The Dragons of Men (The Sons of Liberty Book 2) (7 page)

The tears beading in his eyes grew, warping his vision as he stared blankly at the screen. He zoomed out and could see that the entire base had been blanketed by an aerial attack. Where fire and smoke didn’t cloud the ground, deep depressions peppered begrimed rubble. Tanks and drones continued to move about the base, undoubtedly searching for those who might have survived.

In what Adam had thought to be his last moments, he had accepted Lukas’ words and believed his family had died as he fled DC. Looking at the smoldering tomb that held his wife, parents, and children only renewed that sinking despair. He handed the tablet back to Lev with a silent nod. He wanted to weep and howl and almost felt guilty that he didn’t. But instead of lamenting, he wiped away the few tears that had broken free as he fed a murderous wrath inside of him that demanded revenge.

Images of his wife with her glowing blonde hair and affectionate smile passed through his mind, as did the daydreams of hacking the life out of those who were responsible for her death. He reminisced about the joyful memories he had made with her, even that past year when things had begun to spiral out of control. He thought about his kids—Judah running around the meadow before begging Adam to stay— though even those pictures were interspersed with fantasies of Adam lining up America’s turncoats on a similar bloody field, executing them one by one. He then thought about Grace and Eva, their ever positive and oblivious attitudes even as the world crumbled around them.

Would they have wept had they known what their daddy longs to do to their killers?

Adam didn’t know how long he had sat there quietly, but by the time he looked up Lev and Marc were talking quietly to each other as Marc tended to William. Gene stared back at Adam wordlessly, his face again unreadable.

“The feel of the shovel gets familiar in everyone’s hands during times of war,” Gene said quietly, shifting his gaze to the side, staring blankly into the darkness. “Doesn’t matter if it’s a father burying his son or a wife burying her husband; there’s no avoiding it. We like to think the chaos won’t ever find a home where we lay our heads, but it always does with a painful and noisy rattle. Don’t be sorry if you need to cry. I reckon even I might shed tears before we’re through.”

Adam wiped away the last solitary tear, fighting to hold back the deluge of sorrow.

“You’re the soldier, Gene,” Adam said. “I’m just a man. You know how to handle this. I can’t survive without them.”

“You can always choose to survive, Adam. Losing friends, losing family—no one gets used to it. I didn’t waste good men getting you out of the Capitol Building. I know you’re hurting and I’m hurting too. Eric…he was like a son to me—more than you know. But I got you out of DC because I knew I’d need you for whatever comes next.”

“Next?” Adam asked dryly. “And what does come next, Gene?”

“We might have lost today, but this war is far from over. I’m going to make damn sure it ain’t finished yet. I don’t have all the answers, but Lukas is looking for us and looking to make the world his little snow globe full of ashes and blood. There’s no chance in hell I’m letting him get away with it so long as I draw breath.”

“So what? We go back to DC—the few of us?” Adam asked. “We march with our one Humvee, an old truck, a few guns, and a handful of men to bring justice the world’s most powerful man?”

“When we go back to DC—and we
will
go back to DC—we’re going back with an army. For now, we head west and get to Texas before the Imperium gets to us. Damn Texas for leaving when we needed it most, but I’m not going to lie; they’re our only hope now. Vengeance is all that matters and if they can help us, so be it. If we can’t save those we love, we can be damn sure we take out Lukas before this is done. And this time, I don’t care what the pacifist inside you says. There is no diplomatic solution. Whatever tomorrow brings, whoever we need to ally ourselves with, we do it. We’re not finished until he’s dead.”

Silence reigned. Adam stared at Gene as he looked inwardly at himself. His emotions shifted from rage to sorrow to hopelessness faster than he could blink away his grief. He wanted to embrace the vengeful despair inside of him. The fury within was oddly familiar—much like that sickening blackness that he had felt inside him earlier in his nightmare. But that had been a dream and this was reality. If he couldn’t rely on his family to help him through the madness, he would rely on the wrath that festered in his heart to give him the motivation to endure the days that followed.

