Freedom Lost

By Mark A. Handy

The conspiracy theorists were right! Who knew?

A renegade president has used FEMA and government loopholes to rescind the Constitution, dismiss Congress, and all but appoint himself King Lording I. He rules with an iron fist and a callous disregard for human life. Oppose him and die.

But true American nature begins to bleed through and dissent leads to rebellion.

At the core of the resistance is Mace Wallace, lone survivor of the Cochise Stronghold Massacre. The Arizona militia SASS, Sout

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634178938

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Freedom Lost

Mark A. Handy

Copyright © 2015 Mark A. Handy

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2015

ISBN 978-1-63417-892-1 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-63417-893-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

About the Author

Chapter 1

The Pariah

Blood pounding in his temples, Mace Wallace tried not to look at the police car as it passed. Despite of the fear of the hunted crawling down his back, he forced a slight smile to his face. The cruiser continued without any signs that he had been recognized, signs which would have been unmistakable to be sure. People wanted by the federal government always caused a stir when found out.

Looking around but not focusing on anything (but at the same time seeing everything), Mace walked with a casual stride to the L station where he would make his rendezvous. A bump and a bustle on the local 4:15 and he would have the info for the next resistance meeting. He leaned against the wall and opened his newspaper, waiting for the train, the crowd, and one special passenger.

Over the top of the paper, Mace scanned the people, paused in their journeys to or from someplace else in Chicago. All eyes were furtive, glancing, not lingering or making direct contact. Even the few who traveled with friends talked in hushed voices and ignored all others. Fear seemed to grip each person, fear of saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, just seeming to be wrong. Suddenly, he felt obvious in his observations and raised his newspaper, pretending to read it.

When did this happen? How did it happen? Why was America now a country afraid of itself? Events up to the Stronghold forebode something like this, but to see a nightmare actually occur was an entirely different matter. He had only been gone a little over two years, living on the fringes of civilization, yet it seemed like a different time altogether. What had caused this?

A rhetorical question, if you paid attention to late twentieth-century history. Was the ’60s to blame, with the assassinations of the Kennedys, the murder of Martin Luther King, and the start of the generation gap? Perhaps it started there. But then there was the ’70s with Watergate and the I-ME-ME-MY mentality, the ’80s dominated by pacifistic psychologists and deteriorating morals, the ’90s with mass prison releases and warped legal standards, and the attacks on the Bill of Rights through all the years. Each of those and a myriad of others would hold a part of the blame. At the core, though, seemed to be an American people who lost their individuality and became a herd of sheep to be led to whatever end a predator might choose.

That predator emerged in the form of Lawrence Lording, tycoon industrialist turned career politician. Mace shook his head as he remembered the campaign debacle of the last election pitting Lording against the rest of the country, or so it seemed. In the beginning, Lording didn’t appear to have a chance of even getting nominated, much less elected. Between his extramarital affairs as governor of Louisiana, shady business dealings that smacked of insider trading, possible associations with a white supremacist group, and his cowardly actions during the Vietnam War, Lording was floundering amid his own past. He was defending himself so much that his campaign promises were in the news only a small part the time.

Then the third candidate entered the race. Paul Ross was an ecological advocate and enough of a conservative to sway a large part of the people. With his entrance on the political scene, the press had a bigger story. The first major three-way race for president was happening right before their eyes! The examinations of who the candidates really were and what they stood for slipped to the back pages of newspapers and all but disappeared from the television. With the focus on the political intricacies and the speculations on the effects of Paul Ross, Lording’s campaign managers were able to minimize the fallout from the few stories that did try to expose the shortcomings of their candidate. Before anybody could return to the history of Lawrence Lording, he had the nomination for president. Time seemed to shuttle to fast-forward as Paul Ross bowed out of the race, President Thomas Oakley dropped to an all-time low in the polls, and Lording began supporting every cause he could justify in order to get votes. Before anybody could catch his breath, Lording was President of the United States of America.

The memory of that time was so vivid Mace’s stomach turned sour. A glance at the station clock cued him away from the wall and toward the tracks. The throng became denser as all who waited for the 4:15 pressed forward. Rolling the newspaper into a tight cylinder, he squeezed through the loose spots in the crowd until he was even with the markings showing where the rear of the train would come to a stop.

