Revolution spun the nunchaku from his left hand to his right and back up under his cape as he drew them around him in one seamless move. In the blink of an eye, his hands were empty again.
The teens cheered. Two officers writhed on the ground, their consciousness fading fast from blood loss. And two were just out cold.
“Get home now!” Revolution barked at the teens, who rushed away like they'd been shot at. He held his hand up to his head. A phone line crackled in his ear. A 911 operator answered
“What is your emergency?”
“Officers need medical assistance at Eighth and Grimes,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Pausing for a moment, he considered them for a long second and then added, “I'd also suggest sensitivity training.”
Revolution was not unconcerned for the men he had wounded. The thought raced through his mind that if an ambulance did not arrive soon, the big one could easily die. That had not been his intention. But he knew that in the psychological war he was engaged in with the Council and its allies—like these officers—every move and countermove mattered. He subscribed to the old gentlemen's agreement of war: casualties should be avoided and quarter should be given whenever possible. But this was still war.
And in war people die.
He had sent a clear message tonight that this curfew would not go unmonitored by him. If the Council's allies wanted to take advantage of the people in a time of crisis, they would have to go through him. And they would pay the cost with their own blood.
CHAPTER 17
GOVERNOR 'S MANSION, BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
ONE DAY LATER
Governor Copley Adams, late sixties, distinguished and graying, was perched behind his large, ornate desk. He scanned the day's agenda and the bills up for signing. Sunlight beamed in from the large colonial-style windows. The limbs of oak trees swayed just beyond them. Adams was a distant relative to the Adamses that had founded the country: John, John Quincy, and Samuel. He had originally started out as a Republican, but as the Depression ravaged the political system as well as the economy, he had switched his allegiance to the Freedom Party rather than follow many of his mates into the conjoined Democratic-Republicans. The Unity Party, as it was sometimes called, had unified to kill the Republic, Adams thought. That much he was sure of. The Freedom Party had been the only other alternative. So he had held his nose and joined.
He'd never been an enthusiastic supporter of the Council, but he had seen their time coming a long way off. If you gave the country no other alternative, then you had to expect something like the Freedom Council was going to happen. Sometimes to save democracy you had to put it on life support. Abraham Lincoln had known this.
The truth was he had never thought the Council's rule would last this long.
Ten years. Jesus Christ.
But in a way he understood. It was hard to give up power once you had it. He should know. His party switch had been early on, and he had been rewarded ever since with “reelection,” no matter how popular his opposition became. One of the perks of—
His intercom beeped.
“Governor, the deputy chief of the Council Guard is here to see you.”
“Tell him to make himself comfortable. I'll be down as soon as I can.”
The retort came quickly over the intercom as his secretary realized he had not understood what she meant. “Uh, no, sir, he's on—”
The door swung open, and an entire regiment of uniformed officers filed in with purpose. A short, serious-looking man, midforties with a crew cut, emerged from their center. He was the only one not wearing a helmet—standard gear for Council Guard, who always looked a bit like they were suited up for a SWAT mission. Hard blue-gray steel shells protected their chests, arms, legs. The abdomen sections were black steel. The helmets were made of the same blue-gray steel.
All that gear looked like it’d be hot as hell to wear.
Adams didn’t know the armor actually had coolant systems that kept the Guards quite comfortable. A rare splurge by the Council, something the military, for instance, did not get. Soldiers on the battlefield were using the same basic gear they’d been using for half a century. It was another thing that irritated Adams about the Council. Two-plus decades of fighting in Africa had made that place a hellhole, yet the men and women stationed there still had antiquated equipment because there was no profit to be made in upgrading it.
The deputy chief placed a document down on the governor's large, ornate desk.
“Governor Adams, I have an official proclamation from the Council to inform you that from this day forth, all decisions made by your office, the legislature, or the judiciary will be officially reviewed by Council officers.”
Adams was dumbstruck. He had known the deputy chief going on twenty years. It was not often a governor was simply barged in on, let alone then told his authority was being taken away. Let alone from someone he thought was his friend. Adams shook his head, tried to dislodge the cobwebs that had crept into his thoughts. He rose from his chair.
“Now wait just a minute! I was a supporter of the Council since day one, but this is an outrage! If this is about State Street, that decision did not come from this office. You know that!”
“We are only here to enforce the law.”
“I enforce the laws in this state.”
The chief smiled. “Not anymore.”
Adams thought he might have detected a hint of regret in the deputy chief’s voice.
“Oh, this is ridiculous!”
“Massachusetts is coming under federal control.”
“This isn't federal control, this is Council control.”
The deputy chief cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “That's precisely the attitude that got your authority taken away. I would guess...sir.”
He said sir with emphasis, as if Adams was part of the Resistance. The governor just couldn't believe what he was hearing. No one could have done a better job at containing the insurgents. There was only so much a governor could do, after all. He felt his temper rising, and as he spoke, the tightness in his throat was audible despite his best efforts.
