o one knew the names of the operatives. They were known only as to their operative designation. The first had been named App-0001a. His true name had never been known until it was learned in the newspaper article reporting the death and the mystery in which it was shrouded. In his scrapbook, William had saved and taped the newspaper clipping and had written on it in red, App-0001a.
That was dangerous enough. Were he to be suspected as the head of the origination, he could be tried for treason and probably executed. But, all he was doing was his duty as a Patriot to the Country and her Constitution One who had vowed to protect the US from all enemies, foreign or domestic. He would honor that oath to the last breath in his body. He would maintain the honor and responsibility as an American citizen to our founding fathers.
Although he had no way of knowing it, his organization was not the only underground 'militia,' as the government termed it. Anything that did not line up to their way of doing things was considered subversive and had to be rooted out and destroyed. But, that was because the government had gone rogue and were now working desperately to rid the country of the Constitution as well as the Patriots who defended it.
But the Constitution was written by our forefathers with the intention of keeping the government in check, and had delivered the ultimate solution of keeping that government in check through "We The People." The teeth of We The People were her arms. Those rights were given by God and guaranteed by the Constitution. This caused the same patriotic feelings and flow of fiery blood to flow in We The People of the twentieth century the same as it did in the seventeenth century.
Freedom was the fire that stirred the blood and fueled the flames of discontent and downright disgust of We The People against the current government. The corrupt, money scavenging, laden with fraud and despicable and open debauchery, the deliberate spending of a million dollars at a whack with presidential vacations and trips to foreign countries making deals to subvert the sovereignty of the United States of America was way overdue to be stopped via whatever means necessary.
That was the whole of the collective mission of the Patriotic Gentleman's Club. Although he could not determine just how much had been accomplished in the attacks of which he had been a part, William knew they had successfully completed eleven missions within just a few days of their start. And the current sitting president wanna be was scrambling to keep abreast of what was going on.
William knew the governmental agencies were painfully aware that an internal attack by "rogue militias" was definitely in progress; they just didn't know the source of it, and, it was very plain to see that they had few leads. But there were many more crooked people, thieves, foxes guarding the chicken house which needed to be taken out. He contemplated on whether or not to run up a huge operation where many would be removed in the same day.
But an operation of this sort would take years. They didn't have years. They didn't have months. Heck, they didn't even have weeks. What was to be done had to be done NOW. So, for the time being, he would stay with the operations which he had the means to accomplish without too much over-extension. To draw attention to ones self was more than just risky; It was deadly.
Not only was his own neck on the line, but the necks of the Four were as well. So were all the ones who had accomplished their missions successfully. To date, only three of the recruited operatives had died via connections to their mission, but all had succeeded in completing the mission. He had since changed some of the strategy in recruiting which kept the investigation at arms length.
The three that had died had been fingered by standers-by of the scene where they had merely been observed. No one had witnessed the hits, and so no hard evidence could be used to make an arrest. But, those recruits who had died had all been murdered by hands of thugs sent in for just that.
So far, the Four had uncovered three outside factions which had been brought into existence by the current POTUS for strikes AGAINST We The People. They were :
All of whom were unknown by the populace.
He resolved to protect his men as much as possible, but he was needing an ally. He deliberated on whether or not to approach his close and longtime friend, General Sherman Randolph in which to confide, gain insight and to perhaps draw on his knowledge in order to more successfully carry out his missions. He contemplated making the connection, but decided he would 'happen' to run into him on one of his forays to the theater.
And now, here it was two nights before the hit on Rumsfeld would be carried out, and he sat in his study listening to a recording of a hit that was carried out two nights ago. It was on this recording that he heard a voice he recognized, and it was none other than General Randolph. The very same man about whom he was deliberating.
General Randolph had his own axe to grind. He had been fired from his position in the US Army as one of the leading Generals, and lost not only his position, but his honor, his reputation and his retirement. Part of the military purge Obama was undertaking by simply asking if they would fire on their own countrymen. He was close in proximity to the hit of that night, and had attempted to revive the man who lay on the floor with fixed eyes open. He had watched as the mans eyes glazed over in death.
There was something oddly familiar in the way this man had died. He decided to stay around for questioning by the police. He just didn't want to mention anything he had observed concerning the familiarity of the manner in which the man on the floor had died. But he suspected a connection with an old time friend. Too, he wanted to learn what he could from the Police and hopefully his old time friend, Chief of Police would be there.
His mind was clouded by a term which seemed to scream out from the manner in which this man died. Although he had seen many, many deaths during his tenure as a soldier, he never quite got used to it. Many times he would find himself going over a death, to try to justify the death, or, justify the right to live of the one who had died.
This one was no different. He knew the man quite well, but had a staunch dislike of him in that he knew he was dirty and had profited quite well from it. But this death seemed vaguely familiar, and there seemed to be an underlying thread of familiarity with a number of the deaths which were taking out many in the fraudulent government.
But there was a name connected with what he was thinking, and he knew the man very well, and had known him most of his life. The man of which he was thinking was a Patriot of highest integrity, one who could be depended on, one who would gladly lay down his life for his country. That man was none other than William Travis.
William was on the same wavelength as General Randolph. He knew that a meeting was forthcoming, and that very shortly. He hoped it would be the same feeling of camaraderie between them they had enjoyed all their lives.
