An Undisclosed Warrior

By R. Paul Bibeau

Tobias Jackson Wade, a descendant of a Lakota war chief and a former DIA Operative, shot in the line of duty, has lost everything he once held sacred and dear.

For the past year, Tobias Wade lived a lifestyle of seclusion to avoid further pain. However, when an unwanted gift falls into his lap, he acts against his better judgment and takes the windfall.

Due to his impetuous actions, numerous law enforcement agencies, are hunting him down as a traitor to his country. But with the help of two former associates, one a cop, the other a reporter, he sets out to clear his name and stop an attempted coup from destroying the country he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667873480

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© 2022 R. Paul Bibeau All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN 978-1-66787-347-3 eBook 978-1-66787-348-0

Acknowledgments

To my three children, my wonderful son-in-law, my two fantastic daughters-in-law, and my seven incredible grandchildren, I dedicate this novel to you.

Foremost, I want to thank my beautiful wife, Linda! Without her constant persistence and understanding, I would never have finished An Undisclosed Warrior.

I believe no one is unto themselves. Instead, we all need family, friends, and colleagues to help us navigate our journey. And, with that thought in mind, these are the people that guided me through the magnificent maze of storytelling:

First up, Jay Antani, my incredible editor. Jay, thanks for assessing my story, fixing all the mechanical problems, and enhancing the prose. You’re my partner in this crime! Thank you so, so much. 

My brother, Claude, your original drawing for the cover was amazing, and so to your insight. 

My neighbor and friend, James Sauceda, thank you for your treasured time reading and discussing every chapter of An Undisclosed Warrior. Your logic in the storyline and character development was invaluable. Thank you.

To my friends, Bill Lopez and Deanna Deal, for reading the unedited version. Thank you for giving your honest and supportive feedback and opinions.  

To all of you, I bent the ears of, constantly boring you with the story I was writing and asking what you thought . . . I am grateful.

And to everyone that spends a portion of their life reading the escapades of Jack Wade, I hope you enjoy the story as much as I did penning it!

R. Paul Bibeau

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

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

The End

Chapter 1

Quebec, Canada

Wade had executed this safety routine so many times he could do it in his sleep. He double-checked every entry point to his room, set the dead bolt, jammed a rubber wedge under the door, and latched the security feature. He knew his efforts wouldn’t stop a professional killer from breaking into his room, but the sounds of the breach would be enough to alert him in time.

He made sure the door to the connecting room was locked and secured, then set a table and chair against it. Before turning out the lights, he drew the drapes, leaving just a slit of an opening.

He was on the third floor of a four-story hotel. The room had a street-facing window, and he was sitting near it, watching the parking lot below. Beyond the parking lot was the Chemin du Roy—the Kings Highway—Route138 and the north shore of the Saint Lawrence River. Before retiring for the evening, he opened his laptop and sent his handler an end-to-end encrypted email.

When he was satisfied that his work was finished, and that he was as secure as possible, he closed his eyes and focused on slowing his breaths, calming himself. The room’s wall-mounted air conditioning generated a consistent background hum, and he noted how the AC created enough noise to muffle the reverberations of traffic ascending from the highway.

His mission was complete. Only one final step remained: to return to Washington with the package and his life.

Sleep did not come easy. It never did. Wade drifted back and forth between a state of somnolence and REM. The familiar scenes of a recurring nightmare caused him to toss and turn every few minutes.

During a moment of rising consciousness from the battle for rest, he sensed movement. His right eye opened enough to catch a hint of a human form sliding along the floor. Can’t be, he reasoned, not sure what was happening. If someone is in my room, a fatal error has occurred. In that state between half-asleep and waking, he grasped for a sense of what was real and what was not. The answer materialized as a hand covering his mouth and nose.

Wade’s right hand, trapped under the sheet, felt useless. His left hand flailed against the one covering his mouth, but his assailant’s elbow blocked and kept it away. And something cold pressed against his left cheek as his eyes struggled to adjust in the dark.

The object, he sensed, was the barrel of a steel-plated handgun.

The assailant kept his left foot planted firmly on the floor and dropped his right knee hard into Wade’s chest, creating enough pressure to turn a simple act of breathing into a life-and-death struggle.

A second intruder entered and turned on one of the bedside lights from a wall switch near the bathroom door. From what little Wade perceived, he determined the new interloper was much smaller than the man kneeling on top of him.

