Free Last Stand: Patriots (Book 2) by William H. Weber

Oneida.”

Chapter 16
    Moss, Sullivan, Marshall and John set out in a single vehicle. They snaked along back roads at high speed. Moss’ skill behind the wheel was becoming clear and John was growing more and more certain the man had learned evasive driving techniques at some point in his life.
    “I’ve got you pegged as either former law enforcement or military contractor,” John told him from the back seat.
    Marshall nodded his approval. “Looks like he spotted you a mile away, Moss.”
    Grinning through impossibly white teeth, Moss tapped the wheel. “I used to be a deputy in Oneida. Worked there up until the Chairman came in and started using the Second Amendment as a beer coaster.”
    “ The Second along with all the others, that is,” Marshall corrected him.
    “So you left.”
    “I took an oath to protect people, not gun them down like some Nazi brownshirt. So yeah, I left. Shaved my head into the fine display you see before you, packed my guns and fled.”
    “But he didn’t get very far before we found him,” Marshall said.
    Sullivan half turned in John’s direction. “It didn’t help his getaway much that he was on foot.”
    “Well, not anymore,” Moss said, turning off Paint Rock Road and onto a narrow mountain trail. The truck bounced up and down over a patchwork of what might have passed for a road in India.
    “You wanna tell me where we’re heading?” John asked Marshall who was sitting beside him.
    “I guess it wouldn’t do much harm at this point. There’s a spot on Owens Ridge with a perfect vantage point over the city. It’s a spot we often use to keep tabs on things down there. We almost always have someone posted, recording patrols, the strength of the garrison. The lookout probably even saw you get your rear end shot off.”
    The men in the truck burst into laughter.
    “All my parts are still attached,” John told them, appreciating the dig at his expense. That was one of the aspects he missed from his years serving. Soldiers were experts at spotting each other’s flaws and revealing them to raucous laughter and high fives. Course, it was rarely meant in a bad way. Maybe it was just the way men let you know you were all right.
    The truck came to a stop and all four got out. A narrow path that cut through the brush led to a fortified firing position. Draped around it was camo netting and additional branches and leaves. From Oneida, even a pair of high-powered binoculars would only see a row of shrubs.
    A Patriot sat on a chair with a cigarette between his lips, peering through the scope of a Remington 700.
    “This is Reese,” Marshall said. “Spent eight years with the French Foreign Legion.”
    Reese glanced over and nodded.
    “I’ve heard more than a few stories about the FFL. What was that like?” John asked.
    “Hell,” Reese replied, pulling on his Marlboro. “We were the ultimate group of expendables. Doesn’t help that those Frog COs are a sadistic bunch.”
    Marshall stood over him, surveying the view. “From here to the center of town’s about half a mile,” the commander told him. “If the wind conditions are right, someone with a steady hand could really do some damage down there.”
    The faint glimmers of that monotone voice drifted up at them from below. John stopped, trying to make it out.
    “That’s the public service announcement,” Moss spat. “‘Please be advised. We are in a state of martial law. By provision C19 of the local charter, the ownership or transport of firearms within the city limits of Oneida is strictly forbidden. An evening curfew of seven pm is mandatory for all residents. Failure to comply with regulations will result in switch punishment.’”
    “Sounds like something out of 1984 ,” John whispered.
    “What happened in 1984?” Moss asked.
    Sometimes John forgot not everyone was his age. “A book by George Orwell, where he envisioned a world that looks and sounds very much like Oneida.”
    Almost on queue, a group of