---

Who could argue with a man saying that on the White House lawn, addressing the honor guards of so many Coalition partners? The GDR had troops there, so did the other satellite nations, the Egyptians and the Syrians, the Angolans, the Vietnamese and the Chinese, the Mexicans...the White House didn't need to burn the way it did in 1812, that would have been redundant.

Daniel watched this with his father, Arthur, and another man, Manny Schultz, a man that Arthur Douglas knew from the college days together; their career paths diverged and came around full circle. Manuel came out as a top man for the directorate of Operations in the CIA and Arthur Douglas as chairman of the Senate intelligence committee and then as Secretary of State when the Battle of Basra happened. He retired after negotiating America's most odious peace treaty ever, falling on his sword and then returning back to Burlington, Vermont for a quiet retirement, though he was active when his eldest, Philip, needed it as he made his way up the ranks in Vermont state politics.

But it was Danny, the quiet younger one, the black sheep, that sat there with his father, plotting insurgency with a retired CIA guy. Philip was inclined to cooperate, he had little taste for adversity and little of his father's fiber. Danny though, that was always the mystery, Manny thought.

"You're prominent Arthur, and you are a man they will rally around, you fought in Vietnam, you are a damn good speaker and the Canadians are amenable, especially if an insurgency here keeps the Warsaw Pact too busy to consider a two for one deal."

And, essentially, much of the military gear of the U.S. was already shipped up, what wasn't down in the Army of Appalachia, a formation carved out of airborne, infantry and special operations units based out of Benning, Bragg, Campbell and the Marines out of Camp Lejeune. These bases provided homes for many of America’s most best infantry units, but they’d been gutted by years of bad morale and a series of bad wars in small places, fighting insurgencies and losing, America's will to fight sapped. Even so, in the Appalachian trail, there was a chance to return the favor, fighting in terrain that made the Soviets pay; these units had a lot of firepower, and the Soviets couldn't move their armor in. It was infantry to infantry, and most Soviet infantry was conscripted, not strongly motivated. The American forces there had the equipment to fend off armor and aircraft, but were essentially fighting a holding action that kept the Soviets out of the Midwest.

Planes, helicopters and anything fast enough to drive but not able to reach America's last stand was already being freighted across the border into the Midwest for what remained of the US government. Other equipment, in the Northeast and Northwest, was being freighted into Canada and what couldn't reach either was being cached; Manny's work, because he'd been part of the planning committee that worked up the procedure for this-- morbid thought back then, but there they were, two old men smoking and all three of them enjoying some of the last single malt scotch they'd probably ever see in their lives, facing a scenario the ever-optimistic American psyche deemed impossible. Nuclear weapons remained, enough to maim the Soviets, but not enough to win so MAD prevailed, because the Soviets feared the nuclear missile submarines that managed to slip out into the Atlantic, and anticipated difficulties supplying by ship, because some of the subs that got out were the quietest attack and missile subs. They were more cautious, trying to wear down the remnants of the US.

"You need to go, Arthur, you are more useful up there than down here on the wrong side of the border,” Manuel told him.

"It feels like running. I was a Marine, damnit," the senator groused.

"You're old Arthur, so am I," Manny, an old college friend told him bluntly, "my prostate is too big and my lungs are too small. We can't keep up."

"I'm staying," Danny spoke up, and that made Manuel jump almost-- it was easy to lose the younger Douglas in an empty bar like this; slightly receding hair, pleasantly tanned features. Spare frame, though he still had powerful shoulders and arms. Calm, hard eyes. It'd been twenty years since that drunken accident at Dartmouth, and Manuel was still not sure how Danny and his parents reconciled, and yet there he was.

Two years ago, he’d come back, taken up with a recently-divorced doctor that liked to do disaster relief work while attending classes at University of Vermont. But he was a mystery, and not one, unlike as a blustery, slightly husky rugby playing college kid that Manuel knew before, to draw attention to himself. He wore a long-sleeved chambray shirt and khaki pants, a knotted leather belt. He was dressed down, whereas the other brother was a man that liked to dress up – always in a tie. Daniel didn’t smile much, he just watched. It was a contrast from his fast-smooth talking older sibling.

Philip, well that was a known quantity-- even parental love didn't compel the father to confide in the younger son, the one that made all the smart decisions. "I'm joining the Green Mountain Boys. One of us has to fight, just like against the Brits, pa."

It was an old family with traditions, doughty Scots stock that many opponents failed to grind down, through history.

"Are you sure, son?" The elder Douglas seemed to accept this as a matter of fact; it was part of that strange history that Daniel had to him, that whiff of mystery. In earlier years, Manuel had been part of the informal effort to locate the lad, but the trail went cold in Europe. The rugby playing boy with the alcohol-fueled accident, the scandal that finished his father’s presidential ambitions, went in, a different man came out.

"Vive la morte, vive la guerre, vive le sacre legionnaire!" He quipped as he dashed back the scotch. The turn of phrase on the toast caused Manny to narrow his eyes a bit, trying to remember where he'd heard that. Danny spoke French effortlessly, and gave that toast as if it was traditional.

"So transportation for myself, my wife..."

"And Claudine," Danny added, as he poured another, decision made, eyes clouded in thought. He looked older there, contemplating the future, "doctors are needed over the border, if guerrillas can reach safe haven. That is the idea, isn’t it?" he directed at Manuel.

Revelations; Danny Douglas knew more than he let on, Manuel realized.

