by Akart, Bobby
Donna laughed. “What is it with you sailor boys? You just can’t get enough.”
“I loved the open sea, Commander,” said Tom. “However, it wasn’t until I was permanently stationed at Joint Base Charleston that I learned to appreciate my family. Are you married?”
Commander Anderson stopped before they boarded and smiled. “I am. Her name is Virginia.”
Chapter Forty-One
Congress Heights
Washington, DC
“Well, Prowler, I guess we’re on hold until the president makes a move,” said Hayden to her adoring cat. The beast of a feline had curled up on her lap to relax while she devoured the news and nursed her hangover. She hadn’t heard back from Cipollone, so she assumed he’d followed her suggestion.
“I hate sitting here, doing nothing,” she mumbled before picking up her cell phone. She saw the three calls placed to her from Blair Smart at the Haven.
She hadn’t taken Blair’s calls, not because she was necessarily avoiding her responsibilities to the Haven, but mainly because she didn’t know whether going there was necessary yet. By all indications, the attacks had stopped by late afternoon on New Year’s Day, allowing first responders to deal with the damage and state governments to restore order.
Plus, Ryan and Blair had looked to Hayden as a source of information, the type of insider stuff she could relay to them without necessarily betraying her confidential relationship to the president. Truthfully, anything she had at this point was only speculation, but at least she could advise them about the president’s options.
Hayden scrolled through her phone to locate recent calls. Just as she was about to press Blair’s number to return the call, a text message came through. She furrowed her brow as she read it aloud.
Luck can come from a tragic sequence of fortuitous events.
For one, everything in life is luck.
Godspeed, Patriot.
MM
Hayden stared at the display to determine who sent her the message. The sender didn’t have a name, only a three-digit number followed by a two-digit number, separated by a hyphen.
322 - 04
“What the hell does this mean?” she asked Prowler, who squinted his mysterious golden-yellow eyes as he considered the question. Hayden studied her cat for a moment as if she were waiting for a response. One of these days, he’d speak and send her screaming into the night.
She read the message again, trying to discern its meaning. Then her phone dinged, announcing another message. It came from the same source.
Trust the plan.
MM
Hayden gave Prowler a gentle push off her lap and she jumped off the couch. She ran her fingers through her hair and reread the two messages.
“Seriously, people. Who are you, and what’s with the cryptic messages? What plan? And who got lucky? It sure wasn’t me!”
Hayden watched as a single boat puttered along the Potomac away from the city. Her mind drifted away as the words rattled in her head. Luck. Plan. Patriot. Godspeed.
She swung around and walked back toward Prowler, holding her outstretched arm with the text message screen displayed as if the farther away she held it from her body, the less it had an effect on her.
“Godspeed? Who talks like that anymore?” It was if she’d received a text from the seventeen hundreds. After considering the intent behind the text messages, she laughed it off as a prank or being sent to the wrong phone number.
Hayden thought maybe she had cabin fever, and despite the fact DC was out of control, her little corner in Congress Heights appeared to be relatively calm. She thought about calling Blair and decided to give it another couple of hours. Instead, she decided to prepare herself for the inevitable drive to the Haven by topping off her truck with gas and picking up some supplies at her favorite off-grid shopping destination, Walmart.
Chapter Forty-Two
West Clay Street
Jackson Ward neighborhood
Richmond, Virginia
The Jackson Ward neighborhood in Richmond was less than a mile from the Virginia State Capitol. The row houses that stretched from one end of West Clay Street to the other had been built at the time of the Civil War. Following the war, previously free blacks, as they were called during the era, from the north joined with freed slaves and their descendants to create a thriving community that became known as the Black Wall Street of America.
The neighborhood, initially called Jackson Ward at a time when political precincts were referred to as wards, also became known as a center for black entertainment. Dubbed the Harlem of the South, the venues were frequented by the likes of Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington, and Nat King Cole.
Over time, however the community fell into disrepair. After the civil rights movement of the sixties, and the desegregation that accompanied it, the inner-city properties were abandoned. Jackson Ward became the target of redevelopment plans, severely disintegrating the historic community.
However, at the turn of the twenty-first century, at the urging of Virginia’s governor, a push was made to preserve the historic neighborhood by placing the buildings on the National Register of Historic Places. Taking advantage of tax credits and favorable financing, investors came in and revitalized the neighborhood. One of those investors was the Schwartz family’s charitable organizations.
Several homes in the five hundred block of West Clay Street were purchased and renovated. For a while, they were used as low-income residences. The close proximity to the state capitol soon found a better use for the homes—a staging ground for political protests against the Virginia state government.
Virginia was going through a period of political transition. More and more government employees chose to live in the state and undertake a lengthy commute to Washington, DC. Defense contractors flooded the Northern Virginia area, and their employees filled overbuilt neighborhoods left empty following the housing collapse of 2007 and 2008. The political demographics changed from red state to purple to leaning blue in the span of two decades.
