Right then, as the protesters marching north came into sight, more than a dozen firebombs flew towards the building. The crowd backed up and formed up into a solid mass in the street in front of it. After they were well arranged, and the other group merged with them, they all began marching north chanting, “Black Lives Matter”, “Down With Slavery”, and “Islam Has To Go”.
* * *
At the Salafi center, owned by the North American Islamic Trust, aka NAIT, located northwest of the White House, a member of the protester group lifted a megaphone:
“This organization, NAIT, is the financial arm of the Muslim Brotherhood, and is heavily influenced by Hamas. It owns, according to some sources, as much as 70% of the mosques in the United States. It began in Egypt as an educational entity, that teaches the importance of instituting Sharia law as the basis for operating government, society, and religion. They support the spread of Sharia law to all countries, including this one!
“Their motto is; ‘Islam is the solution’. In this country, citizens have the freedom of speech and religion, until one person’s perceived freedoms infringe on the freedom of other citizens! This Sharia law crap violates every freedom we have as Americans. We have to keep it out! We should not allow any organization, religion-based or not, that exists solely to force us to surrender our freedoms, among us, in our own land!
“Most of those here at this event today represent Black Lives Matter. They are formally trained at how to operate a legal and peaceful protest against these people and their ideals, but not all of us are!”
Dozens of firebombs were lobbed at the building’s roof and windows. The crowd backed up, formed up, and began marching east in a tight mass chanting, “Black Lives Matter”, “Down With Slavery”, and “Islam Has To Go”.
* * *
News of the coordinated fire bombings, and the paths of the three masses of protesters were being closely monitored not only by the Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Columbia, but the Capitol Police, and also the Secret Service guarding the President at the White House.
Since the two groups southeast of the White House had merged, and appeared to be headed directly north, up 2nd Ave, the Metropolitan Police began to follow closely behind them, blocking off residential streets in front of them.
It appeared that the group marching away from the Salafi center were headed to, or would pass nearby, the White House. The Capitol Police, on the outside of the grounds, and the Secret Service on the inside, scrambled to ready positions, prepared to defend the fence if necessary.
The Capitol Police set up roadblocks two blocks away, to prevent the mob from turning towards the White House. They hadn’t initially intended to go there, but when they were told that they couldn’t, they swarmed around the roadblocks and went right at it. Their original intent was to meet up with the other groups at Union Station, northeast of the White House, to protest the shooting of one of their number the night prior by police at the mosque.
As the rioters reached the very fences of the White House, Secret Service agents warned them away. With total disregard for their warnings, rioters began attacking the fences; any that tried to scale it were immediately shot and killed. The Secret Service has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to their job of guarding the President of the United States, who was on site at the time.
Some of the media reported that Secret Service agents had attacked peaceful protesters, unprovoked, and had killed dozens of them.
* * *
Mayor Takisha Jackson of the District of Columbia, when faced with a very similar situation as the nearby female Mayor of Baltimore had earlier in the year, called a news conference and basically gave her permission to the rioters to tear the city up by saying again, “We need to give them room, if they feel the need to be destructive and express themselves, instead of killing them”. When asked about calling in the State’s National Guard, she let it be known that she would not. She didn’t want to see continued violence against the protesters, and felt that militarized law enforcement personnel would use too heavy a hand on her people, making the situation worse.
Chapter 8
Stan Goldberg: Metro Electronics, 4th St., D.C. 1:00 p.m. Monday, Jan 17th, 2016
Stan had been watching the local news, and watched the rioters advancing right up 4th St for an hour, until suddenly, they were right outside of his windows. He’d considered closing down the shop earlier, not knowing which way they would go, but he thought that his father would have a meltdown if he did. He’d been worried that an electronics and cell phone shop would be high on the looting list, but they seemed to mostly be running right past the shop, without even giving it a second look.
There had been exactly zero business today. Nobody was going to be buying tablets or prepaid cell phones while this chaos was going on. He pulled his own phone out to check the news coverage in real time. He almost dropped it from surprise, when it rang right in his hand.
“Hi Dad, I was just about to call you,” he said, seeing his dad’s picture on the screen.
“Stan, close up the shop. Things outside on the streets are turning bad fast.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” he admitted. “I was just going to check the news, and then give you a call.”
“The pictures on the TV look dire. They have a news helicopter showing a live feed. The riots are turning deadly. I need... I want you to close down, and get out of there. It’s just stuff. Walk away. We have insurance.”
That surprised Stan.
“Dad, there are people in the street outside the front of the shop right now!” he said, and was startled to hear the boom of gunshots on the street.
“Good Lord Stan, get out of there. I can hear that.”
“Turning the lights off now,” Stan told him.
“Call me when you’re home.”
“I will Dad, don’t worry.”
“Ok, I love you son.”
“Love you too,” Stan said.
He walked towards the front of the store and switched off the open sign. Then, making sure he had his keys, he walked outside. He didn’t like the way the anti-theft curtains made the store look, but they’d foiled at least two break in attempts. He was glad now that they’d invested in them. He got the two front showcase windows done on the outside, and quickly went back inside to pull the one inside of the front door, when somebody came running right up to the door.