---

---

Several weeks forward, they were getting ready to do the last of a series of arms deals; over the course of weeks, they smuggled stuff up and down, as part of a network. Guns and ammo came through, sure, but this handoff was for drugs. Morphine, dilaudid and antibiotics of various sorts, smuggled out of Boston's pharmaceutical laboratories. They'd done a pretty heavy traffic business since the Vermont and New Hampshire state police essentially deserted posts while the Soviets made their way up and started securing towns. They had to know that they were setting up caches in the Appalachians, including the Green Mountains, but they weren't feeling like they could do more than send small raids, Spetsnaz, East German paratroopers and other Warsaw Pact operators after identifiable targets with sufficient intelligence.

That was not nearly enough, but it did make everyone cautious and a little nervy.

Which was just as well, because they had other reasons to be nervous. Usually, Danny and the others paid the smugglers, but the orders came down to go ahead and pay these guys...or not, so long as they iced them.

They'd been preparing to fight and kill for weeks, but the idea was sabotage or some sort of ambush against the enemy...not killing other Americans.

It wasn't even the guy's fault. His family was taken by the KGB. He was put in the position of giving up some guerrillas or watching his daughters get tortured. And the other thing was that it was three of these guys from New York. The intelligence pipeline included Massachusetts Staties that were feeding out information, and the intelligence guys verified it and gave the order.

Pull the trigger.

He took a deep breath, as the car pulled into the truck yard where they'd do the trade, a construction company's yard where no further business was being done, especially after Resistance picked it clean of construction materials and went to work building bunkers in the mountains. They were expecting a long war, and construction materials had their use, especially before the Soviets had enough air support to do proper photo and satellite recon of the area. Things were changing now. Getting uglier. The place was looking pretty forlorn, with loose tarps flapping a bit. It'd been evacuated in a hurry by the workers and owner, some of whom joined the Resistance, others who just got the fuck away to avoid knowing anything about anything. The place looked like it suffered a hasty departure and a ransacking.

That was about right. But people didn't come here anymore for much of anything.

The guys were mooks to say the least, kinda dingy, looking for a score, low level guys thinking to make it big profiteering off the guerrillas. It was about to turn into a hot war, but no one minded that these guys were profiting so long as they were selling. These dudes were out of Manchester, an hour and fifteen minutes away. They'd made a lot of money peddling heroin and fentanyl to junkies over the last couple years, but they could never hold onto it, never got larger. But they did have ways of scoring the stuff when the cops stopped caring -- the street price was one thing for the pharmaceutical grade stuff, but the Resistance was always able to pay a little more.

Of course, that money didn't do a goddamn thing for the one, Mike LeBeau, who had his wife and kids held in the Boston headquarters of the KGB, which, up here, was a joint effort of Stasi, KGB and GRU types trying to pacify things.

The problem wasn't merely that they were killing LeBeau, it's that Fitzsimmons and Stone weren't going to let them just whack their buddy and weren't going to buy the excuse. If Danny was going to be completely honest, it was very possible that LeBeau wasn't turned and wouldn't turn on them. Hell, it was even possible that his family wasn't in KGB hands. But no one was taking any chances, and he wasn't one of theirs.

Danny got the feeling this wouldn't be the first. But they had to play out the script.

He nodded to Sullivan, who knew how to handle this best and took a walk around with his pistol tucked away, to make sure they didn't have other visitors. They weren't breaking the pattern, yet, and the idea was to put them at ease. LeBeau trusted Joe the Jew, so Joe the Jew was pulling the trigger on him.

He hated this fucking business. Assassinating other Americans was dirty business, not what he signed on for. But it was apparently necessary, because this guy knew their faces and where they were. If he went home and discovered his family was in KGB hands, he'd give them up. And that couldn't happen.

"Evening," Joe said, exhaling cigarette smoke from his mouth as he spoke. He had the glowing butt of a Marlboro in his beefy left hand and he flicked it away into the dark.

"Joe the Jew," said Mike LeBeau. "What the fuck?"

"I know," replied Joe. "Of all the poorly-lit parking lots in all the towns in all the fucking world, you walk into mine."

Joe and LeBeau knew each other from the Life, always Life with a capital L. That was part of the reason why Joe hung back every time they dealt with LeBeau. Before it was simple enough stuff. You give him cash, you get drugs. A monkey could do it. But tonight rough stuff was in order so Joe was front and center. That was alright with him. The group had been spending the last few weeks working up the nerve to pull the trigger when the time came. For Joe that wouldn't be a problem. It wouldn't be a problem either for the rest of them after their first time. That's something nobody realized about killing. It wasn't that it was too hard; it was too damn easy. They had debated about tonight and if they could do it. It was exactly why Joe took point. Mike LeBeau was a rat. Didn't matter if there was doubt from the others, the people above them said he was a rat. And rats had to be killed. Simple as that.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Serving my country," he said with a grin.

"Strange fucking bedfellows," said LeBeau.

It was true but not without precedent. The Wops worked with the government back during the Big One to cause chaos in Italy and Sicily. Then they worked with the CIA to try to wack Castro. Joe saw himself carrying out the grand tradition of wiseguys coming together to fight America's enemies. Like all mob guys he was a capitalist through and through. The way he saw it, he was gonna whack guys regardless so why not do it for his country?

"So where's the shit, Mike?"

"Where's the money, Joe?"

Joe nodded towards Ben and let out a short bark of a laugh.

"The fucking hayseed over there has your cash."

