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  Shadow Patriots

  Book One

  Warren Ray

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2013 by Warren Ray

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

  Chapter 1

  Bloomington Iowa

  The pastor whispered a sermon to his flock. The congregation was small—only twenty-one dared show up tonight. They were older, and some couldn't hear the pastor, but they didn't care. They were there to enjoy the fellowship and to pray.

  They shouldn't have been there, but it had been weeks since they came together to worship. The Black Shirts had warned them not to come. And they hadn't. For weeks they hadn't, but they needed to join together. So, they took a chance.

  They had prepared—readied the place by covering all the windows so light couldn't escape. The small congregation came in through the backdoors separately under cover of darkness.

  It was an old church full of oak timber. The late winter winds pushed the wood joints, popping them like a firecracker, which echoed through the high ceilings.

  With each pop, the small congregation froze, and the pastor stopped whispering. Their nerves were wound tighter than a coiled spring.

  All had experienced what the mob could do. Some had their businesses burned down. Others were intimidated in their own neighborhoods in the middle of the night. Broken windows, spotlights blaring through their windows, yelling throughout the night.

  A few citizens tried to push back, but the mob had overwhelming numbers. They were either beaten up or had their houses set on fire a few nights later.

  The police wouldn’t stop them—allowing the Black Shirts antics to grow bolder and bolder. For two months, this had been going on, and there didn't seem to be an end to it.

  The lit candles provided the only light. It gave a soothing atmosphere as the flames danced around from the drafty windows.

  The pastor asked the congregation to sing a hymn. He chose “I Need Thee.” They sang in whispers, not daring to be loud.

  A bang echoed through the tall ceiling. The singing stopped. Was it the old timbers?

  Another bang followed by one more answered their question.

  The Black Shirts were here.

  Heart rates increased, and shaky hands reached out to grab a loved one.

  Three middle-aged men stood. They were the youngest and were armed with pistols. Bob Cook hightailed it to the front door. He peered around the corner. A small crowd was standing at the bottom of the concrete stairs while one was at the door with a sledge hammer.

  Cook ran to a side room and closed the door. He lifted the blackout curtain. The Black Shirts were everywhere. He tried in vain not to swear but failed. By his quick count, there were around fifty of them.

  All wore masks and helmets—some held clubs. There was no telling how many were male or female. Not that it mattered because they all acted the same. It was easy when you had the numbers.

  Cook ran back to the frightened congregation and told them the news.

  The lone figure at the door continued to use the sledge hammer. The shatterproof glass was being tested. Was it worth the added expense?

  They huddled together in hopes the mob would disappear in the night. After a few more bangs on the door—it stopped. Had they given up? Had they been delivered from this evil?

  Everyone remained silent. Even the old timbers kept their peace.

  But something was wrong. Everyone felt it. Hand grips tightened.

  And then, all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 2

  Bricks busted through four separate windows, followed by torches lighting the carpet on fire. Bull horns came alive, calling the parishioners Nazis, white supremacist, fascist and racist. It was the usual. Their list of grievances was never-ending and ever-changing. There was no winning in their game.

  “We need to leave now,” said Cook.

  It wouldn't take long before the flames fully engulfed the old church. The fire had already started eating the wooden pews, and flames climbed the walls. Soon the old timbers would be creaking till they were no more.

  “I'll lead through the back. Joe, you and Rick bring up the rear. Everyone, stay together.”

  Cook led them to a back exit. He unlocked the door and pulled it open. The mob was there waiting for them. Mob was a bit of a misnomer. Typically, mobs weren't organized. The Black Shirts were organized and had been trained. They were quite good at what they did.

  It didn't take but twenty seconds before the whole mob was in front of them. Cook just had to push through them. Run the gauntlet of mockery. If they were lucky—that would be it. They could go home, and the mob could watch the bonfire.

  Cook could take the verbal abuse and spit. It was the shoving and pushing that concerned him, not for himself but the older ones. Some were in their seventies and would fall easily.

  A big young man blocked his path. He pushed Cook. “You racist pig. You thought you were safe.”

  He pushed him again. Cook had his limits, and he wasn't there yet. Secured inside his jacket was his Glock. He didn't want to pull it. Not if he didn't have to. Once he did, then they would respond in kind. Not everyone in the mob was gunned up, but some were. Pulling a gun was a last resort, especially with this many people in tow.

  “Get 'em,” yelled someone from the back of the line. “He's got a gun.”

  Cook heard it and figured Joe or Rick pulled their piece. One of them panicked. It was a bad move. He knew what was coming next. He had but a second to grab the Glock. He reached inside his jacket as the first gunshot rang in the air. All at once, everyone, including the mob, ducked for cover.

  Cook looked back.

  Joe was dead, and a Black Shirt hovered over him, laughing. Rick stumbled to the ground and scrambled back to his feet. He pulled his gun but was cut down by multiple shooters. His wife screamed while holding half of her husband's head in her lap. They silenced Rick's wife next.

