The Arrows of Defiance

By Tom Nixon

War has come to America once more.

The fate of the nation hangs in the balance as the military forces of the Free Territories roll back the frontier, bringing hope to a nation long governed by the autocratic Federal Council- and forces long silent begin to move, sensing that their time as come, not just to topple the hardle General Miller, but maybe to bring down the Federal Council itself.

In the Free Territories, Prime Minister Chelsea Andrews must tackle threats from within and without.

Melinda Corcoran and her husband Steven, having learned the identity of Prisoner 112, race against time to find her.

All the while, The Assassin watches and waits for his chance at revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Nixon
• Release date: Oct 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386656845

Tom Nixon

Tom Nixon lives in Iowa City,IA with his family. He spends many of his days behind a computer console being on the select group of professionals that is accorded the privilege of telling members of the law enforcement community where exactly they can go- and earning a paycheck for it.  He has been known to enjoy a wee dram of whiskey at the end of the day.

Book preview

For A, A, K and L.

Forward and Acknowledgements

Sequels are hard. I’m honestly not sure why I didn’t just fold this book into its predecessor, The Prisoner and The Assassin and just make it one big book- but the more I think about that, the more I realize that they really are very different stories. Prisoner sets the stage and introduces the reader to all of these characters. The Arrows of Defiance is really the story about the climax of their story.

This isn’t the end of their story. I know that much already. That was the real joy of writing these books. I have the history of these characters in my head- I can only hope that that the reader is left wanting to know more as well. Someday, I’ll go back and complete their story. (Probably in two more books that just fall out of me as these two have.)

I have a list of people to thank as well:

I’d like to thank my editors, Casey Wagner and Sara Lowery. Their work on this book helped me make it better- or at the very least eliminate the majority of grammatical errors- hopefully, they’re fewer and farther between.

The support of my wife, Allison and my three kids, Austin, Kelvin and Lachlan make all this possible. This book is dedicated to them. 

Some Other Notes

Because certain unnamed relatives keep bothering me for maps, here they are:

The Northern Free Territories: https://bit.ly/2KvT1jm

The Southern Free Territories: https://bit.ly/3flMrHn

Where can you find me?

I blog at: http://www.litcityblues.com

I tweet at: @litcityblues

I reddit at: https://www.reddit.com/r/litcityblues/

My Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/TomNixonAuthor/

If you read this book and enjoy it, please, tell your friends about it. Reviews (good and bad) are always welcome!

Finally, please enjoy this book. In re-reading and polishing this up for a new release, I was pleasantly surprised at how decent the writing was and how much I still loved these characters. This book is probably not perfect, but I loved telling the story you’re about to read and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Anchor Point

Governor Bobby Harrison’s patience was wearing thin. He had been in Ottawa for weeks now, having agreed to stay on in the aftermath of General Casey’s assassination in case the Federal Council had wished to resume negotiations. Their negotiating team had been withdrawn and the majority of their counterparts from the Free Territories had followed suit, but the prime minister had asked him to stay.

At the time, it had seemed like a pleasant enough task. His quarters in the Territorial embassy were more than generous and Ottawa was a beautiful city in the late-spring and early-summertime. The skies were blue, the temperatures grew warmer and warmer with every passing day, and everything seemed to be becoming greener every time he stepped outside.

But the days had become weeks and the weeks had stretched into almost two months, until earlier that night, when, lingering over a cappuccino at a very nice Italian restaurant a few blocks south of Parliament Hill, he had received a cryptic phone call summoning him to the prime minister’s residence at 24 Sussex Drive. Someone was coming, the embassy had told him. The Canadians, if they knew, weren’t saying who it was and Bobby had waited with calm, placid interest for nearly an hour before he had begun to grow irritable. Who were they sending? What could this possibly be about? This didn’t have the feel of a diplomatic overture via a discreet, neutral back channel. If it was, it would have been totally out of character given General Miller’s bellicose and reckless behavior.

Harrison knew the situation and he knew that Prime Minister Nielsen, despite being the model host and perfectly polite in every way to him, was far from happy with either the Federal Council or the Free Territories. Much of Canadian foreign policy had spent the past two decades maintaining a delicate balance between the Council and the Territories and anything that deliberately threatened that balance upset them greatly. The economic chaos from another conflict south of their border would do Canada no favors if it spiraled out of control. They had a long border and, despite the hefty build-up of their military assets over the past twenty years, scarcer resources than their American counterparts to defend it with.