Ben knew the construction yard they were at. He and his brother made purchases there many years ago; driving dad’s old Ford to make the pick up. He visually inspected the grounds and facilities remembering how there used to be stacks of lumber or bags of concrete and various other sundry items. Ben spat tobacco juice on the ground and continued to chew on the tobacco in his mouth. He had been chewing tobacco for about 15 years. It was a natural habit for him. Not a clean one, but then most of Ben Giguere’s life was unclean.

He hadn’t quite warmed up to this flatlander making this deal with the Canadian, but he joined the Green Mountain Boys and therefore felt obligated to cooperate with him. Ben insisted, he allow his brother, Preston to watch over their business dealings from a distant hill top with his Remington .30-’06. Ben told his brother that if things got bad, he could hit the Canadian and any of his associates if Ben happened to draw his sidearm. Preston seemed to be fine with this job. He’d never killed a man, yet, but had had scored several bucks and a few does over his 31 years on the planet. After all, life as they knew it had changed significantly since the Russians showed up. Ben wasn’t very happy about it.

Ben heard the fucking Hayseed comment and thought, ’Joe the fucking rag bag douche flatlander is a fucking dick.’ He smiled at Joe the fucking rag bag douche flatlander while slightly hefting the sack containing the $25,000 in US Currency. He then shot him hand-formed pistol with his right hand while silently mouthing a 'bang'. ’Asshole.’

Ben had never seen so much money in one place. He grew up on a farm and worked for a railroad. These are not employment opportunities flush with cash. It was a way of life he was comfortable with; it was the only way of life he knew. This transition to an insurgent’s was not much different. He fit in pretty well. It was not much different than when he and his brother went hunting.

As the men talked about their business dealings, Ben remained quiet about thirty yards away. He scanned the pine trees and hills in the back ground looking for his brother. He knew where he was, but he could not see him. He was hidden pretty well; may only about three hundred yards away. Ben was prepared to hand the satchel of money over to the Canadian.

---

Dan had tension in his shoulders, but he walked only a little and didn't want to distract a trio of career criminals who knew that handoffs were the most dangerous part of the job. It was true that they were doing a handoff, and didn't care about the money. It was bait. They'd decided against packing some C-4 into the bag and throwing the switch once these guys were away. They figured to keep it looking covert, like a deal gone bad rather than a sign of legitimate guerrilla activity. Handguns here to reinforce that. They had M-4's and M-16's from national guard and police supplies, cached away for the Day, with a capital D, when they'd start the real running war, but for now they were on handguns.

That made it all more complicated; the explosives would have alerted the KGB for certain that there was activity. They wanted to draw out some investigators to find out which agency, potentially, was interested in LeBeau. So here they were, offing this criminal the hard way, because someone wanted to gather intelligence on the response.

Make hay while the sun shines, he supposed, as he paced through the dusty warehouse. He was wearing a fleece lined flannel vest and a hooded sweatshirt, the better to keep identifiable tattoos covered up nicely. They were reminders of a very different sort of life, more straightforward. He also was wearing a Bruins cap because it concealed him well enough for surveillance cameras. He didn't even want to contemplate what the Russkis would do to the NHL. No one in New England did.

Fitzsimmons was his. He got a good look at the bloodshot blue eyes, the pug nose and dirty-blonde hair kept short. He had a cigarette in hand and was wearing jeans and a leather coat, but he looked rough, like a legbreaker and a thug, not really a guy that was used to using a gun, though he was certainly carrying one. That made a huge difference. Dan didn't gawk at the guy, but he was planning to kill him fast, two to the center mass and then, well, he'd see.

He didn't necessarily like the idea of killing Eamon Fitzsimmons like this, but it was a moot point -- they had orders, distasteful but necessary. But a couple years ago, if people said that it'd be like this, killing people you were doing business with, betraying people on a suspicion for flag and country, he probably wouldn't have believed it and didn't want to necessarily contemplate it now. But here they were, playing the maquisard and doing the ugly stuff. He could feel the sweat gathering in spots, even in a bit of chill in Vermont.

Worse still were the other orders. The ones that said to keep an eye on Joe and decide if he was loyal. They wanted proof, that's why Joe was the triggerman, and he knew that his end of the business was to pop that guy if he failed. Joe wasn't as dumb as the CIA assholes that dreamed this up imagined, he probably knew what was going on here.

Get it or not, he just hoped the guy pulled the trigger.

"So does Billy know you're out here in the woods, playing commando?" LeBeau asked Joe.

One of his guys began to walk towards Ben to take the money at the same time Ben began to walk towards him with the cash. Joe titled his cap -- a grey newsboy-- back on his head at a jaunty angle. To the rest of the group it was the sign to get ready. Ben had just handed the bag to LeBeau's guy, Stone was his name. The two men were already retreating back to their respective sides as if there was an invisible chasm between Joe and LeBeau. There was a tension in the air. More than the usual hand off tension that Joe knew well. As soon as he'd titled his cap, his side had become on edge and he could feel it. He hoped like hell LeBeau and his guys couldn't feel it as well.

"Billy knows," Joe said with a grin. "He knows all about this. He's hard as a fucking rock over it. Billy loves his country. How about you, Mikey? What do you love?"

"Money," said LeBeau. He looked down into the bag and smiled before turning to Joe. "This is what I love."

It was time.

"Of course you do, comrade."

He said it without edge or force. It was just a neutral statement, but LeBeau had recoiled like Joe had slapped him across the face.

