After a few minutes pass, Phillip crouches down and moves stealthily behind a row of parked cars just two houses down from his target. He keeps his body hidden, squatting and moving from vehicle to vehicle, watching the gang members as they socialize with animated hand gestures on the front lawn. Phillip closes his eyes for a moment, realizing that he might not make it back to Letisha. He meditates silently, crouched behind a classic, black jaguar. His feet feel uncomfortable with the rough asphalt pressing hard into his toes, bearing the full weight of his body. The cool breeze makes him shiver as he makes his way up the line of cars, watching for any sudden movements in the yard that is now just twenty feet to his left.
As he reaches the tail of a yellow H2 Hummer, Phillip notices a six-foot gap between this vehicle and the black, Volkswagen Beetle that will provide him cover to make his assault. He gets down on his stomach and starts to crawl slowly toward his next hiding spot. To his surprise, a white beam turns the corner up ahead and he sees a truck driving casually up the street in his direction. Phillip rolls to his left, hoping that no one has spotted him, placing himself between the Beetle and Hummer. He scoots his body back toward the VW Beetle when the truck gets closer, feeling the asphalt tug at his pants. Soon the truck passes him, creaking its way down the street with a rough-running engine and a gray, rusted-out frame. Phillip holds his breath as the truck exits the street, leaving just the sound of the rap music and gang members talking incessantly behind him. He rolls back around to the driver side of the Beetle, crouching next to it as he closes in on his target, feeling less exposed behind the shiny, black Beetle.
As he crouches near the rear of the small car, Phillip retrieves the pistol from the front of his pants, grateful that it won’t be able to chafe him anymore. He puts one knee against the ground next to the rear tire, leaning over the back window to spy on his targets in safety.
There are five men talking and laughing in the front yard. Three of them have gathered into a semi-circle, smoking cigars as they tell jokes and try to one-up each other with their stories. Two more gang enforcers are sitting on the steps in front of the home; one with his arms folded, and the other expressing himself with lucid hand gestures, engaged in a more serious conversation.
Phillip grips his pistol tight, trying to decide how many men he can take down while still having enough time to make it back to the safety of his truck thirty feet away, and on the other side of the street. He puckers his lips and blows out a smooth stream of air, allowing his body and muscles to relax. His training taught him that tension leads to poor marksmanship. A loose, steady shooting hand will provide superior accuracy to a robotic, anxious grip. Phillip takes a moment to check the action of his semi-automatic pistol, pulling back on the slide to insert a round in the chamber. His stomach begins to growl as he turns the weapon in his hand to ensure the safety is off, licking his lips as he knows the moment is approaching. The young man takes another moment to plan his escape route, watching for any obstructions between himself and the truck, deciding that he’ll only have time to fire upon the three men at the front of the yard.
The evening air is suddenly filled with the premature and unwelcome sound of gunshots, firing in bursts of three rounds. Phillip instinctively leans back into the safety of the steel car, feeling panic spread through his body as he looks around to see where the gunfire is coming from. He rotates his head with alarm to the left and right, not seeing anyone near him. Another three-round burst erupts from the shadows of the street and Phillip stares into the distance with a guise of genuine shock. From the flash of the barrel, he can see that the gunfire is coming from a shooter across the street, resting their hands on the hood of his blue truck. He gazes up hopelessly, mortified by the knowledge that the bullets are flying over his head at the gang house behind him, alerting everyone inside.
His heart rate begins to accelerate, and he breathes out in deep, anxious gasps. In his state of shock, Phillip almost fails to notice that his truck engine is running, and glances back across the street to see someone sitting in the driver seat.
A group of ten young gang members comes pouring out onto the street from behind the parked cars as the blue F150 speeds from of its parking space and disappears around the corner to the right. The young men are all armed, most of them carrying pistols similar to what Phillip holds in his hand.
The ex-marine looks up with a haunted expression from his position on the ground next to the Beetle, knowing that someone has effectively betrayed him. There are more armed men standing in front of him now than he has bullets in his gun.
“This is for you, baby!” He says aloud as he gets to his feet and begins to fire on the group of men from behind.
There is a brief and deadly volley of gunfire, crackling through the streets like an electric current, exterminating that one element which does not belong. Phillip finds peace for the first time since he came back from the war, a bath of fiery pain, putting a tortured soul to rest.
THE OBDAT – CHICAGO
“Welcome back! Henri says with a satisfied expression, holding a mug of coffee across his chest as he waits for his colleagues from his chair at the center of the OBDAT platform.
“Last night was insane!” Lorabell says with fervent pride, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she walks to her position on the right side of the control panel.
“I read the report about Phillip,” Maxwell begins as he strides to his station with a tall cup of coffee, “that text message… pushed him over the edge.”
After staying up working until two in the morning Chicago time, the three of them are somewhat ragged. Lorabell and Maxwell returned to work wearing the same clothing from the previous day, while Henri is the only one who bothered to put on a fresh suit and tie.
“Where were we?” Maxwell says with a blank gaze, still worn out from the emotional roller coasters of the previous day.
