The Crimson Fall (The Sons of Liberty Book 1) (4 page)

“Heather,” Adam said unsteadily. “You know that’s not funny.”

The soft breathing on the other end was interrupted only by the woman’s whimpering cries and soft voice.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but Joe is gone.”

Adam’s eyes glazed over as he fought the news that quickly threatened to unhinge his sanity.
Joe is dead.
Shock replaced his anger over the woman’s bothersome phone calls. Twice, he calmly asked her to clarify what she had said before he finally accepted the truth.

Joe, Adam’s only brother and oldest friend, was now dead.

Adam realized he had sunk to the floor. He began to breathe heavily for the air that didn’t come, just as his son had earlier that day. He asked ‘how’, but all he heard in return were the tearful sobs of Heather over the phone as she failed to produce anything besides ‘airport’ and ‘attack’. Gradually, everything in the room was muted to a dull reverberation. He saw his parents talking in the living room with the TV on silent for the commercial break, looking at each other and unaware of the breaking news flash announcing some sort of terrorist attack at Dulles Airport. Adam thought back to his phone conversation with Joe and knew right then he was looking at the burning wreckage that now entombed his brother. He painfully tore his eyes away from the screen and looked up at Sarah’s back, staring blankly at the hushed and steady chopping of her knife. He thought immediately of Joe’s wife, Amy, and wondered if she already knew. His throat locked up completely, cutting off the little oxygen he had left as he thought about how Amy would never cook another meal for her husband; how she would never again see his warm smile nor hear his contagious laugh.

Sarah turned around quickly, clearly alarmed at something. Adam noticed a frightened Eva to his left. She was asking Sarah something that his ears didn’t quite comprehend. Something about ‘Daddy’. Sarah’s mouth shouted soundless words for Rick and Judi as she rushed over to him. Adam’s parents bolted from the living room, and they all hurried over to him, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Adam’s mind raced, trying to remember every detail of the call from Joe earlier. He knew it had to have something to do with his death. Eventually, the background noise returned like an icy avalanche, though the heat from before remained. Despite the painful rush of the resuming senses, he began to breathe somewhat steadily again. He then realized that he had to tell his dad he just lost a son; his mother, her first child. On the verge of a complete breakdown and unable to mutter a word, he clumsily motioned to the television as he labored for his breath. But they kept their focus on him, begging to know what had happened. With tears beginning to well up in his eyes, he fought past the lump in his throat and the pain in his soul to tell his family of the new fire that had been set in their lives.

C
hapter
T
wo

A Symphony of Fear

Lukas Chambers hated attending funerals. Especially of those he had killed.

It was technically a memorial service, and no, he had not actually pulled the trigger or detonated the bombs himself. But he had been forced to order the massacre, and thus, he accepted the blame silently in the back corners of his mind. His actions had not been born of a fierce resentment or lack of compassion for those who had died. In fact, he hated that in order to save mankind from its destructive ways many first had to be sacrificed for the benefit of all. Though each death was a painful reminder of the cost of peace, it was also justified in his eyes as a means not only to an end, but also to a most glorious beginning. He focused not on the pain but on the hope for tomorrow. It was a hope of a world without greed, poverty, hunger, or sickness. It was the idea of a united race without war, borders, or hatred. But for Lukas Chambers, it was so much more than all of that.

It was a beautiful dream to know a world without America.

Though Lukas hated the United States, he despised the ignorance of her people more. He saw them and their self-righteous principles as the source of so much anguish in a suffering world. And though he abhorred what they were, he also saw the inherent potential for them to be an exceptional example to the rest of mankind. If he could make the most prideful nation forget its past and kneel before a greater good, he believed other nations would quickly follow suit. But if he failed to turn the peoples’ hearts before the coming storm of change, then many more events like the Dulles Airport Massacre would be needed to tame even the most patriotic of fools.

Less than a week ago, and by his secret orders, two men loyal to him alone had walked into Dulles Airport, donned in custom body armor and armed heavily with their agents of death. They entered the large terminal from two different doors, threw pipe bombs into the masses of travelers, and opened fire with their banned automatic weapons as their lethal bombs exploded. The panic-stricken mob, disarmed and deceived by the laws that supposedly protected them, fled in every direction, stampeding over one another to get outside to safety. The attackers waited for the drop off area to be full of horrified travelers before detonating two different cars packed with ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, killing many who had been able to escape the carnage indoors. These steadfast mercenaries had believed they would be rewarded with new lives and a fortune for their loyalty to Lukas over the many, many years, but instead the hidden explosives, molded into their
custom
body armor for such an occasion, were detonated from afar by the ever faithful John Fresnel. The media reported that two deranged brothers, mad at the system, took out their anger on three hundred and thirty-four people, a death toll that sadly included the well-known senator from North Carolina, Joe Reinhart. The simple truth was the men had been hired by the president to kill the senator and hide the truth the country was not yet ready to hear.

