BREAKING POINT (Anonymous Justice Book 1)

by Boyd Craven Jr

  “Do they have him in custody?” I ask as we approach a door at the end of the hallway.

  Dr. Rasmussen uses his keycard to unlock it and then pushes me in. I get a quick look around; it’s an older constructed hallway or tunnel, with heating, water and electrical connections running along one wall and the ceiling. This is the tunnel that connects the buildings.

  “I don’t know. Make sure you call me the very second you are done. As soon as I get signal, I’m going to make some phone calls,” Mike tells me.

  “Here we are,” Doc Rasmussen opens the final door.

  It leads into a concrete block room with a loading dock, three overhead doors, and Mike’s pickup truck.

  “It isn’t our normal checkout procedure,” Rasmussen says, “but I want you to know something. In the days and weeks ahead, no matter what the media says, no matter what people may say to you in the streets, you did what anybody with your training would do. I’ve been talking to your friend Mike for a day or so… I know you aren’t a racist or a bigot, but you did poke the bear when you screamed ‘Fuck Muhammad’. It’s not as big of a bear as you might think though.”

  “How do you figure?” I ask.

  “Because the media has turned into Social Justice Warriors, so politically correct they want everyone to feel guilty about everything. It’s now minority rule. It’s a weird, flip-sided, fucked up kind of apartheid going on, right here in America.”

  Again, I was a bit shocked at the doctor's language. He’s seen something, I think, or had something happen to him. Seems he’s a lot like me.

  “You mentioned the silent majority earlier,” I pull myself up to stand.

  “Yeah, I did. It’s the majority of people who think the same way we do, but can’t be heard because our government, our media, our universities, our public agencies are so worried about being politically correct…. They keep the silent majority from speaking out. It’s not… PC.”

  “Yeah, fuck political correctness,” I say, grinning and feeling marginally better.

  Mike opens the door for me, and I crawl in slowly. Pulling the seatbelt across myself and buckling it had me almost passing out in pain, as my bruised body chafed at the pressure.

  “Take care, and if you need anything… Call me,” Rasmussen says, handing me a business card with his cell phone number on it.

  12

  William David:

  Hamtramck, MI

  2:00 p.m. Tuesday, Dec 22nd, 2015

  I’ve just been dropped off at my apartment by two very serious detectives. They’d grilled me for nearly four hours, and it was the arrival of a 2nd Amendment attorney that Mike had gotten in touch with who finally made the difference. On paper, charging me with inciting the fight and blaming me for the resulting deaths seemed pretty sound, but when the video footage was played back, along with all the captured footage from bystanders on YouTube, it was pretty obvious I’d been trying to get out of there.

  “I do kind of regret saying the ‘Fuck Muhammad’ thing,” I’d admitted to everyone.

  Oh boy, did I. I’d been pissed, and I hate getting spit on. People getting in my face and screaming makes me just want to punch them, but I’d held off. Hell, the lawyer had made them show that I’d tried to back up and leave. That had been what finally broke them down, so when he’d demanded they either process me or consider the interview over, they had concluded it. The lawyer had assured me no charges would be pressed, gave me his card, and had been off in a flash.

  He had flown in pro-bono for the meeting and had been delayed in Chicago. He’d apologized for the hit-and-run lawyering, but I couldn’t complain. Unless the US Attorney General, a wishy-washy liberal who thought that everything was the fault of anybody who wasn’t a minority, decided to come after me, I was going to be in the clear. I wouldn’t need his services after all, and I was relieved.

  I’ve just grabbed a cold beer out of the fridge and I’m reaching for the remote when my house phone rings. I hesitate, and then put the beer down. The only people who call that number are bill collectors and people wanting to sell their version of God, or those begging for charities. If people really want to get ahold of me, they call my cell phone.

  I pick up the phone. “Hello?”

  “You cannot talk about our prophet without there being consequences. You have spilled the blood of my family; yours shall be the next to run on the pavement.”

