Battle Cry (Freedom/Hate Series, Book 4)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  FIND FREEDOM/HATE ONLINE

  PROLOGUE

  The city changed after Election Day, and Justin's life as he knew it was over. There was no more hiding in the shadows or illicit burgers with his friends. In order to make things right, the person that he was, and the person that he wanted to be, had to die. Everything that he believed had to be kept buried under the ruins of the Garden.

  After being formally assigned to HAND, Justin moved out of the apartment that he'd grown up in. There were no boxes involved in this move. He was allowed to pack one bag and carry it with him to the trainee dorms, where he would be assigned a bed to sleep on, in a room full of other beds and other trainees. From the moment he woke up in the morning until the moment he put his head back on the pillow at night, Justin was one of them. He studied the same books, watched the same videos, listened to the same lectures and received the same supplements.

  The drugs were a stronger dose than the average citizen would be given. The mood enhancers rounded the edges of his thoughts and made life tolerable, but he couldn't let his guard down. He couldn't allow himself to forget why he was there.

  Lights-out was at eleven o'clock at night. He would be woken up at five-thirty in the morning and allowed a half hour to get himself cleaned up before training began.

  From six o'clock until eight o'clock, he would undergo strength training and building endurance on a treadmill. They would push him to his limits and beyond. Even if he wanted to complain about his training or plot an attack against them, he simply didn't have the energy to do it.

  From eight to eleven, he was given lessons in what HAND called 'law enforcement.' These were lessons in how to oppress the citizens of the country, packaged as procedures and protocols. They started out easily enough with these rules. They spoke of apprehending murderers and thieves. When they taught lessons on terrorists, Justin was tempted to count the number of times he could be killed for his crimes against the government, but he didn't allow himself to humor such thoughts. He needed to stay focused. He needed to put the life he'd once had to rest and become someone else. This version of him had never killed a man in order to protect his friend. This version was the upstanding citizen who discovered a member of Hate in his own high school and had her sent to prison for it.

  Of course, he'd framed Willa for those crimes. She breathed and bled loyalty to her government, and would have seen Justin fry if he hadn't beaten her to the punch. But as far as he was concerned at this point, she was a terrorist and he was the loyal citizen.

  From eleven to eleven-thirty, he was given lunch. The food tasted better than the food that the average citizen got from the market. The fruit was closer to being fresh. The meat didn't come from a can and could be chewed with normal human teeth. The servings were so small that Justin never felt satisfied. At times he was sure that he would pass out. He couldn't think clearly most of the time, but what little he was given was delicious.

  Eleven-thirty to three o'clock was tactical training. Hand-to-hand combat lessons. Shooting lessons. Lessons in how to invade a home and conduct a search. Lessons on how to break down citizens and make them talk.

  As each day went on, he was worn down to the point where he was certain that he would break, either physically or mentally. They would give trainees tasks to accomplish, building walls or digging holes. Jobs that needed to be completed before they were given dinner at night. He was never sure that he would be able to complete those tasks. Several of his classmates either passed out or broke into tears. Justin just kept working.

  Dinner was served at eight o'clock at night, when Justin was usually shaking with hunger. The cafeteria was dark, and trainees were forbidden to speak to each other as they ate. All they could do was put food in their mouths and watch videos that were being projected onto the walls around them, hammering in lessons about loyalty and duty, and the greatness of the American citizen.

  Some distorted history was thrown in from time to time. Justin knew that it was all lies or twisted truth, but with a clouded mind, he usually couldn't think of why it was wrong or what really happened. He listened to the lessons and absorbed them, just as all of the other trainees did. He made these lessons his truth, because he had no other option.

  From eight forty-five to ten o'clock, trainees were ordered to run laps around the yard of the HAND training campus. From ten o'clock to eleven, they were told to clean their living area. Mop floors. Clean toilets. Then, at eleven o'clock they slept.

  Everything he did was by the book. In order to be the best in his class, he had to believe in what they were telling him. So he did. For twenty-three and a half hours out of each day, his mindset and his performance were flawless.

  But from five-thirty to six o'clock in the morning, Justin remained quiet. He didn't talk to his classmates. He didn't smile at their jokes. He didn't read the books. He used the bathroom. He showered. He brushed his teeth. He shaved. And he would stare into his own eyes in the mirror. During that time, he reminded himself of who he was and why he was there. Not in any obvious way, of course, but he needed to remember. He needed to make it a part of his routine, the same as every other part, or else that person and that mission would be lost in the haze of HAND training.

