

###### One Department

By

Thomas A. Young

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011, Day Of Racknin' Publications. All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The city of Forest Hill, Washington is entirely fictitious. All the characters who reside in that town are likewise fictitious, and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is not intentional. The case described herein of Arnold McCaslin is likewise entirely fictitious, though it has elements in common with many real cases.

With few exceptions however, the persons and events in this book from outside of Forest Hill are real. Numerous cases in which people were killed or otherwise harmed by police are detailed. Those descriptions are based upon news accounts, witness interviews, or both.

"At first, it felt like any other emergency. I mean, we all have emergencies, and when they happen, we deal with them and then life goes on. But then it started sinking in that this emergency was different. This was the end of everything."

\--Elena Morales Gustin

**Table of Contents**

Prologue – 1977

Chapter 1 – The Project Man

Chapter 2 – Initiative Is A Wonderful Thing

Chapter 3 – Crackdowns

Chapter 4 – Elena

Chapter 5 – Backlash

Chapter 6 – Takin' Care Of Business

Chapter 7 – Complications

Chapter 8 – Special Attention

Chapter 9 – A Very Bad Time For The Law

Chapter 10 – Shots Fired

Chapter 11 – Choices Are Made

Chapter 12 – Viral Video

Chapter 13 – The Doctor's House

Chapter 14 – Back To Business

Chapter 15 – Escalation

Chapter 16 – Just When You Thought It Was Safe

Chapter 17 – The Settling Of Dust

Chapter 18 – Trial Of The Millennium

Chapter 19 – Of Endings And New Beginnings

Chapter 20 – Last Words

Epilogue Afterword

Prologue

1977

A young mind is fond of being able to trust, and 11-year-old Randoph Gustin was no different than any other youngster in that regard. Trust was something he felt coursing through him as he sat in the passenger seat of his father's old white International, both of them cruising toward home after a day spent running errands in town.

Spring is a nice time of year in most places, but typically not so much in western Washington State. Every now and then the bright, hot sun would peek out from behind the clouds, but behind the clouds was mostly where it stayed. It wasn't raining per se, but every now and then the windshield would gather some sprinkles that his dad would clear with one stroke of the wiper. Off to the right of the road was a river that seemed to beckon swimmers, if only they could get a little of the toasty weather that the rest of the country seemed to be sweltering through. They had the occasional hot summer, but that was the exception rather than the rule around there. Randy sometimes wondered if there was a way to file an official complaint with God over that.

Randy had short dark hair and a face that made people think of Beaver Cleaver, which was a hard distinction to miss since the show was still running on daytime television. This was the subject of quite a bit of ribbing at school. Mostly it was of a harmless nature, but school is a tough place at times, and there had been one time that one of the junior high bullies took it to a level that required intervention from his teacher Mr. Davis.

Teachers were sometimes excruciating to deal with, like many people were, and Randy had been surprised at how happy he was to see Mr. Davis show up when he did. Davis had never exactly been Randy's favorite teacher, but in that instance the man had done his job and resolved things like a pro. Randy's esteem for him had gone way up after that. One of his mottos for a long time afterward was, say what you will about the grownups, they're there for you when it counts.

In fact when you got down to it, (though he would never admit it out loud), they were pretty great. They got you through school and the tribulations that go along with it. They got you safely home afterward, and generally kept you out of trouble. They burdened you with rules, but more often than not those rules turned out to have a real purpose. They came loaded with advice, especially the older grandparent-category folks. Some of that advice was great, and some of it was well-meaning if not actually all that helpful, but they were always willing to try. When Randy had problems he needed help with, he always started with someone at least ten years older than him, and it usually worked out all right.

But his biggest hero was the man in the driver seat next to him. George Gustin was the role model most kids dream of. He was a classically tough-as-nails Marine, but he also had a gentle side and a true sense of justice. In Vietnam, he had once engaged and then spared the life of a North Vietnamese soldier who had ferociously attacked his unit. After his return from the war, a very young Randy had at first been stunned to hear that story, but George explained to him that a lot of the time they were fighting some real decent human beings. This had been a man who volunteered to lay down his own life to protect his comrades from George's pursuing unit. After the man had been wounded, George had passed up the chance to finish him off. He had instead talked him into surrendering and becoming a POW. As George's prisoner for several days, they had spoken a great deal. And after the war they had stayed in touch. His name was Dat Trang.

Thinking about that reminded Randy that he needed to ask again. "Dad, is Dan still coming to visit soon?"

George smiled. "For the millionth time kid, it's Dat, with a 't'. And yes he is, he just doesn't know exactly when." The answer did little to appease Randy's curiosity about meeting this man. The idea that an enemy could also be your friend was beyond fascinating to him. It had always seemed to him that such issues should be a little more black-and-white. One side good, one side evil. How in the world could somebody try to kill you and then call themselves your friend later? It made no sense.

"He's just as anxious to make it here as you are for him to, but he's got his own family to look after too," George went on. "Including a daughter who thinks you're pretty cute."

Randy put his hand to his head and laughed with embarrassment. "Dad, please swear to me you'll never say that in front of people."

"You've seen her picture. She's cute, ain't she?" George replied.

"You know what I'd have to put up with at school if they knew I had a girl for a pen pal?"

George turned to give his son a smile, as Randy looked ahead. "Girls don't come with cooties in his country. Get used to it."

"Lookout, Dad."

George raised an eyebrow. "Kid, don't tell me to –"

" _LOOKOUT!_ "

George looked ahead and saw a deer right in front of them. He swerved hard into the other lane and just missed it, but before he could breathe a sigh of relief, a Sheriff's patrol car rounded the next corner coming straight at them. He swerved back into his own lane with plenty of room to spare, but as he watched in his rear-view mirror the cruiser drove past the deer in the road, then stopped to pull a U-turn. He shook his head. "Some days nothing goes right."

Randy looked back toward the cruiser with curiosity as his dad found a spot to pull over. "He'll understand, right?" he asked.

His dad gritted his teeth and sighed. "Maybe he will and maybe he won't," he replied, and moments later the car with the flashing red and blue lights was parked behind them.

The cop got out with a pleasant enough smile on his face, walked to the driver's window. He was about six foot two, moderately built, with black rim glasses, and his nametag read B. Grandstone. Randy felt reassured that everything was fine. Everyone knew that the man in blue was who you called for help when you needed it. How could someone who was trusted with that kind of responsibility not understand a thing like collision avoidance?

"Good day, sir," he said. "License and registration please." Randy's old man produced the papers for him. "You know why I stopped you, right?"

"That I do," George replied. "I'm sure you saw the deer in the road."

One corner of the deputy's mouth curled up just a little. "I'm afraid I didn't. What I did see was you almost completely in the wrong lane and coming straight at me."

Randy spent a moment trying to figure out how the cop could really have missed something as obvious as that deer. "It was standing right in the road, how could you miss it?" he said, and his father gave him a stern glance.

"Now, I'm not calling anyone a liar," Deputy Grandstone went on. "It could easily have run away before I saw it." Just as Randy was getting his first sense that something wasn't right, the cop addressed him for the first time. "On the other hand, it almost sounds as if your dad is telling you what to say. What's your name, young fella?"

"It's Randy. And nobody –"

"Randy, is everything all right at home?"

As Randy looked to his dad for help, George turned and stared the man in the eye. "Mister, you'll want to leave my boy out of this."

"That's a fair enough request," he replied, seemingly acquiescent. "But because of the way you're acting, I'll need to ask if there are any weapons in your vehicle."

"What's in this truck does not concern you."

"Anything that threatens the safety of an officer of the law concerns me. Please step out of the vehicle, both of you." With little choice, Randy and his dad got out. "Stand at the front of the vehicle." They stepped to the front and watched while the cop began to lean inside the driver's door.

"Nobody gave you any permission to search," George said.

"The way you're reacting to the subject of weapons gives me cause for concern about safety. That gives me the right to check to see if any weapons are in your immediate reach." The cop leaned inside, rummaged for a moment, then spotted what he was looking for. It was the barrel of a Ruger 10/22 poking out from beneath the bags of camping and hunting gear in the rear. He pulled it out, removed the 10 round rotary magazine, and checked the chamber. The chamber was empty, but the magazine had two rounds of .22 long rifle in it. He held it up. "This is a loaded long arm in a vehicle. You know that's illegal under state law, right?"

George stared with incredulity. "Even you can't be serious about that."

The deputy set the rifle down on the driver seat and closed the driver's door. "Come to the back please." George and Randy walked around to the rear, the cop pointed at the back door. "Is there anything else I should know about?"

George replied, "Since you don't have permission to search it doesn't much matter, does it?"

The cop pointed at the piles of bags and hunting gear in the back. "You've just been found in possession of one illegally carried weapon. And there's a lot of room in there for concealing more weapons or other contraband, which you've already demonstrated a willingness to do."

George looked down, shook his head and laughed. "You know, the sheriff you work for used to be a straight shooter. In times past he'd have never stood for one of his guys making up shit like this."

"I do as I've been trained to do. If you have an issue with our training, you need to take that up with our department at the appropriate time."

"You figure that being trained to do wrong makes doing wrong okay?"

Deputy Grandstone started showing his first signs of anger. "Mister, my job is protecting the public. People like your boy, for example."

"You mean the same boy you just tried to use as an excuse to intrude in our lives?" George shot back. "I can remember a time when a lawman wouldn't do something like that without a real reason. But my boy here never will, because more and more, what we have is government by excuse. You might think that badge you're wearing makes you right all the time, but it doesn't, and that back door to my vehicle is staying shut."

It wouldn't be for several years that the term "contempt of cop" would be coined, but every cop knew what it was already, and Randy saw for the first time the kind of response it can elicit. "Mister Gustin, you can spout your conspiracy theories on your own time," the cop began. "The I-know-my-rights speech doesn't work for the pot-smoking hippies and it won't work for you either, because we are the ones who are entrusted with this authority, and the power to use it if need be. For your sake and your boy's, you need to wise up to that fact right now." The cop patted his Smith and Wesson revolver to illustrate his point. "You have driven recklessly and carried a weapon in an illegal manner, and I could arrest you for either or both of those offenses right now. You have further caused me to have concern for my safety and the safety of others, and now I intend to insure that safety."

"Do you seriously believe that simply saying you don't feel safe gives you a right to violate people?"

"I think that you have a right to bring it up later with a judge and jury if you disagree," the cop replied as he waved a finger at the back of the International. "But as for right now, open that door."

There are certain moments that stay with us all our lives, and Randy would remember this one every time he saw it repeated. His father George was his greatest hero, the man who never backed down, the man who stood tall in the face of anything. But this was the moment when young Randy learned what a man will do when confronted by someone in authority who is doing something that everyone knows to be wrong, with scarcely even an excuse to hide behind. It was the moment that eventually led him to conclude that there is no one you can call whom you can count on to do the right thing. The moment that made, for young Randolph Gustin, his unwavering trust of grownups and people in authority a thing of the past.

George took out his key, put it in the back door to his old white International and unlocked it.

Chapter 1

The Project Man

#### September, 2005

Sitting in the driver seat of a Grove 80 foot tall crane, Randy tuned out the noise of the engine as he bumped the lever. His eyes were fixed firmly on Scott, his lead rigger who stood in front of the crane, watching the load while directing Randy with hand signals. It was the rigger's job to keep his eye on the load, and Randy's job to keep his eye on the rigger, but Randy managed to steal quick glances at the load high above, because this was one of his favorite parts of the job.

He was setting the last piece of the frame of a new building. To him, this was the point where the project stopped looking like a mess created by some kid with an erector set and began to look like a newly created building.

This came with no small amount of satisfaction, because the outer frame had to be perfect. The corner beams had to be perfectly plum, the girders all level, the corners square, the top pieces all on the same plane. Every component was tied into the next, which meant that if just one of those items was out of whack, you could easily spend several days getting everything right again. Luckily, Randy was certain that wouldn't be an issue this time.

He bumped the hoist lever and gradually lowered the piece until Scott signaled him to stop. The piece was a 36 foot long I-beam that sat horizontally across the top and completed the southwest corner. Randy climbed out onto the crane deck to watch while the two welders who were positioned on top of the adjacent beams hammered the ends of the beam perfectly into position, then lowered their welding hoods to tack weld the beam into place.

There was still several months of work remaining on this project, but with the most critical part done, the rest of the pieces would go in smoothly. Randy smiled with the kind of satisfaction that only a real project man gets to feel.

* * *

Summer was on its way out, but not yet gone. The sky was almost universally clear, and it made for long gorgeous sunsets. While the weather was slowly cooling, all of the concrete and asphalt that surrounded their job site in downtown Seattle had a way of collecting heat from the sun and radiating it back onto them. The work here was hard and the commute to and from downtown was brutal, but there were perks to this job too. The girl watching from here was incredible. The female Seattleite population was clinging to summer too, in the form of the outfits they picked to wear.

After the last girder had been welded in place, and the measurements and positioning had been double-checked, Randy called lunch. Everyone who was up on the structure climbed down, and the ten-man crew headed into the job shack.

The shack was a mobile trailer with a pair of long tables inside, surrounded by metal folding chairs. At one end of the trailer was a small office, at the other end a slanted table was attached to the wall, where the blueprints for the project were kept for review when needed.

They all took their customary seats, with Randy sitting toward the right-hand end of the tables. Scott sat across from him, and Eric sat next to Scott. Eric was a sandy-haired kid who was barely twenty, but was a hell of a good welder. They all broke open their lunch boxes. Randy favored old-fashioned sandwiches, while Scott preferred something he could microwave. Eric went for sweet stuff. He was too young to have learned yet about the horrors that kind of food can wreak upon a body with slowing metabolism.

"What sort of time are we making?" Scott asked, as his Ravioli turned in the microwave.

"Almost two days ahead of schedule," Randy responded.

"I bet Henry comes to give you that lecture again," Scott said, as the microwave dinged and he took his food out.

"Henry knows where to kiss me," Randy replied. The man they were talking about was the project superintendent for the company. He liked things to be right on schedule, and he wasn't any happier when a project ran ahead of schedule than he was when it ran behind. But, you couldn't make everyone happy all the time, could you?

Henry The Superintendent was indeed on his way to pay a visit that day, and there was more on his mind than just the issue of Randy working them out of a job. During the spring of that year there had been an episode of an aggressive panhandler wandering onto the construction site. "Aggressive" being defined as reaching-in-his-pockets-for-sharp-bladed-objects-when-told-to-leave. The police had been called, and it had all been handled without bloodshed, but it was looking pretty dicey for a few minutes and Scott had reached for his own weapon. His weapon was a Kel-Tec P3AT, which was one of the new breed of micro-sized .380 caliber pocket pistols, that he kept in a wallet holster. He never even pointed it at _Senor Panhandler_ , he merely held it half-hidden behind his leg. But its presence had quieted things until police arrived to cart the man away.

That had only been the beginning of the issue though. The subject of firearms on the job site had never come up before, but upon hearing about this incident some of the company heads had thrown a fit. Some of them wanted to fire Scott, but they ran into trouble when it was pointed out there was no company policy on the issue. Then they hired a safety analysis outfit to make a recommendation, and their recommendation of course had been a complete firearm ban on company premises. Randy was fighting this change every step of the way. And when the higher-ups had told him to make sure no one carried a weapon on the job in the meantime, he had told them he wasn't enforcing a company policy that didn't exist. It was still up in the air who was going to come out on top of this, but in the meantime, Scott's little pistol remained in his back pocket.

Henry himself sat firmly on the fence, not caring enough one way or the other to get involved. Having to hear about it from both sides was a big source of irritation for him though. If Randy won on the issue, he was fine with that. But if Randy was ruled against, he'd enforce the company ruling.

Scott was first to bring the subject up again. "What's the latest on the gun issue?"

"There's a meeting coming up with all the company heads. I'll be there, and you should too, because it's probably getting decided then."

"Do they even give a shit about the fact we could have been stabbed?" Eric inquired. He had been the first one to get the panhandler's knife pointed in his direction, so the issue was a bit personal to him.

Randy shook his head with a bit of cynicism, the sort that develops after too many years of butting heads with people higher up the food chain than you are. "What people in higher positions love most is handing down pronouncements," he replied. "Our safety is on their priority list somewhere, but if we're going to win this, we have to make them want to do their pronouncing in our direction."

Another one of the workers named Todd glanced out the window just as a white company truck pulled up. "Hey, look who," he said.

* * *

A few minutes later, Randy and Henry were standing out next to the crane, surveying the project. As predicted, Henry wasn't thrilled. "This part wasn't supposed to be done till Friday. There's a reason we schedule things like we do."

"I know there is," Randy replied. "You have to burn up all the money you get so you can justify it all."

Henry had little appreciation for sarcasm, whether or not Randy considered it to be such. "That's not the only thing," he said. "We won't even have your next components ready until next week, so what are you going to do until then?"

"Ooh, that's a tough one..." Randy said as he put his hand to his chin and became immersed in thought. "I know, how about we take a couple days off?" he asked. Henry gave Randy his sarcastic smile, to again express his lack of appreciation for sarcasm. "I know there's something to be said for milking the job," Randy went on, "but wasting other people's money just isn't something I do. And that, by the way, is why your customers keep requesting me as their project foreman."

"All right, you've got a point there," Henry acquiesced, "but we've got another order of business to talk about. I need to know, Randy, why this gun issue is such a bee in your bonnet."

Randy felt his temples begin to throb. He'd been having this argument with people for a very long time, and he knew all the minutia of the issue, yet it was the easy stupid questions that stumped him. It was tough explaining the issue to someone who has no handle on the issue at all. "Henry, remember the Northlake Shipyard shooting?" Randy was referring to a workplace office shooting that happened at a Seattle shipyard in 1999.

"Sure..."

"Remember how two people died there?"

"That was unfortunate, but –"

"It was damned unfortunate, and damned unnecessary," Randy said. "Nobody expects their office to be the target of an attack because the odds are so small. But they lost that lottery, and thanks to their company rules they had no right to be prepared."

"That's being just a little hard on their company, don't you think?"

"Not at all. Safety is just the excuse that companies hide behind, and now our company is getting ready to do the same thing. What it's really about is keeping their monopoly on power."

Henry was clearly having a hard time with this. He shook his head and looked at Randy like he was getting ready to check underneath his hardhat for tinfoil. "Come on Randy, _what_ monopoly on power are you talking about?"

"Henry, company heads are just like public officials in this regard. They don't like to share power with the little people. If we take care of our own protection down here on the jobsite, they see it as us usurping their power, because the job got done without them. It's the same reason that colleges won't let their students protect themselves from people like Seung Hui Cho, even when threats are pouring in. They can't stand the idea of something getting taken care of that either the people in charge or their agents in uniform didn't take care of themselves."

"What if the company hired a security guard?"

"I'm sure they'd like that idea better, because that would involve _them_ taking action instead of _us_. But let's just say that I don't trust an underpaid rent-a-cop to be in the right place when something happens, or to do a good enough job of keeping my ass alive even if he is. I put a lot more trust in us to keep our own asses alive."

Henry could empathize with his points, but he still had some problems with this. "What if one of your guys went off the deep end with the gun you let him carry?" he asked.

"That's not the way those things happen. When somebody goes postal, they don't do it with a little pocket gun, they go home and get bigger weapons. And either way, if there's one thing mass shooters don't like, it's being shot back at. That's the reason they go for the soft targets where people can't protect themselves." Henry nodded. "A soft target is exactly what the company is trying to make this place into right now. And it's not about our safety, it's about their comfort level. Do you see my problem with that?"

"I suppose so. It's just hard for me to understand the need for packing guns on a jobsite like this with all the safety issues it creates."

"Henry, this is downtown Seattle. Bad shit happens here. A few months ago one of our guys nearly got skewered, and it was a little pocket gun that stopped it. A knife wound in the wrong place, and you could have had a fatality here on your jobsite. Does that not sound like a safety issue to you?" Henry nodded slowly. "I know not everyone sees it this way, but it's not about the numbers or the odds, it's about our right to protect our lives. My worker's lives are worth protecting to me, so it would really help us out a lot if you were backing us up in that meeting next month."

Henry thought it over.

* * *

Will Stendahl was a black-haired young man in his twenties, who loved being out and about with his wife and young son. That's what he was doing when things went bad.

Will and his wife both did the 8 to 5 thing during the week, and nearly always had weekends off. That was family time. Their son was three and had yet to face the rigors of kindergarten, which made them a pretty care-free lot. At that moment they were headed into one of the city's parks, the one that had a real kid's playground they could turn their son loose in. His wife was on his left arm, his son being carried in his right, and his Beretta was stationed on his hip. Will was an open-carrier.

The open-carry movement had a strong presence in Washington State, which Will happened to be a member of. They were a web-based national group, and each state had its own chapter. Their motto was, "A right not exercised is a right lost." And the particular right they were concerned with was, of course, the right to openly carry a pistol.

The issue raised more than a small amount of public discourse. It's a fact of life that some people are just scared by the sight of guns, so they had that to contend with. But as time went on and awareness of the issue grew, the gaping stares of horror dwindled to almost nothing. They also had to contend with people on the pro-gun side of the debate who felt that they were antagonizing the public with their in-your-face approach, so they couldn't always count on support from that side either. However people felt about it though, the law was on their side. One could point to dictionaries from the time periods when the Federal and State constitutions were ratified, and plainly see that the protected right to "bear" arms was meant in the military sense, and where sidearms were concerned, that meant a pistol carried openly in a holster.

There was one social subset however that had a bigger grudge against them than every other group combined. That's the one that Will and his family were about to run into trouble with.

Only minutes before their arrival at the park, they had stopped into the nearby Zongo's Ice Cream (named after their seagull mascot, which most folks found ridiculous, but it brought the kids in) and now were headed into the park with their assorted cones. It had slipped Will's mind that this ice cream place was listed on their web forum as not being friendly to open-carriers. While making their purchases, one of the girls behind the counter had been so distracted by the visible presence of _A GUN!!!_ (dramatic music here) that Will had to get her attention and remind her what they had ordered so she didn't get them all wrong.

The manager, who sat back in his office observing, had elected to say nothing to Will about his policy during all of this. Instead, after they had left, he called 911 and reported a man with a gun behaving in a threatening manner.

Will and crew were still well away from the kid's playground when the first patrol car parked on the street nearby. He didn't think anything of it, but he kept one eye on it just in case. When three more cruisers showed up soon afterward however, that's when he knew they were in for trouble.

Four cops exited their cars and walked toward them. Will put his arm around his wife and smiled as they approached. He said, "Good day, gentlemen," and the cops responded by pulling their guns and charging them, screaming at them not to move.

As the cops moved in, Will's frightened wife moved behind his shoulder for protection, and the cop on their right began screaming, "She's going for his weapon!" He ran in close, put his gun right to her head. "Hands up, get on the ground, now!"

Will and his panicked wife were thrown to the ground and cuffed. Their son was seized from them, and his gun was taken from its holster and held up like a war prize. Then they were pulled up to their knees, while stunned people from around the park began to gather to see what was going on.

"What in the hell is this about..." Will began.

Sergeant Jack Hayward, the cop who had just stuck his gun in the face of Will's wife's, was the first to reply. "We got a report of a man with a gun who was behaving in a manner that warranted alarm. Would that be you?" Hayward was a big man, a bit soft in the middle but menacing. Will didn't remember him right off, but he'd be quite disturbed later to be reminded that Jack Hayward already had a fatality to his credit.

"You know better than to take people down like this," Will responded. "Who ordered this?"

"I ordered this," came the reply, as a fifth cop appeared from behind the others and stepped to the front. Will had seen and heard plenty about him before, but had never actually seen him in person. But he saw the man's face and quickly recognized the Forest Hill Police Chief.

"Burt Grandstone, what an honor to meet you," Will said.

