Chapter 2

"The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me."

- Ayn Rand

"This is Kim Stevens for BNN. As we are all aware, the last 48 hours have been quite confusing, and in some cases downright terrifying. Conflicting reports have emerged from various sources, but a picture has begun to emerge prior to the events in Times Square yesterday evening. At 8:00 PM, all of Times Square went completely dark. As could be expected, there was a large degree of chaos that occurred as a result of the power outage. Many people on the scene were able to capture some of the details with video cameras on their mobile devices, and we currently have a video that was shot by James Milton, which he has provided to BNN. Let's watch here."

The omnipresent screen over her right shoulder changed to a shaky video with large, shadowy shapes milling about, punctuated by loud unidentifiable noises. The screen expanded to fill the entire screen as the anchor continued to narrate.

"As you can see, there is some definite confusion at the outage, but if we wait just a moment ... there we are. A bright greenish light appears at One Times Square, on the central billboard. Watch as the light progresses across the length of the screen, and as you can tell, most of the noise has stopped. The light continues down the entire bank of digital screens, then writing begins to occur. It slowly reveals letters spelling out the word 'LEGION', and gives a time of 0800 EST."

The screen reset itself back to its original position, bringing the anchor back into the frame. With a serious frown, she continued, as the screen changed to a greenish graphic that the BNN producers had developed, spelling out LEGION in a jagged, semi-gothic script. Kim thought it was ludicrous, but one didn't speak out too harshly if one wanted to keep the anchor seat.

"Power was restored a short time later, though the message remained. A large number of people began to gather in Times Square, and their numbers remained constant throughout the cold New York night. Our reporters were on scene, and were able to interview a number of the watchers."

The screen changed yet again, but did not zoom in, leaving Kim in the picture holding her frown.

"This is BNN Correspondent Randy Grimes, on site in Times Square, and we've been getting some reaction from the people who have arrived to wait until 8:00 to see what might happen. Unsurprisingly, the reaction was quite mixed. We were able to speak to quite a few people who seemed to believe that there was an event of religious significance occurring, as well as number who were calling this a sign of doomsday. Amidst the more extreme opinions were people who were just curious, and wanted to be a part of whatever might occur. The one constant was that nobody really seemed to know what to expect come 8:00. Back to you."

Kim couldn't help but grind her teeth a little. The damn production staff had butchered the entire video ... Kim had seen all of the footage, and there were many better choices, including some very compelling interviews. Ah well, the show must go on, she thought.

"Then this morning, at 8:00, the Square went dark again. With it being daylight, however, there was no panic associated with it. Municipal authorities, by the way, still have no answers as to how either blackout was effected. Shortly after the second one began, the billboard changed once again, listing what appeared to be a manifesto of sorts for the group apparently referring to itself as Legion. Our analysts here at BNN have determined that the contents of their statement should not be aired at this time, for fear that it contains coded information that other militants might use to their own ends."

"Since that time, the people in the crowded square seem to be quite divided. A number of arguments and fights have broken out to this point, and there seems to be a sharp edge dividing those who are identifying themselves as pro-Legion and anti-Legion. Police presence has been stepped up in the area, and people are being told to leave the area, in an attempt to quell any possible violent actions. We have been unable to get any official comment from Washington at this point, but rumors are that we will be receiving an address shortly from the White House."

Brad Dixon had watched the whole thing on a small TV set in the corner of his office, his long frame perched atop a high stool, and his bare feet on top of a convenient file cabinet. He let out a snort of disgust at the conclusion of the report and turned his head, staring at a large LCD screen which was currently displaying the entirety of the Legion message. Despite the ignorance, and arrogance, of BNN and the other networks, the message had flown across the internet faster than imaginable. Any number of websites and message boards were already screaming about it, each person determined that they should have their viewpoints heard, preferably in the largest font possible.

