John- United Human Faction- Day 1
John had been waiting for this day since he had joined three years before. The United Human Faction had claimed again and again that they would create a new America, and he bought in again and again. He had dismantled mobs, gangs, and even corporations, but nothing compared to this. Richard didn’t truly understand, the fanatics never really do. That day would be the start of something he had been preparing for since he had returned from his service in Vietnam. He pulled out his pistol, and readied himself for the start of his new life.
“Are you ready for this?” John asked his partner as he checked his magazine. He chuckled and said, “Never thought I’d be breaking into my own motel.”
Richard wasn’t laughing. The young marksman was too ready, and it disturbed John. The smile left his face as he wedged his US identification into the bolt. He knew his own hotel's safety violations.
“I kick in three,” he whispered.
The Senator on the other side stood and faced the door, folding his hands behind his back in preparation for the inevitable. With a sickening crack, the door caved in. A yell and a punch started the Second American Revolution. 12:00 noon, Western Standard time, just as planned.
“I wasn’t struggling, you idiots,” said the Senator as he slowly got up off the floor.
“You stay down!” screamed Richard, drawing his revolver.
“Watch it,” said John, then looking down at their victim, “You don’t seem too surprised to see us.”
“How could I? Your boss has been sending me death threats for five years now. I knew this day was coming. The real question is, did you?” the Senator responded.
“Five years? Who’s the one you’ve been in contact with?”
“Charlie. That is his name, whatever he may tell you.”
“Charlie of the United Human Faction has been contacting you?” Richard asked, not understanding what he had just heard.
The Senator was taken aback, but only for a second. Regaining his composure, he said, “This has all been a big misunderstanding. You're not the angry gangsters who want my life.”
“You’re right on the last part,” said John, tying his hostage up. “Richard, can I speak with you?”
The pair walked down to their Jeep, not sure what they had just heard. John pulled out his phone, hoping he could find a magical connection in the middle of the Arizona desert, but put it away after only a few seconds. Carlos would know what was going on, if only he could get cell reception.
Richard shook his head and asked, “That was our guy, right?”
“I don’t know,” his partner mumbled, walking back toward the room.
The two knocked the Senator unconscious and loaded him into the vehicle. They headed straight toward Vegas, someplace so obvious, it would never be searched. When they arrived, it was almost dark, and the strip was lighting up.
“I need something to eat. What about you?” John asked his partner.
After taking precautions to hide their hostage under some jackets and ensuring his restful silence, they stopped at the smallest sport bar they could find. After a few hours of peace, a man wearing a shirt marked by the "Faction feather" ran through the door and ordered someone to turn on the news. Richard half smiled and hid his face in his drink.
The pale, sweaty newscaster reported on what the two had done, along with hundreds of others across the country. The Faction was ready for its true purpose. They weren’t anonymous vigilantes anymore. Now, they were the people’s army. They would wipe away the corruption of the US government and replace it with a true nation of the people. Or so John hoped.
He walked out of the bar, head held high, nodding to his now timid ally. The Faction messenger nodded to his fellow countrymen, and the bartender muted the televisions. Richard leapt onto his table.
“People of Las Vegas, are you ready to take what you deserve?” he screamed.
The unanimous answer was YES.
“Are you done paying for someone else’s mansion?”
“YES!”
“Are you fed up with the government doing NOTHING?”
“YES!”
“Will you fight for what’s rightfully yours?”
“YES!”
“Then you’d better be ready for a storm,” whispered John as he dialed Carlos’ number outside. He could see the familiar Faction feather being spray painted on the windows of all the more rowdy structures. Their network was larger than he had thought. The five hundred members he knew of weren’t the only Faction agents preparing for today.
“This is Motel-,” the receptionist was quickly cut off.
“Give me room one-one-three,” demanded John, in no mood for delays.
“Who is it?” asked Carlos, in a worse mood than his friend.
“It’s John. We have the target, but he seemed to be expecting someone to come after him.” He paused. “Is there anyone named `Charlie' in the upper levels of administration?”
“Not that I know of. Just bring him to me. It looks like the 92 is still open. Take it to 6th street in Wells. The motel is hard to miss. Get the job done. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”
Carlos hung up, and John knew something had gone terribly wrong. Richard walked out of the bar, and they both jumped back into the Jeep. Their job had begun.
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