If you make any sudden moves, the man restraining him said, I’ll blow your half-breed face clean off. In his right hand, he held a S&W 22 Victory semiautomatic. He slid the barrel from Wade’s cheek and pressed it hard in the center of his forehead.

It wasn’t the wake-up call Wade had requested. He nodded that he understood. The smothering hand slowly lifted, but the gun barrel remained.

Wade gasped for air. Playing dumb was his initial gambit. What do you want? Who are you?

The intruder’s agitation became apparent as he pushed the weapon harder against Wade’s forehead. In reply, the weapon’s grip crashed into Wade’s left cheekbone, cutting deep into his flesh.

The name is Drakos. Go ahead, chief, ask me another dumb question.

The pain and smell triggered an unpleasant déjà vu as blood flowed from the open wound. But he didn’t panic. His ancestry, his history of loss spared no room for panic.

Tobias Jackson Wade was a direct descendant—on his mother’s side—of Chief Rain-in-the-Face, a war chief of the Lakota tribe. His father was of English descent and a trial lawyer turned activist for tribal rights in Washington, D.C. Wade was their only surviving child. An older brother, Dakotah, died in Desert Storm, and his sister, Kimimela, passed away on her honeymoon in a freak hang-gliding accident in Hawaii. Both parents, too, were gone.

After twelve years of military service—five with Special Forces and four with the Defense Intelligence Agency’s Enigma Force as a clandestine undercover agent—Wade was the product of impeccable training in every conceivable covert and combat situation imaginable. In every area of training, he excelled. But tonight wasn’t a training exercise.

Where are the documents and plates? Drakos asked. Start talking or my associate over there—he tilted his head to the left—Mr. Revere, will put a round in your kneecap.

Wade’s awareness came flooding back. These were professionals, he knew that now. They knew his name, ancestry, and what he was transporting. This was no random robbery.

What are you talking about … I’m— the hand reclaimed its position over Wade’s mouth and nose. He couldn’t see the other guy when he fired his weapon. The silencer worked in perfect harmony with the clattering air conditioner as the bullet entered Wade’s right leg, inches above the kneecap. Only a whisper of detectable sound must’ve escaped the room.

The pain was so intense it made Wade’s entire body shake. His eyes opened. He tried to refocus on the face doing the talking and holding the semiauto against his head.

Drakos again glanced to his left, nodding toward his partner as if to say, Well done. Wade was fully alert now, and noticed the man was wearing a tuxedo and a Mexican Lucha Libre mask.

Wade’s eyes drifted to the right, toward the bathroom, and could see in the dim light a stout man with a round face and shaved head, also dressed in formal attire and sporting a Zorro-style mask over his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

Wade processed the situation, registering everything and formulating a plan: he needed to separate these two, cause misdirection, distract them, take control, and do the unexpected.

His attention shifted back to the man whose knee was pressing full-bore on his chest. The foreboding eyes glared through the cutouts in his mask. Wade sensed the intruder’s thoughts, his gaze doing the talking. I dare you.

The heavy hand eased away, and the gun barrel shifted to the underside of Wade’s chin.

Wade conceded. I’ll cooperate. Everything you want is in there. He rolled his eyes and tilted his head toward the walk-in closet. It’s all in the briefcase and on the laptop, upper shelf, under the extra pillow.

The stout man disappeared into a wide but shallow closet across from the bathroom door. His partner watched in anticipation. Wade knew this was his opportunity.

He slipped his right hand out from under the sheets and grabbed the intruder’s right wrist, pushing it and the firearm away from his face, all the while torquing it outward and turning it inward. He then placed his other hand under his opponent’s elbow, forcing it upward, and simultaneously shifting his weight to his right side, and ramming his left leg into the assailant’s ribs.

As the attacker’s mass leaned to Wade’s right side, the gun discharged a single round, ripping through Drakos’ right bicep. The power-move flipped the big man’s body off Wade’s chest and the bed, hurling him head-first into the corner nightstand, breaking the lamp and rendering Drakos, for the moment, unconscious, and the room in near darkness.

Everything to Wade was now moving in slow motion. He had entered the combat zone, where thinking accelerated and movements decelerated. He held on to Drakos’ arm by the wrist and yanked it up and back, popping his lanky adversary’s shoulder out of joint and compelling him to drop the pistol on the bed. Wade snatched it up. Drakos remained motionless.

