When he moved in on King, his old friend backed up and started cringing, blood soaking his scruffy beard. Sullivan tried to think of a better solution to all this, but the gun runner in front of him gave him little choice. He retrieved his Glock and pointed it towards him.

"You're not going to tell anyone about this, right?" Sullivan asked.

"Of course not, man, come on..." King replied.

The Agent kept his gun trained. King would know that Sullivan was up to something. That was not an option. There could be no traces. Going outside the authority of the USR was a good way to find oneself in the gas chamber. He was already lucky enough that Fitzpatrick was keeping his mouth shut. There was no need to press it. Besides, King was a piece of shit gun runner who fucked desperate women and ripped of unsuspecting customers. He also, even in ignorance, must have played a hand in some way in arming the resistance. The same resistance that...

King raised his arms in the air. "You gonna leave now or what?"

"Yes."

BANG!

King's head rubbed against the white wall behind him, creating a smear of crimson all the way down. Sullivan replaced the Glock back into his shoulder holster. He walked up the stairs and out of the building. The musty air filled his nostrils as he walked out. He also saw something down the far alleyway to his left. A group of three Agents searched two younger men. They had their bodies pressed hard against the wall. Sullivan nodded his head in approval.

You get them, boys. Get them.

***

Kaspar worked on the zipper of his black top then tucked it into his black pants. The early morning sun shone through the cracked window. The light from the sunrise glistened against Krys's bare arms. He looked down at her and smiled. She looked so beautiful while she was asleep. Love had never been a part of his life before he met her. He wondered if she would be the first woman he would fall in love with.

The smile dissipated when he looked down at the note from The Committee once more. It had three names, three mug shots, and three addresses. Those three men...they were the ones involved with Mother's killing. Danny already confirmed the names, which was one thing, but seeing their faces...knowing where to find them. That changed things dramatically. No longer could he live in the hope that maybe one day he would cross paths with them. There was no need for that. He would force his way into their homes, just like they did Mother, and reign down her vengeance.

Krys moved around on the bed. She lifted her head off the pillow and moved the matted hair from in front of her eyes. When she caught a glimpse of Kaspar, she smiled at him. He returned the smile before he sat down on the bed next to her. He kissed her soft, wet lips. Without warning, Krys slammed the back of her head into the pillow. Tears started to run down her cheeks. The suppressed emotions from the night before attacked her with a sudden fury.

"The others..." she said.

"I know..."

"They are all dead, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Do you think...maybe John got out of there? He was still breathing..."

Nothing came to mind on how to reply. For his part, Kaspar knew that there was little to no chance that Paxton could have made it out of there. He wanted to be a comfort to her, but he didn't want to be dishonest with her, either.

"I don't think so...he was bleeding pretty bad..."

He stopped. It was all too hard to say. He looked down at Krys who nodded her head in acknowledgment. She moved her hands away from her moist eyes and wrapped her arms around him. Kaspar kissed her on the cheek then ran his fingers through her hair. After he pulled himself away from her, he stood straight up and looked outside at the sunrise.

"What are you up so early for, anyway?" Krys asked.

"I've got some things to take care of."

"Like what?"

Kaspar sighed and turned back around. He again started to have second thoughts. The woman on the bed, who he made love to last night, was tempting him to stay. It might be a trap for all he knew. The bait, however, was just too sweet to pass up. He shook away those second thoughts once again. He had to make up his mind and he did.

"That letter that Greg gave me," he said.

"Yeah?"

"It had their faces...addresses...everything..."

"So, you're leaving me, is that it?" Krys demanded.

"Just until I set things straight."

"I've lost everyone else," a single tear rolled down her cheek. "I can't bear to watch you go out on some suicide mission."

"I'll be fine."

"Do you think it will make you feel better? That your mother would approve?"

"It..." Kaspar paused. "That doesn't matter at this point. What does matter is I know where to find them now. I know what needs to be done. I can move forward, with you, but not until after..."

"You don't know, do you?"

Kaspar looked at Krys and wondered what she was talking about. What kind of secret had they been holding from him?

"Don't know what?"

"When you stormed out of Danny's last night, he told me something."

