Reaper (10 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Max had set up their sleeping quarters in what would have been the substation’s commander’s office, who probably would have been a captain or maybe even a deputy chief if the place had ever opened.  The reason he did this wasn’t because he considered himself deserving of it.  It was because it was on the second floor, at the end of a hallway, in an unoccupied section of the building, inside a larger office space that also had a door on it.  Someone looking for him would have to go through two doors, both locked, to find him.

When they reached the second door, Max stopped, turned, and took Myra in his arms.

“Umm, you smell good,” he told her.

“I better, I took a shower just for you.”

Max put his nose in her hair and breathed deep, exhaling a groan from deep in his throat.

Myra kissed him on the lips and they held it for a long few seconds, enjoying the moment, before Max pulled away, said, “Come on,” and pulled his keys from his pocket.

Inside, Myra stepped to the window and looked out toward Great Oaks Boulevard.  “You think anyone can see in?” she asked.

“Only if we want them to.”

“You wouldn’t …would you?” she said smiling.

“I’m willing if you’re willing.”

“Really?” smile fading, not sure if he was serious.

“Nah, there’s something in the glass that makes it impossible for people to see in, even with the lights on, but allows us to see out.”

“Yeah?  In that case ….”  Myra pulled her tee-shirt over her head and unhooked her bra, letting them both fall to the floor.  She raised her hands above her head, “Whew-hoo” she shouted, spinning around.

Max started kicking off shoes, pulling guns and phones and badges from his belt, and stripping off clothes, all while staring at Myra’s now naked body.

“Gawd you’re beautiful,” he said.

“Gawd you’re hard!” she said in return as she laid down on the air mattress and rubbed her hands across her nipples, pinching them between her thumbs and index fingers.

Max threw himself on the bed next to her, kissed her on the lips, neck, sternum, and then the closest nipple.

Myra rolled her eyes and moaned.

Max’s cellphone rang and they froze.

“Don’t you dare answer it,” Myra said, holding the back of his head, keeping his lips pressed to her nipple.

Max shook his head no, and bit gently, rolling her nipple between his teeth.

The phone kept ringing.

She pushed him back and put her hand between his legs, stroking him.

The phone kept ringing.

She slid down his body, kissing his chest, his stomach, his pubic hair, rubbing her face in it.

The phone kept ringing.

Myra started to laugh.

Max started to laugh.

The phone stopped ringing.

“How many rings do you have that thing set for before it goes to voicemail?” Myra asked.

“I don’t know.  It’s just that …”

The phone started ringing again.

“Oh for God’s sake, answer the damn thing, will you,” Myra said.

Max reached out, grabbed it, and swiped the screen to answer the call, just as Myra took him in her mouth.  When he looked down, he found her looking up at him, smiling as best she could, but still smiling.

“What!” he said into the phone.

She went all the way down and then slowly up.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked.

“Nothing!  What!”  He squirmed and struggled to concentrate.

“Where are you?”

“Nowhere!  Now what do you want?”

“Oh God.  You’re at it again.  Is that all you two think about?”

“God damnit, Steve, we haven’t …” Max stopped as Myra made circles with her tongue, still looking up to see his reaction.  He let out a breath.  “We haven’t done anything yet because you keep calling when you shouldn’t be calling.  Get the picture?”

“I’m starting to get the picture, and I like it.  What’s she doing, right now, right this very second?”

“She’s ….”  Max could feel Myra laughing now as she released him and raised herself up on her elbows, exposing her breasts.”

“Go bother Beth, Steve, and leave us alone!” Myra shouted, continuing to laugh.

“Come on man, why did you call? asked Max. “Tell me it wasn’t just to mess with us.”

“No, not this time.  I’m calling to tell you to get to a TV and turn it on.”

“Not again.  They hit us again?”

Now Myra sat up and pulled the top blanket up over her chest.  Thanks a lot Steve, Max thought.

“No, this is better news …I think.  The FBI is putting out a couple of people as persons of interest; our area, too.  Supposedly, they’re associated with one of the assholes from the mall.  Here on student visas.  San Jose State.  They’re in the wind, though.  I guess nobody’s seen them for several days.”

“What channel?”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s on all of them.”

“Okay, I’ll check it out.  But do me a favor. Don’t call again unless there are terrorists at the gate and then only after you’ve called everyone else.”  Max disconnected from the call.

“Shit!” he said, getting out of bed and turning on the wall-mounted, flat screen.

“What’s happened now?”  Myra asked.

Max said, “If Steve is bullshitting me, I swear, I’ll kill him.  Supposedly they’ve identified a couple people connected with the thing at the mall.”

When the picture came on, it was a split screen showing the photos of two people.  At the bottom of one photo was the name Amiir Abdulle Hassan, twenty-five years old, country of origin, Somolia.  Under the other photo was the name Amor Ocampo, a female, twenty-three, country of origin the Philippines.

