The Dragons of Men (The Sons of Liberty Book 2)

by Jordan Ervin

  “They thought they were part of the first wave,” the Recruit replied. “They didn’t get word that there was anything wrong until the bikes were through the gate. They’re tasked to guard it from people entering the city via the highway, not leaving. I’m sorry, Victor.”

  “Do we have—”

  “Failed again, Victor,” a deep voice called out from behind Victor. “I am glad I’m not in your shoes.”

  Victor turned, his nerves afire with the anticipation of anguish as Rendell Boss and six other Patriarch Agents entered the room.

  “Rendell,” Victor replied flatly.

  “What happened? And be quick about it.”

  “A patrol found three dead Agents in the lower cells twenty minutes ago,” Victor replied. “I had communications sound the alarm and notify all personnel to lock down the base, but two men managed to escape.”

  “Is that so?” Rendell said with a strange amusement. “Might I ask how that happened?”

  “The two men commandeered motorcycles from the stadium depot and made it through the blockade before we could stop them. The first wave was passing through and the gate was open.”

  “How many men were at the blockade?” Rendell asked calmly as he began to circle around a row of computers near Victor.

  “Roughly twenty,” Victor replied.

  “Twenty men and they couldn’t stop two,” Rendell said, clicking his tongue with disgust as he turned to a Recruit who was doing everything she could to avoid Rendell’s eyes. “Be a good little girl and put those men under for ten seconds, would you please? Let them use the time to think about their failure.”

  “Yes sir,” the Recruit replied, sweat already beading on her forehead.

  “Where is the first wave now?” Rendell asked, turning to the old flat screen television next to Victor. The control room was nothing fancy—televisions and computer monitors, though there were a couple of terminals that looked like they belonged at NASA or NORAD.

  “Three miles north of the blockade, sir,” Victor replied, pointing to live map on the television.

  “Tell them to halt,” Rendell said.

  “Halt, sir?”

  “If those bikes were going north, they will likely warn Fort Harding. Our mobile Graystone will be worthless at concealing our advance if the word of our assault beats us there.”

  “Understood,” Victor said as he turned to the Recruit beside him. “Order the trucks to return.”

  “Is that what you think I said?” Rendell asked as Victor stared back at him in confusion. “I order you to have them halt. A change in circumstances simply requires a change in tactics. The battle will still commence, the only question is how.”

  “But they’ll know we’re coming,” Victor protested. “We’ll lose hundreds just trying to break through that first blockade.”

  “Good thing we have spares,” Rendell replied, his voice flat and apathetic. “We might have lost the element of surprise, but that does not mean we cannot take that outpost today. If we are to break through their walls and destroy the danger at our backs, we will need to hit hard and fast with more than just men. I’ve already spoken with the Recruits at the depot and they are preparing just the weapon we need to breach Fort Harding’s walls. By the time their defenses burn, we’ll have tanks rolling onto the field.”

  “But why Fort Harding?” Victor began, shaking his head in frustration. “Why not use the men we have to hit the Texans across the river?”

  “Sigmund put me here because of my unwavering loyalty and malice,” Rendell said, brushing back the side of his black leather jacket as he began to pace. Victor wasn’t sure if it was an unconscious movement or a calculated gesture to reveal the silver cylinder at his hip. “I waited years for Sigmund’s call. I started a family and built a life in your mighty US of A. But then he reached out, beckoning me to fulfill the mission I had waited years to begin. I was among the first covert Agents to commence with his Purge. I have wondered often what came of the family I had raised. I suppose I might see them again. For all I know, they are huddling in the back of one of those trailers, waiting for my word to charge into battle and death. Honestly, I could not care less about them. I only care about victory. The future will be kind to us when we win this war, and for that I will demonstrate my loyalty to Sigmund every hour of every day. So please…do not force me to demonstrate my capacity for cruelty.”

  “Forgive me,” Victor said, biting back a harsh retort. “I don’t mean to argue, but don’t you see how this could be our end? What if the Texans attack when we’re focusing on an outpost that knows we’re coming?”