Burt had aged quite a bit since the time when Randy had first met him as a boy. His black hair had gone half gray, and part of his moustache as well, but his black rim glasses and smarmy grin were perpetual.

"You know I'm not breaking any laws," Will went on.

Burt pointed at the ice cream cones that had all been knocked to the ground. "You were just in the ice cream place up the road, correct?"

"Yeah, so?"

"What happened in there?"

"Um... we bought ice cream?"

"The manager of the place tells us there was a bit of a disagreement."

Will began to be surprised, and then reminded himself that he knew better than to be surprised. "That's not what happened. The chick was screwing up our order, so I had to tell her so she'd get it right."

"Did you raise your voice at her?"

"It's a little bit crowded, and a little bit noisy in there today."

"I see." Burt glanced around and noticed that the crowd of onlookers had begun to grow. Some of them didn't look very happy at what they were seeing. He also noticed that his officers were blocking the crowd's view, so he turned to them momentarily and motioned them to move to the flanks. This whole show was for the benefit of the crowd, so they needed a good view.

"Exactly what the law says," Burt said as he turned his attention back to Will, "is that you shall not display your weapon in a manner that warrants alarm. Shouting at someone while wearing a gun that is plain for everyone to see tends to warrant alarm."

Will couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What a load of shit..." he said.

"Now I recognize that under current law, you have a right to carry as you do," Burt went on. "Do you recognize that flaunting weapons like this can lead to misunderstandings, or things even worse than that?"

"Like what exactly?"

"Like when Sergeant Hayward saw your wife make a move in the direction of your gun just now. If he had thought she was reaching for it, that could have led to something tragic."

Will's wife heard that and her heart stopped all over again. "So you're telling me that she could be killed for being scared shitless by a bunch of screaming maniacs with guns?" Will demanded.

"I'm saying that situations escalate, and where firearms are involved, they tend to escalate very quickly. Is that your idea of protecting your family?" Will glanced at his wife, now on the verge of tears. He looked at his frightened young son, who was being held by one of the cops as though he were being protected from his own parents. "When guns are present, we train our officers to always assume there's a threat, and to take the highest precautions for officer safety," Burt continued. "Just because something is legal doesn't make it a good idea. And one thing that's always a bad idea is giving a police officer cause to feel his safety is threatened. See where I'm coming from?"

When Burt felt satisfied he had made his point, he ordered Will's son handed to his mother, and his firearm returned to him. The pistol was unloaded and the rounds had all been popped out of the magazine, and it was all dumped on the ground in front of him. Rather than reload everything in front of all those people, he put the rounds in his pocket to take care of later.

Burt watched as the cops retreated toward their cars. Then to cap off this episode, he gave them what had to be the ultimate in sarcasm. "Thanks for your cooperation, you're free to go," he said. Then he left.

As the onlookers began to filter away, Will's wife burst into tears.

* * *

The Forza coffe shop was situated in the only big strip mall the town of Forest Hill had, and it was a favorite hangout for the city cops. This day being no exception to that rule, it was less than an hour after the incident in the park that the same four cops plus the Chief walked in and claimed their favorite table by the big window. The four officers sat in the booth and the Chief grabbed a stool and sat at the end. "It's been too long since I got to do that," he said. "I need to get out of the office more. Besides which, I've been waiting for one of those pistol-packing pricks to screw up, and I need to be there when that happens."

As they got comfortable, Cindy, the perky blonde barista who worked the afternoon shift, came to the table. "Hey guys," she said, then she noticed with a bit of surprise that Burt was among them. "Chief! We don't get to see you here very often!"

"We were just talking about my need to get out more," he replied.

"Well I hope you do," she replied. "I always feel safe when you guys show up, now I feel extra safe! What'll you have?" Cindy took their orders and then walked away to the counter, showing them some backside that was really hard not to stare at.

Preston Mintz was the cop seated in the back corner. Though relatively new to the force, he was in his early forties, with brown hair and thick brown moustache. "I thought we kind of overdid it myself," he said. "I mean, it's not like they were really out scaring people."

Sergeant Sylvester Frawley was the cop seated next to him. "I know you're still a little green," he said, "but you don't really think that was the point, do you?"

"I just don't think this was very good PR for us," Preston replied.

"It's exactly the kind of PR we're looking for," Burt interjected. "If there's one thing the public needs to be aware of, it's that just because they have rights doesn't mean that we can't kick their ass."

Sergeant Byron Palmer was the cop sitting across from Preston. "No matter what anyone tells you, it's us against them out there," he said. "Either we're on top, or they're on top."

"That's true in some respects," Preston replied. "But just exercising a right isn't an issue of who's on top, is it?"

"Aah, exactly wrong," Burt said, and at that moment Cindy returned with the coffee and pastries they had ordered. She set them down on the table and left them again. Burt sipped his coffee, took a bite of his muffin and went on. "These open-carriers are a perfect example of people who want to challenge authority, and their particular challenge is aimed right at us."

"Well, I admit they're a little provocative, but I never really saw the harm in what they do so long as they don't misbehave with their weapons," Preston said.

Jack Hayward said, "What they do is to put their weapons out in people's faces, including ours. That's the problem."

Burt smiled and went on. "That's exactly it. They're advertising a right to pack guns in the open whether anyone likes it or not, especially us. It's pretty much all about tweaking us, and legal or not, we can't let that slide. The bad news for them is that they're tweaking us with weapons, and that opens up a whole lot of options for us."

"You mean in terms of justification?" Preston asked.

"Yep," Burt replied. "'Officer safety' justifies anything. If we don't feel safe, that's all we need to justify hard takedowns, long detentions, searches, interrogations, pretty much whatever we want."

"And if somebody happens to get shot," Hayward added, pointing his finger like a pistol while he smiled, "it'll cover that too." Hayward knew what he was talking about.

Preston took all this in for a moment, not sure if he liked what he was hearing. "I see your point, but even if we can legally justify something like what we just did, what's to be gained by it?"

"It's all theater," Burt replied. "It's our way of saying to the public, 'This could be you.'" At that moment Burt took the unusual step of looking around to make sure no one was listening in, then leaned in closer to his men. "And if you ever happen to squeeze the trigger a little too hard when you're in the middle of this sort of thing, don't fret. There's no such thing as an unjustified shooting. We take care of our own, no matter what."

* * *

Fresh mountain air, with the smell of gunsmoke. Nothing on Earth that's quite as refreshing, Randy thought.

Randy and four of the men from his construction crew were spending a Sunday shooting at a gravel pit in the mountains that lied East of Seattle out Interstate 90. Good places to shoot were becoming scarce as more and more of them were shut down, but you could still find them on the national forest roads if you didn't mind a little bit of driving.

Scott cracked a few rounds from his AR-15 downrange, shooting from the hip. "Try to hit something!" Randy yelled at him. Scott gave him the evil eye, then raised his rifle to his shoulder and aimed as he fired off a few more.

Eric was wearing his Springfield XD in a hip holster while squaring off against three silhouette targets lined up in a row. Randy and the others watched as he drew smoothly and put two rounds into each target. Then he smiled and holstered the gun.

"Nice shooting," Randy said, "just one little problem. While you were dispensing with the first one, the other two got you."

"Okay smartass, show me how it's done!" came the reply, as Eric took out a pen and marked his hits. "There's one of you and three of them, so what's your solution?"

"Make myself harder to hit than they are," Randy said. Then he stepped into position in front of the targets, as his crew stood behind him to watch. Randy was wearing a Tommy's Gun Pack, a sturdy fanny pack holster that contained his .40 caliber Glock 23. He put his hands out to the side, and Eric yelled go.

As quickly as he began reaching for the fanny pack release buckle, Randy broke right into a full sprint, lateral to the target. Despite having a spare tire about him, he used to be a sprinter in school and that talent hadn't completely gone away. He drew the gun and fired a quick burst with a one-hand grip while running at full tilt, then he instantly reversed direction and fired another burst with two-hand grip while sprinting to the right. Then he stopped, blew the smoke off the barrel, and smiled as he and the others walked to the targets.

"My hits were closer to center," Eric said, as they observed that while Randy had a couple hits on each target, they were leaning toward the fringe.

"The important question is, who won the gunfight?" Randy replied. "These hits of mine might not have killed them, but chances are pretty good that they kept the bad guys from shooting me long enough for me to move in and finish the job."

Pete, a tall and heavy-set thirty-year-old, shook his head. "If you did that at the Renton Sportsman's Club, they'd run you out of there with a shotgun," he said. He was talking about a place where they did tactical shooting and competitions, but they were sticklers for safety.

"That's one reason of many I don't go there," Randy replied, "or to most any other range for that matter. I understand their need for safety regs, but they teach you too many habits that can get you killed when shit really does get ugly. Out here in the middle of nowhere, you can do whatever kind of training you need to, no permission from any range officer needed."

Randy cleared his weapon while Pete continued. "They have move-and-shoot drills there too."

"You mean the drills where you walk slowly while shooting at the target?" Randy asked. "Think about it. If you're moving, it's because you're in somebody's line of fire, and if you're in somebody's line of fire you need to be moving a hell of a lot faster than that." Randy motioned toward the three targets. "Those could be three active shooters that just walked into a mall. If they are, then walking slowly while you shoot won't make you any harder to hit than standing in one place will."

"What kind of shootout are you training for anyways?" Scott asked.

"You have to think about the kind of situation you might really encounter, and train accordingly," Randy replied. "And unless we go to Iraq, the biggest thing we might actually run up against is a heavily-armed mass shooter. You might even be driving past a school and see a Johnny Jihad, or two or three, charging onto the property with weapons. If that happens, you have to be prepared to stop them with the weapon you have with you."

"Would you really shoot like that in the middle of a mall, or on a school property?" Scott asked.

"Well, this is another benefit of moving fast," Randy replied, then he motioned everyone to move back. He opened the top compartment of his fanny pack, where there were three more magazines sitting upright in pouches. He took one out and reloaded the gun. "Let's say there's a group of bystanders standing right behind the Johnny Jihads." He chambered the gun, then bolted to the right again. He came to a sudden stop, fired a burst of four rounds, then broke left. He stopped at another position on the left and fired another burst. Then he fell straight to the ground on his right side, fired a few shots upward toward their heads, and his slide locked back. But Randy already had another mag in his left hand, so he quickly changed mags, holding onto the empty one, then charged straight up close to the targets and gave them two rounds each at lightning speed, fired in a downward direction.

Then he walked back to the group again. "If you move quick, you can get into a position where there aren't any bystanders behind your targets. And you can pick directions to shoot in that minimize the danger to other people too."

Todd, the freckled and red-haired welder on his crew asked, "What if there is no good spot to run to?"

"Then, you might be screwed," Randy replied. "But at the same time, do the math. You might be those people's only hope, and if you get taken out, the shooter or shooters will be free to mow them down again. So if you have a shot at them, you have to take it, even if there's a chance of hitting a bystander. A possibility of hitting someone if you do shoot is still better than the certainty of a dozen or more dying if you don't." His crew glanced back and forth at each other, not sure if they liked his math. "But, there are still tricks for cutting the danger."

Randy loaded another fresh clip, holstered the gun in the fanny pack, and everyone stood back again. He drew swiftly and broke right again, this time taking a circular path around the targets. When he was to the right of the targets and they were all in a line going straight away from him, he turned and charged straight at them, screaming like Rambo and firing steadily. But his workers noticed that the rounds were striking the rock wall behind the targets about fifteen feet off the ground. Randy wasn't firing into the targets, he was firing just high enough that no one would be hit. When he got up close however, he put one round straight into the first target, then ran quickly past it and shot the other two in the same way. Then he walked back to the group.

"Gunfire is a very disconcerting thing, especially when it's coming at you," he said. "And the typical mass shooter wants no part of any gunfire coming at them, which is why they always give up or kill themselves when people start shooting back. So some gunfire coming in their direction, aimed a little high so as not to hit anyone, might just let you get close enough to nail them."

Todd held up his Ruger .357 Magnum revolver. "I don't think that method would work for me very well..."

"In that case," Randy replied, "You need something that isn't Clinton-approved." He opened the top pouch of his fanny pack and revealed the three Glock mags. "A six-shooter will get you through the average make-my-day moment, but when shit gets really ugly, six rounds will be gone before you know it. Between the fourteen rounds in this gun and the three Glock 22 mags with another fifteen each, I've got enough for a decent amount of suppressive fire with plenty leftover to put in the targets."

"I usually do my shooting at Wade's," Todd said. "I never even thought about any of this."

"That's because at a range, you're shooting from inside of a box," Randy replied. "For real world scenarios, you need to think outside of the box."

Eric pointed at Randy's fanny pack. "Only trouble I see with your carry mode is that everyone knows there's a gun inside."

"So how's that a problem?" Randy asked. "It's out of sight so it doesn't scare people, but at the same time, few people who see it will want to pick me as a target. I call that the perfect solution. Plus it holds all the ammo I need, and I can wear it anywhere, in any weather too."

Eric patted his belt holster. "I still like mine. This is an open-carry state, and I started doing that a couple months ago."

Randy raised his eyebrows. "Really? How's that working out for you?"

"For me, not too bad, so far anyhow," Eric replied. "But in a lot of places, cops don't like us too much, and they tend to come down a little hard when they get the chance."

"I've read some of those stories. Cops drawing down on people who haven't done anything at all other than to carry their gun where people could see it. That's not happening much anymore though, is it?"

"Oh yes it is," Eric said with a deep frown. "We just had a guy get that treatment yesterday, right in town. He was with his wife and son too, and they all had guns put to their heads."

There was an idea that had been kicking around in Randy's head for quite a while, and hearing this story gave him the sense it was time to put it into action. "I need to know who this guy is," he said.

Chapter 2

Initiative Is A Wonderful Thing

#### November, 2005

Randy had a little piece of property to the east of Forest Hill. It was close to an acre, which was all the room that he and two cats could ever need.

On this property he had a single-wide mobile home. It was a little weather-beaten, but sturdy. There was a metal pole-building in the back corner of the lot that housed his garage and his workshop. A lot of time got spent in there working on projects, but today was too sunny for being indoors. Today he was sitting at his picnic table, working on his newly-acquired Springfield M1A rifle.

The cats were busy too. Kemo was the older of the two, at seven years old. She was a Showshoe variety Siamese cat that Randy had caught as a wild kitten. He had named her Kemo Sabe for the Lone Ranger style mask across her eyes. Randy had first considered naming her Farrah for her black mask, which also bore some resemblance to two black eyes, but his girlfriend of the day had persuaded him that was not the way to go. Kemo had grown into a loyal and lovable cat, but she only loved Daddy. She didn't have the time of day for anyone else, man or critter, which led to more than the occasional conflict. Especially between her and Ninja.

While Kemo sat on the porch surveying her domain, Ninja crept out the pet door and stalked her from behind. Ninja was an aptly-named runt-sized Calico. She had been one of those unstoppable ball-of-fire type kittens who had never really outgrown that phase. Now at a few years old, she showed no signs of slowing down. She made people feel sorry for her, because all she wanted in the world was for someone to play with her, and it kept getting her beat up. Sometimes swatted away by people, frequently by other cats, and once by a possum. That last one had cost a pretty penny at the vet, and she was lucky to still be around. She learned enough from that incident to test the playfulness of strange, toothy critters from a slightly safer distance, but it appeared that was as good as it was going to get.

Randy grimaced as he watched the impending collision between the cats, and he didn't have to wait long. Ninja pounced on Kemo's back, and Kemo spun around with a growl and knocked her right off the porch. Ninja looked back up at her with a miffed expression, while Kemo turned away and trotted off to find a place where she could rule her domain without being bothered.

Randy shook his head, then got up and walked over to pick Ninja up and console her. "Kemo's being a bitch, isn't she?" he asked her. Ninja looked up to him in total agreement. He was still consoling the tiny cat when the Bronco pulled in.

It was an older brown rig, and the driver matched it perfectly. He was an older man in his late fifties, with long whitish hair that used to be brown, and a similarly colored mustache. He got out of the vehicle. "I hope like hell this is important," he yelled, "you just pulled me away from watchin' the Mariners get their asses whupped again."

"I'm sure that was all very interesting, but I don't follow hockey," Randy replied. Vincent Quigg walked over and they shook hands. Then Randy motioned toward the picnic table.

"So that's your new toy? What'd this set you back?" Vincent asked.

"Fourteen hundred for the rifle, and another seven hundred for the scope."

Vincent picked up the rifle, put it to his shoulder. "Pretty light. This the Scout model?" The Scout was the shorter version of the rifle with an 18" lightweight barrel.

"Yep. I might not get a full thousand yards out of it, but it's a hell of a lot handier than the 22" barrel version."

"What kind of scope you got?"

"A Shepherd." Randy picked up the scope and let Vincent look through.

"Rangefinding reticles all the way to a thousand yards. I like that in a scope." Vincent handed the scope back. "You gonna hunt with this?"

"No, that's what I've got the 7mm for."

"What you gonna do with it then? Home defense?"

"No, that's what the AR-15 is for. Home defense requires something that doesn't kill everything within a half-mile radius."

"So if it's not for hunting, and it's not for home defense, what exactly is this thing for then?" Vincent inquired. Randy had asked himself that very question many times before putting his money down, and the truth of it was, he wasn't sure.

"I don't know," he said. "It just seems like a good idea to have something around that's good for bigger problems than what you'd handle with a .223."

"Like what kind of bigger problems?" Vincent hefted the rifle again. "This is good for some pretty big problems."

"Well I'm not thinking of anything specific really, but did you hear about that young guy that got drawn down on in the park with his family?"

"Sure did. It's all anyone's talking about at the gun club."

"I've been thinking about this rifle for a long time, and that's what finally made me decide to drop the money. The idea that something like that could happen to somebody who broke no laws is just beyond imagining to me."

"Well, it's happenin', I know. But what's that got to do with plunkin' down all the money for this?"

Randy thought it over for a moment. "I'm not one of those water-the-tree-of-liberty types. Life is too good to throw away over a fight you couldn't win anyhow. But there's so much unreal shit being pulled by people in uniform, and they always get away with it. To me, owning this is just a way of saying, 'I don't want to mess with you, but you don't want to come here and mix it up with me either.' That make sense?"

Vincent shook his head. "Not to me it don't."

"It doesn't?"

"Nope. That's what I've got my Saiga 12 for." Vincent was referring to a Russian made 12 gauge semi-auto shotgun that used banana clips that held twelve rounds.

Randy chuckled. "Shotguns are for people who don't know how to aim."

"Within a couple hundred yards, that thing'll lay so much waste, you don't need to aim." Randy nodded in agreement, as Vincent went on. "So you gonna get the scope on this thing or what? We gotta move if we're gonna try it out today."

"Yeah, that's a fact. I've got a meeting this afternoon, with the same kid who got taken down."

Vincent's eyebrows went up. "Serious? How come?"

"I've got some ideas for solving his problem. I figure if I'm going to start making ready with things like this rifle, I ought to at least get involved and make an attempt at fixing things peacefully first."

"Think it'll do any good?"

"I doubt it. But at the very least, if shit ever does hit the fan, they won't be able to say I didn't try to settle things peacefully first."

Vincent nodded in agreement, and pointed at the rifle again. "There's something to be said for that. But you won't be attempting or settling anything if you don't get that goddamn scope on there!"

They got to work.

* * *

Starbuck's coffee houses were one of the businesses that were friendly to open-carriers, and that's why their group often chose to meet there. Being headquartered in liberal Seattle, the company had been targeted by gun control groups in a campaign to force them to change their policy and bar guns from their stores. It had backfired though, and left the gun control people with a lot of egg on their faces. Starbuck's had refused to cave, and asserted that they would follow state law on the issue, which clearly stated that open carry was legal.

It was in the early evening after his day at the range with Vincent that Randy walked into the Forest Hill Starbuck's. He walked to the counter and ordered a coffee for himself. He looked around, not knowing what the young man looked like, but he easily spotted the Beretta on his hip as he sat in a booth by the window. Will obviously wasn't being deterred by what had happened to him in the park.

Randy collected his coffee and went to the booth where Will sat. "I'm Randy Gustin," he said.

"Will Stendahl," came the reply. They shook hands, and Randy sat across from him.

"I looked at your forum and read up on what happened," Randy said. "What do you have going so far?"

"Well, I've got a lawyer looking into a lawsuit. But with a store manager willing to say I was acting like a threat, that might not go so well."

"I hope it does go well," Randy said. "But in the meantime, I have another solution for you to look at. Are you familiar with the gun rights bill that was introduced in Arizona?"

"You're talking about that one that penalizes public officials if they detain, arrest, or otherwise hassle you for legally carrying?"

"That's the one."

"I love that bill. I wish we could get it introduced here."

"That's exactly what I want to talk about." Randy opened his folder and handed Will a sheet of paper. "This is a version I drafted for our state. I call it the 'Lawful Carry Of Weapons Bill."

Will glanced it over. "You made some changes to the Arizona version."

"For the most part, it has the same effect," Randy said. "It makes any cop who detains, arrests, seizes your weapon, or otherwise harasses you without any cause guilty of Official Misconduct, which in this state is a gross misdemeanor. It also requires a prosecutor to investigate and prosecute such crimes. But the best part is at the end."

Will skimmed to the last paragraph. "It makes any cop who is found guilty ineligible to work in law enforcement in this state? Now that I like!"

"I figure that's what it'll take to really get their attention."

Will nodded in agreement. "So what's your background in doing this sort of thing?"

"As yet, I don't really have one. I write to legislators on these issues like everybody else does, but this is the first time I've taken on a real project like this."

"So what are your qualifications?"

"Well one, I'm involved enough to understand the legislative process. Two, for quite a while now I've been battling on this issue with the construction company I work for, and I've gotten pretty good at it. I know the secrets to making people pay attention, and I know how to shoot down opposition."

"How come you don't let the NRA and the other major groups take care of this?"

"Because in this state at least, they'll never get around to it," Randy replied. "Every year, they're too busy playing defense against the onslaught of gun control bills, just like the anti-gunners intend for them to do. Besides which, a lot of the time they're so worried about looking 'reasonable' to the other side that they're supporting minor expansions of gun control. Especially when it comes to expanding the scope of the NICS system." Randy was referring to the National Instant Check System, which was used by the FBI for doing background checks for gun purchases.

"Why is that bad?"

"The NICS system? Let's just say that the NRA isn't thinking ahead when it comes to how badly that system can be abused. Right now the Feds are concentrating on expanding the scope of the system to the point where it becomes inescapable for gun owners, and the NRA is hell bent on helping them make that happen. When that's been accomplished, that's when the nightmare begins."

"What nightmare?"

"Ask yourself, what's the question on the mind of a person who has gotten a denial from NICS? The question is, 'Does this mean they're coming to my home to search for guns and ammo?' Well, that's going to start happening. While people are busy trying to straighten out whatever led to the denial, the feds will show up. And if they find weapons, they can hit the person with a ten-year felony for every one of them. Even if the denial itself was based on a flimsy excuse, or even if it was completely bogus, under Federal law that person is prohibited from possessing a weapon. And they can be fucked over for life if they're found with one."

"I don't know," Will said. "I think it's kind of a stretch to think they'd do that to everyone who got a denial. The backlash would be huge."

"Who said they'd have to do it to everyone? All they need to do is make the occasional example out of someone, and think of the chilling effect that would have on gun purchases. Would you sign your name to the Federal form with that axe hanging over you?"

"My background isn't completely spotless, but it's pretty clean."

"Mine too. But the trouble is that the FBI keeps dreaming up ways to reinterpret the laws to mean that you're actually denied in some way or another," Randy said. "As it is, it's possible to avoid the system by not making dealer purchases, but they're finding ways to close that option off for just this reason. Ways like requiring a NICS check to keep your concealed pistol license, which is something else they just helped the feds accomplish in this state. The NRA was completely insane to hand this kind of power to the FBI to begin with, and they're completely insane to help them expand it too. The only reason I can figure they keep supporting it is because not doing so would mean admitting they were wrong."