"What did he say?"

"You know that poison the USR had been dumping in the water supply? The poison we destroyed last night?"

"Oh, shit," Kaspar said. He moved back to the bed. "No, it isn't true."

"It is," Krys replied. "Danny read off the symptoms and I'm infected...I'll be dead soon, Ryan."

She buried her head into his chest. A scowl grew on his face when she wrapped her arms around him. There was nothing else left for the USR to take from him. They already took away Mother by murdering her. He lost his fellow teammates at the lab last night. Now, soon, Krys would succumb to the poison inside of her and she would be taken away. What was left?

"What are you going to do from here?" Kaspar asked.

Krys moved her head off of his chest. "With what little time I have left, I'm going to expose this conspiracy. I'm going to spread the word to everyone to make sure something like this never happens again. And..." she looked deep into Kaspar's frozen blue eyes. "I want you to come with me."

"I will...after..."

"You are impossible, you know that? Have I told you that before?"

"You don't understand, they've taken everything..."

"And, you don't think they've taken from me?"

"I'll be back soon."

As he stood a sudden guilt hit him in the gut. It was the way she was looking at him. She looked disappointed. Like he did with so many other areas in life, he ignored it. He walked to the dresser and found twin Glock 17's. The dresser drawer was also filled with mags and one of those black masks. He placed the guns in the thigh holsters. He put on the flak jacket, grabbing extra mags for it once it was zipped up. He also took hold of the mask and placed it in his pocket.

"Ryan?" Krys called from the bed.

Kaspar faced the wall. "Yes?"

"What made you come back last night?"

"It was Margie," he replied. He turned to face her, "She told me to remember her."

"Remember me, okay?" Krys replied. "What you are about to do is something that I can't help you with. Promise me that you'll come back."

"I promise," Kaspar said. "Meet me outside the Keystone...let's say around nine, I should be done by then. We'll get the hell out of here and spread the word."

"Okay...but your ass better not stand me up."

Kaspar smiled. "You know me."

Kaspar turned and walked out, hoping that he didn't make a promise he couldn't keep.

# Chapter .51

Kaspar parallel parked the black SUV in front of the small one bedroom home. He looked down at the sheet of paper. George Mason...he would be the first. Kaspar folded the paper back up and placed it in the glove compartment. His entire day had been spent on planning out his revenge. The excitement of finally getting his vengeance was suddenly replaced by anxiety and, most of all, fear. He had more to lose now than he did several weeks ago. Krys would be waiting for him when he got finished. If he was able to pull this off without getting killed first. He didn't want to disappoint her. For a brief moment, he wished that he didn't have feelings for her, because that would have made this easier by a mile.

The greatest risk he took the whole day was when he paid a visit to the precinct where the three Agents worked. He felt anger when he saw Mason and Wilcox walk out of the station for the day. It took every ounce of reason in his mind to prevent him from ending it then. They seemed to not have a care in the world. He noticed that Wilcox even had a look of joy when conversing with his partner. That joy would end soon. It did feel strange to Kaspar, though, when he didn't see Sullivan enter or leave the station the entire day. That gut feeling that he was being set up was reinforced, but there would be no going back now.

The engine was shut off with the turn of the key. When he opened the door, a clap of thunder from above startled him. Soon after, a light rain started to fall. The droplets of water splashed against the top of his mask. He walked over to the passenger side door, opened it, and then reached in for the two thigh holsters with the Glocks fastened inside. After he tightened the holsters around, he looked to the Mason residence. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should get back in the vehicle and go meet up with Krys.

Now or never.

Kaspar began to move his legs forward. Mason's home was a modest one story house in nice, quiet neighborhood. The yellow paint and green shutters had a fresh look to it, as if the bastard had just remodeled the place. When he approached the sidewalk, Kaspar kept looking from left to right, ensuring that nobody approached. He reached the front gate, unlatched it, then left it open behind him. The overhang over the porch provided relief from the rain that started to increase in intensity. Another clap of thunder caught him by surprise once more.