  “Then we will defend the city with our defense grid,” Rendell replied. “The Recruits on the ground were designed to overwhelm light fortifications with sheer numbers, not defend a city. They’d be nothing more than fodder if they remained here, going up against jets and attack helicopters with sticks and stones. Our aerial blockade is more than capable of defending us against Texas. If we delay, Fort Harding and Texas can unite to crush us between their combined efforts. Defending a riverfront by guarding a handful of bridges is an easy task. On the other end, protecting a city with dozens of entry points would prove to be our downfall. After all, twenty men couldn’t stop two from leaving. Imagine if a thousand tried to enter.” Rendell shook his head in disgust. “Now that I have explained myself, are you ready to tell me whether or not the remaining waves are ready for deployment?”

  “They are,” the Recruit at the desk replied. “They were armed this morning and were being loaded into the trucks for the second wave when the men escaped.”

  “Good,” Rendell said. “Now do you have the identities of those who escaped?”

  “Not yet,” Victor said, walking over to a nearby monitor. “One was a Recruit processed two weeks ago, though we can’t figure out who the second was. We’re not even sure he was a Recruit.”

  “What was the name of the man you knew for certain to be a Recruit?” Rendell asked.

  “Adam Corsa,” Victor replied as he pulled up security video of the depot. “I just met him this morning with Staff Sergeant Hebron. I swear I knew the guy, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “Where is Hebron now?” Rendell said as he watched one of the men shoot a guard before they sped away.

  “No idea,” Victor replied. “His Wasp is unresponsive. He said he was looking for Sergeant Neal when he found these two. They didn’t have IRDs so he took them in to get a pair of Wasps and—”

  “So you met two men wandering around our base without drones or Wasps and you didn’t think to question them beyond a name?”

  “In case you have forgotten, I have been a little busy getting my men ready for the butcher,” Victor replied angrily.

  “Watch your tongue with me,” Rendell said before glancing down at the screen. “Do we have any more video of the two?”

  “The surveillance video in the cells is compromised,” Victor said. “Whoever these men were, they had help getting out.”

  “What about the main hall in the stadium?” Rendell asked.

  “We haven’t checked those feeds yet,” Victor said.

  “Then why are you wasting my time?” Rendell said irritably.

  “Sir, we don’t know when they left the cells.”

  “What time did you first see this Adam Corsa?”

  “Roughly six this morning,” Victor replied.

  “Pull up the main hall security archives,” Rendell said. “Start at three and we’ll go from there.”

  They pulled up the feed and within minutes were speeding through the footage. The hall was dark and quiet, only the occasional passing of a guard. Around five twenty, five men emerged from the stairwell that led to the new Recruit cells.

  “Stop,” Rendell said. The video slowed to a halt as the five men talked with a group of soldiers.

  “That’s Hebron,” Victor said, pointing at the screen. “And Sergeant Neal.” The men in the video huddled together, their faces grainy w
ith the old security cameras. One of the men broke off from the group, walking over and stopping near a tunnel to the stadium.

  “Do you have another feed in the tunnel?” Rendell asked.

  “Nothing hardwired,” the Recruit working the computer replied. “We do have decommissioned IRDs that were stationed in each tunnel to act as another set of eyes.”

  “Do they record video?” Rendell asked.

  “Yes sir,” the recruit said, swiping around the screen as he mumbled to himself. “Okay, five twenty-three, drone twenty-four, video feed…bingo!”

  The screen cut over to the video of a man walking in the tunnel slowly, coming to a halt as he looked out on the stadium. The man looked up briefly, his eyes focusing on the camera.

  “Freeze it!” Victor said, leaning in close. “That’s him. That’s the guy I met.”

  “And you said his name was Adam Corsa?” Rendell asked as he leaned forward.

  “Yes,” Victor replied, squinting as the recruit at the computer zoomed in on his face. “I swear I’ve seen him before.”

  Rendell’s eyes narrowed as he gazed intently at the screen. After a few seconds, his face shifted and his eyes went wide—a reaction so out of character that Victor nearly started.

