by TW Brown
Clutching his cane in his off hand, Grady crossed the street to the coffee house. Inside, he could see a few customers. They were all face down in their laptop computers or hammering away madly at their newfangled computer phones. Not one of them noticed as he raised his arm, cocked it back, and hurled the rock at the giant window. Of course, seconds later, every head in the place—after coming up from wherever they ducked when the glass shattered and crashed—was staring out the window. All they saw was an old man hobbling away on his cane.
“Damn kids musta run past,” one of the customers finally said with a weak laugh. “At least they didn’t hurt that poor little old man over there.”
***
Jerry sat down on the counter where the row of sinks lined the wall. The two young men had finally said all they could think of and left. He had to admit, one of them was actually quite well-spoken.
Wow, he thought, are you that much of a closet racist? He admitted to himself that he fully expected the two men to ramble on about a bunch of “white man always keepin’ a brutha down” crap. Tyree actually made some very strong points about how the entire police system was designed to protect its own from within,
“…and not just against the African-American community,” he’d said. “Like that retarded boy that got Tazed, cuffed, and beat down…that was a white boy. Only, none of the cops got in trouble…they was cops. That was their defense.”
Jerry pushed a few buttons and sent the audio file to his email. He would call Shelly in a bit and tell her about it, but first, he needed to get out of this place. He’d talked his way out of one beating, but he doubted his luck would hold. After the two had left, he quickly brought up the local newsfeed. The situation was escalating, and now it looked like it would be a couple of days at least before things settled down.
Cautiously, he opened the bathroom door. The floor was a shambles, but appeared to be empty. He hurried across to the courtroom. It would be good to have a few shots of the aftermath. The door was mostly off its hinges, which was impressive given the size of the door and the sturdiness of the hinges.
Jerry was unprepared for what he saw when he peeked inside. There were two dead bodies in the aisle. One was wearing the tattered remnants of a policeman’s dress blue uniform. There was an ugly dent on the side of his head and a trickle of blood had dried on that ear. A few feet away, a husky young Hispanic girl was sprawled partway in between the benches of the third and fourth row. Jerry recognized her as the stenographer.
A faint rustling sound caused him to stop in his tracks. It was coming from the docket area. He looked for anything that he could use as a weapon to defend himself and found nothing,
“Hello?” Jerry called out. His voice sounded way louder than he was comfortable with. “Who’s there?”
He considered backing out and beating a hasty exit, then he heard the soft moan. Advancing cautiously, he followed the sound to the judge’s bench. Behind it, a halo of blood pooling around his head, lay sprawled the judge who had presided over the Anderson trial.
Jerry rushed over, looking for something to use to stop the bleeding from the nasty gash on the judge’s forehead. Finding nothing, he tugged at the robe. It wasn’t very absorbent, but he was able to wad a section of it up and press it on the wound.
“My chamber,” the man rasped, “my pills are in my chamber.”
“Pills?” Jerry asked, confused. Pills weren’t going to do any good in stopping the bleeding.
“My heart…” the judge coughed, and his face scrunched up from the apparent pain.
“Why don’t I call—” Jerry stopped in mid-sentence. Call? Who would he call? He’d seen outside, and the rioting was all around the courthouse. It was unlikely that emergency crews could get to them. And even if they could, it wouldn’t be any time soon.
“Okay, sir,” Jerry climbed back to his feet, “you stay here and I’ll be right back.” Did he really just tell the judge bleeding out from a head wound and possibly suffering a heart attack to stay put?
He went to the door behind the judge’s bench and tried the knob. It opened and he wondered briefly if judges ever locked their door when court was in session. Was there a need? God, he thought, where the hell is my brain going? There is a riot taking place, and I am having possibly the most convoluted inner-monolog in history. I need to get my mind back on track.
He was relieved to find the bottle of heart medication sitting out in the open on the desk. He’d only just realized that he hadn’t bothered to ask where it might be. Hurrying back, he caught the acrid stench of a bowel movement. Jerry dropped the bottle of pills and flopped down in the judge’s enormous chair. Correct that, he thought, the late judge’s chair.
***
Brian followed Jessie into the smoky tavern. There were already a couple dozen men standing around in groups talking loudly in Southern accents—which Brian considered peculiar since they were in Idaho—that were laden with plenty of expletives and an abundance of the “N” word.
“I see our boy passed his initiation,” one of the men just inside the door said to Jessie as they entered. “Guess you can pay up when we get back.”
“Get back?” Jessie stopped, turning to the man who Brian was almost certain was called “Slimmy”.
“That’s what this meetin’ is all about,” Slimmy said with a grin. “Buncha uppity niggers is putting Seattle to the torch. Word is, we aim to cruise on over and see about doin’ some crowd dispersal. Everybody knows that coon they got for a governor ain’t gonna let nobody do nothin’ to stop things. Hell, he’ll probably invite the rioters to the mansion for dinner.”
“So we gonna drive to Seattle and bust some heads?” These were the first words Will had spoken since being reprimanded by Jessie. He sounded way too excited.
“Seems to be the rumor,” Slimmy said with a nod and a wink.
