He pushed around clumps of scrambled eggs covered in salsa while he eyed the television.
He tried to concentrate but it was hard.
He’d put it off long enough. Bradley deposited his plate in the dishwasher, and then went back downstairs, while Monica kept Jenny busy with some arts and crafts.
There was one feature of the old house they had purchased that Bradley had been the most excited about. The basement. Cool in the summer, it was where he preferred to spend his time when he was reading a good book. It could be 95 degrees outside but it would be a cozy 72 downstairs.
Bradley shifted the cardboard containers around until he had located one in particular. He dragged it to the center of the room and lifted the lid.
A few years ago, Bradley had been heavily into prepping. His job, at the time, had paid a lot more than his current employer. He had kept enough supplies for them to survive anything short of a nuclear strike for two months. He still had a lot of emergency supplies, but not nearly as much as he should.
He removed another bin and placed it next to the first. Bradley tossed that lid aside and looked over the contents. An emergency radio with a hand crank to keep it charged as well as ports for charging electronic devices via USB ports. Hands-free flashlight headbands, ponchos, socks, and a hygiene kit. There were ten boxes of protein bars with a ten year shelf-life.
A couple of boxes of freeze dried food, bleach, a box of Sawyer mini water filtration systems, and in the bottom of the first bin, fifty-five pounds of rice stored in vacuum sealed Mylar bags. There were matching silver packets of beans and wheat, plus there were disinfecting pads so he could clean out the bins and use them for storing water.
He took a large locked box out of the second bin and set it aside. It had a combination lock with Jenny’s birthday as the combo. Bradley turned the dial until it clicked open.
Inside, wrapped in rags, were a pair of handguns. A Smith and Wesson M&P 9 Shield for conceal and carry in a holster that would attach to the waistband of his pants. He had a few hundred rounds in the bottom of the second bin, but he had selected the 9mm because it was one of the most popular bore sizes to own. Ammo would be easier to find.
The other was his prized possession, a gun with a much larger caliber, a Kimber Raptor II in .45 caliber. He took out three extra magazines and set them aside.
“What are you doing down here?” Monica asked from the top of the stairs.
“Taking stock of our supplies in case we need them,” he called back.
Her footsteps told him he would never get the guns put away before she reached the bottom of the steps. It wasn’t worth keeping a secret anymore anyway. With the craziness erupting everywhere, he might as well show her he had their protection in mind.
“What are those?” She asked.
“Couple of guns I kept. Don’t freak out, baby,” he said.
“You kept those?” Monica demanded.
“Yeah. And good thing I did. See all of that crap on TV?”
“Honey, you said you wouldn’t keep them in the house with the kids.”
“They were safely kept in a locked box. I’d never let the kids near them,” he said.
“It’s not just that. You promised me,” Monica said.
“Can we talk about it later. All this stuff that’s happening, I’m worried,” Bradley said.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket. He hadn’t allowed it enough time to get a full charge but it was good for a few more hours.
“I know you’ve been through a lot. I know, baby. I’m just surprised you hid this from me,” she said.
Bradley looked down at the Kimber and thought about the reasons he had kept it. After yesterday, he would be okay if he never touched a gun before, and yet here he was with one in his hand. But he was concerned, very concerned. After watching the mass shooting on TV, the reporter killed, the cameraman shot as he ran, what was happening?
On the other hand, he was miles from Chicago, and there weren’t any reports of problems there.
The phone buzzed again. He took it out and studied the display. Then he shot to his feet and grabbed Monica’s hand.
“What’s wrong?” She asked.
“It’s Junior. That idiot kid of ours went to Chicago with Kirk to join a protest. He said someone is shooting at the crowd.”
“He said he was at Kirk’s,” Bradley said in frustration. “I’m ground that kid into next year.”
He grabbed Monica’s hand and headed for the stairs. Then he had a thought and dashed back to his bins. Bradley picked out a holster for the Kimber. Then he put the Smith and Wesson on his belt. He picked up three extra magazines for each piece and followed his wife up the stairs.
* * *
They tuned the television to a local station while Bradley dialed his son’s phone. He got a fast busy and hung up. Then he tried again with the same result, so he texted his son.
Where are you? Give me your exact location and keep updating me as you move. If guns go off near you, hide, and stay out of sight.
He turned his attention to the television while he went over his guns. Jenny had fallen asleep and was oblivious to her parents’ crisis.
“Look, look!” Monica cried.
Bradley gasped at what he was seeing. An overhead helicopter had caught the action, and it was being replayed. A well-armed group of people, dressed in street clothes but wearing ski masks, advanced on the protesters and started shooting. People fell, ran, trampled each other. The scene was utter chaos as the attackers emptied magazine after magazine, leaving bodies and pools of blood.
“Jesus.” Bradley gasped.
“Terrorists. It’s just like the president said. We’ve let in too many illegals and they’re shooting at people. How many cities? Oh god, what if Junior is there. What if he’s in the middle of that? What if someone shot him, and I can’t reach him?” Monica grabbed Bradley around the waist and pressed her head to his chest.
