Stanley Peterson sat in the window of his elegant home and watched in disbelief as black smoke billowed into the evening sky. Houses were burning; too many to count, and Stanley knew it was only a matter of time before the riot reached his doorstep. The complete absence of emergency vehicles responding to a neighborhood in total chaos weighed on his mind like a stone. It seemed as if everyone had left their posts and had returned home to defend what they had; leaving the Petersons, and millions more like them, unprotected from the roving mobs of anarchists. Stanley held his shotgun across his knees and admired the bravery of his own men. Money still had its advantages, but for how long was anyone’s guess.
Stanley stood, sighed, and stared at himself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall of his office located on the east end of his sprawling home. He stared into the face of a frightened old man. At just sixty-five, Stanley could’ve passed for a man in his late seventies. He was of average height, but he was thin and frail; thick white hair topped his head and a pair of matching eyebrows sat on his forehead, like two halves of a misplaced handlebar mustache. Stanley was dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and his favorite hunting shirt. He wore his walking sneakers over white socks and he felt strangely out of place in his own home.
He wasn’t sure if he could kill a fellow man, but he couldn’t bear to be without the semi-automatic, Remington shotgun. Stanley would make the decision to shoot when the time came. Either way, he doubted it would make much of a difference. Surviving this terrible night would be nothing short of a miracle. Tomorrow wasn’t looking any better. The electricity and water had been cut off and it would be dark soon. How long could he expect his hired help to stand by them?
The sound of angry, shouting voices sent Stanley scrambling to the door. The mobs had reached the gates, Stanley was sure of it. He surprised himself by flinging open the front door and charging out onto the marble staircase, the Remington held at the ready. What he saw there confused him for a moment. Stanley’s men had suddenly sided-up and they looked as if they were about to tee off in match play.
Carl, the family butler, quickly joined him in the still air of the fading light. He was small and wiry, and still wore his uniform despite everything that had transpired. Stanley knew Carl would see this to the end; he had been with them for nearly twenty years and had no family of his own.
“What the devil is going on?” Carl demanded to know, holding a small revolver in his right hand. “Garrison, order your men back to their posts!”
Stanley was thankful that Carl had given the order, knowing full well that he should’ve given it himself. The little handgun was something new and it jittered in Carl’s trembling hand. Stanley had no doubt that Carl would pull the trigger, he only hoped that this wouldn’t be the time or the place.
“Some of the men want to return home to their families,” Garrison Kline, the head of security, shouted up to the house. “I told them that I’d talk to you about it.”
Stanley felt the wind rushing out of his sails and his knees felt weak. He knew that this was the moment of truth and that their lives depended upon them sticking together. Stanley’s mouth became dry as he fought to give the order.
Carl beat him to the punch. “They’ve been paid in advance! No one leaves the property.”
“You heard the man,” shouted Kline, a burly man in his mid-forties. “Get back to your posts!”
The gunshot caught Kline in the forehead and sent him sprawling onto the manicured lawn. Stanley began to scream as time seemed to slow and all hell broke loose. The two groups of men exchanged deadly volleys of gunfire, with Kline’s group suffering the worst of it. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air and Stanley’s ears rang in the muted silence.
“Drop your goddam guns!” Al Jackson barked at the two men at the house. Stanley suddenly realized that he was talking to them, and both he and Carl dropped to their knees and did as they were told.
Stanley’s heart was threatening to leap from his chest. The men lying on the ground were mostly still, having died instantly in the hail of bullets. One man, Jim Cooper, lay writhing on the grass, his bloody hands clutching at his stomach. Stanley had liked Jim Cooper, but now he was on the other side and he wasn’t quite sure he could find any sympathy for him. Jackson held his gun trained on Stanley and Carl as he stepped away to check on Cooper. The only other man left standing was Hop Thurber, who held an assault rifle trained on the house. Stanley had never trusted Thurber, and one side of his brain was telling the other: I told you so.