That was it. Be the first onto the last car of the 4:15 with a rolled newspaper under his right arm. It seemed incredibly simplistic for an information exchange. But then, he had absolutely no experience in this sort of thing. Just do it. Everything else will be taken care of is what Clancy had said. Or was it Quincy? At this moment, he wasn’t sure of much of anything. Just as he was beginning to think about what it was that he was really starting, the train came screeching down the tracks.

Looking again at the markings on the edge of the track, he made sure he was where the door of the last car should open. In position, Mace glanced around to see if anybody noticed how badly he was shaking. It seemed that at any moment there would be an outcry proclaiming him a party to treason. It must be obvious he was guilty of something! There were too many people for someone not to notice him. The way his stomach was fluttering. Rocking. Waves of pain. Waves of nausea and pain and there was no way these people couldn’t see how he was shaking and twitching, and guilty…guilty…guilty….

With an ominous hiss, the doors slid open, releasing a flood of intense and obstinate worker bees. They buzzed by him, totally focused on reaching the home hive for a few hours of secure and quiet quality time. Mace did well to keep his footing, much less worry about how much he was shaking.

Suddenly, Mace was chest-to-chest with the most normal-looking person he’d ever seen. The man was so commonplace that later, Mace wouldn’t be able to remember a single distinguishing feature. There was one thing though. The guy pushed a tightly rolled newspaper sharply up under Mace’s left arm while snagging the other paper from his right, all in the same motion. Mace wanted to turn and get a better view of this messenger but fought the urge. Later it occurred to him that his will power might have averted several deaths.

Standing outside a bar several hours later, Mace again started to get the steroid butterflies in his stomach. It hadn’t been hard to find the place written on the back page of the classified ads in the newspaper. The Token at 8 PM. Ask for Samuel Adams and wait had been printed in magic marker with an address. The Chicago cab driver seemed familiar with the place.

Taped to the paper had been a coin. About the size of a quarter, on one side it had an American eagle and shield emblem and on the other side, across the top, was printed FREEDOM. Across the bottom was NO CASH VALUE. An arcade token. There’d been no reference to the coin. After examining it, he pocketed it and hailed a cab. Half an hour later, he was ready for the next step.

Opening the door, Mason W. Wallace walked into the place that would be the start of a path leading to his destiny. At that moment, though, he couldn’t have spit if he had to. Pausing just inside the door, he felt his legs begin to wobble. Luckily, the bar was close by so he leaned forward and stutter-stepped to a stool and the waiting barkeep.

Sam Adams, please.

Smiling, the barkeep leaned on the bar and asked, with a slight Irish lilt, Do you want to talk to him or drink him?

Huh? Well, talk to him, I guess.

Are you a psychic?

No, answered Mace, puzzled.

Then you’ll be having a drink then. Old Sam’s been dead over two hundred years. With a chuckle, he turned and began to pour a draft.

Right, a beer, Mace muttered. He wasn’t sure if he should wait for the beer or bolt for the door. Choosing the former, he took a deep breath and looked around. Those butterflies were really doing a number on his stomach.

The bar was shaped like an inverted L with a fat bottom. From the door, there was just enough room for two people to pass between the booths on the left side and the bar on the other. At the back of the room, where it turned to the right, past the corner of the bar, were two pool tables and a lighted dartboard. The left-hand pool table had a game going, as did the dartboard. The middle pool table was empty since the light over it was dark. Mace couldn’t see the right corner of the area opposite the dartboard. Behind the bar, at the end, was a doorway, presumably leading to a storage area.

One Samuel Adams, said the barkeep as he set the frosty mug down.

What do I owe you? Mace asked as he started to reach for his wallet.

Four bucks, unless you have a token.

Mace stopped. A token?

Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but the name of the bar is The Token. We have this gig where if you want to introduce a friend to the bar, you can buy a token to give him for a free drink. Kind of like a gift certificate. Did the guy who told you about us give you a token?

Even if Mace could have thought of an answer, his mouth would not have worked. His throat tightened as the image of the small coin taped to the newspaper filled his mind.

Hey, are you all right, mister?

Mace wondered at the barkeep’s concern until he looked at the mirror behind the bar. The face reflected there was the look of shock from a B-grade horror movie. He forced himself to smile and breathe.

Sorry, I have asthma. Yeah, the guy who mentioned this place did give me a coin. I guess you could call it a token.