"What the fuck did you just say?" asked LeBeau.

Joe went for the pistol tucked into his waistband just as LeBeau and his guys started going for their weapons. Joe pulled out his Beretta, and that's when all hell broke loose.

---

"What the fuck did you just say?" was Dan's signal; he had a smooth draw, weaver-stance and blasted out into Fitzsimmons' center mass. He splattered blood and flesh out the back; 9mm, 147gr hollowpoints. Huge mess exiting. Illegal in wartime, but so was being out of uniform and fighting, and the KGB wasn't exactly strong on distinctions anyway. So they used the most brutal methods in defense of their own country and maybe someday a court would sort it out depending on who won.

The man was crumpling already and he was searching for the next target, with a snarl on his face. The place already smelled like blood and cordite and his shot grouping was probably tight enough that the investigator, if they knew what they were looking at, might well comment on it. But you were in the fight and you didn't worry about making it look deliberately sloppy, or the CIA could send some hitters that could engineer it. They were guerrillas and this was the dirty stuff.

At least he knew he didn't have to off Joe, it was an immense relief; later on, he would try to forget about it.

He was already shuffling his step aside and moving with his pistol in place, looking to line up Stone. The man had to drop the bag and draw the gun and he was already at a huge disadvantage. But Dan was checking his angles, making sure he didn't have Gigger and Joe in the line of fire. So he decided to cover a different angle, keeping a watch on the entrances, keeping it very cool with one of the first essential rules of using a weapon -- make sure of your target. He didn't feel he had a clear shot and wanted to clear it so that Joe or Gigger did get that shot. Three on one was dangerous in that regard, and Danny was able to get out of the way easiest, and take the man down if he decided to do a runner, though it would be Preston that did that guy if he got loose from the warehouse.

Either way, job was getting done and Joe definitely was a Green Mountain Boy now.

Ben handed the bag of money off to the wise guy. He stepped back behind Joe near Dan. He looked up towards the woods. It was a clear line of sight. Then he heard the words he had been keyed up to hear, "What the fuck did you just say?"

Simultaneously, Ben “Gigger” Giguere unholstered his Ruger .44 with Dan, bringing the sights up to engage one of Mike LeBeau’s henchmen. With the revelation of the pistols, Preston Giguere, who was watching from a distant hill, he quickly lined up the crosshairs of his scoped .30-06 on the Canadian and slowly squeezed the trigger. The 180-grain projectile exited the muzzle of the rifle at 2700 feet per second. It closed the 300 meters distance in a fraction of a second striking the man at the neck, penetrating into the opposing shoulder where it could be eventually discovered inside the man’s right pectoral muscle. The projectile severed the carotid artery on the way in causing a six-foot long arterial spurt to paint the ground and anyone standing near him in warm blood.

Mr LeBeau’s face had a contorted pained look on his face as the bullet penetrated the trachea allowing his blood to seep into his lungs. He began to gasp and choke, slowly dropping to his knees as he drowned in his own blood. He spat the blood out upon the ground. He lay still on the ground as the blood oozed out of his mouth and the hole in his neck. His lips quivered from reflex as the life slowly left his corpse.

Ben searched for additional targets, engaging when available. He lowered his stance to a kneeling one aware of where Dan and Joe were at all times. Preston scanned the scene to find anyone attempting to flee the area. He cocked the rifle and engaged anyone who did not remain with Dan, Joe and Ben.

Joe was close enough to LeBeau to see the blood spray, but not close enough to be hit by it. At the same time, Dan made Fitzsimmons into Swiss cheese. That left just Stone, fumbling with both his gun and the cash before deciding neither was worth it. He dropped the loot and started to run like hell towards the car. Joe drew down on Stone and opened up with his Beretta. Joe's bullet struck Stone in the back and made the man fall just as their sniper Preston opened fire.

The shot, that had been aimed for Stone's neck when he was upright, instead hit the falling man in face. The bullet blew the lower half of Stone's mouth off in a spray of blood and pulp that made even Joe, hardened as he was, flinch at its sight.

"Jesus Christ!" Joe said out of surprise.

Stone, on the ground and bleeding out, made a loud gurgling, groaning sound with his throat and continued to reach out towards the car in his death throes. Joe sighed and walked towards the man. He stood above him and aimed his pistol down. Stone tried to say something that Joe could almost make out as please. He didn't know if it was Stone asking Joe to spare him or put him out of his misery.

"Sorry, pal. I only got one option."

Two quick shots to the back of the head stopped Stone's thrashing and groaning. Joe looked up from the dead man to the group.

"What now?"

---

Killing was always messy, but Dan found this a messier sort of killing than anticipated. The familiar coppery smell of blood filled the place, and Joe had questions.

"Nice work," Dan drawled, as he looked over the handiwork. He noted that Joe wasn't a bad shot -at all- if he could get a moving target like that. Good to know. Also good to know that the Giguere brothers didn't fuck around either. "Orders are to leave them there. They wanted it to draw out some investigation and see who was running this guy. What now for us is that we're going into the hills. Not sure of the orders after that."

Sometimes, he felt like a mushroom. Kept in the dark and fed shit. Then again, he didn't tell Joe that he had orders about Joe. It was done, they didn't matter anymore.

There was bound to be surveillance on the guy, but that wasn't his end. That's what they had surveillance wizzes for, like the Korean girl and other specialists. Dan, Joe, Gigger, Preston, they were muscle.

