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Link Posted: 11/24/2009 1:16:32 AM EDT
No, sorry, still 22.  Good catch.  Thanks for proof reading.
Link Posted: 11/24/2009 1:27:43 AM EDT
Don't scare me like that
Link Posted: 11/24/2009 2:16:30 AM EDT
"Hugh Bowden discuss all this with another group of DGW’s in a bar outside the county. The leader of this chapter sat across from Hugh, taking it all in. Tattoos covered his body. They covered his next and face. Devil horns were tattooed on his forehead. A barbed devil’s tail snaked out from the collar of the man’s shirt, up his neck, and ended on his cheek. The others behind him had similar tattoos across their exposed skin. Some of their tattoos indicated past crimes. Other tattoos signified time in prison, or their status in the gang. But all the tattoos publicly demonstrated their commitment to the gang. "

Only things I noticed. keep up the good work.
Link Posted: 11/27/2009 3:19:14 PM EDT

Sean, Jim and some others spent the night burying several steel drums full of weapons in the Cascade Mountains. They’d done this several times following the attack on the transplants. The work exhausted them and lasted until sunrise.  Once they finished they headed down the mountains and back to the compound. Jim turned the truck’s heater to full blast to fight the cold December air.  He was filthy from digging all night and so was the Boss next to him, but they were lucky enough to catch radio news from Canada.

“Officials inside the United States refused to comment on allegations that the territory of Guam has been turned over to the People’s Republic of China as a payment for the tremendous debt they owe the PRC.  An unincorporated territory of the United States, Guam was the home of several U.S. military bases, and until recently home to the U.S. 3rd Marine Division which just relocated to Chicago. Sources inside the PRC did not comment either, but unconfirmed reports indicate Chinese naval vessels are anchored in the island’s harbor.

“Canadian authorities refused the United States request to extradite Dale Genessee.  A former college professor and small city mayor, Dale Genessee recently relocated to Canada where he has been openly critical of current Progress movement within the United States.  Canadian authorities refused the extradition request on the grounds that Mr.Genesee has not been charged with a crime.   The U.S. Attorney General had this to say.

[indent]“Canadian authorities clearly do not understand how the law works.  How can we determine what crimes to charge this traitor with if we cannot first arrest him?  The Canadian government is asking us to put the cart before the horse.  Genesee needs to first be taken into U.S. custody.  Once that happens we can determine what crimes he is guilty of and then proceed to trial.”

“How much longer are they going to keep this crap up,” Jim asked.

“Until somebody makes it too painful for them to continue,” Sean answered.


At the compound, Tommy Stephens went to full alert when an old van pulled up near the gate and parked.  He’d never seen the van before.  The only man inside was the driver, who wore a hooded sweatshirt that hid his face.  As the van’s exhaust puffed into the cold air, Tommy disengaged the safety on his rifle.  He reached for the radio, but the high pitch whine of an engine caused him to stop.  A sleek fast motorcycle pulled up next to the van.   The driver of the van leapt out of his vehicle, climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, and sped off.  Tommy watched the bike disappear down the road, and then turned back to the still idling and now abandoned van.  

Tommy ducked behind the cover of his guard post just in time to avoid being killed by the explosion.


They’d heard the thundering boom just seconds before, and now Jim craned his neck so he could see the plume of smoke rising up from the trees.  The location of the smoke made it clear that the explosion came from the compound.  Now the convoy sped back to their compound.  Sean was working the radios, trying to find out what was going on.  

Chris could tell by the wreckage that whatever blew the van apart, it involved military grade explosives, and a lot.  The blast dug a waste deep crater right in front of the gate.  Bits of vehicle and scorched earth sat everywhere. The van’s steering column hung in one of the trees.  

Chris knew that the use of car bombs often proceed more complex attacks.  He rushed about, organizing his people in preparation for a larger assault.  Hooker ran past him to the front gate with one of the machine guns. Somebody followed him with the other.   Radios chattered in the background. Sean’s convoy approached.


The convoy slowed.  Van fragments littered the road, and the crater blocked the entrance to the compound.  Sean turned from the gate to the opposite side of the road, just in time to see a tattooed member of the DGV step out from behind a tree with a raised weapon.  Sean couldn’t get a word of warning out on the radio before it all started.

The tree line opposite the compound erupted with gunfire.  The driver in the lead vehicle must have been hit, because the truck accelerated and swerved off the road, crashing into a ditch so hard the truck rolled onto its side.

“Get out of the kill zone!”

Jim hit the gas.  His truck seemed to be getting ripped apart all around him.  He heard glass shatter and bullets punch through metal.  He heard a scream and looked over at his Boss.  Sean’s arm hung grotesquely from the elbow, ripped apart by a bullet.  Another bullet had torn through his leg.   Blood soaked through the clothing and ran down to the floor boards.  With his good arm, Sean drew a pistol.

Somebody stepped into the middle road and raised an assault rifle. Jim didn’t slow down. The truck collided with the man before he could get a shot off.  His body pin wheeled up over the hood and cab and bounced off the bed of the truck before sliding under the back wheels and getting crushed.  Jim kept going.

Up ahead a full-sized crew cab pickup truck pulled across the road to block their path.  Jim didn’t slow for that either.  He accelerated as much as he could in the short distance.  Men were in the cab of the truck with more in the bed.  Jim saw their tattooed faces change as they realized they were about to be rammed.  In the bed of the other truck, a man stood and raised a weapon, but too late.  

The light truck hit the bigger one directly in the passenger door.  The big brush bar on Jim’s truck tore through the body of the other truck and killed the passenger.  One of the two men in the bed of the other truck was tossed out with such force he died when landed on the road.  The two in the back seat bounced around like bowling pins.  Airbags in both trucks went off.  Glass shattered.  Fluids from both vehicles spilled onto the ground.  When things settled, the two vehicles were almost fused together.  The only thing separating the cabs was the crumpled engine compartment of Jim’s truck.

Jim sat dazed until a gun going off in his ear brought him to reality.  Sean fired the pistol into the other truck.  He fired slowly with his one good arm, the other now covered with blood.  The survivors in the other truck stirred. Jim grabbed his rifle and brought it up.  One man in the back of the other truck brought up a small machine pistol. The last man in the bed of the pickup stood.
A gun battle broke out across the wreckage.  Sean shot the driver with his pistol, but it was Jim’s assault rifle that did the real damage.  With automatic fire, its big rounds ripped apart what was left of the cab and everybody within it.  The men in the back seat jerked wildly as Jim blasted away at them with the heavy rifle rounds. He emptied the weapon, then dropped the magazine and grabbed for another.

