DRUMS OF WAR: A Dystopian Thriller Series (Broken Patriot Book 1)

by Long, Timothy W.

Bradley added it to his phone, and then pocketed his device. He slipped the Kimber back into its holster and got out of the car. After a second of indecision, he left the keys in the ignition, hoping Chris was who he said he was and didn’t steal his only means of transportation.

  “Don’t take my ride,” Bradley said.

  “This heap? You’re safe. Take the keys. I’ll be okay. If I see any trouble, I’ll lock the door.”

  “Thanks,” Bradley said with a lopsided grin.

  He put the keys in his pocket and made for the crowd, knees aching, side burning from his cut, face still sore from his run ins with less savory characters. Even his back ached from being cramped into the Bronco for too long.

  He pushed the pain away, touched the Kimber through his jacket, and then moved toward the crowd.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chris waited until Bradley had departed and was out of sight. He slid out of the car, locked it, and then pushed it shut until it clicked. He pressed on the door again just to verify it was closed and tested the handle.

  He moved out of the light and found a row of duplexes that were half-completed. Chris surveyed the property and decided it was probably deserted. Or the owners were completely uninterested in the gathering that was occurring near their back yard. Chris moved around to the front of the house. He watched the windows but the curtains didn’t move. Five minutes later, he approached the front door and rang the doorbell twice, then he darted around the side of the house and found some low brush to hide behind.

  When no one answered the door, he decided to risk it.

  Getting on the porch’s overhang was the most difficult part. He hoisted himself up, then swung one leg over the edge. Chris moved to the wall and found a drain that was secured to the side of the house and scaled it, using the corner to help brace himself up to the roof. Once on top, he pressed his ear to the shingles and listened for voices or movement. Several minutes passed. There were no voices rising in alarm that someone might be on their roof.

  He slid up to the top of the roof and peered at the gathering crowd. Daylight would arrive soon so he had to act fast.

  If he were leading a mission, where would he arrive from? There were quite a few homes around the park, but it was so large there was no way he could determine which might be used to use for cover. The parking lot was absolutely packed, and it could easily contain a nondescript van loaded with a death squad.

  Maybe his hunch was wrong and there wouldn’t be a team on the scene. Maybe this would play out like countless other protests had over the last few months. People gathered, marched, chanted, displayed signs, then packed it up and went home after getting media coverage.

  Then Chris noticed it wasn’t just one group of protesters. There were two distinct camps. One of them was smaller, but Chris made out at least one pro-Henderson sign as it was being spray painted on the grass.

  Daylight would be here soon, and he should get out of sight. He rolled over and slid down so he wasn’t exposed.

  Chris had no intention of stopping an attack. That would be a death sentence. He would like to get one of the men or women separated from the death squad and find out what they knew. It was a long shot. Worse than a long shot, but he wanted answers. More than likely, a team of shooters would meet the same fate his group had met. Shot in the back.

  Lawson. Maybe that son of a bitch was here.

  He shimmied back up the roof for one more look. He spotted Bradley moving in on the crowd. Bradley would be lucky if he found his son. There were thousands of people, and Brad Junior would be a proverbial needle in a haystack.

  Chris had overstayed his welcome. If he wasn’t able to locate a squad, he would hitch a ride out of town and move on to a new city. In a few weeks, he could be in Albuquerque where he had one of several safety deposit boxes. Money, IDs, and weapons. A few changes here and there, hair dye, glasses, grow some facial hair, and he would be just one of millions of ordinary citizens.

  Weeks later, he would depart on an airplane and head to Sweden, or maybe Argentina. Somewhere he could lay low for a year or two. He’d like to think that people would stop looking for him, but he was one of the few men alive who knew the real story behind the attacks.

  He kept his eyes on Bradley as the man moved into a crowd, then he was gone from view.

  He nodded once, then was about to slide down the roof, when movement on the outskirts of the protesters’ camp caught his eye.

  Chris stayed in place for another minute as the transports arrived. That’s when it hit him. There was going to be an attack, but it would come from somewhere no one expected.

  Now that the National Guard were on the scene, he was convinced there would be bloodshed.

  Chris lowered himself, and then crouched on the porch in a pool of shadow as the sun rose.

  He should go. Just go.

  Bradley Adams meant nothing to him, not a damn thing.

  There were a million nice guys in the world, and Bradley was no different.

  Chris scratched at a wound on his hand, a piece of metal that had become lodged there during the attack on the protesters in Chicago. Extracting it had been easy, but it felt like it might be infected.

  There was his reason to go. Can’t let something fester like that.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  Chris moved around the side of the house, then angled himself in the direction Bradley had disappeared.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Bradley had moved through the building crowd for an hour and a half. He had reached one end, then circled back until he’d completed several passes through the throng of people. Yet he was no closer to finding his son.

  What he found was a mass of people with a message to pass on. He listened in on conversations and picked up why they had chosen Vicksburg to meet in.