Will nodded. "So anyhow..."

"Anyhow, we won't be planning on any substantial support from the NRA in this project. We'll be on our own."

"You think this has a chance of going anywhere?"

"Well, that's the part that depends on you," Randy replied. "I could take this bill to the Capitol myself, but no one would listen to me because I'm not an open carrier and I've never been drawn down on for carrying like you have. So this issue doesn't really affect me."

"But me on the other hand..."

"You've got real standing in the issue, and you have a real stake in its outcome. That makes you a lot harder to ignore."

"What do you see as being at stake exactly?"

"Among other things, you don't want to get shot." Will's eyebrows went up a little, as Randy went on. " Remember Rick Camat?"

In the year 2000 at the age of twenty-eight, Rick Camat had been part of a lottery pool in California that took the jackpot, and naturally he had lived pretty well since then. Then in October of '04 he had been clubbing with some friends and with his younger brother in downtown Seattle. As they left a bar at closing time, fights started breaking out, Rick had fired a pistol once in the melee, and shortly thereafter police had showed up and killed him.

"Oh yes, I remember that case very well," Will replied. "As I remember, there were a couple different versions of what happened. Camat's brother said he fired once in the air, and the cops said he fired at a car full of people."

"Well, based on your own experience with police honesty, whose version would you buy?" Randy asked. "The guy's brother said they shot him in the back without warning. The cops said they warned him repeatedly, and then he ducked behind a car and aimed at them. The cops also said that the brother's version differed from the witness accounts, but none of those witness accounts were ever reported in the media. That just leaves the word of the brother and the cops to go by."

"Don't forget about the bullet impact from Camat's gun."

"Where'd they find that?"

"They didn't. That makes the fired-at-the-car theory a little harder to swallow."

Randy nodded as he remembered. "As I remember, they also never explained how it was they shot him in the back while he was aiming at them." They both sat quietly for a moment, as the coffee shop continued to bustle about them.

"So if he wasn't threatening anyone, why do you think they shot him?"

"I wasn't there, so it's impossible to say for sure," Randy replied. "But he was exercising armed force. Cops see force as their sole domain. Whenever someone draws a weapon and solves a problem, their power is threatened just because the job got done without them. If that's why Rick was shot, he wouldn't be the first it happened to by a longshot. And that's the kind of case you need to keep in mind when you have run-ins with law enforcement."

"You really think that could happen to someone like me?"

"In a sense, you're doing the same thing Rick did. Even worse, you're advertising the right to exercise armed force to the public. That pisses them off on a level they'll never admit out loud." Will sat back for a moment, thinking about the gun that had been put to his wife's head. "You know it's on at least some of their minds. And it's a fact of life that in one of these episodes like what happened to you, they could drop the hammer on you and get away with it clean. Just like they always do."

Will thought about that for a moment. He still wasn't sure about Randy's idea, but he liked the idea of guns in hands with itchy trigger fingers being pointed at him and his wife even less. "So if we do this, what exactly would you need from me?"

"I would need you to take a leadership position on the project. Be a representative for your movement and work with me on promoting it."

"Promoting it where?"

"Everywhere. Gun rights forums are where we build up our main support. We also have to write letters and op-eds for newspapers, and press releases too. You'll need your own blog site to post articles and keep people updated. And, we'll be contacting lawmakers to find sponsors and start it moving through the process."

Will looked a bit overwhelmed. "That sounds like a hell of a commitment."

Randy smiled. "Freedom isn't free, as the saying goes. Some people donate money or time to causes they support. Myself, I plan to start spending my time and money doing the work myself. I figure that way I'll get the biggest bang for my buck."

"I thought I was doing pretty good at promoting my issue just by carrying openly like this, and showing people we have that right." Will said.

"You have been, but when you take up an issue, you have to be ready to see it through. If you let this incident pass on by without trying to really fix the problem, then you've handed them a victory. And their power to abuse people grows a little bit further."

Will agreed with his point, and told Randy he'd consider the proposal. They chatted some more about their past encounters with law enforcement, and marveled about the similar threads that ran through them all.

They finished their coffee and parted ways. As they left the coffee shop, Randy noticed some of the looks that Will's gun drew. Many people paid no attention. A few looked bemused or surprised to see such a thing, and a few others gave his weapon downright hostile looks. On their mission to make open carry of guns the social norm, they had quite a ways to go.

Randy got in his truck, pulled out of the lot and headed for home. It was cloudy and rain began to sprinkle. It was well into autumn, and the occasional wind gust would blow leaves onto the road and his windshield. Just a few blocks after he turned onto the main road headed toward his home, he passed a traffic stop in progress, one of the types that the officer wants to make a scene out of. The cop had the driver sitting on the hood of his own car wearing handcuffs. The man looked none too pleased, as anyone would, but otherwise harmless. So why was he wearing cuffs? Most likely it was just to assert that the cop could make him do so. That wasn't something he remembered seeing in years past, but now he was seeing it more and more.

As he passed the scene, the cop turned his face toward traffic and Randy recognized him as Preston Mintz. In school he'd been one year ahead of Randy. As older kids went, he'd been one of the decent ones, but the time he had spent in this line of work had apparently changed him.

Time certainly had a way of changing people.

* * *

The office of Police Chief Burt Grandstone was fairly modest, not being that of a big city department. But he liked it that way, because appearances mattered. A grandiose appearance gave the impression of immodest and grandiose designs, and that sort of appearance made people want to keep a closer eye on you.

Burt was staring intently at his computer as his door opened and his senior officers began to file in. Sylvester Frawley came first, followed by Byron Palmer, with Jack Hayward coming through third. They all grabbed chairs and sat before Burt's desk, then turned back to the still-open door.

Finally the last of his sergeants came in. Her name was Robin Frisk. She was 31, her hair was long and red, and the rest of her could only be described using words like dynamite, bombshell, or other explosive items. She had the distinction of being one of the few female cops there was who did fitness competitions.

"Robin, don't forget to sign into the meeting," Burt said to her, pointing to a clipboard on the wall. She walked over, picked up the pen and signed in.

"How come nobody else is signed in?" she asked.

Burt cracked a little smile. "They'll get signed in later," he replied. In truth, maybe they would trouble themselves to do so and maybe not. While she had been facing the wall, they were all getting their morning rush.

She sat down next to the other men and attention turned back to business. "Gentlemen and lady, we are here to talk about some recommendations I've brought back from the training seminar I was at last week."

"I've been wondering if anything came out of that other than a paid trip," Sylvester chimed in.

"Well Sergeant, you can be satisfied that we got our money's worth." Burt passed some papers to each of them. "These are some new training memos I've put together. As you may or may not be aware, a lot of internet forums are devoting time to discussions about dealing with police while carrying weapons. We need to address the problem of interacting with people who are armed, whether they're carrying legally or not."

"I thought we did that by checking their concealed pistol license," Robin said, "and arresting them if it wasn't in order."

"In some cases that will still work fine," Burt replied. "But with people openly sharing information on how to thwart officers who want to take safety measures during a stop, we're going to need to step things up a little." Burt turned his computer screen toward them, and they saw an online forum. "Have a look at this page."

The four officers read down the forum page. The top post was from a guy who had been detained and had his concealed weapon taken, just because someone had noticed it and become alarmed. He was asking other forum members about how far police powers extend in that area, and what he could do about it next time. From there on down, all the posts were from people advising him that police had no right to do what they did, and offering ways to challenge their authority to do so. There was quite a bit of anger at police evident in some of the posts.

As they scrolled down the page, they read accounts from people who had been successful at citing the laws on Terry stops, demanding RAS (reasonable articulated suspicion) and similar methods for persuading police in these instances to back down.

"Pretty much every gun-related discussion board has conversations like this now, and we're running into these people more and more." Burt went on. "And to be blunt, we need to put them back in their place. So our policy for dealing with armed people will be as follows. First, all armed individuals will be considered a potential threat, and we will go straight to condition yellow. Backup will be called if not already present. The subject will be disarmed. If they give us any grief whatsoever, they will be disarmed in handcuffs with our weapons drawn."

"Even if they're licensed and otherwise cooperating?" Robin asked.

"Especially then," Burt replied. Robin found it hard to hide her surprise. "The average dirtbag already knows who's boss. What we need to put a lid on is the citizen who thinks they're as high up the food chain as we are." Burt leaned a little bit in Robin's direction. "I hope that's not a problem."

"No sir," she replied. She was pretty convincing too.

"That's good," Burt smiled. "There's a whole world out there that has it in for us, and we all have to be on the same side." The other men nodded in agreement. They wouldn't ever say it out loud, but aside from being difficult not to stare at, they all considered Robin to be a little bit on the naïve side. "Now I don't have a problem with people having a right to carry weapons, or even with them exercising it," Burt went on. "But at the same time, they need to understand that our right to feel safe and in control of every situation supercedes that right in every case. And they also need to understand that any misuse of that right, or straying outside of it, or inappropriately standing on their rights will result in them finding out what it's like on the receiving end of our right to insure our safety, by use of our own weapons if need be."

Sylvester cracked a smile. "I for one think it's about goddamn time. These pricks have been getting way too full of themselves lately."

"How about legal issues?" Byron Palmer asked. "This is asking for lawsuits."

"In point of fact, we're contending with one right now, over the park incident," Burt replied. "But that's something we have no choice but to contend with, because the pressure is on us right now to start playing nice with these people and let them have their way. This is a time when we have to either assert our powers or lose them." They spent a moment letting that point sink in. The last thing in the world any of them could tolerate was Joe Citizen reading them the law.

"Last I heard," Hayward interjected, "that case wasn't going so well for them anyhow."

"That's right," Burt said. "We covered our bases there. We started with a report of hostile behavior."

"A rather questionable one..." Robin said.

"Just how far that manager stretched the truth is between him and the good Lord. It's what we had to go on, and that's what matters to us." The other men nodded in agreement. "The next thing we did right was not to overreact before one of them made a potentially threatening move." Robin began to open her mouth to respond to that ridiculous claim, but then decided not to. "So however it might have looked to that couple, we have a solid case that everything we did was in the interest of preserving safety."

"So the trick then," Jack said, "is making sure we keep covering our bases in exactly the same way."

"Bingo." Burt sat back in his chair.

"What if one of these confrontations leads to someone getting needlessly shot?" Robin asked.

Burt shrugged his shoulders. He had clearly thought about this at length already and didn't consider it a major concern. "We'll be cleared. It's that simple," he said with a smile, and the other men smiled along with him. "And a whole lot fewer people out there will be inclined to follow their example."

Robin thought the Chief's response sounded more than a little cavalier, but that was pretty much how he saw it. He knew what he was talking about too.

Chapter 3

Crackdowns

#### January, 2006

The whole state of Washington was in the midst of a vicious cold snap. Engines that had plenty of antifreeze froze anyways, and roads were covered with heavy ice that not only would send you sliding off the road to God-knew-where, but provided plenty of big, hard bumps to knock you off course and get you started. The only thing anyone had to joke about was global warming somehow being the cause.

Randy kept his eyes fixed on the road as he headed south on Interstate 5 toward the state capitol. Every time he passed another spinout or car that had slid off the road, he gripped the wheel a little harder. He couldn't afford to join them, because he had places to be.

* * *

A few hours later, State Representative Phillip Newman was sitting at his desk, looking over Randy's proposal with more than a little concern in his eyes. "You have any idea what a ruckus this'll start?" he asked.

"I do," Randy replied. "But this is a problem that needs to be addressed before someone gets killed rather than after."

The representative lowered his wire rim glasses to read a little closer and make sure he didn't miss anything. "Randy, law enforcement support is a lot of what got me here. This would be like doing their kneecaps in return."

"That's not true at all," Randy asserted. "We're talking about lawmen here. All we're asking them to do is not break the law, and this bill won't touch them. If they really believe in the rule of law for everyone, then they'll have no grounds whatsoever to object to this."

Newman shook his head a little. "Of course there's a problem with that theory."

"I know, the problem is that most police don't really believe the law applies to them."

Newman set the paper down on the desk. "You and I both know there's truth to that, Randy. But John and Susie Public don't see it that way, at this point in time anyhow. The only side of law enforcement they hear about on TV or talk radio is the selfless hero with the tough job who's risking it all for the rest of us. Until that changes, you'll never get the kind of broad support that you need to get a bill like this moving."

"Well, there's a lot of support among people who have been victimized by police for carrying weapons."

"That helps, but what else do you have? Is the NRA backing this?"

"They unfortunately don't want to be seen as anti-cop either."

Newman smiled and pushed the paper back across the desk to Randy. "Well then, you see what we're up against. Your idea has some good merits, but you've got some more groundwork to do before it'll have a chance of going anywhere."

* * *

The Bourbon Street Tavern sat on the East side of Forest Hill, just a few miles from Randy's place. It was a pretty good size club, and drew a decent crowd on the weekends. This being a Sunday night however, the parking lot wasn't so packed.

The inside was split up into two sections. One section had the bar and the dance floor, the other side had tables for eating. At that moment Randy was sitting at the bar, trying to get the attention of Alicia, the pert, brown haired twenty-something bartender. Vincent sat on the stool next to him. "She won't pay you any attention 'til you throw her a compliment," Vincent told him. He seemed to be right about that too. Every other guy down the bar who was throwing weak pick-up lines in her direction was getting all the attention, but Randy wasn't getting a bit.

"Well, maybe I better give it a try," Randy said to Vincent, then he mustered his nerve and shouted across the bar. "Hey, Gazongabooty!" The whole length of the bar fell silent, and all eyes slowly turned and fell upon him.

Randy finally had her attention, but not exactly in a good way. "What the fuck did you just call me?" she inquired.

Randy threw his hands up. "Jesus Christ, I'm trying to get your attention so I can order a beer!" Then he pointed at Vincent. "And anyhow that was his idea!"

Vincent turned away from him. "Leave me out of this, Randy, that was all you..."

Alicia stepped over to where Randy sat. "What the hell does Gazongabooty mean anyhow? You mean my ass is huge?"

"No, it means more like... hugely awesome, or something..." Randy struggled for words as she slowly nodded with a _sure, I'll buy that_ expression. "Look, if I give you a nice tip, can I get a Coors Lite?"

The girl shook her head and turned away to get his beer. "Man, the shit that I have to put up with..."

Vincent patted his shoulder. "Told you it'd work."

"Please, no more advice..." Randy grumbled, forcing a chuckle out of Vincent.

"Hey, you get any more goodies for that M1A yet?"

"Well, I put a bipod on it, now it needs a weapon light mount."

"Weapon light? You goin' poaching?" Before Randy could answer, the front door opened and two Forest Hill city cops walked in. "Oh great, I wonder what the hell they want," Vincent wondered aloud.

Sergeant Jack Hayward walked to the bar with a twenty-something rookie named Zachary Simmons at his heel. He waved Alicia over. "I need to talk to the owner. Can you bring him out please?" It was worded like a request, but that's where the similarity ended. An observer could tell that Alicia had a response on her lips, but not wanting to make things worse, she went to get the owner. While they waited, Hayward noticed Randy at the bar. "Mr. Gustin! What a pleasant surprise." No shortage of sarcasm in that voice. He turned to his rookie trainee. "Zachary, this is Randolph Gustin, one of our more civic-minded residents."

Not knowing yet what relations were really like, Zachary stepped forward to shake Randy's hand. "Nice to meet you sir," he said. He'd be hearing about that later.

"Randy, you're not carrying any weapons at this time, are you?" Hayward asked.

"Absolutely not," Randy replied. "Protecting my life or anyone else's in a liquor-serving establishment would violate state law, and I would never consider doing such a thing." Randy could do the sarcasm thing pretty well himself when he was so inclined.

Hayward addressed Zachary again. "Randy here is a gun rights absolutist. He believes that everyone needs to pack everywhere, all the time, or they're a homicide stat waiting to happen."

"Now that's not true!" Randy interjected. "The greater minds in government have determined that here in this place, everybody's safer if we just don't have such things. So if anyone happens to walk in that door with an AK and open up on us, I'll just call you to come save us. Then I'll find a place to hide, and I'll pray that I'm not among the dozen or so who die before you get here. That's what a good citizen does, isn't it?"

Hayward broke a grin. "Couldn't have said it better myself."

Zachary tried to quell the discord. "Mr. Gustin, there are alternatives available in an instance like that..."

Vincent broke in. "Young fella, there's things they haven't explained to you yet. Among them, when citizens die due to regulation, that's not really your problem. It's just paperwork."

Hayward chimed in again. "Besides which, he's got his own solution in the works. Mister Gustin is the one trying to change the law so we can't detain anyone for being armed." Now Zachary knew who he was talking to. He took a step back and his demeanor chilled.

Thankfully, Alicia returned at that moment with the owner. Frank was a thin and abnormally tall man with a friendly demeanor that he kept on display even when it wasn't warranted. "Gentlemen! What can I do for you?"

"I'm afraid we found some underage people drinking in a car on your parking lot," Jack replied.

Frank stepped away to question the doorman about it, but he was by himself and it was hard to watch the inside and the outside at the same time. Frank returned to the bar. "So, what are we looking at?"

"Well, we cited the kids and sent them on their way. But we'll have to pass this on to Liquor Control, and the rest'll be up to them. Considering the number of violations you get, I doubt they'll be very happy."

"You know, we do our best, but we can't be everywhere at once," Frank said.

"It's your lot, you should have had your personnel watching it," Hayward responded.

"That's true," Frank replied, "but then it hardly seems necessary. Every time something does happen here, you're ready and waiting."

Hayward smiled at that, the smile of a man who loves getting his way, but he said nothing more about it. He bid Frank good night, and he and his trainee left. When they were gone, Randy broke the silence. "Well, at least they didn't break anything," he said.

"Considering how big a cut of our profits this town takes," Frank opined, "you'd think they wouldn't try so hard to make us want to move."

"You'd think," Vincent said, "but money ain't the reason they do this shit."

"So what is?" Frank asked.

"Because they can."

Frank laughed a little, and headed back to his office. Everybody went back to what they were doing, and things were pretty normal for a while. Randy and Vincent talked about plans for their next shooting trip, and Alicia kept pretending to be mad at Randy, at least until he needed refills. Randy had to go to work the next day, and he was beginning to think it might be time to head home, when his phone started vibrating. He looked at the display and saw with some surprise it was Will calling.

"Will, haven't heard from you in a while," he said after answering.

"Randy, are you close to a TV?"

Randy glanced at the TV up on the wall behind the bar. It was solidly fixed on women's volleyball, and changing it didn't appear likely. "Maybe, what's up?"

"Turn it on channel 5 right now. You are not going to fucking believe what just happened in California." This sounded serious. Randy leaned over the bar, asked Alicia what the chances were of changing channels long enough to see if there really was something important going on. To his surprise she picked up the remote, changed it for him and turned up the volume.

The news came on, and the caption behind the anchorman read, "Shooting in Chino, California." The somber-looking anchorman read from his prompter. "KTLA in California obtained this exclusive footage that was filmed by a resident who lived close to the scene of the shooting. We warn you, the video we are about to show is extremely graphic."

Randy and Vincent glanced at each other with raised eyebrows, as the screen cut to a grainy black-and-white video. The video showed a man lying face down on the ground next to a car, with a cop standing above him. The two were exchanging words, and a lot of them were bleeped out. The cop's gun was already in his hands and pointed at the man's back. After a short while the cop ordered the man to stand up, and the man on the ground replied that he was getting up. Immediately after that came the shots, and the screaming.

By this time everyone in the bar was watching the screen, and not one person in the room had any idea what to say.

* * *

It was the night of January 29th in 2006, and 21-year-old Elio Carrion was having his going-away party. He was an Air Force military policeman on a thirty-day leave, and he was due to return to duty in Iraq. So friends and family had gathered to give him a warm send-off.

Elio was well-liked, so there was a pretty good turnout for this party. He drank, he laughed with the others, and he drank some more. Quite a bit actually, but considering where he was headed, it didn't seem out of line. It was his party, after all. Around ten in the evening, Elio climbed into a Corvette owned by his friend Luis Escobedo, to make a run to a store and also to stop by another friend's house. Then as he sat in the passenger seat, he passed out.

When Elio awoke, Luis was speeding through residential neighborhoods, way too fast. Luis was just as intoxicated as Elio, which is to say, he had no business of any kind behind a wheel. He was swerving about, and Elio felt he was putting people, including themselves, in danger. Then they passed a patrol car, and it started following them. "Hey man, you need to slow down," Elio told his friend.

"It's all right, I know what I'm doing," Luis replied as he continued speeding along. Then the patrol car turned its lights on. Luis skidded into a U-turn and managed to zoom past the patrol car in the opposite direction. Elio told him to pull over and stop, but Luis only replied again that he knew what he was doing.

They briefly lost the pursuing car, but the cop found them again shortly afterward and began to chase. Depending on whose account you listened to, the chase went as fast as either 60 to 70 miles per hour, or up to over 100 miles per hour on residential streets. Either way, it ended when Escobedo skidded his Corvette into a concrete wall beside the road. They were immobilized, and the cop parked behind them got out.

Elio knew that this was bad. As a military policeman with plenty of training and experience of his own, he knew this cop had valid reason to consider them potentially dangerous, and after being led on this chase he was not going to be in a mood for any shit. So he opened the passenger door, got out and crawled face down on the ground to show right up front that he was no threat. Most would agree that this was the wise thing to do. The trouble with that sort of approach however is that violent individuals, such as the policeman who was now approaching, will often interpret such submissiveness as permission to attack. And that's what Deputy Ivory Webb did. He walked up, screaming obscenities and kicked Elio in the face.

In a nearby house, Jose Valdes had heard the crash. He and his wife went to the door and looked outside, where they saw Deputy Webb behaving like a maniac, swearing and kicking the man who was lying on the ground and trying to be compliant. Jose didn't like what he saw, so he ran to grab his video camera. What he caught on film would horrify everyone who saw it.

"I'm here to tell you that I'm on your side," Carrion was saying to the officer. Deputy Webb's weapon was already drawn on the unarmed man, held in both hands and pointed straight at Carrion's back. "I'm military, I'm here to tell you that I mean you no harm." Webb's reply was to tell him to shut up.

After they went back and forth for a little while, Deputy Webb finally said, "Okay, get up."

"I'm gonna get up," Carrion announced back to him, just so there would be no surprises. Then he pushed himself up to his knees, but got no further. Three rounds blasted from the barrel of Webb's weapon, which had never moved away from Carrion's back. As he was firing and Carrion was falling back to the ground, Webb kept moving behind him to keep a clear shot at Carrion's back. One round went into his chest, one into the back of his shoulder, and one into his leg. Carrion would never fully recover to his former self again. He wasn't paralyzed at least, but his days on active duty were over, not to mention his own plans to become a police officer.

Carrion screamed in pain as Webb yelled, "Shots fired, shots fired!" into his radio. On the ground next to the Corvette, Carrion cried out for help. "Shut the fuck up," was Webb's response.

After some more deputies had arrived, Webb told them that Carrion had gotten up and charged him. Saying that was a mistake, because the video proved differently and he'd have to change his story after he saw it. Then after Carrion had been cuffed, he looked through his wallet for identification. On finding a military ID card, he felt a chill. "Shit," he said out loud. Cops could typically count on one another to help sweep evidence of an unjustified shooting under the mat, at least where an ordinary citizen was concerned. But where an American hero was concerned, it became more complicated. Webb had his first sense that he might actually be in trouble. And aside from his concern for himself, it also felt wrong to him that he should even have to worry about such a thing. He was the law. When the law shoots somebody, it can only mean that they needed to be shot.

When the paramedics arrived, they called for a helicopter to fly Carrion to a trauma center. Getting a nighttime helicopter ride over the city out of this was at least a small silver lining. But it wouldn't keep his mind occupied for long, because from within the pain of his wounds came another pain every bit as grievous, every bit as taxing on a man's need to believe there is good in the world he can count on, and that was the pain of betrayal.