“We’re closed,” Stan told him, through the glass, one hand pulling down the anti-theft curtain.
“Hey man, lemme in. I gotta get me some…”
“Come back tomorrow,” Stan said, and continued pulling.
The anti-theft curtain is a lot like a garage door, coiled up and spring loaded. It’s also really hard steel, so the worst the guy outside could do is break the glass on the door, only to be stopped by steel. Most shops had one on the outside of the door, but Stan liked parking in the alleyway behind the shop, out of sight. If they had to pay for glass a time or two, but kept their inventory safe, he considered them a good investment. And, like his dad said, they had insurance.
“Let me in, Jew mothafucka!” he heard, as the glass on the front door shattered.
“Shit,” Stan mumbled, nervously fumbling for the keys.
The steel door started to move up, and it took both of his hands to hold it down in place. He could hear shouts now, and with a sickening feeling, he realized that the man wasn’t alone.
“You got no right shutting us out!”
“Your sign says you still open, fool!”
“Gonna stomp your Jew ass, if you don’t open this shit up right now.”
The voices Stan heard sounded mean and vicious, and those were just the few he could make out. Things had gotten more dangerous than he’d realized, faster than he’d thought they could. He heard glass breaking in the doorway again, and he had to redouble his efforts to hold the curtain down. Out of frustration, he used his right foot to hold down that side and free up his right ha
nd. Quickly he fumbled through the keys, looking for the right one. Salty sweat ran into his eyes, and down his cheeks like tears as he struggled. His hands were even sweating, making it hard for him to hold onto the keys. There! He saw the brass colored key he needed, and got it into the keyhole on the first try. He turned it quickly, the lock locked immediately, and he let go of the curtain slowly. He half expected the door to shoot back upwards. He’d been holding it down for so long... Had he gotten it locked right? When it held, Stan stood up, and stepped back from it. His arms broke out into goosebumps and, with a great sense of relief, he wiped the sweat out of his eyes and off of his face.
“Shit,” he whispered, his voice drawn out by the sound of angry shouts and and people beating on the steel window and door shutters.
He considered just leaving the till, but instead he walked over and hit no sale. He pulled out all of the paper money, and stuffed it into a bank bag. For about the third time in as many years, he wished he had a gun. Any kind of gun. Somebody outside obviously did… But D.C.’s restrictive laws had kept him from owning and carrying one. And though that restriction had been lifted recently, he hadn’t had time to go out and fix it yet.
He felt around in his jacket for the automatic gate opener that blocked off their alley way. He suddenly got a bad feeling that he might have lost it somewhere, but it wound up being right where it was supposed to be. Things had gone so far south, so terrifyingly fast, that he hadn’t even thought to call 911 until that very second.
“All circuits are busy, please try again later,” was the automated voice from his cell phone.
He cursed, and ran to the shop phone, dialed 9, 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?” a female voice asked.
“This is Stan Goldberg at Metro Electronics on 4th St. I’ve got a mob outside trying to beat their way into my shop,” he wailed into the handset.
“Do you feel like you or the lives of others are in danger, sir?” The woman’s droning voice lacked any emotion or surprise.
“Hell yes! They kicked in the glass on the front door, but they can’t get past the burglar curtain yet,” he shouted, digging through his keychain, so he wouldn’t get a repeat of what had happened to him earlier.
“All officers are busy with the riot. I’ll get an officer to you just as soon as I can. If you can get out of the area, that’s what I would suggest. Do you have an escape route planned, sir?”
“Uh, I think I can go out the back, but I don’t know if there are people blocking the streets. I can’t stay here--”
“Coming to get you, mothafucka!” the same voice howled, from the other side of the door.
“Get out if you can safely. If not, shelter in place, and help will come to your location as soon as possible. Good luck sir!”
“Yeah, thanks,” Stan said sarcastically, and dropped the handset on the counter, not even bothering to hang it up.
I’m screwed...
That last voice had unnerved him, and there was no way he was going to be staying there. He’d seen what the rioters in Baltimore and Ferguson had done. Fire was a favorite of rioters for some reason and, although the building was brick, the interior wasn’t.
I don’t think the anti theft curtains were fireproof at the edges.
“So if they try to block me in when I open the gate, I’m going to just run their stupid asses over,” he mumbled to himself out loud, tucking the bank bag into his jacket’s inner pocket.
I really wish I had a gun...
He walked back into the stock room, and unfastened the bolt to the back door. He slowly opened it, about an inch, and peeked out to the left down the alleyway as far as he could see. A few people milled by the automated gate, but nothing horrible. He pushed the door open wide, to see that he was the last person in this shopping block still parked back there. That was sort of normal, given that prepaid cell phones and tablets were a big thing with the younger crowd, and they were often open later than everyone except The Corner Liquor & Deli, on the other side of the street.