The gang member in the back of the truck and tossed something through the shattered windshield of Jim’s truck.  It landed with a thud, just as Sean shot the man who tossed it.


Sean grabbed the grenade with his good arm and tossed it out the shattered passenger window.  As soon as it left the vehicle, the small bomb exploded.  Shrapnel ripped through the passenger side of the Jim’s pickup.  The blast was strong enough to lift it up onto two wheels.


The grenade was the last kinetic event of the ambush.  The DGVs had brought fire power, but not enough.  Once Hooker brought real machine guns into the fight, most of the DGVs turned and ran.  Those that didn’t were cut down.  

Now the focus was on the Boss’s wrecked truck which sat in a tangled heap less than 100 yards from the main gate. Nothing stirred in the mass of crumpled metal.  Chris ran up to the wreck as fast as he could.  When he was just a few feet away, the driver side door of the Toyota flew open, and Jim spilled out onto the ground.  He sat there in the dirt coughing and choking, trying to get his breath.  Behind Chris, Doc Hyde and Hooker ran also, their gear bouncing off their bodies.  They got to the Toyota just as Chris yanked open the door.  He took one look at the carnage inside, and then turned back to the others.

 “Don’t come any closer,” he yelled, holding up his hand to stop anybody from approaching.

He yelled it again. “Don’t come any closer.”


       Malik walked into James Pritchard’s office, stood directly in front of the County Executive’s desk and spoke.

       “Bastle’s dead.”  James looked up.  Malik continued.  “They buried him yesterday.  They buried him in his backyard, next to his parents.”

       James nodded.  “How sure are we about this?”
       “Hugh has a source.  His wife was dressed in black. There was flag on the box.  They even had an honor guard.  He’s dead.”

“Is any of this pointing back to me?”


       “Good,” James Pritchard said before returning to his work.

Link Posted: 11/27/2009 6:06:52 PM EDT
Wow, i did not expect that. I wonder if he is just wanting them to think he is dead?

more please.....................
Link Posted: 11/28/2009 11:39:39 AM EDT
Aaaaaaaa! Damn Damn DAMN!

Here's the plan:
smuggle heavily wounded Sean to Canada to heal
interrogate the survivors
Link Posted: 11/28/2009 11:55:03 AM EDT
Originally Posted By BroncoMafia:
Aaaaaaaa! Damn Damn DAMN!

Here's the plan:
smuggle heavily wounded Sean to Canada to heal
interrogate the survivors

I like your plan

Link Posted: 11/28/2009 1:32:33 PM EDT
Originally Posted By BroncoMafia:
Aaaaaaaa! Damn Damn DAMN!

Here's the plan:
smuggle heavily wounded Sean to Canada to heal
interrogate the survivors

Detonate the massive amount of C4 that is stashed in the county building's sewers?  Bu-bye now
Link Posted: 11/28/2009 5:01:25 PM EDT
Originally Posted By bbenton:
Originally Posted By BroncoMafia:
Aaaaaaaa! Damn Damn DAMN!

Here's the plan:
smuggle heavily wounded Sean to Canada to heal
interrogate the survivors

Detonate the massive amount of C4 that is stashed in the county building's sewers?  Bu-bye now

that should be saved for a time of greatest impact
Link Posted: 11/28/2009 5:29:06 PM EDT
Getting good.

Waiting patiently for the next installment.

Don't make us wait too long.
Link Posted: 12/4/2009 9:25:54 PM EDT
––––Chapter 24––––

“Congress began their second week of closed door legislative action this week.  Due to security concerns regarding violent radicals like the Sons of Liberty and corrupting influences like Dale Genesee, the legislative debates of the last week have been behind closes doors, with no outside access.  At the beginning of the session, both the House and Senate passed measures not to maintain individual voting records, for fear that radicals may access that information and carry out reprisals against legislators.

“The President has described the recent legislative session as ‘the cornerstone upon which our nation’s vital national interests will be rebuilt,’ and has set a deadline for all bills before the Congress to be passed by Saturday morning.  The President will hold a State of the Union address Saturday evening.

“In other news, Criminal proceedings against the dangerous radical Dale Genesee began today in Federal Court in San Francisco.  Dale Genesee, who has been identified as is currently in hiding in Canada, will be tried in absentia for his outspoken criticism of the government, and for crimes against Progress.”

Major Ski turned off his radio and looked up at the PA man standing in front of his desk.

“They can’t be here,” the PA man said.  

“Who can’t be here,” the Major asked.

The PA man pointed to the window.  Outside, a group of journalists worked around a pair of vans, setting up and checking various pieces of media equipment.  These were the same journalists that Sidney Green met in Canada weeks before.  Major Ski looked at the men outside, reached into his desk and pulled out a piece of paper in a clear plastic protector.  He handed it over to the PA political officer.

“This is from the PA’s Deputy Director of Public Affairs in Washington D.C., authorizing them to be here.  They are going to be embedded here for the next month or so.”

The PA man took the letter and looked over it with a puzzled expression.   The letter was a fake, but the PA man didn’t know that.  It was a calculated risk.  The PA, like the many organizations it was modeled after, was a huge bureaucracy.  Internally, it was slow to act and all decision making flowed from the top down. If the PA man before Major Ski raised the question of the reporters to his superiors, it would be weeks before the ruse was discovered and a decision was made.
“You can keep it,” Major Ski said.  The man put the document in his pocket.  

“I don’t know about this,” the man said.  “I don’t like the idea of a bunch of foreign journalists running around here writing stories about you guys.”
“They’re Pakistani, and Pakistan is our ally,” the Major lied.  The journalists were from India, a country whose relationship with the United States was in a steady decline.  But the PA man probably couldn’t tell the difference.  The Marine reached into his desk and pulled out a handful of Pakistani passports and showed them to the PA official as proof.  They were forgeries, not that anybody could tell.

“Besides,” Ski continued. “They aren’t here to write about us, they are here to write about you.”

The PA man smiled a little.  “What?”

The Major nodded.  “They are here to write about the PA.  You guys are really popular in Pakistan.

The PA man smile grew a little broader, and the Major smiled too.  That would slow down any exposure of this ruse, and they only had to keep it up till Saturday.

Link Posted: 12/4/2009 9:36:56 PM EDT
That's it?? Too damn short, I hope you have more coming........