Lukas waited patiently for his turn to speak. He found the autumn warmth and humidity of Washington, DC almost maddening. He had always preferred the raw chill of winter to the heat of summer, but any sign of cold had been slow coming that year. Outside, the midsummer heat had held late into the fall season with little hope of diminishing. Ducks still crowded the middle of the long reflecting pool, swimming back and forth in a frantic fashion as they searched anxiously for the food that would not come for another day. The president had said the service would take place at the very steps of the Lincoln Memorial. He had the area sectioned off, preventing access to anyone other than the relatives of the victims and, of course, the ever-present drone media. No tourists that day would walk the edges of the iconic pool and throw in their small blocks of bread for the local ducks and geese to feast upon. His long-standing animosity for the filthy birds made him wonder if they would find other sources of food or if they had grown so dependent on the hands that fed them that they would die with their tiny stomachs twisted in knots after a day of hunger. His thoughts then turned to the American people and, like the ducks, how dependent they were on the order of the system just so they could stuff their fat faces with their cheeseburgers and fries.

Blood-sucking vermin
, Lukas thought.

He then wondered how America would react during the initial days of the coming upheaval. Hunger was just one of the many instruments in the global orchestra that was less than five years away from sounding off with its magnum opus; a beautiful symphony of fear. He believed that with the right mix of chaos and love the citizens of the world, led by the frightened American population, would flock toward a new hope that only he and the Patriarchs could provide. Even with the vexing heat of the day, in front of those white steps of damned remembrance, the thought of a future paradise for a world finally set free from the corrupt brought forth a cool sense of peace that chilled him.

The younger brother of the late senator, a relatively new and unknown congressman from Colorado, was wrapping up a long-winded memoire. Though Lukas knew very little about Adam Reinhart, other than his position as the youngest congressman in the House at the age of thirty-four, he had decided to study the man intently for the time being. He knew Joe had contacted him and him alone on the night of the attack, but Lukas had listened to the phone conversation dozens of times and reassured himself that his secrets remained buried with the senator.

“I was the little kid that always followed his big brother around,” the congressman said in a wavering voice. “And though Joe was five years older than me, he was the kind of guy that would let me tag along, even when I couldn’t keep up. But I rarely held him back. If anything, he always pushed me past what I thought were my limits. We both walked two very different paths as young men but we came into politics for very similar reasons. We each had a passion for this nation and for those that didn’t know how to take care of themselves. I’ve never known anyone that loved to help others like Joe Reinhart. The country lost a great man last week.”

The teary-eyed congressman turned to the wreath-framed picture of the deceased senator and spoke his final goodbyes.

“Thirty-nine years is too short a time for a man like Joe Reinhart to have lived. Joe, you were the best friend, the best brother, I could have hoped for. I will always push myself to follow in your footsteps. And I’m sorry I didn’t say it more, but I love you too.”

The crowd quietly applauded. The president clapped too if only for the needed appearance of grief. Lukas had no sympathy or patience for those who tried to cripple his carefully planned chaos. He would forfeit the lives of any, friend or not, that stood in his way without a moment’s hesitation.

The president stood up half way through the soft applause and walked toward the red-eyed congressman. He shook his hand, outwardly offering his condolences. Lukas, expecting an attitude of humble appreciation over the elaborate display of gratitude, for Joe Reinhart and the others lost, was surprised when the congressman gripped his hand firmly and spoke with an intense determination in those sharp and teary eyes.

“This nation is broken, Mr. President,” Adam said. “Fix it.”

The president smiled and nodded his head in agreement. It was the first time he had met Adam Reinhart, but from that fierce of a statement to the president himself he knew the congressman could either be a valuable ally, or perhaps another body to bury. He wondered what value Adam Reinhart could be before or after the global transformation. If he proved to be a fool like his brother, Lukas wondered how much longer he would need before he could get away with removing another member of the Reinhart family.

Say what you may, Mr. Reinhart,
Lukas thought.
I will be watching you.