He reached into his left pants pocket where he didn’t keep his coin change. Without thinking about it, he’d put the coin where it normally wouldn’t be. Tossing it to the barkeep, he said, There you go. One token. Are we even?

The man looked at the coin strangely for a second, as if it wasn’t what he’d expected. Smiling quickly, again at ease, he replied, You bet, mister. You need a refill, just give a holler. My name’s Carl.

With that, he walked away, checking with the few other customers at the bar. When he reached the far end, Carl turned and glanced at Mace, who was watching from the corner of his eye. Quickly, Carl turned and spoke to a man at the short side of the bar, just where it ended before the hidden corner of the game room. Turning his head toward them, Mace couldn’t see any of the man’s features because of Carl’s back. Carl didn’t move until the customer had turned and walked to the hidden corner. Then Carl took the two steps through the door into the back of the bar.

For several seconds after the man disappeared, Mace kept looking at the doorway, not sure what to expect. When nothing happened, he finally turned his attention to the beer in front of him. Taking a long drink, Mace made up his mind.

I’ll finish this beer, he thought. And if nothing has happened by then, I’ll leave and forget this whole mess. I’m not cut out for this cloak-and-dagger stuff.

At the far end of the bar, Carl reappeared, making a deliberate effort at focusing on restocking the liquor supply at that end. Mace was sure he was ignoring him. Despite his own uneasiness, Mace chuckled at Carl’s reaction to a loud call for a refill. A bit jumpy.

Not worth it, he muttered to himself, drinking quickly.

He had just swallowed the last of the beer when a voice behind him asked, Can I buy you a beer?

Mace turned to look at the man who spoke. Actually, he looked up at him, for he was at least six feet tall. Dark hair cut to just over the ears, close-cropped beard, and eyes that were far more intense than the casual tone of his voice.

No, thanks. I was just leaving.

The stranger hesitated, glanced at the gaming area, and looked back at Mace.

Actually, I’m trying to get a game of pool or darts. I saw you were just finishing and thought maybe you’d be interested. I’ll buy the first beer and maybe we could play for a second one.

Well, I don’t know, Mace started, glancing past the guy’s shoulders and to either side. He almost expected to see thugs closing in on him but saw only the rest of the barroom. No assassins in the shadows.

I hadn’t planned on staying long.

I promise I’ll make it quick. I’ll be ready for another beer by the time the game’s over anyway, and you’ll have had a free one. You’ve got nothing to lose but a few minutes and the cost of my beer. A cocky smirk was on his face as he waited for Mace to reply.

The barroom banter had eased not only the stomach butterflies for Mace but the apprehensions over clandestine meetings, as well. Besides, cloak-and-dagger or not, he rarely sidestepped a direct challenge. Paranoia was replaced by wariness.

Well, that beer did taste pretty good, and I could probably drink a third since it’ll be free as well. Sure, let’s go. Darts will be the poison.

All righty, then! Hey, Carl! Another Mickey’s for me and a Sam Adams for my next victim here! the man said loudly in the direction of the barkeep.

Mace looked at his empty mug and tried to see the clue as to the brand of beer that had been there a few minutes ago. There was none.

My name’s Dell, said the man as he stuck out his hand.

I’m called Mace, Mace replied, shaking the offered hand.

After Carl brought the brews, they headed for the back of the bar. Still slightly uneasy, Mace located the rear door and mentally timed how long it would take to run like hell out of there. Located opposite the middle pool table in the back wall, the door was about thirty feet away. He wasn’t happy with his time.

There’s a Hershey’s Syrup can with a few sets of decent house darts over there, Dell said, nodding toward a shelf mounted on the wall under the scoreboard. Pick out a set and warm up. I’m ready. He sat down at a table in the corner and took a long pull off his Mickey’s. Mace set his mug down on another shelf that ran along the wall.

After selecting three darts, Mace turned to walk to the toe line. He noticed that where Dell was sitting was the area hidden from Mace’s previous seat at the bar. As he crossed the toe line, Mace saw that he could just see the doorway past the edge of the storeroom area.

A real nice place for a private conversation, he thought. He took nine practice throws and hit three bull’s eyes with the rest reasonably close.

Not bad, said Dell. He walked up and set his beer next to Mace’s on the shelf. You know how to play Around the World?

Mace nodded. Up or down?