After he pulled out a Glock with his right hand, he moved his left to the door handle. Out of curiosity, he turned the knob. As expected, it was locked, and Kaspar suddenly realized with all his planning he failed to think of a way to break into a locked house. He went for the window to the right. He peered inside the darkness of the house. No lights and no movement from inside. With a sharp blow from his left elbow the glass cracked. He waited for someone inside to come out at the sound. Nothing. Kaspar looked around to see if anyone might have been out and about saw or heard anything. Again, nothing. He exhaled and then, as quietly as possible, punched away at the glass. He reached in and unlocked the window.

Kaspar pulled the window up and moved inside, left leg first. When he made it in he aimed his pistol forward. A terrible creaking sound from the wooden floors accompanied his first step. He froze and kept his pistol aimed. He took another, more careful step, and moved towards the back of the house. The silence and darkness of the house creped him out some. The street lamps outside did little justice to the blackness. He had this uneasy feeling that this was indeed a trap. Or, maybe, Mason was not at home right now. Both options were unattractive. If it were a trap, he'd have no shot at vengeance. If Mason was late getting home, he would no longer have the element of surprise. Either way, it was out of his hands. He just needed to keep moving forward.

Once through the living room he made it to the kitchen. He looked left. The green numbers from the oven illuminated the counters somewhat. In front was the hallway that led to the bedrooms. As he entered the hallway, the adrenaline that flowed through his blood stream heightened his awareness. At the bottom of the door to the left came a little light from underneath. When he got closer to the door he could hear a woman's voice. He must have been watching the news. Mason would be in there, Kaspar was sure of it.

He reached for the door with his left hand. With the pistol gripped in his right. He tried to slow his breathing. All of a sudden he heard the giggling sound from a woman. Kaspar paused, his hand still gripped on the handle. Did he get the wrong house? There was only one way to find out. He breathed one more time. The woman, judging by the direction of the sound, would be on the left. If Mason was in there, he would be on the right.

The grip on the handle was so tight that Kaspar felt like he would rip it right out of the door. He continued his slow, steady breaths. He was calm. His mission would be over in a matter of seconds. There was a hope that the innocent woman inside wouldn't get caught in the cross fire. It was a chance Kaspar was willing to take.

The door flew open with hard push. The woman screamed. The television set inside created a small, bluish light. Mason sat upright on the right side of the bed, as predicted. His woman threw her body on top of his. With a hard shove, Mason pushed her off of him. Through the tinted eye holes, Kaspar felt a sense of disappointment that there was no fear in the man's eyes. No matter, pretty soon, he wouldn't have any facial expressions at all. His target started to reach for something...

"Don't even think about it." Kaspar ordered.

"Who the fuck are you?" Mason demanded.

Without an answer, Kaspar pulled the trigger two times. The bullets tore through Mason's bare chest. Mason started to gasp for air as his eyes went wide. The woman's screams were muted in Kaspar's ears. He allowed the target to try and breathe for a few moments. Satisfied, he ended it with one shot between the eyes. The woman rolled off the bed. Her screams grew louder as she cried for help.

Kaspar stood and stared down Mason's motionless body. He then turned his attention to Mason's woman. He pointed the gun at her and hoped that she wouldn't make him have to kill her, too.

"What are you going to do?" the woman cried. "Shoot me now?"

He said nothing and moved backwards. He kept the Glock pointed at the woman until she was out of view. He then turned and ran for the door. As he pulled the door open only one thing could be heard.

"Monster! Murderer!"

***

Kaspar tried to get the screaming woman's voice out of his head as the SUV rocketed forward. He thought about what she had called him: a monster and a murderer. It was then that he realized he was no longer different from the men who killed Mother. The realization meant nothing to him, he only accepted it. Mother deserved justice and he would allow her to have it.

The SUV was brought to a stop once more in front of another one bedroom home, this one painted white. DeMarcus Wilcox was next on the list. Kaspar turned the key to kill the engine. He stepped out of the car and the rainfall had increased from earlier. He turned his attention to the unkempt front yard. The grass was full of weeds, there was trash and used cigarette butts littered all over it. He looked to the chipped white painted exterior of the home. There was something different: the front door was wide open. Only a torn screen door blocked entry. The lights were also on inside.

Kaspar retrieved his Glock. He approached the screen door and swung it open. No sounds inside. No sound except for...

