Rebels & Lies (Rebels & Lies Trilogy Book 1)

by Cotton, Brian

  Krys nodded. “Yeah, so he knows my skills on the bike, right?”

  Kaspar said nothing.

  “She can handle herself,” Paxton continued. “Her skills on the bike do come in handy as does her skill in infiltration. Quiet as a mouse, she is.”

  Up next came the short oriental guy, with the same cocky expression on his face.

  “Yung Li, double black belt in Tae Kwon Do. Li knows Danny quite well. He trained him in another one of those underground fighting leagues.”

  Li took a bow in front of Kaspar and didn’t say anything. Kaspar nodded at the bowing Li and wondered what in the hell he was doing. He thought about the assertion from Paxton that this tiny kid was a double black belt. Could he be taken in a fight? Kaspar thought so. Maybe he would find out one day.

  “So,” Kaspar said. “Was Danny an old prick to you, too?”

  Li moved his head up and nodded a yes.

  “Yung, he doesn’t talk much. He’s still working on his gun fighting but if things get to close quarters…well, don’t be the other guy.” Paxton said.

  Li smiled.

  “Well, I guess that leaves me. We do have rules which I can explain to you in the morning. Right now, you need some rest. Everyone is dismissed.”

  “I have questions.” Kaspar replied, the others filed their way out of the room around him.

  “Sleep on them. You’ll have all day to ask away tomorrow. A lot will be explained to you and we’ve got some stops to make as well. Robert here will show you to your room.”

  “Follow me,” Clarke said.

  Paxton remained in the situation room as Kaspar followed the skinny guy out. They walked back into the living room and to the stairs. They began their accent upwards when something…beautiful caught Kaspar’s eyes. Krys walked across the hall in nothing but a black sports bra and gray sweat pants. She had a work of art going down her rib cage. A red rose with some red petals falling down her bronzed skin.

  “Eyes to yourself,” Krys said without a look over, “Mr. Kaspar.”

  Kaspar moved his eyes away and focused them on the stairs below. Once they reached the top they came to a narrow hallway. The wooden floors here made more noise than the ones at the old apartment he would never step foot in again. At the very end, to the left, Clarke opened the white painted door.

  A small bedroom waited inside. No decorations on the walls or anywhere else, save a picture of a bald eagle in a gold frame on the night stand. I really am joining a cult, he thought. The hope was that at least this cult would provide him with a gun, and train him how to use that gun to kill as many USR before his own death. Kaspar moved to the white cot and took a seat. His ass fell straight down.

  “That bed’s kinda old.” Clarke said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “There’s some clothes in that closet. They belonged to…well, he was about your size.”

  “I’ll be wearing a ghost’s clothes, then?”

  “Yeah, sort of. Just watch yourself when you talk about Zach. We are all still stinging from it.”

  “So, that was his name,” Kaspar said as he remembered the news broadcast once again.

  “If you need anything, I’m in the room directly across from you. Have a good night.”

  Kaspar stood as the door closed. He walked over to the closet, opened the door, and examined the contents inside. Not much in the way of clothes hung inside. A few pairs of jeans, plain shorts, long sleeve shirts, and white tees folded on the shelf above. He shut the door and stripped down to his boxers.

  The tears started to flow once more. Kaspar buried his head into the soft white pillow on the bed and didn’t try to stop them. He felt a sharp pain in his left eye, but ignored it. No matter how valiant the attempt, he could not get his mother’s eyes out of his mind.

  He hoped that joining this rag tag band of rebels would make the pain go away.

  Fifteen

  Paxton led the way to a small storage closet. The day already turned into an interesting one for Kaspar. He had the fine pleasure of enjoying a plate full of bacon made from one hundred percent murdered animal. Kilbourne put it best as Kaspar devoured the stuff, “Better than that tofu shit you’re used to.” That farmer, who lived twenty-five or so miles to the west, would sure be in for it once the government found out he slaughtered animals for human consumption.