We cork for it. Closest gets his choice of shooting first or calling the game, up or down. It’s my board and I like to cork first. Any objection?

Shrugging, Mace said, No problem here. Besides, like you said, it’s your board. At least for the moment. He hoped his confident grin covered his unease.

Dell turned, aimed, and threw his dart. A distinct tink sounded as the dart grazed the top of the outer bull’s eye ring. There’s something for you to shoot at.

Mace set his stance at the toe line, visualizing the flight to the bull. As he prepared to release, there was a crash of a breaking glass from around the corner. His dart pulled left and hit the triple eleven.

Kind of skittish, aren’t you? Del said as he walked up to the board. He retrieved both darts and gave Mace his. I’ll go first.

Mace walked over to his beer and took a gulp. It’s just been a while since I’ve thrown in a bar. I’ll warm up. The game is up, one to bull.

Dell smiled. Look, you said you had to leave soon, so name the game down, and I’ll get you out of here real quick.

Sorry, I never give aid or comfort to the enemy. Your throw, at one. Mace gave himself a quick mental kick in the ass. Hidden corner or not, dangerous scenario or not, he could at least settle down and throw a decent game of darts!!

Dell gazed at Mace with a measured look, like he was reevaluating after having coming to a conclusion. With a nod, he turned and threw. The dart hit the triple one.

Shooting four, he called. So you from around here?

No. I’m from out of town.

Dell’s next shot hit four then he missed five. Your shot. I’m on five. On his way back from getting his darts, Dell added, I’m from out of town, too. North Carolina. Where you from?

Mace set up at the line and wondered what exactly he should tell this guy. The wrong thing said to the wrong man would cause his death, and maybe a few others as well. Yet he had a feeling that if Dell had anything to do with what brought him to The Token in the first place, he was the right guy to talk to. Hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Down around Tucson way, he answered. Focusing on the board, he threw and hit the double one. Shooting three.

Tucson? Arizona?! Boy, you’re a far piece from home, Dell said with a chuckle. Then he paused with a furrow of concentration on his brow.

Yep, Mace muttered as he hit the three. Shooting four. He quickly realigned for the five and hit it. Shooting six. I forgot to ask. Do you play last dart scored continues? he asked with a smile.

Dell’s look of concentration was replaced by one of recollection. Hey! Tucson! Isn’t that near where the Stronghold Massacre took place?

Mace’s grin dropped like a lead weight. The silence that lasted only a few seconds weighed like an eternity.

Yeah, it is. I didn’t think that was a very popular topic for discussion these days.

That and a whole list of other stuff. That was a bad time. Not that it’s much better now. By the way, yeah, I play last dart shoots again. You shooting five?

Mace smiled again. No, six. Nice try.

As Mace walked to the board, Dell asked, From around Tucson, huh? I spent a couple of years there myself. Where exactly?

Pretty much the whole southeastern corner of the state.

That’s some beautiful country, Dell said as Mace drew a bead on six.

I always liked it, Mace said in a low voice. His first dart hit low.

Dell chuckled as Mace missed poorly. Hey, you got the ten! Lowering his voice, he added, I knew a lot of good people down there, a few of them decent dart players.

Mace stood quietly, focusing on his shot. Hitting the triple six, he adjusted slightly and threw again. Double nine, shooting eleven.

He paused, remembering a different dartboard just a few years ago. With a shake of his head, he said, Yeah, one guy was the best I’d ever known.

When I was there, I’d have to say Red Gustav was the best.

Mace stopped. Red? You knew Red Gustav?!

Not only knew him but took a few beers off him.

Mace’s shoulders slumped, all the tension gone from him. Well, I’ll be damned! It really is a small world! He turned and threw his last dart, cleanly missing eleven. By the way, Red wasn’t the best. Lew Holliday could take Red any day. Your shot, Mace said. For the first time since the Stronghold, he felt at ease with somebody, even if only slightly. He smiled to himself as he retrieved his darts.

Did you like Red? Mace asked.

Dell adjusted his stance at the line. Yeah, I did like that old bear. As much as he’d let anybody like him, anyway. Too bad I never met Lew. I like a challenge.

Mace stepped close to him and in a low voice said, Red died at the Stronghold.

I knew that, Dell said. It’s interesting that you did too. He turned back to the board, lined up his shot, and hit the triple five. Shooting eight.

Dell took