The heavyset man in the Mexican mask, aware of the commotion, flipped on the bathroom light. He crouched down on one knee and edged his way into the room with his firearm at the ready. He leveled the sight and fired two rounds, the first bullet shattering the lamp on the adjoining nightstand, missing Wade’s head by a few inches, and the second piercing his left shoulder, causing him to fall back on the bed. Blood now flowed from three open wounds.

Wade returned one round of fire, aware that he was slowly going into shock. Keep calm, he told himself. Stay in the here-and-now. Remember your training. He fought hard to remain coherent, but hallucinations took over as time and motion slowed.

Get up, Wade. Sergeant Noble, an apparition of his former drill instructor shouted at him. Focus, Marine. This is no time to rest. You’re in a battle for your life!

Wade mind drifted back to Special Forces training. The vision materialized in a dream-like state. Keep it together. Complete the action. Finish the fight!

Noble’s exhortations compelled his eyes, closed from pain, to reopen. He lifted his head just as the shadowy figure of the fat man slumped to the floor, blood pumping out the back of his head as he falls face-first into the carpet. His single shot had found its target.

Wade’s instinct pleaded with him to lie down. Enough, it screamed as his entire body trembled. But Sergeant Noble loomed again. Tobias Jackson Wade, you’ve had enough when I say you’ve had enough. Now get up. Enemy spotted on your right flank.

The spirit had a surreal yet calming effect on his psyche. The agony decanting from his body ebbed as endorphins poured into the bloodstream. His breathing relaxed.

Drakos had recovered and was beginning to stir. His eyes darted in every direction, and he crawled along the side of the bed, his right arm dangling, inoperative. Blood flowed from the wound administered by his own firearm. That gun, now in Wade’s possession, complicated his odds.

Wade noticed Revere lying prone on the carpet, his blood and brain matter splattered on the far wall, and his gun still clasped in his hand. And he spied Drakos reaching the body of his fallen associate and trying to wrest the weapon out of his hand.

Let go, Drakos screamed. But the death grip was too tight. He lifted the dead man’s hand off the rug and slammed it back down, twice, to no avail. He lay the hand down, palm up, and used his functioning left hand to hammer into Revere’s wrist. The blunt force opened the fingers and released the gun. He wrapped his hand around the stock and placed his index finger on the trigger.

His non-dominant hand trembled as he elevated it above the mattress. He locked in on his enemy, aiming the weapon when a fist pounded on the door from the hallway, a voice calling out, Security! Mr. Wade, are you alright?

Drakos turned his head towards the sound. That was his fatal mistake.

Seizing the moment, Wade fired another shot.

Chapter 2

Outside Washington, D.C.

Five years later

A black Escalade came to a violent stop, its tires sliding across a cobblestone driveway. The Caddy’s four doors swung open as four armed men exited the vehicle. All wore formal evening attire and donned red, white, and blue ski masks.

The lead assailant calmly walked to the front door and flashed hand signals at the camera above the entryway. A second man headed toward the back of the residence and triggered the security light as his form crossed the path of its electron beam. He held an Uzi in one hand, and he too flashed hand signs toward a mounted camera, a camera he knew would capture his every move. The rear service entrance illuminated.

The front-door assailant opened a black bag and pulled out a small pack of C-4 explosives. He placed the clay-like package between the door’s handle and the deadbolt lock. He pressed a detonation wire into the soft clay and rolled a wire line to the side of the house where his other two cohorts had taken shelter from the impending blast.

Inside the mansion, a family meal was well underway when the force of the explosion blew the entrance door into the foyer. The shockwave expelled splintered wood fragments and shards of glass throughout the reception area and into the formal living room, knocking a passing au pair to the floor, unconscious. The entire right side of her body is pock-marked with debris embedded into her flesh.

The uninvited guests stormed the house and fired their weapons in all directions. Their objective of inflicting total shock and awe working perfectly.

The blast interrupted Ambassador Marco Guzmán saying grace with his family at their dining room table and startled two female waitstaff serving the first course of the evening’s menu.

Guzmán rose from the massive table with hands raised, signaling everyone to stay calm. But his hands trembled, belying his composure.

A second detonation sounded, this time from the back of the home.