  The lights flickered on and finally there was something that resembled progress. Inside laid racks upon racks of guns bolted to the walls. Along the two walls were submachine guns and assault rifles. Kaspar listened as the old leader rattled off their names: MP5, MP10, MP7, LWRC PSD, M4 Carbine, and UMP9. Several shotguns at the end to the left: Remington, Sawed off, Lupara. It was all gibberish to Kaspar. By the time Paxton got around to how many shells a Remington could carry, his attention had wavered to the point of half listening. On the far back wall were the side arms: P99, Glock 17 and 19, Smith and Wesson 9MM.

  “You ever hold a gun before?” Paxton asked. “I mean, before yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll have to get you used to it.”

  Kaspar smirked and looked to the ground in an attempt to hide it.

  “What?” Paxton demanded.

  “Nothing, it’s just that, I’d always heard stories about how Americans loved their violence and clung to their guns.”

  “We used to have the right to carry weapons for self-defense. But, I guess the new USR laws served you a whole shit load of good, didn’t they?”

  Kaspar nodded. The old man had a point.

  Paxton reached for the rack of hand guns and held out a black and silver P99. Kaspar took hold of it, the barrel pointed straight at Paxton’s chest. The leader took hold of the barrel and moved it away before Kaspar knew what happened.

  “Be careful. The safety’s on, but accidents do happen. Always practice safety when you handle one of these, you get me?”

  Then don’t hand it over with the barrel pointed to you, Kaspar thought. He fastened the weapon into the thigh holster given to him after breakfast. Next came the MP7, which Kaspar slung over his shoulder with the black strap. He led the way out of the storage area, with Paxton taking the lead shortly after they walked out.

  They were soon out in the back yard. The cool chill of the morning air caused goose bumps to form on Kaspar’s bare arms. He told himself it was the air, at least. There was something overwhelming that brewed inside that was most likely the root cause of the bumps. On his thigh and over his back was the power to swiftly take the life of another human being. The very thing that took Mother away he would have to wield in order to find inner peace.

  The large, beautiful lawn housed several wooden shelters. The shelters were open in the front with paper targets nailed to the back. The loud crackle of gun fire filled his ear drums. The others got a head start on their weapons training for the day.

  “Cease fire!” Paxton cried.

  The crackling continued until Paxton raised his voice once again. He was heard this time and the rebels ceased fire. Kaspar was led to the shelter at the far end. The others stared him down until he reached it. He felt a high level of discomfort with strangers, trained killers at that, staring him down with loaded guns in their hands.

  In front of the last shelter stood a waist high wooden table with the words “DEATH TO THE USR” inscribed with a combat knife across. Paxton ordered the rookie to inspect his weapon and prepare to fire. Kaspar pulled the P99 out of the holster and looked down at it, dumbfounded. He looked wide eyed at Paxton and shrugged his shoulders.

  “This is the safety,” Paxton said with a sigh. He walked over to Kaspar’s position and pointed it out. “Switch it off.”

  With the safety off, Kaspar held the gun up and pointed it towards the paper target in front. He took in a few deep breaths and couldn’t shake the awkwardness of not knowing how to shoot a gun. Not only that, but he could feel the eyes of the others squarely on him. His right index finger on the trigger, he was ready to fire…


  “Remember,” Krys said from behind him with a smile. “Don’t release the clip until it’s dry.”

  Kaspar turned to the woman and brought his eyebrows together. He felt the urge to point the weapon at her. Not to kill her, of course, but to give her a little scare. The smart side of his brain told him not to do it. He wouldn’t last five milliseconds with all those others who actually knew how to handle their firearms. He put Krys’s comment on the back burner and refocused his attention on the target.

  “Krys, shut up,” Kilbourne said.

  “Yes, sir!” Krys replied, she gave Kilbourne a fake salute and her smile remained.