"Anyway, we can always use the medication, stash it away for later and I guess we can keep the money too." That, someone would probably want back. He glanced over to Joe and shrugged, "I mean, is there anything else you usually do in this situation? We want to make it look authentic," though he had unvoiced doubts on that. He holstered his pistol and tried to make sure he wasn't stepping in blood or something ridiculous like that. Fitzsimmons was dead, but he died fast and surprised.

"Think it's worth getting that .30-06 round? That head is a mess. They might not figure out what went on if we grab the round." Then again, they probably would if they brought a full forensics team. Dan was pretty blase about the concept; three guys were dead and he was worrying about what came next. But it was good to have a cool head, right? Perhaps it was a reminder that the east coast establishment guys were the ones that started the CIA.

He also had the feeling that the guys that ordered the hit wanted to draw some Warsaw Pact forces out here, which meant that someone was thinking sneaky.

Goddamnit.

"Three guys are shot to shit," Joe said as he pulled out a cigarette. "Looks pretty goddamn authentic to me."

Joe blew smoke from his nose and looked down at the dead men. "We can do other things to confuse them, too. Lay out the bodies at fucked up angles, cut off a few fingers or a hand or two, shoot their faces off, maybe get some acid and burn off a few..."

He stopped talking when he realized everyone was staring at him with looks that fell somewhere between shock and disgust. He just shrugged.

"What? I'm just offering tips. You want to throw a monkey wrench into things, that's how you do it. We passed one of them thresholds tonight. It's one thing to get together and train and clean guns, another to waste three guys. If Mikey and his guys were KGB informants, then the KGB are gonna be all over this scene and the surround area. The more we slow them down, the better our chances to get away and lay low are."

Ben imagined in his mind he was shooting a deer when he pulled the trigger. He had never killed a human before. The moral dilemma of killing another human hit him shortly after the sounds of gunfire diminished. The adrenaline coursed through his veins. He felt himself breathing heavy; panting. His eyes may have been slightly widened. Then he grew awareness of his expression, his behavior and chose to rein it in. Given his immediate audience it would be wiser to conceal his feelings; put up a poker face. He should deal with the pain later. At least Preston didn’t have to see the carnage this close. He was lucky, even with a scope.

“Shall I dig out the bullet, then?” Ben asked Dan. He holstered his pistol and retrieved his hunting knife. This was a tool he used many times before when field stripping deer. He continued to trick his mind, convincing himself this was a deer and not a human. He could follow the path of the round, given the range and knew roughly where it would come to rest. He quickly estimated it was in the muscle of his chest, on the right-side closer to the armpit. He knew he could find it. He gripped the nine-inch blade and moved toward the corpse. He knelt down in front of the man. He ran his hand over the man's chest and could feel the metallic object. It was jagged and marred; must have struck a bone. The projectile was lower than he expected, but it was there. He dug into the flesh, cutting away at sinews. The projectile was bared and easy to dig out after a few proddings. “We don’t need to give up my brother’s handiwork to the fucking KGB.” Ben retained a cool demeanor not wanting to betray his true feelings. Inside he freaked out; literally screaming inside. The adrenaline was overwhelming. He pocketed the bullet and stepped back behind Dan as he returned the blade to its scabbard after wiping the blood on his trousers.

Several minutes later, Preston walked into the area where Dan, Joe and Gigger stood dealing with the corpses they would leave for the KGB to inspect. Like his brother, Preston remained reticent. The rifle slung over his right shoulder like a hunter fresh out of the woods. His right hand instinctively gripped the sling about chest high. His left hand tucked into a pocket. Upon his head rested a dingy green and yellow baseball cap with the “John Deere” logo imprinted upon the face. His green and black plaid chamois shirt, untucked from a pair of olive drab green cargo pants. The left leg of the trousers was tucked into the top of his tan construction boot while the right pant leg remained down, covering the boot itself.

Preston wanted to ask what they were going to do next, until he saw his brother’s face. Ben gave him that look. The look only a brother would understand. It spoke volumes. He knew they were in over their heads now. It didn’t matter what happened now. They were killers and knew there would be more. He didn’t like it. It was a long path they had meandered along from boyhood until now and they finally stepped over that fine line between killing animals and killing men. He knew there would be more. Oh sadly, there would be many more.

It was true…They were at war.

The handiwork was gruesome, but they did it out of a sense of grim necessity. He kept telling himself, 'homicide, not murder' and Joe was unflappable about the mutilation and moving around of bodies.

"Yeah, let's try to smudge the fingerprints." So hey, he followed Joe's instructions and realized that good guerrilla tactics were good criminal tactics. They were going to be hunted and they were going to need to cover up the tracks, "And let's get working on what Joe said. He's right Sooner we're done, sooner we can get outta here."

He realized that they'd probably have to burn the clothes they were wearing too. It wasn't like he was wearing anything he liked. So while he was mutilating and moving around, he realized that the guy had other good things they could learn, "So Joe, what's the plan if we have to do something like this and the bodies have to disappear? We might wanna start thinking ahead on this."

Wetworks wasn't what he necessarily signed up for, but there they were, neck deep in the sort of war they didn't expect. Once in a while, as they moved the corpses around, he patted one of the two brothers on the shoulder, to reassure them that they were there. Joe, a guy that was a little more reserved about it, with built up defenses, he respected the space of in that sense. Perhaps he needed the reassurance as much as the brothers did, but he didn't equate this to the people that died in that car accident a long time ago, and he'd processed this sort of feeling before.