Gene eventually rose, walking over to speak with Lev. As Adam lay down to fall back asleep, his anger continued to fester within—growing into icy-hot hatred that heated his ears. Even though he was beat up and exhausted, the glow from his rage kept him from immediately falling back asleep. Part of him wanted to survive, find refuge, and continue to uncover more about the God he had begun to rediscover, to seek some sort of healing. The other part of him—the part that churned like a storming ocean of fire—wanted to survive and kill everyone who stood between him and his vengeance.

Adam hoped Sarah had died holding his children. He hoped his parents had left this world hand in hand. He hoped that wherever his family was, they wouldn’t be looking down on him as he did what he had to do. Then, as his hatred nearly filled his heart to the breaking point, a soothing rush of tranquility swept over him, his mind drifting to the last words he had spoken to his son.

No matter what happens, we are both children of a powerful and loving God. Never let the failures of men be the reason you fail to remember the real Lion of Judah.

He could almost hear his wife’s words, begging him not to go down the path of retaliation. As Adam struggled against the anger inside, he began to see the truth about the real battle that was to come. He had begun to rediscover God before his family died. Now, after their violent deaths, he had also found a thirst for vengeance.

What is the balance?
Adam wondered.
Where is the line between justice and revenge?

As he sought that answer within himself, the only thing he knew for certain was that the coming war would be so much more than a struggle for survival and land.

It would be a battle for his very soul.

C
hapter
T
wo

Tears of Fire

Eric Corsa slowed as he approached the sprawling mall at the heart of Fayetteville—a city illuminated by the midnight fires that blazed nearby at Fort Bragg. Sweat had begun to line his brow, intermixing with the winter air and chilling his forehead with a piercing headache. His muscles pleaded with him to stop and rest for a moment. Nevertheless, he focused on his years of training, pushing the pain and weariness into a vast cavern of forced indifference.

Unwilling to holster the pistol that he held with his right hand, he quickly wiped the sweat away with his left, careful not to touch the chemical burn that had cauterized the deep gash on his arm. He knew he would carry that scar for life—a small price to pay for another day.

The attack on the base a few hours earlier had been so sudden and deliberate that he had almost failed to get himself and the others to safety. Sarah had invited him to join her and her family in the large media room back at the barracks to watch Lukas step down, but Eric had declined. He had remained alone in his own room, praying for the strength to overcome the hatred that boiled within. Eric’s fight with Lukas Chambers went back years, though very few knew the truth about his life-long mission. A part of Eric wanted nothing more than to watch Lukas die, but the other part—the part of him that had found hope for something more than revenge as a young soldier on the distant battlefield—wanted peace more than he wanted Lukas’ death. Watching Lukas step down would have been a big step toward final closure for what had been done twenty-seven years ago, and Eric wanted nothing more than to be alone when that fight ended. But all his hopes that night had winked out the moment the lights overhead darkened. Eric had known immediately that his struggle to bring justice to the man who had caused him so much pain was far from over.

Eric slowed as he approached the mall’s entrance, passing a handful of frantic individuals who ran away with stolen goods. He took a deep breath—thankful that the adrenaline injections were still coursing through his veins—and grabbed his handheld radio.

“I’m entering the mall now,” Eric said quietly. “Remember, you’ll be safe so long as you remain incognito. No one’s hiking ten stories without a reason, so don’t give them one. I’ll radio when I’m heading back.”

“You got it,” Rick replied, a hint of static on his voice. “Take care of yourself.”

Eric latched the radio to his vest without replying, hugging the shadows as he entered the mall with his pistol raised and his eyes alert.

They had been forced to flee south after Sarah cauterized his wound with a chem-pack, fleeing the battle while Jackson Hewitt’s army crumbled. Even without the threat of death, it wouldn’t have been an easy trek. Sarah had her daughters and Elizabeth had her aging joints and weary muscles—not to mention the fact that Judi had somehow left her shoes back at the barracks before their flight. It was the little things that Eric noticed as they ran. Of course, a battle-hardened soldier like Eric knew it was typically the little things that proved to be the deadliest.

They had traveled roughly four miles south on foot by the time they reached the southern border of the base. He had hoped they would find another vehicle to get them a couple hundred miles out of harm’s reach before the sun began to rise. When they had broken free of the base’s perimeter, they had found an old van, hotwired it, and began to move toward Interstate Ninety-Five. However, they only made it about half a mile before they realized the van had been siphoned of most of its gas and was running on fumes. They crawled to a stop near a large circle in the heart of Fayetteville and Eric decided they would need to take refuge for the night in one of the nearby buildings.

