Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page/Copyright

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  Dedication

  Half title

  Chapter 1 - Call Me Spike

  Chapter 2 - Flight of the Rebels

  Chapter 3 - The Hunt

  Chapter 4 - The Bridge

  Chapter 5 - Killing Spree

  Chapter 6 - Time for a New Car

  Chapter 7 - Shopping

  Chapter 8 - A New Nest

  Chapter 9 - New Orders

  Chapter 10 - Law and Order

  Chapter 11 - Survival

  Chapter 12 - Captured

  Chapter 13 - Vigilantes

  Chapter 14 - Pressure

  Chapter 15 - The Road to Dunham

  Chapter 16 - Blackmail

  Chapter 17 - Jailbreak

  Chapter 18 - Welcome to Florida

  Chapter 19 - Walk of Shame

  Chapter 20 - Philly

  Chapter 21 - New Wheels

  Chapter 22 - New Target

  Chapter 23 - The Fort

  Chapter 24 - Friends no More

  Chapter 25 - Pit Stop

  Chapter 26 - Exodus Baltimore

  Chapter 27 - Encounter

  Chapter 28 - Chinese Proposal

  Chapter 29 - Liberate D.C.

  Chapter 30 - All in the Family

  Chapter 31 - Run

  Chapter 32 - The Pentagon

  Chapter 33 - A Fine Speech

  Chapter 34 - Rolling South

  Chapter 35 - Hidden Injury

  Chapter 36 - The Valley

  Chapter 37 - Dunham

  Chapter 38 - The Fever

  Chapter 39 - Deep South

  Chapter 40 - Newark

  Chapter 41 - Sic Semper Tyrannis

  Chapter 42 - Heading Home

  Chapter 43 - Setting the Stage

  Chapter 44 - The Unarmed Army

  Chapter 45 - Propagandist

  Chapter 46 - The Professor

  Chapter 47 - Disarm

  Chapter 48 - The Farm

  Chapter 49 - Divide and Conquer

  Chapter 50 - Allah's Will

  Chapter 51 - Defense

  Chapter 52 - Training

  Chapter 53 - Gainesville

  Chapter 54 - Ambush

  Chapter 55 - Fight or Flight

  Chapter 56 - Showdown

  Chapter 57 - On the Road Again

  Chapter 58 - Pennsylvania

  Chapter 59 - Reconciliation

  Chapter 60 - Death From Above

  Chapter 61 - What Have We Done?

  Chapter 62 - Ticonderoga

  Chapter 63 - Annihilation

  Chapter 64 - Welcome Home

  Chapter 65 - The Arrival

  Chapter 66 - Prisoner of War

  Chapter 67 - Offense

  Chapter 68 - Mohican

  Chapter 69 - The Final Jihad

  Chapter 70 - The Truth

  Chapter 71 - Slaughter

  Chapter 72 - The Prodigal Son

  Chapter 73 - Presents

  Chapter 74 - Strategy

  Chapter 75 - The Walk

  Chapter 76 - Endgame

  Chapter 77 - Something to Fight For

  Chapter 78 - Something to Die For

  Chapter 79 - EMP

  Chapter 80 - Aftermath

  Please Review

  Author Contact Info

  About the Author

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  Half title copy

  MARCUS RICHARDSON

  © 2016 Marcus Richardson.

  All Rights Reserved.

  1st Printing, July 2016.

  This is a work of fiction.

  The people and events in this book have been written

  for entertainment purposes only. Any similarity to living

  and/or deceased people is purely coincidental and not intentional.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording, or by any information

  storage and retrieval system without prior written consent by the author.

  Want to get an e-mail when my next book is released?

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  Books by Marcus Richardson

  The Future History of America

  Book I: Alea Jacta Est

  Book II: Sic Semper Tyrannis

  Book III: Dux Bellorum

  The Wildfire Saga

  Book I: Apache Dawn

  Book II: The Shift

  Book III: Firestorm

  Other Books in the Wildfire Saga

  False Prey (Novella)

  The Wildfire Bundle (Books I-III)

  For SBF.