He was also watching and learning. They'd need to find the tools and kit to saw up bodies and do other things. Lots of plastic, and so forth. They were out in the countryside for a bit, but odds were that they'd be back in town again sooner or later doing something. The population centers were where the people were, and that meant that was going to be where the war was waged, where they'd recruit, where they'd find people. But this act they just did also endangered their community. Killing a Russian informant meant that the Soviets would crack down with reprisals; hell, they might eventually kill civilians for kicks. And the KGB was totally fine with torture. He didn't feel very good about that, but he got down the bile.

"Looks as messed up as messed up can be. We better get out of here. We want them to see the bodies, but we don't want them seeing us or connecting any dots to anyone we know. This is bad enough as it is."

Nari had been perched at a desk staring at her computer screen for the past week, Hye never far from her side. Despite feeling horribly out of place at first among hardened men and tough fighters, she was finding her skillset to come in more useful to the effort than she originally thought. Though they were tucked back deep in the mountains, she had managed to set up connection to her laptop. Tapping phone lines, hacking into low level security systems, and the like were all things she found herself very capable of doing.

In this particular instance, her SUV had come in quite handy. Joe, Dan, Ben, and his brother Preston were doing… Something. They hadn’t really given her too many details, but judging by the way they were armed and the cash, it wasn’t good. Something about a KGB operative. She didn’t ask, she didn’t really want to know. So, she had driven them out to the location given in silence, Hye curled up in the trunk, and parked in the abandoned yard where the trade would be performed. After they had all exited the SUV, Hye immediately jumped into the passenger seat at her side, as she had been instructed to remain in the car. He bumped her arm with a wet black nose and she smiled and reached over to give him a scratch behind the ears, all the while eyeing the scene before her.

For a while, all she could hear was muffled speech and watch the men’s expressions, and no one seemed too happy. However, she hadn’t been expecting what happened next. She watched in wide eyed horror as men started to fall and gunshots rent the air, blood pooling on the dusty earth, the insides of a man’s head now spattered across the ground. The dog at her side began to bark and growl when the shots thundered around the clearing, standing on the worn leather seat with hackles raised. She instinctively reach out and placed a hand on his back, bidding him to hush, unable to tear her gaze away from the scene that had just unfolded before her. It was over as soon as it had started, and now the men seemed to be discussing what was to be done next.

She wasn’t in the business of killing, she didn’t even know how to shoot a gun. With the way things were going as of late, she was positive that would soon change, but for now, she was perfectly content being a driver and staying behind the scenes. There was no way she could take a human life, even if they were an enemy of the US. Better to leave that up to those who could actually pull the trigger, especially after witnessing three men die right before her eyes. The closest thing she had seen to someone actually being killed was on TV, she had never been exposed to this kind of violence until now.

Guess I’ll have to get used to it, she thought to herself, trying to steel her nerves and calm her breathing, turning her attention to the canine now looking to her for comfort, leaning his head toward her with ears pinned back. The last thing she wanted was to be a shaky mess when they piled back in the SUV; she didn’t want to appear weak. There was no telling how long this war would last, and honestly, she just wanted to find her family and make sure they were okay, but for now, it was too dangerous to go back. Hye placed his two front paws on the center console so that she could better reach him, giving him one last pat before pointing at the back of the vehicle with a short command delivered in Korean. He hesitated before obeying, hopping back into the trunk, but resting his chin on the back of the seat so that he could peer into the front. Nari faced forward again and exhaled quietly, both hands on the steering wheel as she waited for the group to return to the car.

They drove along the backwoods trail at a crawl with just the running lights on. The trail had once been a road or something many years ago. Now, it was only two indentations on the ground that corresponded with the width of a car. The forest encircled them from all sides and formed a canopy of greenery above the trail. Dan sat in the shotgun seat while Joe and the Giguere brothers sat in back. Nari's dog Hye sat behind them in the SUV's cargo area. The dog had its head resting on the back seat while Preston slowly rubbed the top of his head.

The group rode in almost complete silence since leaving the three dead men behind. The only real conversation had involved everyone complaining about Joe smoking in the car. He grumbled and cracked a window and kept his cigarette close to the glass to keep the smoke from getting too far into the car. The car radio was down low as it played some kind of Sousa march for the third time over the last two hours. Like all the big radio stations across the country, the ones here in Vermont were subject to heavy censorship and only played a select few songs throughout the day. Those songs and hourly "news" bulletins from Socialist Washington filled up the programming on every major radio station in the United States. All the small stations the Soviets could get to had been shut down.

Joe finished his third cigarette of the drive just as the cabin came into view around the bend. To call it a cabin was being generous. Their base was more like a sophisticated series of lean-tos filled with guns and supplies and held together with nothing but hopes and dreams. Just like its inhabitants. Joe couldn't help but smile at the thought.

The hunting lodge had become somewhat dilapidated over the years. Ben recalled when it looked like a home. He still called it the lodge, regardless of its current state. It was badly in need of repairs.

Ben and Preston’s dad, Paul bought the cabin in the late 1970s. It had two bunk rooms containing four beds each and a smaller room with two beds. Adjacent to the smaller bunk room, was a room with hasp and padlock used to contain firearms, cleaning supplies, ammunition and other necessary equipment for their survival. In the center room was a large oaken table, as the center piece of the room. The back wall housed a massive stone fireplace with windows flanking each side. A wood stove vented into the chimney to the right, used to prepare meals. The kitchen consisted of a small countertop, maybe four feet long by two and a half feet deep and a single basin sink with water fed from an underground well. Kitchen cabinets held various pots and pans as well as other utensils and a small supply of non-perishable foodstuff. A large cooler filled with ice kept what few perishable items cold in a corner.