Great, Brian thought, how the hell am I going to contact the office and set up a time to bust these yahoos if I am on the road to Seattle? He didn’t see a time in the near future where he would be able to get to the locker he kept at the bus station where he kept his cell phone. The one he carried was a simple burner phone. He cursed how lazy he’d become when it came to memorizing phone numbers.
“Well it looks like we’ll have one more set of knuckles in the mix,” Jessie slapped Brian on the back, if not a little too hard to actually be friendly.
“So he popped that piece of shit?” somebody called out.
“You won’t be seein’ him beggin’ outside the liquor store no more,” Will snorted.
“You’d think them beggin’ ass welfare monkeys would get the clue when their friends keep turning up missing,” Slimmy wheezed and lit another cigarette to replace the one he stubbed out as he spoke.
“Ain’t none of ‘em got a lick of sense,” Jessie agreed. “I can’t believe there are still any left in this town. They’re like roaches. Kill a hundred and two hundred more will come crawling out from under the garbage can.”
“Can I get everybody to take a seat,” a voice rose above the din.
Brian turned to see the group’s leader, Bill Hayes, as he stepped up onto the small stage at the back of the bar. The man looked just like the picture in his file. His reddish-blond hair was a wavy mop on his head. His broad chest and arms bulged with muscle that could easily be seen under the black tee shirt. The long scar down the right side of his face where, according to his military file, a North Korean assassin had managed to get in one swipe with his blade before Bill Hayes caught him in a choke hold and snapped the man’s neck, showed up a bright white in the bank of lights over the stage. He actually was reported to have stitched his flayed face in the bathroom of the hotel room where the attempted assassination took place.
“I don’t know how many of you have been watching the news.” Bill’s voice didn’t boom, it simply carried throughout the room at a volume that everybody could easily hear. “It seems that another piece of shit criminal that got shot while breaking the law
has caused a member of the Seattle Police Department to go on trial. When the jury reached a just and proper verdict of “Not Guilty,” the niggers got mad and started trashing the courtroom. Things got out of hand, and now they are rioting in the streets, demanding justice.”
A murmur went up through the room. Bill seemed content to let that continue for a while before raising his hands to settle the crowd. Brian was only a little surprised at how quickly silence fell on the smoky room. It was obvious that Bill was very much in control.
“Tonight we will load the ‘Scenario Alpha’ packs into the RVs and head west. We should arrive just before sunrise. As of yet, the National Guard is not on the scene. We will utilize police scanners to pinpoint the law enforcement activity and strike where they are not.
“I want all team leaders to meet me in the office for individual assignments.” Bill scanned the room for a few seconds before continuing, “And I want to welcome Chet Atkins to our family. He just returned from pledging with Jessie and Will. Welcome, Chet.” With that, the man stepped down and made his way to a single door situated between the bar and the stage.
“Guess I joined at just the right time,” Brian said to Jessie.
“We’ll see.” Jessie shrugged and headed to the same door Bill had gone through. Brian decided that it wouldn’t do any harm to have a drink. Besides, he was still a little shaky from the day’s earlier activities. A hand caught his shoulder and he turned to find Will’s glowering face.
“We ain’t done with our beef,” the man hissed and walked away before Brian could respond.
Brian shrugged off the comment and headed towards a much needed drink. He did his best not to recoil in disgust as the words of congratulations and exuberant back slaps followed him to the bar. The only good thing to come out of it was the fact that he didn’t have to buy either beer, or the shot of bourbon.
***
“…and with nightfall, law enforcement spokesmen repeat that there is now a curfew in effect for all of King and Pierce counties. It is requested that all residents remain indoors while efforts continue to bring this situation under control. One source expressed optimism that things would be returned to normal within the next seventy-two hours. In other news, city councilmen will meet with the mayor on Sunday to address the city budget deficit…”
***
Russell stared out the window as the scenery whizzed by. Other than the few towns they’d passed through, the entire state of Oregon had seemed like nothing but forests and farms. Why anybody would want to live in such a podunk state was anybody’s guess. They’d crossed over into Washington over an hour ago, and as far as he could tell, it wasn’t much different. No wonder these states have such lousy sports teams, he mused.
“We got about an hour before we get there,” Tremont said from the driver’s seat. “I been listening to the radio, and they are putting a curfew in effect.”
“We gonna get there before dark?” Russell asked, shaking himself to clear his head.
“It’ll be close,” Tremont replied, “but we should make it. My only concern is if they have any sort of roadblocks in place—”
“We already discussed that,” Russell cut the other man off. “If it comes to it, we will do what we have to do. What difference does it make when we kill the first cop? You getting cold feet now that the shit is about to go down?”
“No,” Tremont snapped, “I just don’t want to bring heat on us until we get into the city and make that first strike. I know what you said, but I think it makes a difference if we roll in under the radar. You know as well as I do that the moment we kill a cop, the game changes.”
“You want to try and talk our way past a roadblock with what we got in this car or any of the others? You think a carload of niggas cruising into the heart of a riot ain’t getting pulled over and searched?”