  Chapter 1

  Call Me Spike

  GABRIEL EVANS SHOVED HIS hands deeper into his coat. On loan from the Essex County Sheriff's Department, the quilted winter coat was warm, if small. He squinted up at the darkening October sky and blinked as early-season snowflakes kissed his face. He and his men had to find permanent shelter soon if they planned to survive the winter. A place that would suit their needs and allow him to set up shop unmolested.

  He'd led his men through the sleepy little town of Ticonderoga a few hours back. They hadn't asked for anything, hadn't even done anything, but the people were afraid and standoffish. No one offered to help or provide food or shelter.

  He couldn't blame them, but he wasn't happy either. Ungrateful is what it was—he'd held his little band together through fear and sheer willpower. If he hadn't been there to keep everyone moving, the violence visited upon the little town of survivors would have been Biblical.

  And how did they repay him? An hour after they left town, the undersheriff showed up.

  Ah well, at least his clothes fit me. Sort of. Better than the rags everyone else has.

  He stretched his shoulders in the undersized jacket and continued shuffling along the road. Gabriel's second-in-command knew when the boss was upset and kept the rest of their little army of escaped inmates back down the road. That was good—Bondo was smarter than he looked. Evans needed to think in peace as he walked.

  His first order of business—beyond finding shelter, food, and fire—was finding clothing that actually fit his frame. He pulled his right hand from the coat and plucked at the duty shirt stretched across his broad chest. The old undersheriff had been a skinny little prick. Ten years of hard time doing nothing but lifting weights and fighting every ethnic group imaginable had left Gabriel Evans with a body fit for any professional sport.

  That huge body required food though—lots of it. He pulled the brim of the undersheriff’s campaign hat over his brow to shield his eyes from the blowing snow. He tromped through the dusting and hoped he would find something—anything—of use around the next bend. He'd wandered through this Upstate forest long enough.

  The weight of the service revolver in its leather holster on his hip was comforting, but he only had one shot left. The rest had been spent freeing his fellow captives and birthing his army. As he walked, he risked a backward glance over his shoulder at the ragtag group behind him. The ones he could trust wore the uniforms of the ill-fated prison guards assigned to their final transfer.

  God, what a ragged-ass group.

  Why the governor would want to transfer all prisoners from outlying facilities to New York City was beyond him. Things must have gotten real bad on the outside, is all Gabriel figured. There was no way politicians would risk moving so many hardened criminals to one spot if they didn't know something.

  Gabriel smiled as he watched his army shuffle along. They knew so
mething, all right. They knew we'd break out sooner or later. They tried to herd us all together. The smile faded from his face. Maybe they wanted to get rid of us all in one shot...

  Regardless of the why, the bus he'd been on was part of a convoy that crashed on the slick roads leading south out of Upstate. Someone upstairs had been looking out for him when the bus driver hit that patch of black ice and lost control. A few prisoners died on impact, most were injured and a few wriggled free of their restraints.

  Maybe they arranged to have an accident with the bus so the warden could explain to everyone how it was so unfortunate the poor bastards had all perished. But, look on the bright side, he'd say, there's 27 less mouths for the taxpayers to feed. Twenty-seven more sick and twisted sons of bitches had gone to meet their maker in hell.

  Well, Gabriel Evans had survived. He choked the first guard that came to check on him—or finish him off—after the accident. He was pretty sure he'd snapped the man's neck, but it didn't matter—he got his gun just the same and dropped the others with a few well-placed shots. Out of ammo and on the run, they'd stumbled on Ticonderoga toward the end of the day, exhausted and running on fumes.

  Evens knew from the first face he saw they'd get no help in that tiny town. Some old bitch with a long dirty braid. Should have hung her scrawny ass with that braid. The people in town were half-starved, and it was clear from fear on their faces they wouldn't help anyone. Especially his crew.