  Everyone took off in different directions. It was every man and woman for themselves. This is what the mob aspired to do. They were like jackals looking for the weakest member to run down. Their strength was in their numbers, and they had plenty of numbers.

  Cook pulled out his Glock but kept it hidden as he took off. There was no one left to protect, and he was on his own. Gunfire echoed in the air—more deaths.

  He ran across the parking lot with several Black Shirts on his tail. They couldn't have been gunned up. Otherwise, they would have shot him by now.

  He ran down the street and dared to glance back. They were four of them. He decided to become his own jackal. He kept running, leading them away from the main pack. He struggled for air, and pains shot through his stomach.

  He hit an empty parking lot and turned the corner of a building.

  He doubled over gasping for air, but he had succeeded. The four were still coming. He waited until there was no turning back for them and nowhere to go.

  Another few seconds.

  He fought to control his breathing. To calm down.

  Get them closer. Easier shots.

  Now.

  He flipped around the corner, pointing the Glock 17 at his first victim. He'd been practicing his stance and aim over the last few months. He thought he was good but was never sure—never under pressure.

  He squeezed the trigger. The round punched the black-clad man in the chest and dropped him. He didn't wait to see the result and fired again at the second and third. Both rounds hit square in the chest. It was where he'd been aiming. He had gotten good. The fourth victim froze with huge eyes.

  It was a female, and she held up a plastic shield.

  Cook should take pity on her. She was all alone. He gave her a second thought but remembered Rick's wife holding her husband's blown-out head before getting shot herself.

  Screw her—she shouldn't have been here. He pulled the trigger. The round penetrated the plastic shield and hit her in the stomach.

  She fell to the ground crying in pain. She begged. She pleaded. Cook didn't care. He no longer cared. They had pushed him past his limit. He aimed at her forehead and put her out of her misery.

  Chapter 3

  Sabine Iowa

  A strong wind forced Cole Winters to pull his hat down and close his windbreaker. He was finishing up a power walk on an overcast gray morning and had four more blocks to his home. At fifty-two, walking was easy on the knees while still getting some exercise. He needed it because he carried excessive belly fat. He didn't drink beer but had indulged in too many vending machine snacks over the years. He stood a couple of inches under six feet with narrow shoulders and thinning salt and pepper hair.

  Screams up the block got his attention. It was a combination of screaming, crying, and outright demands. From a distance, it appeared to be nothing more than an argument between a couple. Were they married or dating? Didn't matter. Better to stay out of it. No telling what he might do. Anger clouded the mind making rash decisions that usually ended in violence.

  Winters moved across the street to avoid them. As he got closer, the dynamics changed. This wasn't an old married couple. The brute was much older than she was. A few neighbors came to the window to see what all the commotion was.

  No one wanted to get involved. That was the problem these days. Apathy.
Having empathy took a lot of effort and risk these days. Better to mind your own business.

  The closer Winters got, the more he realized how young the girl was.

  She was a teenager—maybe fifteen or sixteen.

  Was this bruiser her father?

  If that was the case, it was better to stay out of a family dispute. The girl probably did something to deserve it and needed to be punished.

  He kept walking. This wasn't his circus. He kept his eye on them as he moved past them. Her words between screams were audible now.

  “Let me go. You lied to me. You owe me food.”

  Bruiser had her by the arm as she tried to pull away.

  Eyes forward as Winters picked up the pace to get away, but Bruiser made an odd move. It didn't fit the father-daughter scenario he had assumed.

  He had pulled the girl to him and started grabbing her breast.

  She wasn't his daughter.

  Winters wanted to keep walking but couldn't. He stopped in mid-stride and turned toward them. Without thinking, he yelled out. “Hey, leave her alone.”

  Bruiser looked over with a surprised expression, but it turned sour.

  Winters’ pulse increased. Why the hell did I just do that?

  “Mind your own damn business, or I'll come over there and beat the hell out of you.”

  Winters couldn't move. He wanted to but couldn't leave the defenseless girl. She was just a kid. He hadn't been in a fight since high school, which was over thirty years ago. Even then, he'd always get his butt kicked in.

  Bruiser dragged the girl over to him. “Whatcha gonna do, pal? Huh?”

  What the hell am I going to do now? Winters didn't move. He didn't have a first move, so he kept his ground.

  “You gonna do something or not? If not, then keep on walking,” said Bruiser pointing his finger down the street.

  The girl was breathing in quick rapid gasps. Her eyes were afraid and tired with bags under them as if she'd been up all night.

  “Not until you let go of her,” said Winters in a firm tone.

  Bruiser turned to walk away but jerked back around with a haymaker.

  The blow connected to Winters’ face making him lose his balance.

  A fleeting memory of the last fight he was in flashed by him. He regretted not standing up to them then. He wouldn't regret this one. He regained his footing and charged the man. All three of them fell to the ground in a pile. The girl landed on her back and rolled over. She got up and ran away.