  “Patch me through to Sigmund!” Rendell shouted as he turned to Victor. “Do we have any way to contact the Recruits inside the trailers?”

  “There are screens wired in for wireless map projections, but we rely mostly on the Wasps,” the Recruit at the computer replied, his face a mask of confusion. “Why?”

  “I want that man’s picture posted in every single truck. Now!”

  “Why?” Victor asked nervously. “Who is he?”

  “Faster, damn it!” Rendell shouted at the Recruit, ignoring Victor. Victor looked back at him, stunned. He had never seen an iota of emotion on Rendell’s face, let alone panic. He had always been cold as ice and cunning like a fox, accepting orders no matter what the circumstances.

  Now, it looked as though Rendell Boss had seen a ghost.

  “Who is he?” Victor asked again.

  Rendell glanced over at Victor wordlessly as the Recruit pulled up the video conference nervously.

  “Rendell,” Victor began again, taking a step closer. “Who is that man?”

  “Victor, you just let go this war’s greatest bargaining chip,” Rendell replied. “If I were you, I’d pray to whatever gods you believe in that death finds you before Sigmund hears what you have done.”

  “And where is Mahiri now?” Sigmund asked, straining to keep his cool as a handful of Agents bustled about the New Orleans mansion.

  “In the other room speaking with his men in Mobile, Alabama,” Sūn replied.

  “He stays in New Orleans,” Sigmund growled. “Have you secured the Brazilian yet?”

  “The plane has already left and all traces have been eradicated,” Sūn said.

  “Good,” Sigmund said, pacing back and forth next to Silvia. “Sūn, I want Mahiri in here now and then I want you on the next plane.”

  Sūn stood to protest, his face growing grim.

  “Do not argue with me,” Sigmund said. “To lose New Orleans is one thing. But to lose you and everything you hold in that skull of yours is another thing entirely.”

  Sūn paused before bowing his head and storming out of the room.

  Sigmund hesitated as he glanced over at the remaining Agents. They worked furiously at their terminals to ready the defenses for the coming assault. Five hours earlier, Sigmund had been awakened and informed of an Imperium army that had been detected near Pensacola.

  They had thought it too large to be real—a gathering of what had to be nearly four thousand Yellow Jackets moving west at thirty miles an hour across the Gulf, aiming to strike New Orleans from the south. Sigmund didn’t need to be a master tactician to know what was happening.

  Lukas—hiding in a hole out in DC—had bypassed every stronghold between the Imperium and New Orleans to hammer the heart of the Patriarch’s might.

  “Where is the Imperium army now?” Sigmund asked, moving over to a grouping of three Agents.

  “The Yellow Jackets are twenty miles south,” one of the Agents replied. “They’ll be passing into Breton Sound in twenty minutes.”

  “Will our navy hold?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” the man replied. “We moved most of the defensive vessels down to Houston two weeks ago. Only a thin grid of ships guard the southern route.”

  “I do not remember giving such an order.”

  “You didn’t,” the man said, looking sideways at Sigmund. “General Mahiri moved them south to Houston to aid the efforts there.”

  “Is that so?” Sigmund said as Mahiri raged into the room, cursing up a storm as he shouted into a radio.

  “Just do it!” Mahiri yelled before shoving the radio into the hands of an Agent walking beside him. He looked up at Sigmund, irritation filling his dark eyes.

  “What the hell is so important that it could not wait?” Mahiri snarled.

  “Mahiri, my old friend, do not look so—”

  “I do not have time for games!” Mahiri roared.

  “Indeed,” Sigmund replied quietly, before turning to Silvia. “Go ahead.”

  Silvia nodded and approached Mahiri quickly. Mahiri hesitated, his eyes narrowing as she neared.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  Silvia hesitated as she stopped a foot away from Mahiri. She then became a blur as she drew a silver cylinder from her belt and jabbed it into his neck, dancing around Mahiri’s swing with ease. As she stepped back, her thumb hovered over a glowing blue button.