  You didn’t offer to help, but you called the cops. Pricks.

  Evans tripped over a small rock in the road and caught himself against a tree that leaned in on the side of the road until the pain in his cramped feet subsided. Fucking boots were two sizes too small. He stood there for a second, his hand on the cold, rough bark and held his tongue from the string of curses that longed to escape his lips. If he was going to play the part of the undersheriff, walking around swearing like a sailor would not convince any civilians he was worthy of helping.

  He looked down at the scuffed boot on his foot and sighed. Acting like a civilized person would take practice. He looked ahead through the thin veil of snow and saw what looked like the entrance to a secluded neighborhood. A slow smile spread across his lips. He stood there, leaning against the tree and waited for his army to approach. Bondo, his chief lieutenant and former cellmate stepped forward and braved his wrath.

  "What you got, boss?"

  Evans closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Like I told you before, you gotta call me sheriff for this to work. At least in the beginning." He didn't bother to look—he knew Bondo was nervous. Little shit was always nervous.

  "Sure—sure, you got it. Sheriff."

  Evans started talking again as the others caught up. "Listen up, boys. You’re gonna stay here—I'm heading on down and see if I can speak with the good folks in that house around the bend."

  "Looks like we're coming up on some lake or something…" said Gimpy, an older-than-dirt Navy deserter.

  "That it does, that it does." Evans flicked the corner of his hat and watched as the snow cascaded off the brim. I thought I was taking us south?

  He turned and looked at Bondo. "Think you ladies can keep it under control for a few minutes while I check things out? You see me wave my arms, you can come down after me."

  His scrawny lieutenant made an attempt at standing at attention and nodded. "I got it, we'll hang out here. Sheriff."

  Evan sighed. "Not here, you fucking moron.” He waved one massive arm at the trees that choked the road. “Get ‘em off the damn road and into the trees or something. I don't want the first person I find to look up the road and see you assholes standing around. Won't make anything any easier, will it?"

  "Yeah, I guess," muttered Bondo as he scratched his greasy, dome-like forehead. "Yeah—yeah I guess I see what you mean."

  Evans didn't bother to respond, he just walked away. As he drew closer to the house up ahead, he realized old Gimpy was right. They were next to some lake. A big one, from what he could tell through the pines. As he exited the forest and walked down the hill toward the house, he took a look around and realized what a pretty scene everything made. He glanced at the rusted mailbox on the side of the road and noted the name: Holden.

  He squared his shoulders, trying to look as official as possible and strolled up to the front door of the ranch house. Situated on a relatively small lot, the yard sloped down to the lake about a half-acre behind the house. Majestic spruces and what looked like a few oaks lined the edges of the property, giving it a secluded feel. He imagined it must be quite the vacation spot in the summer.

  The house itself was small, but well-maintained. It looked like everything had been prepped and readied for winter. As Evans approached the door, he glanced in a large picture window and saw straight through the house. Out a rear window facing the lake, tilled, snow-kissed earth and the remains of a large garden sat in plain view.

  A sincere smile spread across his face as he knocked on the door and waited. A minute later shuffling sounds from the other side rewarded his patience. He listened as the deadbolt disengaged, then the door opened a crack.

  His smile widened, and he tipped the brow of his wide felt hat at the elderly woman who faced him.

  "Howdy ma'am," he said in his best good ol' boy voice. "My name's Undersheriff Dixon," he said, thankful the man he'd killed for the uniform had a respectable sounding name. "We're doing a special patrol through the area and unfortunately…well, my cruiser's having some trouble. Would you mind if I stepped inside to warm up while I radio back to dispatch again?” He held up the radio. “This thing’s on the fritz—I can’t tell if they’re hearing me or not.” He glanced around at the snow-covered yard, looking for witnesses. “I've been outside for hours now and it's not getting any warmer."

