Patriots Betrayed

by John Grit

  Sitting in the small cell at a federal installation somewhere in Washington DC and wondering how many hours or days he had left, Raylan realized he might have taken President Riley’s advice to tell the truth a little too literally. He hadn’t gone easy on Riley, but there was no proof Riley had direct involvement in any of Dulling’s crimes, and he doubted there would be any legal problems for him, unless someone else popped up from out of the blue to provide incriminating evidence that could hold up in court. Still, was Riley expecting something different from his testimony? He had little faith in Riley’s word, and now he wondered if he had pissed him off by being a little too truthful to the Senate. To make matters worse, he wasn’t sure exactly what Riley had meant when he whispered in his ear and whether he had told him the truth. He was adrift in a dangerous sea, wearing a life preserver that offered little to no floatation and therefore little to no hope. A storm of thoughts brewed in his head, always coming back to Carla.

  Raylan stood when the cell door clanged open.

  Deputy U.S. Marshal Bowden was more severe and short with Raylan than usual this afternoon and seemed to have something on his mind. He gave short, choppy orders with a tone of voice that carried a hard, cold edge. Holding a Taser at the ready, he ordered, “Turn around. Don’t move. Try anything and I’ll floor you.”

  Raylan did what he was told without a word.

  Someone he couldn’t see laughed, while he chained Raylan’s ankles.

  Deputy Marshal Bowden said, “People from the CIA are taking you off our hands.”

  Raylan turned to face them. His chest rose and held, then slumped. He recognized the face of the man standing next to Bowden, but didn’t know his name. Raylan did know why he was there. The waiting was over.

  The man clamped cuffs on tight, so tight it wasn’t long before Raylan felt his hands swelling. A chain was also put around his waist and attached to the cuffs to keep his hands close to his stomach. “We’re going out the front,” the man said. He gave Raylan a leering look. “Just so you know. Whatever deal you think you made is off.” He laughed. “It’s time to pay for your treason.”

  Raylan clenched his jaw and swallowed. “No trip to the garage, huh? So this is the day I die.”

  Bowden’s eyes flashed to him for just a second and then instantly regained their cold glass appearance. “Don’t you think that would be too obvious?” He walked away.

  Raylan moved to the elevator, taking short, awkward steps with the chains hindering his progress, and waited for the door to open. “Don’t expect me to lie down and die – chains or no.”

  “Shut up.” The man who had laughed before wouldn’t look at Raylan, wouldn’t let their eyes meet. Two other men who came with the one Raylan had seen a few times at Langley wouldn’t look directly at him either. He knew a fourth one wasn’t in on it: She looked at him as a human being. He wondered if she would throw up when his brains splattered on her face. Maybe not. She looks like she may have seen the elephant, or at least its big, ugly ass.

  Raylan sighed and looked around the elevator as they dropped to street level. He knew the minute he walked out the front door of the building someone with a rifle around four or five hundred yards away, up in an elevated position, a window or a roof, would send a bullet through his head.

  The elevator door slid open. Deputy Marshals waited in the lobby, all wearing bullet-resistant vests, helmets, and all armed with full auto weapons. What they were there for, he had no idea. Most likely there was another federal prisoner in the building they were waiting on. Raylan saw two men near the exit he recognized as CIA, though he had never seen them before. They stared calmly at him, not a speck of human connection showing. In your eyes I’m dead meat already. Too late assholes. The damage has been done. Killing me is after the fact. You can’t unexplode a bomb.

  Raylan stood there, taking in everything, drinking in his last taste of life. Did I really change anything? Who the hell knows! They are too powerful and too many.

  The man who had laughed before said, “Let’s go. Start walking.”

  Raylan didn’t take a single step. He looked around, staring each man and woman in the face. “I hate to quote a damn Communist, but his last words seem so appropriate. Just remember, you’re only killing a man.”

  “Che Guevara?” The man who seemed happy about what was about to happen glared at him. “You’re quoting Guevara?”

  “Didn’t say I liked the bastard, just said his last words were appropriate.” Raylan bent over and charged. Despite the leg irons, he was able to drive his head into the man’s gut. He grunted and bent over. Raylan timed it perfectly. He stepped back and straightened up, whipping the back of his head into the man’s face, flattening his nose. The man’s head snapped back, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious. At least you’ll not have the fun of seeing me die. You can laugh later.

  Raylan was immediately set upon by four men. When they finally let him up, he was nearly out. They yanked him up from the floor, where he left several teeth and a crimson puddle.

  He spit blood. “I told him I wasn’t going to lie down and die.”

  The two spooks near the exit looked on as if they couldn’t understand why he was being so uncooperative. One walked up and wiped Raylan’s face with a handkerchief. “Not the face, you morons.” He pressed the blood-soaked cloth against Raylan’s mouth and nose, trying to stem the flow. “Damn fools.” He wiped at the cuts, but they continued to bleed. “Fools.”

  Raylan’s legs had lost their strength. He was held up by two men and physically hauled to the door. He blinked and tried to shake blood out of his eyes. “Let me stand. Damn it! Let me stand and walk. I’m not going to let you SOBs take that away from me. Let me walk out of this world like a man.”