With a solemn look of sadness, the president mounted the stairs to the platform, fully aware of the eyes of the nation watching him. He and his allies of the night had been carefully planning this moment, or at least a moment like it, for years. Though they believed the world was not yet ripe for their immutable revolution, Joe’s actions had forced Lukas’ hand. While Lukas feared the others might disagree with what had been done, he believed Joe’s actions had proved to be useful in the end. On that day, at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, America would weep together and remember those lost tragically in a senseless act of terror. While they mourned, they would unknowingly embrace his simple lie as they donned the shackles that were meant to pacify them. The people of the United States had elected him as president, and they trusted him to lead them into a better and brighter future. And six days ago, in order to protect that future and fulfill their very hopes and dreams of a thriving tomorrow, Lukas had single handily begun Stage Two of the Patriarchs’ worldwide Purge.

“My fellow Americans. It is with great sadness that I stand before you today.”

It was a sadness, but also an inward jubilation for how close he was to victory.

Try not to smile,
he thought.

“Words cannot express the deep sorrow that I feel for the victims of the Dulles Airport Massacre. Three hundred and thirty-four innocent lives snuffed out in seven horrific minutes. Because of this tragedy, husbands will sleep alone for countless nights. Mothers will need to explain to their children why daddy will not be coming home. And parents . . . parents will soon bear that terrible burden of burying a child; a vile thing that no one should have to endure. But let us not forget the suffering of those who made it out alive, yet deeply scarred. I spoke with a young woman who had been waiting in the terminal for her ticket home when the bullets started flying. Bullets manufactured, as I have sadly discovered, by the very company I own. During the madness she miraculously made it out alive. Physically she was almost completely unscathed. But psychologically she donned scars that I fear will never fully heal. You see, she looked at me and asked me why. Why did this happen? Why them and not her? Was it chance that she lived and the others did not? Frankly, I do not know. And so I did what we so often do in times of sorrow. I embraced her and I mourned with her. I could not, however, give her the answers she wanted, let alone the answers she deserved. I suppose only God could give the truth she needs.” Lukas grimaced inside at his mention of God. He had vowed to only use the image of God for political gains until he could do away with Him for good. But every time he used the hypocritical deity for his own benefit, he felt he was betraying the oath he had sworn as a young man to his brothers of the night.

They are only words,
he thought to himself.
Remember the oath.

“I wonder, as I often have in times like these, how many were left untouched when they could have died. How many have died when we should have done something more to save them? How many more patriots will bear the wounds of what has become the excruciating price of freedom? As a nation, we must ask ourselves that dangerous question we avoid: Is it worth it? Is freedom worth fighting for, living for, and dying for? I say without pause that the answer is yes. But we must also ask ourselves another question. Must the free cower in fear because of the ways of the wicked? Must we die by the hands of the hateful? No!” The president’s shout pierced the quiet afternoon, causing the loud speakers to whine momentarily with a deafening feedback. Again he imagined a watching nation, the intent gaze of every citizen who did not know they already knelt before Lukas and the Patriarchs, and he could feel them eating up every word.

“So what’s the answer?” the president asked. “What are we going to do about the hopeless savagery so commonly directed at one another in this great nation and world of ours? For years politicians have fought back and forth to come up with a solution, but never offering a reasonable resolve. Ironically, Joe Reinhart, as a member of the Senate Arms Committee, had been passionate about ending this epidemic that has raged on for far too long. It was something that the late senator and I had spoken about multiple times before his death; something I wish I would have acted on instead of leaving it for tomorrow’s generation. But tomorrow has come and gone, and our failure to act has sadly left us missing three hundred and thirty-four more innocent lives. No more, America. The time for action has come. It is time we honor those who have died for our freedom. It is time we declare a war on this tragic violence that touches us all.”

The crowd applauded. It was an emotional response, which was what Lukas wanted. Emotions invoked the most loyal of followers, and he knew he would need them to praise him in the beginning if he were to subdue them peacefully in the end.

“Forty years ago my father joined a company that would eventually become Holt-Chambers Industries. That company went on to produce the firearms and technology that would help win wars, keep our streets safe, revolutionize the medical field with ground breaking technologies, and then use its enormous success to aid the weary. However, the same company that helped defend our freedom and help the helpless also produced the firearms that have been used in countless crimes. Joe Reinhart once asked me if we the people can fix the gun problem in the United States and still hold onto our sacred rights under the Second Amendment. I now ask you the same question. Not as the president or the owner of a company . . . but as a simple man that knows all too well the pain of loss.”