The Crimson Fall (The Sons of Liberty Book 1) Read online

  The Crimson Fall

  Book One

  of

  The Sons of Liberty

  Jordan Ervin

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Crimson Fall

  Copyright © 2014 by Jordan Ervin

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  ISBN-13: 978-1499716900

  ISBN-10: 1499716907

  Cover Art by Andrew Fischer at NURV.com and Jordan Ervin

  For my dad, who taught me the value of sacrifice.

  For my wife, who encouraged the dream.

  For the friend, who walked this journey with me.

  Above all, for my Savior, who breathed life into an empty man.

  Whatever happens henceforth, you will always have my thanks.

  Contents

  Prologue

  The New Fire

  A Symphony of Fear

  Words from Beyond

  A Noble Darkness

  Beyond the Veil of Lies

  The Bylaws of Freedom

  Dark Clouds Gather

  Lions and Men

  The Ascent

  Let Slip the Dogs of War

  The Blood of Men for the Tales of Tyrants

  A Child of Sorrow

  A Man of Fate

  Flight

  Alea Iacta Est

  The Truth Shall Set None Free

  Light the Fire

  Stoke the Flames

  And to All a Goodnight

  This Day of Days

  The Crimson Fall

  Epilogue

  “America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.”

  ~Abraham Lincoln

  “Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it.”

  ~Adolf Hitler

  Prologue

  A Shepherd and His Sheep

  On a cold winter morning, in a dim, candle-lit room, a man lost to the shadows of the dawn and the thoughts on his mind reclined behind an aged mahogany desk. He gazed out the window in a catatonic stupor, watching the snow as it gently danced about the courtyard beyond. The soft, white snowflakes rose, fell, and tumbled gracefully with the breeze, creating a look more of ash than of the midwinter storm it was. The thought of ash made the man smile. Ashes meant fire. A heated moment of change. For the past three decades, the very idea of a blaze that would devour the bane of a broken world had always brought a subtle hint of joy to the man’s otherwise sharp and piercing gaze.

  He leaned back in his leather chair and laughed the laugh of a madman as he slowly exhaled an icy cloud of breath that disappeared not five inches later. Though the frigid weather outside had begun to seep through the old windows an hour earlier, the man had purposely kept the heat off to help him think. The bitter cold had always enabled him to usher in a sense of tranquility that nestled deep into his bones, helping him form the words he wanted to write. Those fateful words he needed to write. With his jumbled thoughts now in order, he turned away from the window, faced his time-worn, leather-bound friend, and reached into his inner coat pocket to grab his fountain pen.

  Instead of taking hold of the pen, he pricked his finger on its engraved tip, causing him to quickly withdraw his hand and mutter a curse under his breath. He took out his handkerchief to clot up the small yet growing bead of blood and carefully reached back into the pocket to seize his sharp assailant. The man pulled out an elaborate pen that had been given to him years prior by his late father. The ornate writing tool was a small symbol of his ancestry and the allegedly good men who had lived before him. It was something that had always been passed down from father to son as a way to encourage the new generation. Nevertheless, the man sitting alone on that cold winter morning had no intentions of simply being a good man. He would be the greatest of men, or he would be nothing at all. He rotated the device next to the dancing light of the burning candles to reveal the golden words intricately inscribed on its side. His mouth twisted with disgust as he read what he had heard a thousand times before by the father he wanted to forget.

  Leave this world a better place than when you first arrived.

  Eventually, his scowl lessened–slowly changing into a frown that puckered his brow. However, it was not one of grief due to the memory of the man who had raised him. Rather, it was a reaction to the mere thought of his father whom he hated so much. The very act of thinking about the absent man who had tried and failed to love him threatened to dismantle the ideas he needed to transcribe before time and memory both escaped him. Even in death, his father’s penetrating words of unwanted wisdom still spoke doubt into the dream he had devoted himself to as a young man. He had contemplated throwing the thing away many times before, but every moment of uncertainty was reassured by the remembrance that his father was now gone for good. It was for that reminder alone that the pen had remained in his possession the past eight years. A family motto, the small writing tool, and a large fortune was all that was left of his father, and for that, the man leaning next to the candle silently spoke a mocking prayer of thanks to the God he loathed.

  The heads-up display on his contact lenses came to life as his hidden earpiece began to softly chime. One look at the caller’s name was all it took before the man tapped his earpiece twice, ignoring his old friend. He had worked tirelessly for years to get to where he was, and though he owed a great deal to his fellow brothers and sisters of fate, he believed he had earned at least one day of rest from them. He leaned forward, and methodically, like the conductor who brings order to the madness–or in his particular case, vice versa–began to scratch his thoughts in the old journal.

  Winter 2029

  They say a hero is someone of courage. Someone who, in the face of adversity, can stare down his opponents with that courage and fight for what he believes in. The heroes of old commonly arise out of suffering or a newly discovered self-serving power. Simply put, they realize the importance of the new authority they hold and use it for what THEY determine is a good cause. However, a hero can easily be lost to anonymity if he has no cause. And a cause cannot exist until there is first an opposition.