  From time to time, his hand would slip while he shaved and he would cut himself. Never on purpose, but when it happened, he would stare at the blood that dripped out of him and he would be reminded of what that blood contained. The entire library of information that he held inside of him. The documents that the government didn't want him to see. The freedom that came with the true history of his country. His blood contained truth, and too many people that he knew and loved had died because of that truth. From five-thirty to six o'clock, under the guise of sleep deprivation and a generally standoffish personality, Justin remembered those people. He remembered that there was no Hate, there was only Freedom.

  Months passed as his training continued. Eventually, the schedule loose
ned up a bit. The size of meals increased. Breakfast was added to the routine.

  By the time graduation day was approaching, Justin found life as a HAND trainee to be more enjoyable than that of the average citizen. Trainees got better food. They had the promise of better apartments after graduation. They were stronger. They were more capable. They were better than they had been before they entered that facility, and they never wanted to go back to the lives they'd left behind.

  The difference between him and the other trainees was that he knew exactly what had happened to him. He could chart the early starvation, the sleep deprivation, the cloudy minds, indoctrination, as well as the eventual easing into comfort and normalcy. He saw it for the brainwashing that it was and he wouldn't allow it to sink into the core of his being.

  Eventually, he graduated from training. He wasn't exactly sure how long he'd been there. He hadn't seen any TV shows or news reports since he entered training. The thought of walking back into the world was strange to him now. HAND was his life. Everything that he'd known before was like a story that he'd been told about someone else's life.

  The graduation ceremony wasn't what one might imagine. There were no caps, gowns or cheers. It was Justin being called into an office, where he was given an assignment. He was told where to go the following day and who to meet. He was given information on housing and rations. He was handed everything that he would need to begin his life as a HAND officer.

  The next morning, Justin walked out of the training facility with his one bag and he got onto a bus which took him back to the same part of the city that he'd known his entire life.

  He watched out the window as dozens of drones flew high above the buildings. This was new to him. It was strange. It was wrong. And for the first time in months, he began to wonder what had happened to the world while he was away.

  When the bus came to a stop, Justin stepped onto a city street where he was met by a more seasoned HAND officer, Eil Stuart. Officer Stuart was, according to the bio that Justin had been given, a fifteen-year veteran of HAND. He was a transitional partner for Justin, getting him acclimated to life as an officer and making sure that his training had taken properly.

  Officer Stuart was cold. He had no expression on his face. He didn't smile politely when greeting Justin. It might have seemed rude to someone on the outside of their world, but Justin was just as expressionless.

  As they started to walk down the street, Stuart explained the way things were going to work for Justin. Which office he was going to be based out of. Which market he was going to get food from. It was made clear that he was not a citizen of the city anymore, he was a servant of the city. The people he passed on the street were not his people, they were his job.

  None of this was new to Justin, but he allowed Officer Stuart to give his speech and he listened to each word, because paying attention was important, even when he was bored out of his mind.

  As they walked, Justin kept his eyes on the people that he passed. They were normal citizens, going about their normal lives. He'd seen it a million times before, but he was seeing it from a different angle now. He wasn't just passing them on the street, he was assessing them. He was studying how they walked and how they reacted to him. He watched some avert their eyes, intimidated by his uniform. In others, he saw a hint of defiance. He wanted to beat it out of them.

  He and Officer Stuart stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the signal to change so that they could keep moving. As he waited, Justin heard something beneath his foot. He looked down and saw a piece of paper with the words 'THE SECRET CITIZEN' written on it.

  Justin bent down and picked up the paper. He stared at those words for a moment, and he could feel anger bubbling up inside of him. Annoyance. Hatred.

  He threw the paper into a nearby trash can just as the signal changed and Officer Stuart led the way forward.

  For months, Justin had been subjected to all sorts of manipulation and brainwashing, and he knew it for what it was. He swore that he would never allow it to corrupt him truly. But seeing that paper and feeling that reaction proved that things weren't so clear anymore. He was back in the real world now, and he didn't know what that meant. He didn't know how deeply they had gotten into his head. He didn't know what he was capable of. He'd tried so hard to fight them and to hold onto his beliefs, and now he could feel their lessons inside of him like a cancer.

  Up until this point, it had all been hypothetical. He went along with their lessons while in training, and he tried to believe that he could keep his true self tucked away until it was safe to come out. Now he was back in the world. Now he would have to face real people. He would have to be a real HAND officer. He wasn't sure how long he could hold onto the real Justin. He wasn't sure that he could pull this off.

