And I Will Lead the Revolt: The Split, #2

Prologue

August 26th, 2013

Columbus, Ohio

Bobby Clyne seized the passenger-side armrest with a shaky, wet grip. The acceleration of the car tossed him back into the seat. Unshaven and wide-eyed, he gasped for breath as his throat tightened. The strangled howl of the thrashed four-cylinder was lost somewhere amidst the rifle blast still ringing in his ears. He cast a quick glance at Nate.

Nate Finch steered the Pontiac Sunfire across the lanes of the Broad Street Bridge, swerving around vehicles in the way. His thick, brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his jaw was clamped shut, rigid and tense.

They cleared the end of the bridge in five seconds' time.

What did I do?

Bobby's mind felt like a car ready to careen off a cliff. There was no way to stop it; the wheel had already been turned too far in the wrong direction, the accelerator pressed too hard for too long. And now Trevor Blet, the Grand Marshall of the Ohio region, was dead.

He looked out the rear window, fearing a multitude of inescapable scenarios. He didn't know whether to expect a hulking Meatplow bearing down on them, a stream of Military Police patrol units closing the distance, or a smattering of MPs taking aim with their rifles.

He gasped once again, partly in a brief sense of relief, partly because he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. He only saw the two MPs who’d given chase on the bridge, and they stopped running only to wave forward a patrol unit that was just rounding the turn onto Broad Street.

Head start, was the only thing his detached brain could put together. His calloused hands shook like he was in the throes of substance withdrawal, and he thought his pounding heart would burst through his salt-ringed t-shirt. He couldn't get one thing out of his mind: the sight of Trevor Blet's head exploding.

Damn it! Nate hissed as they sped into the middle of an intersection.

Bobby saw Military Police vehicles approaching from the north, racing toward them. He kept his eye on the flashing beacons, turning his head to watch what the MPs would do as the Sunfire sailed across their path. To his surprise, the patrol vehicles rolled through the traffic light, continuing on their southward route. They didn't turn to follow!

Nate made no response; he kept driving with frantic eyes glued to the road.

We’re going to make it. Bobby didn't know where the glimmer of hope came from, or how it had surfaced amongst the panic with which it competed. He couldn't guarantee the next fifteen seconds of his life let alone predict the odds of escape. Nor did he have any reason to place confidence in Nate, someone he knew was loosely associated with the Military Police.

The question of why Nate stopped to pick him up hovered in the back of his mind along with a carousel of other confused thoughts. The sheer luck of Nate's timing was stupefying. Bobby was lost in a crowd of anonymity, and the only familiar face in the entire city arrived out of nowhere.

It didn't matter. Nate and his car were just cold facts. They were concrete details, elemental things that didn't merit emotional attachment. The frenzied instinct to survive had rewired Bobby's brain.

He leaned back on the headrest and pressed his eyes shut. He couldn't stop the sensation of spinning out of control. The oppressive humidity, the brick-oven heat, dehydration and malnutrition, the lurch of the car as it bounded over potholes—he was acutely aware of each. Coupled with manic emotions he couldn't classify, he was left with a sick sense of despair and isolation.

Then panic gripped him again, and he opened his eyes to look out the rear window once more.

The lone MP patrol vehicle from the bridge was still in pursuit with the towering city shrinking behind it. It was a Ford Police Interceptor Sedan painted flat black with emergency lights ablaze.

Bobby knew it had a motor tuned for pursuit purposes; it was only a matter of seconds before it would overtake them. We're dead, he muttered.

Nate looked up at the rearview and then stomped the gas pedal.

The Sunfire's engine complained, but Bobby didn't think the car moved any faster. Certain he would vomit, he leaned against the door, letting the hot wind from the open window whip across his face. He braced himself as Nate jerked the car back and forth to prevent the patrol vehicle from drawing alongside.

Ahead, the road continued in a straightaway flanked by rundown businesses and semi-industrial structures. They streaked across another bridge which overlooked the interstate.

The patrol vehicle kept pace, vying for position.

Soaked with sweat, Bobby spun his head back and forth between the road ahead and the road behind, wondering if the MPs would try to shoot at them. He looked ahead once more and saw they were nearing another intersection. The traffic light turned red, but he didn’t feel the car slow. He looked at Nate, gasping again, barely choking out his words. We won't make it!

Nate didn't flinch, nor did he respond. He only kept both hands on the wheel as they bore down on the cross traffic that began to enter the intersection.

Bobby grabbed the armrest again and winced as they sliced through the line of traffic, somehow weaving their way between the end of one car and the beginning of another. Once past, he turned around to watch the patrol vehicle attempt the same.