Jackson quickly checked Cooper’s wound, stood, and fired a quick shot into Jim Cooper’s head. Stanley and Carl exchanged horrified glances and held their hands high in the air. Thurber gave Jackson a nod of approval. Six of Stanley’s men now lay dead on the grass.
A puff of wind blew wisps of smoke across the tops of the tall oaks. Stanley could see licks of flame across the street. He could hear people screaming from blocks away; could feel the situation spinning out of control and he felt totally helpless to stop it.
Stanley Peterson had somehow known that it would come to this. He watched Al Jackson walk over to join Hop Thurber, the two men began to whisper and Stanley was sure that they were discussing what to do about him and Carl. Stanley felt every one of his sixty-five years and his arms felt incredibly heavy as they reached into the sky. The conference seemed to last an eternity, but Stanley knew that it hadn’t lasted for more than a minute.
“We’re leaving, Mr. Peterson. I’m going to make you an offer. I want the keys to your Escalade and your wallet. Hop and I will also be taking your weapons. Consider yourselves lucky, Hop thinks we should shoot the both of you.”
Stanley nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He gave Carl a stern look when he saw that the butler was frowning. Carl gave him an exasperated look before nodding to Jackson.
Stanley and Carl were ordered into the house, where they joined the three lone occupants in the great room. Paula, the Peterson’s daughter was sitting on the sofa with her new boyfriend. She had introduced him earlier in the day as Skip something or other. Stanley hadn’t liked him and didn’t care to remember his last name. The man’s face was battered and bruised and he wore a biker’s leather jacket over a t-shirt and blue jeans. He didn’t belong. Paula was dressed in sharp contrast to her boyfriend, wearing designer clothes and just a touch of makeup on her sculpted face. She was much too good for the man seated next to her. Stanley’s wife, Mary, stood by the fireplace, and looked to be on the verge of tears.
Al Jackson held them at gunpoint while Hop Thurber conducted a search of the house; he was no doubt stealing them blind. Stanley sat with his hands folded, on one of the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. The sound of distant gunshots punctuated the silence.
Those minutes were the longest of Stanley’s life; he felt completely violated and utterly vulnerable under Jackson’s challenging glare. The sky had darkened into twilight before Thurber returned. He was carrying his rifle slung over his shoulder and two pillowcases stuffed full with who knew what. He handed one of the pillowcases to Jackson; Thurber then pulled a handgun from a shoulder holster, which had been concealed underneath his sports jacket.
Paula held her head in her hands and wept. Mary crossed her arms and waited defiantly at the side of the fieldstone fireplace. Carl sat next to Stanley in one of the wingbacks and Skip stared at them, as if one of them was supposed to spring into action. Stanley returned the stare with a glare of his own. He wondered about his daughter and why she saw the need to date men that were obviously beneath her. The man seated across from him made her former boyfriend, Jimmy Logan, look like a prince. Stanley found himself wishing that Paula had stayed with Logan.
“We’re going to leave now,” said Jackson in his gravel voice. “Don’t do anything foolish, please? There has been enough death for one day. My suggestion would be to get the hell out of here and as far away from the city as you can. I’m sorry that it came to this, I just want you to know that.”
“Tell that
to those dudes in the yard,” muttered Skip.
Jackson’s jaw dropped and his face grew red with anger. He looked as if he might say something, but he was interrupted by the explosion of Thurber’s handgun. The shot took Skip full in the face and sent the sofa flying over backwards. Paula, her face splattered with gore, began to shriek as she scrambled away from the dead man. She ran to her father, where he stood and held her in his arms.
“Trust me, I just did you guys a favor,” said Thurber. “Come on, Al, let’s get outta here.”
Jackson nodded and turned to leave. From over his shoulder he warned the group not to try following them, which was the furthest thing from their minds. They waited for nearly five minutes before moving out to the kitchen, leaving Skip sprawled out on the floor of the great room.
With death hanging in the air and the world closing in on them, Stanley made a command decision. They would follow Jackson’s advice and leave the city. Carl immediately began to box up some food items from the pantry as the Peterson’s packed up some of their
Ken's Tale & the Peterson Dilemma - Desperate Prequels Page 5