Geez, you really like to torture us don't you!!!

That's wrong, just plain wrong.

Link Posted: 12/5/2009 7:53:04 PM EDT
How do you say, "about to open a can of wupass" in Indian?
Link Posted: 12/6/2009 9:26:33 PM EDT
[Last Edit: sharkman6] [#14]
Chapter 24 cont..

“What’s the problem now,” James Pritchard asked.  Lieutenant Colonel Kwon and Malik stood before his desk.  The military advisor had become an increasing pain in the ass in the last few weeks, with his various complaints and concerns.  

“It’s the PA,” the Marine said.  “I don’t think they are up to the task at hand. They have no discipline and almost no training.  They’re just a bunch of young men and women with guns, and I haven’t been able to institute a training program because for the past month all they’ve been doing is going to one rally after another.  They’re supposed to be in another rally Saturday night and then go into the valley to start seizing land Sunday morning.”

James angrily set his pen down on his desk.  This was not an argument he wanted to entertain.  His military advisor had consistently complained about the skill level of the PA since his arrival.  “The PA are more than ready for any tasks they may be given.  What about the armor I got you?”

The PA just received three tanks, old M60s that came from a storage yard somewhere.  Now they sat outside the headquarters building, being prepared for operations.  Each tank showed its age.  PA workers painted them blue with cans of spray paint.  The cold and misty air made the paint run, and the botched paint job combined with the tanks rust and age made them look pitiful.  
“Those tanks are older than I am,” Kwon replied. “I doubt they’ll run for very long, if we do get them running.”

“Colonel,” James said. “I think you’re fears are an overreaction. The condition of the troops, or the tanks, or anything else is not as important as their mere presence.  We’ve built a paramilitary wing to assist in the spread of our domestic policies.  Perhaps they are not as militaristic as some of your psychopath marines, but they are more than capable of doing what needs to be done.”
Kwon was not convinced. “I’m just afraid we’re a bit of a paper tiger.”

James waved that comment away dismissively.  “Perception is reality, and the media campaign we’ve waged, and will continue to wage will have everybody convinced not only of the inherent goodness of what we’re doing, but the futility in resisting us.  The mere threat of the PA and their overwhelming power will bring them to submission.  The information campaign we’ve waged negates the need for a robust military presence."

Kwon tried to protest again, but the politician cut him off.

“You are the local military advisor to the PA.  Any failure on their part is a direct reflection on you. But I think a lot of your fears are unnecessary. Trust me Colonel, this will all be over by Christmas, and by this time next year, you’ll at least be a full-bird.  And who knows? Maybe a year after that, you’ll be a general?”

Lieutenant Colonel Kwon might have felt some apprehension about the PA, but his apprehension gave way to the idea of climbing the ladder. If getting promoted meant keeping his mouth shut, he’d keep his mouth shut.  After some more idle conversation, Kwon left the room. Once he was gone, James asked Malik about the status of the veterans now that their leader was gone.

“It doesn’t look like they are doing too well. Chris has taken over but most of the families have left, including Sean’s.  We think they went to Canada.  Tien’s people have been making runs up there almost daily.  There were also quite a few people in that community working at the aircraft plant. Most of them have left the compound too.”

“Good.  We killed their leader, and now they’ve fallen into disarray. In a little while they’ll be ripe to bring back under our umbrella.”  After a pause he asked, “Do you think they’ve figured out our secret?”

“Well, Hugh Bowden’s still walking around.  The fact that he’s still alive is a good sign for us.”

“And what about the Sheriff?”

Malik lit a cigarette and took a few puffs. “He didn’t launch any investigation.  In fact, he hasn’t left his office since the ambush on Bastle.  I think he’s sunk far enough into depression that he’s pretty much a non-entity.”

“Good,” James smiled; already calculating what he could sell the position of county sheriff for.  They both sat for a few minutes.  Malik smoked his cigarette.  James saw Malik had something to say, so he waited for his chief of staff to come out and say it.

“I share a concern with the Colonel.  The PA isn’t much more than an armed mob, perhaps they’ll be able to just march in and scare anybody and everybody into submission, but perhaps not.”
James rolled his eyes.  He was sick of continuing this argument.  “The actual skill level of the PA does not matter.  We have portrayed them as invincible and unstoppable.  Nobody is going to want to go toe-to-toe with them, it would be suicide.  Like I said, ‘perception is reality.’”

“What if it isn’t,” Malik asked. “What if perception isn’t reality?”

“But it is. You’ve been in politics long enough to know that,” James countered.

Malik shrugged.  “Well, it may be true in politics, but that doesn’t make it so in all cases.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying sometimes realities have a way of overpowering perceptions.  We keep playing up ourselves and keep minimizing our enemies.  That’s worked so far, but we may reach a point when it won’t work.”

James pursed his lips and shook his head. “We control the media, we control the flow of information, and we control the message. Our spinsters and propaganda experts can manipulate the message and the people.  Hell, almost everything we do involves playing upon people’s emotions to get them to support our ideas. If you can get people to feel good enough or bad enough or scared enough, they’ll ignore reality and go with the message.

“So, even if the PA is a paper tiger, I’m not worried about it.”

Maybe, James Pritchard wasn’t worried, but Malik was.

Link Posted: 12/6/2009 9:33:33 PM EDT
Thanks, keep it going I think Bastle is still around though.........
Link Posted: 12/6/2009 9:43:13 PM EDT
After some more idle conversation, Malik left the room. Once he was gone, James asked Malik about the status of the veterans now that their leader was gone.

Other than that it keeps to be a great story. Keep it up!
Link Posted: 12/6/2009 10:11:20 PM EDT
Originally Posted By Frosty451:
After some more idle conversation, Malik left the room. Once he was gone, James asked Malik about the status of the veterans now that their leader was gone.

Other than that it keeps to be a great story. Keep it up!

Thanks for the editing assist.  
Link Posted: 12/7/2009 4:00:33 AM EDT
Been reading this since 8:30 now its 3... thanks
Link Posted: 12/7/2009 1:18:36 PM EDT
I really appreciate the update!  I have really been enjoying your work!

Link Posted: 12/10/2009 7:06:17 PM EDT
Chapter 24: Done.

Jim stacked a crate of ammunition on top of a pile of similar crates already in Sean Bastle’s former study.  The room looked and felt empty.  The books that once lined the shelves were gone. They and the knowledge they contained were secreted away somewhere safe.  The emptiness of the room matched the emptiness of the compound.  Many left after the ambush.  Some, like Sean and Jim’s families, left for the security of Canada.  Others just moved away, afraid of being associated with the warlord and his band.  Chris seemed undaunted by the exodus.  “We’re getting down to fighting weight,” he’d say.