A large, black and red Rottweiler barked in fury. The dog hurled itself onto Kaspar, knocking the intruder to the floor. The dog tore its sharp fangs into Kaspar's left arm. He cried out in agony as the dog violently moved its head from left to right, trying its best to rip the arm out of place. Kaspar did not want to do it, but he had no choice. He pulled the gun up to the side of the dog's head and pulled the trigger. The lifeless animal's body weight crushed down on his midsection. He tried to get the dog off of him. When he looked up his eyes grew wide. Wilcox stormed into the living room, a fully loaded Remington 870 with a sawed off barrel in his large hands.

With one strong heave he moved the dog off. Kaspar then rolled to the right. At almost the same moment Wilcox pulled the trigger. The buckshot tore a hole through the wooden floor. Kaspar continued his roll until he was behind the couch. The Agent pulled the trigger again, this time he created a gaping hole in the couch. With his back rested against it, Kaspar ignored the pain in his left arm. He grabbed the handle of his second Glock and ripped it out of the holster.

"Yeah," Wilcox called from the back of the kitchen. "That's right, run and hide, bitch. You killed my fucking dog!"

The loud boom of the shotgun filled the house. It created another hole. Kaspar slid his body to the right. He reached up with his right hand and sent four rounds in Wilcox's direction. Wilcox ducked then moved into the living room with his head low. He used his shoulder to knock down the dining room table. Kaspar fired five more rounds then moved his hand back down. Wilcox fired again as well, blowing a hole through the center of the couch.

Kaspar's mind started to race. He recognized the shotgun Wilcox wielded as being a twelve gauge. He moved further right until he was at the end of the couch. His target fired once more. Kaspar tried to search his mind for something that Paxton once told him about shotguns...

They carried five shells, six if Wilcox kept one in the chamber. Kaspar decided to play it safe and assumed that there would six shells. He reached up with his left arm this time then sent five more rounds in Wilcox's direction.

"Come on out and fight, pussy!" Wilcox cried.

Kaspar scooted left to the hole close to him. He peered his masked eyes through it. He had to get a good read on Wilcox's location. Just as he saw the turned over table he hit the deck. Wilcox sent a flurry of buckshot his way. It created a new hole in the couch...just above Kaspar's head. Six. Now was the perfect opportunity to make his move.

The Agent pulled at the trigger again at the sight of the masked man. The trigger stuck. Wilcox moved low to the kitchen. He rested behind the waist high bar and pulled more shells from his pocket. Kaspar moved in with caution. He pointed both guns forward. He could hear the sound of the shells being slammed into the chamber. He reached the bar. At the same moment, Wilcox shot up with a small revolver in his hand. The two killers stood face to face, each with a gun pointed at his head. A small grin crept across Wilcox's lips.

"What's it gonna be now?" he asked.

Kaspar slammed his injured left arm across Wilcox's. Three rounds from the six shooter flew harmless through the house. Kaspar reached up with his right arm and sent three rounds through The Agent's stomach. Wilcox began to stumble backwards. With quickness, Kaspar aimed both Glocks at his target's head. He pulled each trigger once. He stood for a moment, both guns still drawn, and he could feel his hands start to tremble. He then looked down at the yellow fabric attached to his flak jacket.

Blood was smeared on it.

# Chapter .52

Kaspar arrived at the last house on the list. This house was dramatically different from the others. Instead of a modest one story home, this was a gargantuan two story home on the rich side of town. This William Sullivan character must have been the man in charge. He easily made the most credits from any of the other Agents. Good, it was always better to save the best for last. He put the SUV in park then stepped out. Loud cracks of thunder filled his covered ears while he studied it. He moved himself across the wet front lawn to the porch. He reached for the golden handle of the front door and turned. To his amazement, the door was left unlocked. He drew one of the Glocks and moved in.

To his relief, the floors inside were brand new. There were no loose boards to alert those inside of his presence. The home was dark on the inside. He looked around and found the stairs to his right. He slowly walked up them with his pistol still drawn. When he reached the top, he saw a cracked door with light coming out of it. He moved towards it with deliberate steps. When he reached it, there was no hesitation. He had already killed two of the three. Kaspar just wanted to get this over with. He slammed his shoulder into the cracked door and ran inside.