  In other words, for a hero to be a hero, he requires a villain.

  That villain can be a country, an idea, an assemblage of people, or even one very committed individual. With that in mind, I cannot help but to ask this question: If the hero is dependent on the villain–and we long so deeply for heroes in our lives–then is the villain of no less importance, in the end?

  For that matter, how do we truly define a villain? If we study the heroes we have idolized throughout the world’s long and intriguing history, be they fictional or not, I believe the greatest of them commonly fought for days gone by. They battled desperately so that they may hang on to an outdated, chauvinistic, and, most of the time, flawed and yet comfortable way of things. The simple truth is that a hero, like beauty I suppose, can only be defined in the eyes of the beholder. Some would say the early American freedom fighters were praiseworthy heroes for standing against the tyranny of the British Crown. They would say the cause was so justified that the young men who died fighting that war were the required sacrifices who fathered Lady Liberty herself. Then, in the same conversation, they would condemn the foolhardy zealot who detonates a bomb strapped to his chest to defend his home country of Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, or any one of the now ruined Middle Eastern countries. A simple sacrificial act of courage so that he may protect the people he loves against the encroaching reach of what could rightfully be perceived as the tyrannical threat of the United States of America.

  That raises another question. If one man can call someone a hero, and another man label that same someone as a villain, is there such a thing as a genuine, irrefutable hero and an authentic, unquestionable villain? Is there something, a definable standard or trait, by which we all could measure the men in question in order to determine one as hero and the other as not? I say yes. The one distinct characteristic I believe the hero always fights for is order. The villain, well, I believe he trusts in and strives for chaos. Some value one over the other. However, as for my brethren and me, what we have come to know is that to obtain that beautiful stability, sometimes, we must first ignite a relentless and purging fire.

  I have been called a hero by many and a savior by some. Yet when I consider my purpose­—that which I and the Patriarchs truly live for—I know that the only way to bring about the desperately needed change and order in this godforsaken world of ours is to first bring about a perfect chaos to rid us of the world’s imperfect system.

  And while the world will one day recognize me as their true hero, the dawn of tomorrow, they must first give up those comfortable, flawed ways. It is that which makes me believe I am not yet the hero they call me. But for now, I will be a damn fine villain.

  So today, in the name of the flawless order to come, let the revolution begin.

  Three rapid knocks at the door startled the man, causing him to smudge the final punctuation mark. His anger immediately flared up, but he suppressed the urge to set himself on the unknown guest. While he believed in chaos as a means to achieve a perfect world, he hated a chaotic and disorderly journal. It had been the closest friend he had c
onfided in since his painful childhood, and he felt a great sense of guilt anytime he left a mark astray. The thick leather book held the secrets of his life’s journey that were meant for him and him alone. More than once he had contemplated tearing a page out because of a wandering smear or some trivial smudge, but this time he decided the irregular streak perfectly accented what he had penned.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened, giving entrance to a younger man in his thirties. Handsome, fit, and dressed in the finest slim-fit suit money could buy, the younger man approached the desk with a victorious smirk. Despite his somber mood, the man behind the desk could not help but smile as well.

  “Sir, it’s time,” the younger man said. “The car is waiting.”

  “Very well, John,” the man behind the desk said. “Then let us forge our destiny once more.”

  The two men left the room and were both escorted through a maze of hallways that led outside to the waiting vehicle. Once the man was in the car, John closed the door and walked around to the front, entering on the passenger side without a word. After a few moments of waiting, they began their short journey.

  The ride was quiet and both men silently kept to themselves. The man thought about minor things at first. ‘Small thought’ is what his tiresome ex-mother-in-law had called it back when he had suffered through her annoyingly jolly visits. His mind drifted and he wondered again if he should rewrite the journal entry to fix the smudge, how long his pricked fingertip would be numb, and if the pen in his coat pocket posed any real threat of leaking and leaving him with a black stain above his heart. He almost broke the silence to laugh aloud at that last thought, thinking just how ironic that would be on this particular day. When they had finally left behind the imposing buildings he had passed hundreds of times before, the snowfall had completely ceased and the man began to think again on the more important matters at hand.

  He hoped he could accomplish everything he needed to achieve. He knew he had empty promises to weak allies that would have to be broken and others to his more powerful friends that he must find a way to fulfill. But it was the promise he had made with himself so many years ago that trumped anything and everyone else. He smiled, as he had earlier that morning, and envisioned the structures blurring by, ablaze with an inferno of his creation.

  Burn, he thought. Burn.