Ben walked into the center room, pulled open the cooler and retrieved a can of Budweiser Beer. There were only ten cans left. He popped the top and dropped into an oversized stuffed chair that had seen a better day. It was tattered and stained over years of use and neglect. He guzzled the beer down, keeping quiet. Preston placed his rifle on the center table, then retrieved a cleaning kit and rag. He diligently began to clean the bolt and barrel of his Remington bolt action rifle. It was the way, their father taught them; always clean your weapons after you use them.

“Hey Ben!” Preston called over his shoulder. “Finish that beer and clean your pistol.” The younger brother appeared to handle the deaths easier than his 33-year old brother.

Ben glanced at Preston’s back. The 30-year old ran a bore patch through the rifle while closely eye balling the parts. He knew his brother was right. But didn’t he feel the least bit of remorse for what they just did? They had never killed anyone before. Ben was surprised at how well Preston took this. Ben stood up, sucked down the last of the can and tossed it toward the galvanized trash can near the sink. “I’ll get to it later. I need to go take a walk.”

Preston looked up at Ben as he headed for the door. He said nothing, but could tell he wasn’t handling their murders well. He made a mental note to chat with him later about it. But for now, let the man think it over on his own. Preston admitted it was a tragic thing to take a man’s life, but he was able to manage the morality by comparing it to killing deer. Doing the deed from 300 yards did make it easier for him. The distance allowed him to pull the trigger without seeing the man’s eyes or hear his dying sounds.

---

The ride up into the mountains was like a hunting trip. Dan was nowhere near the deer hunters the Giguere brothers were, but he felt a native Vermonter's appreciation for the alpine vista that they were getting a treat to. If the day was crisp, as it turned into day from the night's work, they got the same sort of vistas that one saw in 'The Deer Hunter' -- and that was when he stopped thinking about it, because that was a bad omen.

The radio was blaring a combination of sanitized American patriotic music useful to Soviet purposes, and heavily edited news that was on a scale of reliable to propaganda, was classified BULLSHIT.

That old communist, Che Guevara, who ran Cuba now, had a lot to say, apparently and he was getting plenty of time on the air. Always en vogue before, now those stupid t-shirts were everywhere.

He said it aloud, "Fuck Che."

They pulled into the camp with the cabin and Dan busied himself with camouflaging the truck before going in. Like the brothers, he saw to the maintenance of his glock, though that didn't take much.

He looked around the room and down to his gun -- the glock was useful for what they'd been doing, but it wasn't going to cut it for what was next.

The drug business paid dividends in two respects - they were able to supply medical needs for the resistance cells they were a part of and then they had a booming contact with black market sources. Guns, ammo, equipment were being sold like hotcakes, but a lot of that was easy to obtain and people had gone buying it up in order to sell at a profit. But quality pharmaceuticals, the sort of shit Joe moved through with the help of the rest of the unit, weren't.

Survivalists and preppers tended to get everything they could legally ahead of time and were used to squirreling it away, and that made supplies scarce, but they were never savvy about the drug market. The acquisition of pharmaceutical grade shit was the province of hardened, dangerous criminals that protected their territory.

Never plentiful, and now in higher demand than before, it meant that a little bit diverted aside for survivalists that had too many guns and too much ammo were worrying about what they would do if wounded. The Giguere brothers were juiced in with the back country that way, the sort of militia guys that were sitting on a lot of the ammo. It was a complicated back and forth they were at the center of. But as the middleman, they benefited as a cell.

"Guys, I think it's about to get bad and we need to start breaking out the M-4's and some more of the explosives. Claymores and grenades. We all saw what happened, the heat's gonna be on now." The supply was provided to them by the same pipeline that got them the drugs. They had some M4's.

Gigger walked back into the cabin after contemplating the acts they had just committed. He believed he had resolved his moral issue, but was still in doubt.

His arms now overly burdened with firewood, he dropped several pieces in the wooden bin to the right of the fireplace. He made several trips outside, each time returning with an armload of firewood; most overly seasoned which would burn up quickly. He reserved a few pieces that had only been cut within the past year. Those would be best for overnight when it got cold.

He heard Dan mention breaking out the army guns and the explosives. This cemented the track they were following. He could not turn back. He was in it for good and would probably die in the process. It took several contemplative moments to let Dan’s comments sink in.

Preston reinserted the bolt to his rifle, inspecting the action to make sure it operated properly. He looked at Dan, “mind if I take one apart?” The younger Giguere brother smiled, standing up. He walked to the arms/supply room to deposit his Remington and retrieve an M4. When he returned to the great room, he looked at his brother building a fire. “Hey Ben, clean your pistol!”

“Leave me the fuck alone, Preston!”

“Kiss my ass, butt head,” Preston smiled.

Ben let it go, lighting the fire. He stood up and turned toward Dan. “You know, my dad always kept a generator up here during the fall and winter months. He brought it back to BF in the Spring. This building is wired for electricity, but as you have seen there are no wires or poles for several miles. How about we get a generator and some fuel?” Ben wasn’t going to even talk about WiFi or internet connections. Such a notion had not even entered his mind. Given their location on Google Maps, they would need a Satellite telephone in order to upload anywhere.

