The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution (3 page)

And the figure in her mind
certainly knew. His action was always the same. He tossed the Freedom Flag
aside and jammed in Old Glory: the flag the Freedom Council wanted her to
associate with the Depression. With the old system. With failure. The figure in
her head wanted her to associate it with one thing and one thing only: a
revolution. A revolution to bring back the past.

Becky longed for the past. Most
people did. She knew what the Freedom Council was about. Knew better than most.
Knew how utterly full of shit they really were.

The twenty-five largest
corporations in America calling all the shots. A final arbiter of anything and
everything the government did. This was the answer to our problems?
Hardly
,
Becky thought.

But what of that caped figure? Was
he any better?

Doubtful.

He fancied himself a folk hero.
But nothing was pure anymore. Nothing sacred. Everything had a price or a cost
to it. Even truth. Even heroes. The Freedom Council was a fraud, she knew this
firsthand, but at least they stopped things from getting any worse when they
took over. Better incompetent, money-hungry fools running things than some
secretive, dark messiah. 

Becky reached out and took Fiona
by the hand.

CHAPTER
3

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

A
soldering iron smoldered on the drafting table of a crowded, messy workshop
plopped unceremoniously into the center of a large living room. The abode of an
obvious bachelor. Pieces of hard, dark plastic lay about, covering what was
otherwise a neat and tidy living space. Drawings and pieces of strange
mechanical orange wings were scattered across the “debris field.” Around a
corner wall, the nightly news blared from a webtelevision in a large den.

Paul Ward, thirty-nine, dark hair,
clean cut, boyishly handsome with a kind face, lounged in a large chair
watching the program. A talking head reporter narrated over the images of
street protest.

 “For the second night in a
row illegal protests are blocking the streets of Boston's working-class
Heights. Tensions remain high, and authorities have warned the protesters that
their patience is running out.”

Ward sipped a beer and punched his
TV's remote. A video blinked to life.

A black screen filled his set.
Footsteps echoed beneath a low, gentle yet firm voice:

“In darkness they came.
Democracy died while we weren't looking. While we were distracted by false
threats and empty promises. They taught us to fear ourselves. They taught us to
fear our government. Government of the people, by the people, and for the
people. It was the only thing that held them at bay. But slowly, from their
luxury suites and corporate jets, they stole it. And when the government fell,
they completed their revolution. But there is another Revolution. I am the
Revolution.”

The screen faded to:

A rooftop at night. A dark figure
covered in shadow. A cloak billowed behind it, eerily silhouetted in the full
moon. Next to an American flag. Fifty stars in a circle, one large star at the
center: the Freedom Flag. The figure ripped the standard out and tossed it away
dramatically. From behind him somewhere the dark figure hauled out another
pennant. Old Glory. Jammed it into the holder. The American flag waved proudly,
illuminated against the light of the moon.

Ward was watching the iconic
“commercial” for the insurgency. He chuckled and flicked off the video.

But in his mind’s eye, the
Revolution was still on-screen, still looking at him. Looking into his soul.
Ward thought about that for a moment. Thought about what it meant.

The figure in the video, the
Revolution, was mysterious, brutal, controversial. To some he was a modern-day
Robin Hood, fighting against the power grab of the wealthy in the name of the
poor. To others, a guardian of the Constitution and democracy. A sworn enemy of
the Freedom Council. To still others he was a fascist, a fraud, and the most
dangerous man in America, who would send the country spiraling back into chaos
at his first chance.

But Ward knew what the Revolution
really was. He was a hero. Plain and simple. Millions of other Americans
agreed. People were desperate for something to believe in again, and he was the
one thing they could put their faith in.

The Revolution had come along just
at the right time. He’d shown Ward a new path, one that he would never have
considered before the Revolution. He had made the impossible possible again.
The Dark Patriot, as the media sometimes dubbed him, gave everyone an example
to follow. And hundreds, maybe thousands, had started putting on costumes
themselves, trying to make a difference.