  Bradley had stayed away from the town, preferring to be at home where he could keep watch over his family. He had known things were going south because Andy had filled him in. But he had no idea how bad things had become. A group of protesters had departed at dawn for the Walmart to help take down the bodies that had been hung. They were planning a prayer vigil for the victims that would go until the protest started.

  His little town had become a powder keg, and it had been chosen as a meeting ground.

  But things wouldn’t remain peaceful because, not a quarter of a mile away, a second group had gathered for the past few hours. These were pro-Henderson supporters, and they planned to counter the march of these protesters.

  Bradley had to find his son before this went bad. The two groups had already started taunting each other, and it was just a matter of time before things came to blows.

  Bradley didn’t give a rip about either group. He planned to find his son and drag his butt back home. Then he would deal with his son, set some hard boundaries, and this was not going to happen again while Junior lived in his house.

  He ran into a group of bikers who acted as a sort of security detail. They moved among the crowds, talking to people, assuring them they would have protection in case the Henderson people got out of hand.

  Bradley steered clear of them and continued his search, but along the way he caught further snippets of speech, things he saw on liberal news sites that were shared on social media.

  “planning to deport millions. And for what? What possible good can come of it…”

  “…a laughing stock to the rest of the world…”

  “…heard Chicago has become a hell hole with the army acting like executioners…”

  “…not going to make a difference. He’s going to take us into an unsinkable war against each other…”

  “…Civil war could break out at any time. How are we going to survive as a nation…”

  And on and on. Bradley had to bite his tongue so many times he should have passed out from blood loss. These people had no idea how things were in the real world, where men went to other countries and died for their freedoms.

  Voices rose in
alarm around him. He whipped his head around looking for the source of the commotion, but there were too many people. Bradley kept moving, looking for the source. He ran into a large man dressed in black who pushed him back.

  “Hey, man. Sorry, didn’t see you there,”

  “You should watch where you’re fucking going, pal,” the man with the hard face said. His head was shaved and he had a two day growth of whiskers. His eyes were piercing blue and challenged Bradley.

  His friend, a man with the same look, dressed in a dark sweater and camouflaged pants, grabbed the man’s arm and whispered in his ear.

  “I said I was sorry. Decent thing to do would be to accept my apology, not be an asshole about it,” Bradley said before he could stop himself.

  “So, you’re calling me an asshole? You better move on, snowflake, before you get your feelings and other things hurt.”

  Someone else touched the man’s shoulder and said, “Keep a cool head. Let’s get setup.”

  The blue-eyed man stared at Bradley for a few seconds more before making a gun out of his finger and pointing at Bradley’s heart.

  Bradley’s instinct was to pull the Kimber and show this guy he could point a gun as well, this one, a .45. But he resisted, choosing to keep a cool head. When he had bumped into the man, he felt something under his thick black blanket. The guy was packing a piece, something large.

  Bradley turned away without a word and continued searching for his son.

  * * *

  He broke free of the crowd and found a melee in progress. Two groups of people had peeled away on opposite sides of the park. They taunted each other, cursed, and then someone threw an apple core. The other side returned fire, then they closed on each other and fists flew. Bradley ducked back out of harm’s way. This wasn’t his fight.

  The crowd shifted as more protesters went to battle with the smaller group.

  He searched in vain for Junior but so far had not seen his son or Kirk.

  More voices rose in consternation around him. He finally located a break in the crowd and found out why.

  Military transports had arrived and spilled solder’s out onto the street next to the park. Hundreds of them, and all armed. Bradley’s stomach sank. He was running out of time.

  A guy with long hair gray hair, dressed in an olive drab jacket that would have been in style during a Vietnam war protest, lifted his megaphone and yelled for the protesters to start marching. This was their time.

  He led a group toward the soldiers who took places on the park field.

  The crowd began in ones and twos, following the man with the megaphone. They followed, and as they moved, more and more people joining them. It took a few minutes for the word to spread, but soon they were on the move. Signs popped into the air, and those who had been milling around, joined in on the march.

  Hundreds lurched into motion, walking toward the military personnel, who moved aside to let the throng pass. The military looked to their squad leaders for direction, but from Bradley’s point of view, there was simply no way they could stop the thousands of people. There simply weren’t enough of them to put up a fight.

  This was actually a good thing as far as Bradley was concerned. The protesters were no longer clumped into a mass in one place. They would be able to hit the street and disperse as needed.

  Bradley became one of them, flowing with their movement as they passed the large parking lot, then took to a four lane street. Not many cars had been moving this early, especially with the violence of last night, but now vehicles stopped, or pulled aside and turned around.

  At this rate, they would pass his Bronco in five or six minutes, and he would take the opportunity to part company with the throng of people.

  Maybe Junior was in the march. Maybe he was off smoking pot somewhere with Kirk.

  Bradley hoped his son was safe, but he couldn’t spend the rest of the day searching for him.

  Then he came up with a plan. He would simply head to the front of the crowd, then break free, and find a place where he could watch them and hopefully find Junior.