  A nervous smile appeared on the old woman's face as she opened the door all the way. "Why, of course, sheriff! Please, come on in—this is no weather for you to be out walking around. You'll catch your death of cold," she said, shutting the door behind him.

  Evans stepped inside with a grateful nod and stood on the doormat as if he cared he would drip water off of his uniform. “Oh…uh…”

  "Don't mind the snow," said the woman as she turned and waddled toward the kitchen. "Follow me—it's warmer in here."

  As soon as she turned away, the smile vanished from his face. He'd been locked up for a long time and he was desperate to find himself a woman…but not that desperate. He grimaced. Why the hell couldn't she have been a soccer mom? He followed her, hardly aware of the hollow echo of his boots on the hardwood floor as he fantasized about twenty-something blondes.

  She led him into the kitchen, tastefully decorated in a French pattern that reminded him of a cookbook. Light blue paisley patterns painted all over all the cabinets. The rest of the kitchen had been painted a creamy white. Porcelain cats rested on every horizontal surface. The little figurines watched him with unblinking eyes from cabinets, the top of the fridge, and little custom-built shelves scattered around the kitchen.

  Well this is creepy.

  He removed the campaign hat and placed it gently on the kitchen counter, blocking a little black cat with big eyes from staring at him. The old woman moved to the island in the middle and motioned for him to sit.

  "Would you like coffee? I've got a fresh pot on… Alvin went down to check on the boathouse, but he should be back any minute. He likes his coffee black, but I have some dehydrated cream and a little sugar, if you'd like?" She stood there by the coffee pot, waiting for his answer.

  "Oh, black would be just fine, ma'am—I sure do appreciate it. Seems a fair bit colder this year, don't it?" He winced internally. Don't it? That didn't sound like what a sheriff would say, at least not north of Virginia. Fuck—hold it together, Evans. Just wait until ‘Alvin’ makes his appearance…

  "I have to admit—I usually have my deputies make the runs out in this neck of the woods," he said with what he hoped passed for a sheepish manner.

  Mrs. Holde
n turned, coffee pot in one hand, a large mug that proclaimed the owner to be the ‘world's best grandma’ in the other. She smiled. "Oh, don’t worry about that, we don't mind. It's quiet out here—can't say as if I've ever heard of anyone nearby having any trouble with the law, though…" She poured the coffee and looked back at him.

  "I shouldn't think there'd be any real reason for you to have to come out here at all."

  Evans took the cup, grateful for the warmth it imparted to his cold hands. He was suddenly apprehensive about the snake tattoo that peeked out beyond the cuff of his right sleeve. Mrs. Holden missed it as she turned to replace the coffee pot on the island. He adjusted his too-small sleeve—no sense in blowing his cover before her husband arrived.

  He took a sip of the hot coffee and grinned as he thought of his comrades freezing their asses off up the road. Serves them right. Nobody else thought of a plan, nobody else took charge—all the perks should go to the leader. Evans was damn well going to make sure he remained the leader.

  "Thank you. Thank you very much. It's been a long walk…"

  "Oh? Where'd your car break down? Down the road a ways?" she asked over the rim of her mug.

  Shit. Evans had to think fast—he hadn't come up with a proper back story yet. "I sure do appreciate this." He took another sip and swallowed.

  "Yeah, it crapped out on me down the road a bit—pardon my French.”

  She laughed. “Oh please, my husband swears a blue streak every time he has to weed that garden of his,” she chuckled, shaking her head.

  Evans smiled. “I had to walk past another house before I got to yours—don't recall the name of the good folks that live there… didn't appear to be anybody home so I kept walking."

  "Which way?" she asked.

  He gestured with his mug. "Oh, down the road. Came 'round the bend, by the mountain," he said. He was thankful at least he'd taken notice of the tree-covered mountain in the distance.

  She smiled like someone's grandmother. "You were down there by the farm,"

  "Yes," he blurted, relief washing through his body. "I passed it and the car just up and died on me. When I saw there was a house up ahead, I got out and walked. Turns out nobody was home."