The Hero Movement. Just average
folks pitching in, all because of the Revolution. Not that anybody paid them
much mind.

Yet, ironically, the revolutionary
aspect of the Dark Patriot’s mission was clearly misguided. Ward got up and
ambled over to a window that looked out onto the dreary streets of his city.

Why try to take down the Council?
Why spawn that kind of animosity against himself? Not when there was plenty of
good, old street crime to go around. Revolution
had
to know that. So,
why?

Not that the Freedom Council
didn’t suck—they did. In fact, the Council probably used gangbangers and the
mob to get what they wanted—the very criminals Paul Ward had vowed to stop.

In today's USA, criminals were
guys that got stuff done. It just made sense that the Council would privatize
some services, farm them out to organized crime. An uneasy partnership of
convenience. That was the rumor you heard on the street anyway, and it was hard
to find more motivated foot soldiers than gangbangers. The penalty for slacking
off on the job was usually death.

An unholy alliance between those
who stole democracy and those who just stole.

The gangs far outgunned the
police. Ward had read whole books on how this had come to pass. After the
Depression, as incomes plummeted and taxes dried up, the Council cut essential
services. Even law enforcement saw their budgets slashed. Crimes went unsolved.
Weapons fell into disrepair. Whole parts of major cities were lawless. Black
markets flourished.

The Revolution needed to fight the
gangs, even if they were on the Council’s payroll. No one wanted the rising
crime rates, not even the Council. Everyone wanted them to go down. It was good
politics; it was good business. Just made sense. That way, a day would come
when the Council would be forced to support the Revolution just to keep public
opinion on their side.

Paul Ward had always thought
himself a persuasive guy. Good people skills. In a profession not always
brimming over with charismatic types, Ward had risen fast in academia due not
only to his brilliant work as a surgeon and medical chemist, but also to his
gift of gab. People liked Paul Ward.

If only he could meet him, talk to
him. Revolution would see the light.

Couldn’t tell it from his
appearance, but Paul Ward was a wealthy man. Not that he looked like a hobo; he
just didn't flaunt his wealth. Never had. His only real example of conspicuous
consumption was his insistence on living in the top five stories of his
high-rise apartment building. Ward rented the other twenty floors out to
middle-class tenants. He was a man on a mission. He’d quit being a professor.
He’d needed to change the direction and purpose of his life. At first he had
tried to live off the family trust fund. Not having to worry about money meant
he could devote all his time to the causes most important to him.

Then, as he saw his bank accounts
shrinking, he went through a phase where he just tried to live off the interest
of the trust fund. In those early days, he'd actually believed that was a
realistic plan. But then he wasn't
that
wealthy. And then he had decided
to build a suit, to take the road less traveled, shall we say. Then he knew. He
had to make a living somehow. So he became a landlord.

Ward returned to his chair and plopped
back down. Took a swig of his beer. He stared at the video screen for a moment.
Thought about watching the clip again.

He glanced over at a side table
next to him. Lying there was large, well-worn manila envelope labeled “The
Source.” It was stuffed with smaller white envelopes, business sized. He
reached over and grabbed an unopened white envelope. Ward sighed, took a deep
breath, and took another quick sip of his beer. He plopped the sweating bottle
down and ripped open the envelope, unfolding a single sheet of paper.

Why had he been too nervous to
read this note at the drop spot? Why wait until now? He chuckled.
What’s up
with all this paranoia?
Maybe because the whole involvement of
The
Source
in his life was a mystery. How had The Source tracked him down? No
one even knew about his “missions.” He’d kept a low profile. Yet The Source had
found him early on. It was an unsettling enigma.

The Source was his secret partner.
Secret even to Ward. Some time back The Source had found him. Left him an
anonymous note at his unofficial hangout on a tall church steeple well where he
could watch the city at night for signs of trouble. At first he had been
distrustful of The Source. But as he proceeded to cautiously check out the
information he was given, he came to realize that whoever The Source was, and
whatever the reason he was forwarding this information to Ward, The Source was
always right. The Source could be trusted. So, every week, Ward scurried off to
the drop spot to find a new letter and a new target.

