The Dragons of Men (The Sons of Liberty Book 2) (34 page)

“Texas?”

“I believe so,” Rendell replied.

“Do what you can to secure the entire city and establish a well-fortified presence there,” Sigmund said. “If we can take Little Rock, we will control yet another river that gains us access to the entire state of Arkansas.”

“We will do what we can, but we need more men.”

“Indeed,” Sigmund replied, motioning to Victor. “I’m sending you an asset of mine. His name is Victor Castle. He was actually the very first Recruit and is our most decorated man. I want you and the other agents to work with him to bolster your numbers while Victor prepares them for battle. They’ll need to be ruthless, trained, and unwavering if we are to avoid another disaster like Montgomery.”

“I will not disappoint,” Rendell said with a nod. “What of the eastern front? Any progress?”

Sigmund smiled, twiddling his thumbs as he looked to the others one by one.

“You know, when I was a young man I was addicted to poker. It was mostly small games at first—never more than a few hundred dollar buy in as I had not yet inherited my fortune. I spent many a night behind endless towers of chips and cards. I was young and let anger best me far too often. But you see, I learned so much through that game.”

“Like what?” Sūn asked.

“I learned how to read a man, study his movements and the twitching of his eyes so that I may dive into his mind and embrace his thoughts,” Sigmund replied. “I discovered how to lose to a man, admitting defeat and learning from my mistakes before the next hand was dealt. It is a secret to no one that Lukas has been the victor in this little game of ours and he has outdone us all at every hand. As of now, he is the better player. As his chip count increases, ours dwindles into nothing. Without a change of course, we will bleed out once he goes all in.”

Sigmund smiled as they all looked back at him before glancing at one another with concern.

“But the most important thing I learned all those years ago was how to beat those who were better than me,” Sigmund said after a pause.

“And how do we beat a man like that?” Rendell asked.

“Just like I beat the first man who went all in on me during a high stakes game,” Sigmund said. “With the Jack of blades.”

Rendell glanced at Sūn and Silvia confusedly before staring back at Sigmund.

“I gambled many long nights here in America, waiting for your call,” Rendell said. “Never have I heard of the Jack of blades.”

“I was in the states on business when I first played it. It was back in the seventies in an underground club in New Jersey that a friend of mine owned. I have never tried it again in a card game, but I have won many personal battles with the same tactic.”

“What happened?” Sūn asked.

“I had been dealt pocket kings in a high stakes, hundred thousand dollar buy in, but this newcomer beat me on the river with a flush. He had been one of those cowboys from down south, talking smooth and trying to get in my head and under my skin all night. After hours of losing to him, it dawned on me just how I was going to beat him. I waited for him to win that final hand—his greedy eyes fixated on his battle prize. As he reached forward for the last of what I had lost, I drew a knife and stuck it in the side of his skull. I remember his eyes glancing up at me in horror and confusion as his life quickly faded away. I smiled and pushed him back into his seat before reaching forward and taking both my chips and his. The other players were too shocked to try to stop me while the club owner actually thanked me for shutting him up.”

“Is this what you plan for Lukas?” Sūn asked. “To lose every battle so that we may draw him in close?”

“Oh, we will lose the eastern front,” Sigmund began. “I have no doubts about that. Still, we will bolster our forces in the west for reasons I will reveal at a later date. Despite General Mahiri’s new motivation to succeed, I also have no doubts that he will fail to do anything more than slow the Imperium’s advance. Then, once our friend Lukas thinks he has all but won, I will play my best hand. My asset on the inside will strike and I will watch as Lukas’ eyes go wide with horror. Then…he will realize just how much his pride has cost him. And while those around us are too shocked to respond, we will rise and the world will thank us for ridding them of Lukas Chambers.”

C
hapter
E
leven

The Drip of Rain and the Fall of the Axe

Adam’s gloved hands slid down the wooden handle as he raised his sharp axe high above with a deep breath. The heavy steel paused at the apex of its arc, no more than twelve inches below the three connected waterproof tarps that kept both Adam and the growing pile of split logs dry. He released his breath and swung the axe down quickly. The thick metal plunged through the wood, splitting the smaller log down the middle before burying itself in the oak stump underneath with an audible thud.

Adam paused, huffing and puffing as he looked down at the axe that was now firmly planted in the base of what had once been a monstrous oak. His emotionless gaze lingered on the shallow scars that crisscrossed the stump as he envisioned the blade of his knife rising and plunging into the Imperium officer. It was strange to him how two completely different actions could be so similar in nature. Three and a half weeks ago, when he had killed Livingston, he was simply doing what he needed to do so that he may survive. Now, as he stood quietly underneath the makeshift canopy near the edge of Jack Parker’s homestead, he was simply splitting wood to fuel a fire and endure another day.

So similar, yet worlds apart.