Elio Carrion was one of the good guys, and he'd just been gunned down by one of his own.

* * *

The rifle cracked, and it hit its mark. Or it came pretty close, anyhow. "About three inches high and to the left," Vincent told Randy as he looked through the spotting scope. It was a Saturday, six days after they'd watched the video of the Elio Carrion shooting together at Bourbon Street. And it was fricking cold out again.

They were at the rifle range up north a little ways in the town of Granite Falls. Randy would have preferred to be shooting at one of his mountain road shooting pits, but it was February and they were all snowed in. But the range they were at wasn't too much of a hassle, as long you went on a day when it wasn't crowded, which it happened to be on this day. Or as long as you didn't mind stopping and clearing your rifle every time you were in the middle of shooting a group and someone flipped the red lights on so they could walk out and check their target, which on days when it was crowded was often. And so long as you didn't mind being limited to one hundred yards, which Randy did. It took at least three hundred yards of distance to get him excited. But other than that...

"Hurry up, finish your group 'fore someone hits that light again," Vincent bristled at him. Randy fired off the last three shots of his five-shot group, a little faster than he'd have liked to, but Vincent had made the right call. The light came on just as the last shot went out. "Let's go mark our targets while we got the chance." They started the hike down the range to mark their hits.

"I saw some more news on that Elio Carrion case," Randy said. "You know the guy who took that video?"

"Yep," Vincent replied.

"He showed the cops that video right afterward and gave it to them. But he made a copy and it's a damn good thing, because they were stalking him hard after that to try and seize any copies he might have. They actually tried to make that thing disappear."

"Not surprised. Code of silence on a slightly higher level, is all it is." They arrived at the targets, and used a pen to circle their hits. There were two targets posted side-by-side, one for each of them. Both their groups were a little high and to the left of the bullseyes. Randy's group was about two inches, Vincent's was a half-inch smaller. "Lookey there," he said with a smile.

"You made me shoot faster is the only reason," Randy replied. They started the walk back to the shooting bench. "Think what it must have been like in his shoes."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he had this cop standing over him who intended to shoot him. No matter whether he attacked, complied, or whatever else he chose, the cop meant to shoot him no matter what. Even if he'd known that in advance, what could he do?"

"Lyin' on the ground unarmed? Nothin', that's what. If he dies and there's no video, it's the cop's word against nobody's word." They walked on a little further.

"Let's assume you have a right to protect yourself, even in a case like that," Randy said. "What would it take?"

"Well first off, don't give them an excuse to disarm you."

"The law on Terry stops says they can frisk and disarm you for any stop. Once he's done that, if he means to shoot you anyways, then it's over." They were approaching the line of shooting benches, as everyone else down the line waited for them to get back. Most everyone else was only shooting out to fifty yards max, and didn't have as far to walk.

"Seems like plenty of people manage to shoot cops in traffic stops, so how do they do it then?"

Randy thought about it for a moment. "The people who pull that off usually get out of their cars shooting before the cop has a chance to get ready. Or they pull out a hidden gun and shoot first. Someone like you or me or Elio Carrion isn't going to attack someone like that, we would only react to an attack that's already started, and that puts us at a big disadvantage." They arrived back at the benches, and whoever had flipped the red lights on turned them back off. Down the line, the shooting resumed. "So think about that situation. You're confronted by a cop who's out of control, and you think he means to attack you. Maybe just with a flashlight or a Taser, but then again maybe he means to shoot you. Realistically, what are your options?"

"Realistically? To survive you'd have to go preemptive, deal with him before he's got the drop on you."

"Deal with him how?"

"Well, you could draw your gun, tell him this detention is over and he better leave before you arrest him, by whatever force is necessary. Or you could take him down, with or without a weapon and disarm him." Randy had the sense that Vincent had given this some thought already.

"How do you see that working out?" Randy asked.

"Not so good," Vincent replied. "Soon as you make one move along those lines, they can kill you and get away with it. You'd have to plan on coming out on top the first time, getting away from the scene before his buddies show up and destroy your evidence, and having solid proof of what happened. I mean really solid too, because even if they don't kill you, they'll fuck you over however they have to. That's what happens to people who challenge 'authorita'." Randy spent a moment dwelling on that, then Vincent pointed at his M1A. "So we gonna yak all day or shoot this thing again?"

"Sure, you go first," Randy said. Vince sat down, put the clip back in.

"This is a good distance gun, but what if you need it up close? Like if you got ambushed?" Vincent asked.

"It's got a see-thru mount," Randy replied. The rifle had a scope mount that sat a little high so you could just see through the regular iron sights underneath. But the view was somewhat obscured by the mount.

"That's better than nothin', but you ever tried to get a bead on something fast with that setup?"

"Yeah, and it doesn't work so good. But it's unfortunately all I've got."

Vincent smiled. "I've got something at home to show you. It's a set of scope rings with sights mounted on the top. Not much good past fifty yards, but for right up close it's just what the doctor ordered." Vincent dialed the scope down a few clicks, then a few to the right. Then he took out a screwdriver to adjust the second reticle of the dual-reticle system.

"What kind of mix-ups have you had with cops?" Randy inquired.

"Worst of them all. Over by Spokane, I used to be one."

" _You?_ I don't believe it." Randy shook his head. "How'd that work out?"

"Didn't make it the first year."

"Why not?"

Vincent put his screwdriver down, chambered a round in the rifle. There was a moment of quiet as people down the line paused in their shooting. He looked out over the top of the scope, down the distance of the range, as memories came back to haunt him. Then he answered Randy's question. "I won't do the things they expect a man to do."

* * *

It just so happened that Spokane was about to make the news again. While Elio Carrion's case had been a pretty egregious one, the police in that area were apparently not to be outdone.

It was March 18th of 2006, less that two months after that previous incident, when two young women pulled up to a drive-through ATM in Spokane. As the girl in the drivers seat was withdrawing money, they noticed a strange man approach where they were and then stop some distance away. He had very long blond hair and wore something of a goofy expression. His name was Otto Zehm, and he was a developmentally disabled 37-year-old man who worked as a janitor, though he was unemployed at that moment. He made them nervous, so the girl who was driving took her ATM card back and they pulled away from the machine. From another spot nearby, they watched as the man walked up to the ATM and began pushing buttons. After a short time of doing that, he walked away and headed down the street.

The girls suspected that he might have withdrawn money on their account, so they began following him in their car while they called 911. And as young women are prone to do, they embellished their story of what happened. Substantially. They told the dispatcher that he had tried to get in their car, which was proven untrue when the bank surveillance video was released, and showed that he had never approached the ATM until they had pulled away. They also told police that he had their money, and their ATM card, both also untrue. But everything they said was dutifully relayed to officers on patrol.

As this was happening, Otto walked into a Zip Trip convenience store as he did frequently, to buy a soda pop and a candy bar. The story that police would tell after the incident was that Officer Karl Thompson contacted Zehm inside the store. Zehm was holding a two-liter soda bottle that Thompson was afraid was going to be used as a weapon. Zehm refused repeated commands to put the bottle down, then became combative and lunged at Office Thompson, who was then forced to strike him with a baton to subdue him. The official version was backed by police officials and the county prosecutor, who viewed the security camera videos and then (unsurprisingly) ordered it sealed due to the "ongoing investigation."

As it happened with the Elio Carrion case however, video would prove to be Officer Thompson's undoing, as well as that of the officials who had backed his story and then concealed evidence. The video record in this case was finally extracted from officials under threat of lawsuit, and what it showed was Otto Zehm being charged from behind, and then clubbed almost immediately after turning around. Far from "lunging," he had put his hands up and was backing away. But the soft plastic pop bottle "could" have been a threat, and that served as sufficient justification to club him to the ground anyways. Like Elio Carrion, Otto apparently didn't understand that when a cop has it in his head that you've got it coming, surrender is of limited usefulness.

Six other officers arrived, and aside from being beaten, Otto was also tazed several times. He was also cuffed, hogtied, and left lying on his stomach, which is typically not done because of the difficulty caused with breathing in that position. Officers also claimed he was spitting as he struggled, so they asked paramedics for a non-rebreather oxygen mask to cover his mouth. Non-rebreather masks are made for use with an oxygen hose attached. With no hose, there is only a dime-sized hole for air to get through. Typically that's enough for a person who is breathing comfortably, but for a person who has been beaten, tazed, hogtied, and left on his stomach, it might just be one cause of oxygen deprivation too many.

Three minutes after police put the mask over Otto's face, they noticed he had stopped breathing. Paramedics attempted resuscitation all the way to the hospital, where he was declared brain-dead. Two days later the rest of him died. And other than to startle a couple of young females, he had done absolutely nothing wrong.

Randy and Vincent watched this story unfold with a sickening sense of deja vu. It was especially hard for Vincent, having worked there himself. He knew first hand that where rogue police agencies were concerned, those in and around Spokane were some of the worst of the worst.

Chapter 4

Elena

#### April, 2006

Elena drove. She drove for her life, for her freedom, for everything she thought she had come here for, and which had turned out to be a lie, but above all she drove to get away from the monsters. Monsters that hurt her, enslaved her, and subjected her to indignities that no human being on Earth should be made to endure. Things that would eat holes in her for a very long time, ugly black holes. She drove fast, but carefully, because there was no one in the world who would help her, but quite a few who would happily escort her back to her prison. No one to trust, no one to call. She had the clothes on her back, which didn't even include a warm sweater, let alone a jacket. She had fifteen dollars, and a quarter tank of gas, give or take a little. Take, actually. She had the little blue Datsun beater car that currently provided her only thin thread of hope for escape. It was stolen, but at least it wouldn't be reported as such anytime soon.

And she had a small but attractive .380 caliber Colt Mustang she had managed to pocket. If they caught up it wouldn't be enough to save her, but at least she might not die alone. That would be a scene best skipped over though, so she kept her focus on the road in front of her.

Canada. She'd be safe in Canada. It was possible their tentacles extended that far, but they wouldn't find her there as long as she was careful.

She checked her mirrors again. You can never be too sure.

* * *

Elena had grown up in Los Angeles, but she had been born many miles further south. Across the national border that lie in that direction in fact, and she didn't have the requisite paperwork that such a person is supposed to have in this country.

She could hardly be blamed for that though. Her parents had brought her to California as a small child, on immigrant visas. There they had raised her in East Los Angeles, and then at the appropriate age, Elena began to fall in with bad crowds. It was tough to avoid doing that there, because pretty much the whole neighborhood was bad crowd. She was inducted into the gang called Varrio Nuevos Estrada (or VNE for short) in the traditional way. She had to stand there and take a beating from all the other homegirls, to prove how well she could take it. (Later on she would tell Randy about this. Randy would reply that in every gang movie he'd ever seen, you were supposed to fight back to prove your fighting spirit, and it sounded to him like someone in the gang hierarchy was cutting a few classes at the old school.)

Elena grew up with what could be described as a shortage of role models. Her parents loved her, and though no one could really control Elena, they did do their best to keep her away from the bad crowds and other assorted kinds of trouble. But when they weren't busy doing that, they were dealing in illicit substances.

When Elena was seventeen, she spent some time in juvenile detention for unauthorized use of a motor vehicle; i.e. swiping it. While serving her time, her current boyfriend came to visit and dropped the bomb that her parents had been ratted on for drug dealing and deported. The only reason Elena hadn't been shipped out with them was because she was locked up and the immigration authorities had missed her.

Elena was released according to the schedule the judge had ordered. But she was alone now. Wherever her parents had been deported to, she never heard from them again. She had her gangster friends and a few more distant relatives in the area that she could surf around for places to sleep, but no home. She had no realistic way to finish school, and with no citizenship papers she couldn't legally work. For that matter, without enough documents to even get a state ID card, she couldn't so much as rent a motel room. It didn't leave a girl with a whole lot of options.

She became a sort of a fixture in her neighborhood. To survive, she did whatever odd jobs for cash that she could find. Being that this was the life she'd been raised into, she sometimes sold drugs. And occasionally, she sold herself.

As the years went by, she came to be pretty well known among the cops in the neighborhood. Often they would stop her on the street and ask how she was. Some of them seemed to show actual concern for her at times. But behind her back, they mostly made fun of her, never considering that she had no way of climbing out of that hole. None of them ever offered to help fix that problem for her either. Cops enjoy having people around who they can feel superior to, and they seemed to like her right where she was.

So it went for nearly a decade. Now in her mid-twenties, this life was taking its toll. She had what Randy would call "stage one scariness." At stage one, a person was starting to get the street urchin look, but it was nothing that a shower, a good night's sleep, and maybe a month in rehab wouldn't fix. At stage two, the person needed to clean their life up in a big hurry. Stage three was where it became incurable, and all you could do was avoid eye contact with the person and not give them any change. Elena wasn't anywhere near that point though. Taking its toll though this life was, she still cleaned up pretty dang nice.

Then in late 2005, at the age of twenty-six, she got her break. One of the guys from her old gang told her about some jobs up north, where people were hiring who didn't care about paperwork issues. Hiring for honest jobs like farm labor and restaurant work, that paid cash and came with accommodations. If she was interested, he'd hook her up with the people who would take her there. He wasn't lying to her about it either; he had simply gotten the same snow job that she was in for.

So Elena showed up where she was told. She got in a van with several other girls and they made their trek north to Seattle with the promise of a future. But that story has been told so many times with the same ending that it's a living wonder of the world anyone still falls for it. They arrived and were introduced to their new pimps.

Every one of them was beaten senseless. Then they were made to participate in humiliating videos. Some were threatened with having these videos sent to their families. Since Elena had no family left to speak of, she was threatened with being turned in to Immigration. That had the effect they were looking for. These people were horrible, but for her to be returned to Mexico would be an outright death sentence.

So she stayed in a large but run-down house where the party was nonstop. People came at all hours to buy and use drugs, as well as the women they kept there. Elena's pimp was named Armando. He had a laptop that was used to post her ads on Craigslist every few hours, and every time a call came in from someone requesting her, she was driven to another job. With the stereo pounding out hip-hop day and night there was not a lot of sleep to be had.

It took a few months, but the day finally came that she was waiting for. That was the day when the nonstop party life caught up with everybody all at once. It happened around eleven on a Saturday night. They shut off the stereo and everyone just nosedived into a couch or a bed or each other. Elena took a spot on the living room carpet using another girl's belly for a pillow, and pretended to sleep until it looked safe.

Then she was up, her mind on business. She put on what few clothes they allowed her to keep, which consisted of one pair of jeans, a thin white shirt and sandals. She snuck into the room where Armando was sleeping and fished his pistol and car keys out of his coat pockets. She looked at the gun, and briefly considered putting him out of his misery right then. But the gun held seven rounds and there would be a lot more people coming after her than that if she did. So she went back to the front door, opened it and was gone. Once outside, she got into Armando's Datsun parked in the driveway, and peeled out fast. The front door of the house opened again and one of the pimps watched her go, shouting back into the house. She was so scared that she almost crashed several times on the way out. It didn't help matters either that she hadn't driven since she was a teenager. But she had to focus and stay ahead of them because this was where the chase really began.

They had driven her to jobs via Interstate 5 enough times that she knew the fastest way there by heart, and she made it there without incident. But as she cruised into the northbound lanes, feeling a wave of relief, she thought back over the last few months.

Canada. It was a place where (a) those fine pieces of human waste living in that house wouldn't find her; and (b) the authorities wouldn't ship her to Mexico. Probably anyhow. Who knew, they might even let her find a job. She had known in her heart for a long time that Canada was where she wanted to be.

And she had told as much to the other girls.

* * *

Now she had been driving north for an hour, and she was passing through Everett. There were enough streetlights along the freeway that she could see what the cars behind her looked like, so again she checked her mirrors. And there it was, the yellow Gremlin, cruising up behind her in the passing lane.

Her throat closed up, her spine felt like she had just been tazed. She didn't lose her bladder but it was close. That was Armando's cousin's car. If they spotted her it was all over. There was an exit coming up, the sign said Highway 2 East. She had to time this carefully to lose them there, without drawing their attention first. Just as the Gremlin was coming up alongside, and just as the exit was passing her by, she swerved onto it. The Gremlin kept on going north without even noticing. It hadn't been them after all. Oh well, ugly as those cars are, there is more than one of them.

But if she stayed on a predictable route heading straight north her luck might change. She also had to contend with the fact that she hadn't slept any more in the last week than any of them had, which left her thought process more than a little unclear and her paranoia levels through the roof. She at least had enough sense to be aware of the problems that could create. So with an eighth of a tank remaining, she decided to stay on the road heading East for now and find another freeway to take her the rest of the way to the border. And then she got lost.

* * *

Saturday night at Bourbon Street was typically pretty lively, but this week not so much. Not that it was really slow, it just wasn't packed.

Randy and Vincent were good friends most of the time, but at the pool table they played like kittens fighting over the turkey innards at Christmas. Where Vincent had the better luck at the rifle range, Randy was getting the better of this contest. Which was good, because on this night a confidence booster would come in handy.

While they played, they talked about Randy's legislative project (not enough support to get a sponsor and too late in the session to get a hearing anyhow), and they talked about women, (specifically the twenty-somethings on the dance floor.) Randy liked to dance, used to be pretty good at it, but he was a little past the age of getting much opportunity for that now.

Then came last call, which Randy declined. At closing time the cops were typically stalking the place waiting for drunk drivers that they could blame the club for. So he and Vincent headed out the door a little early to beat the rush.

When they got outside, they heard pounding and yelling, and saw several of the younger men gathered around a little car that sat in the back corner of the parking lot, facing the fence. "What the hell you s'pose is going on over there?" Vincent wondered aloud. Randy shrugged and they walked over to see.

"What's going on?" Randy asked them.

"This chick's passed out in here, we can't wake her up," one of them replied. And indeed, there was a young Hispanic woman slumped over with her head on the passenger seat. Randy took out his keychain flashlight and shined it in. No drugs or alcohol in view, but the pistol was sitting on the center of the dashboard. Obviously put there to warn any trouble away.

"I might have a slim jim –" Randy began.

"We already called for paramedics," another bystander replied. "We had to tell them about the gun too."

No sooner did he blurt that out than they heard tires rolling in. They weren't paramedic vehicles though, they were city police cars. Five in all. They rolled up, surrounded the scene, put all their spotlights on the car and got out.

"Everyone back away," Jack Hayward shouted. Everybody moved back, and since there wasn't a lot that Randy and Vincent could do at this point they moved back as well. Hayward approached and started pounding on the window, shouting at her to wake up and open the door. He seemed irritated by the fact that his projection of authority at an unconscious person wasn't having the desired effect. When he decided that wasn't going to work, he went back to his car and took out his big, heavy flashlight. He handed it to Preston Mintz, who then took a position by the driver's window, and gripped the flashlight with both hands. Hayward stood next to him as the rest of the cops lined up behind the car and put their hands on their guns.

Randy had a sudden deep dislike for what he was seeing. It wasn't just the actions of the cops and the situation they were creating either, there was something more. Something buried in his memory, screaming at him to be heard. Something terrible that had happened years ago, and it gave him _déjà vu_ of a really nasty sort. _Oh goddammit, what was her name... it was... oh holy Christ it was Tyisha --_

* * *

\-- Miller was out for an evening with friends in Riverside, California. It was December of 1998, a few days after Christmas. Tyisha was 19-year-old black girl who had grown up in a rough area, and had her moments of trouble, but she was also well known for her selflessness, her many friends, and her infectious laugh.

After leaving an amusement park, she had dropped off two friends at home and was driving on her way to a party at another friend's house. She had a 15-year-old girl named Taneisha Holley riding with her. On the way, they had a tire go flat. Tyisha pulled into a 7-11, where a man named Michael Horan helped them change the tire. Unfortunately the spare was also flat, so Horan suggested they drive the car, flat and all, to a nearby Unocal station that had an air hose. But once there, they still couldn't get the tire to inflate.

Horan offered to drive the girls home, but Tyisha asked him to take Taneisha to a cousin's house for help instead. He obliged, but after getting there Taneisha couldn't wake that cousin. So she called another cousin, 18-year-old Antoinette Joiner, and he agreed to meet them there.

Michael and Taneisha arrived back at the Unocal station around 1:30 am, and found Tyisha unconscious in the car. The car was running, probably to keep her warm, and the radio was on. She had been drinking some gin as well. Soon after they arrived, Antoinette and a friend of his also arrived. None of them was able to wake her, and her body was shaking. And, there was a Lorcin .380 pistol in her lap.

If there is such a thing as a gun that should be banned as a junk gun, the Lorcin is probably it, and this particular copy was no exception. Though loaded, it was missing important parts and was incapable of firing, but no one at the scene knew that.

Antoinette was afraid of what might happen if they woke her up in a fright, so he decided to call 911 for help. While on the phone, he made the mistake of mentioning the pistol. Instead of getting paramedics, two police cars showed up with four officers.

The cops ordered them all to stand back. Antoinette told them someone was coming with a spare key to the car, but they weren't interested. Officer Wayne Stewart screamed at Tyisha to move her hands away from the gun and unlock the car, to no avail. So they formulated a plan; they would smash the window and grab the gun. With full precautions in place, of course.

Office Stewart hit the window with a nightstick, but it didn't break. So Officer Daniel Hotard took the club and got in position with Stewart standing right next to him, his weapon ready. Hotard wound up and smashed the window. Immediately afterward he reached in to grab the gun and BOOM! A shot went off right close to his head. He fell back, thinking Tyisha had just fired, but it had actually been his partner Stewart who had fired from right next to him. Stewart would claim later he saw Tyisha wake up and grab for the gun, but her family members who witnessed her death would claim she never even moved. Who was right would be of little importance to Tyisha. All four cops opened up, firing 27 rounds in all, and twelve of them hit her. Four slugs hit her in the head, four in the back, two in the chest, one in the thigh, and one in an arm. She had no opportunity for any last words.

The cops who had killed her however, told jokes about it at the scene. As her friends and family grieved loudly, a police supervisor remarked, "This is going to ruin their Kwanzaa."

The cops would initially claim that Tyisha had grabbed her gun and fired first. That claim would fall apart when no shell casing was found, but a gun missing critical components _was_ found. The police department would also completely dismantle the car she died in, ostensibly for the purpose of finding that shell casing. Her family would contend, not without merit, that they were actually destroying some highly visual evidence of what was done to Tyisha.

The family eventually won a large settlement, and the impending uprising from the neighborhood was large enough that the four officers plus the supervisor who had made the Kwanzaa remark were fired. As always however, there was no criminal accountability. Those five officers did what fired people of all stripes typically do; they found new jobs. They also filed their own lawsuits and won half their salaries paid tax-free for life. While Tyisha Miller remained dead, life went on for them as if little had happened.

And as it always happens, Tyisha's family was made to accept that as justice.

* * *

" _Ready on three!"_ Hayward commanded. Preston was ready at the driver's window with the flashlight, Hayward standing beside him with his gun drawn, and three more cops in a line behind the car. _"One...two..."_

"HOLD IT!" Randy broke away from the crowd and ran past the three cops in the rear, and marched up to Hayward.

"Get back over there Gustin, this is none of your business," Hayward snapped.

"You know what's about to happen. She's going to wake up in a panic, reach for that gun and then you're going to kill her."

The rest of the crowd began to move closer, clearly sharing Randy's sentiment. Hayward decided that spelling things out might not be unwise. "I'm going to generously explain this once. We have an obligation to help a person who is clearly in distress. We further have an obligation to insure our own safety."

"Bullshit," Randy shot back. "If you make a choice to break that window, knowing goddamn well how she'll react, then you have no right to shoot her. Even if that means you take a bullet."

Hayward began running out of patience. "You've said your piece. Now get back over there or you'll be arrested."