Every instinct told him not to
trust an unseen, unknown partner with a hidden agenda. And he'd been insisting
lately that The Source tell him his identity. And so far, The Source had
refused to do so. All his attempts to stake out their agreed-upon drop spot,
just to catch a glimpse of the mystery man, had failed. Whoever this Source
was, he was very good, and yet that begged a further question. Why did The
Source seem to need Ward?

Still, The Source had never failed
him. Even saved his life, probably more than once. He had a partner, like it or
not. And despite some misgivings, it was mostly a thing to like.

When he’d first gone out on these
secret missions for The Source, he'd insisted on only serving as reconnaissance
for the authorities. Zip out to locations, ascertain that criminal activity was
taking place, and then call it in from a heavily encrypted digital line.

The real thrill was the flying, of
course.

Ward glanced over at his orange
wings and smiled.

By assisting the authorities,
instead of supplanting them like the Revolution, a great deal of trust had
grown between himself and Boston's finest. The fact he had yet to seek
publicity was also working in his favor.

That was good for a while. But now
he had set his sights on larger targets. Targets that made his blood boil, his
throat tighten, his eyes moisten. As nice a man as Paul Ward was, as committed
to nonviolence as he was, there existed one enemy, one target, one man that
could very easily force him to violate all those cherished vows he had made.
The man who had murdered his son and driven his wife to take her own life. The
man who had crushed his world. His pulse quickened just thinking about him.

He'd thought for years of ways to get
at this target. But surgeons don't know much about taking down organized crime.
He'd talked to his congressman, the local authorities, even met with the
governor in his office. All to no avail. Most of those folks were on the take
anyway.

And then the Revolution had come
along.

He had burst open the door to a
new possibility. A handful of imitators had risen up in various cities across
the country. But none was as famous, or infamous, as the Revolution. Most were
just glorified Neighborhood Watch, truth be told. Which is what Ward had been
until a few months ago. Ward wasn't interested in the fame either; he just
wanted to make a difference. He just wanted to honor the memory of his late
wife, who had cared about cleaning up the streets so deeply—sometimes it made
it hard for Ward to breathe when he thought about her.

He had the money and the mind to
build his suit. He could take up some of the slack that law enforcement had
left behind. That was already happening in a few other cities. The Revolution had
spawned a lot of imitators, to be sure. But while some were effective, most of
them—hell, the vast majority of them—were not. The Hero Movement did seem to be
building, though. And they all, every last one of them, took on the gangs—not
the Council. That was the kind of strategy that the Revolution didn't seem to
understand. He was the only guy out there challenging the Council. That's why
he needed Ward's help.

To see the folly in all that.

Ward peered down at the note.
“Okay, partner, give me some good news.”

The note was short and concise, as
usual. A puzzle of sorts. He sighed. “Great. Another riddle!”

Can't
give you my
identity.

Not yet.

Visit First National in the
Gardens.

If your algorithm is correct...

Ward rolled his eyes and felt slightly
insulted.
Of course it's correct
.
I am a Harvard professor, for
Christ's sakes
.
Or was, anyway
.

...we've broken their code.

The code. He knew he’d broken it.
He just needed The Source to confirm it. The code was surely a set of
coordinates. The code had been a personal obsession of his for the past six
months. The code was from his most hated enemy.

What was still unknown, but he
figured The Source could find out, was what those coordinates pointed to. They
were not simply latitude-longitude, but they were definitely geocentric. Based
on the kinds of information The Source had provided in the past, he guessed The
Source was someone with military, government, or academic background. There was
no other way to get the kind of technical and inside information The Source
routinely leaked to him. So he was also guessing The Source could put those
coordinates into the right database to find a match. Naturally, he'd been
right. The code pointed to a bank. The site of his enemy’s next heist.