  The car had stopped and John quickly exited, walked around the vehicle, and opened the man’s door. The two of them, ringed by a dozen men and half as many watchful drones, began their short walk into a massive building. Inside, walls and columns of stone and marble decorated every surface as they walked through the lush hallways. Blood-red curtains and colossal chandeliers adorned the many windows and tall ceilings, just as they had for several years. As they walked through the grand structure, joyful people greeted him and his entourage at every turn. He took his time as he made his way to his destination, shaking their hands and thanking them for everything they had done to help him. Finally, he and John left them all behind, climbed a length of wide, stone-wrought stairs, and walked down a corridor fit for a palace. The man stopped just shy of two tall doors that led back outside, pausing to bask in the moment destiny had bestowed upon him.

  So it begins.

  The man, a self-proclaimed man of fate, marched forward as the doors were opened. He walked out of the darkness and into the light to the tune of a booming roar. It was the overjoyed howl of thousands. Tens of thousands. The cheers of the crowd brought forth a warmth that the cold of the day failed to suppress. Committed followers, he thought. All of them were there for their new saint; the one they believed to be their beloved hero. Even as he smiled down on them he thought of how he, the Patriarchs, and his journal alone knew the full truth of what was to come.

  The man walked forward onto the tall balcony, shaking more hands and waving to the masses below as they praised him. Eventually, a man in black robes approached him from his left with a small book in one hand and a smile adorning his face. When the crowd finally died down, the robed man held out the little black book and began to speak the historic words that only a select few had heard spoken to them.

  “Are you prepared to take the oath, governor?”

  The man nodded, placed his hand on the book he secretly despised, and raised his right hand before him as he and the man in black robes recited the words he had waited almost a lifetime to speak.

  “I, Lukas Ryan Chambers . . .”

  The dawn of tomorrow.

  “. . . do solemnly swear . . .”

  By the blood of the creed.

  “. . . that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States . . .”

  That I will destroy any who stand against the coming revolution.

  “. . . and will to the best of my ability . . .”

  Awaken a chaos to purge this flawed order.

  “. . . preserve . . .”

  Dismantle . . .

  “. . . protect . . .”

  Expose . . .

  “. . . and defend . . .”

  Destroy . . .

  “. . . the Constitution of the United States.”

  The bane of a broken world.

  “So help me, God.”

  Now guide me, fate.

  “Congratulations, Mr. President,” the man in black robes said.

  When the two men shook hands, a deafening thunder exploded from the horde below as they welcomed President Chambers into their lives as the new leader of the Free World. Lukas Chambers, the man who would be the villain America needed in order to become the savior the world deserved, looked down and waved at his devoted sheep as he thought of ash.

  Chapter

  O ne

  The New Fire

  A late morning breeze filled the weathered barn as Adam Reinhart and his son slowly took up their positions. Dust and the last of the summer pollen danced along rays of gold that slipped through small cracks in the rickety roof made of broken beams and rusted tin. The cedar planks on the hayloft floor flexed gingerly underfoot as they tiptoed over to the second story opening at the far end of the barn. Even though the old wooden structure alone was something for the typical man to appreciate, it was the sight through the upper door that was equaled by none.

  The San Juan Mountains stood tall against the horizon and walled off the surrounding aspen groves that were alive and in full bloom with early autumn colors. Clouds drifted miles away and miles above, gracing the clear blue sky with their company and casting shadows across rolling hills that were dominated by the greens, reds, and golds of a Colorado paradise. The majestic view threatened to take hold of their attention, but Adam and his boy were there to finish what they had started two days earlier, and their eyes were focused on the tree line below.

  Less than three hundred feet away, a bull elk walked nonchalantly from the dense woods that had previously concealed it. Adam’s adrenaline began to surge. They had carefully tracked their game through the pine forests and flower fields only to find themselves close to their original camp, in their long awaited moment of truth. The elk was huge, at least seven hundred pounds of thick bone and meat. A massive rack of antlers crowned the regal animal’s head, giving him more the appearance of a woodland king than the quarry he currently was. Adam looked over and held a gloved finger to his lips, cautioning the boy to hold in his excitement until the task was complete. Ever so slowly, the watchful creature made its way from the tree line toward the small pond behind the barn. When it had finally decided it was safe to let down its guard, the animal began to drink from the cool mountain water. Exhilaration welled up in Adam as he looked once more to his son, leaned in close, and whispered what he had always silently spoke before a kill.

  “We are the hunters, Judah,” Adam said. “It is the prey.” He then nodded to his son to take the shot.

  Judah—his young teenage boy, who was about take a giant step toward becoming his own man—sighted in his target with his new compound bow and slowly drew the braided cord to his cheek. To hunt with a rifle was something the average man would have done, but Adam and the men who came before him did not want to settle for merely average. Hunting with a bow was not only a test of strength and dexterity, but of stealth and the strategy required to stalk such a cunning animal. A bow had been the revered tool in the Reinhart family’s rite of passage for generations, and regardless of what they would one day do as a man, every boy who wanted to become a man first mastered the lethal weapon and finished their most sacred of hunts.