No, the Canadians were not happy with the situation and that, more than anything, was probably why Chelsea had kept him in Ottawa. The Canadians knew him. The Canadians respected him. There were even some Canadians that remembered him from trade deals and agricultural expos on either side of the border from his tenure as the Governor of Iowa, before the Great Revolt—what seemed like a lifetime ago now. They could trust him to be an honest negotiating partner- and one that had the ear of the Territorial prime minister.

Harrison looked up as he heard the approaching footsteps. Maybe their mysterious guest had finally arrived. He composed his features into a careful picture of serene calm as their guest was ushered into the second-floor sitting room, with its delicate blue walls and cream colored furniture.

The living room, Mr. Cavendish.

Thank you, their mysterious guest replied. He sat down on the couch opposite Bobby, giving him a friendly nod of greeting, which Harrison returned.

Inwardly, Harrison was somewhat puzzled. He knew the identity of their mysterious guest of course. What he was doing in Ottawa, alone and traveling under an assumed name, was another matter entirely. What was this about?

You’re late. They both rose to their feet as Prime Minister Nielsen entered the room. John Nielsen of the New Democratic Party was a tall, imposing man with a short, clean haircut, his hair flecked with gray and silver, clad in a plain, faded brown business suit. Is this discreet enough for you, General McMillan?

Why yes, Prime Minister Nielsen, I think it is.

Good, the prime minister replied. Now sit, sit. Let’s talk.

Everyone sat. You know the governor of course, Nielsen said.

I do, McMillan replied. And he’s just the person I need to talk too.

And why is that? Harrison asked.

You have the ear of the prime minister, McMillan said. And right now that’s an ear I need to access.

Did Miller send you with a back channel overture?

McMillan laughed. Please. Miller is a jackass who has been busy dragging us into a war we’re not ready for.

We’ve noticed that, Harrison replied.

So what do you need from us? Nielsen asked.

I need you to be ready when it all goes south.

Ready with what? Nielsen asked.

Support, McMillan replied.

Harrison frowned. What do you have?

I’ve been told I have a charming personality, McMillan said.

And I can smell a line of bullshit from twenty miles away, Harrison replied. You’ve got something in your back pocket. An ace in the hole.

McMillan glanced at Nielsen. I’m parched. You got any good hooch kicking around here?

We have prepared for your coming, Nielsen said. He stood and stepped over to the side table, where three full decanters and some whiskey glasses were waiting. This, he said, picking up a decanter, is from the prime minister’s special reserve.

Canadian Club?

Of course. My special stock, Nielsen replied. Governor?

Why not? Harrison replied. It’s one of the few vices this old man has left.

Nielsen poured out three measures of whiskey from the decanter before setting it back down, dropping the stopper back in and handing McMillan one glass, before picking up the other two and handing one to Harrison and keeping one for himself. McMillan took a cautious sip of his glass and exhaled with pleasure. That’s really good, he said.

That’s why it’s the Prime Minister’s Special Reserve, Nielsen replied.

It’s delicious. They don’t sell this in stores?

No, Nielsen replied.

You know all this is very entertaining, Harrison replied, but you still haven’t told us what you’re doing here.

McMillan set his glass down and then he told them. It took a while but when he was done, he leaned back, picked up his glass, and took another sip from it as both Harrison and Nielsen digested everything that he had just told them.

I can see why you came to us for help, Nielsen said.

Yes, Harrison replied.

You don’t think I’m telling the truth? McMillan said.

You’re promising something that no one has been able to deliver for twenty years, Harrison said. "You think you’re the first one to try? Governors have tried. I have tried as both a governor and as a prime minister of the Free Territories, and I know for a fact two of my successors in that position have as well. They have been rebuffed, he bit down on the last word. Every one of them."

Ah, but you see, governor, McMillan said, there is one tiny detail, one iota of difference between what you have attempted and what I am offering.

And that is?

They called me.

THE HOUSE WAS BEAUTIFUL. A gilded cage, she reminded herself, as she sat up in her king-sized bed. It was soft and pliable, decadent even, with brightly-colored yellow sheets, whose thread count had to be high. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and found her slippers. Adjusting the nightgown, she walked over to the chair by the window where she had flung her robe the night before. Slipping it on, she tied it tightly and headed out of the bedroom, down the hallway, and downstairs to the kitchen.