Now the head of the organization, Chris sat in the chair Bastle once occupied.  He’d just finished discussing some operation with Davis and Cody.  Jim watched him rise and shake each of the other man’s hands.  

“Good luck, we’ll see you two in a few days.”

“See you then Chris,” Davis said.  He and Cody each went about hoisting their gear onto their backs.  Each carried a pack about as large as they were, as well as their weapons.  Cody lifted a padded rifle case about the size of a hang-up bag.  He groaned with its weight.

“I hate carrying the heavy son of a bitch around,” he said as they left.

Jim turned to his new boss.  “That’s the last of Tien’s ammo stash.  That gives us just a few thousand rounds for each of the PKM machine guns.”

“Did Tien have any other goodies for us?”

“No, this was the last of it. He’s leaving for Canada tonight. He said he’d check on our families once he got there.”

“I’m not so worried about them.  Sidney will see to it they are okay.” They took Sidney Green, the Naval Officer they’d met in Canada, up on his offer to protect their families.  Of course, that protection came with a price.  The ramifications of that deal remained to be seen.  Jim still considered himself a novice in such dealing, but he knew this; it was better to owe somebody nothing than to owe somebody something.

“Judy is sticking around,” Jim continued, “But Tien and most of the others looked pretty hot to get out of town.”

Chris nodded.  “He’s worried about the President’s speech tomorrow, lots of people are.”

“The Progressives aren’t worried,” Jim said, smiling slyly.

“They figure everybody will just lie down and take it.  It’s worked so far.  That is the problem with them, they see things how they want them to be, not how they really are.  They don’t want anybody to stand up against their policies, so they assume nobody will.”

Jim, weary from the day’s work, collapsed into one of the other chairs in the room.  “Creeping incrementalism.”

“Even with creeping incrementalism, eventually your creep past somebody’s triggering point,” Chris said.  “Then you have to deal with the consequences.”

Jim watched his breath hang in the cold room.  “I wonder,” he said, then let his voice trail off.

“Wonder what,” Chris asked.

“I wonder if this is how the colonists felt, when they decided to go at it at Lexington and Concord.  Or those artillery men right before they opened fire on Fort Sumter.”

“Crossing that line is not an insignificant act,” Chris said flatly. “No matter how corrupt and incompetent, or oppressive your government is, taking up arms against it can’t be an easy thing.”

“Think maybe we’re jumping the gun?”

Chris shook his head.  “We’ve made about all the subtle moves we can make.  Eventually you just have to get off your ass and get the ball rolling.  Besides, it isn’t like the President is going to go live tomorrow and say he’s going to undo everything he’s done so far.  He isn’t turning back the clock on the progressive agenda, or affirming the Constitution.  Where we are going is inevitable, we might as well get to it.”

Nobody said anything for awhile.  They both sat in the cold room and enjoyed the calm and the silence.

“You should get some rest for tonight,” Chris said.

“No,” Jim answered.  “I’ll be fine.”


The bartender inside the Workers of the World wished the men in the back would go, but he knew they wouldn’t until they were ready.  The clock already read 3 am, well past closing time.  But this was a union bar, and you couldn’t just throw out Hugh Bowden.

The bartender had good reason to want to go home.  Tomorrow night he’d be busy because the bar was hosting a live broadcast of the President’s speech. After the speech, the union members would hit the streets drunk on free beer and ready to execute another well planned and carefully orchestrated spontaneous demonstration of support for whatever it was the President said.

“We’re closed,” the bartender yelled at the knock on the door.  He put away some glasses only to have to yell at the knock again. The knock persisted and increased in force, so he went to answer the door to tell whoever was out there knocking to go away.  When he did, he found himself face to face with a man wearing a ski mask and holding a pistol.  A homemade silencer hung off the end of the pistol.  The man forced his way through the door and placed the end of his weapon on the bartender’s pale forehead.  Before the question could be asked, the bartender answered it.

“He’s in the back.”

“How many others?”


Three more men walked into the bar.  They all wore black ski masks and heavy military style parkas.   Two of the three also carried silenced pistols.  The third wore some wicked looking contraption on his back the bartender didn’t recognize.  He held what looked like a rifle.  Off of that, a hose ran back into a set of tanks worn on a backpack frame.  The three men moved purposefully to the back room of the bar, while the fourth kept his weapon on the bartender.  The bartender followed the men with his eyes, and then made the sign of the cross.

Hugh stood at the edge of a pool table, drunk and self satisfied.  Hugh made no attempt to hide his role in the ambush on Sean Bastle, he celebrated it.  His two cronies had heard the story plenty of times since the event, as had many others.  With time and the help of booze, Hugh’s role in the attack grew and grew.  In another week, the story would involve Hugh slaying Bastle with a magic sword.

Hugh knew he was a boor, but he didn’t care. He held a position of power, and he had no problem of singing his own praises to his captive audience of union cronies.  Only after he saw his companions’ eyes go wide did he stop his story and turn around to come face to face with the armed masked men.  They filed through the back room’s door with their weapons raised.  The one with the contraption came in last.  Hugh clumsily reached down to the pistol inside the pocket of his union windbreaker.

“Don’t,” one of the men ordered.  Hugh stopped.  He and the others stood frozen in the face of the weapons and masked men clearly ready to use them.

One man walked forward with his pistol trained on Hugh’s face.  With his free hand, he fished into Hugh’s clothes until he found his cell phone.  He pulled it out, messed with it for a few seconds, then turned to the others and nodded.  

“Got it.”

The pistol went into a pocket and the two men with pistols stepped back behind the third who leveled the weapon at his hip.  Hugh and his men could only stare at the contraption. The device made a hissing sound, clicked a few times, and then with a loud pop, fire rushed out of the end.  The flames lashed out violently, engulfing Hugh Bowden and his compatriots.  Hugh raised his arm, but it did nothing to protect him.  Hair burned and skin and flesh liquefied. Hugh screamed, and the flames licked into his throat and dove down into his lungs. His companions screamed and withered to the ground, engulfed in flame.  

The gunner continued to spray the flame across the bar as he walked backwards towards the front door.  The flames came out in bursts that wrapped themselves around anything in their path and devoured it.  Only when the bar’s destruction was certain did all the men run outside, herding the bartender before them.