Randy stood his ground. "I'm afraid not. You are setting up to murder an innocent person and _it's not happening."_

They had been staring each other down for about five seconds when Preston stuck the flashlight out toward Randy. "Are you volunteering?" he asked. Preston had no expectation he might actually be taken up on his offer, but Randy saw his chance and didn't waste it. He snatched the flashlight away from him.

"You bet I am," Randy said.

"You hand that back!" Hayward screamed.

"Too late, we have a solution now. All of you, move back please."

Hayward started reaching for his cuffs when Vincent stepped in between them. "From one cop to another, this'll be handled by the civilian sector now," he said. Other men and women crowded in around the car, cutting the cops off from it. They saw the tide they were up against and began to move back.

"If you blow this Randy, you could get her killed," Preston said.

"The risk is mine. Even if she kills me, you will not shoot her."

"You're not the only one here," Preston replied. "If she sees what's happening and still threatens anyone else..."

Randy glanced around at the others in the crowd. "Then do what you have to. But only then. Now everybody get behind something."

Everyone did as he asked, mostly anyhow. The crowd moved to the sides and took cover behind cars. The cops took cover behind their own cars, all except for Hayward. He stood out front, wearing a smile. Maybe he was only hoping for a front row view of Randy getting drilled, or maybe he was waiting for his chance.

Randy gripped the flashlight and zeroed in on his target. Smash and grab, nothing to it. Except for the annoying little detail that it had failed before. _Talk about putting your money where your mouth is,_ he thought. Then he wound up and swung.

His intention had been to smash through the glass and dive inside in the same forward motion, but it didn't work out like that. The glass shattered all right, but it bounced the flashlight back hard enough to kill his forward momentum. Not only that, but fragments flew back and hit him in the face, which slowed his progress even further.

Inside the car, as expected, Elena snapped awake in a panic, and saw a burly man diving into the smashed window. Screaming, she reached up to the dash and got her hand on the gun just before Randy did. Randy grabbed her right hand with his left, then reached his right arm in and got her by the wrist. He pulled her arm toward him so he could take the gun. He almost had it, then Elena kicked his right hand away. Screaming with panic, she fought to get the gun back and then it went off.

The blast from the short barrel was deafening, and Randy felt a shooting pain on the left side of his ribcage. He lost his grip on her and fell to the gravel, as Elena sat up and began lining up for another shot. Then Hayward drew his weapon. "You had your chance!" he shouted.

Randy instantly got to his knees. "No! You back off!" Elena took her first glance behind the car, and saw cops approaching. Randy got up and jumped between her and the cops, who all had their guns out again. _"You will not shoot her!"_ The cops all stopped where they were, but their guns stayed trained on Elena. Randy went back to the window. "I mean you no harm," he said, but Elena trained the gun on his forehead. Randy got down on his knees and put his hands up. "I'm trying to help, but you need to put that gun down or those cops will kill you."

Finally she spoke. "Dejeme sola!"

Randy shouted back to the bar patrons. "Who knows Spanish?"

"I do!" Vincent replied, and he jogged over beside Randy. "Hola, soy Vicente," he began. Randy couldn't make heads or tails out of what he said after that, but it appeared Vincent started by introducing him. Then he directed her attention to the cops behind her. As his explanation went on, her eyes grew larger and larger.

Still pointing the gun at Randy, Elena opened the door of the car. She got out, moved toward him, inching closer. Then she reached out, grabbed his hand, lifted it up and put the gun in it. She fell back against the car and curled up while Randy quickly dropped the magazine from the gun and cleared it, locking the slide back. He held it up by the barrel. "I've got the weapon, now put those guns away!"

The cops moved in, shouting at everyone to get back. Randy didn't interfere. He got what he wanted, now it was best to let them save a little bit of face and not make things worse. Vincent sat him down on the hood of another car and pulled his shirt open. "You fuckin' crazy bastard, look at you!" Finally the wound was exposed. "Grazed you pretty good. You're gonna need some stitches."

Preston came over, tapped Vincent on the shoulder. "We could use your help for a minute." He glanced over, and next to the Datsun, Hayward appeared to be ordering Elena to _habla Ingles._

"Be right back Randy, just hang out here," he said, and walked over to help. Hawyard told him to tell Elena to produce some identification. He and Elena went back and forth in Spanish for a moment, then Vincent said, "She says she hasn't done anything wrong and doesn't wish to identify herself."

"Bullshit, you told her to say that!" Hayward bellowed. "You tell her that she better show us a drivers license for the vehicle she's operating or she's going in."

Vincent and Elena conversed a little more. "She says no one saw her doing anything other than sleeping in this car, therefore this is not a traffic stop and she has no obligation to show a license, registration or proof in insurance."

Hayward could barely contain his rage, but he cracked a smile anyways as he leaned his face down toward hers. "Gun permit. Now."

There was a little more conversation _en espanol._ "She says the weapon was not concealed so no concealed pistol license is required. She also says it was not used or displayed in any illegal manner, so court precedent clearly shows you have no authority to detain her unlawfully any longer for it. She wants her weapon back and she wants to leave this scene now or she's getting a lawyer."

Hayward turned away and stepped over to the patrol car where Preston was on the radio. "What's the word?"

"The car is registered to an Armando Hernandez in Seattle. The tags are expired but there's no stolen report, on either the car or the gun."

"Search the car." Preston and the other three cops began pawing through the car, shining flashlights into every corner. Elena was clearly getting nervous, knowing what businesses Armando was involved with, and knowing she'd be found to be in possession of anything that was in the car. But fortunately for her Armando had the sense to keep his vehicle clean for moments like this.

Vincent addressed the officers again. "Thanks for stopping by gentlemen, we'll be going to the hospital now."

Hayward was out of options, at least options he could get away with, so all he could do was get the last authoritative word in. "Get a license to drive, and get a gun carry permit, if you even can," he said to Elena. "Or the next time we find you in violation, it won't go nearly this well for you." He motioned to his officers to go. Preston handed the empty gun back to Elena, then they all got in their cars and pulled out. The crowd of bar patrons cheered as they left.

Elena was shivering from the cold as she spoke to Vincent again. "She says her life is still in danger, and she's very glad you've volunteered to help," he relayed to Randy.

"She's glad I what?"

"Let's go, stitches time." They began walking toward Vincent's full-size Bronco. Randy was perfectly able to walk on his own, but Elena wanted to help anyways. She pressed close to give him a little support, and herself a little warmth.

"Look, I only did this to save a life," Randy said, unsure who he was talking to.

"Don't be stupid Randy," Vincent replied. "Superman does it for all the right reasons too, but anyone who thinks he doesn't kiss the girl now and then is just naïve."

* * *

It was pushing 3 a.m. when Vincent finally arrived at Randy's place to drop off him and Elena. The two of them got out, and Randy leaned down to the window. "I think you better stay too. How else am I gonna talk to her?"

"You got a Spanish-English dictionary?"

"Probably..."

"Ain't nothin' in the world like pillow talk with one of them things." He drove off and left them.

Inside the house, Randy led Elena in the door and turned the lights on. He turned up the thermostat, then took his coat off of her and hung it up. "Welcome to my casa," he said. She gave a short little gasp, and pointed toward the hallway. Randy looked, and Kemo and Ninja were both sitting there, wondering who the stranger was. Randy took her over to them. "This is Kemo, and this is Ninja," he said, pointing to each. Elena reached down to pet them both. Kemo reacted by turning her nose up and walking away. So she reached over to pet Ninja, and Ninja responded by wrapping her claws and teeth around her hand. Elena gave a little yelp, but Ninja's bites never hurt.

Randy had her sit down while he went to the fridge and made her a turkey sandwich. She devoured it in a few bites. Then she finally said something. "Cuanto tiempo?" she asked. Randy remembered what he needed then. He went to his bookcase, found the translation dictionary and gave it to her. She looked up the words and pointed them out to him.

"Oh, how long? Can you stay?" She seemed to understand and nodded. "I don't know, long as you to need to I guess. We'll talk about what's going on with you and we'll figure that out." She nodded, and Randy reached down to pull up one of the couch cushions. Elena looked down and saw the hide-a-bed beneath the cushions. She snatched the cushion away from him and put it back, mashing it down with her foot. She clearly wasn't going to be happy with guest quarters. _Oh oh,_ Randy thought.

Elena saw the radio sitting beside the television, and she went to turn it on. It was tuned to an oldies station, and the song playing at that moment was Jason Mraz, _I'm Yours._ It's a song that a lot of couples claim as theirs, and for good reason. The pleasant guitar strums and the sense of longing for togetherness that it evokes make it hard to resist. When Elena heard it playing, a smile blossomed on her face, and she grabbed Randy around the waist. She grabbed him just a little too close to his stitches and he had to bite his tongue for a second, but then she began to sway back and forth. It seemed like an awfully strange moment for dancing. But that's what she wanted to do, so Randy went along, and there they danced in his home, to the sound of that song which was destined to become theirs as well.

When the song finished, Randy shut the radio off and Elena pulled him down on the couch beside her. Then she started flipping through the dictionary, reading one word at a time. "You,"... _flip flip flip_... "have"... _flip flip flip_... "nice"... _flip flip flip_... "eyes!" _Nothing in the world indeed like pillow talk with a Spanish-English dictionary_ , Randy thought.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, his heart genuinely warmed. "Oh, it's gonna be a long night..." he said.

Chapter 5

### Backlash

#### May, 2006

Opinion-Editorial from the Forest Hill Gazette – May 2, 2006

Our View: Police Reforms Are Needed Now

Late last month our town had a near-catastrophic intervention by police in the case of a woman who appeared to be in medical distress. Readers will recall that it was, in fact, the subsequent intervention of patrons of the nightclub where the incident took place that ended up saving her life. Saving it from police, that is.

The ringleader of that intervention, Randolph Gustin of Forest Hill, gave an interview to this paper afterward in which he detailed his reasons for acting when he did. As the situation was developing, he recalled a nearly identical episode that took place in Riverside, California in 1998. A 19-year-old woman was found unconscious in a car, with a gun nearby. No one could wake her. Police were called, and when they were likewise unable to wake her, they smashed the window and grabbed for the gun. Accounts differ from that point, but the end result was that either she woke up frightened and reached for the gun, or police believed she did, and she died in a hail of bullets.

The cousin of that woman, who first called 911, like many others in his family and his neighborhood, has vowed never to do so again. Police, they believe, do not have their interests at heart. And who can blame them? When one faces a situation they can't handle themselves, when people are in need of help, are they not expected to call the professionals? And are the professionals not expected, and entrusted, to make things better instead of worse? Where are you to turn for help when the people you call to help someone are so willing to end the life of the person who needs it?

It is with no small measure of disappointment that we have printed reports about the refusal of our police chief Burt Grandstone to take any corrective measures in his department's policies. To the contrary, he defends the actions of his officers as being justified for both their protection and the protection of the public at large.

But what about the protection of the unconscious woman they were called to help? Far from being a threat to anyone, she was sleeping. She had gotten lost, was falling asleep at the wheel, and had no choice but to find a place to park and get some sleep. And being as vulnerable as she was, she had every right in the world to put a pistol in view to warn away possible attackers. If police were unwilling to help her without such an egregious disregard for her life, they should have driven away and left her alone.

We take a similarly dim view of the treatment that was afforded last year to one William Stendahl, who is a member of the "open-carry" movement. Those who read this paper will recall how he, his wife and son were taken down at gunpoint based upon specious allegations, then publicly humiliated, and subsequently charged with nothing. Whether or not one agrees with the purpose of this movement, the fact is that if you are breaking no laws and threatening no one, you have a right not to be threatened. Especially by those who are paid to protect.

There are people who believe that law enforcement policies for dealing with the public are not aimed at providing the best outcome for people; they are aimed at asserting police omnipotence. That is a cynical view to be sure, and yet it appears to have been the case in these two instances.

The woman in this latest episode, who has asked not to be named, is currently staying with Mr. Gustin, who is attempting to help with whatever issues led her into that situation. We consider that a far better example of public service, and we wish her the best.

It is also our wish that our police chief begin taking this matter seriously and implement reforms to insure this doesn't happen again. Because to be frank, none of us on this editorial board wants to be the next person they come to "help".

* * *

Chief Grandstone looked up from his newspaper to check the clock. Speech time was still an hour away. He took a drink of coffee and read on.

This newspaper, and the media in general, was becoming less and less friendly to him and his department. But it didn't hurt his feelings that much. It was, after all, what he expected. Doing what was necessary was frequently not popular, and public opinion was an issue he would have to contend with. But it was also an issue that he had the solution for. People were simply going to learn to see things his way.

That wasn't the sort of policy he could exactly go out and announce however. Finesse was required, and that was something he had in abundance.

* * *

The morning assembly meeting took place in the lunchroom of the station house every day at 7:00 a.m. About twenty people occupied the seats, including all of the dayshift officers plus the graveyard supervisors.

Chief Grandstone came in and took the front of the room. "Good morning gentlemen and ladies," he began, as he always did. "As you are aware, we have come under a great deal of criticism for our handling of situations that involve armed individuals, or other potentially threatening individuals. I regret to inform you that some changes will need to be made. These changes will address the primary concerns we face, those being the negative press and public response we have been contending with."

Robin Frisk raised her hand. "Chief, what about the actions and policies that led to all that bad press? Are we addressing that?"

"Glad you raised that," Burt replied. "There will be no change to our current policies for actually dealing with these situations. Anyone who could be a threat, will be treated as one."

"So, what's changing then?" Robin asked.

"Our handling of the public and the media afterward," Burt replied. Robin found it hard to hide her dismay, but she did so anyways. "We're bringing in a special instructor who will hold a seminar for us. This seminar will cover report writing, testimony, interviewing witnesses and media interactions so as to structure people's perceptions of what happens in ways that they'll accept as justified. It will also cover creating court defensible records for both training and use of force incidents, not to mention how to lay the groundwork to win in cases of lawsuits or prosecutions, whether or not they should have happened to begin with."

"So basically," Jack Hayward asked, "it's a class on how to get away with murder?" A laugh went around the lunchroom.

"Pretty much, but as far as you know I never said that," Burt replied with a smile. "Community policing had its day, but more and more we're facing threats that look like acts of war, which means we need to start treating this job like one. And the citizenry is just going to have to understand that our right to be secure while doing that job is absolute."

"What about all the people who are involved with protesting our actions?" Robin asked. "How are we going to appease them?"

"We're not going to allow them any victories whatsoever, is how," Burt retorted. "However, in keeping with our new image management policies, those of you who were involved with the "sleeping bimbo" episode will unfortunately have to report to my office to be yelled at. As far as I'm concerned you all did what you were supposed to, and in the same situation, that's how I want you to handle it again. But at the moment, we have to placate the masses and the media." He held up his thumb and forefinger, half an inch apart. "Just a little though."

* * *

Later in the morning, Preston was riding shotgun in the patrol car that Robin was driving. The day was cloudy but the sun was shining between the clouds at the moment, and Preston spotted the Forza coffee place. "Hey, want to pull in there? I'll buy."

"Sure." They parked, walked inside and took the customary table by the window where law enforcement sat. Cindy came to take their orders.

"Hey guys! Been kind of a lively week, hasn't it?" She said.

"That it has..." Robin replied. Cindy took their orders and left them. "So how did your 'reprimand' go?" she asked Preston.

"'Bout all we did was laugh about it and slap each other's backs. But, now he can tell the press we've been reprimanded."

"What did you think of how that situation was being handled?"

"I didn't like it, I just didn't have any better ideas. Besides which, I wasn't in charge," Preston replied. "But what else could we do? If we just left her there and she died or something, we'd get the blame. We had to act."

"What a load of horseshit," they heard. Robin turned, and a couple booths down an elderly gentleman put his newspaper down. "How in the hell can you point that many guns at some poor girl and claim to give a flyin' fuck about her life?" Around the coffee shop, eyes began to turn toward the conversation.

"I hate to point this out sir," Preston replied to him, "but the man who did what I was about to do was wounded. Not badly, luckily, but he as easily could have died."

"Yeah, but he didn't, an' thanks to him neither did the girl. If you'da done it though, yer buddies'd have blown 'er to pieces an' then told jokes about it fer the next month or two. But instead o' letting that happen, he took the risk, an' that makes 'im a better man than you. No badge required."

Robin cut in. "What he did was still exactly what we were going to do, minus the protection," she said. She was a little surprised to hear herself defending that plan, considering what she thought of it herself. Maybe she wasn't as immune as she thought she was to the call to stick by your comrades no matter what.

"Maybe if y'all wasn't breathin' down their necks like ye were, the folks in that place coulda' come up with somethin' better," the old man said.

"Really? Like what?" Preston asked.

"Like how 'bout callin' a damn locksmith? You could open the doors on both sides at once an' she wouldn't 'ave a chance o' gettin' the gun. You or yer boss think o' that, or was you in too big a rush t' prove how almighty you was?" Robin and Preston were a little short on answers at that point, but luckily Cindy chose that moment to return with their drinks. "Hey, sorry fer interruptin' y'all," the old man said. "You folks enjoy yer coffee and have a good day." He picked his paper back up, as Robin turned back around in her seat.

"Wow..." she said, "ways to go yet on the damage control."

Cindy set their drinks down. Preston paid her, and threw in a nice tip. "You don't think we're evil, do you?" he asked her.

"No, of course not!" she replied. "But... oh, never mind." She started to leave, and Preston stopped her.

"Wait! But what?"

"Well..." she began. "If you found me passed out in a car, would you point guns at me too?"

It really stung to hear that question coming from her, but Preston kept it hidden. "You? Never." Cindy smiled and walked away.

Preston and Robin both stared down at their cups for a long and very uncomfortable moment. Everyone in the place turned back to their own drinks, laptops, conversations, personal introspection, or whatever else they were doing before, but it wasn't hard for the casual observer to tell where their minds were. Preston looked at his watch. "What do you say we get back on the road?"

To Robin, that idea sounded great.

* * *

Around 6 p.m. Randy's truck pulled into his driveway. It was spring now and leaves were growing on the trees in his yard, which reminded him that he needed to finish raking up last year's leaves. Elena was sitting at his picnic table, with his laptop in front of her. She was learning to use computers and the internet, and had started getting the hang of it pretty quickly once she discovered all the cool stuff there was to be bought online.

"Honey, I'm home!" Randy yelled as he got out. He was kidding of course. She wasn't his wife, and given their fifteen-year age difference he didn't see her taking a serious interest in changing that.

"Como fue su novia dias?" she asked in reply.

"Knock that shit off!" he yelled back. Elena laughed, and Randy joined her.

"Sorry Randy, it's too much fun to mess with you." The whole _no habla ingles_ act had gone down the drain the morning after she arrived. That was when she'd asked to borrow his phone. He said sure, and pushed *67 first to make sure she knew he didn't want his number being given out. She understood perfectly, and took it outside. Randy hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but he walked out and she didn't hear him coming. At least not before he heard her saying _You come after me and you're dead._ Busted though she was, she wouldn't discuss what she had said any further. Randy understood and didn't press it. Everybody has some kind of dirty secret they'd rather keep to themselves, and that sort of wish was best respected.

Randy bent down and gave her a kiss. Nothing too long or deep, but real enough. They didn't have anything in the way of a serious love affair going on, but for the time being she was his girl. It wasn't the reason he'd brought her home, nor was it part of any deal she'd made in exchange for his help. Maybe it was simply gratitude, maybe it was her way of insuring his continued helpfulness, who knew. But beginning on the night when she had arrived, she had simply claimed him. With full benefits. Which, in Randy's view, was a pretty sweet deal.

Randy glanced at the laptop. "What'd you learn how to do now?" He looked closer. "Oh no, not Street View..."

"See that house?" she asked.

"Uh huh."

"That was my parent's house. That's where I grew up." Randy looked closer. It was modest, but it looked like home. And it was, to date, the most personal detail she'd shared about herself. Maybe that was progress.

* * *

Not much later, they were eating dinner. Randy had never much cared for any kind of food more Mexican than a taco, but Elena turned out to be a pretty good Mexican cook and she was making him learn to like it. In front of him was _ceviche_ (a Mexican seafood salad) and some _burritos de carnicia,_ (beef burrito). Randy was ravenous from a long day at work, he devoured everything she put in front of him. Then, he decided, it was time for them to talk.

"You know," he began, "you've had some time to rest up from your adventures, so it's getting to be time we took care of business. Now I don't know what sort of issues you have going on, but if I'm going to be of any help with them, then I sort of need to."

Elena looked down at her food. "Could we just finish eating?"

Randy nodded. "Sure."

* * *

Elena had appetites of her own. On a typical evening, (and this one was typical,) as soon as dinner was down the hatch it was into the sack, and _please don't bore me with any goddamn foreplay_.

Elena would shove him down on his back (literally shove him) then climb aboard and rock back and forth until she got happy. She didn't take her time either, she liked getting right to the point. After that it was Randy's turn to do whatever made him happy. Not knowing how long this situation was going to last, he was indulging in a little variety.

The only trouble Randy had with all this was that she wanted that treatment every single day. Which aside from killing the time he normally spent on projects, was really testing his stamina. He was forty-one and she was twenty-six. He could keep up with her, but not by a hell of a lot. When he thought about it though, he had to admit that he'd contended with bigger problems in his life than a twenty-something sex predator. _Better enjoy it while it lasts,_ he'd tell himself.

* * *

The time finally came for sleep. Randy turned the lights out, and they looked across the pillow at one another. "Elena, you came to me for help," he said, and watched while her smile faded and she began to turn away. "If I was a doctor, there's no way I could make you better without knowing what was wrong. See?"

She rolled over and scooted her back against him. "Randy, I love staying here and being with you. And I trust you. You risked your life for me the night we met. But if the wrong people found out certain things, you would have risked yourself for nothing."

"You have a body count you're not telling me about?"

She turned her head back over, her eyes huge. "No!" Then she scooted back against him so he could put his arms around her. "But I'm really scared right now too."

From where he lay, he could see the three-dot tattoo on her hand, and he knew what it meant. Pretty much anyone who wore that tattoo could be counted on to come with some baggage. "If leaving your past behind is what you want to do, then that's what I want to help you with. I can only promise that I won't judge you by it, and I won't do anything that might endanger your safety. In fact, I won't do anything at all without checking with you first." He put his hands on her shoulders, gave them a little rub. "So will you talk to me?" She sighed, and thought about it for a moment.

"Tomorrow?" she asked.

"Tomorrow."

* * *

It was around a week later that Randy showed up at the police station to drop the bomb. He and Elena had had their talk as they had agreed. Randy found it more than a little bit disturbing, but he adhered to his word to keep her story to himself. And they talked about what he could do to enable her to live an independent life without getting her shipped away in the process.

Then he had asked a little tiny favor in return. Just a phone call was all it was, to a certain state representative. In that call she told the story of how she had nearly died recently, who had nearly killed her and why. It had precisely the effect Randy was looking for.

Now, holding a manila envelope, Randy walked in through the glass front door of the police station. Inside the door there was a small waiting room with a few bench seats, and a counter with thick bulletproof glass across the front. He walked to the counter.

Behind the glass sat Esther Keel, a graying and bespectacled woman in her sixties who was known for some of the best customer service in her profession. She wore a uniform shirt with a badge, but of course no weapon. "How can I help you?" she asked Randy.

"I have a appointment to talk to the chief," he replied.

"Well, he says he's really busy today and he'll only have a few minutes."

Randy smiled. "That'll be plenty." She hit the silver button on her side of the counter and buzzed him in.

* * *

Randy walked into Burt's office to find him chatting with Jack Hayward. Burt motioned him to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat please." Randy sat down, and Burt sat in his own chair. Hayward stood beside the desk with his hands clasped in front of him like a bouncer waiting for the next excuse to toss somebody. "I presume you are here for something important."

"Chief Grandstone, you recall the woman whom your officers nearly blew away."

