Prologue:

Eight Years Ago

    The sound of dripping water was the only noise, besides his heavy breathing, as he ambled deeper into the dark corridor-like tunnel. He was one of the few who helped design this underground bunker so he knew exactly where the president was running to. The man took a deep breath as a rush of pair waved over his body. He winced but tried to make as little noise as he could. So much has happened in the last hour alone. His wife was killed in an explosion, his best friend kidnapped his daughter and now… now he has to kill the president of United Socialist States of America.

Shane’s head pain eased away a moment later. He had his eyes closed, thinking about the events that led to this moment. His entire upbringing was designed out of hate; hate for other races; hate for those who are not like him; hate everything except his own kind. But that hate subsided today. Shane survived, along with President Alexander Hamill, an explosion that was done by an amateur. He was alive but he was still hurt pretty bad. His denim jeans were torn and his black t-shirt was split down the middle and in other places, accompanied by slices and cuts.

He finally made it to his destination: a steel door.

Shane pulled out his last weapon, a curved switchblade knife, from his ankle strap. It glistened from the lone fluorescent light bulb that hung above the door. He smiled inwardly as he stuck the knife’s sharp tip into the keyhole. He was attempting to jimmy the lock. The locks popped and clicked open and he pushed it open. This is what he had asked for. The moment he had envisioned, the heat of his hatred kept his body warm those cold nights. It was finally a one on one fight with his arch rival.

Chapter One:

In the Garden of Graves 

    Crying, sobs, prayers and soft chuckles of remembrance filled to the air. The sun hung low, with colorful streaks of orange and the firey yellow of the sun. On the other side was bluish black washing over the other graves, waiting to consume the land for night’s victory. The casket hung like the sun and was slowly lowering to its earthy tomb. The clergymen stayed for the first toss of dirt onto the casket, and walked off. The mournful followed the lead, their respects fully paid, their tears fully cried. The grave digger took his hat off, showing the balding head of an old man, and bowed his head. The funeral was now over and everyone has left as the night crept over the fresh grave. Everyone but one man, who had hidden away when the mournful was present. Now, without his hood, the man who had been trailing the funeral from the wake to the burial, who had stalked the congregation, was now in the open, at the foot of the fresh grave. The smell of moist dirt filled his nostrils and the clash of distant thunder rolled into his perked ears. The man, who stood at six foot, stooped to one knee and bowed his dirty blond mane in respect.

“Mother, forgive me for all I have done in our name,” he prayed.

He rose, after letting a single tear fall onto the ground.

“Shane,” a voice trailed in the distance.

Shane jerked back, scanning the graveyard. He didn’t see anyone, so he looked back at the grave. Although the moon was only half full this night, it shown brightly with all its majesty. He heard his name being called again and he looked up. Only the rolling of distant thunder and the lonely graves met him.

“Shane,” he heard the wind whisper as it swift past him.

He unconsciously followed the direction of the wind, leaving the grave of his mother. His heavy boots fell on soft clay and fresh grass. With each step, the distant thunder grew closer. His grey eyes found a grave; a grave he had been afraid to see. For the second time of the night, he fell to one knee to pay another respect. His finger traced the headstone, mouthing the name that was etched into the stone. With his other hand he clenched his fist.

“Catherine,” he breathed her name, “I am so sorry.”

Shane wanted to say more, his mind thought of every transgression to pulled against her, her family, her race. In his minds’ eye he remembered what he did: killing her cousins, the hateful rants he use to spew at her, the tender hold he held her at nights, the beautiful wedding they had and the day their daughter was born. His eyes shot open.

“Maria…”

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