Out on the street, the one masked man pressed his weapon against the bartender’s forehead with such force that the homemade silencer left an imprint.

“We know who you are, so keep your mouth shut, or next time it will be your family burning up.”

Three vehicles skidded to a halt in front of the bar.  The masked men jumped into the cars, each promptly drove off in a different direction.  The bartender turned around to watch the bar burn uncontrollably.  Inside, Hugh Bowden burned with it.
Link Posted: 12/10/2009 7:18:52 PM EDT
W W!

Let me be the first to say...
Payback's a bitch!
Link Posted: 12/10/2009 9:01:56 PM EDT
I love it.
Link Posted: 12/10/2009 10:59:23 PM EDT
[Last Edit: louisianarebel] [#23]
Thanks. At least im caught up now.
This story scares me because I wouldn't be surprised if it really happened.
Link Posted: 12/11/2009 12:49:06 AM EDT
Hell yeah.
Link Posted: 12/11/2009 5:51:42 AM EDT
Originally Posted By 45ProCarry:
Hell yeah.

^^^ this.

Link Posted: 12/11/2009 7:10:23 AM EDT
[Last Edit: SigOwner_P229] [#26]
Originally Posted By Deadcenter45:
Originally Posted By 45ProCarry:
Hell yeah.

^^^ this.



This is getting good!

ETA, Page 8 is all mine!
Link Posted: 12/11/2009 2:46:07 PM EDT
I can hardly wait for the next chapter!
Link Posted: 12/11/2009 11:42:47 PM EDT
[Last Edit: BroncoMafia] [#28]
Skrugh Hugh Bowden!
Link Posted: 12/12/2009 4:09:32 AM EDT
Now I need to get me a flamethrower

Link Posted: 12/12/2009 3:52:50 PM EDT
Originally Posted By Nightdriver:
Now I need to get me a flamethrower

I saw one at the SAR show in Phoenix last weekend, just the backpack though.
Link Posted: 12/14/2009 1:42:36 AM EDT
Time to nut up or shut up!

moar please
Link Posted: 12/14/2009 6:50:25 PM EDT
Originally Posted By Nightdriver:
Now I need to get me a flamethrower

Don't forget the medium machine guns, RPG-7, LAAWs and TNT.
Link Posted: 12/14/2009 6:54:57 PM EDT
––––Chapter 25––––

It may be necessary to use methods other than constitutional ones.
Robert Mugabe

“This morning the U.S. Congress finished passing a series of bills sent to them by the White House.  This legislation, called the “The Great American Leap,” is being hailed as not only the solution to our nation’s economic woes, but also as a model to design what some are calling a, “true world community.” Supporters celebrated on the steps of the nation’s capitol, braving the cold and snow to show their unconditional support of the principals of progress.

The bills are now back to the President’s desk where will sign them into law. Tonight the President will hold a state of the union address where he is expected to outline The Great American Leap project, and illustrate the commitment demanded from every citizen.”

At his desk, James Pritchard read over the letter he’d just received from the office of the President.  A courier, flanked by armed escorts, delivered it to him just as the news about Congress broke.  The letter, less than two pages long, outlined his appointment as, “Commisioner of Federal Economic Prosperity Region No. 172.”   Reading down through the letter, James’ eyes lingered on some of the articles that outlined his new powers.

“Organize and re-organize citizens into work groups in order to promote industry, manufacturing, agriculture, or any other reason in order to stimulate the economy and promote and maintain social justice.”

“Seize any private property, to include privately held real estate, financial holdings, intellectual property, and any other property either known or unknown, on the grounds of public safety, promotion of the economy, social justice, environmental justice and government necessity. You are authorized to redistribute seized property in order to promote and preserve progressive ideals and principles and maintain social justice.  

“Suspend due process and the protection citizens are normally provided in the Constitution, the Bill of Rights and all other Federal, State, and local laws, in order to preserve public safety and security, provided such suspension of rights can be defined as socially just.  

“Utilize local Progressive Auxiliary units to serve as a paramilitary wing to enforce your decisions as commissioner.  Unlike members of the military, the Progressive Auxiliary will not be subject to the Articles of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, nor will they be subject to the laws that constraint Federal, State or Local Law Enforcement Officers.

“Perform any other such actions as to promote social justice, better society and promote the principals of Progress.”

At the bottom of the second page sat the President’s signature, scrawled in green ink, the current political fad.  The signature was authentic; not a stamp or photo copy.  Clearly, the President signed this long before the Congress passed the legislation.  The legislative branch was less a check and balance than a rubber stamp.

James Pritchard picked up his phone and dialed Steven Grant.  The phone rang and went to voice mail.  He set the phone back down again.  He’d called his mentor several times already this morning to thank him for his help and show him the proper respect, but he never got an answer.  Curious, James thought as he set the phone back down and went back to studying his appointment letter.


Steven Grant expected some turmoil after the President’s state of the union address, which is why he moved his family and some members of his staff to his ranch just outside Wenatchee Washington.  He assumed that the isolation of his ranch would give his family some security.  He was incorrect.  Now, the bodies of his slain bodyguards, staffers and family members lay strewn about the property.  The men who did it stood around him, ignoring the cell phone that buzzed on a nearby counter.   They didn’t wear their colors, but Steven could tell who they were by their tattoos.   On a bare forearm that held a gun to his head, Steven could read the word, “Mutants,” written in old English script.

As he knelt with the cold barrel of a pistol at his head, Steven watched the other members of the Mutants.  One recorded him with a wireless device.  The device fed the video onto an internet website. The other held another wireless device and typed a text message.

“Are you seeing this?”

The device received a message in response.  “Yes.  Go ahead.”

The man texting nodded to the others.  “Do it.”

As one recorded the events and posted them to the internet in real time, the man with the gun fired twice into Steven Grant’s head.  Steven toppled to the floor, where he was shot twice more for good measure.  All went directly to the internet.


On her laptop, Sean’s wife watched the execution of Steven Grant, the man who orchestrated the last attack on her husband.  She minimized that window then brought up another window.  She hit a few keys, and with a click wired a sum of money from her new Canadian bank account to another bank account used by the Mutants.  Despite the notoriety of the target, the Mutants gave her a good deal for the hit on the man who instigated the attack on her husband.  Probably because they expected more work to come their way.  

She shut down the laptop, satisfied with her actions. At her feet, her dog looked up and wagged its tail happily.


