Lowry was grinning as he walked out of the office, being careful not to slam the door behind him.
The small convoy rolled through the night, speeding past deserted homes and through small empty towns. Ben rode in a car in the center of the armed convoy, asleep, his head on Jerre’s shoulder. James Riverson was at the wheel of the car. As so many of the Rebels in Ben’s personal contingent, Riverson had been with him for years.
“Don’t like it, Miss Jerre,” the huge ex-truck driver from Missouri said, his big hands making the steering wheel appear smaller than normal. Riverson had lost his wife, Belle, in the battle for Tri-States, and their children had been killed by government troops. Riverson hated the central government of the United States, and like so many Rebels, could not understand why Tri-States had been destroyed.
“Don’t like what, James?”
“The way all this is shaping up. The people are going to get caught right in the middle.”
“I know. So does Ben—he doesn’t like it either. He’s going to have leaflets printed, advising the people to stand clear.”
“You know they won’t do it. The majority of citizens don’t understand how we could build a workable society so quickly and their own non-elected officials—most of them, anyway—can’t seem to do anything. Talk, talk, talk. No action. Or damn little action, anyway.”
“Isn’t that the way it’s always been, James? You’re older than I am. Isn’t that the way it’s always been?”
He slowly nodded his head. “I reckon so, Miss Jerre. From 1980 on, I didn’t even bother voting.”
“That seems so sad, James.”
“It was. But hell, what was the point? Supreme Court and federal judges ran the country. The people didn’t have anything to say about it. Not the people who had any goddamn sense, that is.” He grinned in the dim light from the dash. “Excuse me, Miss Jerre. That was selfish of me to say. We all have rights. I just wish they’d have left us alone in Tri-States. We weren’t bothering a soul. Just being happy, that’s all we were doing.”
Ben groaned in his sleep.
“I wonder what the general is thinking of?” James said.
He had first met Salina in a motel in Indiana, just off the interstate. At first he thought she was a white woman traveling with a group of blacks. Since he had just come from visiting his brother in Chicago, where the blacks and whites were preparing to do their best to kill each other off, he thought that odd.
But as one member of the group had blurted—a white-hating member—Salina was a zebra.
“What does that mean?” Ben had later asked her, when they were alone.
“Half white, half black. Yes, my parents were married,” she told him.
“I didn’t think you were—”
“Pure coon,” she interrupted, but with a smile.
In the group were men and women who would later join Ben in the formation of Tri-States. Cecil Jefferys and his wife, Lila. Jake and his wife, Nora. Clint and Jane. And Ben and Salina would later marry. Salina, heavy with child, had been killed in the woods of Tri-States, during the last hours of the fight for survival.
So many had died for the dream.
Sam Hartline looked like the stereotyped Hollywood mercenary. Six feet, two inches, heavily muscled, a deep tan, dark brown hair just graying at the temples, cold green eyes, and a scar on his right cheek. He spoke to the one hundred FBI agents gathered in the old hotel in the deserted Virginia town. He did not have to speak to his own men; they had heard it all before.
“So you boys are gonna spearhead the move to kill Ben Raines, eh?” he grinned. “And you’re gonna do it by breaking the civilians who support him, right? Well, you’d all better have strong stomachs.” Again, he grinned. “I expect you do. You boys don’t look like that bunch that used to make up the Bureau. You boys look a sight tougher. I’ll tell you this: you damn well better be.”
He took a sip of water and again looked over the roomful of men. “Dealing with male prisoners prior to the actual interrogation,” he spoke impersonally. “Man… the protector of the home; the strong one. The techniques are diametrically opposite when dealing with the man as opposed to the woman. You must handle the male roughly— right from the beginning. You assault his male pride, his virility, his manhood, his penis power. You take the clothes from the man by force and leave him naked before you. A naked man feels defenseless. He will lose much of his arrogant pride.
“With a woman it is quite different. Do not use physical force except as a last resort. You order her to remove her clothing. You
“Don’t let them sleep. Interrupt them every few minutes while they lie in their cells, imagining all sorts of dire and exotic tortures lying in wait for them. Lack of sleep disturbs the brain patterns; disrupts the norm, so to speak.
“I will give you gentlemen an example.” He motioned toward a man standing by a closed door.
The man opened the door and two of Hartline’s men pushed a young man out into the large meeting room. The man was in his late twenties, unshaven, red and bleary-eyed. He was pushed onto the small stage.
“Good morning, Victor,” Hartline said cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”
The man said nothing.
“Remove your clothing, Victor,” Hartline said, smiling.
“Fuck you!”
Hartline laughed and motioned toward the two burly men. They wrestled the young man down on the stage and tore his clothing from him, pulling him to his feet to stand nude, facing the roomful of strangers.
“You see, Victor,” Hartline said, “you are a baby. I can do with you anything I choose, at any time I choose. Remember that, Victor. It might save you a lot of pain. Now then, Victor… who is the leader of your cell?”
Victor stood impassively, with as much dignity as he could muster. The agents in the room all tried to keep their eyes from the young man’s groin.
“Victor, Victor,” Hartline said. “Why are you doing this? You know you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”
“If you’re going to torture me,” the young man said, “get it over with.”
Hartline laughed, exposed strong, white, even teeth. “Oh, Victor! I’m not going to torture
The door opened and another pair of men pulled a young woman into the room. That they were closely related was evident by their features. Both Victor and the young woman had the same delicate features and skin coloration, the same pale eyes.
“Rebecca!” Victor shouted, lunging for her. Strong hands grabbed him, halting him in mid-flight. “You son of a bitch!” he cursed Hartline.
The mercenary laughed. “Tie him into that chair over there,” he pointed. “Hands behind the back, ankles to the legs.”
Hartline looked at the young woman. Something evil touched his eyes. “Now, my dear, you may disrobe.”
“No, I won’t,” she said defiantly, holding her chin high.
Hartline chuckled. “Oh, I think you shall, Rebecca, dear. Yes, indeed.”
Hartline picked up a small cattle prod and adjusted the level of voltage. He walked to Victor’s side. He lifted his eyes to the woman. “Take off your clothes.”
“No,” she whispered.
Hartline touched the cattle prod to Victor’s bare arm and activated it. The young man jerked in the chair and yelled in pain.
“Don’t do it, sis! I can stand it.”
Hartline laughed and touched the prod to Victor’s penis. The young man screamed in agony, his jerking toppling over the chair.
“All right,” Rebecca said. “Don’t hurt him anymore. I’ll do what you say.”
