REBELS & LIES
by
Brian Cotton
© 2012 Brian Cotton
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Cover Design © 2012 Greg Dejaynes
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or organizations is purely coincidental and not to be construed a real.
Novels by Brian Cotton
Rebels & Lies
Patriots & Tyrants
For Chrissy,
My best friend and the best wife a man could ask for.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
“When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one…”
-Edmund Burke
One
“This flag represents that same weakness that we so easily defeated decades 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 Society justice: publically. Let it also be known…”
Five weeks passed since John Paxton lost another comrade. His name was Zach and he was a youngster nineteen years old by mere days. The broadcast from the morning after still played out in his head. Over and over again. The Consul, that smug evil bastard who always wore the best clothing and looked like a forty year old man at sixty, stood before his slaves and celebrated Zach’s death. He even 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 looked down at the black digital numbers against a blue indigo background on his wrist. His eyes caught the date next to the time. For the first time today 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. 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 while he straightened his posture to resume his watch. “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 and not to mention a refusal to lose. Perfect attributes for a man about to be drafted into a guerilla war.
Something to the right caught Paxton’s eye as he turned the corner at
an intersection. 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 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 and all Paxton could do was say a silent prayer for them. His mission took top priority.
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 drag 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 now tasted 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 and then he held 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. The only thing he saw in front of him was 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 with his free fist.
He moved Blue’s knife hand backwards and delivered his knee into Blue’s groin. The terrible snap of the wrist 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 strike 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 neck 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 then his face made an acquaintance with Paxton’s knee.
The attacker fell to the pavement with 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 was still lit and the cigarette 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 pavement 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 and 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. The then refitted the hood over his head, slid box of smokes into the pouch of his sweatshirt, 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.
Two
An intense feeling of pleasure consumed Ryan Kaspar the first time he knocked someone out. His opponent laid flat on his back, his extended arms twitched, making him look like a crucifixion victim who suffered from epilepsy. 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 nine just last week after he bludgeoned a poor, skinny father of four. The father, with no job and his 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. The citrus bile only added to a flavor that came straight from the underworld 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 him and grabbed the one hundred percent recycled tissue paper to his right. He used the sheet to wipe the remains of the vomit from the stubble that grew on his 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 could 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 and turned on the faucet. He splashed the ice cold water on his face. Words telling him to get a grip ran around in circles in his mind. The odds of a victory were slim enough without bringing doubts into the fight. Danny was right. 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.
Rebels & Lies (Rebels & Lies Trilogy Book 1) Page 1