Guzmán’s wife, Rebecca, instructed the children and the servers to hide under the table. The rest of the kitchen staff scurried into the room, distress and terror written on their faces. A pantry chef, having caught the brunt of the blast, entered, bleeding from the impact of flying glass and wood.

The attacker at the back of the house entered through the blown-out storm door and made his way into the service area of the kitchen.

Rebecca motioned for the rest of her employees to join those already in hiding under the table.

Everything’s under control, Rebecca said. She was lying, and they knew it.

The gunman strolled into the dining room and stood over the table like a corrections officer, speaking in a calm but forceful manner. "Salí. Levántate. Vamonos."

Rebecca peered out from beneath the table, but all she noticed was the muzzle of his weapon as it swept back and forth, threatening every soul under the imagined safety of the table.

He shouted the order again, this time in English and with greater authority. Get out! Get up! Let’s go.

This time, they obeyed.

Meanwhile, Ambassador Guzmán approached the brewing tumult, and in his staccato-like boom, he shouted, What is the meaning of this?

The comeback he received stunned him.

Your life for your country.

The intruder’s answer seemed rhetorical. Guzmán appeared confused and bewildered by the statement and by the surreal violence before him. Debris and dust filled the room and cast an eerie, fog-like effect. Anna, his favorite domestic, lay on the floor, blood from her nose and ears pooling on the floor.

The only words he could muster were: Is all this necessary? Have you all gone mad? What is it you want?

A masked man, standing in the center of what moments before was an immaculate living room, answered, We want the items in your vault. Get them now. I won’t be asking again.

Guzmán could only guess which intruder made the statement. Their face masks covered everything except their eyes.

The ambassador changed his tone, and his new attitude commanded attention: Who are you, and who’s in charge here?

A hand went up. I am, the tallest of the intruders answered. I’m Benjamin Sherman and this man—he acknowledged the one standing to his immediate left—is Nicholas Starks.

Sir, Starks said, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m the one that blew your door to pieces, and I think I killed your maid. I am truly sorry about it. It’s unfortunate, but then again, she represents a difficult and unnecessary part of war. Now, do we have your attention? He gestures with a bow toward the body lying on the floor and pretended to pay his final respects. Hey, on the bright side, someone, somewhere will make her a martyr.

The man, who identified himself as Sherman, shook his head, chuckled at the statement, and then continued with the introductions. Oh, and the man by the stairway is Mr. Ryan Adams. And last, but by no way least, walking in now with your family and friends is Thomas Ellen.

Guzmán appeared dazed, dejected, utterly still but for his trembling hands. 

Mr. Ellen stayed with the staff as Mr. Adam’s escorted Guzmán’s wife and children in at gunpoint. Jessie, the youngest daughter, screamed when she saw the lifeless body on the floor in an ever widening pool of blood.

Shocked by her reaction, Rebecca reached out to quiet her. She, too, caught sight of Anna’s body, her eyes opened and fixed in a death stare. Anger welled up in her and she turned and slapped the man calling himself Mr. Adams. The swipe of her fingernails drew a few drops of blood from under his mask. Adams stumbled from the blow but responded with a quick and powerful backhand across Rebecca’s face, sending her sprawling across the floor. She came to rest a few feet from Anna’s body.

There’s no need for any further violence, the ambassador pleaded, rushing to his fallen wife. I’ll do whatever you ask.

Sherman raised his hand. "You’re an easy man to persuade, Mr. Guzmán. And, if I’m not mistaken, that’s the trait that got you and your el presidente into trouble. Now, I don’t mean to rush you, Mr. Ambassador, but time is of the essence. I’ll give you thirty seconds to open the safe. The one you hid behind that beautiful painting by Claude Monet, with all those red poppies. Do it now and hand over its contents, or Mr. Ellen will start executing your helpers, one by one. We do mean business. You now have fifteen seconds and counting."

Guzmán patted his wife’s shoulder, telling her everything would be alright. He gathered himself and crossed toward the painting. The assailant’s callousness worried him, but, gradually, his natural masculine comportment steals over him, and he stopped short, squared his shoulders, and steadied his hands.

Why should I comply? You have no intentions of letting us go, do you? If you did, why would you tell me your names? Our surveillance unit is recording your every move, and the system is located off-site, so leave now, and you’ll at least have a fifty-fifty chance of evading arrest. I’ll let you go, and I will offer only vague answers to the authority’s questions. My family and servants will say nothing. I give my word.