  They didn’t release their hold on his arms, but they did lessen the force. Raylan willed his rubbery legs to hold up his weight and took a step. Two more steps and he was outside. The area near the entrance had been kept clear of people. He noticed reporters and cameras only a short distance away. Yeah, make sure you get it all on video, so you can show the world how it wasn’t your fault. After all, you gave me a vest. Who could guess the shooter would aim for the head? Everything that could be done was done, don’t you know. And how dare anyone accuse the government of having someone murdered in front of a federal building. If only the voters would allow them to ban guns, it would never have happened. They have some patsy lined up. He’ll be killed before he gets out of the area. Some anti-government nut did it. End of story.

  Raylan raised his head and looked up at the nearest building. Down the street a ways, on the far corner of an intersection, was a five-story building with red brick. He turned his face and saw the open window where the sniper was aiming from. He barely had time to notice a sharp pain under his right arm when one of the men who held him applied more pressure for some reason. It sent a jolt through his body. The bullet slammed into his chest, and Raylan went down.

  Senator Sandy Mann had been at the door arguing with two Marshals who would not let him pass. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded. “Why are you taking him out the front door this time? Is this a goddamn setup?” When Raylan collapsed onto the concrete, he dove through the door and on top of him, shielding Raylan with his body. Two Marshals yanked the senator off and dragged him into the building. Senator Mann cussed them for everything he could think of. “You murdering assholes! You bastards!”

  Two men dragged Raylan back into the building, his head hanging limp, and lowered him to the floor. One man checked for any sign of breathing. Crimson fluid oozed out from under the vest and between his fingers when he felt for Raylan’s heartbeat. Outside, a few ambitious cameramen snapped photos and recorded video of the action through the glass door. Raylan never moved.

  ~~~

  The next day, two hundred thousand veterans marched on Washington. They had no permit for the event. They did have rifles slung across their backs. Washington police stood back and prayed the rifles would
stay slung. The day after, three hundred thousand more veterans joined them. The National Guard was called in. Few soldiers responded to the call. Many did show up at the rally. The Army was called in. They too were faced with massive disobedience. By Saturday, the number of protestors had grown to two million. Sunday morning, the number of protestors across the country was estimated at over five million veterans. By afternoon, eight million more protestors who had never served joined with the veterans and active duty at every state capital. Half of America’s military officers of all branches offered their resignations. A third of CIA employees walked off the job. The streets of Washington rumbled with marching boots, and those in power pissed their pants.

  The president and vice president were two of the few politicians not to flee Washington. No one knew where the others went to hide, perhaps out of the country. Senator Mann stayed and joined the protestors, as did all conservative and Libertarian members of Congress. Only three Democrats joined them, but they were welcome.

  As the days came and went, there were no speeches, no demands. Just the presence of tens of millions of Americans with slung rifles said enough. Over the next three days, a third of America’s one hundred million civilian gun owners converged on Washington and joined the veterans. When there was no room in the streets for them, they marched around Langley and filled the streets of Virginia and Maryland. Every federal building in every state was besieged with marching Americans, rifles slung on their backs. The message was clear: End the corruption and send the offenders to prison. Take one more slice of our freedom, ignore the Constitution once more, and the rifles will be unslung.

  Chapter 26

  President Riley sat in the Oval Office behind his desk and spoke to the American people. The makeup couldn’t hide the wear on him from worry and lack of sleep.

  “Many things have happened during my presidency that I am ashamed of. Most of them were the result of the late Director Dulling’s criminal mind. I inherited Dulling from former administrations, and it did not take me long to develop a deep disliking for the man. It also did not take me long to discover why Dulling had not been replaced by my predecessors. He had collected embarrassing information on them and used it as an instrument of blackmail. I know this because he told me, when I mentioned that I would be appointing someone else as Director. It was then, early in my first term, he let me know that he had collected more than enough dirt to ruin me and would release it to the public, if I did not keep him on as Director of the CIA. I am not telling you this as an excuse for anything I have done as president, but as a truthful explanation of what happened.

  “There was one crime, however, that I cannot shirk responsibility for and will not even try. When Dulling learned of my affair with Mita Agenziano and that she was pregnant with my baby, he came to me and offered to have her killed. I told him no. He took that as a yes. Now, the fact I did not demand his resignation on the spot and report him to the Department of Justice leaves me totally responsible for Mita’s death. My response simply was not strong enough, and to him my weak ‘no’ meant yes. I hesitated to report him because I knew it would cost me a second term.” He lost some of his self-control for the first time and took several seconds to recover. “My wife and daughter may someday forgive me for my dishonesty and betrayal of their trust, but I know I will never forgive myself for Mita’s death.”

  A fire seemed to flare up within him. His voice became strong and sure. “I am resigning my presidency effective noon tomorrow. I pray better men and women have the strength and courage to lift this nation up to greater heights, where the petty frailties of weak men cannot tarnish the honor of Americans like Raylan Maddox and Carla Baylor, men and women who love their people and country so much they are willing to stand against evil and corruption at all costs.

  “I leave you with this warning. Our government has become so large, powerful, and controlling, assisted by ever-advancing technology, that we have built up a turnkey tyranny, waiting for a new Hitler or Stalin to be elected. The only thing standing between that tyranny and the American people are the good people who say no, hell no!” Tears ran down his face. “As I should have said to Dulling. The simple word no, backed up by courage and conviction, can prevent catastrophic failure of government to protect the American people’s rights and freedoms. I beg you to learn from this and never give up one inch of ground when it comes to your liberty. Say no to drones over your skies. Say no to NSA eavesdropping of your phone calls. Say no to your emails being read without a warrant. Say no to cameras everywhere and warrantless searches. Demand the Patriot Act be repealed. Say no to further encroachments on the Fourth Amendment. We can protect our country from threats without giving up our liberties.

  “I ask those of you in the streets all across America to now go home and put your rifles away. Hug your families and pray for Carla Baylor and Raylan Maddox. Then roll up your sleeves and go to work. Our Founding Fathers warned that the system of government they had given us was entirely inadequate for anything but a society of morally strong men and women. That warning needs to be updated to reflect today’s threats to liberty. The weak government of their time that insured liberty through its very weakness has morphed into an overbearing behemoth that is entirely too powerful to safely govern a weak people. We must all learn to say no, hell no.”