“No, but—”
“Ain’t no more ‘buts’ to be had. We gonna do what needs doin’ before they get a chance to stop us,” Russell said with finality and turned to look back out the window.
They drove in silence for the next forty minutes. Slowly, fields and forests began to give way to housing developments and industry. A large body of water to their left came in to view as they crested a hill and looked down into Tacoma.
“That the ocean?” Tremont asked.
“No,” Russell answered. He had to admit, it was an extremely beautiful sight. “That is Pew-jit sound,” he read from the guide in his lap. At first he’d had no idea how to pronounce the name, but one of the brothers had spent some time in the area. Puget Sound was probably one of the easiest words he found. With names like Sammamish, Puyallup (pronounced PEW-wallup for some damn reason), and Issaquah, the whole area was a phonetic nightmare.
“So when you think we gonna see the first—” Tremont started to ask. A pair of police cruisers came in to view as they rounded a long, arcing bend in the interstate.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Russell toggled his phone and brought the other cars up on a conference call, “time for talking is over. You all know what we are about. This is what you signed up for all those years ago. I want you to remember every single time you got pulled over just because you were driving through a neighborhood at night that the cops didn’t think you belonged in. I want you to remember that it takes sacrifice to bring change. Our parents marched in Washington D.C., Selma, and Jackson. They took those first steps, now it is up to us to finish their journey. We’ve tried for decades to play the game by the rules…and it ain’t got us a damn thing. This isn’t about the violence and the killing to come, it is about the opportunity and equality in the future.”
There was silence for a few seconds, then a series of confirmations. The men were ready. As they approached the roadblock, Russell set the sawed-off Mossberg in his lap. Everybody in the car stuffed in their earplugs as their car slowed and joined in the queue.
Tremont looked over his shoulder. He could see three of the other nine cars, trucks, or vans they had loaded into for the trip. His eyes returned to the front, and he tried to remind himself that what was about to happen had to happen. It was just that, after so many years since the South Central riots, that fire of injustice had gone a bit cold. He wasn’t a kid fresh out of college anymore. He had a house and, while somewhat on the shady side, he had a job that made him a good living.
The car in front of them stopped and the police officer stepped up to the window. Of course, the occupants were white and the officer was really only giving them a cursory look; his attentions were already on the next car in line. Theirs. He placed the Beretta 93 in his lap and fingered the trigger.
Russell’s eyes scanned the scene. The two officers checking vehicles were both looking fairly bored. The two that were supposed to be providing backup were sitting in their vehicle. That would be the problem, and that is where he would focus his firepower. He would rely on Tremont and Al “Panama” Hylton to deal with the exposed cops.
The car ahead was waved through, and they were signaled to approach, and then stop. The officer on the driver’s side glanced at the license plate. Of course, they’d swapped out the last of the plates in the parking lot of a grocery store right after they crossed in to Vancouver. Since reaching Oregon, they had made periodic stops to find Washington plates and managed to acquire a set for each of their vehicles.
Tremont rolled down his window as he came to a stop. The officer let his hand brush his weapon in what Tremont figured the man considered to be an intimidating manner. “Where you men head—” He never finished the sentence as Tremont angled his handgun up and fired. The bullet caught the policeman in the throat and blood came in a bright red gush.
Panama had rolled his window down in the back passenger’s side when they were still a couple of cars back in the queue. He brought his own weapon up, a Remington shotgun, and fired into the chest of the still-frozen officer who was just making his way down the right side of the car.
Russell didn’t pause, he threw open his door and began
pumping armor-piercing rounds into the other squad car. The two officers inside jittered and jumped as Pete Sanders came out from the car directly behind and opened up with his H & K MP5. In seconds that seemed like minutes, it was over.
Several cars in the queue started doing everything they could to get out of line and turn around. In their midst, other cars opened up and spilled their deadly cargo as the rest of Russell’s men came out and brought weapons to shoulders. It only took sixty-eight seconds, but in that time, both squad cars on the northbound lane (apparently they weren’t worried about anybody heading south) of Interstate 5 were in flames along with a dozen others.
“Okay!” Russell called after blowing his referee’s whistle. “Let’s get moving. In five minutes, the police will be flooded with calls. Some of these people driving away might have shot video on their phones. By the time we get to downtown Seattle, we will be wanted men.”
The nine car convoy weaved its way through the carnage and sped away down a wide open interstate. Already the scanners were buzzing. The police knew something bad had happened; they just didn’t know exactly what. It was very possible that they would encounter another roadblock before they reached downtown. As they sped by the on- and off-ramps along the way, they could see many of them had barricades set up to prevent anybody from reaching the most direct route in to Seattle.
So far, Russell thought as he watched the looming skyline grow out in front of them, this is going almost as planned. He cast another uncertain glance over at Tremont. He’d been correct. The man had tears rolling down his cheeks. He would need to watch his old friend. A chain being only as strong as its weakest link was an axiom he’d heard in sports. It certainly carried over to this situation. He didn’t think he could kill his friend, but he could certainly disable him if it came to such a thing
The growing voice in horror