“I’m going to get him. I need you to stay with Jenny. Lock everything. Close the blinds and keep the lights to a minimum. You know I put in those security plates in the door frame. No one’s going to bust down the door,” Bradley said.
“What do you mean break in? We’re okay out here, it’s the city that’s in trouble.”
“I don’t know, babe. I got a bad feeling about this. So much violence in one day means it’s coordinated. If martial law is declared, we may be in for a long haul,” Bradley said. “Get that generator out and unpack it. It’s been in the corner of the basement for a while. See if there’s any gas in the garage. You find some, you bring it in. Might be a half gallon from the lawn mower. We’ll need it.”
“Okay. Just get Junior back. I know where the old checklist is. I used to think you were crazy for being so paranoid. Maybe I was wrong,” Monica said. She picked up a box of tissue and pulled one out so she could dab at her eyes.
“Maybe I am crazy, and this will all blow over in a few days. I hope it is.” Bradley took the Smith and Wesson and ejected the mag. He made sure it was full even though it had the weight. Then he put it back in the holster and pulled it free from his belt.
“What are you doing with that?” Monica asked.
“I’m leaving it with you. You remember how we used to go to the range? Keep this on you at all times. If you’re threatened, in the house, don’t hesitate. You pull the trigger. A bad guy wouldn’t think twice and neither should you,” Bradley said and handed her the leather holster.
She took it and set it on the television stand. “You’re scaring me.”
“I don’t want to but this could go bad real fast. Please, do as I asked, just keep that gun on you. Clip it to your waistband or put on a belt. You can put a baggy shirt or hoody on and pull it down to cover the piece.”
“I will, I promise.”
Bradley’s phone buzzed again. He picked it up and read the message. It contained the nearest cross street to Junior, and there was a simple message.
Hurry!
&nbs
p; Chapter Ten
Q: Mr. President. You have called the protests a form of anarchy, but pundits believe it is the right of the people to express their dissatisfaction. How do you respond to opponents who say you are wrong?
A: I’ll tell you something. The protests have become a form of crime in the major cities. We have groups of people destroying property. Breaking into stores and looting. It’s anarchy out there. We need to reign it in. It’s imperative that we reign it in. One of the greatest presidents of all time, Abraham Lincoln, famously said: “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” I firmly believe this. I hear the American people. I understand that the national debt, left to me by the previous administration, as well as the skyrocketing unemployment, needs to be fixed. It’s not me, I’m trying my best here. I’m not a politician, remember that. I’m was a banker, and I know about the economy. It’s the democrats who are blocking every effort we put forth to save our great nation, and it has to stop.
Q: With so many cities under siege, would you ever consider marital law?
A: Martial law would be a last resort, but I won’t rule it out.
Q: Do you think Democrats would block you on this?
A: I do think they would. They won’t support our health care initiative which would save the American public a lot of money. They won’t back me when it comes to removing more immigrants from our borders. You can directly blame them for the last two government shut downs. I don’t believe they will support me.
They parked the van a half mile from the safe house and exited the vehicle. They split up and converged on the house. Chris was one of the first to arrive and, as soon as he closed the door, he paused. They had loaded their weapons here but as far as he knew, no one had been stupid enough to fire one inside.
So why did it smell like discharged gun powder?
Daniel arrived next and stomped into the house.
“That was not cool, man,” Chris said.
“What?”
“The kids. We weren’t supposed to target them,” Chris said.
“Big deal.”
Chris had a folding knife in his pocket. He could have it in his hand, whip the blade out, and stab Chris within seconds, and it wouldn’t be the first time. The move was one he had been forced to practice when he was in the CIA. Later, as a paid contractor in Syria, he had employed it as one of his many skills in the art of taking a human life.
“Dick move,” Chris said.
Ryan arrived next along with the rest of the squad. Ryan went to the downstairs window and made sure no one was watching them. The streets were oddly quiet but above, it was a different story. Helicopters swarmed the skies as they made for the scene in Chicago.
“You smell that?” Chris asked Ryan.
“Yeah. What happened here?”
A thump sounded from above. Chris went into a defensive stance legs apart, hands up, body tilted to the side. He reached for his knife and pulled it out in one smooth motion and thumbed the blade. While they had been required to ditch their weapons, which would be untraceable thanks to their use of gloves and the fact that the serial numbers had been filed off, he still carried a backup. The Beretta Nano packed 6+1 9mm rounds in a compact frame and didn’t feature a safety, teardown lever, or slide lock to get in the way if he had to pull it. He had sacrificed ammo for ability, and carried one extra magazine. It was his shit or quit gun.
Tucked into the side of his pants, he hadn’t let on to any of the other’s that he was still packing. The rules had been very clear on this one. They would be met by a representative who would match names to pictures to make sure the proper people had been involved in the operation. Once that was done, they would each go their separate ways and flee to whichever corner of the world each called home at that moment.
“Probably our contact,” Chris said.
But there was something off. The smell and the silence put him on edge.
“Daniel, take a peek upstairs and make sure we’re good. I’ll look around the downstairs. Ryan, keep an eye out front,” he ordered.
“Ain’t nothing out of the ordinary here. Just our contact, or one of the members of the other team up there, but I’ll take a look if it’s so goddamn important to you,” Daniel grumped.