He saw Sullivan sitting on the bed, his back propped up against the head board. Sullivan looked up from his picture album, tears in his eyes, and threw the album to the floor. Kaspar could see the sadness in his final target's eyes. The only problem being that he didn't give a shit what Sullivan cried over.

"William Sullivan?" Kaspar asked.

Sullivan raised both hands in the air. He nodded his head yes and began to look around the room. His bottom lip trembled. He moved his right hand to wipe the tears which prompted a warning from the intruder.

"Who are you?" Sullivan wondered.

"That's not important."

"You've just broken into my home. You've got a gun pointed at my head. I'd say it's very important who you are."

Kaspar kept the gun trained at the head. He thought for a moment. Perhaps it would be much better if he explained to Sullivan the exact reason why he was going to kill him. At least then, he would know that Mother's death would not go unpunished.

"Does the name Jenna Kaspar mean anything to you?" Kaspar demanded.

"Jenna...who, you say?"

"Kaspar! Jenna Kaspar!"

In the heat of the moment, Sullivan's mind went blank. He searched it but nothing came to it. Just then, a light bulb went off...Jenna Kaspar, suspected aid to the resistance...

"Who are you?" Sullivan asked once more.

"I'm the son...of the mother you killed."

"Listen..."

"Did you really think you would get away with it?"

"It was part of my..."

Kaspar persisted. "Did you think nobody would come looking for you?"

"If I hadn't done it..."

"Shut the fuck up."

"They would have taken my family!" Sullivan cried out. "They would have killed me!"

"What do you think I'm going to do?"

Kaspar's grip on the pistol grew tighter inside his gloved hands. He continued to look into the eyes of his enemy, unfazed by the fear he saw in them. There was no guilt or negative feeling about killing this man. He wondered if Mother had that same look of fear on her face before...

"You're a member of the resistance aren't you?" Sullivan asked, he noticed the American flag patch on Kaspar's right arm.

No answer came.

Sullivan's demeanor changed. "You guys must've thought I was getting really close, right?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That's why you bastards poisoned my wife! Just tell me the poison was meant for me, okay?"

"You have no idea what's really going on, do you?"

"I think I have a very clear idea..."

"That's enough," Kaspar interrupted. "No more talking now."

Sullivan shut his eyes and awaited the gunshot that would ascend him to nothingness. No gunshot came.

Kaspar kept his gun trained on the head. Self-doubt started to creep in again. He knew that, deep down, he was not a killer. Was this really the right thing to do? He already killed two of Mother's killers. Why not just let this one go? Sullivan had no idea who he was...he would get away scot free and escape with Krys.

He shook off the self-doubt and readied himself to shoot once more. His conscience would have to take the night off. Sullivan was high up in the ranks, Kaspar knew. He could not let him go. He must have been the leader behind the whole thing.

A sound came from behind. With his bloodied left arm, Kaspar quickly drew the second Glock and pointed it at the door. It was a little boy. No older than six from what he could tell. His mind raced back to the little girl who had died in his arms.

"You don't point that gun at my son!" Sullivan yelled from the bed.

Kaspar shook his head and focused his attention back to Sullivan. Just pull the trigger...come on. Pull! Pull!

"Daddy!" Davie cried. He ran for the king sized bed and hopped on.

"No," Sullivan ordered. Tears flowed free again. "You have to let Daddy deal with this man. Go back to your room and lock the door. Don't come out for anything."

"I'm scared..." Davie replied.

"I am too, son. But, you have to go to your room, okay?"

Davie looked up to Kaspar. "What did he do to you?"

Kaspar stared at the father and son on the bed. No answer came from his mouth. He looked straight into the little boy who looked straight into him. Kaspar kept his gun trained on Sullivan, awaiting the right moment to pull the trigger. The boy was not in line with the shot, but there could be no chances. The little boy had played no part in this madness. He should be in his room playing, not witnessing his father's murder.