It had just entered the intersection when a semi-truck came barreling through and smashed into the side of it. In a mess of splintered glass and crunched metal, the truck plowed the patrol vehicle across the street like a mound of snow.

Bobby turned to Nate, his voice hoarse. We've got to ditch this car.

***

The Raider looked down at the spent cartridges littering the dusty road, and then the adrenaline shakes took over. Tremors rattled his ruddy arms as he tried to keep his AR-15 from swaying. Despite the sizzle of the sun, a chill flashed through his core.

He wore hiking boots, grungy cargo shorts, and his usual utility vest over a white t-shirt. His oily face was peppered with stubble, and his sandy hair lay matted in clumps. He took in the sprawling warehouse and rusted trailers that lay near his position.

Across the street, the leather-clad members of the Mother Hatchet biker gang scrambled through the dirt toward their motorcycles, guns held in a tight grip.

With a half-dozen dead MPs fifty feet away, the Raider felt like his movements were in slow motion. He whistled for Santo, his lab-shepherd mix, who remained crouched by his side throughout the firefight. Need to move.

Mauzer, the man who had become a fast but temporary ally, stood four feet away. Sweat beaded against his close-shorn scalp, and the lenses of his sunglasses were covered in a film of dust. He holstered his 1911 and picked up his discarded shotgun before jogging toward his pickup. Need to high-tail it outta here!

The Raider barely heard him with the ringing in his ears. He ran across the street without a reply. As far as he was concerned, their transaction was a done deal; he swapped the stolen government laptop for the money, and there wasn't any need to converse with Mauzer anymore or wonder who the Sons of Washington were. Plus, he heard the far-off wail of emergency sirens and knew he couldn't waste a second.

He reached the Jeep as Mauzer's pickup tore past him with howling motor. He opened the door to let Santo hop inside, and then he stepped up into the driver's seat, not bothering to properly stow his rifle.

Does Reamer know about the laptop? Did he send the MPs? He agonized over the possibilities as he whipped the Jeep around the lot and back onto the road. He followed the roar of the bikes as they blasted ahead at full throttle. No, this isn't his style. Would've brought me in and made me suffer for it.

The Raider hammered the gas and let the industrial sites melt into the side mirrors. He’d have to find some way to feel-out Reamer, just to be sure. If it turned out he'd burned a bridge with the man, it would mean a severe kink in his supply chain at the very least.

Santo whined and jostled in the passenger seat.

The Raider wiped the sweat from his brow. Easy, boy. Get on back there.

Santo obeyed and hopped into the back seat in a blur of brown and gold fur.

They reached the entrance ramp for the freeway, and the Raider steered for it with squealing tires. The Jeep bounced and skidded, forced into a maneuver for which it wasn't built, but he manhandled the wheel and was able to maintain control.

They'd just merged onto Route 71 when the motorcycles were only glints in the road ahead. He wouldn't feel comfortable until he'd put at least ten miles behind him and the scene of the shoot-out.

Maybe the MPs were just an unhappy coincidence. Maybe they were tracking Mauzer and not me. He smacked his palms against the steering wheel in disgust. But what if they ID'd the Jeep? He knew if Reamer had his pulse on the details, then it was only a matter of time before the man connected the dots.

The Raider wanted to believe that he was in the clear, but he couldn't waste time trying to guess. Reamer expected him to check in soon. He could either leave the city or follow through as planned. Leave empty-handed or make a killing.

He took a few controlled breaths and fought the temptation to fiddle with lighting a cigarette. The money is too good. Worth more than the risk of a phone call. With one hand on the wheel, he fished his cell phone out of a vest pocket. He found Reamer's contact info and pressed the call button. Here goes nothing.

***

Bon Horton's dark eyes glazed over. The mosquito bites accumulated in the past two weeks no longer itched, and the dry, crusted sweat on his narrow face was streaked with new perspiration. He thought he must look like a weathered scarecrow with his tall, lanky build and mop of disheveled hair.

He glanced over at Katie sitting in the passenger seat of the Crown Victoria.

Silent, the nine year-old didn't return his glance. Her brown eyes were lost somewhere along the dash. A mess of dirty, shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her oval face still showed smudges of dirt.

Bon had done his best to wipe away the greasy filth from her cheeks and chin; something in him wanted to make her feel clean again. He nearly broke down each time he wondered about her treatment since she'd been abducted. Has she been violated in any way?

He didn't ask. Instead, he looked at himself in the rearview mirror, but found that he couldn't hold his own gaze. He didn't know if it was shame, guilt, fear, or all three. The last five minutes were still stuck in his head: pulling the trigger on the two men now dead inside the motel room and afterwards rifling through Sully's soiled pants pockets looking for the car keys.