His phone rang, and he put it between his shoulder and his ear, so he could lock the back door.
“Hello?” he asked.
“Hey Stan, you ok?” his dad asked, his voice full of concern.
“Yeah, I’m getting out right now,” he said, unlocking the door of his old Buick. He fished the bank bag out of his jacket pocket, and tossed it on the passenger seat. He almost fell over as three men stood up on the passenger side. They had been crouched by the passenger window. One of them swung something, shattering the glass.
“Son, son?” Stan dropped his phone, turned, and sprinted back towards the door of the shop.
“Where you goin chicken?” a black man chided behind him, his voice loud and strong. Stan recognized that voice, and that face. It was the same man who’d tried to get in the front door as he closed up the shop. Somehow the man must have jumped the fence, and beat Stan back there, along with a couple of his friends. Stan was struggling with the keys to the back door, when he saw out of the corner of his eye, one of them pull the bank bag out of the broken car window, and heard him begin cheering.
The other two, the first man and one of his friends, held lengths of metal rod in their hands, and Stan’s heart sank. He got the key into the lock, and tore the door open, just as they reached him. Rough hands grabbed at him, and he kicked backwards lamely, but still connecting. He got inside.
Muffled curses filled his ears, but he was already pulling the door closed. A large brown hand grabbed the door from the outside and Stan pushed the door as hard as he could, slamming it against the jam, with his assailant's fingers still in there. Screams of pain and curses were thrown his way. The hand pulled out, only to be replaced with the ends of those two metal rods. Then they pushed. The leverage was too much.
Stan was no weight lifter, but he was decently strong. He was no match for the three men, using their combined weight and that leverage. No matter how much he tried, he just couldn’t get the metal rods out of the way, so he could get the deadbolt engaged. He started sweating even harder, his fear and exertion making him almost drip with it.
Suddenly, he remembered that he had a baseball bat beneath the cash register. He decided that he would rush for the bat, and try to fight them off, until 911 could get officers there. He took a deep breath, and then bolted towards the cash register. He surprised them when he suddenly let go of the door, and all three men fell inside, cursing and swearing.
He felt something hit him in the back of one knee, and he fell into the countertop hard, his shoulder clipping the edge. His leg and shoulder both burned, and when he tried to move his injured arm, the worst pain imaginable shot through him.
Broken collarbone?
Maybe.
Using his good left hand, he tried to get up on his knees.
“Gonna kill you for that bullshit, mothafucka,” that same voice said, way too close behind him.
Stan made it to his feet in a state of panic, but those same strong hands grabbed him, and literally threw him into the display case that the cash register sat on. Stars exploded in front of his eyes, as his head hit the safety glass. It didn’t break, Stan did. He felt his nose go, and the blood begin flowing.
“You have the money,” Stan said, collapsing. “Leave me alone. Please!”
He was looking straight down, trying to pull himself together. The pain was horrible, but he knew that if he blacked out, he might never wake up again.
I have to stay conscious!
“It’s about the principle now,” that voice said, and delivered a vicious kick that caught Stan in the ribs.
His breath left him in one big whoosh, and soon other feet joined in kicking him, until Stan curled into a ball. Somebody was screaming, and after a dozen seconds Stan realized it was him. That’s when something heavy crashed into his hands, that he’d been holding over his head to protect it. Bones broke, and for the second time, Stan was left soundless, this time in pure pain and agony. His back arched
with it, and then something hit him in the temple. His body went limp, all tension leaving his muscles, as he lay on the tile floor, on his left cheek. Something broke, something hurt. He could see boots. Feet. Low sagging pants. Laughing faces. People pointing. People taking stuff off of the shelves, and from behind the counters. There were people everywhere suddenly, and Stan couldn’t do more than groan and whimper.
“No witnesses,” he heard someone say.
Suddenly a sharp pain began under his left ear, and ran in front of him, to his right ear. He tried to scream, but his throat just blew foam, and then--
Chapter 9
Joshua Durham: The Corner Liquor & Deli 1:30 p.m. Monday, Jan 17th, 2016
“Eric, come on man, hurry up!” Josh told his friend and partner.
“I’m just counting down the till. How bad does it look outside?” Josh asked. Both of them had been watching the third day of protests turn into a riot, right on the local news.
“Somebody just threw a brick through the door of the electronics store across the street. I think he’s got his metal gate down or somethi… Oh shit!”
“What?” Josh asked, giving up on counting and just stuffing the cash into a bank bag.
“A few of them jumped across the big gate where the shop owners park,” Eric said, peeking out the side window.
The two of them had already closed the store, turned out the lights and rolled down the window and door protections. Unlike the shop down the street, they had three potential exits. One in the front, one in the back and a roof access where their heating and cooling unit was, and their neon sign.
“Oh shit,” Josh said. “The owner’s son just came out, and got chased back in.”
After just a few seconds, the front door of the store opened, and people began rushing in. Lots of people. Too many people.
D.C. RIOTS (Anonymous Justice Book 3) Page 5