Ah . . . the words of a traitor, Sherman said, checking the time. The lies of a man willing to betray his country. Your promises mean nothing to me, Mr. Guzmán. He pointed at Mr. Ellen and gave a simple flick of his gloved hand. The gunshot made a sickening sound. Another member of his house staff fell, in silence.

Still ready to let us go?

Guzmán dropped to his knees and turned his head away.

Whatever it is you want, take it, he cried out. There is nothing of real value in the safe. Nothing worth the lives of two innocent people. Tears formed and rolled down his cheeks.

Then you should have opened it without hesitation, Sherman said. You have no one to blame but yourself. Open it now.

Although weak in his knees, Guzmán was able to stagger to his feet. His right hand was trembling so badly, he needed to steady it with his left. From a bookcase on the wall, he removed a first-edition copy of Frankenstein, revealing a concealed switch behind it. He toggles it, and the framed art moves away from the wall, exposing an embedded flat black metal safe, with a knob in its center. He spun the dial to the right, then back to the left, then right again. After raising a small lever, the door swung open.

Starks strolled over to the wall, the duffel used to carry the weapons in his hand. He pushed the ambassador away. Guzmán stumbled back toward his wife. Starks opened the duffel that contained their weapons and explosives, removed items from the safe, and dropped them one by one into the bag. Sherman asked Adams for the time. Four minutes, he replied.

Gentlemen, it’s time to go, Sherman said, and I’m sorry, Mr. Guzmán, but the time has come for you to answer for your treason.

After completing the objectives of the mission, the henchmen returned to the SUV and filed back in with the same dispassion and swiftness as when they’d arrived. Starks studied his watch. We’re running two and a half minutes late. Let’s go.

Sherman took the wheel, pulled out from under the carport’s breezeway, and followed the circular drive back to the main highway. The rear tires squealed as he tore away from the estate, making a hard right onto Reservoir Road.

A silent alarm, triggered within the Ambassador’s home, alerted the Prescott Home Protection Services of an impending security breach. The alarm triggered an automatic flashing red-light signal on the security company’s console. A company employee cued up the images and called for a manager as soon as he realized an actual crime is in progress. The supervisor then notified the local authorities of an armed robbery taking place.

Several squad cars reacted in response and raced toward the ambassador’s home. As the first cruisers arrived, they noticed a black SUV, speeding and traveling northbound and apprise headquarters of the vehicle. Another officer, making his way toward the scene, spotted the suspects as they flew past him in the opposite direction. He alerted dispatch of his intent to stop and detain and requested backup before executing a U-turn. The chase was on.

They’re following us, Adams said, seated in the rear of the Escalade and monitoring their escape. They’re gaining on us, about a quarter-mile back. What should we do?

Sherman doused the headlights and turned left onto the closed Barton Bridge and stopped. Now’s not the time to panic, gentlemen.

But as he spoke, Starks exited the vehicle, duffel in hand, and tossed the bag over the railing. Sherman slammed his fist on the dashboard, and, as soon as Starks reentered the back seat, barked at him: What’s wrong with you? Why’d you do that?

Starks’s straightforwardly replied, We can’t allow it to fall back into our enemies’ hands.

And if we’re caught, Ellen said with a nod, this evening will have been a waste of time. We’d all be hauled in.

After a short drive to the other end of the bridge, Ellen, too, got out of the car, and poured a five-gallon can of oil across the entire roadway.

Chapter 3

T.J. spent many nights staring into the drawn faces of the people he considered to be his tribe. They were his family, an unpredictable and motley crew for sure, but trustworthy and loyal. They were all he had left in this world, and they were all in the same situation—homeless.

This branch of unrelated relatives knew him only by his initials. People living on the street didn’t hand out their Christian names to strangers.

November was coming to an end, and due to unseasonably mild weather so far, most of the residents were still in camp. But this night, a cold wind had begun to blow from the north, and they had gathered in a place they called the kitchen to protect themselves from the chill. The area was constructed of rocks and gravel piled high and encompassed most of their daytime quarters.

One forty-gallon drum was cut in half, and each section was used for cooking, heating, cleaning, and storing. The other drum, the kitchen’s centerpiece, was their conversation pit, incinerator, and heater. Stumps of wood and discarded lawn chairs augmented the eclectic furnishings. A few railroad ties lay inside the perimeter for added luxury, which they used as boundary markers and the occasional bench.