"That _very_ young woman, yes I do. As I understand it, you're getting quite the hero treatment out of her." Jack chuckled without trying to hide it.

Randy smiled in return. "Indeed I am, and that being the case, I have to continue assuring her safety. This is part of that project. Do you recall seeing this before?" Randy took a sheet of paper out of the envelope and handed it to him. Hayward walked around so he could see too. Burt and Jack skimmed down the page, and it quickly rang a bell.

"This is the solution to your problem of out-of-control cops that I've been pushing at the State Capitol," Randy went on. "It's the one that says if they threaten or otherwise mistreat someone for being legally armed, they must be criminally charged, and if convicted, they can't be a cop for five years. I came here to get your professional opinion on this, so please tell me, what do you think?"

Burt looked up from the paper, rolling his eyes back and forth. "Well sure, good luck with this..."

"My luck's getting better all the time. That near-homicide was the last straw I needed to get some progress going, and it's just been introduced." Burt and Jack both stared at him with arrows shooting from their eyes.

"The session is already ending," Jack said, "it's too late for this to go anywhere."

"This is the first year of the legislative biennium. Now that it's been dropped it'll automatically be reintroduced next year." Randy was enjoying their reactions even more than he expected, which was a lot. "So tell me, you think this might resolve that particular issue?"

"What I think," Burt began, "is that when people meddle with things they know nothing about, it tends to backfire. Our policies did not come into being overnight, they were developed over many years of experience, which happens to involve a lot of incidents of cops who got killed because they did something wrong. Is that what you want to perpetuate?"

"What I want to perpetuate," Randy fired back, "is lawmen who respect the law instead of treating it like an inconvenience that needs to be circumvented, in exactly the same way that every other manner of criminal does. Not to mention respecting people's lives and safety at least as much as their own. In short, I want you to remember who you work for, and that after you've pushed us around for so long, we can, and we will, start finding ways to push back." Randy let that sink in for a moment. "I'll be dropping a copy of this off at the Gazette. I look forward to seeing your response in the paper."

Randy stood up and left. Burt and Jack didn't say it out loud, but their thoughts were on exactly the same page. That was the page that read _Buddy, you just fucked with the wrong people._

* * *

Elena took aim and fired. The shot, which came from her Colt Mustang, was on the paper but not exactly on the silhouette. She had fired guns before, but it had been a really long time, and Randy was pretty much training her from scratch. Beginning with stances and grip, and she wasn't proving to be a natural, at least not at this point. _She seemed a lot more dangerous that first night,_ he thought.

The snow had gone away and they were at one of Randy's gravel pits in the mountains. Vincent was with them, and he was engaged in demonstrating good form to Elena. Basic Weaver stance, gun at low ready with a two hand grip, then bring it up, line up sights and pop off two quick shots. She was getting the hang of it, but it was taking time.

To Randy this was like the Dick and Jane level of firearm instruction. _See Dick. Dick's all happy 'cause he's packing heat. See Jane. Jane's having a crappy time of the month so she's playing Twirl The Glock._

Randy decided to break that train of thought, so he stepped up alongside Vincent as Elena fired another group. "Where'd you learn Spanish?" he asked Vincent.

"Spain," he replied.

Randy nodded. "Well, I guess that makes sense..."

Vincent pointed toward, Elena, who was figuring out how to clear a jam. "How's she treatin' you?"

"Honest? I think she's gonna kill me."

Vincent laughed. "The thing about Spanish women," he said, "is that they want your fucking soul. But they'll reward you for it really, really well. Besides, she seems to be doin' you some good," he said, patting Randy's spare tire, which had gone down quite noticeably.

"I know she has. I call it the 'psycho girlfriend weight-loss plan.'" He meant that in a good-natured way. Mostly.

Finally, Elena put two quick shots onto the target, not exactly on center, but the hits were solid enough. She took off her hearing protection, as Randy and Vincent walked to the target to look. "I do believe you're getting the hang of this," Vincent said. Elena dropped her magazine, handed it back to Randy to reload for her. _Loading your own mags is going to be your lesson for next time,_ Randy thought.

"I'll tell you what I want to know," Elena said. "What if those cops had started shooting at me? What could I have done?"

Randy and Vincent exchanged a grim glance. "Well," Randy said, "the honest answer is, not a hell of a lot."

"If it happened, should I try to surrender?" she asked.

"That's what they would tell you, but it wouldn't work," Vincent replied. "The cop philosophy is, if the first shot is justified, so is the last one."

"What's that mean?"

"Well, you hear about shootings where every cop on the scene dumps an entire magazine into someone," Vincent said. "The official line is that they're 'trained' to keep shooting until the threat is eliminated. But what that really means is that they're supposed to keep shooting until the person is too dead to come back and sue the department. If you've been so much as fired at once, you're a liability, even if they missed you clean. You could throw your gun out of the car, throw your hands up, throw yourself on the ground, scream that you're surrendering, and it won't make any difference. They'll kill you anyways, and afterward they'll claim that you 'could' have still been a threat."

"Or that you 'rushed' them," Randy added.

"So if even one shot had been fired at my car, there's nothing I could have done to come out of it alive?" The men could tell this question was really bothering her.

"Randy, that's a pretty damn good question," Vincent said. "What could you do?"

Randy grimaced. This very question had been on his mind a lot too, and it was tougher than algebra. "Well, it's been well established that once the shooting starts, surrender has a pretty low success rate. So if you want to live, that leaves escape and fighting back. Escape is unlikely, they'll just shoot you in the back as you run." He pointed at Elena's .380. "And if you were going to fight back, first thing you'd need something bigger than that. Lots bigger." She frowned and held her gun close to her bosom. She liked her pretty little gun. "After that... let's see what we can figure out."

Randy got into Vincent's Bronco and turned it around in the gravel pit, parking it with the rear end facing toward the backstop. He rolled down the driver's window and waved them over beside him. "Let's say they're all lined up behind me with their guns on my back. What would I have to do first?"

"Well, if you stay in one place you're toast," Vincent replied.

"Okay, so first thing I need to do is get out fast."

"Doesn't that just leave you in the open?" Elena asked.

"Not necessarily. Put your hearing protection on." They both did as asked, then Randy jumped out and sprinted to the left of the vehicle, firing a rapid burst at the imaginary vehicles parked behind the SUV. He fired half the clip, then reversed direction on a dime and fired the other half. His slide locked back. Then he walked back over to Vincent and Elena. "If I can get out and move fast, I'm harder to hit."

"True," Vincent replied, "but the scenario is still four or five against one."

"That's true, _if_ they're all shooting. But gunfire is a scary thing, especially when it's coming at you. If I can make them dive behind cover with the first quick burst, then I can hopefully figure something else out."

Elena pointed to the front of the SUV. "What if you jump in front and shoot from behind there?"

"You'd have cover," Randy replied, "but you'd be stuck in one place trading shots with four or five cops, and you'd lose. To win, you'd have to be mobile so they couldn't get an easy fix on you, and also so you could get into position to nail them." Randy thought for a moment. "Let's try some drills and see what we can work out."

They began to set up their target boxes to simulate patrol cars. "Here's another question for you," Vincent said. "Suppose they come to kill you. You fight back, and you do manage to win. Now you're a cop killer, so what then?"

Randy grimaced again. "Please, one nightmare scenario at a time."

* * *

In the lobby of the Forest Hill police station, a shadow fell on Esther Keel, and she looked up to her window. Standing there was a _vato_ in his thirties, who bordered on hulking. "Can I help you?" she asked through the speaker.

"My car is in impound," he replied with a smile. "Can you tell me where to pick it up?"

"Which car would that be?"

"Blue Datsun. I hear it has a broken window now."

Esther went to her paperwork shelves and picked out a sheet of paper with a map. She passed it through beneath the window. "This is where the impound yard is," she told him.

"Thanks," he replied. "There was a girl driving the car that night."

"Yes there was," she replied. "Did you want to file a stolen vehicle report?"

"Nah, I don't roll like that. I'd just like to talk to her is all. You know where I could find her?"

"I'm afraid I can't give out that kind of information. The only person who could authorize that would be the Police Chief."

The man nodded with some disappointment. "Any chance I could talk to him then?"

"It could take two or three weeks to get an appointment, but hold on." Esther went back to a phone, picked it up and spoke on it for a minute while the man waited. Then she set the phone down with a look of surprise on her face. Borderline stunned, in fact, as she returned to the window.

"He says to please come on back," she told him. "Who should I tell him is coming?

"Armando," he replied. She buzzed him in.

Chapter 6

Takin' Care Of Business

#### June, 2006

Elena was alone at home when Armando came to call. Randy was at work, and she was on the Internet with business of her own to take care of.

Randy was helping her get enough documentation together to get her drivers license so she could find work and properly care of herself. It was proving to be a long process, as her parents had left her with almost nothing in the way of identifying documents. They had started by searching up all the past records pertaining to her from L.A. County that they could find. There was a good stroke of luck when a search of her juvenile records turned up a social security number that her mother had gotten her when she was little. That would be an enormous work-saver. There were also records from about six different schools she had attended, but it appeared that none of them had any yearbook photos of her. Those would have been helpful, but they'd have to make do without.

All they had to do was cobble enough documents together to get the drivers license, and then as long as she avoided jobs that required solid proof of citizenship, she'd be able to live like normal people. It was becoming a somewhat frustrating venture though.

She was sitting at the picnic table with Randy's laptop. It was plugged into his wireless broadband modem and she was looking at an L.A. County Courthouse website. They had discovered that court records would serve as one of the forms of identification they needed for the Department Of Licensing, so she needed to contact a court clerk and get copies of some court records pertaining to her. It didn't matter much which ones she got, there were lots to choose from, but something not excessively embarrassing would be good to find.

Summer was just getting underway. The hot weather wouldn't hit for another month, but it was at least sunny and calm. It was so quiet in fact that she almost didn't notice when the Datsun rounded the corner on the gravel road that led to Randy's driveway. When she did notice, she was sure it had to be a different car, because there was no way Armando would know where to find her. But then she saw the plastic sheet covering the driver's window.

She jumped out of her seat and bolted inside the mobile home. There, she grabbed her .380 and cellphone. She looked out the window, and saw the car park outside the driveway. Armando got out with a couple of others. "'Lena!" he yelled, and her heart started skipping beats. She opened the phone and speed dialed Randy. Unfortunately she only got his voicemail. Randy had told her that at critical times, like when he was running the crane, he had to turn his phone off. "'Lena, come on out, pleeeeeze?" Elena left Randy a message to call her right back, it's a fucking emergency, and then hung up. She thought about calling 911, but only briefly, remembering what that had nearly gotten her the last time someone did that for her. "I just want to talk, but I reeeeelly need you to come on out, okay?" She looked outside again, expecting him to be right outside the front door by now. But he wasn't; he was still standing just outside the driveway.

She gathered her courage and walked out the door, gun in hand. "Put one foot on this property and that's where they'll scrape you up from." She walked out to the middle of the yard and stood her ground there. One of the two who accompanied Armando was his distant cousin Miguel, and the other was another young guy from the house named Jay.

Armando pointed at the .380. "That's my gun. You could save yourself some trouble by givin' it back."

"For how many thousands of dollars you took from me, not to mention all the vile shit you made me do, I think this is a pretty small payback," she replied. "But if you want to come a little closer I'll be happy to give you the bullets."

He shrugged. "S'okay, I got plenty more. I'm packin' a bigger one right now anyhow." He reached behind his back and drew out a Beretta 9mm. Elena put a two-hand grip on her gun and held it at low ready. She was starting to hyperventilate. Catching on to shooting though she was, she still wouldn't win if he opened up on her. But Armando put his gun back where it was. "Baby, I don't want you to come back. You been in the news, you're too hot to handle now. But you owe me some money."

"I owe YOU money!?"

"Did I fuckin' stutter or somethin'?" His companions laughed. "You took my gun, you took my fuckin' car, my car got damaged and plus I had to pay five hundred to get it back. And best of all you killed our business for two fuckin' weeks 'cause everyone was so scared we were gonna get raided. So I say you owe me five grand."

It was a ludicrous demand, but the important thing was that he was serious. "Where do you think I'm going to get five grand exactly?"

"I don't think you will. But I do think your new boyfriend will."

She was finally able to laugh a little. "You've always been crazy Armando, now you're just being stupid."

"'Lena, don't make me angry," he replied. "He's a dumbass fuckin' hero type. He risked his life for your worthless ass before you even met. And you almost killed him for it, remember?" She remembered. "Yet here you are anyways, suckin' his dick, cookin' his food, and livin' off his hospitality. When he sees what can happen to you, he'll cough it up." Elena started thinking about her odds of killing him where he stood and dragging him over the property line. But Randy had already ruled that option out. Blood trails are very hard to explain. "That's everything I got to say, for now anyways," Armando said. "So before we go, how 'bout flashin' your titties? Jay never got to see them, and they rock."

"Is your number the same?" she asked instead. He nodded. "We'll be in touch then. Now get the fuck out of here before I decide to try my luck."

Armando waved at the other two, and they got in the car and drove away. Elena's eyes were watering as she watched them disappear down the road. Then her phone started vibrating in her pocket. _Oh Randy, just five minutes sooner..._

* * *

"I need you to take me to the Canadian border," Elena said, and Randy stared at her with his jaw slack.

After she had told him on the phone what happened he had ditched work and sped home. There he had found her in the sort of tears that one normally expects from a person who has seen their long-awaited thread of hope snapped in front of them. She told him everything that had happened, and he was trying to tell her it would all be taken care of, but she wasn't listening.

"Canada is where I was headed on the night when you found me," she told him."It's not where I want to be. But I'll be okay there."

"Elena, you're not giving me a chance. Let me take care of this"

"Randy, staying here has been great. Being with you has been awesome. But these people are the worst of the fucking worst, and now that they know where I live I just can't stay."

"One way or another, I can protect you. If it means I keep you with me all the time, that's what we'll do. If it means letting Vincent put you up for a while, he'll go along with that. We can figure this out."

"Randy, it's worse than that! It's not just what they might do to me themselves. They could turn me in to Immigration. And Mexico isn't the shithole it used to be; it's a fucking bloodbath now. I'd be snatched up by the same people I rode the bus back with, and I'd be working in some whorehouse for the cartels until they decide to kill me. You see what I'm looking at here?"

Randy could feel her despair, and hear her logic. She wanted to be safe, and she also didn't want any more bullets flying at Randy beyond what she had fired herself. It was completely understandable, and he had to halt this train of thought however was necessary. Even if it hurt.

"Canada might have been a good option in years past," he told her. "But that's changed."

"How?"

"Ever since 9-11 they've clamped down on the border big time. If you had made it there in that car, the Canadian customs people would have asked for your proof of citizenship. Then when you didn't have any, they'd have turned you back. And on the way back south, you'd have had to stop and talk to the American customs and immigration people. You'd be deported already."

That was the point where it became more than she could take. She collapsed into a kitchen chair, in tears. Randy bent down and put his arms around her. "Randy, what am I gonna do?"

"Elena, I know I'm not the guy you want to spend your life with. But I've got too much work invested in helping you to let these scumbags ruin everything. Just let me take care of this, please."

She told him she'd let him try.

* * *

The house was easy to find. Big, noisy, with way too many pimped-up cars parked around it. "Crackmobiles" was what Randy liked to call them. The house had stairs leading up to a front entrance, but most people came and went through the back entrance in the alley. If trouble was going to start, that would be the better place for it, so Randy parked his truck near the end of the alley. He got out, while Vincent slid into the driver's seat. "Sure you don't want me to come with?" Vincent asked.

"If there's going to be any trouble, we don't need you getting ID'd as an accomplice." Vincent nodded. "Just keep your hat pulled down and be ready to drive." Randy walked up the alley to the middle of the block where all the cars were parked, including the Datsun. There was fortunately no one outside; everyone was indoors. He walked up to the back door and knocked. Then, realizing no one could hear anything beyond that stereo thumping, he pounded.

The door opened and Jay looked out. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm here to talk to Armando. Tell him Randy's here." Jay broke a smile and went back inside, shouting for Armando. A moment later he was at the door.

"Look who, it's the hero man! You bring my money?" There were others gathering behind him.

"Warning is what I bring you," Randy replied. Then he moved back as Armando stepped outside, with about five of his buddies behind him. Some had their hands behind their backs.

"You come to my house to warn me? Hey, go right ahead, I'm listenin'."

"If you touch Elena," Randy said, "if you hurt her, threaten her, or show your face at my home again, I won't waste my time with the cops. I'll deal with you myself in a very permanent fashion."

Armando turned around and said, "Que la camara" to one of his cohorts, who ran inside. Then he turned his attention back to Randy. "You stupid motherfucker, you know why I never set foot on your property? Because I know the rules. I walk on your property and you can shoot me in the clear. Well right now you're on my property, and you're by yourself."

"If I decide to," Randy replied as coolly as he was able, "I can burn through the lot of you before you get one shot off. So exactly what fucking muscle would you like to impress me with?"

The young man who ran inside came back out with a video camera, and he aimed it at Randy. "You come to my home to threaten me?" Armando said. "You need to learn the rules. Say what you came to say again." Randy looked at the camera, knowing he was at a real disadvantage now. "Lucky for you, I don't want to shoot you and I don't want to hurt 'Lena either. I just want my money," Armando went on. "And I don't need to come to your place either, I can make one call and send her on a one-way trip to visit her folks. So think it over _Wero_ , but I better be hearin' from you soon." Armando motioned to the others, and they all went back indoors, leaving Randy alone.

* * *

Randy came back to the truck. Vincent scooted over, and he got in the driver's seat. "How'd it go?" Vincent asked.

"I think negotiating is a bust."

Vincent shook his head. "I miss the days when gangsters came out and fought like men."

* * *

They decided to give Armando the next move, and see if he either went away or did something stupid they could hang him on. They didn't have to wait too long.

Randy bought Elena a moped that she could drive without a license, so she wasn't stranded at home anymore. With that she was able to spend her days at Vincent's place in town while Randy was at work. After work she'd come home again.

It wasn't even a week later when Elena was making dinner and she heard glass break. Right after that, a thud on the wall behind her. And right after that, a pop in the distance. "RANDY!!!" She ran back to the bedroom where Randy was getting dressed, while bullets kept hitting the end of the mobile that faced the road. They heard about ten in all.

Randy pulled his shoes on without tying them, ran out and looked in time to see the very same Datsun driving away. He ran to the gun safe, spun the dial each way until it opened, and grabbed the M1A. There was a loaded clip on the top shelf that he slammed in, then he chambered it and ran outside. But they were already too far gone. He didn't have any other ideas so he took his phone out and called 911.

* * *

They waited more than an hour. Finally a Sheriff's Department car pulled in, and two deputies got out. "Mr. Gustin, we looked around the roads in the area and didn't find the car you described," the first deputy said.

"The road out there has shell casings all over it."

"I know, but that's hard to tie to anyone without having the weapon. It could have just been a thrill shooting."

"We gave you names, descriptions, addresses. How hard can this be?"

"It takes a lot to build a case. What do you say is the cause of this again?"

"Extortion."

"Then this had to have been going on for a while. How come you didn't call us sooner?"

"Same reason I'm wondering why I called you this time instead of handling it myself. What's the point?"

The deputy smiled, shook his head, and they walked back to their car. "We'll let you know if we come up with anything. In the meantime I advise that you do not contact this person or take any other action yourself. You'll just make things worse, and you could face charges of your own. Let us handle it." They got in and left.

* * *

"I can not _believe_ I was so stupid as to call them," Randy said after they had left. "They can't be bothered to catch a drive-by shooter, but we raise the possibility of handling it ourselves and they're right on top of that."

Elena came up to his side. "I could sneak across the border. I just need you to take me there."

"You're not going to Canada," he replied. "Playtime is over. We're dropping the bomb."

* * *

The next day was a Friday, which worked out well. Elena spent the day at Vincent's place again, keeping him company and wondering what was up Randy's sleeve.

When Randy got off work, he stopped into a Best Buy in Seattle and bought a prepaid phone with an airtime card, all with cash. He had to get it in Seattle so it wouldn't be traced back to a local store close to him. The clerk helped him set it up with a Seattle number and the fictitious name he gave her too.

When he got home and Elena had joined him, he told her how this was going to go down. She didn't like it, but she trusted him enough that she agreed to go along.

Randy used the phone to call Armando, so that neither of their numbers would be found on his phone account. He told Armando to be at his place Saturday afternoon about his money. They would meet at the property line.

* * *

The next day, Randy and Elena were both outside when Armando pulled up, right on schedule. Randy motioned to her, and she went inside.

Armando and the same two others got out and walked to the end of the driveway. Randy walked up to about twenty feet from where they were, holding a manila envelope. "Property line is where you said," Armando shouted.

"This road is an easement. It's part of the next property over. Right here is where the line is," Randy replied, pointing down to the edge of the driveway that ran across the front side of the property.

Armando shrugged and walked to where he was, staying on his side of what Randy had indicated the line to be. He pointed to the envelope. "That my money?" he asked.

"First you tell me something. Do you seriously think you have a right to wreck the lives of people like Elena the way you do?"

Armando was amused. "A right? Of course I don't have a right, that's why it's called a fuckin' crime." He looked around the place, the area. "You got a nice place here, decent neighbors, the whole works. You can afford to play by the rules, sit on your high horse and judge people. You should come live in the jungle for a while and see what you think of the rules then. It's murder, man. I'm here to survive, and I'll do what I have to." He pointed at the envelope again. "Speakin' of which, it's time for you to hand that over."

Randy took a breath. "Few things," he said. "One, there's no money in here." He dropped the envelope on the ground. "Two, I don't always play by the rules." His next words came through clenched teeth. "And three, what you just said is every bit as much bullshit as what I just told you about the property line."

Randy slapped his hand on the buckle of his fanny pack holster, and Armando saw what was coming. He took a step back, grabbed for the gun behind his back. Randy waited for him to get his hand on it, then he ripped open the holster pouch and pulled out the Glock. He put it on target as he had been drilling to do all day, and fired one round into Armando's chest from no more than six feet.

Armando's gun had barely cleared his belt when he heard the deafening blast, and felt a powerful thud hit his chest. But strangely, he didn't feel any actual pain until he tried to breathe. The bullet didn't hit his heart, it had pierced through the point where the windpipe branches, and taking a breath sent a bolt of agony through him. It made him try to scream, but that was stopped by another bolt of pain. He looked back to his two friends, trying to think of what to tell them to do, but there really wasn't anything coming to mind. Not that he could speak to tell them what it was if anything did.

Randy kept his weapon trained as Armando began to stumble in a circle. He was looking for something he needed, whatever it would take to fix this, but whatever that thing was, he wasn't seeing it. In anger he threw his Beretta aside, then fell down on all fours. He panted with growing rage at not being able to breathe either in or out, and started hammering his fists on the ground. Harder and harder, clawing at the dirt, then he fell on his side, lashing out at the air.

Randy glanced at the other two young men, who stayed where they were. Then he turned his back on them all and went inside. He closed the door of the mobile home behind him, then waited right by the door while Elena watched out through the window. "Tell me when," he said to her.

Outside, Armando began convulsing in what were clearly becoming death throes. With Randy gone from sight, Miguel and Jay ran in to where Armando lay, and grabbed his arms to try and drag him out of there.

Inside the mobile, Elena told Randy _now._ Randy opened the door and leapt off the porch, and ran up to the other two men aiming his pistol. He wasn't coming to chat either.

" _WAIT!_ " Miguel screamed, putting his hands up. "I swear to God, you let us go, you'll never hear from us again!" Randy hesitated, and glanced over to Jay. Jay couldn't speak, but he was on his knees nodding very affirmatively.

Randy thought about it for a second. "Sorry, you're witnesses. And you were part of this too."