  That gets my attention. I haven’t got my gun back from the police yet, it’s evidence in the shootings, and I kick myself for not getting something out of my safe first thing.

  “Yeah, well your family was kicking my head in. It was self-defense,” I say, figuring that once this person is done venting, they’ll leave me be.

  “Your time is coming; a great cleansing shall sweep across this nation soon,” the male voice says, before I hear the dial tone of an open line.

  I look at the beer, knowing I’m not supposed to have it, but I want it. Without further thought, I hang up the phone, down the Michelob Lite, and go into my bedroom to get my concealed carry gun out; a Springfield XD .40. I check that it’s fully topped off, grab spare magazines and I’m getting a box of ammunition out when my phone rings again.

  The last thing I take out of the safe is my holster for the Springfield, and I clip that into place and head to the kitchen to answer the phone.

  “Hello?” I say, figuring it’s the same guy calling back. I’m wrong.

  “All you right wing wacko gun nuts are the reason this fucking country is going to the shitters!” a female voice screams. “You stir up all this fucking bullshit, make our community cower in fear, and all you have to do is just keep your head down and shut up. I can’t believe some expensive NRA lawyer already got you off. You committed murder. I hope they come get you, you--”

  I hang up the phone and start loading spare magazines. I need to get the TV on, but I also need to feel safe again. That’s not going to happen until I’m loaded. My phone starts ringing again, but I don’t answer it until, with shaking fingers, I’ve loaded the third spare magazine.

  “Hello?”

  “I will pray for your soul. The blood of the--”

  I hang up. My cell phone rings. Without looking, I punch the call button.

  “What?!” I nearly shriek.

  “Easy man. You ok?” Mike asks.

  “No, no I’m not.”

  “You aren’t at the jail are you?”

  “No, I just got home about twenty minutes ago,” I tell him.

  “You should turn on the local news.”

  “Why?”

  “Buddy, just do it, and then decide if you want me to take a drive with you. Call me back,” Mike says, and hangs up.

  I turn on the TV and head to the fridge for another beer. My nerves are shot. The landline phone rings again; I pick up the receiver, then hang it up, before turning off the ringer.

  “...attorney for William David was not available for a statement, but the HPD has confirmed that there will not be any charges filed. County and public records show that David is a concealed license holder, and has four handguns registered to him. Following up on a lead on Twitter, and from some research at the County Clerk's Office, we know quite a bit more about William David. We are piecing together the story that led to his violent retaliation that left three dead, yet no charges filed against him.”

  Yeah, she said that. It was the same reporter, Marie Krantz, who had been shoving a microphone into my face when the beating had started. Of course she had been giving it a slant when she was inside that circle, reporting on everything that was happening, as it happened. She had an agenda for sure, and she’s somebody who, as soon as I’d seen her, I had labeled a Social Justice Warrior. One of those breeds of people who want everyone to feel guilty about something someone did, sometime in their life, and want to convince them that they should feel ashamed about it.

  I just hadn’t wanted to die. A few more kicks to the head, and I would’ve been out cold. If the first protest
or I’d killed while trying to take my gun had been successful, I’m sure I would have been the one killed. Fuck this noise, and how did they get my phone number? I dial Mike back on my cell, and head to the bedroom, where I grab my pack.

  “Hello?”

  “Mike, this is bad, isn’t it?” I ask, putting it on speaker so I can work quickly.

  My pack is my big bug-out kit, ready to go. If I’m going to leave, and have time, I want to pack a little more.

  “Yeah, it is. I’m heading to your place now.”

  “You can if you want, but I think I’m leaving. I’m heading to my spot I told you about.”

  “That’s a very good idea. Somebody just put your address and phone number up on Twitter and Facebook. The local news is showing a picture of the tweet. They’re calling on all residents to be on the lookout for you, and to beware of you. Shit, they even know what kind of handguns you have,” Mike says, his voice tinny.

  “I know,” I say, pulling out a hard case. “I’m packing up now. I haven’t looked outside, but I think I need to move fast.”