This was their special place, a place to gather in a family circle, to tell tall tales of the day’s activities, to laugh, gossip, cry, and share in the warmth emanating from the burning wood and trash in their makeshift hearth.

Occasionally, someone rehashed oft-told sagas of woe and wrongdoing perpetrated against them by some mysterious government entity or nefarious parties unknown—they hold their resentments dearly, but no such story sprang forth on this particular night.

On this night, the chilled air made them reticent. They huddled together in their crude kitchenette, assembled on a raised sandbar about ten yards wide and three times as long under the shadow of a condemned Barton Bridge.

A flat concrete surface, running the entire width of the roadway, about six feet wide, lay four feet beneath and abutted the underbelly. This was where they lay their heads, their bunk, a bedroom without walls accented with a dirt floor and cement ceiling.

Buttonbush and black willow shrubs surrounded the campsite, and above their heads, a variety of oak and sycamores graced the landscape. An invasive vine called a porcelain berry snaked across the bridge’s piers and climbed its trestles. The residents considered themselves blessed to live among such natural beauty.

This encampment, located off Highway 495 and near the Clara Barton Parkway, in Bethesda, Maryland, was home. The roof of their home was the primary access route used by the Hillcrest community’s wealthy homeowners. Each workday, the residents traveled back and forth from their luxury homes to their comfortable city jobs. That evening, commuters were using the new Clifton Bridge, named after the local politician Thaddeus Clifton. The sleek aluminum extension bridge, glowing in the hues of the setting sun, was now the new principal artery.

Constructed in 1938, the old Barton Bridge was once elegant, with its rainbow design, airiness, and beautiful iron latticework that afforded commuters with gorgeous views of the river. The intervening years, however, had deteriorated the structure. Its iron had rusted, weakening the supports and shortening its lifespan. A once busy thoroughfare, it had recently been closed to traffic and was now scheduled for demolition. 

With winter coming and the rainy season well overdue, the remaining inhabitants knew they would have to break camp and head out in their separate ways. Most opted to go southeast toward Florida or the Carolinas, but a few would stay, seeking abandoned buildings to hibernate for the long winter.

It was November 29th, a Friday evening on the outskirts of the nation’s capital, and T.J.’s band of brothers huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, not allowing a single thermal wave to leak out from their enclosure. Their bellies stuffed full of turkey and side dishes freely given and freely taken from a local VFW hall, a Thanksgiving meal T.J. had scored for them the previous night. But now they were holding their outstretched hands above a fire in an industrial drum, trying to buffer their raw hands against the cold.

T.J.’s mind wandered off, as he gazed across the billowing smoke and into the lonesome faces staring back, questioning why he lived in such poverty. He need not be here, yet he found solace in this company. Each person appeared to be rooted in thought, transported to a place only they knew.

Don’t you guys think people with disabilities, people with a darker shade of skin, people of a different race or class, or sexual orientation, should be considered protected classes? T.J. asked. Society has no place for discrimination, yet why do those same people that advocate for unity among all forget that credo when it comes to us? 

No one moved or said a word. Why do the liberal thinkers of the far left turn a blind eye to us? What are we . . . invisible? Still, no one responded.

A loud popping sound went off, interrupting the thoughtful silence, followed by embers leaping out from the barrel. The unexpected noise startled everyone and laughter soon erupted before the same reflective silence settled over the gathering.

The only rights we have are to remain silent and stay out of sight. We are the black sheep of humanity, doing our best to comply with their wishes by living and hiding like ghosts, under the belly of the Barton Bridge. T.J. raised a fist toward the heavens. Here we are, right under your lofty noses. The great spirit sees us. Why don’t you?

Applause and laughter filled the cloudless sky. T.J. laughed too. Soon, it fell silent again, except for the sounds carried on the wind across the river’s banks from the crackling wood.

The bridge hadn’t always been home to those living there. People weren’t born there. Take TNT, for instance. He got that moniker because of his significant anger issues, and since no one used their real names around here anyway, TNT fit the bill. Not too far in the past, he was the manager of a fine-dining establishment, but now he was eating out of garbage cans. For him, life had done a complete about-face.

There was Ajax, a short man with a vulgar vocabulary, who never lived a typical life. He entered this world thirty-five years ago, the first child of an abusive family. His father would beat him and wash his mouth