The Sons of Liberty

by James Tow

that kind of thinking has gotten you,” he said with a hushed voice with his head hanging.

  “What?” I asked him to repeat, but I knew what he said.

  “You heard me!” he yelled. “You send people to their destruction, and I reason. And my reasoning has been better for us.”

  “Reason,” I repeated

  “Yeah, reason. It doesn’t matter if times have changed. Things still work the same.”

  As soon as he finished, I grabbed his face with my right hand—this time, slamming his head into the wall. My vise grip held his mandible to breaking point. I got inches from his face, “Kill…or be killed, it’s as easy as that.” I let go of his face and turn away from him. “Ignorance is doing the same thing and expecting different results. I’m sure you’re educated ass can figure it out.”

  “Those people at the bar have never seen us before, yet they protect our name. We’re a symbol of hope. We’re saviors…we’re heroes.” I told him. “What we have done have made us heroes.” I glance up to see we have just passed the seventieth floor. “Now…I’m not saying to change who you are. I just want you to protect who you are.” I turn to look at him. His face is incoherent but he’s shaking his head.

  The elevator slows to a stop and the doors slide open. We both stay stationary and stare passed the elevator doors. ‘I see where that kind of thinking has gotten you.’ His words lingered in my head and for some reason I felt a wave of regret. I haven’t been the best role model. And I’ve never fully appreciated his presence here with me. He’s watched my back and cared for me before, and I just punch him in the face for it.

  “I’m…sorry,” I whisper to myself. I see him slowly glance up at me. “I’m sorry Paul,” I told him but I couldn’t look at him.

  “It’s just…in this era, we are the decision makers. We are the old men who younger generations lean on and look up to for support. I know that means I can’t be afraid, but it also means we have to be smart,” he croaked.

  I put a hand on his shoulder and he says, “Dude, gay.”

  “C’mon.” He grabs our bag of clothes and follows me out into open space. The new dust-filled air is surprisingly relieving—it’s quiet. I put the bag of weapons on the ground in front of me and un-zip it—looking for the extra 5.56mm ammo for my assault rifle. A familiar sound tears me from my search. I pause and listen for a moment.

  “What’s up man?” Paul asked. Then he heard it too. The single rotary of the helicopter sent vibrations through the floor, shaking our nerves. It came into view, to our left. The glass wall, that the chopper hovered in front of, was fifty yards away while the glass wall in front of us was about twenty. Quickly, I take the two parachutes out of the bag, two fragmentation grenades, and some frag ammo for Paul’s grenade launcher.

  I slide a parachute to Paul’s feet.

  “Don’t say a word,” I tell him as I remember our first conversation about the damned parachutes. He drops the bag and slides his arms into the chute. I do the same.

  “Take what you need out of the bag!” I yelled, and he pulls out the massive sniper rifle.

  “Are you kidding me?!” I scream as he is concentrating on how to carry the large weapon.

  “Parachutes? Remember?” he said as he finally got a grip on the gun.

  “I told you not to say anything dammit,” I said as I take Paul’s G36, slide a frag into the grenade launcher, and fire at the glass wall in front of us. The blast launches heat in all directions and glass is slung outward.

  “Jump,” I tell Paul. He looks at me with horror-filled eyes as he was trying to take aim at the chopper. “What?!”

  The glass to our left is blown out from gun fire. The helicopter was now turned sideways, exposing the five soldiers it’s transporting. The two soldiers who fired at the glass jumped down into the building via rope—the rest quickly follow. I slip another grenade into the gun and fire upon the helicopter—right on the money. The grenade landed in the cargo hold of the chopper, exploding on impact.

  “JUMP!” I yell and push Paul toward the hole I created.

  “Not this again!” he yells as he runs off. I aim the G36 to give Paul cover, but it was empty. I drop the gun and pull out my pistol, opening fire—taking out one soldier. I quickly turn, and sprint as fast as I can; leaving the bags of weapons and clothes. As soon as he dove through the hole, the soldiers opened fire. I felt several bullets tear the flesh of my shoulders and arms, but I still press on—adrenaline is a beautiful thing. As much as my torn body will allow, I take a one last step jump through the threshold.

  The rush of air passing around my body is a wonderful sensation, but this time around, it magnified the pain the bullet holes caused me. I began to feel dizzy and my vision was slowly fading away. I don’t think a thousand feet in the air, plummeting toward the ground, is an ideal place to pass out.