Link Posted: 12/14/2009 7:45:58 PM EDT
Link Posted: 12/14/2009 10:00:10 PM EDT
Now it's starting to get really good.
Link Posted: 12/14/2009 11:19:05 PM EDT
Payback is a mo'fugger ain't it?
Link Posted: 12/15/2009 12:30:07 PM EDT
Sean's still kickin', ain't he.  I bet his wife is recording the hit so she can show it to him while he recovers.  DANG this is good shit!!!!  Keep it comin"!
Link Posted: 12/16/2009 11:13:17 PM EDT
Nice work Sharkman.
Keep it coming . . .
Link Posted: 12/19/2009 3:18:58 AM EDT
claps loudly................... keep it going.
Link Posted: 12/19/2009 8:09:54 PM EDT

Knocking on Marcus’s door made Jim feel sick, and when the skinny young man opened it, Jim wanted to punch him.  Instead he asked, “Are you ready to redeem yourself.”

Marcus looked around to be sure this wasn’t a joke.  

“What do I have to do?”

“We’re heading up into the mountains tonight, to drop off some more gear and we’re a little short handed right now.  You and that rifle of yours need to be ready at dusk, that’s when we’re leaving. Bring gear to spend the night out there.”

“I’ll be ready,” Marcus said, his chest rising with confidence.  

“Good,” Jim said, and then left without another word.   On the street, he passed JD’s house.  The mechanic had Jim’s old SUV torn apart in the driveway, and was in the process of installing some radios and other equipment into it.  That would replace the vehicle they lost in the last ambush.  Other trucks sat parked along the curb waiting for JD’s attention.  It was the last chance to get everything ready.


Stumpy fiddled around with the equipment mounted about his truck.  He didn’t need to but it just gave him an excuse to watch the comings and goings from inside the secure parking lot around the progress headquarters.  Everything buzzed with anticipation of the President’s speech tonight.   Stumpy spent most of the week helping Paul Linggi set up some video displays at the high school’s football stadium.  Another 200 PA members were getting bussed in tonight to watch the speech.  According to Chris, the next day those PA soldiers were going to seize land from Gerry Sheely and his fellow farmers.  Stumpy believed him.

Before he left for work that day, Chris gave stumpy an envelope full of Canadian bills, and instructions on what to do.  Everybody’s competing agendas were moving at high speed and about to crash into one another, and Stumpy, just like everybody else, had a role to play.  Stumpy didn’t think too much of his particular role.  Certainly he was glad to help and be involved, but it seemed rather small in comparison to what the others must be planning.  The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a high school stunt than an act of… Stumpy found it hard to complete that thought even in the privacy of his mind.  But he could not deny it.  It would be an act of treason.   The hard part wouldn’t be the act itself, it would be getting away with it.  And if what Stumpy was about to do was treason, the consequences of getting caught would be dire.  That was what the money was for.  It wasn’t a payment for services; it was a tool to use in case he needed to escape.  

At the far end of the parking lot, a man in an army uniform instructed some PA trainee how to drive their newly acquired tanks.  One tank lurched forward in jerky mechanical spasms while the soldier shouted advice.  The PA might have their toys, but they didn’t know how to play with them just yet.  The tank sputtered and died, and more shouting ensued.

The sound of fast moving vehicles made Stumpy turn from the mechanical convulsions to see two white Grass Roots vans pull into the parking lot.  Blue slashes from a spray paint can desecrated each pale green Grass Roots logo, crossing them out.  The vans screeched to a stop at the entrance.  Blue uniformed PA men hopped out and roughly herded some Grass Roots officials into the headquarters.  Raymond Lynn and Connor Justin were among them.


Raymond Lynn couldn’t believe what was happening.   In the midst of celebrating the Senate’s finalization on the biggest batch of progressive bills ever, PA me snatched him up and hauled him off to the headquarters building without one word of explanation.   Now he found himself seated in a room with three PA commissioners.  The commissioners sat at a desk, elevated to promote the sense of power and authority they wielded.  PA agents sterilized the room prior to Raymond’s arrival, stripping it down to just bare white walls and the cold steel furniture. Raymond shivered on his folding steel chair.  

The men in the room hadn’t given him any real explanation as to why he was here.  All he could tell was that they suspected him of some crime which they wanted him to confess too.  What that crime was, Raymond didn’t know, but every time he asked the PA men responded the same.

“You know what you’ve done and so do we.  Stop playing around and confess.”

“But I didn’t commit any crimes.”

“If you didn’t commit any crimes you wouldn’t be here.”

This went on for a few minutes until the lead commissioner, seated in the middle, consulted a file on the desk.  He asked Raymond, “I understand you have family living nearby?”  The commissioner phrased it as a question, but it was no question at all.  

“Perhaps we need to bring them in here and ask them about your outrageous crimes, and their involvement in these acts?”

Raymond Lynn’s face dropped.  The threat to his family clearly got the young man’s attention.  The lead commissioner noticed the change and immediately exploited it.  His face softened, and he smiled sympathetically.   The harsh cold tone went away, replaced by a warm and friendly one.  

“Look Raymond, you’re smart, you know how this works.  This is just political fallout from a stunt some high ranking Grass Roots members pulled and this will all blow over in no time.  But for us to make this blow over, a few members of the Grass Roots need to confess to these misunderstandings.  It is not a real confession, everybody knows that.  You’re just, ‘taking one for the team.’  Just sign the paper, we’ll have you sit on the sidelines for awhile, and before you know it you’ll be back in action.  Hell, you’ll probably get a promotion for your loyalty to the party.  We’ll certainly note your willingness to work with us in our notes.”

Raymond didn’t know what to do.  None of this made sense to him, but at the same time, his loyalty to the Grass Roots organization was total.  As he tried to make sense of it, the Lead Commissioner pressed his attack.

“Look son, you’re a good man.  You need to do the right thing here, not just for the party, put for yourself and your family too. We don’t want to bring your family in here and ask them questions, and I’m sure you don’t either.  It really is the best thing you can do.”

After a nod of agreement, Raymond took the manila folder with the confession inside.  The charges listed above his name were so vague in nature he still had no idea what he was confessing to.  But, as a loyal member of the Grass Roots, Raymond did as instructed.  He set the document on his knee and signed his name with the pen’s green ink.  

“You did the right thing son,” one of the other commissioners said after taking the signed confession.  “You really did a patriotic thing.” His voice contained no condescension, only sincerity, and that made Raymond feel a little better as the guards escorted him out of the room.