  When Mother died, Kaspar tried to imagine what the killer must have looked like. He put together this image of a man with a skinny face and a long, narrow nose. The eyes were fire red and the killer’s smile revealed black, rotten teeth. The black outline of the human head became replaced with this face. The killer stood tall and skinny in front of Kaspar. Kaspar pointed the handgun in his direction and aimed for the head. He pulled the trigger four times…

  All four shots missed wide. The sound of Krys’s laughter could be heard over the ringing in his ears. In a fit of frustration, Kaspar slammed the gun down on the table and cursed aloud. He then spit out of his mouth and looked at the paper target. One three inches to the left of skull, the second shot missed the left shoulder by two inches, the third an inch above the head, the final shot three inches northwest.

  “Goddamn it,” Kaspar cried. “Tell that woman to shut her mouth.”

  “Krys, you are not helping.” Paxton said. He reached out and touched her shoulder.

  “Sorry, boss, just having a bit of fun.” Krys replied.

  “Let him get better. We don’t want him shooting us out there.”

  “Yeah,” Kilbourne chimed in. “You won’t be laughing when he accidently blows your head off.”

  Paxton walked over to Kaspar and looked him square in the eye. Kaspar moved his head to the left avoid the old veteran’s gaze. Undeterred, Paxton continued to move forward until he invaded the neophyte’s personal space. Kaspar could feel the old man’s hot breath and instinctively backed away. Paxton took a step forward in response.

  “What was that?” Paxton demanded.

  “Huh?” Kaspar replied.

  “I said: what the fuck was that?”

  “I missed.”

  “You didn’t just miss. I’ve seen men stricken with palsy shoot straighter than that.” Paxton breathed in and looked towards the bullet hole. The sight caused him to shake his head once more. “Pathetic.”

  “I’ll go again.” Kaspar said, his right hand reaching for the gun.

  “No, you will not go again. You are wasting my ammunition and my time. You shoot too fast, like a high school boy on his first lay.”

  “I should slow down, then?”

  “No, you shouldn’t…”

  In a blink Paxton’s gun was pointed in Kaspar’s face. Kaspar stared down the muzzle of the gun then at its owner. The old veteran’s eyes told him that Paxton would fire the weapon without a second thought. He backed away out of instinct and held his hands in the air.

  “You see,” Paxton said. He lowered the gun back at his thigh. “You’ve got to think quick as well as act quick.”

  “Okay.”

  Kaspar aimed the gun back at the paper target and breathed.

  “What did I say? Put that gun back on the table, now!” Paxton shouted.

  Was all this really worth it? Kaspar kept asking that question in his mind as he put the gun back on the table. He could not shoot worth anything. If he went out on his mission of vengeance right now, he would get nothing but a quick death. Paxton ordered him to step aside and he did. He watched as Paxton aimed the gun at the target.

  BANG BANG BANG!!!

  A look of shock filled Kaspar’s face when he saw the target. Two shots center mass on the chest and one dead center on the head. The shots were fired so fast that it didn’t even appear that there was any aim involved. It was like Paxton had been gifted super human abilities with a handgun. Who the fuck was he really dealing with?

  “That’s how you shoot.” Paxton said.

  “How’d you do that?” Kaspar asked, still in shock.

  “I clung to my weapon and I aimed. Come over here.”

  Kaspar walked over to Paxton who clicked the safety back on. Paxton held the gun straight at the target and pointed to a knob at the end of the barrel.

  “This is your sight,” he said. “You get the top of that in line with the ‘U’ in the back. That’s how you aim. You’ll also want to absorb the recoil when you fire. Use your right arm for that. You left hand and arm are used to support your aim. Now, you may go again.”

  Paxton stepped aside. Kaspar reached down and yanked the side arm off of the table. He pointed the gun at the target. He breathed in deep. He straightened his right arm and used his left arm to hold the gun in place. He stared down the sight and aimed for the head. He took a breath and fired one shot.

  It landed above the head again. Only this time it was missed by mere centimeters.

  “Progress.” Paxton acknowledged. “Again.”