After a day of hard travel in a convoy of old pickups and jeeps, they had arrived at the lakeside homestead. The resident nurses and the one on-site doctor had immediately taken in Marc while Adam and the others ate their first warm meals in what felt like ages. Jack Parker and Alan Bryant, the two former police officers who had been raised up as leaders at the homestead, had been more than welcoming ever since the night they saved Adam from a certain death. However, as Adam settled in it became quite clear that even they saw him as some sort of celebrity—the man who had once bested Lukas Chambers and nearly stopped him from destroying America.

Though their conversations typically avoided the harsh realities of the winter they had all endured, the homestead’s thirty-eight residents had grown more intrigued every day with knowing more about the great and famous Adam Reinhart. They wanted to know the truth of what really happened in the months leading up to the collapse. They wanted to hear the tales of the man they saw as an all-American hero.

Adam, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with their curiosity.

He didn’t want them to look upon him as some iconic freedom fighter. All Adam saw when he looked at himself in the mirror was a man whose failures constantly demanded the lives of those around him. While none had outright said it yet, Adam could tell even Jack and Alan were starting to look to him for leadership. He didn’t want to encourage them because he didn’t want to lead them. Even when he had taken charge and guided the others to Bryson City, he had felt pushed into leadership—knowing that was their most logical route, even if Gene didn’t believe likewise. The reality was that Adam hated the constant responsibility that came with leadership. He wanted solitude and so very little else. And so day after day Adam disappeared, chopping wood and patrolling alone on the edge of the property. He didn’t want them to look to him for answers because frankly, he couldn’t answer the nagging questions that kept him downcast during the day and awake by night.

Why?
Adam would ask himself during those long hours of seclusion.
Why are you still fighting? What is this all for?
Adam wanted to believe there was more to his fight than a thirst for vengeance, but his anger and hatred had slowly begun to replace the desire to see America live again.

Eventually, Adam shook his head and snapped back to the present—stepping to the side to pick up one of the log halves before setting it back on the stump for further splitting. As he stepped back to swing the axe again, he noticed approaching men out of the corner of his eye. His eyes flickered over to them for a moment before he sighed and refocused his attention on the log.

“What do you think, Red?” Jack Parker said as he walked underneath the edge of the tent, turning to his friend Alan. “You think he’ll cut the entire forest down before summer?”

“I’m thinking one of these years you’re going to stop calling me Red,” Alan replied, shaking his head, little droplets flinging off his hooded coat.

“Keep thinking that all you want,” Jack said with a laugh. “You’ll always be Red in my book.” Jack smiled as he turned to Adam and nodded. “Seriously though, I think we’ll be fine on wood for a while. You keep this up and everyone else might start to think they’re not working hard enough.”

“Just because spring is coming doesn’t mean the cold nights are over.” Adam swung the axe overhead, splitting the smaller log o'er.

Jack paused before looking over at Alan and nodding. The two men approached the stump, now that the axe was safety embedded in the thick oak base. They began gathering the halves and quarters that were strewn about, stacking them in a new pile.

“What do you think the chances are that you could take a break and follow us to the house?” Jack asked.

“Why?” Adam asked distantly, not yet wanting to abandon his isolation on the edge of the farm for the day.

“For a surprise.”

“I’m not much of a fan of surprises anymore,” Adam replied. “Nowadays, they usually begin with bullets flying and my friends dying.”

“How about I guarantee this isn’t that type of surprise,” Jack said. “Besides, it’s my land and I think you’ve downed enough of my view for now.”

Adam glanced back and forth between the two men before he leaned the axe up against the stack of logs.

“You’re the leader here,” Adam said, emphasizing his words on purpose. “Lead the way.”

Adam pulled the hood of his raincoat over his head and joined the other two men on their short walk across the farm. As Jack and Alan continued to banter back and forth, joking about inside stories the way old friends tend to do, Adam squinted underneath the cowl of his hood and surveyed the land.

The homestead was situated on one hundred and twenty acres of rolling pastures, a lake on one side and rolling hills full of trees on the other. A creek full with the early spring runoff snaked its way through the property before emptying into the lake. To Adam’s right, an old stone outbuilding that had once been the bona fide man cave of Jack’s great-grandfather stood under guard a few hundred feet away from the shoreline. They had ripped up the floor when they first arrived and dug as far down as they could in order to convert the building to a cellar. It now stored most of the food they had managed to scrounge up through the winter cold.

The main home, a rather new white farmhouse with a steel roof and a wrap-around porch, served as a sick house for the injured and a group of infants the nurses had watched over since they fled Nashville. The premature babies had been under their care long before the collapse and apparently no one had been willing to leave them behind for the sake of making the journey easier. Jack claimed that despite his initial hopes to flee with only his wife and Alan’s family the day things began to fall apart, he is glad he hadn’t questioned her desire to keep the children. Jack had said more than once that leaving such helpless children behind would have gnawed at him like a starving wolf until the day he died.

Outside the main house and stone storage shed, everyone else shared rooms in one of the three nearby barns or outbuildings that had been converted to living quarters. It wasn’t a perfect setup by any means, but it accomplished the task of providing housing and shelter for a group of people trying to survive the sweeping anarchy.