“I didn't ask for the insurgents to come to Boston any more than you did! It's not my fault that the temporary control of the Council has lasted ten years. If they want to see the Resistance end, then tell them to give back their authority.”
The deputy chief smiled slyly. He'd gotten through, gotten what he needed. He paced over to the large office window, peered out. Dropped the civility.
“You have a nice office here.” His tone was lower, more serious. Giving it to the governor straight now. Adams could feel the blood rush to his face as he listened to the deputy chief’s words. “It would be a real shame to lose it. I would imagine that someone like me could report things like what you just said to...certain people, shall we say?”
The deputy chief spun on his heel, glared into Adams's eyes. “What you're going to do is sit down, shut up, and collect your salary.” He paused for a second and then added, “Old friend.”
The deputy chief motioned his men to leave, and as they slipped out the door, the he stopped and leaned back in.
“Either that, or you'll get to know us a whole lot better.”
Chairman Sage received a call from the deputy chief on his private line. The chief relayed details about his conversation with the governor. He told Sage that he could stand witness to the governor’s resistance to the order. A little extra insurance in case Adams was fool enough to fight it. And with that, the bureaucratic independence of one of America's founding states died away. Chairman Sage could do whatever he wanted in the great state of Massachusetts.
CHAPTER 18
Paul Ward folded his newspaper. On the front page was a story he had read carefully. DOD SHUTS DOWN RAIL STATION FOR SECURITY. He tucked the paper into his back pocket and opened the large wooden door.
Ward strolled into the third pew and bowed to pray. The church was large, dark, and quiet. Candles burned on the altar up f
ront, providing more than half the light in the room. Ambient waves of sunlight streamed through thick, dark stained glass high above. It was a solemn place.
Looking about, Ward slipped his hand under the seat in front of him.
There it was. He pulled out a single piece of folded paper. Palmed it and slipped it into his front pants pocket. He waited for a few moments. Then, crossing his heart, he rose and exited the row.
An old-school information drop.
Outside the church, Ward scanned the street. No one around. A quiet late morning. Bright sunlight beamed onto the empty pavement. He sat on the stairs and unfolded the note.
“All right, partner, give me something good.”
Ward read the note quickly. After months of requests, he finally read the line he'd waited so long for.
“You've agreed to meet?” He was surprised, elated. He couldn't help but say it out loud. He was more than a little surprised when he got an answer.
“Actually, we're meeting right now.”
Ward spun. Behind him stood a beautiful, statuesque blonde, early thirties. She was smiling at him. There was a quiet confidence about her. Long, beautiful hair. A very athletic looking figure wrapped in a high-powered business suit that was nonetheless fitted for style.
And he was in just a sweater and jeans. And then it really hit him. This is The Source. A woman. What a chauvinist he had been! All this time he had assumed The Source was a man. He couldn't even think of what next to say. He heard himself splutter something unintelligible.
“Relax,” she said with a comforting smile “It’s just you and me. I'm Alison Mitchell.” She offered her hand and Ward shook it. “The Source.”
“How did you find out?” he stammered awkwardly, still shaken.
“Good at what I do. You probably already figured I work for the Council?”
“That makes a lot of sense.” No, he actually hadn't seriously considered the Freedom Council itself—figured it was too hard to work from within it. The heart of the beast. She was even better than Ward had imagined.
“If we're gonna be partners, only makes sense to get to know each other. I just had to wait for the right time. Had to be sure no one was watching me watch you. Hazard of the job.”
Alison handed him a one-page report. She stiffened. Her face said back to business.
“I’m guessing you’re planning to stake out that missile shipment next week?” She pointed to the paper Ward was holding with the headline about the Department of Defense planning to shut down the rail station. “And yes, I do think Fiddler and Revolution may be there. It fits the pattern.”
“So it is missiles. Good.” Ward figured that upped the chances of Revolution showing up.
“No, not good. It's a trap for both of them, and you could end up getting killed.”
“A trap? Are you sure?”
“Have I ever been wrong?”
“No.” She hadn’t. Not once. She clearly had good judgment.
“That's why you keep coming back here, despite the risk.”
“True.”
“Look, if you care about him like I know you do, I would try to warn Revolution to stay away. The Council doesn't want to make him a martyr, but if he's in the wrong place at the wrong time... Let's just say this is an arms shipment to India that they want more than they want either him or Fiddler to stay alive. And there's a lot more heat on Revolution right now for some reason.” She paused and seemed to anticipate his next question. “I don't know why.”
“How do you know so much about me?” That had sounded a bit more paranoid than he'd intended.
Alison's eyes lit up; her cheeks flushed slightly. The reaction was immediate and involuntary. It made Ward’s heart skip a beat and put the whole conversation in an entirely new light. She’d slipped out of her business-woman-in-control mode completely.
“I'm just...a fan. Have been ever since word about you came across my desk and I figured out who you were and what you were about. I believe in what you’re trying to do.” She leaned out and touched his arm. “No one else knows, Paul. I kept it to myself. You can trust me.”
