True Allegiance

Bubba walked over to the windows at the back of his office, looked out at the hot Austin noon, the heat baking the grass beneath. The protesters screaming, sweating. He couldn’t hear them, but he could see their mouths work, screaming at him to do something.

“Got any other options?” Bubba finally said.

Ellen went silent.

“Then it’s settled. Draft me a statement. I’m gonna put these bastards on warning.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. They won’t do shit. I know a coward when I see one, and Prescott’s yellower than dehydrated dog piss.”

“What if you’re wrong, Bubba?” Ellen asked. “Are you ready for war with your own government?”

Bubba looked at her. Then his eyes seemed to focus far off. “They’ve been at war with us for a long time. I know. I went to war for them. I’ve been abandoned by my government once. I’m not going to be the one doing the abandoning this time.”

Soledad

Central Valley, California

THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR came at nearly two o’clock in the morning.

It didn’t wake Soledad—she barely slept these days, given the small city of SWAT team and surrounding militia members that had built up in two concentric circles around her home. It was tough to get exercise on the ranch now that she risked arrest if she strayed too far from her front door. Some of the militia members—now they called themselves Soledad’s Soldiers—rode their motorcycles down the slight incline, kicking up dust in their wake, every few days and brought her groceries; one of them made sure that each time SWAT cut off her electricity, her generator got fixed.

But she’d basically been under house arrest for weeks, and she was damn sick of it. Too much time in one place made her anxious. Even the occasional big media spread didn’t seem to lift her too much anymore—she felt like the whole game was rigged. She was either hero or villain. She was always the story. Never Emilio and Juan. It was always Chris Matthews on the nightly news calling her a traitor or Michael Savage calling her a freedom fighter. It was always one or the other.

And it just didn’t mean a damn thing. The state government went right back in and created an emergency dike to stop the river from flowing. Her farm went dry. The only difference between before and after the bombing was the military encampment around her house.

It just sat there.

Every day, the militia dwindled. Every day, a few more of the bikers peeled off, took their rifles and skedaddled. You couldn’t expect them to stay indefinitely, after all. They had lives, families. And as the media attention waned, as the standoff lasted, more and more of them had to leave.

But SWAT remained.

Then, over the past two or three days, SWAT began to grow. She noticed a few more Humvees show up. Then some choppers. Their incessant flyovers kept her up at night, even when she was lucky enough to fall asleep.

But she was awake now. The knock startled her anyway. She had always figured that when the invasion came, it wouldn’t come with a warning “shave and a haircut, two bits” thump on the door, but with a small battering ram through the door.

She opened it. A SWAT officer stood there, his gun down by his side. When she opened the screen door, he sidled in without permission, holding his right arm out, palm facing her, signaling for her to keep quiet. He shut the door stealthily behind him. Then, noticing her eyes fixed on his weapon, he placed it gently on the dining room table.

When he took off his helmet, she noticed his bright blue eyes. They stood out more because they were red-rimmed, whether from lack of sleep or from crying, she couldn’t tell. The man stood no more than five foot ten, well built, Caucasian. A thatch of mussed brown hair stood nearly on end. He moved forward quickly and grabbed her by the arm. She could feel his powerful grip through her thick robe.

“You need to get out of here,” he growled. “Now.”

She pushed his hand off her arm, stood up to her full five two. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said defiantly. “I know my rights.”

“I don’t think you’re getting this, Miss Ramirez,” he said. “They’re coming for you. Tonight.”

She felt the wave of nausea hit her so hard she almost stumbled. The possibility of this going bad had always lurked at the back of her mind. She steeled herself for it every day. But she always figured she would have warning.

Well, she thought to herself, you do have warning at that.

She looked at the SWAT member, puzzled. “Why are you helping me? My cookies can’t be that good.”

He laughed softly. “Maybe they are.” A pause. “Or maybe I’m just sick of watching people get pushed around. Whatever it is, you need to get out of here tonight.”

She gestured helplessly at her surroundings. “I’m a rancher. I’m not a paramilitary leader, no matter what Time says. Where am I supposed to go?”

“Won’t matter when they come for you in the morning. Do you have a back door to this place?”

She nodded.

“Go get a suitcase ready.”

“What’s your name?”

“Aiden. Aiden Foster.”