As Daniel took the stairs, Chris looked at Ryan.
“Yeah. I don’t like him either,” Ryan whispered.
The Hispanic man chuckled.
“Oh shit! We got a problem,” Daniel called from upstairs.
The back door opened silently, and two men dressed in black entered. Both bore automatic weapons, Heckler and Koch UMP’s from the look. Chris didn’t freeze even as a gun sounded from above. Something hit the floor, hard, and Chris assumed that was Daniel.
He threw his knife underhand, and hoped it would stick, then he dove to the side while pulling his Beretta Nano. He hit the floor, rolled, and stayed low as the room was sprayed with bullets. Ryan went down, as did the Hispanic man. One of them screamed in pain but it was cut off with another burst of bullets.
The men were out of sight but they were good. One of them reloaded while the other fired into the main room again.
There was something about one of the men who had shot at him. A familiarity in the way he moved. It reminded him of…
Lawson. Son of a bitch.
Chris rolled and fired three rounds at the hallway, making them take to the walls for cover. He came up in a seated position and fired from his midsection. Chris had been trained in CAR, Center Axis and Relock, a few years ago. He lifted the gun so it was level with his eyes, about ten inches away, and fired the last round. It punched into a wall and one of the shooters yelled in surprise or pain.
He ejected his mag with a flick of his wrist and slapped his backup mag home.
“That you, Lawson?” he called, hoping to stall.
“Who else?” Lawson replied and sprayed the room again.
Chris rolled and came up prone next to Ryan’s body, then fired three rounds in the direction the HK had fired from.
“I’m going to kill you,” Chris threatened.
“Not unless I get you first, pal. Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick,” Lawson said.
The HK sprayed the room again, but Chris was already on the move. He leapt over Ryan’s corpse, met the man’s vacant eyes for a split second, and then smashed through the window and rolled on the ill-kept from lawn. He came up in a sitting shooters stance and fired half of his remaining rounds at the house to suppress Lawson.
Someone kicked open an upstairs window and a gun barrel protruded. Chris dove toward the side of the house, out of sight, and ran. Several neighbors came out to investigate the shooting.
“Terrorists in that house!” Chris yelled and ran toward them. “They’re shooting everyone. Call the damn police!”
Gunfire erupted behind him and took down one of the civilians.
A big black guy came out of his brown rambler with a double barrel shotgun and waved it around.
“There, in that house, some kind of terrorist attack!” Chris repeated his claim.
When he rounded the back of the rambler, he broke into a sprint, and then backtracked and used side streets to confuse any pursuit. He had holstered his weapon, and when he finally came upon a strip mall, he made for a liquor store on the corner. He had little with him. His personal, and modified secure cell phone, a gun with a few rounds of ammo and one last magazine, and about six thousand dollars in cash. He turned toward a wall around the back of the store, and quickly divided the money into four more or less even stacks. One went in a back pocket, one in front, and the other two shoved into his shoes.
Task completed, he swung back around the store and entered the door, keeping his head down and eyes on his cell as if checking a message.
“You all right, buddy?” the cashier asked. He was a Pakistani judging by his accent, and dressed in street clothes.
“Yeah. Just went for a run, and I need some water. You have any?”
“Cooler in the back
,” he waved.
Chris faded to the refrigerated area and took out two bottles of chilled water. He drained the first one and lingered back there for a few minutes.
“Don’t worry, man. I’ll pay for this,” he said.
“Sure, sure.” The man responded but was too absorbed in his nudie mag to make eye contact.
He kept an eye on the street from the rear of the store. A black van meandered by, front windows tinted. It slowed as it drove along the strip mall, then sped up after reaching the end of the street.
“I forgot my jacket and it’s cold. Got any hoodies for sale by chance?”
“Tourist stuff is on the center aisle,” the cashier said.
Chris found a gray hoodie with “I Heart Chicago” on the front and took it, with the water bottles, to the cashier.
“Give me a pack of smokes, too.”
“Which brand, sir,” the cashier asked.
“I don’t know. How about American Spirit. Got a lighter?”
“It’s not good to smoke after a run,” the man said.
“Run?” he asked. “Right. It’s for my girlfriend. Got that lighter?”
“Sure. Two dollars and seventy-eight cents for the cheapest lighter.”
“Bag it all,” Chris dug out a wad of cash and paid for his purchases. Then he slid the hoodie on, lifted the hood, and went back on the street.
It was going to be a long day.
Chapter Eleven
Bradley stuffed a handful of protein bars and a Coke from the refrigerator into a plastic grocery bag. Then he filled a big commuter mug with water. He snatched up his keys and slid into a leather jacket. He already wore jeans and an old Nirvana T-shirt because he had grabbed the first thing in his drawer.
Bradley attached the Kimber’s holster to his left side so he could draw quickly with his right hand if he ran into trouble. He packed a pair of magazines into a sheath and strapped that to the back of his jeans. He would have liked to leave the gun at home, but if Junior was in real trouble, or he ran into fighting, he wanted to be able to protect himself and his son.
DRUMS OF WAR: A Dystopian Thriller Series (Broken Patriot Book 1) Page 7