Bon put the gear selector into reverse when he heard the whine of emergency sirens. The blast of gunfire had seemed so far away to him; it echoed in some remote part of his brain. In reality, he knew it was loud enough to raise all kinds of alarm from anyone nearby.

His manic survival instinct kicked in again, and he hustled the car through the littered motel lot to the edge of Broad Street. Pausing to scan for traffic, he froze when he spotted an MP patrol vehicle approaching at rapid speed, lights blazing.

His gut told him to floor it, to try and evade the police. The more cautious side of him, the one he’d neglected as of late, said to keep calm. He winced as the patrol vehicle neared.

The patrol screamed past, never once slowing. It was in pursuit of something or someone else.

Bon exhaled and urged the car out into the street, wanting to get clear of the city. Food. Water. Some place to sleep.

He turned to Katie again. When was the last time you ate?

She mumbled her response as she looked out the passenger side window. I don't remember.

Bon pictured Sully stopping infrequently along their cross-country trek to toss Katie scraps of whatever food was convenient: stale, past-their-date snack items found at gas stations, half-eaten things from garbage bins, or meager fruits plucked from sun-scorched trees. Sully only needed to keep her alive, not nourished.

Bon couldn't bring himself to ask her anything else. The turmoil of his mind took over again, and he lost himself in the dregs of self-doubt. You killed those men—one of them in cold blood. You can't come back from that now.

He thought about his brother. Does Hoffer know already? Did he feel it? Their twin connection fizzled out since leaving Hoffer behind in Arkansas; now the only thing Bon felt between them was a muted pulse, barely detectable. At any rate, he feared he'd damaged their ministry for good.

He drove two miles without thinking about it, without paying attention to where they were at. Food and shelter, he told himself again. That was the first priority. Once settled, he could try to get through to Katie's parents.

As the car rumbled over the buckled road, the thud of the suspension pounded a broken rhythm, a reminder that he was on his own. Exhaustion clawed at him, and his ragged nerves were deadened. He knew he should pull the car off along the road and pray for deliverance.

Bon looked at himself in the mirror again, and once more he looked away. He just didn't have it in him.

***

Hinkley, California

Cooper Ross winced at the stiffness in his ankle. He had lain in the covered bed of the pickup truck for hours as it drove from the hospital, parked for lengthy intervals with small trips in between, and then bounded over rough terrain through the night. Without an opportunity to get up and move around, the injured ankle had swollen even more than the day before.

He never saw the pickup's driver; their only interaction was through quick exchanges via the edge of the vinyl tonneau cover, loosened to allow airflow and the passage of water bottles, a bag of pretzels, and a plastic flashlight. Cooper kept as silent as possible, faltering between hysteria and boredom while he waited to arrive at the extraction point.

Now he stood under the inky black of the pre-dawn sky with the scrubby, rocky terrain of the Mojave Desert before him. His surfer-blonde hair was matted with dry sweat, and his broad-shouldered, athletic physique hung slack in fatigue.

Leaning with most of his weight on his good ankle, he watched the glowing tail lights of the pickup fade as it drove down the dirt path. He couldn't help but feel like all of his hard work went with it.

Mauzer, his handler in the East, assured him that the Sons of Washington would do everything in their power to bring him safely out of the West; the pickup truck that met Cooper at the hospital was the first step in that process. With President Bigelow's security service looking for him, he had no choice but to go on the run.

However, now that the panic had subsided, the frustration of failure hung heavy on his conscience. He chided himself for his recklessness. His rash decision to steal Director Stevens' laptop and then pass it off in a hasty rush to the Raider now seemed like lunacy. Of course, he couldn't pin his detection on that action alone; the security team at the Valiant—the White House of the West—may have been on to him before that.

No, I was always so careful. He took pains to cover his electronic tracks; he maintained his cover down to the last detail. The last two weeks played round and round in his head, but he couldn't isolate any one thing other than the stolen laptop. Maybe it had some type of tracking device...

It didn't matter. His unique opportunity to help unseat the United States Valiant was now gone, squandered. He looked off in the distance as far as the darkness allowed and wondered about his fellow operatives working in the East. Are they having any luck? Are they as polarized as me? What about people in the DMZ? Do they even care about restoring constitutional government?

He let his thoughts mellow, as he really had no concept of how the other side lived post-split. He could only recount the media slant that painted the East as a prison state and the DMZ as a lawless no-man's land. The periodic details he received from Mauzer led him to believe otherwise, and he had his own Midwestern experiences to fall back on. They both served as constant reminders of what was at stake. It's not about us and them. It's about uniting a free people.

The sentiment sounded hollow to him now. It was something cliché—unrealistic, even. He'd seen the government of the West up close and knew the political machine was unstoppable. There were too many people drunk with affluence.