“…
they are believed to still be in the San Jose area.  Even though they are only described as persons of interest, the FBI warns, if spotted you should not approach them.  Instead, immediately call 911, give your location, and a law enforcement officer will respond.

The picture switched to the anchor, a man Max recognized from years of broadcasting.

“
What we know so far is that both these individuals are here in the United States on student visas from their native countries and attending San Jose State University.  Mr. Hassan is an engineering student in his third year, and Ms. Ocampo is majoring in pre-med, reportedly with plans on becoming a doctor.

We are permitted to tell you the pair is connected with one of the two persons who carried out the assault in Oakridge Mall, in San Jose, where thirty-three people were murdered and another twenty-one wounded, including four police officers.”

“Permitted?” Myra said.  “What the hell does that mean?”

The news anchor’s eyes shifted ever so slightly away from the teleprompter and the shot tightened down until just his face was in the frame.  He stared straight into the camera and said
, “Our staff, here at the Evening News, has been working diligently on this story ever since the first attacks.  Unfortunately, under the threat of the loss of our license from the FCC, even of arrest, we aren’t permitted to tell you, for instance, that three …”

The screen went white and all sound was cut off except an annoyingly loud static.  This went on for three or four seconds before the picture returned showing the co-anchor, a woman with black hair, red lipstick, and a red dress, sitting at the news desk, looking into the camera.  She remained like that, looking right at the camera, for what seemed like a long time before she turned her head and looked off camera, saying, “
You better go to a commercial because I’m not going to say another word on this story until you get those people out of the newsroom.”

The screen switched to a commercial about the newest erectile dysfunction drug, which would have been laughable considering the timing of Steve’s call earlier, if it weren’t for what they had just witnessed.  The federal censors were already at work and at least some in the media weren’t happy about it, and they were willing to risk punishment to protest the new restrictions.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Myra said, crawling under the blankets.  “They can’t do that.  What about the First Amendment, freedom of the press?”

“I think before this thing is over, we’re all going to be tested.  Some people will go along with the new rules, some won’t.  Both sides will pay a price, though.”

Max’s phone rang again.

“Yeah?”

Max, this is Arnie Dunn; you got room for my kids and parents?”

Arnie was a dispatcher and a single dad.

“Yeah, of course, bring ‘em on over.  When?”

“Now.”

“I’ll let the front gate know.  Sleeping bags if you got them, blankets if you don’t.  We have the cots.  Once you’re here, we ask that you sign in and out so we can keep track of who’s coming and going.  I’ll fill you in on the rest in the morning.”

“I’ve got one of those pop-up tent trailers, can I bring it?”

“Sure, no problem, bring it.  Someone will show you where to park it.”

Max got up off the bed.  As he stood, he felt Myra’s hand slide down his back.  “Gotta go outside for a second.  Shouldn’t take long.”

After dressing, and as he walked out the door, his phone rang again.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

June 18
th

Max stood at the door to the arms room, double checking the numbers and wondering if maybe all this wasn’t overkill.  He found himself doing this a lot lately, second guessing, telling himself to get real, thinking he was over preparing and when everything settled down in the next couple of days, he’d find himself standing in the middle of a big empty building looking foolish.

Frank Larson had come through in a big way; over five thousand rounds of .223, a little less than half that in 12 gauge buckshot, and a little under a thousand rounds of 9mm.  He’d also brought a large supply of 7.62 for his custom Arsenal AK 47, that now rested in the gun rack on the wall that was crowded with pistols, revolvers, AR’s, Mini 14’s, shotguns, bolt actions, and even a couple of 30/30 lever action deer rifles.  Adding Frank’s contribution to what he, Steve, and the department provided, well, they had a lot of firepower.  And Frank said he could even reload more if necessary.

Max heard someone in the hallway behind him.

“Hey, wanna go for a ride?” Steve asked.

Max turned around.  This was the first time he’d seen Steve since the call the night before.  “What is it with you?  Is it your life’s mission to keep me from getting laid?”

“I’m trying to save you.  You know, keep you from getting in over your head, making a mistake, doing something you’ll regret.  Next thing you know you’ll be married, have a bunch of kids, working extra jobs to make ends meet, doing the Saturday soccer game thing, getting a potbelly, losing your hair, having your booze rationed, and forced to stare at women out of the corners of your eyes.  I promise you’ll thank me one day.”

“Jeeze,” Max said, shaking his head.  “Okay, whatever, …now what’s this about going for a ride?”

Steve nodded his head and smiled while pulling some chew from one of his cargo pockets.  “Yeah.  I got a call from Walt Briggs.  He’s working today.  He says there’s a shitload of people gathering at San Jose State getting ready to march on the Federal Building.”

“How come?  What’s the deal?”

