Resistance

                                    

                                          
Part Two: Resistance
                          
 Take arms, Lieutenant. Since our initial victory at Unity Tower, our grand war against the Global Union has struggled with its dying breaths. Despite all our efforts and achievements, despite all the good people we’ve lost for our cause, the Texans choose to remain blissfully ignorant of our presence and our power. So we will demonstrate that power to them tonight. You know what must be done; take your best men to Global Headquarters Tower and make it happen.
                          
 Remember our battle cry, Lieutenant. Let it fill the hearts of your men with transcendent pride and glorious retribution.
                          
 Two eyes for an eye. A jaw for a tooth.
                          
 Lieutenant Briscoe didn’t need to tell it to his men; they all heard. The transmission played in the comm receivers in their ears. Edwin Briscoe and his four warrior brethren, clad in damage resistant full-body Texas Army combat uniforms, were waiting patiently for this particular transmission.
                          
 All five men were in completely separate locations on the hundred-sixth floor of the Global Tower when they received it. The plan had been rehearsed beyond count, and each man knew exactly what to do.
                          
 The Wardens Headquarters of the Global Tower was dark and empty. It was three in the morning on a Sunday; this was expected, and their plan relied on it. No one was there to discover any of the five demolition sites before they detonated.
                          
 Briscoe peered through the darkness at the bundle of wires attached to the fat wad of plastic explosives. He was not the technical expert of his squad (that was Martin), but he had plenty experience setting bombs to blow. It had become something of a hobby for Briscoe; the blinding, deafening blast would be the catharsis to the tension of breaking and entering into a government building. It would be much needed.
                          
 “I’m done,” Briscoe whispered into his collar; he wore a maintenance outfit, unlike the conspicuous desert-camouflaged battle fatigues his comrades wore. Ed rose to his feet and turned towards the exit. “I’ll be at the rendezvous when—…”
                          
 His words trailed off and he froze. In the nigh-on impenetrable shadows of the utility room, a broad figure filled the doorway. A cold mist fell over the room.
                          
 Briscoe was wordless. The man was silhouetted and Ed could not make out his identity. However, this man was not a defector; that much was clear.
                          
 “Drop your weapon,” the figure barked, loud and authoritative. He held his hand out in the darkness, fixed on Briscoe. “Do it now.”
                          
 Briscoe eyed the man; his voice was eerily calm considering the circumstances. Perhaps the man, cop or Warden or whatever, was not yet aware of Briscoe’s intent.
                          
 “I don’t have one,” he replied warily, only half-lying. There was no gun in his hands, at least.
                          
 “I said, drop it,” the broad figure said sharply. “Drop the fucking weapon you’re hiding. Do it now.”
                          
 “I said,” Briscoe started angrily, taking a step towards the intruder. He realized suddenly that he had to act – now.
                          
 But before he finished his sentence, there was a blinding flash and a deafening blast. Briscoe ducked and covered his head.
                          
 “Warning shot,” the intruder grunted. “You have three seconds. Drop it now or the next one won’t be.”
                          
 So he’s a Warden, Briscoe thought, not a cop. Cops can’t just open fire on people like that. But Wardens can. Besides, no policeman is that unorthodox.
                          
 “Chill, man!” Briscoe cried. “Shit! I don’t have a fuckin’ piece! Do you have any idea what I’m doing here?”
                          
 “No,” the Warden responded, his pistol still fixed on Briscoe. “But I have a pretty good assumption. I know who you are; I remember you. I gave you the chance to surrender.”