As prisons go, this one was rapidly becoming her favorite. Four bedrooms, a beautiful, wide porch that wrapped around the outside of the first level, a generous and fully stocked kitchen. It was as if the country farmhouse of her grandparents had been transplanted into the present day. She hadn’t been this comfortable in years; she kept waking up well after her usual hour of eight o’clock sharp.

The smell of coffee greeted her as she entered the kitchen. Good morning ma’am, the soft gentle voice of her personal assistant Laura made her turn. Laura was a tall and thin young woman in her late twenties with a cascade of blond hair swirling down her back. She and Laura had been together for years. One of her first wardens on Alcatraz had dumped Laura into her cell, bleeding, battered, and bruised. She had nursed Laura back to health and eventually, Laura had become her personal assistant, as well as a trusted friend and companion.

Is someone here? she asked as she took a mug down from the cabinet and poured.

Yes, ma’am.

Well, let’s go see who’s running the show then, she replied. Cup of coffee in her hand, she followed Laura out of the kitchen into the main entryway and out of the front door onto the porch. They both settled into the comfortable chairs on the porch and watched as the small boat approached the dock.

Whoever had decided to place her here was either sadistic or insane, maybe both she thought to herself. The front of the house faced the back of the island, further away from the busy shores of the lake. The back of the house, however, was far closer to the shoreline. The both of them had done a careful survey of the island and once she had figured out exactly where their gilded cage of a prison was, she had laughed quite a bit. It was brilliant, really.

She smiled as she saw the almost imperceptible ripple in the air, like a heat mirage as the boat slid up to the dock. One of the figures at the front of the boat hopped out and onto the dock, grabbing a rope to secure it. As the rest of the occupants of the boat, there were six of them in all, stepped up onto the dock, she saw that they were wearing the sober, clean-cut suits and sunglasses that marked them as Homeland Security agents.

They began to walk up to the porch and she noticed Laura shifting uncomfortably in her seat. You can go inside if you want, she said, I’ll be fine.

Are you sure?

She glanced over at Laura, whose face was pale. She knew exactly why Laura was so uncomfortable around Homeland Security agents. I’ll be fine. Go.

Thank you, ma’am, the relief in Laura’s voice was palpable as she got up and went back inside. The front door closed behind her and she watched in silence as the agents walked up the hill to the house. As the features of the man at the head of her welcoming committee came into focus, she grimaced in distaste. It was clear who the architect of her gilded cage was—the cadaverous, sadistic-looking man, the head of Homeland Security himself, known only as Needles.

They all trooped up onto the porch, his underlings spreading out along the porch, facing outward. He stepped forward to greet her. Governor.

Have you completely lost your mind?

Not yet, he replied and sat down in the comfortable chair next to her.

Little risky placing me this close to the frontier, she replied.

A risk I’m willing to take, Needles said. This is the last place anyone would expect to find you.

And it’s the last place anyone will find me, thanks to your countermeasures. She smiled a thin, unpleasant smile as she felt his surprise. You didn’t think I would notice? All the light refraction technology? It’s smoke and mirrors, the ultimate prison really. I can look out, but no one can see in.

Yes, he replied.

And what happens if the situation continues to deteriorate? She laughed as she saw his expression.

General Miller has the situation under control, he replied.

I always loved archery as a girl, did you know that? Isabella said. There’s a moment when you draw the bow, your arrow is at the ready, the string is taut and you find what’s called your anchor point. She took a sip of coffee. It’s different for every archer. It could be your left cheek, your right cheek, or your nose, but it’s the point you touch to settle yourself before letting the arrow go.

What’s your point? Needles asked.

That’s where we are now, despite General Miller’s delusions to the contrary, she said. Waiting to see where the arrow is going to fly

The Territories will be dealt with when the Federal Council sees fit, Needles replied. And General Miller intends to make sure that the solution the Council imposes will be a final, permanent one.

Now she did laugh, not caring at the flash of irritation she saw on his face. If I had a dollar for every time someone has told me that, I’d be a very rich woman.

Needles stood. But you’re not, he said. You’re a prisoner here and you’ll be a prisoner here for a very, very long time, just out of sight and out of reach from everything and everyone you love and hold dear.

Draining the last of her coffee she stood up and looked him square in the eye. I wouldn’t make any heavy bets on that, Governor Isabella Sanderson said.