  Six Years Later...

  1

  “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the sporting event of the season. Tonight, our own Sweepers will face off against the Loyals in what is promising to be a brutal and thrilling end to what has already been a season filled with turmoil and scandal,” Rav Deacon said to a camera, standing in front of a massive stadium where thousands of citizens were gathering for the final match of the football season.

  Justin was standing by one of the entrances to the stadium, keeping an eye on citizens as they entered the building. What had started out as a sea of people waiting to get inside was now a trickle. Justin watched Rav speak to the camera in the distance while listening to his words on a TV screen that was mounted on a nearby wall. He watched and wondered how people could care about games anymore. What was the point of make-believe battles over a ball when a war was being waged in the streets every day?

  It was a quiet war. Maybe the average citizen who didn't care to see what was happening could overlook it and go about their day, but to Justin and the rest of the people in the thick of this battle, it was unrelenting.

  How long had it been since he played a game of football? How long had it been since he and Uly scurried through back alleys to find their way to the Garden? How long had it been since Libby died? And for what purpose? Her sacrifice should have meant something. It should have been the spark that ignited the people of their city, but she was nothing more than a fragment of a memory to them, if they remembered her at all.

  For six years, Justin had been a HAND officer. He didn't pretend to be one, despite the fact that he wanted them all to burn. To pretend would have blown his cover. It would have ruined whatever chance he had of making something of this mission. So he did his job. He arrested members of Freedom. Most of them were strangers, but every once in a while there would be a familiar face. Someone that he'd eaten meals with or shared a joke with, and he would throw them in the back of a van, sending them off to God-knows-where. They knew who he was, but they never said a word. Part of him wished that they would have.

  At night, Justin would fall asleep while silently praying for forgiveness for these sins. Each morning he would wake up praying to be forgiven for whatever horror he would have to inflict upon the world that day. He prayed that it was worth it in the end, but the truth was that he couldn't even picture a day when any of this would be okay. Even if the war was won, he worried that his soul was lost. For Justin, there could never be freedom. He fought for everyone else now.

  “You're daydreaming,” came the familiar voice of another HAND officer, approaching with mocked accusation in his voice.

  Justin looked away from Rev and met Sim's eyes. Without missing a beat, he said, “I don't daydream. I monitor.”

  “Do you think that Rev Deacon, famed sportscaster and judge of American Stargazers is going to suicide bomb the place?”

  “No,” Justin replied, plainly.

  Off duty, he might crack a joke or smile. He might grab a beer with Sim and avoid discussing most details of the good old days. HAND officers were encouraged to be friendly with their fellow officers. To rely on them. To make them family. To keep a watchful eye on them and report any suspicious behavior. It was n
o coincidence that he and Sim often worked together. It was fairly common for officers to be assigned to streets that were familiar to them, keeping an eye on the people they knew. It was easier to spot something wrong with the familiar than it was to find trouble in unknown territory. Justin also suspected that by putting familiar faces on the streets, the citizens would feel more at ease with the constant invasions. It was a good idea in theory, but the officers who patrolled the streets weren't the same people who had grown up on them. They'd been emptied out and refilled with something new. Something federally funded and just as dangerous as the drones that flew overhead.

  Justin never made the mistake of believing that he had been spared from the programming. He never let his guard down. He always questioned his first instinct.

  Did Sim trust Justin? Probably about as much as Justin trusted him. The strange part was that Justin did trust Sim, if only just a little. It was enough to make Justin wonder what the hell was wrong with him.

  “I swept the area. Nothing suspicious to report, unless you count the kids in the parking lot, trying to trade rations for tickets,” Sim told him.

  “Did you call it in?” Justin asked. Unlicensed trading was against the law. Food trafficking could lead to years in prison.

  “They've been taken care of,” Sim replied.

  Justin didn't say anything about that. Fair or not, it wasn't his problem.

  “The game is going to start soon. The Chief wants us inside, keeping an eye on the crowd,” Justin told Sim, glancing back to Rev who was packing up his equipment and preparing to head inside for the start of the game.

  A voice came over both of their earpieces, reporting, “The Judge and the Witness are settled.”

  That was code. The Mayor was the Witness. This meant that the Mayor was in his box, ready to watch the night's event. He was undoubtedly surrounded by his entire staff and a number of women who probably felt as disgusted by their job assignments as Justin did his.

  Who the Judge was, Justin had no idea.