Read Online The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution by Michael Ivan Lowell - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Ivan Lowell
Tags: Superheroes
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this massacre or die
trying.
Fragments of gravel sprayed him.
The artillery impacts ripped into the street. It was just another moment...
CHAPTER
10
A board
Apache One, Night Hawk targeted the red star on Revolution's chest as his
wingmen strafed the street, hoping to scare him off. No dice. Night Hawk’s guns
locked on. He prepared to fire. Just as his finger squeezed the trigger, a
crackle in his headset. Night Hawk's eyes lit up. There was no mistaking the
voice in his ear, and as Night Hawk replied, his tone was absolute.
“Yes, sir, I understand.” He
leaned into the com and shot a firm directive into the static. “Cease fire.
Return to base.”
The diving birds split and forked off above the
Revolution. They zoomed past him on either side. The frightened crowd cowered
behind him.
As fast as they had attacked, the rat-a-tat-tat of their propellers echoed away, leaving only an eerie silence. Revolution lowered
his eyes to the street. Bodies and body parts were scattered in a sea of red
gore.
Too many dead to count.
Revolution wandered into the
horrific mass of human ruins. He stopped at the feet of a couple that seemed
familiar to him. He had noticed them earlier as he’d scanned the crowd. Their
blood-soaked placard lay torn between them. He knelt and closed the woman's
eyes. He turned her head from the unnaturally twisted position in which it had
come to rest. As he did so a sickening pulse of blood from a gaping hole in her
skull gushed over his armored fingers.
He wiped the blood from his hands
with his already scarlet cloak. He rose, taking in the full scene. Bodies
dotted the far expanse of the square. Mothers and sons. Fathers and daughters.
“A massacre.”
Far above, in a circling Media
Corp chopper, a cameraman leaned out the bay door, trying to keep his lens
trained on Revolution. It was time to blend into the crowd. For a while the
brilliant colors of the armor stood out and, no doubt, made it easy for the
cameraman. But soon, the red, white, and blue of the throng provided virtual
camouflage. The Revolution slipped away. As usual.
The Chairman slumped back into the cushions of the
recliner, unable to take his eyes off the screen.
A million scenarios rushed through
his brain.
But there was only one way to deal
with this. Those goddamn pilots had forced his hand. Even a man as powerful as
the Chairman couldn't control everything. Not the protocol set for the
pilots, not the orders the trigger-happy local Council leaders in Boston had
set for the pilots—having lost their patience dealing with the insurgency day
in and day out. Understandable really, but it meant they had to be watched
constantly. They were always out for blood. Should have seen tonight coming.
This level of violence was sure to
have the insurgents howling. Pressure would be applied to rein in the Council
Guard and momentum would turn against the Council. How far would that pendulum
swing? He couldn’t afford to learn that.
It all went back to the beginning.
The Council had long debated the wisdom of two master approaches to their
opposition: The Iron Fist or the Velvet Glove. The Iron Fist had its
supporters, but the Velvet Glove was where the smart money was. The Purge had
represented the Iron Fist, and it had been as brief as humanly possible, even
though elements of it lasted for years. It had been an unfortunate yet
necessary evil.
Since then, relative calm, growing
stability, and a “new normal” had crept into the country. All were the work of
the Velvet Glove: a media-driven, ideological battle that ceded ground without
surrendering the fight. The Velvet Glove allowed the Revolution to exist in
order to show how benevolent the Council truly was.
Not that it was official Council
policy to protect him—it wasn’t. But he was only one man. His presence meant
minimal threat for maximum show of restraint. It was all about public
perception.
The Iron Fisters, on the
trying.
Fragments of gravel sprayed him.
The artillery impacts ripped into the street. It was just another moment...
CHAPTER
10
A board
Apache One, Night Hawk targeted the red star on Revolution's chest as his
wingmen strafed the street, hoping to scare him off. No dice. Night Hawk’s guns
locked on. He prepared to fire. Just as his finger squeezed the trigger, a
crackle in his headset. Night Hawk's eyes lit up. There was no mistaking the
voice in his ear, and as Night Hawk replied, his tone was absolute.
“Yes, sir, I understand.” He
leaned into the com and shot a firm directive into the static. “Cease fire.
Return to base.”
The diving birds split and forked off above the
Revolution. They zoomed past him on either side. The frightened crowd cowered
behind him.
As fast as they had attacked, the rat-a-tat-tat of their propellers echoed away, leaving only an eerie silence. Revolution lowered
his eyes to the street. Bodies and body parts were scattered in a sea of red
gore.
Too many dead to count.
Revolution wandered into the
horrific mass of human ruins. He stopped at the feet of a couple that seemed
familiar to him. He had noticed them earlier as he’d scanned the crowd. Their
blood-soaked placard lay torn between them. He knelt and closed the woman's
eyes. He turned her head from the unnaturally twisted position in which it had
come to rest. As he did so a sickening pulse of blood from a gaping hole in her
skull gushed over his armored fingers.
He wiped the blood from his hands
with his already scarlet cloak. He rose, taking in the full scene. Bodies
dotted the far expanse of the square. Mothers and sons. Fathers and daughters.
“A massacre.”
Far above, in a circling Media
Corp chopper, a cameraman leaned out the bay door, trying to keep his lens
trained on Revolution. It was time to blend into the crowd. For a while the
brilliant colors of the armor stood out and, no doubt, made it easy for the
cameraman. But soon, the red, white, and blue of the throng provided virtual
camouflage. The Revolution slipped away. As usual.
The Chairman slumped back into the cushions of the
recliner, unable to take his eyes off the screen.
A million scenarios rushed through
his brain.
But there was only one way to deal
with this. Those goddamn pilots had forced his hand. Even a man as powerful as
the Chairman couldn't control everything. Not the protocol set for the
pilots, not the orders the trigger-happy local Council leaders in Boston had
set for the pilots—having lost their patience dealing with the insurgency day
in and day out. Understandable really, but it meant they had to be watched
constantly. They were always out for blood. Should have seen tonight coming.
This level of violence was sure to
have the insurgents howling. Pressure would be applied to rein in the Council
Guard and momentum would turn against the Council. How far would that pendulum
swing? He couldn’t afford to learn that.
It all went back to the beginning.
The Council had long debated the wisdom of two master approaches to their
opposition: The Iron Fist or the Velvet Glove. The Iron Fist had its
supporters, but the Velvet Glove was where the smart money was. The Purge had
represented the Iron Fist, and it had been as brief as humanly possible, even
though elements of it lasted for years. It had been an unfortunate yet
necessary evil.
Since then, relative calm, growing
stability, and a “new normal” had crept into the country. All were the work of
the Velvet Glove: a media-driven, ideological battle that ceded ground without
surrendering the fight. The Velvet Glove allowed the Revolution to exist in
order to show how benevolent the Council truly was.
Not that it was official Council
policy to protect him—it wasn’t. But he was only one man. His presence meant
minimal threat for maximum show of restraint. It was all about public
perception.
The Iron Fisters, on the
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