  “I’m in the truck, driving over. I’ll be there in five minutes. Just… wait for me, will you?”

  “I will. I gotta pack. I’ll leave the line open till I hear you knock,” I tell him, undoing the safe again.

  I don’t keep much here. Mainly it’s the guns I carry all the time, the ammo for them, and a couple toys I keep close, because I truly love shooting them. One is my custom built AR, the other is an AK-47. Of the two, the AK is the one I have the most fun with, but both guns are of the highest quality I can afford. Mike’s gunsmith had tuned both up, and they’re tack drivers.

  “You packing your guns and ammo?” Mike asks, a horn blaring in the background of his words.

  “Yeah, I already have a ton of stuff ready up north. I’m getting last minute stuff together.”

  “I’m getting close to your apartment man. Which one is it again?”

  “2400 building, 3rd door from the left. You can’t miss my Toyota. Somebody parked it in the first row. You have my spare set of keys?” I ask him.

  “Just the spare truck key, you have the rest.”

  With a start I realize that I have a very real form of tunnel vision happening. I need to slow my thoughts and start thinking, instead of reacting and giving into the panic.

  “Yeah, I got them,” I say, patting my pocket.

  “How much stuff you gonna have?”

  “One trip out to the truck. A big duffel bag, a big pack frame, a hard-case for my guns, and a smaller backpack with a few changes of clothing.”

  “Ok,” Mike said, “there’s a news van pulling into the complex behind me, and it’s got like twenty cars on its tail as well. I think the press has arrived with its entourage of protesters.”

  “They can’t do this; it isn’t legal,” I said, knowing i’m whining, but not caring.

  “Yes they can, ‘cause they just did. We have to get you out of there, now! I don’t remember them showing a picture of your truck, but I’m betting they’d love having video of the protestors boxing you in.”

  “They’re about to be protesting an empty building. I just packed the last of my stuff in the big duffel. I’m headed out. You by my truck?” I ask.

  “Twenty seconds,” he says, and then hangs up.

  With my heart racing, I get the big pack on, shoulder the duffel, pick up the hard case in my left hand, and put my right arm through the loops of the school style backpack, so I can work the keys and, if needed, my XD.

  * * *

  “That was not fun,” I say into the speakerphone as I drive north.

  “Things got a little hairy there for a sec. I’m glad your truck made it over the curb.”

  I grinned. Mike had pulled his big Chevy sideways, blocking the entrance to the parking lot, as I threw everything into the bed and passenger seat. The timing somehow worked out perfectly, but people had abandoned their cars and started running past his truck. As soon as I saw people start throwing things, I just went up and over the curb, praying the ground was hard enough to keep me from getting stuck.

  I’d made it, scraping the undercarriage when I found pavement again, and Mike had followed. Within minutes we were out of range of the bottles of water, cups and everything else the protesters had been throwing at us. Since half the people had left their vehicles to swarm around Mike’s truck, they’d halted any sort of advance or follow through, as people scrambled back. We’d roared out of the apartment complex and had gotten on 94, heading towards the cabin. I was breaking my own opsec by letting Mike follow me. He’d come through for me in so many ways though, during the last couple of days.

  I’d always considered him a friend, a guy who was good to have a few beers with, but I’d apparently underestimated the friendship, and I felt like a heel. Mike had done so much for me since this had happened; I’m surprised he had time for it all, and still had time to run his own business. I was grateful though. Having him on my six, and as an extra set of eyes, was making things a lot easier for me. It allowed me to be a little less apprehensive.

  I’ve never been a highly social guy, I mostly keep to myself. I don’t go out and party big, nor am I into the bar scene; but here I am, about to drive my boss right up to the biggest secret I hold, in an already private life. I’d even gone so far as to set up an LLC corporation through Shapiro’s website for $300, and that’s whose name is on the papers of the mortgage for the cabin. Seeing how quickly the reporters found all my information out, I’m wondering if even that extra step won’t be enough.