  Sixteen

  Sullivan sat in Fitzpatrick’s office without answers. Fitzpatrick flipped through a report at a feverous pace behind his desk. Sullivan wondered as he sat awaiting his next assignment how long it would be before the city grew tired of it and fired him. How long before the USR would rip apart the entire RU and start with fresh faces? He would settle with Mason and Wilcox getting the chop. Maybe then he would get some partners who actually knew what they were doing.

  One thought continued to fester in his mind. He could not help but think that if there was a hell, it had Sullivan’s name in permanent marker on the guest list. That old woman, she didn’t deserve to die, Sullivan knew. But, that was not what bothered him so. If she did have any information on the resistance, that was gone. The resistance continued to run wild and would commit more acts of terrorism all the while the USR, and Sullivan in particular, could have done something about it. He could have stopped it, or at least disrupted it, but he failed to reign in his partners. That would surely send him to that awful after life.

  “Looks like Forte found something.” Fitzpatrick said. He looked up from his report.

  “He’s going to have my job soon.” Sullivan replied.

  “Don’t be like that. He doesn’t have the leadership qualities you do. All he cares about is money.”

  “What did he find?”

  “A young couple…they live in a busted up old apartment in downtown. Thomas Everson and his girlfriend, Francis B…erlovski. Ha, the fuck is she from?”

  “What kind of evidence do we have?” Sullivan asked as he leaned forward. His interest had been piqued.

  “Another one of Forte’s suspects implicated them. Yelled out their names in between the screams.”

  Sullivan rubbed at his forehead. “At some point, we are going to have to rely on real, concrete evidence.”

  “These rebels are elusive, cunning, and smart. They don’t leave behind much in the way of evidence, so we’ll just have to make do with what little blessings we get. Keep the citizens happy and the Consul off our ass.” Fitzpatrick replied.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Take Mason and Wilcox with you again.”

  Sullivan sighed, “Hopefully they don’t shoot the place up again.”

  Fitzpatrick handed the file over to his top man. Sullivan flipped through the mug shots and read Thomas’s profile. He clerked at one of the local grocery shops to make ends meet. They drew credit from the government to feed and clothe themselves. Something struck Sullivan as odd. He could feel something was wrong in the pit of his stomach.

  “It’s off.” Sullivan said with his eyes still buried in the file.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Look at their ages, sir. Twenty-one and nineteen? Barely out of school? This Thomas kid grew up an orphan and was raised in the cam
ps.”

  The camps were the schools that picked up orphans. In the beginning, there were still a lot of leftovers that were imprisoned. As a result, someone had to take care of their children. In response to this, the USR set up academies where the young were taught their philosophies and of the wickedness that came before. A majority of the boys who grew up there joined the military or became Agents upon graduation. Thomas was one of the few who did not meet the requirements to join either. He was tossed to the wolves and forced to make his own way.

  “They were implicated,” Fitzpatrick said again. “By a man in no position to lie, at that.”

  “Do you even believe your own bullshit?” Sullivan asked.

  “Come on, our job is tough enough as it is. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll give the no kill order to Mason and Wilcox.”

  “Like that’s ever stopped them before?”

  “Don’t worry about it. They are two kids who don’t contribute anything to our great society. Who cares?”

  “Is that justice?” Sullivan demanded.

  “What is justice?” Fitzpatrick replied. He leaned forward in his chair and pointed his index finger at the window. “Seeing those rebels out there tearing our city apart, spreading their ridiculous theories and philosophies?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Take Mason and Wilcox with you. Bring those crooks in and we’ll have a nice little chat with them, clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Maybe you were right about Forte. Get your ass over there.”

  “On the way.” Sullivan said.

  The Agent stood and saluted his boss before he turned for the door. Nothing about this assignment sat well. The suspect’s profile reeked of innocence. Just what was this all about? Some poor schmuck gets tortured and yells out names of people he knows, saying anything to stop the pain?

  Sullivan walked towards his office and touched at the small device inside of his ear. He dialed Mason’s number into his wrist watch and awaited the bastard’s voice. When the voice shot through, Sullivan ordered that both he and Wilcox come into his office. He informed Mason of the new assignment and ended the call. The quicker the conversation the better.