Steve put a pinch of tobacco between cheek and gums.  “Well, supposedly it started out as a bunch of Second Amendment people protesting the feds cutting off ammunition sales and forcing gun registration, some sort of national day of protest.  But the First Amendment people and the Fourth Amendment people got wind of it and decided to jump on the bandwagon.  Then a bunch of tea partiers showed up.  Walt says there’s well over five thousand people, and it’s getting bigger.  So I wanna see what’s up for myself.”

“And that’s happening right now?”

Steve nodded his head and started looking around for a place to spit.  He finally spotted a wastebasket just inside the arms room door, walked past Max, and spit in it.

“Really?  Did you really have to do that?”

Steve shrugged his shoulders.  “Forgot my cup.  I’ll clean it out later.  So you wanna go or not?  It’ll be good to get out of here for a little while.”

“What’s the department doing about this march?  I don’t want to get in their way.”

“Hah …we’re just monitoring it.  In fact, I heard that some of the guys are even participating.”

“You mean undercover?”

“No, I mean like in participating, participating.  Off duty and demonstrating like the rest of ‘em.”

It would be nice to get away for a couple of hours, Max thought.  “Okay, I’ll meet you in the parking lot.  I gotta let Jessica Martinez know we’ll have to reschedule our meeting.  The committee selected her as their president, and she wanted to discuss a few things with me.”

“Ah, …where’s Myra?”

“Working.  She’s also trying to sign up a doctor to join our little group here.”

“Cool.  Five minutes in the parking lot.  I don’t want to miss anything.”

Steve started toward the wastebasket again but Max closed the door and smiled.

“That’s just wrong,” Steve said.

By the time they got there, the protesters had already moved to the front of the Federal Building, partially up onto the front entrance area, facing off with a line of helmeted DHS people. They were completely blocking the sidewalk, surrounding a DHS SUV parked at the curb, and spilling out into the street.  Five thousand people wasn’t an exaggeration.

Max and Steve saw Walter Briggs sitting in his marked police car less than a block away.  They wandered over, greeted him, and turned their attention to the events unfolding a short distance away.

As they continued to watch, Max spotted a group of about a dozen hooded anarchists wearing white, hard plastic masks, arrive at the edge of the crowd.  Twice that many of the protesters broke off from the gathering and surrounded the anarchists, pushing, shoving, and ripping the masks from their faces, stomping them to pieces.  This went on for about two or three minutes, accompanied by a lot of shouting, until the anarchists were herded away, rubbing the bumps and bruises they had suffered at the hands and feet of the larger group.

In a different group stood perhaps twenty people dressed in Revolutionary War period clothing, including wooden muskets.  One of them, a man dressed like Benjamin Franklin, carried a sign that read,
Liberty
.  Another held a sign that read,
We The People.

The crowd pretty much ranged in age from late teens to people who were maybe in their eighties.  There were a few children standing with their parents, though; one of whom, a little girl of about eight, was holding a sign that simply read,
Freedom.

Up near the front, things were getting a little tense.  Men and women were shouting at the DHS cops, while at the same time moving toward and away from them, pointing and shaking their fingers.  At one point, a woman in her early thirties must have gotten too close to one of the DHS cops, or said something he didn’t like, or maybe he just got fed up with it all, because he stepped forward and gave her a two-handed shove with his baton.  She fell back into the crowd behind her.  That caused the crowd to surge toward the DHS line resulting in more pushing and shoving.

A temporary halt to the disorder occurred when a man with a bullhorn climbed on top the hood of the DHS vehicle parked at the curb.

To Max, he looked like an aging, paunchy, bespectacled, college professor trying to fit in.  He was wearing a brand new pair of blue jeans, probably the first pair he’d owned in twenty years, a white, long sleeve dress shirt, and white, white tennis shoes that screamed just out of the box.

There was a squeal from the bullhorn before he said, “What do we want?” which was followed by a few voices, “Liberty!”  He then shouted, “When do we want it?”  And the crowd, now up to speed on the rhythm and desired response, shouted, “Now!”

This went on for a couple of minutes before the man with the bullhorn said, “The Constitution ….”  The crowd slowly quieted down, and he started again.  “The Constitution was written to constrain government, to protect us, we the people, from the inevitable intrusion of government into our lives.  But it’s happening folks.  It’s happening right now, as we stand here with our anger and our fists raised high, before the very people who are doing it to us.  They are trying to take those protections from us …all of us.  And make no mistake, if we just stand by and do nothing, if we let them destroy everything Americans have worked so hard and fought so hard for, then we deserve tyranny.”

“We here today, and at other rallies across this great land, can still rescue our country.  We are stronger than any government or group of terrorists trying to steal our liberty.”

Cheers.

“We are more committed to preserving our freedoms than any backroom politician or ignorant jihadist with a gun is committed to taking them from us.”

