by Bobby Akart
“Do we have bolt cutters strong enough to cut through the chain?” one of the group asked.
“No, but I do have an alternative way into the school,” replied Wallace. He stood away from the table and studied the people he would rely upon to break in. “At the food service entrance between the classroom buildings and the community college, there are three roll-up doors that allow delivery trucks to back up to a loading dock.”
“We won’t be able to open them from the outside,” opined one of the men. “I doubt we can even pry them open.”
Wallace scowled at the man for interrupting him. “There’s another way. You might remember that they were doing some construction work at the school. In the utility yard where the roll-up doors are located, there is a Cat backhoe parked near the roof overhang. We need someone to climb up the backhoe boom, jump onto the roof, and break through the windows into the building. Once inside, you should be able to manually roll up the steel doors from inside.”
He studied the faces of the group, hoping for a volunteer. Wallace couldn’t do it himself because he had bad knees.
“I’ve done it before,” said a young man as he raised his hand. “I mean, I was a teenager foolin’ around, but I did it.”
“That makes you an expert in my book,” said Wallace with a smile. Then he laid out the rest of the plan. “There’s a long concrete wall dividing the loading dock from Sombrero Beach Road. We can hide our trucks behind there while we load up. We can even make several trips if need be.”
One of the women spoke up. “I think it’s a good idea. As soon as it’s dark, let’s do it.”
Wallace took a deep breath. “I want to do it right now, in the daytime, and here’s why. Headlights at night draw attention. Plus, if we are noticed, we can’t see anyone sneaking up on us. During the day, with our weapons, we can warn off anyone who tries to interfere. We can’t be surprised.”
“That’s true,” said one of the group. “Let them see us. It’s not like they can call the cops. Right?”
“Some people have two-way radios,” interjected another.
“Man, they’re not gonna rat us out. They’ll probably just hang around ’til we leave, hoping for a few crumbs.”
Wallace liked the fact the group seemed to be in near unanimity with his approach. “Listen, there’s no time like the present. Let’s get our trucks together and check our fuel levels. I know it’s only a couple of miles, but I don’t want any hiccups. Also, bring your weapons and flashlights. We’ll leave from here in an hour.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tuesday, November 12
Morton Street
Grassy Key
Marathon
The Morton family compound jutted into the Gulf from Grassy Key on the eastern side of Marathon. Several properties had been held by the family on Morton Street since Marathon was developed in the early 1900s. The Mediterranean-inspired homes were set in lush, mature tropical vegetation. Each of the three homes had its own jetty projecting out into the water to create a safe space for their boats to dock.
When they arrived, they were surprised to see Commissioner Bud Marino and the other two district commissioners referenced in their conversation at the hospital the other day. They stood on the terrazzo-covered entry leading inside Cheryl Morton’s home. The elderly woman stood just inside the doorway and was greeting the commissioners as Hank brought the car to a stop on the driveway.
Marino broke away from the group to hustle to Hank’s truck. He opened the door for Erin and spoke to both of them as Hank came around the front bumper.
“I know you’re surprised to see me here,” he began. He glanced over his shoulder to determine whether they were being observed by their hostess. She’d escorted the other two commissioners inside and left the front door slightly ajar.
“Those two, also,” said Hank. “Is this an ambush?”
Marino laughed. “No, of course not. Unless you get caught up in friendly fire. Listen, Hank. This may be presumptuous of me, but I felt compelled to move this thing along a little bit. I have news for you both, if you don’t mind waiting until we get inside.”
Erin and Hank looked at one another. They shrugged, and Hank said, “Lead the way.”
Minutes later, everyone had exchanged pleasantries and got comfortable in Mrs. Morton’s spacious living room, which overlooked her private beach. Hank was impressed.
“Let me bring Erin and Hank up to speed,” began Marino. “Late yesterday afternoon, Sheriff Daly pulled virtually all of the sheriff’s deputies assigned to Islamorada and Key Largo. They, along with several firefighters from our largest fire station, were ordered to report to Key West. The wife of one of the firefighters, who is a paramedic, rode with her husband from Islamorada. She returned just after midnight and pounded on my door, waking me up.
“This morning, Lindsey has Jock sending teams into food warehouses and grocery stores throughout Key West with the intention of emptying them all. Now, as we all know, this was not altogether unexpected. That said, I didn’t expect them to act so quickly after the hurricane.”
One of the other two commissioners spoke up. “Down our way, we’ve still got people wandering the streets whose homes were destroyed. I would’ve thought Lindsey would have more compassion than that.”
“She’s a vile woman,” said Mrs. Morton. “She never should’ve been put into office in the first place. We’re stuck with her, for now.”
“I presume you know that’s why we’re here,” said Erin.
“Yes. Before I begin, just so you know, I didn’t vote for your boss either.”
Erin laughed. “Understood. Half of America didn’t. It’s a funny thing about elections. Those who are placed into the highest positions of power automatically assume they have some kind of mandate from the people to implement their policies. They lose sight of the fact that half of the voters cast their ballot for the other guy.”