" _WE'LL SAY ANYTHING YOU WANT US TO!_ " Jay screamed it with absolute sincerity.

On the ground before them, Armando was down to his last few twitches, so he was no longer a concern. Randy thought for a few more seconds, then he turned toward the mobile home. "Elena, bring out the camera."

* * *

Elena brought the digital camera out. Before she started recording video, Randy gave the two men a quick and dirty script. He would demand to know why Armando had come onto his property with his gun drawn, then they would explain that Armando thought he owed them money and was coming to collect it. Then they would plead that they weren't expecting Armando to threaten anyone with a gun, and that they only came onto the property themselves to try and take him to get medical help, a statement that would allow them to escape any conviction. Randy explained that in exchange for that video, they could go home alive. Then Elena started filming. They did it in one take and didn't miss a beat.

With a body on your lawn, calling 911 isn't really optional anymore. But Randy wasn't about to put Elena through any more than he had to, so he sent her to Vincent's place on her moped and made the call after she was well away. After he called the cops, they all showed up. Every last one from the city that was on duty arrived, and most of those from the county did as well. And Burt was among them.

The city detective on duty took his statement, and the two accomplices of Armando were only too happy to back his statement up. An ambulance showed up, but there would be no medical work for the EMT's, only a little bit of heavy lifting.

Randy's Glock was taken for evidence, as normally happens after a shooting, but he had a couple of extras so he wasn't concerned. Overall, the scene was handled professionally, and he couldn't complain too much about his treatment. But then, after everyone else was done with him, the chief wanted to talk.

Burt led him away from the others so they could have a little privacy. "It's a little hard," he began, "for me to believe this guy just marched into your yard with a weapon drawn like that. You sure that's what happened?"

"You have my statement. Why do you ask?"

"Because he knew better than to cross that line."

Randy started feeling very uneasy. "How do you know that exactly?"

"I just know," Burt replied. "But no one is disputing your story, so hey, no worries. Besides, the truth is that I'm kind of proud of you right now."

"Why's that?"

"You took care of the problem. Didn't you?" Randy had no answer right at that moment, just a lot to think about. "You know what we say in moments like this?" Burt clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work." He walked out of the driveway, got in his own car and pulled out, leaving the others to finish up.

Chapter 7

Complications

#### June, 2006

The night after the shooting, Elena stayed at Vincent's, just to be on the safe side. The next day was Sunday, and that's when he brought her back. Her moped was stuffed into the back of his Bronco. When Elena got out, the first place she went to was the spot where Armando had died. "The blood's all gone," she said. "I wanted to see it once more."

"I didn't," Randy replied. Then he motioned to the door. "I got some lunch going inside."

Inside, Vincent and Elena sat down while Randy put food on the plates. The bullet holes in the kitchen were covered with duct tape for the time being. He'd have to fix the place properly when there was more time. "You think they might be back for revenge?" Randy asked Elena.

"They're not the Soprano's," she replied. "All they care about is their money and their drugs. When one of them buys the farm, they're forgotten about just as soon as everyone is done fighting over who gets their stuff." Randy nodded, then brought in some burgers and chips and put them on the coffee table.

"So what's botherin' you?" Vincent asked. "You know it had to be done."

"Yeah I know it did." Randy said. "I just wish we'd have sniped him on his doorstep instead."

"We talked about that. It would have pointed right back at us," Vincent replied.

"I know, that's true," Randy said. "But at least it would have been honest."

Elena and Vincent looked at each other as though they feared their friend was losing his mind. "Honest?" Elena inquired. "These guys tried to rob us and they shot up our home. They would have taken me back to a life of slavery if they could. If you had paid them, they'd have come back later for more. And no matter what, they wouldn't have left us alone. What do you find dishonest about putting a stop to them?"

Randy didn't really want to have this conversation, but he was stuck with it now. He walked over to the front window and looked outside. "You remember when Elio Carrion got shot."

"Sure we do," Vincent replied. "And that was attempted murder."

"You remember how the cop went about it though, don't you? He told Elio to get up. Then when Elio made a move that he could misconstrue as threatening, that's when he shot him."

"Randy, what's that have to do with this?" Elena asked.

Randy turned back to face them. "It's exactly what I did. I tricked him onto the premises and then I blew him away." Randy looked down again. "It was not a clean shoot. I did exactly the same thing these murdering cops are doing."

Vincent pointed toward Randy's chair, which sat in front of them. "Randy, sit your ass down." Randy sat, and Vincent stared him in the eye. "That, my friend, is the biggest load of bovine excrement I've ever heard come out of your mouth. Them sons of bitches came after Elena, and they shot up your home. They had to be dealt with."

"I know they did," Randy replied. "But do you know what cops say about it when they do the same thing?

"What?" Elena asked.

"They say that's what people want them to do. That when violent criminals are running amok and the courts won't keep them locked up, that people want the cops to just dispose of them. It's exactly what we're fighting to make them stop doing, and what I did was no different than what they almost did to Elena."

"Whoa, son!" Vincent could hardly believe what he was hearing. "You don't see the difference between wastin' that dirtbag and killin' Elena?"

"Sure I do, but the method was the same. It was a setup, and a phony justification."

"Well let's look at this for a second. On the night your place got shot up, supposing the cops had found that guy on the road afterward, and wasted him for us? Would we have been upset about that?" Randy gave that a little thought, but Elena was already shaking her head no. "Maybe in years past the cops only did that to the people who really needed it," Vincent went on. "And I have to admit I'm not entirely against it in a case like that. They're trying to deal with a problem that's out of control, the courts won't lock 'em up, people are suffering for it, so somebody has to take care of it the hard way. So maybe that trend started off with good intentions, but that's not why they do it anymore. Now they're just killin' people they don't like, usually people who don't respect their 'authoria', and they're hidin' behind the same excuses they used to use to take care of real problems. All that power went to their heads, and now they think it's their right to do these things."

Randy clenched his hands in front of him. He was wrestling pretty hard with this. "Randy," Elena said, "you tried calling the cops. Remember what that got us? It isn't like they didn't get their chance to head this off. They didn't do it because they didn't really consider this to be their problem."

"That's a fact," Vincent said. "We delegate them the power to deal with these things. But that means they have to do their job and deal with them. If they don't do it, then the right to take care of business ourselves reverts back to us."

Randy sat back in his chair, glanced around the place. He saw the bullet holes in the kitchen where Elena had been standing. He saw the front window, outside of which was a pool of blood that Randy had washed into the ground just as soon as he could after the show had been over. He glanced at Elena, who had made his life more interesting that it had been in a very long time. He knew that he and she weren't going to be a permanent thing, but the idea of something bad happening to her was nonetheless becoming more and more unthinkable.

"What you did was not the same thing as what these cops are doing now," Vincent said. "This was not Arnold McCaslin, and you got nothin' to beat yourself up over," he said, referring to a local case of some notoriety. "But if it makes you feel any better, next time this happens we'll just bomb their fuckin' cars."

Randy chuckled. "All right, I get it. Let's eat now." As they dug into their burgers, Randy remembered something he wanted to ask Elena. "What does 'Wero' mean?" he inquired of her. "It's something that what's-his-name called me at his house."

"Roughly translated, it means 'White Boy.'"

"Is that anything like the N-word then?"

She shook her head. "Not at all. If fact you're my Wero. My _Wero Loco_ ," she said. Randy looked at her like he wasn't completely sure he wanted to know what that meant. "My Crazy White Boy," she said. Now Randy really wasn't sure he wanted to know any more.

"Just sign over your soul now," Vincent told him. "It'll hurt less." Elena smacked him on the arm.

* * *

It was a little over a month later when the time finally came. Randy assembled a stack of jumbled papers into something that resembled organization. He made sure there were copies and scans of everything, and put them neatly into a big manila envelope. Elena watched, shaking with nervousness. "Don't worry," he told her. "This time we really have enough." He took her hand and led her out the door.

They had been to the Department of Licensing a good half dozen times attempting to get her drivers license. Each time they were told they didn't have enough paperwork, but each time they left with suggestions for what else they could dig up. The process was long and frustrating, but this was the day they finally had everything.

They went in, took a number, and an hour later were called by the same man who had been helping them gather paperwork for the last two months. They were all on a first name basis now, and his was Bob. Early in their working relationship, Bob had suggested that a marriage certificate would solve all their paperwork problems at once. Elena had looked up at Randy with a smile that made his heart flutter. _She's joking of course,_ he had thought. _She has to be._

Today was their lucky day. Bob looked over all the paperwork and announced they were good to go. Elena wasn't prone to being emotional, but at that moment she grabbed Randy around the waist and squealed.

On that day, they filed her application and she took the written test on the computer screen. She was nervous as heck, but she passed. Then they made the appointment for the driving test. On the day they came back for that, she was even more scared, but she passed that too. When they took her picture, she wore one of the happiest smiles that Randy had ever seen in a driver's license photo. She was a real human being now, and had the papers to prove it.

But soon afterward, Randy let her know that the free ride was over. Now that she had the opportunity, it was time to start working and become self-sufficient. She was all in favor of that, but they both knew it would be challenging. She had never worked at a real job before, and she had no experience, references or resume. Randy suggested she start by applying at Mexican restaurants. She had made him learn to like Mexican food, so she had to be pretty well cut out for that, and he and Vincent could be her references. Elena agreed, but she also wanted to aim a little higher, starting with getting her GED. Randy was only too happy to help with that idea.

She started job hunting, and it didn't take her long to find Mexican restaurant work. Whatever else she had going against her, she could make people like her. As that was what she had survived on most of her life, she knew how to use that gift to her benefit too. After she started work, Randy kept another promise and bought her a car to get there in. Not much, just a beat-up Celica, but it ran good.

As the summer rolled by, things kept a steady uphill course. Elena enrolled in GED classes and was set to take a test in a month. At work she moved quickly from dishwashing, to waitressing, to cook. One night, as they lay in bed together, Randy remarked that the only thing she needed to seal her independence was her own apartment.

"Randy, do you want me to go?" she asked him.

"Of course I don't," he replied. "But you're not going to spend your entire life with me either. So whenever that time comes, I want to know that you really can take care of yourself."

"What makes you so sure I'm not going to?"

"Stay forever? Um... because I'm old enough to be your dad?"

"You know a lot of fifteen-year-old dads?"

"They're around..."

"I'll tell you a secret. Where I come from, girls don't marry their dads, but they do marry their dad's best friend," she said. " And besides, I don't care about age. Age is just a number."

Randy thought about that for a second. "You know, I agree. And ditto for weight. Weight is just a number too, isn't it?"

Elena's eyebrows began to slant in funny shapes. "Maybe, but it's a bigger number..."

Randy laughed. "All right then. The more time you hang around here kicking that around, the better it works out for me." Elena replied with her own laughter, and shoved him down on his back.

* * *

The weeks turned into months, the best summer either of them would remember passed them by, and finally the weather began to turn cold. That's when Elena came home from work one day and found the letter waiting in the mailbox.

Dear Ms. Elena Morales,

It has come to our attention that your legal residency status is in need of review. Within fourteen days of receipt of this letter, you are directed to report to one of our bureau offices. Please bring this letter and any documentation you have that shows your current immigration status. Failure to comply may result in a warrant being issued for your arrest. A list of regional offices is on the back of this letter. Thank you for your cooperation.

Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement

Seattle, WA

They sat on the couch as Randy read the letter out loud. When he was done, Elena stared at the floor like someone who just had her whole world taken away. "It's all over," she said. She was too stunned for tears at the moment, but there would be time for that later.

"It's not all over." Randy threw the letter down on the coffee table. "We're getting a lawyer and fighting this. And I mean a lawyer who fights dirty."

* * *

Randy got her an immigration lawyer. He worked out of Seattle, charged a fortune, and he laid it out for them. She was screwed. They could delay for maybe as much as a year or even two, but with no proof of citizenship and a criminal record that was somewhat less than spotless, she would eventually be sent back. In the meantime, he suggested following their instructions to the letter if they didn't want Immigration to have an excuse to greatly expedite that process.

They went in as ordered, showed the Immigration personnel what they had, and were sent home. A week later they received a notice for a preliminary hearing. It was set to take place in a month.

* * *

It was a Monday night at Bourbon Street; in other words it was deadsville. Elena sat at the bar chatting with Alicia, while Randy and Vincent played pool. Vincent took a shot at a corner, and just missed. "You think it was them crackheads?" he asked.

"No way to know other than to go back there and squeeze it out of them, and that just doesn't seem like a good idea," Randy replied. "As happy as those two were to get out alive, I wouldn't think they'd be that stupid, but who knows."

"Tell you what I'd still like to know, is how'd those clowns know where to find Elena to begin with?" Vincent turned to Elena. "You have any idea 'bout that?" She shook her head.

Alicia was standing behind the bar close to Elena. "She was in the news," Alicia said, "and the paper reported she was staying with Randy. They could have looked it up."

"For them to follow the news is a pretty unlikely scenario to begin with," Randy said. "Plus, my home address isn't listed anywhere except with the county. And I've been to the county and nobody's been there to try and look up where my place is." Randy took his shot and missed. No one was having a good night it seemed.

"Well, if they did turn Elena in, then somethin' needs to happen," Vincent said.

At that moment Frank came out from the back. "Hey there sweetheart! " he said to Elena, and she smiled in return. After they had all pitched in to save her, they were glad to see her become a regular, and she tended to get the rock star treatment. "Everybody taking care of you?"

"Sure are," she replied.

"How's your folks?" he asked. She returned a look of complete puzzlement.

"I haven't heard from them in a decade. How would I know?"

"I don't know, I just heard some rumor about you going to visit them."

Randy overheard that and walked to the bar. "Where'd you hear that from?"

"One time when the cops were in here making up shit to write us tickets for, one of them said something about it. Don't remember exactly what it was he said, but it was something about her taking a trip to visit her folks."

"At last report her folks were in Mexico, which is the last place on Earth she wants to be," Randy said.

Vincent said, "Those cops just heard about this and they're laughin' it up now. Pricks."

"No," Frank said, "this was a while ago. About a month or so, before you even got the letter from Immigration."

Randy dropped his pool cue and it clattered on the floor.

* * *

"Did you speak to Armando?" Randy was again standing in the office of Burt Grandstone, and he wasn't happy.

"Mister Gustin, what gives you that idea?" Burt responded with a faint smile on the corners of his lips. He always loved his job, but some days were still better than others, and this was shaping up to be one of them.

"The lady at the desk informs me you did."

"Hmm, going to have to talk to her about that. But in point of fact, I did speak to him. On the day he came to get his stolen car."

Randy nodded slowly. He was surprised to hear such an admission. "You tell him where to find Elena?"

"Since he was declining to press charges, it seemed fair to me that he should get to discuss the matter with her. Wouldn't it to you?"

"It's because of you that he's dead, and our home got shot up with us in it."

"You sure you want to have this conversation?" Burt asked. "Careless admissions could still get you in trouble. But since you've brought this up, I made it pretty damn clear to him that he better not set foot on the premises. So you want to tell me how he got found there?"

"He got found there because you had the chance to head off that problem, and instead you chose to aim a violent drug dealer and sex trafficker right at us!"

Burt shook his head. "Now Randy, that's just not true."

"What about Immigration? You talk to them?"

"That subject did come up in my chat with Armando," Burt replied. "And regrettably, the law requires me to forward such information to the appropriate authorities." They stared at each other across the desk for a very long moment. "Say, how's that little project of yours coming?" Burt asked. "The one in the state capitol, I mean. Finding any more support?"

"Progress has been a little slow. But I have a feeling it's going to pick up."

"You know, when you took up that particular cause, some of us got the sense that you were making it personal. Does it surprise you now to find that you're not exactly our top priority?"

"Near as I can tell, people have never been your priority," Randy shot back. "I still remember you from way back when I was a kid and you were a rookie deputy. The only interest you had in people was breaking them down. But considering where it got you, I guess that's what the field demands. So maybe the problem isn't just you. Maybe it's not just a few bad apples, like some people think it is. Maybe it's the whole barrel."

Burt's eyebrows went way up as the sound of those words. "The whole barrel?" he asked. "Now that's the sort of language that could bring you some real scrutiny. I tell you this with complete sincerity Randy, be careful with your choices of wording."

"If it fits, I'll use it. And it looks more and more to me like it fits."

Burt nodded. "Very well then. But in that case, this barrel has things to do. So will that be everything?"

"Yep, I've got people of my own to talk to. Gotta run." Randy got up and went to the door.

"Watch your speed," Burt said, just as Randy closed the door behind him.

Chapter 8

Special Attention

As much as Randy wanted to make Chief Grandstone feel the heat for his actions, there wasn't a lot he could do. The chief hadn't broken any laws by pointing Armando to Randy's place or by turning Elena in to Immigration. Randy took his complaints about his conduct to city hall, where they were promptly swept under the mat. The code of silence extended well beyond the uniform.

Randy also continued to pursue his changes to the law in the state capitol, but too many lawmakers feared the bad PR that came with clamping down on police, so for the time being anyhow, it went nowhere. It had at least served to get the attention of law enforcement, but there was a problem with that too. When public officials see their power threatened, what it makes them want to do is reassert that power.

Burt had been right about one thing though. For Randy, this was becoming more and more personal all the time.

After Elena was well established at her job and in school, Randy felt it was time to nudge her into her own apartment. The reality was that they weren't going to spend their lives together, so it was time for her to get her own life underway. And though Randy wouldn't say it out loud, there was also the chance that if she met someone that she would marry, that would solve her citizenship issues too.

Elena, however, was not keen on this at all. She liked it where she was, and she liked being with Randy, whatever their future might be. It wasn't like she didn't have a few years to waste anyhow. It was a fight between Randy's logic and Elena's heart, and the logic won. So Randy helped her find a place, then he paid the first month's rent for her, and there she went.

She wasn't officially with him any longer, but the effect that had on their relationship was somewhat limited. She still came over at least twice a week to make him dinner and collect her reward for doing so. For this, Randy didn't have it in him to say no.

* * *

It was early in 2007 when Randy got his first sign there might be real trouble on the horizon. It was winter and the whole region was frozen solid again. Randy was driving up a hill in town and came to a stop sign, with other cars coming up the hill behind him. The road was icy and if he came to a full stop he might not be able to get going again. So he slowed down enough to make sure all was safe and then continued on through, which was the same thing the entire line of cars was doing. But a city patrol car had seen him do it, and a short time later he saw the flashing lights in his mirrors.

There were two cops in the car, neither of which Randy had met in person before. Driving it was Phillip Pevey, and it was he who came to Randy's window. The second cop was Ron Kesling, and he came up along the passenger side, crouching slightly in tactical-backup-cop mode. "Mister Gustin, you just ran a stop sign," Ron Pevey began.

"I'd have been stuck on that hill and holding up traffic if I hadn't," he replied. "Did you notice that, or is this a case of 'the law is the law'?" It was interesting that they already knew who he was.

"Mister Gustin, where are you coming from?" Officer Pevey inquired.

_Oh oh, interrogation time..._ Randy thought. "Errands," he said simply.

"I see. You been to Olympia today by any chance?"

"What's that have to do with your reason for stopping me?"

"Nothing at all, these are routine questions. So where are you coming from?"

"I just answered that question. Do you have memory issues or something?"

"Hold on a moment please." Officer Pevey stepped away and spoke into his radio mike for a moment. Randy couldn't hear much, but he did make out the word _hostile_. Pevey stepped back to his window. "Mister Gustin, you're acting very strange. Are you nervous about something?"

_Here we go. Another dweeb fresh out of interrogation school._ "Not at all," Randy replied with a smile.

"Then please tell me where you're coming from."

This was becoming irritating. "Sir, is it true you can't be a cop if your IQ is too high?" Randy asked. That one hit the spot he was aiming for, too.

"You don't seem to like law enforcement very much, Mister Gustin. I just get that vibe from you."

"You've got 'vibes'? What are 'vibes' exactly? Is it anything like 'voices'?"

"Please just answer."

"I'm not answering anything for you anymore. First you can't remember simple answers, now you're telling me you've got these psychic premonitional things going on, and I'm becoming very concerned for you. Was there by any chance a pill you were supposed to take this morning?"

Randy was finally starting to get Pevey's goat, but the cop held on to his demeanor. "It just seems like maybe there's something going on I should know about. Would you mind if I checked out your vehicle?"

"I'd mind a lot. I don't consent to warrantless searches."

"Very well, you're standing on the fourth, and that's your constitutional right. Are you a constitutionalist?"

In fact he was a constitutionalist, but what that word means in reality, and what it means in law enforcement circles are two different things. In reality it typically means a person who believes constitutional civil liberties need to be observed. There's nothing too terrifying about that at all, really. In law enforcement circles however, it more typically means something along the lines of "ticking Timothy McVeigh waiting for an excuse to go off."

Officer Pevey was leaning closer to the window so he could _project authority_ at closer range. It was clear that civil conversation just wasn't going to happen here, so Randy decided to let his sarcastic side have its way. Just a little.

"Sir, raght now you er violatin' mah sovereign airspace," he said in his best Southern drawl. "If ah had mah pocket constertution wit' me I'd show ya..."

Outside the passenger window, Tactical Backup Cop smiled, but Pevey wasn't amused. "Sir, I need you to step out of the vehicle. Now, please." Unfortunately the law gave them that right, so Randy got out. As he did so, another patrol car rolled up and parked across the street from them with the overhead lights on. There were two more unfamiliar faces behind the windshield, but that mattered little because it didn't seem as if any help was coming in any case. They got out and walked over to the scene, which was now drawing a lot of stares from both drivers and pedestrians passing by. Randy was now pretty much surrounded.

Tactical Backup Cop, aka Ron Kesling, finally spoke. "This is just a routine stop, and your cooperation would really help us to speed you on your way," he said in a friendly tone.

"Good Cop! Thank God you're here!" Randy exclaimed, then he turned to Pevey. "Bad Cop, we're done talking. From now on I'm only talking to Good Cop." Then he turned back to Kesling and pointed his thumb at Pevey. "Jesus Christ man, you have to work with this dick?" Again, Kesling cracked a smile, but he was the only one.

Pevey pointed at Randy's fanny pack holster. "Is that a weapon in there?"

"Yes it is."

"I need you to remove it please."

"For safety reasons, I prefer to leave it where it's at."

Pevey motioned to the other officers, and soon Randy was surrounded by all four. "This is an officer safety issue now, so you'll be detained in handcuffs." The two new arrivals, who now stood in front and behind him, put their hands on their guns. Randy began to seriously wonder if this was the moment he had been waiting for. Then Pevey and Tactical Backup Cop each grabbed an arm and pulled them behind him. As soon as they had the cuffs on him, his fanny pack was removed and he was relieved of his weapon.

This wasn't funny anymore, and it was all downhill from there. For the next thirty minutes, Randy was badgered, interrogated, and hounded for a search of his truck, which they never got. He was made to stand in the cold wearing handcuffs while they went to their car and had a long private talk with parties unknown on the radio. Finally his weapon was returned and he was cut loose with a warning on the stop sign. But the message they wanted to send him had been made clear.

Randy had been designated for special attention.

* * *

But around the state, Randy wasn't the only one who could make that claim by a longshot. Failure to fully respect authority will make anyone the subject of special attention, and there was a lot of that going around.

On May 28 of 2008, 18-year-old Randall Privasky of the town of Marysville, which was just north of Everett, was spotted speeding by a sheriff's deputy. He was driving on an expired learner's permit and didn't have insurance. So rather than stop, he decided to try and ditch the deputy, and in doing so he disrespected his authority.

In Washington, a cop is only allowed to engage in a pursuit if they witness a felony, and speeding is only an infraction. However the law also makes fleeing a felony. It made for a great catch-22, and that's what served as his justification. Any petty offense becomes a felony as soon as you flee.