  ~~~

  A year later, on a beach in Florida.

  A couple sat at a table by their motor home and watched a beautiful sunrise over the Atlantic. The husband sipped coffee, enjoying the peace and quiet that was momentarily interrupted by a firecracker set off by a ten-year-old boy near the water’s edge. It brought back memories of a past life. He remembered the day a powerful man whispered a promise in his ear, a lie, he thought at the time, but he wanted desperately to believe. He reached over and touched his wife’s face.

  She smiled. “How’s the leg?”

  “I think it’s getting better,” he answered. “Doesn’t bother me so much lately.”

  “Good, because last night I dreamed of that valley in Wyoming, and I would like to walk with you through that field of wildflowers again.”

  “Funny. I was thinking of the same thing. After breakfast, we’ll hit the road.”

  A free sample of

  Fierce Blood

  State Wildlife Officer Dale Shade stopped his SUV on the backcountry dirt road and examined fresh tire tracks leading into a wildlife preserve. A sign that warned no motorized vehicles were allowed had been run over. The tire tracks led down a Jeep trail that was designated for official use only.

  Twenty-three years old, one year out of the Florida Wildlife Commission Law Enforcement Training Center and eight months out from under the wings of his Field Training Officer, Dale had yet to make his first big arrest. He knew that was not unusual, since most wildlife officers went years without working a felony case, but he was in a hurry to advance his career. He wasn’t expecting more than a teen couple seeking privacy or hunters scouting the area for deer season. Nevertheless, it was all part of the job, and he didn’t mind handing out summons for lawbreakers to pay a fine. His older brother Lee joked about him becoming a “fish cop” when Dale told him he had applied. “Why not be a real cop?” Lee asked him. “It pays better.” Dale responded with statistics showing how much safer the job would be and how he would not have to work as hard. “It’s a good steady job with benefits,” he said.

  Though he was sure he had administrative authority to use the restricted Jeep trail, he thought he had better walk. Both sides of the river were part of a designated wilderness area, and the state was serious about their precious land not being scarred by modern technology. Even firefighters were not allowed to bring heavy dozers in and had to rely on aircraft to dump water and fire retardant during the dry season fires.

  Dale reached for the radio microphone and warned Dispatch he would be away from his vehicle to search for the truck and its occupants. The bored dispatcher’s voice came back with a simple acknowledgement. He locked the S
UV and headed down the Jeep trail at a fast walk. I’m not going far. The river’s only half a mile anyway. More than likely they’re parked on the bank and either fishing or screwing.

  Ten minutes and seven mud holes later, he approached a black Cadillac Escalade that was backed up to the river’s edge. The luxury vehicle should have warned him, but he was kicking a pine tree to get mud off his shoes and did not think about its implications. No fisherman or deer hunter would be driving such an expensive vehicle.

  He heard a murmur of several voices, all men, coming from behind the Escalade. It would be dark soon, and he wanted to be back to his SUV before then, so he moved in closer, taking no precautions. He saw a fast boat tied to a cypress growing a few feet out from the bank. Long, narrow, and sleek with two powerful outboards on the transom, it was out of place for such a narrow, shallow river with winding curves and switchbacks where high speeds were not possible. Several men were loading duffel bags from the boat into the back of the SUV. He stood rigid for just a second, stepped back behind a tree, and reached up to the mike clipped to his shirt.

  “Don’t do that,” a gravelly voice that came from behind warned. “I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  There was something unusual about the voice that caught Dale’s attention. It sounded Hispanic, but that wasn’t it. There was a strange quality to it. He froze, then slowly turned to face a much younger man than he expected, judging by his voice. He could not see the man’s face because he wore a ski mask, but his body was that of a young man.

  “You stepped in it. Stepped in it bad.” Appearing to be in his late twenties to early thirties, the man was dressed in an expensive suit, and his jet black-hair flowed out from the bottom of the ski mask and down to his shoulders.