The streets had been mostly abandoned of life and void of any older cars that he might have been able to steal. Eric had broken into the tallest nearby building, leading everyone to the top floor, instructing Rick to guard over others until Eric returned from a supply run. Sarah and Rick had argued with Eric, pleading with him to rest after losing so much blood, but he had made it quite clear that it wasn’t a discussion.

War wouldn’t wait for him to catch his breath.

Though he believed he could sleep for an entire day, he also knew their battle was far from over. While safety was essential, knowledge was chief. Eric was a shepherd with no path and scared sheep. He needed answers, and that need now guided his feet.

He moved through the busy mall—busy for four in the morning. As it had been with most of the larger cities with a nearby military base, Fayetteville had remained relatively peaceful throughout the past few months as violence rolled across the nation. With the exception of a few installations, the military had taken it upon themselves to keep the order in their home cities as they protected their friends and neighbors. The food that had been available was evenly dispersed and any rise in crime had been dealt with swiftly and harshly by the local military and police. Cities such as Fayetteville, Colorado Springs, Virginia Beach, and San Diego had maintained order with the help of the armed forces. However, as Fort Bragg went up in fire and smoke, so did the last restraint of those left behind in Fayetteville. Months of delaying the panic that had swept much of the country had come to a jarring end, leaving Fayetteville with precious few hours to catch up on the madness.

Shouts and cries of anger and pain echoed through the mall’s wide corridors. Store windows had been broken and shattered as the looters took whatever they could find. Everything from the local rug importer to the cookie shop had people either pouring into the store empty-handed or emerging into the hallways with armloads. To Eric’s left, two men fought over a hatchet that had been taken from a medieval décor store, struggling back and forth like idiots over a relic that wouldn’t get them very far at all on America’s dangerous roads. One of the men finally managed to rip it free and slash the other across the cheek with the thick blade before turning to run. He made it four steps before the wounded man drew a snub-nosed revolver from his ankle and blew a hole through the running man’s chest. The concussion sent everyone in eyesight ducking, though it scattered very few. It wasn’t the first time a gun blast had boomed through the halls, and Eric knew it wouldn’t be the last. The man who had pulled the trigger picked up the hatchet and ran off, glancing over his shoulder as he disappeared down a darkened hall. Eric forced himself to ignore and forget all emotion, moving forward as he searched for what he needed most.

He rounded a corner and carefully made his way toward an electronics storefront a few hundred feet away, happy to see that the gate was just now falling to twenty or so looters. Eric didn’t want to be present in the initial rush. He wanted to either find what he was looking for once the room cleared out or be there to greet the man who beat him to it and persuade him to hand the device over nicely. He approached the store carefully—shaking his head in bewilderment as a trio of youngsters emerged, holding the latest nVision gaming headsets and a pair of old RC cars. Eric nearly laughed at the teenagers, each boy clearly expecting the coming day to be full of free fun and laughter, but he stifled that laugh. He knew when those teenagers comprehended the full reality of what was really going on, they’d be among the more dangerous on the open road.

He slowed and glanced inside the glass storefront, watching as those inside scurried around without much attention for one another. Eric entered the store and moved toward the back quickly, making his way for the storage warehouse at the rear. Most of the thieves still lived in the past, only bothering to take that which was displayed in the shiny cases up front without thinking about the more useful items waiting in the back for drone delivery. Eric had been hoping no one else had thought to search the rear depot for the specific radio he needed. However, that hope vanished as he opened the rear door and glanced through the rows of steel shelves and boxes, watching silently as a fight broke out.

Cursing and the flat thumping of fists striking flesh filled the small storehouse. Eric clung to the shadows in the back of the large room as he made his way toward the group. Two grown men stood nervously as a third man struggled with one of two teenagers. The two fought back and forth over a small brown box that contained what they both desperately wanted.

What I need,
Eric realized after catching a glimpse of the logo on the box.