Louder cheers.

“We are more willing to fight and struggle and sacrifice, including, if necessary, to give our very lives to preserve our precious Constitution and the freedoms it guarantees, than any of those wanting to destroy it.

Still louder cheers.

So fight them.  Denounce those who sell us out. Defy their illegal laws. Resist them at every turn. Vote them from office. Impeach the bastards.  Run them out of town ….”

The rest of his speech was drowned out by the shouts of
Liberty …Liberty …Liberty …Liberty.
  And suddenly it seemed as if the crowd swelled-up with all the anger swirling around it, and as one it turned and surged toward the DHS line.

The black-suited cops struck out with their batons, knocking several of the demonstrators to the ground.  However, several other demonstrators were able to grab two of the DHS troops and drag them away, causing other DHS cops to come to their aid, opening a breach in the line.  The crowd pushed through this gap, causing the DHS line to fall back, closer to the front entrance to the building.

“They’re calling for back-up from the P.D.,” Walt said.

“Oh shit,” Steve replied.

The pushing and shoving and baton work continued at the line.  The crowd was massive and pressing.  The media was off to the side filming the whole thing, catching every lick with a baton, every face screwed up in anger, every curse and shout of protest.

“Whoa,” Walt shouted.  And he started laughing.

“What?” Max asked.

“Hang on.  Lemme check something out.”  He stroked the keyboard of his in-car computer terminal.  “Look at this.”  He leaned back and turned the computer screen so Max and Steve could see it.  “They’re all going out of service, every one of them.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asked.

“They aren’t responding.  Every beat cop in the city is putting themselves out of service; a car stop, vehicle problems, a flag down, a suspicious circumstance.  Nobody is going.”

“Nobody is going?” Max asked.  “There’s got to be somebody who is responding.”

Walt returned to his keyboard.  …”Nope …wait, there’s one guy.  Can you believe it, there’s one unit responding.”

“Who is it?” Steve asked.  “Let’s straighten his ass out.”

“Lieutenant Godfrey,” Walt replied.

“Figures,” Steve said.

“Look, I gotta go,” Walt said.  “I can get behind letting DHS getting their asses handed to them, but we gotta protect the surrounding businesses.”  He started the engine of his car and put it in gear.  “Looks like we also have a gang-related shots fired near First and Santa Clara.  Catch you later.”

As soon as Walt was gone, there were a series of gunshots from the front of the Federal Building, and the crowd of protestors ran screaming in panic toward the street.

“The idiots are shooting,” Steve said.

Max and Steve started moving closer to the protest.  As they did, they saw the DHS line putting on gas masks while several protestors lay at their feet.

“Tell me they didn’t shoot those people,” Steve shouted.

Max spotted the little eight year-old girl he’d seen in the crowd earlier, the one carrying the sign with
Freedom
written on it.  The sign was gone and she was hurrying along with her mother, but being hard-bumped and jostled by the panicked crowd running past them.  Max started for them just as the girl’s mother went down and the girl tripped, falling on top of her.

One of the protestors, a male in his mid-twenties, stopped to help them, but a tear gas canister fired by DHS landed nearby, popped, and started spewing CS gas.  The man hesitated and took off running again.

By the time Max neared them, they were in the cloud of CS and screaming, which only made their situation worse.  A woman in her forties rushed out of the fog with her shirt pulled up over her mouth and nose, didn’t see the mom and her daughter, and tripped over them, landing hard on her knees.  She got back to her feet and ran on, bleeding.

Max’s eyes were tearing and his nose and throat were burning when he finally reached the pair.  The little girl, on her feet at that point, had her eyes completely closed and was turning in circles, pawing at her face, shouting for her mom to help her.  Her mother was down on all fours, blinking rapidly, trying to see a way out through her tears.  Max quickly got them turned and headed away from the gas.  Steve met them a few yards away and led them toward Max’s truck.  Once there, Steve retrieved bottles of water, passing one each to Max and the woman, using another to flush the little girl’s eyes.  All three were coughing.

While all that was going on, they heard sirens and more gun fire, but it all seemed as if it was coming from further away, toward First Street and Santa Clara.

With most the sting from the gas gone, Steve said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” looked at the little girl, turned to the mother, shrugged his shoulders, and added, “Sorry.”

Max asked the woman where she lived, and she replied, “South San Jose,” but indicated her car was parked at the college.  When Max told her they would give her a ride, she hesitated.  Thinking she was probably afraid to get in a car with two strange men, he showed her his badge and said, “We’re police officers.”

She grabbed her daughter’s hand and took a few steps back.

It dawned on Max she was lumping Max and Steve in with the DHS; cops were cops.  “Hey, we don’t agree with most of what’s going on either.  There were no San Jose cops there,” he said, pointing to the Federal Building.