He could feel tears flow down his own eyes now. The moisture began to soak through his mask. He tried to shake away the thoughts inside that told him to leave now. Kaspar knew that he had to deliver justice. Sullivan could not be allowed to walk away free from what he had done...what he had taken away.

The trigger finger froze. He couldn't do it. It was the little boy. Kaspar remembered how he felt when he saw Mother lying dead on the couch. The eyes that were wide open despite the owner of them being dead. Could he do that to Sullivan's son? The kid would have to grow up, never forgetting his father being killed in front of him. He would never relinquish his blood lust to find the man who did it. What kind of justice would be brought by creating another fatherless son? Kaspar knew the feeling...only his father choose not to be around. He saw on that bed the kind of love Sullivan had for his son, the kind of love that was missing from Kaspar's life.

He dropped one of the guns to the floor. The loud bang from the gun hitting the wooden floor caused his ears to ring. He raised his right index finger to his lips and started to lower the gun in his left hand down. He reached for the holster...

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Kasar could see the Agent reaching for something underneath his pillow. He fired the three shots as a warning. The rounds tore through the drywall behind Sullivan's bed. Sullivan began to aim his .38 Special at the intruder. Kaspar turned and made a run for the door.

The Agent threw the covers off of himself and ran in pursuit. When he reached the bedroom door he made his way through the dark hallway. As he heard Sullivan making his move, Kaspar, three quarters down the steps, blind fired four more warning shots upward. Sullivan hit the deck and fired two rounds from his small revolver. He heard the man running and Sullivan tried to stand up. His son, with a loud cry that rang the ears, jumped on top of him.

The front door slammed shut behind Kaspar. Just in case his would be target made it there already, Kaspar fired three rounds into the door. He nearly stumbled on the porch steps as he ran for the black SUV that still had the motor running. He jumped in, threw the vehicle's automatic transmission into drive, and pressed his foot on the gas. The SUV rocketed forward.

There were tears in his eyes as he made his way out of the neighborhood and onto the freeway. He felt unable to breath, so he ripped the mask off of his face. He paid little attention to the road in front. His thoughts were squarely on Mother. He swore to her that he would avenge her death. He had failed because of the little boy. He hoped that she would forgive him. Somewhere, deep inside, he knew that she would.

That vision of her shaking her head "no" told him as much.

***

Krys reached up to wipe away the tears that ran down her cheeks. She looked down at her watch to read the time once more: 10:54. She kept trying to tell herself that he was just running late. Any moment now she would feel him get on the back of the dirt bike. A little late...that was over an hour ago. The dread she felt that her lover was not coming started to fill her mind. It took her a moment to accept it.

She revved the loud engine of the dirt bike she found stashed away at the safe house. She adjusted her dark sunglasses then looked around for Agents that might be on patrol in the area. She was now out well past curfew and needed to move fast. She reached down for her cell phone and typed in seven numbers. It rang twice.

"Yeah," Clarke's voice said.

"It's Krys. Do you have everything ready?"

"Our broadcast will be played over the morning news."

Krys allowed a smile. "Good work, Robbie. You take care, you hear?"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to spread the word. Inform as many people as I can."

"How are you feeling?" Clarke asked.

She sighed and looked down at her stomach. "I can almost feel that poison eating away at me."

"I see...well, if I don't see you again, it was an honor."

"You, too."

She pressed END and took one last glance backward. She hoped to see Kaspar's figure move in close from the distance; ready to take the ride along with her. She never saw him. Another tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away.

The time for grieving over lost friends had...

The sound of a vehicle's engine running shook her back to the present. As she looked back, she saw a figure walking towards her. Krys gripped her sunglasses and pulled them away from her eyes. Could it be?

She felt a wave of excitement as she recognized the man who approached was Kaspar. She killed the bike's engine and ran towards him. Kaspar winced in pain as she squeezed. She backed away, looked down, and saw the cause of it.

"What happened to your arm...why are you so late...did you really do it?" Krys blurted out.

Kaspar held up his hands. "Wow, wow, take it easy. Some dog bite my arm. It took me a while to find what I was looking for."

"Is your mother smiling down on you?"

Kaspar knew what she meant. He shrugged his shoulders. "What's done...is done."

"So, where do we go from here?"