“We’ve got three down and one to go.” Lorabell says with a yawn. “I have a little bit more for May Ivory, and then The President will have his data.”
“Let’s get started!” Henri says, slapping his hands together in the air hard as if this one action will bring the entire operation to life. “Mason is still coordinating from Texas, cleaning up the murder-suicide, but he’ll be helping us to manage assets in Virginia too.”
MAY IVORY
May lies on the cool surface of the brown leather couch, staring at the ceiling. Her face is still sore from a few nights ago, and she feels betrayed, like a mother hedgehog dug up by an ignorant farmer. The young woman is clad in a wrinkled, blue T-shirt that drapes far past her waist and a pair of cozy, black sweatpants while her feet are adorned with simple, light blue slippers.
“I am the ugly duckling,” she says to herself; “not the honey badger.” Her words fall flat in the air, providing a confessional for her unattractive scar tissue. “Life is an accident borne in a kingdom of lies” she mutters lazily, shifting her legs on the lengthy, leather couch, “and I am the court jester…”
Her cell phone begins to ring from a few feet away, likely a call from her publisher about the party. She rolls over on the couch, burying her face inside the soft, aesthetically pleasing leather, wishing she could use it to fix her disfigured body. May begins to cry, which she has done repeatedly over the past forty-eight hours; not understanding what would cause a man to be so cruel.
She envisions Ted having drinks and playing pool at the local bar; discussing the things he did to her and what he saw while they were together. May grits her teeth, thinking about the young man at the market whom she had grown to respect and care for over the years- just another phony.
The young woman tries to push it all down, washed away like the pain from the accident five years ago, but it’s impossible to deny oneself love when feeling so enamored… even for a short while. Her anger erupts again as she pounds the couch cushions with her fists, displaying the distaste she has for her own stupidity.
“What did you do to yourself, you stupid gi
rl?” She asks aloud, removing her left hand from her eyes to look at the ceiling again. “If it’s too good to be true… Then it probably is…” Her eyes begin to shed tears as she clenches her teeth in ultimate sorrow, realizing that the fantasies have betrayed her. “Why are we programmed to believe we can have the fairytale life? Even when there isn’t the slightest hope of anything close to that..?”
BANG! BANG! BANG! Hammering sounds break the silence in her comfy home, causing May to jump backwards on the couch. She stares at the front wall of her home in stunned awe, listening to the familiar laughter of the teenagers who harassed her the other day.
“Come on out, freaky lady!” One young man yells over the laughter.
“We want to see you naked again, beef jerky!” The other boy shouts immediately afterward. “Did you have a good time with my older brother last night!?”
May closes her eyes, knowing that this is all just an attack on her image; two hapless bullies trying to get a rise out of her. She lays on the couch and remains calm, pretending to be a vampire sleeping in her coffin during the daylight hours. BANG! BANG! BANG! The hammering resumes.
“Come out, freaky!” The young man yells again, sounding more whiney and obnoxious. “Freaky! Freaky! Freaky!”
“YOU LITTLE SONS-OF-BITCHES, GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I CALL THE COPS!” An older man yells from the house next door.
“Whoa, dude, okay, we’re just having a little fun!” The young man shouts to May’s elderly neighbor.
“WELL YOU’RE NOT GONNA’ HAVE ANY FUN WITH MY FOOT UP YOUR ASS! LEAVE THAT POOR WOMAN ALONE!” The man decrees with passion.
“Shit!” The second young man says quietly to his companion. “I don’t want to deal with the cops. Let’s get out of here!”
After a few moments, May hears the thunderous bass sounds from the stereo of their large truck in front of her home. She sits as silent as a crocodile, oblivious to what is happening above the surface; thick skin and razor-sharp teeth beneath the serene waters. Several minutes go by as the bass music continues to pound the walls of her home, and then the teenagers finally depart, allowing the tormented soul inside to breathe deeply in relief. She closes her eyes tight, refusing to open them, and soon passes out from an exhausting, sleepless night.
Several hours later, May opens her eyes slowly, noticing that the sun is still up. She pushes the world out of her mind for a moment, wondering if there is a peaceful place anywhere for someone like her. The remnants of the accident; a few minutes of fire, broken glass, and twisted metal, have left her life a wreck.
As she feels these thoughts starting to pull her down, May decides to get off the couch and resume a day of healthy activities, which she has done so many times in the past. Her arms stretch toward the ceiling as she stands up from a long bout with depression. She shuffles over to the kitchen to get herself a bowl of cereal and stop the growling deep inside her stomach. May places her right hand over her abdomen, feeling foolish for not eating this entire time.
With renewed pride she shuffles across the tiles toward the kitchen cabinets to retrieve a bowl, thinking about her accomplishments since the accident, and remembering to stay positive. A smile forms on her face as she thinks about the crazy variety of breakfast cereals she has in her luxury home. Most of the cupboard space is dominated by various colorful breakfast flavors that she has enjoyed since childhood.