  I zone out a bit, and Mike follows me on the turnoff. We back-road it through the thumb area of the state, until I get on the main road that leads towards my turnoff to the cabin. Do I stop now and thank Mike? Should I trust him? More than a bit of shame courses through me, and I decide he’s done enough, that he can be trusted.

  Trees canopy both sides of the road now, and I turn left onto the road leading to the cabin. For half a mile it’s maintained, until I pass the farmhouse of my only neighbor. I stop at what looks like a trail, with a heavy logging chain barring access. It’s padlocked between two trees and I get out, digging through my keys.

  “Everything ok?” Mike calls out behind me.

  “Yup,” I call back without looking.

  I unhook it, drive through, and get out, motioning for Mike to come through. I put the chain back up and use the lock to hold it in place, but I don’t click it closed, so Mike can leave when he’s ready. Mike looks at me puzzled, and I shrug. I get back into my Toyota, and lead the way down the old two-track.

  My cabin is on a parcel that’s essentially landlocked, but for the driveway at the dead end. The farmer who owns the land on either side of the two-track, was actually relieved to have someone out here at the end of the road. He told me once that it was a good preventative of having ‘hoodlums’ in the area. I’d smiled and nodded, just grateful he was so open to me moving out here, and that the previous owners had had power run to it. That had probably cost a bundle. I’ve also borne heavy costs, making the place more modernized, by adding a new well and septic. Other than a couple contractors knowing where it is, it’s in a mostly forgotten area, in the middle of nowhere.

  The tree cover breaks, and the trail leads up a rocky hill. At the top of it, sits my cabin. The almost blackened railroad ties look like a dark smudge until you get up close. The roof has been redone with white metal, meant to reflect the heat out in the summertime. The roof has the most striking feature; in the middle of the northern edge, what looks like a church steeple has been constructed. It’s a good six feet higher than the top edge of the main roof, and is directly across the combination chimney and vent pipes at the south edge of the roof.

  It has shooting ports already built into it by the previous owners, who’d added onto the railroad tie-constructed hunting shack. Two people can sit up there on stools and hunt, and I’d done that a time or two. The farmer had block permits, and had given me permission to fire at
will, even if I sighted in a deer that wasn’t on my property. It was what I considered Heaven to be like. Heck, I don’t even mow the grass around the property. It’s the only thing growing tall this time of year; the corn and soybeans have already been harvested.

  “Holy shit man,” Mike says, walking up to my truck.

  I’d stopped, and have been sitting there staring. Dreaming.

  “Welcome to Casa David,” I say, with an exaggerated accent.

  “William,” he says, sounding formal, “this is…. You said a cabin. This almost looks like an old-school fort. What are the walls made out of?”

  “Let’s go in and check it out,” I smile for the first time.

  Part of me does want to show him, to share. I’ve been working on this place for years, and I’ve never had any visitors, not even the old farmer down the street.

  * * *

  “I thought you were joking when you said you were into prepping a little bit,” Mike says, looking at the interior in confusion and wonder.

  “Well, I am.”

  “Half of this place is filled with buckets of food!” He motions to my stash and the custom shelving I’d built using 4x4s.

  “Well, yeah. I try to prepare for anything and everything. Next year I’m going to put metal siding on the outside, make it blend in a bit. Other than that, if I can figure out how to get power after an EMP, I think I’ll be pretty well set here, for years if I have to.”

  “Years?” Mike asks.

  “Well, yeah. I mean…” I’m suddenly worried I sound as foolish as some of those folks on the TV shows, “you never know when something bad is going to happen. I can’t relax unless I have a safe spot, and even when I’m here, relaxing is hard to do because there are so many things to do--”

  “And that safe… Man, that thing is fireproof!”

  It is; it’s one of my more expensive purchases. It’s almost 4’ wide and 3’ deep. It holds the majority of my guns and ammunition. Everything from bulk buy SKS’s I made at the gun shop, to old M1 Carbines… and more modern things like my spare AR and something I’d wanted forever, a Galil.