The two teens—one a younger man that couldn’t have been much older than Judah and the other, a pretty brunette with raven black hair that looked the same age—fought back as bravely and stupidly as they could. The man who was trying to pry the box from the youth’s hands shouted and cursed at the boy. When the teen landed a bone-crunching punch on the larger man’s nose, the man cursed and abruptly drew a gun, stuck it in the boy’s face, and pulled the trigger. The teenage girl cried out in horror as the boy fell to the ground, a red cloud of mist blanketing the girl’s pretty face.

As soon as the boy hit the floor, Eric no longer pitied the three remaining men; he rarely pitied those he killed. He moved forward quietly as the man leveled the gun on the horrified girl and began to shout.

“I told him to give it up! If he’d listened then he’d still be—”

Eric seized the closest of the three men from behind—wrapping his gloved hand tightly around the first man’s mouth before jerking his arm back, snapping the man’s neck with a loud pop. Eric raised his pistol and shot the man who had just killed the boy—careful to hit his spine just below the neck so that he couldn’t pull the trigger and kill the horrified girl. The third and final man instinctively reached behind his back for a gun as he turned to face Eric. However, the man’s muscles seized up immediately as his eyes met the barrel of Eric’s gun.

It was all over before the first man hit the ground.

“Before you do anything stupid,” Eric began calmly, “know that I am a professional killer who is very good at his trade. I am fast and I rarely miss my mark. Now if you want to put that statement to the test, then by all means, draw. But if you want to avoid joining your friends here and that helpless boy that you just helped murder, then I suggest you slowly drop the gun that you’re reaching for and kick it over.”

The man’s eyes went wide and the center of his pants grew dark as he slowly lowered the pistol to the ground with shaky hands. As the man kicked the gun over, Eric spared a quick glance back toward the entrance of the store to make sure no one else was coming.

“Smart move,” Eric said. “Now take off your clothes.”

“What?” the man replied with horror in his eyes.

“I don’t want you drawing some weapon that I don’t see under your jacket as you leave. But I tell you what, I’ll even let you keep those soiled under garments of yours on so that you don’t scar this girl more than you already have, you fat son of a bitch.”

“I didn’t kill him!” the man protested. “Please, I’ll freeze to death outside if you—”

“Better than being shot to death right now,” Eric said. “I’m sure there’s a department store nearby that might offer you a change of clothes free of charge. So what’s it going to be?”

The man paused briefly before quickly undoing the buttons on his leather jacket. A few more moments passed before the man had piled up a heap of clothes, two more pistols sitting on top next to an army-green machete with a sheath. The man stood there in the dark, crying softly.

“So what do I call an asshole like you?” Eric asked.

“What?”

“What’s your name?” Eric asked again.

“Phil,” the man said shakily. “Phil Hebron.”

“Phil Hebron, I’m Eric Corsa. Remember this moment and remember my name. Not everyone will be so kind. I suggest you pick your friends carefully from now on. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

The man nodded, glancing at the terrified girl a few feet away before running for the door.

Eric eyed the doors a few seconds after the man had passed through them. He then turned back to the teenage girl and found her on the ground next to the dead boy. Eric grabbed the man’s two pistols, the lengthy blade, the long leather coat he had thrown on the floor, and the three firearms he found on the two dead men. He wrapped them up and shoved them in his bag before rising and slowly approaching the girl.

“You’re safe now,” Eric said. “And I’m sorry to do this, but I’ll be needing that box.”

The girl sat there and continued to sob—her shoulders shaking and her hair slowly swaying back and forth in front of her face. Eric stooped down, his eyes watching the girl as he fought back the guilt that rose within him.

“I don’t know who that boy was, but I really need you to hand me that box and get out of here. Don’t think what I just did was only to help you. I need that box.”

“Here,” she said, handing it over. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Who was he?” Eric asked as he grabbed the box.

“His name was Micah,” she replied softly without looking up. “He was my twin.”

Shame, pain, and remorse coursed through Eric. The girl had just watched her twin brother die and already someone was demanding the very thing the boy had died trying to defend. Eric tried to do as he had before and attempted to shove all emotion out of his mind. He had others he was now responsible for, and he was already wasting time with this girl. He needed to get moving.

Nevertheless, Eric might be willing to kill without mercy, but he wasn’t completely heartless.