“What do you want to do with that kid’s family? They are local.”

“Throw them in jail too,” the lead commissioner said.

“What charge?”

“Don’t worry about it,” the lead commissioner answered.  “Right now we just need to get people in jail, charges aren’t important.”  He set Raymond’s folder aside then picked up another one off the top of the stack.  “Bring in the next one.”

Connor Justin came in next.  Burly PA thugs sat him down forcibly in the solitary chair in the center of the emotionless room.  The three commissioners thumbed through their files and whispered to each other as Connor wondered what was happening.  After a few moments, the lead commissioner spoke.

“It is our understanding that your father ran a business. Is this correct?”

Connor nodded.  “He ran his own plumbing company I guess.  What is this about?”

The commissioners didn’t acknowledge the question.  “And in addition to being a self-interested capitalist, he was also a member of several environmental and animal rights exploitation groups, such as the NRA and Ducks Unlimited?”

“He was, but I never did anything like that.  I never hunted!  I hate guns.  I love nature, that’s why I joined Grass Roots, to protect the environment!”

The commissioners didn’t even pretend to listen to Connor’s protest. Instead they nosed through their paperwork.

“As has been outlined in Modern Psychiatry and Public Safety Act, certain non-progressive leanings have been proved to be the result of mental disorders. It has further been proven that these mental disorders can be passed from generation to generation.    It is clear to me that your father had such a disorder and in all likelihood passed it on to you.  These conservative disorders have been found to be so disruptive to progressive thought that it would limit the sufferer’s ability to represent themselves in court.  In such cases, Executive Orders allow this commission to represent and offer pleas for defendants who suffer from such thinking.  Do you understand this?”

Connor clearly didn’t, but the commissioner didn’t wait for an answer.  He pressed on only after the slightest pause.

“It is my recommendation that the defendant be declared mentally unfit to defend himself.  Commissioner One do you concur?”


“Commissioner Two?”


“We all concur that you are not fit to defend yourself, therefore a court will enter a plea on your behalf.  Commissioner One, do you wish to enter a plea for the defendant?”


“Commissioner Two?”


“I also enter a plea of guilty for the defendant.  Connor Justin, you have been found guilty by this commission of general and unspecified crimes against progress and unspecified treason against the United States.  We are sentencing you to 20 years incarceration.  The sentence will begin immediately.  Guards, take the prisoner away.”

As the guards marched a bewildered Connor Justin and Raymond Lynn out of the headquarters, the former progressives still tried to comprehend what just happened.   Moving down the hallway with big PA goons on each of his arms, Raymond saw Malik Jackson moving up the hallway towards him.  Raymond searched the man’s eyes for some hint of recognition and sympathy, some glimmer of humanity, just a glint that could offer him hope.  

Malik walked by without even looking at the young man.


Major Ski answered his secure satellite phone on the first ring.  He anxiously expected a call on it all day, perhaps the most important call he’d ever take.  He clicked the button to accept the call, but didn’t speak into the receiver, he only listened.  After a pause that seemed to last forever, the voice on the other end asked, “Is this Fort Sumter?”

Ski recognized the voice.  It took him a few seconds to muster the reply.  “No, it isn’t.”  And then the phone line hung silent as the party on each end considered the weight of that seemingly meaningless conversation.  Finally, the voice on the other end said, “Good luck brother,” and the line went dead.

Major Ski looked across his desk to his executive officer and operations chief.  All three sat in the Major’s office all day, waiting for either the President’s speech, now only a few hours away, or the phone call, whichever came first.  Now the other two marines looked at their commander with eager anticipation.

“Assemble the company commanders and the battalion staff,” the Major said.  He drew his service pistol and racked the slide.

“What about our PA watchdogs?”

The Major grabbed his carbine, inserted a magazine, and charged that as well. His expression hardened.

“Round them up too.”


In Canada Sidney Green clicked his phone shut then turned his attention back to the task at hand.  Inside the pub that served as his makeshift office, armed men watched as electronic money counting machines whirred.  In the center of the room were three hard black plastic waterproof cases.  Each case was about the same size as a steamer trunk and full of money.  A group of Canadian treasury agents ran the bills through the counter while a second group checked the bills for authenticity.  The armed men, some Canadian and some American, watched the events unfold from opposite sides of the room.  Although devalued over the last few years, the American dollars in the room represented a vast sum of money.

After the last bill received its stamp of approval, the Canadian’s conferred quickly, confirming the amount and legitimacy of the money. Their representative, a Canadian Colonel in plain clothes approached Sidney Green.

“Congratulations Commander.  You just bought yourself an airfield, berthing, and a chunk of Canadian airspace.”

“Good,” Sidney said, shaking the man’s hand. He pointed at the cases of money with his free hand. “I’d get that money locked into an exchange rate immediately.  I expect the value of the dollar to decline sharply.”
Link Posted: 12/20/2009 3:16:56 AM EDT
Another great chapter!
Link Posted: 12/20/2009 11:04:58 AM EDT
Oh damn!

More please!

Link Posted: 12/20/2009 12:01:52 PM EDT
so many moving parts in this story being carefully placed . . .
can't wait for them to start coming together in a crescendo of action.

more more more.
Link Posted: 12/20/2009 9:41:25 PM EDT
Tag of the ages for this one.
Link Posted: 12/22/2009 3:40:17 AM EDT
Im sorry im new too this forum is this book availible in print i for one would buy it Im not a fan of reading online paper books are esier too take with me and read when i get a chance the first chapter and preamble had me going. amazon came up with like 3 books none looked right  thanks for your help
Link Posted: 12/22/2009 7:19:57 AM EDT
In the words of Oliver Twist, "Please, sir, may I have some more?" Awesome story.
Link Posted: 12/22/2009 10:15:31 PM EDT
Originally Posted By busboy1:
Im sorry im new too this forum is this book availible in print i for one would buy it Im not a fan of reading online paper books are esier too take with me and read when i get a chance the first chapter and preamble had me going. amazon came up with like 3 books none looked right  thanks for your help

Sorry, not in print.  Maybe if enough people were interested in this I'd look at publishing it somewhere.  If I did publish it, I'd rewrite some parts, and there are some characters I'd like to add.  Worse comes to worse, I get this done I could print it all out and spiral bind it.