“I’ll try to bite my tongue when it comes to Carter Helton out of respect,” said Mrs. Morton.
Erin studied the matriarch of the Morton family, who’d been a fixture in the Keys for more than a century. She seemed like a take-no-prisoners adversary, which was exactly whom Hank needed in his corner to remove Lindsey from office.
“I’m glad we see eye to eye on this mayor,” said Erin. “Is there anything in the county’s governing documents that allows for her to be removed from office?”
“Not at the county level, no,” replied Mrs. Morton. “Florida laws governing recall must have been elected to a governing body of a municipality or a chartered county. There are twenty chartered counties in Florida; however, Monroe County isn’t one of them.
“She is subject to recall under state law if she’s served at least a quarter of her term in office, which she has. The next criteria relates to the grounds for the recall. They include, among other things, malfeasance, some permanent disability, conviction of a felony, drunkenness, and the two catchalls—neglect of duty and incompetence.”
“I believe we could make a case for two or three of those,” added Marino as he made eye contact with each of the attendees.
Hank leaned forward from the sofa he shared with Erin. “Suppose we make this argument to the residents of the Keys, then what?”
Mrs. Morton grimaced. “It’s a time-consuming process that certainly works against what you intend to do. You’ve got thirty days to gather the requisite signatures. Then the county clerk has a right to confirm them before turning the petition over to the supervisor of elections. Lindsey has the right to issue a statement of defense, followed by a formal recall petition and so on, including a special election. It’s meant to require a somewhat lengthy period of time to prevent political lynchings and rash decisions.”
Erin took a deep breath and sighed. “Is it possible to obtain a court order to force her to step down due to one of the criteria you listed? Perhaps the mayor pro tem, albeit an ally of the mayor’s, would be a little less zealous or heavy-handed.”
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br /> Mrs. Morton shook her head from side to side as she spoke. “The problem you have is that both the president’s declaration of martial law and the mayor’s own executive orders have suspended the Bill of Rights, including access to the courts. The streets may be lawless right now, but the halls of justice reek of tyranny.”
“There has to be a way,” said Hank under his breath.
“The quickest and most expeditious method is to force her resignation,” said Mrs. Morton. “I can find nothing under state law or the governing documents of the Monroe County Board of County Commissioners that prevents the BOCC from calling a special meeting for this purpose. Her executive orders don’t override the functions of the BOCC, even under these disastrous circumstances.”
Marino perked up. “We could call an emergency meeting of the BOCC. The three of us could force her out and select a new mayor.”
“We could also select another mayor pro tem,” added one of the other commissioners.
“You’d have to show cause, in my humble opinion,” interjected Mrs. Morton. “State law may require it, and certainly the will of the people would have to support it. Otherwise, the change might be seen as illegitimate, and you’d face an angry mob on every street corner. In other words, you might make matters worse.”
“And we have the issue of Jock Daly,” added Marino. “He’s rumored to be more than a loyal servant of the mayor’s office. He’s much closer to Lindsey than we realize. We’d better have the people on our side, or we’ll see what martial law looks like.”
“All or nothing, right?” asked Hank.
“That’s correct,” replied Mrs. Morton.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tuesday, November 12
Key West
Sergeant Rivera led the caravan of SWAT vehicles into Conch Plaza’s parking lot. A handful of stalled vehicles were scattered about. The Starbucks had been looted, and a tent city had been built in the tree-covered drive-through using tarps and four-by-eight sheets of corrugated steel that had been dislodged during the storm. As the assault vehicles entered the shopping center, out of curiosity the homeless residents followed them toward Gordon Food Service.
All of the other stores in the strip shopping center had been looted, including Bealls Outlet. The windows had been broken out, and the store appeared to have been ravaged. As Rivera’s vehicle slowly rolled past, he became puzzled as to how the clothing and home décor store could have been thoroughly looted, yet the adjacent grocery store had not.
Sergeant Rivera, whose mother lived nearby, had visited Gordon’s often to purchase groceries for his elderly mother. When the nation began to collapse following the nuclear attacks, he’d insisted his mother move into his home near the sheriff’s department. He’d packed her most beloved belongings and food the day of the move. He hadn’t returned since.
Gordon’s was boarded up, but something bothered him about its appearance. There was no evidence that anyone had tried to loot the business, a rarity in Key West. Virtually every storefront was scarred by some effort to enter it.
The store’s steel roll-up doors were one reason it hadn’t been breached. The other might have been the vehicles tightly parked together under the canopy covering the portico entrance. A desperate looter might’ve attempted to gain entry by driving their vehicle into the steel doors, but the cars were arranged in such a way to prevent it.
Sergeant Rivera shrugged and shook off the strange feeling that had overcome him. It had been a safe and successful day thus far. He was certain Sheriff Jock and the mayor would be patting him on the back when he made his report.
All the trucks parked, and their occupants spilled out onto the sidewalk that ran parallel to the portico-covered driveway. Sergeant Rivera began to bark out his instructions to team A as well as B and C, which had rejoined them for this target.