Randal had come into the clubhouse and was in kind of a daze. William was on the phone talking to a friend who wanted to come over immediately, and William closed by saying he would be waiting for him. As he hung up, he noticed Randal. He didn't really look well. He sauntered over to him and felt the tremble in his arm as he shook his hand.
"Hey Randal, you feeling OK?" He asked knowing the answer even before he asked.
"Yeah, just a little shaky is all. I'm weak, and not my old self every time I finish one of these rounds of chemo. Since I have a special appointment tomorrow afternoon, I now wish I'd held off the treatment until I was finished. I'll be OK by tomorrow."
They talked most of the afternoon and close to five, William said "Randal, I have no doubts or qualms about your ability to carry out your mission with complete success, but if somewhere there is a problem that crops up which has not been accounted for, and you are availed of your wish to go on to be with your wife, I wish you Godspeed."
He paused for a second while his emotions attempted to break through to the surface, then continued on after he had regained his composure. "It has been a real honor to have known you and experienced your friendship. I wish only the deepest blessings for you."
At that he held out his hand, shook it firmly, turned and walked out of the clubhouse to meet another old friend. He had no way of knowing that was the last time he would speak with Randal. Randal was ticking the hours down to when he would meet the Grim Reaper, and that he had less than twenty four hours to live.
Randal had walked the half mile to the clubhouse attempting to clear his mind. He had no idea why his mind was so muddied, why he couldn't get certain details out of his head. He had visually witnessed several of the missions carried out first hand and knew the drill. But there was something which he seemed to have missed in the details of this particular mission. He wouldn't find that out until it was too late, and only when he was drawing his last breath would he realize what it was. He was still in question as to the details as he walked home.
The next day, the meeting took place as usual. Randal was seated only a booth away from the mark, and the mark had his back to him. But a problem would arise if someone were seated in the booth separating him and his mark. What to do? He had only seconds to decide what to do because the tray was coming with his food. On that tray was the weapon.
When the waiter approached his table he stood up from the booth and seated himself in the booth directly behind his mark. "There is some sticky stuff on the seat in that booth" he explained as the tray was placed in front of him. The news was playing on a TV mounted on the wall above the door to his left. He casually looked around to see what the commotion was on the screen but then his eye caught two guys checking him. He turned his attention back to his food.
He studied the men, their faces heavy with day old beard of black course hair typical of Russians. They sat in the booth just to the right of the door. And they were watching him. Closely. Too closely. He knew then that the mark was a set up in an attempt to catch who was killing off all these government dogs. He also knew it was out and out suicide to attempt the hit. He decided to make the hit anyway, and quickly wolfed down his burger, took a long pull from the drink he'd ordered, dropped a ten spot on the table and stood up.
He had the straw ready to hand as he passed the mark seated to his right, he quickly feigned blowing his nose with handkerchief to hide the shaft and blew into it, the flechette, squarely hitting the mark in the neck. The mark jumped and yelled "hey, what the heck you doin' man?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I do something?" Then turned and stepped toward the man who replied with "no problem." But the two Russians were not fooled, and were intent on catching his every move. Randal leaned close to the mark and said lowly "by the way, you've been injected with pig blood." The guy lunged at him but Randal was already heading to the door. The two men quickly arose and followed him outside.
One of them yelled at Randal "hey, we want to talk to you! Stop where you are!"
Randal turned around without stopping and asked "you a cop? CIA? FBI? or KJB? Show me your badge if you have one, if not, leave me alone!" and turned back around and increased his speed down the sidewalk to his vehicle. If he could make his car, he'd have a much better chance. He wished he hadn't parked so far away now. He considered turning and presenting his .45 at the men, but decided against it.
He heard the footsteps of men running, and took off in a dead run himself. Just before he reached the opening between his car and the next, he heard the muffled shot of a pistol, and felt something go deep into his back. It knocked him sideways a little just enough to allow the next one to miss his spine, but it cut deeply through his throat, ripping out the arteries on the right side of his neck.
Two shots had hit him in the space of a few milliseconds, and he fell heavily to the ground. But what little bit of strength he'd regained in his body after the last session of chemo now quickly drained out through the blood which gushed out of the huge gash cut by the bullet to the neck. His last thought was recollection of what he had been trying to bring to the surface for the last two days.
The name of the mark was the name listed as the Dr. that had attended Miriam, his wife. She had died quite suddenly of what was listed as a heart attack. She'd never had a complaint prior to this with her heart, and she was only in the hospital for a simple out patient gall bladder removal. How had she suffered a heart attack?
The full realization hit Randal as he made the connection. She had been quite vocal in a rally against the Common Core curriculum recently undertaken by the school system at the insistence of the US Government and the current POTUS. A phone call that afternoon warned her that she would be "strung up" if she didn't lay off the Common Core issue. Hers was a fiery temperament, and her auburn colored hair being close enough to red, seemed to glow when she was angered.
She wouldn't back down, and the caller had hung up. Two days later Randal was waiting for Miriam to come out of surgery when a nurse came out hurriedly and asked him to come in. When he saw her, he knew. And the grief which had overtaken him had kept him from making the connection between the phone call and her death until this very moment. She had been murdered in the hospital, perhaps with the very poison with which he'd just inserted into his mark, by her doctor.
Randal died there without being able to tell anyone to look at Miriam's notes. He himself had only learned about the phone call a couple of days prior to his mission. Now, he thought, it is too late.
But his mission was certainly not completely unsuccessful. His mark had died within minutes of Randal's own death. Another success for the Patriot Gentleman's Club.
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