Cooper's ankle cried out to him again, so he sat down onto the hard, caked earth, his shoes scraping the grit. A lone Joshua tree stood ten feet away, its outstretched branches reaching toward the sky, each with a tuft of spindly needles at the end. Behind him lay a low mountainous range, nearly lost in the smudge of the horizon. The air was cool and comfortable.

He fought the urge to let the blackness envelop him; his body ached for sleep. The sun would be up soon, and he needed to stay alert for his ride out of the desert. He placed the chunky flashlight next to him within easy reach. When the time came, he would use it to signal the man who was supposed to arrive within the next half hour.

Cooper leaned backward and lay flat against the ground. Tender and sore, his body let go of its tension despite the coarseness of the unforgiving bed beneath him. He closed his eyes in blessed relief. The pull of oblivion tugged at him gently. I'll only keep them closed for a minute...

Then he jerked awake. The small rocks that dug into the back of his head seemed more pronounced than before, and his lower back radiated with a dull ache. He didn't know how long he’d slept. Sitting up, he saw a pin-prick of flashlight in the darkness. For all he knew, it was a mile away; it was too hard to estimate distance across the desert floor. He only knew that it signaled the agreed upon rhythm: one, one, one; two, two; one, one, one; two, two.

No, dammit! You're too far off! He grasped the flashlight and flipped the switch; however, he was met with a disappointing flicker of weak light.

A nauseous swirl filled his stomach. The sickening fear that he might get left behind hit him with force. C'mon, c'mon! He smacked the flashlight with his palm, but the waning light only flickered again. He waved it back and forth above his head and jumped up and down, yelling.

The other light signaled for ten more seconds before it disappeared. Then there were the high beams of a vehicle followed by tail lights as it spun around and silently rumbled off in the opposite direction.

No! Turn around! Cooper broke out into a hasty run when the flashlight died. I'm here!

The vehicle continued to lumber away, ignorant of his existence.

Cooper realized the futility of running and came to a dejected, breathless halt. He dropped the hunk of useless plastic and fell to his knees. The toll of stress and physical exhaustion threatened to overtake him while his brain emptied itself of all rational thoughts.

1

November 28th, 2013

Columbus, Ohio

Seth Sloane checked the fire selector on his M4 carbine for the third time. Wearing the gray Battle Dress Uniform of the Military Police under his Kevlar body armor, he rode in the passenger seat of an MP patrol unit coursing its way through a west-side neighborhood. Stale air from the dashboard vents flooded his nostrils.

Outside the cold, rain-swept window, dilapidated, two-story homes crept up on either side of the street. Built in the twenties, some were boarded up; others showed meager signs of life with dingy plastic furniture on their porches and dim lighting in the windows.

Seth visually retreated back into the car. His blockish face held evenly-spaced features and a scar on his upper lip. At five foot eleven, he wasn't the most imposing member of the force, but he made up for it with his embracement of Defendu hand-to-hand combat and the Keysi Fighting Method. His hardened body had the endurance to prove it.

The M4 in his hands was fitted with a Close Quarters Battle Receiver. Seth and his partner, as well as the patrol unit following behind them, were on a clean sweep, and the compact variant of the rifle permitted ease of use in confined domestic spaces.

Clean sweeps were the Directorate's response to the public assassination of Trevor Blet, the Grand Marshall of the Ohio region. Seth wasn't surprised when Supreme Director Reamer issued an order for MP precincts to begin aggressive, systematic sweeps of their communities to confiscate illegal weapons. With the trigger man still at large, it was the only thing Reamer could have done.

Seth knew the weapons they found on clean sweeps were already deemed illegal when the Directorate enacted martial law in 2010. However, previous attempts at registration failed to pin down those who ignored the law, and that was motivation enough for him.

When Seth joined the Military Police, it was because of his desire to maintain order in society. Though he didn't have any prior police or military experience, the Directorate was willing to train him, and he made good on their return on investment.

He studied and fought harder than anyone in his recruitment class. With the peace and safety of his wife and two-year-old son always at the forefront of his mind, he excelled where others settled for a paycheck. He was promoted twice before being assigned to a Dark Team.

Freelance in nature, Dark Teams were under the loose governance of the precinct Major. They weren't usually assigned to handle clean sweeps, but it didn't bother Seth. He knew there wouldn't always be a need for the raids; they were necessary only until all of the regions of the East were in alignment.

You ready? Behind the wheel, his partner Vinny cast him a quick glance. With bushy eyebrows and pronounced nose and lips, Vinny Santoro looked every bit as intimidating as Seth knew he could be when breaking down doors.

Seth nodded. Gotta wait for the call. Pull off here. He signaled for the parking lot of a small