  “You bitch!” Mahiri shouted, his eyes wide with shock and indignation. “You mother—”

  “Ten seconds should suffice,” Sigmund cut in quickly. As the general opened his mouth to shout, he instead shrieked and collapsed, shouting as he writhed around in agony. Ten seconds passed and Silvia pressed the button again. Mahiri jerked and quickly emptied his stomach. Tears began to stream down his face as the great and fearless Mahiri Onyango—Africa’s infamous Shetani—wept uncontrollably like a newborn babe.

  “Silvia, maybe you should hit it again,” Sigmund said with a grin. “Perhaps a few minutes this time.”

  “No!” Mahiri roared, shaking as he fought down the sobs. “Please, don’t! I’ll do anything you want.”

  “You’ll remember those endless moments of agony as you defend this city with your life, you insignificant maggot!” Sigmund shouted. “Because if I doubt you for one more minute, Silvia will press that button and forget about you. Now be a good little maggot and hold this city!”

  “Sir!” one of the Agents shouted, “I’ve just received word that Texas has mounted a full counter-offensive in Houston and has begun to bomb Shreveport. Sir, we’re losing the western front.”

  “What of Little Rock?” Sigmund asked quickly.

  “Our men there are preparing all Recruits to storm the outpost to the north of the city.”

  “Tell them to stand down and defend Little Rock,” Sigmund ordered. “We can’t lose all three western strongholds in one day.”

  “What of—”

  “Sir, I’m getting an incoming call from Little Rock,” another Agent said. “It’s Rendell Boss.”

  “Just give him the orders,” Sigmund replied, turning to another nearby Agent. “Has Sūn left yet?”

  “We have a helicopter inbound to pick him up. He’ll be gone shortly.”

  “Patch me through to him,” Sigmund said. A few moments passed before the sound of rushing wind filled Sigmund’s ears.

  “Yes, Sigmund?” Sūn said as he mounted the helicopter.

  “The bomb,” Sigmund began. “Is it in play?”

  “I just spoke with the engineers,” Sūn replied. “They have it activated and ready for detonation.”

  “Can I activate the bomb from here?” Sigmund asked.

  “I…I don’t know,” Sūn replied. “We could possibly reroute the sign
al, but you don’t have the necessary equipment and I do not have the time to change the procedure.”

  Sigmund paused, glancing over at Silvia. “And could Silvia detonate the bomb if she were to remain here?”

  Sūn hesitated briefly before replying.

  “Yes.”

  “It is settled then,” Sigmund said, turning to Silvia. “Are you ready for your release, my dearest Silvia?”

  Silvia nodded back to him, the slightest hint of a hopeful smile gracing her lips.

  “Good, then stay here and—”

  “Sir,” the Agent began. “Rendell is insisting you take his call.”

  “Patch him through,” Sigmund said. The screen to his left lit up with Rendell standing in a room next to Victor. “Rendell, have you—”

  “Sir, you need to see this,” Rendell cut in, glancing over at a Recruit beside him. The screen switched over to an image of a man standing alone in a tunnel. Sigmund gazed at the image, unsure who he was looking at. The man had a scraggly beard and sweat on his face. His hair was wild—frozen in place by grim and dirt. Sigmund looked past all that, wondering just who was the man beneath the unfamiliar mask. As Sigmund began to mentally remove each layer, a sudden wave of shock rolled over him.

  “Adam Reinhart,” Sigmund muttered, Adam’s name tasting vile on his tongue. “Where was this taken?”

  “Here,” Rendell said. “Earlier this morning.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He escaped,” Rendell said.

  Sigmund shook with rage as he tried and failed to subdue the rising emotions. “And how did that happen?”

  Rendell glanced over to Victor Castle. Victor cleared his throat as sweat gathered on his forehead.

  “We didn’t know it was him,” Victor replied. “He and another man managed to commandeer two motorcycles and flee the city.”

  “How long was he there?” Sigmund asked.

  Victor cleared his throat again nervously. “Nearly two weeks.”

  “So you are calling me—today of all days—to tell me I had Adam Reinhart in my hands and didn’t even know it?”

  “No, sir,” Rendell began, “I—”