Change takes time, and the Schwartz foundations were prepared to play the long game. New Year’s Eve simply accelerated their timetable.
That afternoon, a group of forty-seven people assembled in the four row houses along West Clay Street. Prior to the New Year’s Eve attacks, their activism was limited to coordinating astroturf political protests in Richmond and Washington, DC. Astroturfing, a term derived from the artificial grass used at indoor stadiums, was the practice of creating an illusion that the public outcry was spontaneous and supported by the grassroots of citizens.
In reality, the organizations behind these large gatherings paid the protestors, funded their expenses, and coordinated their efforts. They were a tool to manipulate the media into spreading the false premise that the entire populace was behind a measure when in reality the protestors were paid to vocally embrace the cause du jour.
On this evening, an actual grassroots protest, of sorts, was being planned. The men and women who attended the call to action weren’t there to recruit protestors for fifteen dollars an hour to ride in a bus to Washington for the day. These people were the true believers in the cause. They called themselves the Resistance, although they identified with many different groups spread around the country.
Until now, they weren’t organized as a collective. Operating on a regional basis, rarely were they called to perform a task outside their home states or a nearby large city. These were the hard-core few, often labeled as anarchists, a slur that many resented but others wore as a badge of honor.
Those on the right claimed anarchists were hell-bent on battling the police and destroying property, all in an attempt to voice their displeasure with the government. Meanwhile, these self-identified anarchists claimed to be on a quest for a just and equitable society, and that political labels were more than irrelevant. They were counterproductive and divisive.
Modern society looked upon the anarchists gathered on West Clay Street that evening as hoodl
ums and thugs who were trying to circumvent the ballot box to effectuate change. The gathering of young people saw themselves as something different and pointed to history to make their case.
They argued that throughout history, it has been necessary to shock the system in order to get people’s attention. Riots and work stoppages were necessary in order to protect workers and to form labor unions in the early twentieth century.
The violence surrounding the civil rights movement was necessary to pass the critical legislation protecting the rights of all Americans regardless of race. Since the turbulent sixties, many Americans believe the times demanded a unified struggle to get the attention of those who were comfortable in their surroundings and oblivious to the plight of others.
They had bucked the system, shunned the government, and sometimes rioted to make their point. Now the battle would become much more personal. They wore black clothes and black bandanas to cover their mouths. Some wore the white Guy Fawkes masks used most recently by Anonymous, a loosely organized group of hacktivists known for their attacks on government and corporate computer systems.
Historically, the Guy Fawkes mask had been used by the Loyal Nine, the original Sons of Liberty, when organizing resistance to the British Crown during the years leading up to the American Revolution.
On one occasion, knowing they were going to need help organizing a resistance movement, the Loyal Nine turned to Bostonian Ebenezer Mackintosh and his gang of miscreants known as the South Enders.
Mackintosh was a poor shoemaker who was generally considered lower class in Boston at the time. After the death of his first wife, Mackintosh became involved in the militia and later joined the infamous Fire Engine Company No. 9 in South Boston. Over time, he became a fixture and a leader in the poor communities of Boston’s South End.
As the head of the fast-growing South End gang, he coordinated activities of the annual Guy Fawkes Night held on the fifth of November. In 1605, Guy Fawkes was a member of the Gunpowder Plot to assassinate King James and several members of the House of Lords. The plot failed, but Fawkes became well known for his insurgent activities. Animated masks honoring Fawkes began to surface, featuring an oversized smile and red cheeks, a wide upturned moustache, and a thin vertical pointed beard.
Mackintosh used the occasion of Guy Fawkes Night to light an enormous bonfire and recruit more members into his gang. He orchestrated most activities in the south part of the city. Inciting public disturbance was not foreign to them. The insurgency became a thorn in the side of the British, enabling the Loyal Nine to sow the seeds of liberty and advance the cause of freedom.
Today, groups like Anonymous and others had to conceal their identities from the thousands of cameras that existed in the Orwellian state that was modern America. In the past they’d used a variety of tools ranging from megaphones to wooden poles to chunks of concrete so they could draw attention to poverty, racism, educational inequality, and gender bias.
Now the gloves were off. The restraints had been lifted. They had been given deadlier tools capable of fighting back against what was being perceived as a war against those who needed their protection the most.
This meeting on West Clay Street in Richmond, Virginia, was not the only one. Others like it were being held in Alexandria, Virginia; Charlotte, North Carolina; Memphis, Tennessee; and Atlanta, Georgia.
Their marching orders were the same—make them feel uncomfortable. Take the fight to Main Street America. Leave your mark everywhere as a constant reminder of who we are.
Resist!
Chapter Forty-Three
Walmart
Clinton, Maryland
Hayden had been raised by her family to be independent and self-reliant. Growing up, she hunted, fished, and enjoyed camping. She loved the outdoors and learned to live off the land, studying survival methods of foraging, trapping small game, and surviving in extreme temperatures.