Brad considered the language of the statement for a long minute, then made up his mind. He took his feet off the cabinet and spun his chair to let him face a large drafting table, festooned with various sticky notes, three pencil-holders, a variety of notepads, three different sized keyboards, and seven flatscreen monitors. It was organized chaos, but that's the way he liked it. He grabbed the smallest of the keyboards and pulled it close, beginning to type. After a few minutes of lightning-quick keystrokes, he lifted his right hand, with a curious ring around his middle finger, and tilted it left, then right, then flicked it upwards. The closest of the flatscreen monitors replied with 'MAIL SENT'. Brad shoved the keyboard away once more and reached for a different one. Three of the other screens began to show signs of rapid activity as Brad once more began to type.

Agent Rice was not pleased. Before the Legion message had even finished displaying in Times Square, his phone had gone off. He was about to ignore it, but then saw the number. He excused himself, stepped out of Ellis Rhodes's office, and took the call. Within thirty seconds, he was poking his head back in to inform Martin and Lieutenant Rhodes that he had to leave, and to give his condolences to Martin. After that, he had hurried from the building, using his earpiece to communicate with the other four members of his team that they were being recalled back to Quantico immediately, if not sooner. Within thirty minutes they were in the air, none of them sure what to expect.

The one thing that Agent Rice did NOT expect was Walter Bradford, the head of the CIA, and Vincent Taylor, the Vice President, waiting for him in his office. There was one Secret Service man present, but other than that, they were alone. Agent Rice had shut the door very carefully behind him, trying to get a read on the situation.

"Agent David Rice, my name is Walter Bradford, and I'm sure you know Vice President Taylor here."

The man had stood as he spoke, holding out a hand for Rice to shake. Rice did so, then shook the Vice President's hand in turn.

"Of course, Sir. How do you both do. Can I ask what this is about?"

The men exchanged a look, then Bradford spoke again.

"Agent Rice, I'll cut to the chase here. We need someone to take control of a Legion-based cross-departmental task force. We've asked around, and your name keeps coming up."

"My name, sir?"

"Indeed, and don't act so surprised. You've been a Senior Investigator for, what, seventeen years now? You've been the point on numerous task forces, and have a personnel sheet full of commendations."

"Eighteen years, actually, sir."

Bradford grinned at him.

"There, you see? We've got a situation here that needs someone willing and able to take quick action. That, in this instance, would be you."

Rice closed his eyes for a moment, thinking quickly. After a moment, he opened them and gave a furtive smile.

"Very well. I'll do it."

"A moment, Agent Rice," the Vice President said, leaning forward. His face was much sterner than Bradford's, and his tone was low and tense.

"Before we go any further, I'm afraid I have to ask you a serious question."

"And what would that be," Rice said, not liking the tone of the man.

"Where do you stand with this whole Legion nonsense? What are your thoughts about it, and where do your loyalties lie?"

Rice raised one eyebrow at the questions, then responded in a careful, measured tone.

"Obviously, Sir, they're nothing more than well-organized vigilantes. They're domestic terrorists, to use a tired term. No man is above this country, and this country was founded on freedoms and rights that this Legion seems to have disregarded to advance their own agenda. We will find them and bring them to justice, Sir."

There was silence for a long moment, and Rice and the Vice President locked eyes, until Vincent nodded, ever so slightly, and stood. He nodded to the SS man and left without another word.

Martin was beyond exhausted, and felt like he was starting to hallucinate. He itched, and was desperately in need of a long, hot shower, followed up by around eighteen hours of sleep. He was slumped in a chair in Lieutenant Rhodes' office, reeling from the telecast of the Legion's coming-out message. He wasn't able to put a finger on how he felt about it, and looked to the Lieutenant for some sort of clue about how to act. Lieutenant Rhodes, for his part, was staring at the television like some sort of beached catfish.

"Hey man, are you OK?"

The Lieutenant took a long, deep breath, then blew it out again as he looked over at Martin.

"It's been a hell of a day ... well, and a night too, I guess. This is some crazy shit, isn't it?" he asked, nodding his head toward the television.

Martin nodded, then lowered his head to his hands.

"Look, I came here because I wanted to know what you were doing to find the sonuvabitch who killed my brother. But I guess all the mystery went out of that in the last few minutes."