  Winters landed on top of Bruiser and swung a couple of times before the man pushed him off. He got to his feet with his fist ready.

  Bruiser was quick and moved in. He landed a couple of jabs. The blows stung but not as bad as the next one to the stomach. It knocked the air out of Winters, and he went down.

  Bruiser tried kicking Winters, but he rolled away and kept going.

  A couple of neighbors mustered the courage to come outside and started yelling at the man. It distracted him enough to throw his hands up and walk away.

  Winters got to his knees, struggling to catch his breath. It wasn't the best performance, but the girl got away, and that's all he wanted.

  An older man came over and picked Winters' ballcap off the ground. “You alright, Cole?”

  “Yeah, I'll be fine, Mr. Jansen,” said Winters putting his hat back on.

  “You did good, Cole,” said Jansen.

  “Who was that guy?” asked Winters

  Jansen shook his head. “Never seen him before. I don't even know who the girl was. What was she even doing with him?”

  “No telling. She was saying something about food. He lied to her about something or other. I couldn't say what it was.”

  “Food, hell, that's on everybody's mind. She's lucky you happened by. We need more men like you around here.”

  “What? To get their butts kicked in,” smirked Winters.

  “Oh, you know what I mean. You did right by her, and that's all that matters.”

  “I suppose,” said Winters arching his back.

  He walked home and, once there, headed to the sink. He splashed cold water on his face to alleviate the pain. He patted the towel to dry off. The pain was a reminder of why he didn't like getting into fights in high school. The physical pain was one thing, but the emotional pain was something that lingered.

  He shook his head and laughed to himself. The man hadn't inflicted any emotional pain. If anything, it boosted his ego because the girl had escaped masking any pain. It even blocked the sorrow of his wife's passing for a time.

  It happened a month ago. Cancer came quick and took Ellie within six weeks. She didn't suffer too much, which had been a blessing if you needed to come up with one.

  Winters was surprised he hadn't thought about Ellie the whole way home. Usually, it was all he did. Living alone with not much to do was not conducive when trying to get over a loss. They'd been married for thirty years and had one daughter who had moved away a year ago. It hadn't been easy, but today's event had shed some light on what he needed to do.

  Keep busy.

  Chapter 4

  Winters didn't hear the banging on the front door. He was in the backyard, gathering tree branches off the lawn. Spring was late this year, and the winds had knocked down quite a few branches. He lived in a tree-covered neighborhood, so there was always something to do between the branches and the leaves.

  “Hey.”

  Winters turned to see his best friend Paul Kendrick walking out the back door. He had known Paul since grade school and worked at the same factory during their careers. The factory, like most businesses across the country, was closed down. Paul had run the office while Cole kept the books for the company.

  “Come to help?” asked Winters.

  “Looks like you're about done. Oh, that does look good.”

  “The lawn?”

  “No. That nice little bruising action on your face. I heard what happen the other day.”

  “Yeah, that. Not one of my better moments.”

  “That isn't what Mr. Jansen said. He said you saved a damsel in distress.”

  “Mr. Jansen has a vivid imagination. The damsel did get away, but other than that, I got beat. And had the neighbors not come out, it would have been worse.”

  “Still, it was pretty badass standing up to him.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Oh, Cole, you never give yourself enough credit for anything.”

  “Well, I was pretty scared and wasn't thinking clearly. It just kinda happened.”

  “Which says everything.”

  “I'm not even sure where that came from. One moment, I'm just trying to move on by them, and the next thing I know, I'm yelling at this maniac. It was like this other person had taken over my mind. It was pretty weird cause he didn't stay too long. After the girl took off, I was back to being myself and suffering the reality of the situation.”

  Paul laughed. “Poltergeist possession. I'm sure of it.”

  “Right. Maybe I need to go see Father McCormick at Saint Patrick's and get an exorcism.”

  “Nah, you're already righteous enough. Besides, it might come in handy again. You never know.”

  “One beating is enough for another thirty-five years.”

  “Thirty-five years? It's been that long?”

  “Senior year. Remember that little rumble after the football game?”

  “Oh, hell yeah. Man, those were the days. Thirty-five years. Damn, time does fly.”

  “So, what's going on? I know you didn't ride your bike all the way here for nothing.”

  “You hear about what happened over in Bloomington?”

  “No.”

  “Black Shirts showed up at a church and ended up killing a bunch of old people.”

  “Not again. How many?”

  “Nine.”

  Winters shook his head.

  “From what I know, a few others suffered wounds but will be alright.”

  “Weren't they armed?”

  “Three were, but only one survived. He took out four of them.”

  “I'm surprised they even went to church.”

  “It was a secret meeting at night. They had blacked out all the windows, but somehow the Black Shirts found out. Things have gotten out of hand over there, so we're forming a militia to take care of it.”