The Sons of Liberty Read online

think how life would be today if they never became the power they are today. I would be happily married, two kids, a big…FOCUS! I yelled at myself.

  I must concentrate on the task at hand. It was only twenty minutes or so until we hit the fork in the path that would act as our getaway trail through this massive Sahara desert. Thanks to the map left behind in the Tiger by the duo of Russian soldiers we raided last night, Paul and I found out ‘we’ are supposed to escort Sergei Federov to an unknown location in the Sahara desert. Five other desert camouflaged Tigers, beside ourselves, accompany Federov. There are three in front and three behind the Russian, all traveling in a straight line. Luckily, we were right behind the black Mercedes that transported ole’ Sergei.

  It was like winning the lottery. As soon as Paul and I fled the States for while—due to our previous accomplishments and victories over The Army, which attracted much unwanted attention—we stumbled across two Soviet soldiers and a Tiger who ultimately put us in this situation.

  I wonder if anybody else is having this much success? Is anybody even trying? I have my motivation…

  “Show time,” Paul declared.

  Getting away safely is my main concern now, as I began crawling to the back of the truck. Undoubtedly, the two vehicles behind us will follow and try to catch us.

  Paul turned around, looking at me with anxious eyes, to inform me, “about two more minutes.” His short brown bangs were drenched in sweat and he was breathing heavy.

  It’s getting to him. He’s always the driver and I’m the shooter; never a real opportunity to stare death in the face.

  Subconsciously, I run my hand through my short, thick, black hair, and notice I’m not sweating at all. This will change soon, either from the extreme heat, or the spontaneous combustion of anxiety, pain, fear, anger, or any other emotion my brain may produce within the next two minutes.

  I slowly move to the back of the Tiger and stand under the roof’s hatch. Wrapping my fingers around the latch, I continue to stare out the small side windows the Tiger has to offer. The intimidating rock structures and massive sand dunes are always a surprisingly beautiful sight for those who have yet to see it. Most people just think, “Ugh, unbearable heat.” The scorching sun only makes it that more stunning. It’s hard to believe we’re traveling on flat surface while watching this impressive landscape pass.

  “How much longer?” I asked.

  “We got about one minute, I think.”

  This annoys me.

  Nobody can give you a straight yes or no anymore. It’s always: “Definitely, I think” or, my favorite, “Yes, of course…Most likely.”

  I put my black and olive desert scarf around my neck, and debate with myself whether I should change out of this repulsive uniform. My original Cammie’s are right next to me and it shouldn’t take long. Knowing I only have less than a minute now, I shrug the idea out of my head. I settle for taking the top off, throwing on my tank top and favorite plain black ball cap on.

  Paul is still wearing his embarrassingly anxious face when he turns around to look at me.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  I slide the scarf over my mouth, then my nose, and continue to glare at him.

  He nods, faces forward, and mumbles, “Let’s do this.”

  2. Capture

  Paul slams the pedal to the floor and the Tiger’s engine roars in response. My weight shifts uncomfortably as Paul pulls out of the line and begins our approach to the left of the Mercedes.

  I yank the latch and throw the door open. In one fluid motion I stand through the small hole, grab one of the Tiger’s mounted machine guns—luckily these Tigers have two heavy machine guns, one facing North and the other South—and spin it so the eye of the barrel is staring at Federov’s horrified face.

  I punch the trigger.

  The flash and vibrations make the target almost invisible. The sound of the car being thrashed to bits is drowned out by the gun’s mechanics as they continue to work efficiently. It couldn’t have been more than five seconds before chunks of Mercedes Benz flew in every direction. There was a loud ‘bang’ and the core of the car was launched into the air. The heat of the explosion was satisfying—like watching fireworks on the 4th.

  Paul took the sharp turn onto the left half of the forked path, and I immediately turn around, grabbing the gun facing our six and begin shooting one of the two Tigers managing to follow Paul’s insane driving. I must have hit the driver. The out-of-control car hit the rock structure, which we just barely missed, with a deafening crash.

  I laugh at the gunner who flew from the open hatch on the roof. His body resembles a rag-doll as it compressed into flat matter against the rock’s wall.

  I can’t breathe I’m laughing so hard. It looked funny.