“All right. Firefighters, you’re up. Get us through these damn doors!”
The three men approached the easily identifiable roll-up doors. The interlocking galvanized steel slats rode upon heavy-gauge steel channel guides on both the inside and outside of the door frame. To gain access, they used a K-12 Fire Rescue Saw with a twelve-inch saw blade. The men traded turns to cut through the steel using several different angles and techniques. The high-torque engine squealed as it tore through the steel quickly.
After several minutes, an entry point the size of a small door frame had been opened up to allow the SWAT team members inside to clear the building, which was the size of a Trader Joe’s grocery store. The six deputies had been inside the building for nearly two minutes when shots rang out.
“Team A, report!” shouted Sergeant Rivera.
The deputies shouted over one another.
“We’re taking on fire!”
“They’re on the catwalk above the registers!”
“No, at the rear—arrrrggggh!”
Automatic gunfire continued to explode inside the enclosed building. Suddenly, the other two roll-up doors began to slowly open. They were being pulled upward manually by a chain just inside the door. Sergeant Rivera drew his service weapon and ordered the firefighter members of team A to grab rifles out of the assault vehicles.
Rivera shouted into his two-way radio, “Team B! Team C! Report to the front entrance. Now!”
The commotion was beginning to draw a crowd as over two dozen curious bystanders crowded around the assault vehicles to watch. They pushed forward until they were near the canopy and the parked cars. Sergeant Rivera, focused on his team trapped inside, didn’t notice the spectators behind him.
Two members of team A emerged from the side entries. As they walked backwards, they were firing wildly inside the dark store in an effort to provide cover for their SWAT team partners to escape.
“Deploying smoke!” a man shouted from inside the store.
“Roger that!” another shouted back.
The sounds of smoke canisters striking the polished concrete floor of Gordon’s could be heard. Smoke began to billow through the entrances.
Rivera shouted into his microphone, “Abort! Abort!”
More gunfire, this time sending bullets sailing through the smoke-filled entrance and striking eight people who’d pushed their way toward the front entrance to get a better view.
Rivera continued to call out to his team to abort the mission. He yelled at the bystanders to fall back. He tried to call to the members of teams B and C to stand down, who, in the chaos, began to open fire as well. Soon, bullets were flying in and out of the entrance to the grocery store with neither side capable of seeing their targets due to the smoky conditions.
Several members of Sergeant Rivera’s breach teams were wounded or killed. The same was true of more than a dozen civilians who got in the way of the barrage of bullets. Rivera called all of his breach teams to the scene. The rest hid behind their Level III bulletproof shields to move in formation as they reentered the building.
A gun battle raged for an hour or more as the sheriff’s deputies fought the owners of the business and their hired guards. When it was over, seven deputies had died and another five were wounded. All of the guards and owners of the business were killed. The civilians who’d exposed themselves to the carnage suffered as well. Eleven died and nine suffered life-threatening wounds.
Sergeant Rivera had secured the food and supplies, but they came with a high cost.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tuesday, November 12
Driftwood Key
After Jessica got called away to help a wounded fisherman, Mike spent some time with Peter, Lacey, and Tucker with the newly acquired weapons he’d retrieved from the supply depot at the sheriff’s office. Only a couple were department issue. The rest were confiscations that wouldn’t be missed considering the state of confusion the department was operating under.
Tucker was especially attuned to Mike’s instructions. Both Lacey and Peter had been weapons trained by their law-enforcement uncle while growing up, but Tucker had never been exp
osed to guns until the apocalypse. He soaked in the information that Mike imparted on the group and, at times, asked poignant questions that caught the seasoned LEO off guard.
“Do you carry your sidearm with a bullet in the chamber? Couldn’t that second it takes to rack a round make all the difference between living or dying?”
Mike glanced at the adults and smiled. In his mind, he was telling them—“Don’t worry about the kid. He gets it.”
“That’s a great question, Tucker. For me, I keep a round chambered. Here’s the way I look at it. What are the chances that the second it takes to rack it will get you killed or hurt versus the likelihood of an accident because you’re carrying a chambered round in the weapon strapped to your hip?
“Here’s another way of putting it. If you’re in a situation where you don’t even have an extra second to move your hand, you’re probably in real trouble anyway. Most self-defense scenarios don’t play out that way, especially if you have good situational awareness.
“So, to answer your questions, I do keep a round chambered, but I’ve trained with weapons my entire adult life. For you, I don’t think you should carry a weapon that is locked and loaded. What you need to focus on is your situational awareness.”
Peter chimed in, “I think I’ll follow that advice, too. As for situational awareness, it saved my ass more than once since my experience in Abu Dhabi. I learned constantly being aware of my surroundings was important for my personal security, especially now.”
“Peter’s right,” said Mike. “Since this all went down, I keep reminding myself of a quote from that famous general Jim Mad Dog Mattis. He advised his Marines who were in Iraq at the time to be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet. I’ve adopted that as my motto for when I have to deal with suspects in my job. I wish I’d applied it to Patrick Hollister. I’d be able to run more than twenty yards without getting winded.”