Lieutenant Rhodes chuckled at that, and Martin felt a giggle rising in his own throat. The men eyed each other, both twitching with restrained laughter, then they both burst out into long, semi-hysterical laughter. The lieutenant leaned back in his chair, large tears rolling down his cheek as he brayed his laughter. Martin laughed so hard he gave himself the hiccups, which made the two of them laugh that much longer.

Martin wasn't sure when the switch happened, but the next thing he knew he was sobbing so hard his stomach was cramping from the effort. It took the lieutenant almost a full minute to realize the change.

There had been a long, intense discussion about where the address should be filmed. The President favored the Oval Office, but his press liaison had argued hard for the steps of the Capitol Building. In the end, the President had won out, and credentials had been issued. The Secret Service locked down the building, then swept the entire area before the address began. While they did this, the President took some time to get a quick shower and a shave, and pick out an appropriately grey suit, with a red power tie. Subdued and constant, not backing down, he thought as he looked at himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom.

With fifteen minutes until airtime, the President was seated in his chair in the Oval Office, reading the speech which had been prepared for him. His primary speechwriter was in London at the moment, travelling with the Secretary of State, but had been prompt with putting this together. The President was scrawling notes in the margins where he saw a need for appropriate facial expressions and tones. He was a practiced hand at this sort of thing, and the cameras loved him for it.

With five minutes to air, the President had makeup applied and then sat still behind the desk as lighting was tweaked for maximum effect. Three large cameras were less than four feet from the desk, pointed directly at his face from three different angles. A single producer was off to one side, looking at a bank of three small monitors. She would call out switches of the feed, showing whichever camera best grabbed the emotion they were trying to convey.

When it closed to within a minute of going live, the room was called to silence. The producer counted down every ten seconds, going silent for the last ten, and when zero had been reached, she pointed at the President, who looked directly into the center camera, put on his most sincere look, and began to read from the teleprompter.

"My fellow Americans, a terrible series of tragedies has struck our great nation. A vigilante terrorist organization has organized a series of strikes against American Citizens without provocation. They have used a number of methods, but the results have been universally constant: the death of innocents. This can not, and will not, be tolerated.

This group appears to have appointed itself as some sort of execution squad, passing judgement on individuals, and carrying out a death sentence at their own whims. I am reminded of other groups in other periods of history who had similar goals and methods. They all have one thing in common; They were brought to swift, certain justice.

Justice seems to be a word that this group would like to warp to their own interests, for their own purposes. They hide behind their warped interpretation of it, rationalizing their own agenda with pretty words. The truth of the matter is this: These individuals are killers. They are murderers. That is both the beginning and the end of it. And I can assure all of you watching, and the group themselves; we know how to deal with murderers. We know how to handle killers. They will be brought to justice.

A task force is even now being assembled, with the primary focus of locating this group of terrorists and making them pay for their crimes. And make no mistake about it ... these are crimes. This group has denied American Citizens of their rights and privileges, as residents of this great country. They have made a mockery of the very rights and freedoms that our men and women have fought and died for.

My fellow Americans, this will not stand. This will not go unanswered. This will not go unpunished. This group will be forced to answer for these horrific acts. They will be brought to justice."

Gabe was sweating, but he couldn't say if it was the stress, the temperature, or the heroin. He was kneeling in the hot sun atop a large building in Chicago, squinting through binoculars at a grassy area a little over a block away. He licked his lips over and over, a nervous habit, and shifted his weight. He longed to take off the coat, but it was important, so it stayed on. If it stunk a little bit when he returned it, well, he couldn't be blamed for that.

When Gabe saw the slow procession coming around the corner, he dropped the binoculars into a pouch on his hip and dropped to one knee. He picked up the rifle at his feet and placed it onto the pre-set tripod. He looked through the sights, rocking back and forth until the crosshairs were where he liked them, and waited. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, like it was making some sort of squishing sensation all over his body. He grinned like a maniac, but was able to remain perfectly still.