May’s smile soon fades as she looks at the back door of her home, noticing that there is some splintered wood around the doorframe near the handle and the deadbolt. She steps over with a confused demeanor, pushing the door gently, and feeling an arrow of fear pierce her heart as the door swings open. Her face becomes an instant portrait of terror as she discovers that the door has been pried open from the outside, and someone might have been in the house while she was sleeping on the couch.
The young woman begins to tremble, her lower jaw shaking now as she recalls a dream about someone standing over her while she slept on the sofa. She looks out at the thick green grass in her backyard, instantly petrified by the sight of her panties strewn all over, along with some papers that she cannot identify. With a feeling of intense panic, she turns on her heel and moves briskly toward the master bedroom, wanting to check on her clothing and other personal items. ‘The seeds of betrayal have bloomed into a garden of poisoned fruit,’ May thinks to herself as she sprints through the hallway.
She brushes the bedroom door aside with her right hand allowing it to strike the wall and rebound back toward her body, tapping her backside as she enters the large room. Her eyes move to the dresser, noticing that the underwear drawer has been emptied. She feels the cruel jab of such an intimate trespass, and immediately thinks of the perverted high school boys that have been harassing her. May steps over to the closet and throws open the slotted doors, hearing them rattle as she looks at her other clothing to ensure that nothing is missing. Her mouth opens wide in shock as she notices that her small gun case is lying open on the floor, and her pistol is missing. A horrific thought occurs to May, as the liability of a minor committing a crime using a pistol registered to her is now a possibility.
She places her hands on her hips and looks at the floor, disgusted by this blatant invasion into her life. As May steps back to leave the room and call the police, she notices that a small, gray box is also missing from the top of the closet.
“NO!” She shouts into the empty air, diving into the closet frantically, pulling clothing and sleeping bags aside as she tosses them onto the floor behind her.
After several minutes of frantic searching, she sits down on the corner her bed and begins to cry. The small, gray box had contained: all of the photos with her and Charlie, the engagement ring he never had a chance to give her, and every blessed memory of life before the accident or her permanent scarring… These precious memories are gone forever, stolen by a stranger while she indulged in a dance of self-pity.
May begins to shake, infused with anxiety and emptiness, knowing that the most important parts of her life were preserved in that small box. She turns her head slowly to the left, thinking that the world is an unforgiving place, and her face suddenly grows cold with concern. The small desk where she normally does her writing is empty, and the shiny white laptop that has been used to create all of her best work is no longer there. May jumps up from the bed, looking for her backup hard drive with a grievous expression.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” She repeats in rapid succession, holding her right hand over her mouth as it dawns on her that she is missing over nine months of work, all of which is needed to meet her publisher’s deadline in sixty days. “Sonofabitch! You pathetic little assholes! You miserable motherfuckers!” May shouts with a defeated stare. “How could you do this to me; I’m just trying to rebuild my life..?”
With a flood of desire to recover her stolen work, May bolts to the closet, her eyes now anvils of rage. She slides her dresses and shirts aside to reveal a large, black rifle case in the back of the closet. May reaches out and grips the familiar hard plastic handle of the solid case and lugs it over to the bed, tossing it on the mattress. Her delicate fingers are nimble as they unclasp the two locks on the front side of the case. She flings the top open, looking at the gray, egg carton padding inside that protects her silver AR-15 semi-automatic rifle. She picks up the empty, black magazine, embracing the cold metal in her soft hand as she steps back to the closet to retrieve a box of ammunition from the shelf. May grasps the box in a hurry and dumps the munitions onto the empty side of the soft foam in the gun case.
With an extreme gaze of purpose, she loads the rounds into the magazine quickly, ensuring that it is filled to capacity. Once the magazine is full, she pushes it securely inside the bottom of the rifle, then pulls back and releases the bolt to insert a round into the chamber. A sense of fear springs up within her as May lifts the rifle from its case with both hands. She removes the clear, plastic covers from either side of the scope, and looks through the eyepiece to ensure the v
iew is not cloudy or distorted. After checking the scope, she turns the rifle over and looks at the small black button next to the trigger, being certain that the safety is engaged. ‘I’ll just scare them,’ she thinks to herself, knowing that on some level this is irrational and irresponsible.
May holds the rifle close to her chest with the barrel pointed toward the ceiling as she steps out of the hallway to the kitchen. The weight of the rifle in her hands causes the young woman to think twice, realizing that this is a crazy course of action; she decides to call the police. May sets the rifle down on the island at the edge of the kitchen and steps over to the wall a few feet away to retrieve her white, cordless phone. With a feeling of rational foresight, she slowly dials 911, and places the phone against her right ear.
THE OBDAT – CHICAGO
“Nine-one-one operator, what is your emergency?” Lorabell asks through a headset from her position on the right side of the OBDAT control panel.
“Yes, I live at sixteen fifty-nine, Alpha Bryo Lane, in Prince George.” May begins with an excited tone, running her fingers through her hair as she looks out at the backyard with suspicion. “My home has been robbed and my pistol was taken.”
She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) Page 22