Just out of curiosity, if this where published, would anybody else be interested in purchasing?
Link Posted: 12/23/2009 12:25:40 AM EDT
This story is one of the best I have read on the net. The themes so closely mimic what we are being force fed by the political and media machines that it becomes instantly frightening.
The plot is immediately plausible, easy to connect with, and it plays out in a consistently logical way, like "yeah, I can see myself doing that, or at least agree with why they did . . . "

I'd buy a copy.

now hurry up and post an update sharkman :-)
Link Posted: 12/23/2009 12:50:05 AM EDT
Chapter 25: Conclusion

The convoy left the compound just at sunset.  At this time of year, dusk only lasted a few minutes, and then the trucks drove into the mountains in near total darkness.  In the middle of the three vehicles, Jim drove, while Chris rode in the Boss’s old seat.  In the back seat, Marcus and Hooker faced outwards, covering their respective sectors.  The radio news played for awhile, if you could call it news.  The news only covered the tremendous public support for all the legislation that just passed, without any mention about what any of the bills contained.  It didn’t take long for Chris to shut off the radio.  

A few miles into the mountains, they pulled off the highway and onto a logging road.  After a few twists and turns, the gravel logging road emptied into a clear cut lot in the mountains.  Two other cars were already parked in the clear cut lot, both had their lights out.  The parked vehicles flashed their lights, and Jim did the same in return.  When the trucks parked, Chris, Jim and Marcus sat inside while the men in the other trucks hopped out and secured the area.  Hooker walked over to the parked vehicles, and after a brief conversation, he walked back to Chris’s truck.  “All clear Boss,” he said.  Chris nodded and then they piled out as well.

Once they were out of the truck, Jim and Hooker both drew their pistols and trained them on Marcus.  Marcus looked behind him and saw Ivan there with his assault rifle at the ready.
“What’s up,” Marcus asked nervously.

Chris grabbed Marcus’s rifle and handed it off.  “Give me your cell phone.”


“Don’t fuck around Marcus.  Give me the phone.”  

Marcus didn’t move, so Chris angrily grabbed at his pockets till he found the small black phone.  Marcus’s face went pale.  Chris and the others stared at him with faces void of emotion.  Chris turned and walked toward the other parked cars.  When he did, the car doors opened and two men got out.  One was Gerry Sheely; the other was Gerry’s man who worked for the cellular company.  The man opened up a laptop computer.  From where he stood under guard, Marcus saw them connect the phone to the computer.  The man typed at the keys for about five minutes and then nodded to Chris and handed the cell phone back.  The computer closed and then Gerry and his man jumped back in their car.  From the headlights of the vehicles, Marcus saw a third man get out of the car and approach Chris.  They both talked while the two cars started their engines and left.

Once the cars were gone, Chris and the other man walked back towards the group.  This new man walked with a significant limp, moving with slow jerky zombie-like staggers.  Marcus couldn’t make out the limping man’s face through the darkness until he was just an arms distance away.  When he finally saw the man’s face, Marcus vomited and almost collapsed.  

“This,” Sean Bastle said, “is your phone.”

Sean then held up a second phone.  “This is the phone we took off Hugh Bowden.  You both have the same numbers in your contacts list.  You called each other frequently.  You informed the union people about when my wife and I ran.  You texted the union people right before we got ambushed.  You told them how many vehicles we had in our convoy, how many people we had, what vehicle I was riding in.  You even sent them a picture of my truck before it was destroyed.”

“I had to,” Marcus said.  “I had to!”  Marcus started into a rambling explanation, but Sean held up his hand to signal he wouldn’t entertain any excuses.  When Marcus stopped, Sean spoke calmly and quietly.

“Historically, traitors are hung, and that’s what we are going to do to you Marcus.” Sean turned to his men and jerked his thumb at a one of the tall evergreen trees on the edge of the clearing.  “Get him up there.”

Hooker pulled a rope out of the back of a truck and fashioned it into a noose.  After securing the rope to the tree, the men stood Marcus on the open tailgate of a pickup.  The event was not a pleasant affair.  Marcus screamed and begged and pleaded the entire time, but his cries fell on deaf ears.  None of the men were moved in the least, not even Jim.  Once all the necessary steps were complete, Jim, who sat behind the wheel of the idling truck, hit the gas, driving out from under Marcus’s feet. In the rearview mirror, he watched Marcus kick and twist and then finally stop and just sway gently back and forth on his rope.  Somebody drew a pistol and fired a single round into Marcus’s head to be certain.

“Leave him in the tree,” Sean said.  With the help of the headlights of the trucks, Jim got a good look at his boss and could see the man was far from recovered.  A sling held his right arm tight against his body.  His right leg was also wounded, and he winced with each step.  Each movement brought an expression of pain on the Boss’s face.  He moved unsteadily, but steady or not, he was back.  Without any fanfare or much discussion, the men loaded back up into the vehicles and headed back to the compound.  

“Why,” Jim asked.

“Why what?  Why’d I have him hung?”

“No I got that,” Jim said.  “I mean why everything else?  Why come back?  Why put up with this shit?  You seem like you could have done pretty well up in Canada. You could have stayed there.  You could have done any number of things other than put yourself in this position.  So why?”

“Alright Jim,” Sean said, leaning back into his chair.  “I guess I owe you that much.”

On the radio, the announcer provided live commentary as politicians and various dignitaries filed into the chamber for the State of the Union address.


James answered his phone.  “How is D.C.?  I thought you were heading out here?”  The familiar voice on the other end took a long time to answer.  

“Things here in D.C. are too chaotic right now for me to get away.  Look, we need to talk.  Are you alone?”

James looked around his office.  Malik, Lieutenant Colonel Kwon, Chief Kim and Paul Linggi all lounged about the office, waiting on the State of the Union address to begin.

“Some members of my staff are here,” he said into the phone.


“My Chief of Staff, my military advisor, the Chief of Police…”  The voice cut James off before he could continue.  

“Perfect.  Put me on speaker.  They all need to hear what I have to say.”

James hit the appropriate button and asked what this was all about.  The others in the room gravitated to the desk and its speaker phone.

“I’ve been cleared to release Sean Bastle’s military file.  You need to know who it is you’re up against.”

James’ face twisted into an expression of mockery aimed at the speaker phone on the desk.  “What difference does that make now? The man’s dead.”

“He’s not dead.  Our agents spotted him in Canada yesterday.  He’s alive and he’s on his way back to you.”

On the TV running in the background, somebody announced that the President was about to enter the chamber.
Link Posted: 12/23/2009 1:09:27 AM EDT
YES!!! I knew he wasn't gone!
Page / 10
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