HOURS LATER AND THE sun was shining, there was not a cloud in the sky and yet there was hardly a car to be seen on the streets of downtown Madison. The entire city seemed to be drowning in tense, nervous anticipation—the tension only growing since the students had taken over Bascom Hall and thrown the University of Wisconsin into chaos three days earlier.

Some people were venturing out though- most scurrying to their destinations and then back to their homes like frightened rabbits trying to outrun a thunderstorm. But some were attempting to embrace normality, wandering up and down State Street, mixing with the usual motley crew of transients, skateboarders, hipsters, and college kids looking for a bite to eat or a place to flip the boards and practice the latest trick.

A sudden concussive boom shook the sky and people began glancing around, wondering where the thunder was coming from. But then another came. And another. At the far end of State Street, the empty state capitol echoed with the sound of them, the accumulated dust of two decades starting to dance.

Inside the capitol, in the office that had, years ago, belonged to the Senate Majority Leader, on a ratty, dusty old couch that she had shoved against one wall three years earlier, the disheveled form of Mary Elizabeth Ringold, Governor of Wisconsin, sat bolt upright.

Another boom. And another. Ringold, her brown curls askew looked around, trying to gather her thoughts as the dream she had been lost in slipped away from her. She heard the civil defense sirens spring to life and begin to scream in the city outside. She swung her feet over the edge of the couch, pushed herself into a standing position, straightened her clothes, and adjusted her hair as she did so. Another loud boom and she sprang into action, reaching her desk in three easy steps and grabbed for her phone just as it began to ring.

This is the Governor.

Governor— there was a hiss and a crackle —under attack! Heavy bombardment by— The voice faded out again. What do you want us to do?

Who is this? What’s going on?

Governo— The line went dead. Ringold spat out a string of curses as she slammed the phone down and then picked it up again and dialed another number.

This is the Speaker.

Bill, it’s Mary. What’s going on?

We’re not sure, he said. Our communications with the rest of the state are spotty right now, but from what we can tell the Territories have launched airstrikes against targets all across the state.

Ringold laughed. I told him! I told that jackass Miller to be careful, but would he listen? No!

Governor, the Speaker sounded apologetic. I know it’s somewhat cumbersome, but I need to know what your orders are.

That brought Ringold up short, her mind racing. How much are they throwing at us?

A lot, he replied.

Then have our people secure whatever military hardware they can and hunker down. We’ll ride this out and then decide what to do next.

Things are happening fast, Governor, the Speaker said. We should start thinking about our next move.

I need to think, she said. I want updates every half-hour.

Yes, ma’am, he replied. Then he hung up.

Ringold slowly put the phone back in its receiver, thoughts turning over and over in her head. So the Territories had made the first move and, apparently, had done so decisively. War had come again and, as it had been too many times in the past two decades, Wisconsin was in the eye of the storm.

She began to walk, as she always did when she needed to think, out through the half open door of her office and into the empty Capitol. It had been empty since the very last days of the Great Revolt: the legislature had fled to Platteville before federal forces had surrounded Madison and taken it and even after the ceasefire they had stayed there, refusing to come back until the Federal Council was overthrown and democracy restored.

The Governors, however, had remained in Madison—some living in the empty Capitol building, others eschewing it for more comfortable quarters. Ringold had been all too happy to move in, though. Her husband of nearly two decades had died of a sudden heart attack just months after she started her first term and after that... After that, everything had changed and the job had become her life. She had settled into seclusion, appearing as if by magic in Platteville to sign bills and deliver a State of the State address and then vanishing again.

It was nice, in a way. She had been left alone with her grief at Phil’s death, burying herself in the work and walking with the ghosts of the empty Capitol building. Their children were all grown and had scattered across the country—after the funeral, they had promised to call every week, but weeks had turned into months and they had all gotten busy with their own children and their own lives. She didn’t blame them. She had just kept working and eventually embraced the isolation, the peace, and the quiet.

The problem was, the isolation was starting to make her a little bit crazy. She was on a first name basis with most of the transients that hung out in Capitol Square now and had spent the better part of a week vacuuming the Assembly chambers and clambered up behind the Speaker’s chair to dust off Old Abe, still sitting on his perch. It was time to get out more, she knew. She didn’t know if she cared enough about the job to want to run for re-election, but the past three years had turned her into the incredible vanishing governor that nobody ever saw. She was becoming the slightly demented grandmother that you only ever saw at Thanksgiving or Christmas and that, she sighed, that was a problem of her own making.

As she walked out into the main rotunda, her steps echoing throughout the building, she looked down