There was no reason not to trust her. She had never led him astray. In fact, she had put him on the map. Put him face to face with Fiddler.
As she pulled her arm away, Ward noticed just how beautiful she really was. Her hair was salon perfect. She was showing just a bit too much cleavage for a business meeting. Why had it take him this long to notice that? A nice skirt. High heels. A perfumed body oil shined her skin and wafted its scent over to him on the late morning breeze.
Stay professional.
Ward tried to think of anything else. “It was the carjacking, wasn't it? You caught my trail the day I first met the Revolution.”
“Very good.”
“I don't know why I never thought of that before.”
“You can't think of everything.”
That was true. Still, figuring out puzzles was what he did, and this one had been staring him in the face. He had first run into the Revolution when he had intercepted a police call in South Boston. Dumb luck. He had headed over and found the Dark Patriot himself involved in a shootout. An early version of the paralysis darts had helped Revolution subdue the assailants without bloodshed. As a test of the darts, it was a total failure. The serum circulated fast, made them woozy, but it had taken two hours to knock the targets out.
Made the Revolution happy, though. It turned out the attackers were undercover Council Guard who were trying to kidnap a member of the Resistance.
Later, Revolution found Ward at the steeple and thanked him. But not without a warning to stay out of his business. The Revolution was a loner and clearly wanted it to stay that way. If Ward could only get a second chance at talking to him. Got my speech memorized.
Now, as he thought about it, the whole mystery of how The Source had found him was falling into place. He could have been upset that someone like Alison could know this much about him with so little information to start from. But for some reason it was a huge relief. Someone knew. A weight lifted. He hadn’t realized how hard it had been to keep all of this a secret. He was a people person after all. Keeping secrets sucked. It was liberating to finally have a partner to share it with! A partner he could trust with his life. A partner who understood his mission rather than telling him his obsession was unhealthy and unproductive. That he needed to move on. And it didn’t hurt that his partner was a beautiful, intelligent woman!
For the first time in a long time he felt like a lucky guy.
“You wanna go get some coffee or something?” Ward was smiling. Couldn't help it.
She smiled back.
CHAPTER 19
Ward looked at her. Really looked at her. He thought there must have been hearts breaking all over Boston right then. Alison Mitchell was a smart, capable bombshell. The kind of woman every man turned to look at when she entered a room.
Paul Ward was a rich, single, reasonably handsome man. In other words, a very eligible bachelor. He knew when a woman wanted him. He was well experienced with beautiful women hitting on him. A benefit of being a rich bachelor. And he was pretty sure that if he didn't come off as the mondo-geek he really was, she was his.
They walked a block and a half north to a little coffee shop that Ward visited often. Good espresso and decent muffins. He really wanted to take her to his favorite spot four blocks further, but her heels did not look like they were made for that.
On the other hand, she was a champ in them. Obviously she was used to dressing for success. And he kept noticing how nice they made her legs look. He kept having to tell himself, This is The Source. And to be a good boy. To stay professional.
When they found a table, Ward pulled her chair out for her and fetched a couple of menus. But they both stuck to coffee even though the hour was approaching lunchtime.
They meshed surprisingly well. They shared the easy early flirtations of a couple that had just met but liked what they saw. She liked his humor, and
he liked hers. They clicked. This wasn't a chess match. This was two people who wanted to get along. Ward was always an easy guy to talk to, but they their banter was absolutely effortless. How often do you find that in someone else? Not often in Ward’s experience.
Before long they turned to more serious matters. Ward found it remarkable that he could so easily discuss the tragedies of the recent past with her. He had such a hard time thinking of them himself. But he spilled them. Not in a sad, neurotic way, but very matter-of-factly.
It turned out that Alison had a good reason to seek out someone like Ward. She told him how her parents had been murdered by street gangs loyal to local politicians who would later reveal ties to the Council. Ward, in turn, talked about his own demons. The ghosts of his past. The death of his wife and little boy. Ghosts he too often chased away by dulling the pain. He told himself he was just testing new batches of his serenity serum. But he knew better.
Okay, he didn't tell her that last part.
Then he told her something she already knew.
Fiddler had killed his son, David.
A drive-by shooting. His boy was gunned down for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Alison Mitchell knew this because she had already done her homework. Had already put two and two together. She was good at what she did. And that was something that Ward already knew. She explained that she dealt in information every day. With Media Corp in charge of the Freedom Council, information had always been key. Gathering information and manipulating it. They framed reality. She helped them do it. More to be impressed by, he thought.
Though the police had never released the names of David Ward's killers, it was well known at the time that his death was due to gang warfare. The papers splashed his death on the front page. He died playing outside the community center David's mother, Lori, had started for Boston's poorest residents. It was one of those tragedies people talked about at work and again at home that night—and then forgot about the next day. Alison had seen plenty of paperwork proving the Council used the Brown Recluse to move guns, money, and other items around the city from time to time. She knew the community center had been on their turf; she told him.
The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution Page 9