  Tears begin rolling down the side of my face as I’m trying to shoot at Tiger number two.

  I only got a good two seconds worth of firing before the gun jams.

  What the hell?

  Damn engineers get paid by the truckload to make working equipment. You would think their products were, at the very least, fully functioning—that they’d put some pride into what they do, but no. These Russian bastards decided to half-ass, and ultimately get me stuck in a pickle. I swear…

  The gunnie’s bullet grazed my arm and I fall back through the hole and close the hatch. I can’t feel my arm, but at least I know it’s still there. I don’t want to look at it because if I do, I will begin to feel it, and it’ll hurt like hell.

  I grab my M4 carbine assault rifle, barely peek through the back door, and begin shooting back. The windshield was holding up against my 5.56mm shots. The idiot of a passenger had his whole upper body out the window firing at me with a pistol. His chest is screaming: ‘Shoot me you pansy!”

  So I did.

  Several bullets ripped through the passenger’s torso. Half of his limp body hangs out the window while his legs dangle inside the truck. Another commie appeared from the back, and pushed the rest of his comrade’s body out the window. Paul and I only had to take out two soldiers to claim this Tiger. So why the hell does the one following us carry more?

  Paul must have hit a nasty bump in the trail. We were suspended in the air for an eternal second. The landing was uglier. Once the Tiger got all four wheels down, the back doors broke off as if they were pasted on the truck with Elmer’s glue.

  Paul hit the gas, and I flew out the back.

  I landed on the back of my head and shoulders. The opposing vehicle dodged me to further pursue Paul. Why the hell would they dodge me? They both rounded a corner, around a sand dune, and I lost sight. I started in a dead sprint to follow, but someone stopped me…about twenty ‘someones.’ Their frantic scurrying over the sand dune to my left and incoherent shouting was drowned out by my horror: a pair of soldiers carrying a javelin anti-tank missile launcher, aiming at the area of where Paul and his Tiger disappeared.

  No.

  I change directions and begin sprinting toward the javelin, but I was too late.

  The small warhead shot out from the sudden cloud of exhaust.

  No, No, NO!

  My gaze followed the warhead. It seemed forever before the missile came back down and vanished behind the sand dune. A loud explosion followed soon after.

  He can’t be dead. Just can’t.

  I stood, unable to move, and the twenty or so foot soldiers surrounded me screaming in German. German?

  One slowly advanced to apprehend me, and the others followed suit. When the one German grabbed my injured arm, instant anger flashed through me.

  I thrust the heel of my palm into his nose, creating a pleasant crunching of bone. I grabbed the right arm of the next closest victim and punch his throat as hard as I can. My rage was then drowned out by utter pain as the butt of a rifle struck the back of my head. I fall to my knees and immediately spring back up and tackle the douche bag directly in front of me. I hammer my forehead down on his nose and hear the familiar crunch and smell that awful stench again
. I quickly elbow the soldier who tried to jump on my back and follow up with a kick to the face. As I try to gather my footing I see through my peripheral, another attempting a tackle. The moron had his head down, so when he got close I brought my knee up and it met his face. I gave him a quick one-two to the face and he fell.

  All the soldiers around me started stepping back. They kept me in the middle of the circle and watched closely for my next strike. I hate taking a break in the middle of a workout because now I feel the fatigue creeping up. The sand was sticking to my sweaty face which made for an uncomfortable situation altogether. “What’s the matter?!” a voice called out. The mob cleared a way for this soldier walking toward me. The cocky moron stopped two feet in front of me.

  “Stubbornness, pride…retardation,” the big soldier started saying out loud with a heavy Russian accent and the mob started laughing. “Is this all they taught you in America?” he asked and the mob laughed some more. “What else did they teach you American boy?” he said with an angry tone. “They teach you it’s ok to have sex with siblings?” Again, the crowd laughed. I kept my head down as he kept circling me. I turn with him to make sure he never walks behind me. “They teach you to…”

  I quickly jabbed my fist into his throat and followed him to the ground. I grasped his neck and squeezed in an attempt to rip it out. I felt a hundred hands beginning to pull me off of him.

  “You talk too much,” I hissed in his face. Then I felt a rifle