  Focus.

  But I can’t. The darkness takes over, and the rushing air becomes faint. I feel my body twirling and doing somersaults in midair. Is this what failure feels like? Letting go of everything, feeling care-free—it’s quite the experience.

  FOCUS! She screams at me.

  My eyes fling open and I find my grip to the parachutes strap. The ground is only a hundred feet away, so I let it rip. The parachute catches air. It was only enough to slow my decent to a bearable landing. When my feet landed, my legs buckled and I painfully fall backward.

  Quick moving, dark clouds slowly reveal sunlight. As the first bit of the sun comes to view, the parachute falls over my face and body.

  Again, my vision becomes blurred and I close my eyes. I roll over to my stomach and somebody grabs my body, bringing me to my feet. I can hardly stand and I realize my leg was grazed by a bullet. Paul’s supporting my weight as he guides us to the closest Humvee. He throws his sniper in the back of the truck and he helps me climb in. Paul hops in the driver seat and searches for the key. I slowly start to slip away when he finds it in the center console and fires up the engine. When we start driving, I notice the surrounding area isn’t familiar.

  “A23, right?” Paul calls back.

  “Yes,” I confirm.

  He takes a sharp left turn and the Shard comes into sight. I lay my head back and try to relax. “Shit!” Paul yells. A couple of roaring engines can be heard on our tail. I sit up and try to keep my head in the game. The last time I felt this horrible I could’ve sworn I was going to kick the bucket, but I couldn’t let Paul and her down. I had to stick it through.

  One of the Humvees pulls up next to us and a soldier was sitting in the open back seat. He jumped from the back of his Humvee, aiming for ours. Unfortunately for him, he missed. The remains of his limp body stuck to the grill of the second Humvee trailing us. I yell back, “This isn’t an action movie dumb a…” A loud pop from a shotgun cut me off. The majority of the shot hit me in the chest, and a single pellet hitting my neck. The shot knocked the air from my lungs, but luckily he was too far to do massive damage.

  “Where did you come from?” I croak to the other soldier sitting in the back seat. I grab Paul’s Barrett sniper while Paul reaches back and grabs the M4 that was still wrapped around my shoulder. I aim the cannon at the soldier who shot me. The bastard. I fire three .50 caliber shots at him—taking off his head and splitting him in half. Paul unloads a clip of the assault rifle into the driver. The Humvee pulls left and crashes into a brick structure. I position the sniper to my liking, aiming behind us, and lay in prone. It hurts, but it builds character. I look through the scope and see the horror-struck face of the driver. He pulls evasive driving, but it doesn’t matter. I follow him and unleash the remaining seven shots in his direction. The trucks slowing engine can be heard, as it was visible, when we started to pull away. Smoke and fire was all I could see from that second vehicle.

  Relief washes over as I lay back down with the sniper resting on my chest. “Don’t say a word,” I croaked as the dizziness comes back, and I welcome the darkness.

  9. Interrogation…

&n
bsp; I wake up from the loud chatter in the other room, grateful that I’m wrapped in bandages and covered in blankets. The bandages are soaked in sweat as it continues to flow down my bare back and torso. I try and move bits of my body—checking which parts still function correctly. First, I flex, bend, and twist my left leg in all possible ways. Starting with my hamstring, ending with my toes—everything feels fine. My right leg is a different story. I try to flex my quad muscles, but I stop due to sharp pains shooting all the way up my spine. After that, I stopped trying. Pain builds character, but I suppose I’ve done enough character building for now.

  I try and relax a bit longer, regaining full use of my eyes. I look around to see I’m in a cozy spot. The soft, small, bed I lay on is accompanied by a small wooden stand where two white candles sat burning, providing the light. Not even ten feet away stood the small wooden door. The walls were made of thick, dark colored, stones. By my feet was a small rocking chair. Other than that, the room contained nothing interesting.

  I wasn’t sure if I was awake through most of it, or I dreamt it. I can picture the Gatwick airport. I remember Paul, supporting my weight, leading me to the two airplanes—an AC-130U and a C-130 Hercules. In fact, I asked one of the many who ran to our rescue how they got Spooky—the impressive black bird that rained fire upon the prison earlier. And I vaguely