By the time they neared the farmhouse, the cold rain slowed to a soft misting. The front door opened and out walked Doctor Lillian Andrews—the one physician they had present at the homestead. Lillian was nearly as tall as Adam, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail as she sported her usual button up shirt and jeans. She always had a smile on her face and looked every part the attractive cowgirl, minus a wide-brimmed hat, a horse she had tamed herself, and half a dozen wranglers at arm’s length. You couldn’t tell from looking at her, but she had apparently been one of the most promising new emergency room physicians within the state of Tennessee. For all her achievements, she was quite young and had only been out of her residency for less than seven months when the panic hit. Though Adam was grateful for her help with Marc, he usually tried to avoid lengthy conversations with her.

Their discussions usually revolved around any and all injuries he had sustained over the past year. He had scars on his cheek, back, and leg from his fight in Chicago. Another mostly healed scab born from the butt of a gun that had split his lip two months ago as he awaited execution in the Capitol Building. Not to mention the wounds that were not physical. As much as her desire to help him recover both physically and mentally was authentic, he found himself wanting to do nothing more than forget the scars that marked his body and soul with each passing day.

“Doc,” Jack said with a nod of his head. “How are the babes doing?”

“Just fine, thanks to those great wives you both have in there,” Lillian said with a smile. “Those two women would have sure made a pair of killer doctors.”

“Well, I’m not sure anyone in their right mind would be interested in killer doctors,” Jack said with a grin. “Is he still awake?”

Lillian nodded her head, before looking over at Adam with a pause.

“Is who awake?” Adam asked as they all stared at him silently.

“Marc,” Lillian replied. “He regained consciousness about an hour ago. We moved him to a new room where Lev and William can keep an eye on him. I can take you there now if you’d like.”

Adam looked from Jack to Alan before mounting the steps and following Lillian through the home.

The home was furnished like a typical American farmhouse. Dark wooden floors filled the entirety of the first level while white shelves and rustic furniture dotted each large, well-lit room. They passed through the foyer and mounted the main stairwell—passing by a wall of pictures that were primarily composed of Jack, his wife Leila, and his parents who were absent from the farm, though Jack had yet to speak of them. As Adam, Lillian, Jack, and Alan reached the second floor and approached a door at the end of the hall, Adam’s mind began racing. In the weeks he had waited for Marc to wake, he’d never thought of what he might actually say to the man.

He reached out and gently grabbed Lillian’s arm to halt her.

“Wait,” Adam said, taking a deep breath. “Does he…remember what happened?”

“I think so, though I am not certain,” Lillian replied. “Most of my communications with him have been in regards to his injuries. Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m the one who led them to Bryson City in the first place. I’m the reason he was shot.”

Lillian smiled, pulling her arm away slowly as she did so. “I’m sure that is not an accurate recollection of the facts. Besides, Marc knows the truth.”

“And what is the truth?” Adam replied, glancing to the door.

“That taking a round to the throat was none of your doing,” Lillian answered after a pause. “And I hope you realize that as well.”

“But has he…has he said anything yet about the night he was shot?”

Lillian gazed back at him for a moment before her smile dissolved into a frown.

“Mr. Reinhart, Marc’s vocal cords were irreversibly damaged when they used that chemical compound to stop the bleeding. Though it saved his life, he will never speak again.”

Adam stared back at her blankly, fighting the redness in his cheeks and the lump in his throat. Adam hadn’t known Marc longer than a couple of months and had been perturbed at his constant banter for most of that time. But Adam had begun to grow fond of the Frenchman and his spirited wit. Now, imagining Marc without a voice was like imagining a stained-glass window that had lost its color.

“Do you need a moment?” Lillian asked warmly.

Adam paused before shaking his head. “Does he know?”

“He does,” Lillian said before smiling again. “We’ve been using a small white board to communicate and I can assure you that he has a positive attitude.” Lillian grinned as she shook her head and laughed lightly. “Just because he lost his vocal cords doesn’t mean he lost his voice. Luckily, I studied sign language in college and know enough to begin teaching him the basics. Within a few months, I think he will have a solid foundation.”

Adam smiled superficially and nodded back. Lillian opened the door and led them into the room.

Lev sat in the corner of the long, vaulted room. Both he and William glanced toward the door and frowned almost simultaneously as Adam entered. Adam stared back at them, firming his jaw before shifting his eyes away from the two men. He had almost completely ignored his companions once they had arrived at the homestead. Adam blamed himself for leading them all to Bryson City. While Gene, William, Lev, and Edward had recuperated at the house, Adam had almost immediately gone off on his own—doing anything to keep his mind tired and occupied.

Marc lay on an inclined bed at the far end of the room. Green and white flannel blankets covered him up to his bare chest while a thick bandage encircled his throat. As Adam approached the bed, Marc moved his head to the side where his eyes met Adam’s.

“Marc,” Adam said with a nod, fighting back the tears in his eyes. Marc barely nodded his head in acknowledgment as he picked up the whiteboard and began scribbling. After a moment, he paused—reading over his words—before handing the whiteboard to Adam.