  He tried calling again but got the fast busy.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  James Briggs hopped out of the back of the truck. His eyes were gritty because he’d managed to close them for fifteen minutes and doze off. He had awoken with his head bouncing against the back of the truck. Skip met his eyes.

  “Morning, sleepy head.”

  “I was only out for a few minutes,” James said.

  “Yeah. Lucky you. I’m about dead on my ass and it’s still morning. I hope we get to rest when we arrive,” Skip said.

  The MTV had come to a slow stop, with other transports behind them slowing or moving around theirs. Wells listened to his radio for a few seconds, then turned to the men and women.

  “Listen up. In approximately fifteen minutes, the order will be official. The state of Illinois will be under martial law. That means we’re going to have to disperse the protesters,” Wells said.

  “Can we do that?” Skip whispered to James.

  James nodded at the sergeant, hoping Skip got the message to pay attention.

  “I want this to be peaceful. We’re here to make sure everyone disperses without incident. But tempers are hot right now, and we have thousands of people out there, and if Chicago is any indication, they may be looking for trouble. So, we may be in for a very long day.

  “Squad leaders on me,” Wells said and strode towards an area that was being converted to a temporary base of operations.

  Trucks continued to pour into the area loaded with soldiers and supplies. A team of medics dragged equipment onto a section of the parking lot and set up a temporary hospital.

  James joined Wells, along with other squad and fire team leaders. Wells laid out a map and quickly sketched out patrol regions. Behind them, the engineers were already in the process of setting up a location for any people they had to detain. The transports would bring the real troublemakers to a camp that James had only heard rumors about, and living conditions were said to be poor.

  “Our mission has been laid out,” Wells said without preamble. “I don’t need to tell you all how tricky this is going to be. We need to keep the peace and disperse these protesters as quickly as possible. OC spray will be distributed. Riot guns and flash bangs have been authorized. If you’re behind on your training regarding these devices, you need to get a crash course ASAP.

  “At 0830, we will move in. Squads are not to engage with lethal force unless absolutely threatened. If someone shoots at you, shoot back, but be very careful. We don’t want a full-scale riot.

  “At 1000, if the crowd had not been dispersed, we will resort to more forceful methods. What methods are those? I’m not sure, still waiting on orders. You all know me. I don’t beat around the bush. This is new territory for us, but we’re going to rise to it and fulfill our mission.”

  Wells was greeted by, ‘Hooahs.’ They gathered around a map Wells had laid out, and setup areas for the squads to cover.

  James’ stomach did a flip flop. He had been through OC (Oleoresin Capsicum) training, and getting pepper sprayed was horrible. But if it meant meaning a peaceful end to the demonstration, who was he to argue?

  When James was clear what his designated area was, he went to grab his team so they could pick up their OC spray, and muster on the park grass. Then the crowd of people started to move, after being goaded by people with bullhorns.

  James breathed a sigh of relief, hoping they were all going to do the smart thing very soon, and go back to their homes.

  He was very wrong.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bradley had traversed the throng of people so many times he was now convinced that Junior wasn’t here. He didn’t like the looks of the military on the scene. Didn’t like it one bit. protesters walked at a snail’s pace, waving signs, chanting anti-Henderson slogans, but they kept their eyes fixed on the soldiers setting up their base. Dozens peeled away from the crowd and lef
t, some muttering, “Screw this,” or, “Not worth it today.”

  But rallies started to take hold. Leaders broke out megaphones and yelled for everyone to stay together. “We’re stronger together. Don’t give into fear!”

  The other group, the pro-Henderson, didn’t seem as interested in sticking around and large groups of them tromped off to find their vehicles.

  Bradley stood on a slight rise and got an eyeful of the proceedings.

  A group of soldiers dragged out loudspeakers and secured them to long poles before hoisting them into the air. Each had three rows and looked like they would be more at home at a concert, than out here in the chilly morning air.

  Bradley rubbed his eyes and wished he had a cup of coffee. He took out his cell phone and tried to call Junior once again, but he was met with a fast busy signal. He considered calling Chris, but he had nothing to report.

  Bradley decided it was time. He needed to make one more pass, and then go home. Whatever the military was planning, he didn’t want to be caught in the middle. He navigated through throngs of people, looking for a good place to exit from that would take him away from a confrontation with the men in green.

  The protesters grew suddenly silent as someone tapped a microphone. The speakers rumbled to life and a man cleared his throat before speaking in a commanding voice.

  “At 0830 this morning, the president of the united states issued an executive order placing the state of Illinois under martial law.”

  At the mention of the president, people booed his named.

  A couple next to him looked at each other, fear on their faces as the words poured out of the speakers.

  “You must immediately disperse. Failure to return to your homes will result in severe consequences. Please tune into local radio and television channels for more information,” the man said. His final words chilled Bradley. “There will be no further warnings.”

  “I’m out of here,” Bradley said to himself.