“Hey fuck nuts,” Ben yelled at Preston. “Give that God damn cleaning kit.” Ben pulled out his Ruger .44 and opened the cleaning kit. “Why don’t you be useful and hand me one of them beers. I paid for them.” He started cleaning his pistol and took the cold can from his brother. “Yea, you are right about the army stuff. We need to get into that now. I want to check out that Mk-14 we got from those guys.”

Joe chuckled to himself as he heard the brothers bickering. It made him think of his own brothers back in Boston. He had no idea if Connor was still with the BPD. Those that were left in the police force had to be loyal to the Soviets and he would like to think his brother had the stones to tell the Commies where they could stick it.

Danny, on the other hand...

The rest of the group didn't know it but they had heard Joe's brother on the radio two weeks ago. During one of those propaganda segments where they interviewed some of the Quislings in New England. They would always tell the interviewer of the benefits of the new regime and new way of life and how much happier they were in the new America. One of those people interviewed was Daniel Sullivan, now governor of the state of Massachusetts. Joe always knew Danny was the most ambitious of the three brothers, but he had no idea he'd go this far for power. Joe's anger rose and rose with every piece of bullshit Danny dropped in the interview. He did his best to mask his anger and hoped like hell nobody looked his way. There was no way in hell anyone in the group could connect him to Danny. In Boston you could spit and hit some fucker with the last name Sullivan.

Joe took his Beretta out of his waistband and plopped it down on the cot that he called his bed. Dan was calling to break out the M4's and Joe had to grimace at that though. When it came to things like handguns and shotguns Joe could hold his own with the Giguere brothers no problem. But in the area of rifles and automatic weapons he was sorely lacking. The training they'd underwent went a long way to making him more comfortable with an M4, but he still felt awkward with it.

"Wish we could find one of them automatic shotguns," Joe muttered as he lit up a cigarette. "I could wipe the floor with Ivan if I had one of those."

"We oughta take all the ones we're gonna use apart, Preston, and help yourself" Dan replied with a grin and a shrug. He was a believer in checking weapons and the entire group knew it, but he also knew that Preston knew his way around guns and would figure out what he liked "and then we gotta sight in any of the ones we're gonna put scopes on. Good thing your buddy threw in the laser."

Dan was stripped down to his short sleeves and a pair of jeans in the cabin, and while there were only ten cans left, he wanted at least one while he did the work. He had the oil, the cloth and the other tools handy, including the screws, tape and so forth to work with the weapons. Dan had tattoos up and down his arms, starting at wrist and going all the way up, notably a vivid one of an angel with a sword on the right arm. He'd never explained how the son of a Vermont senator got all that ink, and he didn't say much about the past. But he knew the weapons, the explosives, the heavier stuff. Until now, Dan had been one of the less utilized guys, backing up Joe or Gigger in their dealings, learning and watching as those guys took the lead and worked their relatiionships. Now, it was shifting...

The M4A1. This one still was brand new, finish intact and came out of a case that a guy out in the Northeast Highlands, a friend of the Gigueres knew. A national guard type that needed some morphine for whatever reason -- no one asked questions. The gun nut buddy was fine with letting them zero on the range and Dan insisted on doing it. Unzeroed weapons were far less effective. He selected a couple more for Nari and Joe. The Special Forces guys provided familiarization with the weaponry and other items, along with interesting courses on the handlng of explosives.

Other horse trades got them some optics and other accessories, magazines and load bearing equipment. He'd also grabbed some ski masks, because those were going to be necessary.

"There's a pump action in there, Joe." Dan lit his own cigarette, even as he went to work on adding accessories. Mostly, he was concerned with the scope, paracord and a sling, and other things. The way the rifles were today, there was no sense not putting one of these new sights on gun...

A couple hours later, the decision to start breaking out the weaponry ahead of any concrete orders was vindicated. Their burner rang just as Dan was making sure things were being put away in places where they could get to the equipment as necessary, stored after being broken out from the sort of deep storage they had all the gear in before.

It was Morse and Park, green berets, the guys running the Green Mountain Boys. Training, command, control, intelligence, orders. They were calling to make sure they wouldn't get shot at as they came in, and if they were coming in person, it meant they wanted to talk about something important.

Though they'd probably want some of the beer too. The Giguere boys were starting to get antsy about their supply, they might have to devote resources to homebrewing for morale and trading.

Both men wore blue jeans, construction boots, plaid shirts and Carhartt jackets. Brian’s was black and Tyus’ was tan. Tyus wore a black wool watch cap, while Brian wore his Boston Red Sox baseball cap.

They did not have a vehicle at the moment, spending time walking through the Vermont mountains. It was difficult work, walking, but something both men were accustomed to. It still made them tired. “Mr. Douglas says it is OK to come visit.” Master Sergeant Morse uttered to his partner.

“Roger that, Chief,” Brian responded to his team chief. He did a map check and GPS check. “We are only a click away from their cabin. I got point.” Brian trotted ahead of MSG Morse, pulling his .45 out of its holster. He had no need for the weapon and it was probably more out of habit than anything else. He knew they were heading to meet friendlies, but you never knew who they might run into in these woods…or what.

Without skipping a beat, Master Sergeant Morse unholstered his Sig Sauer handgun. He quickly followed his newly acquired compatriot. They had been together less than a month and the two were still getting used to each other. This particular operation reminded him more of his time spent in Delta than with a Group.