CHAPTER 1

 

7:35 p.m., Tuesday, December 17, Stedman Farm, just west of Poplar Bluff, Missouri

 

Tommy Rutledge stepped out of the barn and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He tapped out a smoke and raised it to his lips. His other hand went for the lighter. It was a practiced movement, one repeated many thousands of times already in his life. When did it start? He remembered: thirteen years old, the woods a half mile from school. They had skipped Ms. Cutler’s English class. Troy Keller had offered it. Troy was cool, and that was mostly what mattered. The first one made him feel sick, but he held it in, desperate not to lose his lunch in front of his new friends. It became a regular thing, their little smoke break. That’s when it started. And that’s when he began to feel like he fit in somewhere.

Now, he felt that way again, even more so. He understood these people, and they understood him. They were family. No, that wasn’t quite right. They were more than that. There was a shared purpose, shared beliefs. They understood what had gone wrong in America, the forces that sought to take away the rights of her citizens, rights guaranteed in the Constitution. They saw how foreign interests now pulled the strings in Washington, and how our so-called leaders had ceded control to the New World Order. Most importantly, they knew how to take those rights back, how to take America back, how to make this country great again. He smiled at the thought, happy to have found this purpose in life. He knew his calling now. He was a patriot.

Rutledge dropped his cigarette to the gravel and snuffed it out with his boot. He found himself reaching for another but thought better of it. He needed to get back inside. The meeting was in full swing and he was expected to be there. As Sergeant-at-Arms he was charged with keeping order, a sometimes challenging job. Ironically, his duties included keeping people from wandering outside while they were in session. He wasn’t sure why, but that had been made very clear to him. Nobody leaves. Rutledge checked his sidearm and prepared to go back in, pausing to take one last look at the vast expanse of the Mark Twain National Forest that spread across the northern horizon. It was near total darkness. There were no lights except those from the few distant houses in this remote section of Butler County. He sucked in a lungful of the fresh, forest air and turned toward the door. It was then that he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye: headlights, where none should be.

Rutledge tensed up; his hand drifted to his weapon. There was no reason for a vehicle to be in that part of the forest. It was heavily wooded, impenetrable, save for one little-known route in. He could tell this was no ATV. It was a full-size vehicle, a truck or SUV, almost certainly four-wheel drive. He estimated the distance at a quarter mile off, near a small clearing not far from the county line. Then, just as it slowed to a halt, another set of headlights flashed quickly and went out, like a signal. Rutledge wondered if he should alert the other members of the militia. They all knew that someday the feds would come for them. Was this it, was it finally happening? Maybe he was being paranoid. It was probably just hunters meeting up at the end of the day. Still, it was pretty late for that. He decided to do some quick reconnaissance before alarming anyone.

The trick was to see without being seen. Finding his way in the woods without any night vision equipment would be difficult. Rutledge had a flashlight but couldn’t risk using it. Fortunately, he had become quite familiar with the terrain, both while hunting and through the militia’s defense maneuvers. As a group, they were more than ready to repel the invaders when they came. The farm had a secure perimeter. In fact, much of it was booby-trapped. But Rutledge was sure he could avoid all of that, even in the dark. He started to move toward where he had last seen headlights. There was a narrow footpath that started at the farm’s edge and went north. He followed that for a while before veering into the trees to cover his approach. A recent snow had melted, uncovering a muddy forest floor littered with branches and leaves. It was difficult, slippery footing. But that was the least of his concerns. It was that chance snap of a twig that made his pulse pound. Rutledge had to assume that these people were on high alert. The slightest sound could give him away. He moved slowly, trying his best to avoid making any noise as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

As he approached the clearing, Rutledge could hear voices. The conversation was limited, hushed. It seemed purposeful, but why? He drew close to the tree line and stopped. Two pickup trucks were parked side by side. Both had caps covering their rear beds. The cap door and tailgate were open on the vehicle nearest to him. He could see what appeared to be a large wooden crate inside, and another on the ground just behind it. Three men, all in dark clothing, stood behind the trucks. They seemed to be engaged in some sort of negotiation. Rutledge couldn’t make out what they were saying. He strained to listen. It sounded almost like…

Rutledge sensed the presence behind him, but too late. The hand yanked his head back as the blade slashed across his throat. He slumped to the ground, clutching, gurgling, as the world turned black.