Eventually school took over her life and she had to place her hobbies on the back burner. She still found ways to maintain her self-defense survival skills. Frequent trips to a gun range in Maryland were a part of her routine. Before the family farm was sold, she took trips back to Tennessee to camp and hike. Also, once she moved to Washington, she learned to defend herself physically through Krav Maga and verbally through the law.
Hayden prided herself on being a defender. Not necessarily of criminals, although she could. No, she was a defender against bullies. From childhood to the highest levels of power, Hayden defended those who were persecuted by mobs, whether it was kids in a schoolyard or an overbearing media.
She made her way through light traffic to nearby Clinton, Maryland, located just ten miles east of Alexandria, Virginia, where the closest Walmart was located. Hayden rarely went grocery shopping, taking the majority of her meals at her desk, except for the occasional working dinner with her associates at work or with a client.
Hayden went to Walmart for many reasons, including purchasing ammunition for the weapons she kept in her gun locker at the Maryland Small Arms Range in nearby Meadows, Maryland. The range was frequented by military personnel stationed at Joint Base Andrews, some of whom she’d struck up friendships with.
The quick fifteen-minute trip was uneventful. Upon arrival at Walmart, however, she was surprised at how full the parking lot was considering it was a holiday. She’d assumed everyone had emptied their bank accounts and maxed their credit cards by Christmas or were assuredly tapped out from the after-Christmas sales.
Once inside, Hayden was astonished. The checkout lines were all open, and they were seven customers deep. Overflowing baskets of bottled water, canned goods, blankets, and other supplies could be seen.
She shook her head and turned to the left, where she found an abandoned grocery cart near the pharmacy. She commandeered it and set about filling it up. While she was in the pharmacy area, she stockpiled first-aid supplies, vitamins, and health supplements. She added at least three each of the toiletries she used.
She stopped in the camping supplies aisle and filled her cart with a variety of camping gear and off-grid cooking supplies. She didn’t anticipate having to sleep in the woods overnight, but it was a part of her stored gear that needed backup supplies.
Making her way through the sporting goods aisles was more difficult. At her final stop, a crowd had amassed around the gun counter as customers, primarily men, waited on their purchases. Maryland did not preempt federal law regarding gun purchases. Most eligible buyers could make their purchase in the length of time it took to get a response on their background check.
Hayden didn’t need any more weapons; eight was more than enough. However, as her father had told her once, you can never have enough ammo because without it, your gun is nothing more than an expensive club.
She politely pushed past the men and made her way to the counter. Two frenzied clerks stood waiting for the phone to ring. Their ammunition stock had dwindled, but it was far from empty. Hayden glanced around at the men who had the presence of mind to make their gun purchases quickly, considering the circumstances. The one thing they hadn’t done yet, she surmised, was purchase ammunition. They were most likely waiting to pick up their weapon first.
All eyes were on Hayden, not just because she’d muscled her way into the all-men’s club at the Walmart weapons counter, but even dressed-down in her Duke sweats, she was incredibly beautiful.
“Good afternoon, miss,” the older clerk greeted her. “Are you here to purchase a gun?”
“Maybe she wants a pink Crosman air gun?” said one of the men at the rear of the crowd, which drew a hearty laugh from his fellow shoppers.
“No, ammo only, please,” replied Hayden, ignoring the continuing snide remarks directed at her.
She focused on her arsenal rather than what she already had in her storage locker and in the condo. Everything she was about to purchase would supplement what she’d take to the Haven if it came to that.
“Okay, ma’am, tell me what you need,” the fri
endly clerk offered.
Hayden thought for a moment. Had this been several years prior, she would’ve run up against Walmart’s internal policy limiting ammunition purchases to three boxes per day. That restriction had been lifted, and now, unless a do-gooder salesclerk picked up the phone and contacted local law enforcement without cause, the sky was the limit for Hayden.
“I’ll need five hundred rounds per weapon,” she stated confidently. This drew gasps from the men behind her in line, and then several chuckled as more jokes were cracked about how BBs come packed in thousands.
The clerk retrieved a pen and a pad of paper to begin making notes. Hayden reeled off her firearms, some of which were duplicated, like her handguns.
“A thousand rounds of nine millimeter, Luger, one hundred fifteen grain. Give me the PMC Bronze.”
“Okay.”
“A thousand rounds NATO five-five-six. Make them Federal, American Eagles. Sixty-two grain.”
The clerk nodded. Hayden heard some whispers coming from behind her. “She’s got two AR-15s. Who is this chick?”
“A hundred rounds of Remington sluggers. A hundred rounds of bird. And three hundred rounds of double-ought buck. All Remington, please.”
The clerk wrote down her request. “Um, ma’am, I’m glad to accommodate you. But, um, how much more do you need? Do you realize how much this ammo will weigh? We can’t help you to your car with it all.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I can handle it.”
“I’d be glad to help the little lady,” muttered the man directly behind her, who continued to crowd Hayden at the counter. She didn’t consider the men to be a threat to her safety. They were just jerks to be ignored unless they crossed her boundaries. Then they’d get taught a lesson.