"You care to ditch that piece of shit over there and take a ride with me?"

The two laughed together. Kaspar saw that smile, he felt that warm feeling, and once more, everything in that moment was right with the world. He began to fall in love with that feeling, and with her. She went in for another hug, only she was more careful this time. She buried her head in his chest. As Kaspar ran his fingers through her soft, black hair, he didn't know what would come next. All he knew was the he felt something inside that he had never felt before. Hope.

"Ryan..." Krys asked as she pulled herself away.

"What?" Kaspar replied. He used his thumb to wipe away a tear from her cheek.

"You know that I don't have much time left, right? You really don't have to..."

Kaspar had about enough talk. He pulled himself in close and pressed his lips against hers, interrupting what she was about to say. The two embraced each other with a long kiss before any more words were spoken.

As their lips caressed against one another, Kaspar suddenly no long cared about revenge. His Mother, no matter how many Agents he killed, would never be back in this world. He only hoped that, if there was an afterlife, he would meet her there. For now, he knew that she would want this for him. For him to be happy, that's all she ever wanted for him. He remembered her telling him, the night before she died, that he needed to find someone special. Krys...she was special, all right, and there was nobody else he'd rather be with at this very moment than her.

"I don't know the future," Kaspar said as they pulled away. "We've got to live in the present. We've got to present our evidence to those people out there. Don't you worry. I'll be with you...until the end."

"We'd better get moving then, soldier."

Kaspar smiled. "After you."

# .Epilogue

The bright morning sun began to shine through the living room windows of the Sullivan residence. There were Agents all around the house, dusting for prints, and examining the numerous bullet holes in the walls. Sullivan stood in the living room, with little Davie at his side. Fitzpatrick had tagged along with the search team. He walked in front of Sullivan, obscuring his view of the morning news on the television.

"Let me get this straight," Fitzpatrick said. "He just let you go?"

"That's right. He barged into my room, ready to kill me, and then when my boy ran in, he just left." Sullivan replied.

"I always knew your son would do great things. What about the bullet holes littered everywhere?"

"He fired at me as he made his escape. I don't think he was trying to hit me, more like warning shots so I wouldn't pursue. Then he vanished."

"And, you didn't get any good looks at him, right?"

"Just like all the other resistance members, he wore a mask, but he did have some nasty gashes on his arm like an animal attacked him."

"Now things are starting to make a little more sense." Fitzpatrick said, scratching at his head.

"What do you mean?" Sullivan wondered.

"You heard about your two partners, right?"

Sullivan fought back a smile. "Sure did."

"Well, Demarcus had a large dog who had its brains blown out."

"So, he was going after all three of us, then?"

"Sounds like it. I'm going to go upstairs, help those fellas out. Let me know if you need anything."

"Will do."

Sullivan turned his attention back to the television screen. The picture started to get fuzzy then went completely black. When the picture returned, it was not the USR news. Instead it was a picture of a waving American flag. After the flag faded away, there sat a man with white, scraggly hair and thick glasses behind a desk.

"Citizens of the USR, this is the resistance..."
Rebels & Lies
Acknowledgments

Though writing in itself is a very solitary act, the novel you have just read (and, hopefully enjoyed!) would not have been possible without the encouragement and support from several people. To my parents, who have always supported this crazy dream of mine to write a novel. Thank you for your constant support and for instilling in me a never say die attitude. Despite all the disappointments, getting my hopes up with partial requests, and self-doubt, you never let me quit. To my buddy Billy who read not one, but two completed drafts, which was more than I could ever ask for. Thank you for your time, encouragement, and feedback. To my wife and editor, Chrissy, thank you for putting up with me through all the long hours it took to get this thing done. Thank you for your support, kind words of encouragement, not laughing at me for my silly grammatical errors, and for being the best wife ever! I love you. Big thanks to my sister-in-law Charity for the various connections she helped me make. Thanks to Greg Dejaynes for the awesome cover art. And, last but certainly not least, to my friend Dani, who always wanted to see her name written in a book. There you go.
About the Author

Rebels & Lies is Brian Cotton's debut novel. He lives in Kentucky with his wife and pets.

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