The chase proceeded up a road that had a steep embankment on one side. It was on this road that the deputy decided to use what's called a "PIT" maneuver. "PIT" stands for "pursuit immobilization technique," and it involves pulling the front bumper of the police car up next to the rear bumper of the pursued vehicle, then swerving into it, spinning the car around backward, and hopefully causing the engine to stall. Trouble arises however when attempting this maneuver without enough room.

Upon using the PIT maneuver, Privasky's car went down the embankment, crashed into a tree and killed him. The pursuing deputy who caused his death had the wisdom of his decision questioned, but he faced no other consequences of any kind. That's how it happens when you become the subject of _special attention_.

On November 8th of 2008, an Everett man died in a way that left a lot of questions hanging in the air. Police responded to the home of Dustin Willard about a burglary call, and what happened after that is the subject of some dispute. The official story is that they knocked on the front door, and Willard answered while holding a shotgun. Feeling threatened, as they always say, police opened fire and killed him at his door.

There was a witness however who claimed that wasn't the whole story. Before the shooting at the door, there was a single shot fired in the vicinity of Willard's backyard. There was also blood on the knob of his back door. This left open a rather distinct possibility that he was killed in his backyard without justification, and then quickly brought inside and set up for a "justifiable homicide" at his door. Exactly what happened in that back yard no one knows, but the cops did show up looking for a robber, and they might have instead found a resident who had chased one away and then neglected to immediately disarm so as not to invite upon himself some _special attention._

Later that same month, on November 29th, an incident took place in which nobody died, but several were condemned. A teenage girl by the name of Malika Calhoun was being booked into the King County jail in Seattle. After being shown to her cell, officer Paul Schene ordered her to remove her shoes. She kicked one of them out the door of the cell, thereby disrespecting his authority and bringing upon herself the burden of _special attention._ Officer Schene, in a rather exceptional display of professionalism, screamed that that was assault, tackled Malika and slammed her head against the back wall, then punched her in the face twice when she was on the ground. Afterward he would claim that the shoe, which video showed had never actually touched him, had hit him in the leg, caused him injury and pain and made him fear for his safety, never minding the fact that his bruises were caused when he had banged his shin against the toilet in the cell while he was brutalizing the girl. Unfortunately, the assault was all caught on video and broadcast widely. The video generated a rather enormous amount of outrage, especially with a particular gentleman by the name of Christopher Monfort. Though Officer Schene faced no consequences for his brutal assault of a teenage girl, other officers would face those consequences for him. Serious ones.

2009 was an especially bad year for citizens in Washington State, beginning on New Year's night. There was a University of Washington student named Miles Murphy who was a history buff. He was a little on the eccentric side and often wore historical military uniforms. On that night, he wore a German uniform as he and some friends were ringing in the New Year by firing blanks into the air. To be sure, this is not the recommended way to celebrate New Year's in the middle of a city, but amidst all the other fireworks going off it didn't seem like a huge deal at the time. What he didn't realize is that to commit any type of violation with a firearm is to earn yourself the highest level of _special attention._

Police were called, and when they arrived, everyone was already back inside the apartment where they were celebrating. The police knocked, and Miles answered the door while still holding his rifle. Moments later he was dead. Friends of Miles claim that he never made a threatening move with the rifle, and that police gave him little chance to put the rifle down before killing him. The police version of events was that Miles ignored repeated commands to drop the rifle, and then for reasons difficult to comprehend had elected to aim the unloaded weapon at police. The issue of which story held greater credibility got very little attention in the press.

Randy's traffic stop incident had been unpleasant, and the unpleasantness was just getting started. There would be more frivolous stops, incidents of him and Elena being tailed, their friends being questioned about them, and so on. _Special attention_ was certainly no fun, but at least in their case nobody had died from it.

Not yet anyhow.

* * *

#### May, 2009

Randy and Elena had both decided a long time ago that immigration court was not a fun place to be. Now as they sat in what was to be the final hearing, the sense that this room gave them of the walls closing in and the vise tightening down was worse than ever.

Her case had worked its way though the process over the previous couple years, and along the way they had been losing piece by piece. They tried arguing that she had been brought here legally and left behind. But while her parents had brought her here legally, when they were deported she was legally obliged to go with them. They argued that she had become a productive citizen, who had emerged from a godforsaken existence where she couldn't even work, to hold a steady job and take college classes. But there was the little problem of her criminal record, for which having been unable to work and having to survive the only ways she could was apparently not a good enough excuse.

Elena sat close, gripping his arm. Randy wasn't sure how comfortable he was with that, given the current state of their relationship, but he wasn't about to nudge her away either. Over most of the last couple years, they had officially been friends, but with loads of benefits. Then around six months ago Randy had decided to cut her off from the benefits. She needed to find a relationship with someone she might actually stay with, and maybe solve her legal issues at the same time. She had tried to do so, but not with a lot of success. Or enthusiasm.

The prosecutor droned on about the importance of upholding the law. And Randy had to admit, he agreed with that position, even though it wasn't working out well for them at the moment. There were legal ways to handle things like this, depending on what you were willing to do, and depending on whether the people in this country felt strongly enough that somebody like Elena needed to stay. And that was pretty much what he was down to.

The prosecutor finished his diatribe, and the judge addressed Randy and Elena. "Before I rule on this, it's your turn."

"Thanks, we just need one moment," Randy replied, then he knelt down before Elena and lowered his voice. "We don't have a case," he told her.

She nodded. "I know."

"So I'm going to have to drop the bomb," Randy went on. "I know I'm not the perfect man for you. I'm not quite old enough to be your father, but it's close. But I love you, and I want to take care of you, and I want you to be with me. Will you marry me?"

The look on her face was so stunned that he braced himself for the rejection. Then she spoke. "Randy, ever since the night we met you've done nothing but save my life. Of course I will."

Randy kissed her, then they stood and faced the judge together. "Your honor, I'd like to respond that Elena is engaged to be married to a U.S. citizen."

The judge was rather surprised by this development himself. He turned to the prosecutor. "Does the state have any objection?"

"Your honor, the state has no wish to stand in the way of true love," the prosecutor replied. "Provided they can show us a marriage certificate within sixty days."

"We can do that," Elena said.

"Then it is so ordered." The judge banged the gavel. "And congratulations."

* * *

On May 23rd of 2009, in Ottawa Hills, Ohio, Officer Thomas White was following two motorcycle riders. The young bikers stopped at a stop sign with White's patrol car behind them, then suddenly took off fast. Officer White flipped his overhead lights on and took off in pursuit.

During the pursuit, he radioed for backup, saying on the radio that the motorcyclists were "messing with him." Finally they all came to another intersection where another patrol car was waiting. One of the bikes stopped for that car, and the other one stopped for Officer White's car. The rider of that bike was Michael McCloskey.

McCloskey didn't consider this to be much more than any regular stop, but from White's perspective, this was anything but. By not stopping, and by "messing with him," McCloskey had disrespected his authority and made himself eligible for _special attention._ White got out of his car with his gun drawn. He had an excuse for that, because while McCloskey had done nothing threatening, his refusal to stop right away made him a "possible" threat. Then McCloskey made the mistake that would be the end of life as he knew it. That mistake wasn't to make a move that was threatening, it was to make a move that was remotely _construable_ as threatening. He took his right hand off his handlebar and rested it on his hip. That was all. Officer White fired and paralyzed Michael McCloskey from the waist down for life.

Unlike the vast bulk of such cases however, this was one in which some measure of justice was doled out. The dash cam video from White's patrol car was damning, as was the unusually truthful testimony of the other officer at the scene. Thomas White was sentenced to ten years. While that was a substantial improvement over the norm however, most people would still prefer to be in his shoes than those of the man he shot.

Six days after that shooting, back in Washington State near the town of Granite Falls, a 44-year-old former Boeing employee by the name of Daniel Wasilchen was enjoying an afternoon on his property with his stepfather and another friend. During the visit, a weed-abatement official by the name of H.R. Gohrman came onto his property, and insisted on spraying some noxious weeds at that time. Wasilchen however, had more important things to do, was perfectly content to take care of his own weeds, plus he wasn't convinced the spraying would be safe for his dogs. He directed Gohrman to leave the premises three times. Gohrman was enraged and screamed in the property owner's face that he'd better listen to him. Finally Wasilchen grabbed the petty tyrant's shoulders and shoved him off the premises, threatening to escort him out at gunpoint if he didn't leave his property.

Since there was no cellphone coverage there, Gohrman drove to where he could get a signal so he could call sheriff's deputies. After contacting them, he offered to lead them back to Wasilchen's place. During this time, Wasilchen's companions left the scene, leaving him there alone.

While the patrol car parked on the road, Gohrman pulled back into the driveway. Upon seeing his car return, Wasilchen went inside, retrieved his handgun and came out with it. To his credit, the deputy tried to talk him into putting it down, but at that point the property owner had been provoked too far and wasn't doing so, though he also never attempted to fire. Daniel Wasilchen was then gunned down in his own driveway, over a situation started over some weeds. Disrespecting the authority of any public servant, even a weed abatement official, will earn you a good hefty dose of _special attention._

* * *

#### June, 2009

The wedding went off without a hitch. Vincent was Randy's best man, and Alicia and a couple other girls they knew from Bourbon Street were Elena's bridesmaids. It was a modest ceremony, but the turnout wasn't bad.

Randy and Elena went to Long Beach, on the Washington coast, for their weeklong honeymoon. This had always been one of Randy's favorite places to go relax. There were miles and miles of beach that you could drive down, provided you didn't get stuck in the sand, and you could always find a quiet spot to set up camp for the day. They took Randy's motor home for the trip, and after finding a good spot on the beach, they hardly ever came out of it. It was very likely the greatest week of both of their lives.

But soon after they got home, the honeymoon was over.

* * *

On June 10th of 2009, the city of Everett saw perhaps its most egregious officer involved shooting ever. On that night, 51-year-old Niles Meservey left the Chuck Wagon Inn and went to his Corvette. He was an alcoholic and was pretty sloshed at the time, so concerned employees in the bar called police. They had no expectation anyone would die as a result. No one ever does.

Several patrol cars arrived and boxed in the Corvette. Among the drivers of those patrol cars was Troy Meade, an 11-year veteran of the force. He confronted Meservey, who wouldn't get out, and during the course of that discussion, he told Meservey, "I don't know why the fuck I'm trying to save your dumb ass."

Meade pulled his Tazer and fired it at Meservey, hitting him in the shoulder. Right after that, his car lurched forward and into a chain link fence. At that point, Meade turned to his partner Steven Klocker and said, "Enough is enough, time to end this." He drew his weapon and fired eight shots, seven of which struck Meservey. After he got done shooting, he stepped away and started pacing, leaving Klocker to force the door open and pull the man out. After being laid on the ground, Niles Meservey died while reciting the Lord's prayer.

\Meade would say later that he saw the back-up lights of the Corvette come on, and felt his safety threatened. This was a dubious claim however considering that Meade was one step away from safety behind his own vehicle, no one else was in harm's way, the car didn't move more than a foot from the fence, and the fact that Meade fired without even waiting to see what the car would actually do. Meservey "might" have been a threat, and that was all the justification he needed.

Steven Klocker was an uncommon breed of cop who was not a strict adherent to the code of silence. At Meade's trial, he would testify that he was "...kind of at a loss. I was wondering what I missed to bring it to that extreme level of application of force."

The other witnesses, while not generally holding a favorable view of Meservey's actions, held a similar opinion of the shooting. A woman named Trisha Tribble would tell a news reporter, "No way his car could have been used as a deadly weapon."

The dog and pony show that took place after the killing went in a predictable fashion. At first the prosecutor wasn't going to charge him with anything. Public outrage compelled him however to file a charge of manslaughter. That prompted another round of public outrage, whereupon Meade was charged with second-degree murder. But he was acquitted. His daughter won a settlement from the city, and Meade was eventually fired. But criminal liability remained out of reach.

* * *

Randy first saw the news about the killing of Niles Meservey the morning after it happened, at a newspaper stand next to his job site. The Seattle Times headline simply read "Everett Police Officer Involved In Fatal Shooting." There was certainly nothing unusual about that these days, but he bought a copy just to check for himself.

He read it at lunch. The story was sketchy, as initial reports always are. All it really said was that police had responded to a drunk driver in a restaurant parking lot, the driver drove into a fence and knocked a woman down, shots were fired and the man was killed.

It was later on that the stream of details started coming out, and it was always for the worse.

* * *

"The guy said 'enough is enough, time to end this.' I swear to God that's what I read." It was a few nights later at Bourbon Street, about the time when that particular detail of the shooting had just come out. Vincent was a little more sloshed than he usually allowed himself to get, and he was saying what was on his mind.

Frank and Alicia stood behind the bar, while on the stools next to Vincent, Randy and Elena measured their responses. This was pretty outrageous news all right, but Vincent's state of mind worried them more at the moment. He looked like a man to whom the deep end was beginning to look good.

"How do you know he wasn't really a threat to people?" Alicia asked. "A Corvette with a drunk driver is a pretty deadly weapon."

"He was boxed in. He wasn't going anywhere," Randy said.

"Tell you what," Vincent raged on, "it's a goddamn good thing I wasn't there. I mighta' just stopped him."

Randy had the sense that this was a moment for treading carefully. "That sounds good on paper, but think about what it means."

"Oh, I know, we've talked about that. Soon as you point a gun at one cop, every other cop has no choice, they must fire on you. So that means I'd have to shoot not only the murdering cop, but all his buddies too. But you know what? That ain't my fault, because it's their policy that made it that way."

"I wonder how they'd like it if that was our policy when they aim guns at us," Elena said.

Vincent cracked his first smile of the evening. "I like the way you think," he said. "A taste of their own medicine is just what they need."

"But what would you do after that?" Alicia asked. "You think a jury would let you off?"

"Not a snowball's chance in the everlasting fires of Hell," Vincent replied. "Like we've said, when you challenge authorita, then authorita will fuck you over however it has to. So what would be the point in surrendering?"

"Vince, you're beginning to scare me," Randy said with a smile.

"I ain't at that point, not yet anyhow," Vince said. "But think about that, the choice you'd have to face after doing what you had to in order to save someone like Meservey. You could either do the blaze-of-glory thing and go out makin' a statement they'll never forget, or live out your life as their favorite zoo animal, wishin' you'd done it when you had the chance. What would you pick?"

Randy shook his head. "Don't know. Tough question."

"I know it is, and it's a disgrace that we even have to talk about this. But the old days when they just beat people up are over, now they're gunnin' people down right and left. We have to start thinkin' about what we're gonna do when they come to us with their guns out."

Randy cracked a smile at that point. "Old buddy, I have been." Vincent saw the twinkle in his eyes and knew what it meant. It was time to go shooting again.

* * *

The back end of Randy's truck faced into the gravel pit, and thirty feet behind it sat two large boxes. Each box had two silhouette targets poking up behind them. "Okay, felony stop scenario number one," Randy called out from next to the truck, then he climbed inside and closed the door. Vincent and Elena watched from a nice safe distance. "Vincent, go," he shouted.

"All right, throw your keys out of the vehicle," Vincent yelled, doing the voiceover work for one of the imaginary cops behind the truck. The keys landed on the ground with a jingle. "Put your hands outside," Vince went on, and Randy put his empty hands out the window. "Now get out, and walk back to the sound of my voice." Randy did as instructed. He got out, kept his hands up, and slowly walked backward. Elena and Vincent watched, and when Randy had made it just past the back corner of the truck, everything became a blur.

He pivoted on his right foot, put his head down and bolted to the right, drawing from his fanny pack and firing in less than a second. At a full sprint, he fired a burst of three rounds at each vehicle. Then he turned on a dime, and sprinted the other direction while firing a slightly more well-aimed burst. Some of the rounds went into the silhouettes, some into the vehicles. When his first clip ran empty, the next one was already in his hand. He swapped them out, then dropped to the ground on his side and fired a few rounds underneath each vehicle. Then he stood back up and approached more slowly, firing about one round a second straight into the boxes.

When his second clip ran empty, he swapped them out, then moved in close on the left vehicle while crouched low, held the gun up and fired a few rounds down into it. Then he stood and moved quickly around the left side, finishing off the targets behind that vehicle. With that done, he sprinted to the second vehicle, dropped and fired a few rounds underneath, then stood and finished off those targets in the same fashion.

The slide locked back. He turned back to Elena and Vincent and blew the smoke off the barrel, which was a trick in itself considering how hard he was breathing. Elena clapped her hands and said "Hooray, you just saved me!" Vincent took note that Randy wasn't soft in the middle anymore, now he was looking downright lean and mean. The "psycho girlfriend weight-loss plan" was exactly what he had needed.

Vincent nodded with approval at his shooting, as Randy said, "I've still got one clip left too,"

"Very nice," Vincent said. "What sort of methodology you got goin' on there?"

"Well, the first priority is to get a few rounds off in their direction. They're trained to go for cover first, and that's what most people are inclined to do anyhow when they're being shot at. Then, the zig-zag lateral sprint makes me harder to hit, but with practice I can still hit targets while doing it. It also gets me into better positions to nail them, or at least keep some suppressive fire on them. Then as I work my way closer, I drop down and blast a couple of ankles from underneath the vehicle, if I'm able to. If they fall, I drill them in the head right then. After that, I use slow suppressive fire to get in close, and then I can do my last magazine swap and finish off whatever's left.

"How come you stay in the open while they're behind cover?" Elena asked.

"If they're behind cover, and I'm keeping their heads down with suppressive fire, they're stuck in one place while I'm free to move and shoot," he replied. "There is another way I could do this though."

Randy went back to the truck, put his last loaded clip into the gun and holstered it. He got into the driver seat, then climbed out with his hands up like before. Only this time, he grabbed the door of the truck and used it to pull himself forward and bolt in front of the truck. There, he quickly drew and fired two rounds around the front corner. Then he dropped down and fired a few rounds underneath the truck. He got up, moved to his left and ran around the passenger side, charging out to attack in the same manner as before.

His clip ran dry, but he had already demonstrated the rest of that scenario so he rejoined his friends. "I can use my own vehicle for cover like that if the situation calls for it. But if I stayed there, I'd be toast, so I'd have to use it just long enough to make them duck behind cover, and then attack in my mobile fashion."

"You know, any tactical instructor would scream bloody murder at you for shooting at a sprint like that," Vincent said.

"I know. It's one of the reasons I prefer to train myself."

"Only trouble with these moves is, the felony stop scenario isn't the one you need to worry about," Vincent said. "If they're gonna shoot you in the back, it's gonna happen with you in the seat and them standin' right outside."

"Yeah, that's a little tougher. If you have a gun in reach or in view, chances are they've already seen it and made sure it won't save you in time. So you'd have to plan on something dirty."

Randy started the truck and pulled it around so the targets were sitting beside the drivers side. Then he loaded a fresh clip. He put his hands on the steering wheel and looked outside as if talking to a cop during a stop. "All right, now he's going for his gun," he said. Then Randy quickly grabbed Elena's .380 off the seat next to him and fired two rounds out the window. He dropped that gun back on the seat, pulled his Glock as he got out, and finished off an imaginary target standing behind the truck.

"If you can get the first shots off somehow," he said, "you can make him move for cover behind your vehicle, or his, and give yourself time to get out and attack."

"What if you don't have my gun sitting right there though?" Elena asked.

"I'd most likely be fucked," Randy replied. "Besides which, it's really tough to have a weapon in quick and easy reach without it getting spotted in advance. "Though it is possible I could point an imaginary gun at him and still scare him into jumping back or running for cover, and giving me enough time to grab mine. If it was dark out, it could work."

"What if you just jumped out of the truck and drew?" Elena asked.

"That _could_ work, assuming they haven't taken your weapon already. You're at a little bit of a disadvantage, but in fact a lot of people have done just that. On the other hand, a lot of people have died trying that too."

Vincent thought about all this for a moment. "It's pretty iffy how well this'd all work, but this is probably about the best you could prepare, short of strapping a ninja to the bottom of your truck to chop his legs off. But tell me, you thought any more about what you'd do afterward?"

"To tell the truth, I'm not so sure the blaze-of-glory thing would really be necessary, at least as long as you have some recorded proof on hand," Randy said. "But if it were necessary, then that's what this is for."

Randy reached behind the seat of his truck and pulled out his rifle case. He set it down on the bed of the truck, opened the zipper and took it out. Vincent's eyes grew wide and he whistled. It was Randy's old M1A Scout rifle, but it had a few new toys attached.

Randy had been waiting for the chance to show this off, and he made the most of it. There was now a long piece of Weaver rail attached to the bottom of the stock. Mounted beneath the front end of the rail was a weapon light, and on the back end of the rail was a "grip-pod," a vertical foregrip that contained a bipod that popped out the bottom when a button was pushed.

Mounted on the left side was a green laser sight, but it wasn't like the average one. This one had an output of 200 milliwatts, whereas the average laser sight puts out more like five or ten. "Even at several hundred yards, the guy trying to shoot you can't hit a target with this thing shining in his face, but I can nail him at will," Randy explained. "It's completely unfair, which is exactly how I like it."

On the very top of the rifle was another little creation of Randy's. Vincent had turned him on to some scope rings made by Millett that had pistol-type sights mounted on top of them. They were extremely handy when you had to shoot something up close in a hurry, like if you were being ambushed. But they didn't make a version with night sights, so Randy had to invent one. He had started with some Leupold super-high dovetail rings, and machined the bottom ends of them so that Glock night sights could be affixed. Then he had mounted these on the ends of the tube of his Shepherd scope, outside of the mounting rings, with the sights pointing up. Once adjusted for windage, he could use these sights to get off quick snap-shots out to fifty yards. He could also hit a man-size target at a hundred yards with more careful aim, though at that distance he'd be using the scope anyhow. The Shepherd scope combined with these sights made his weapon effective from muzzle distance to a thousand yards.

But that was only the beginning, as he also had some new gear to show off. On the left side of his pistol belt, he had a set of three rifle magazine pouches that he'd purchased from the Cheaper Than Dirt catalog. Two of them held a pair of twenty-five round rifle magazines each. The third one held a surprise. In it were stuffed some magazines for his forty-caliber Glock pistol. They were extended thirty-round clips, similar to the ones made by Glock for the nine millimeter. Glock didn't make such a magazine for the forty caliber though, so all that was available was aftermarket mags. The only ones that had been available for many years worked poorly, if at all, but lately some better quality ones had been getting imported from Korea. But while they were better constructed, they still needed a bit of tweaking to make them reliable. First, Randy had replaced the springs with some stronger ones made by a company called Wolff Gunsprings. Second, he had removed the two-round extensions on the bottom of the mags and replaced them with a regular floorplate, in order to boost the power of the springs a little further. There were six of these magazines stuffed into the third rifle mag pouch on his belt, for a total of one hundred and eighty rounds of pistol ammo.

After showing that off, he pulled out the tactical vest. These vests typically come with a set of three rifle magazine pouches on the left side of the front, but the original pouches that came with it only held one of his M1A mags each. So he had that set of pouches removed and replaced with the same type of pouch set that was on his belt, giving him another six rifle mags. On the right side of the vest were a couple of horizontal utility pouches. In one of these he had stuffed a couple more rifle mags, and in the other pouch were some energy bars.

The energy bars could come in handy, because with a grand total of one hundred ninety-five rounds of pistol ammo and two hundred seventy-five rounds of rifle ammo (counting the magazines already in the guns) he was set for a very long day of shooting.

Randy had one other new gadget to show off too, a 300 milliwatt handheld green laser that was of substantially better quality than the pen type lasers. This one wasn't being mounted to any weapons though. "Whatcha gonna do with that thing?" Vincent asked.

"Oh, it's got uses."

* * *

Over the next two and a half months after Niles Meservey died, things were relatively calm. There were a couple of other officer-involved shootings in the region, but most would agree that those had been justified ones. Then the calm ended.

On August 25th of 2009 in Spokane Valley, which was a suburb of Spokane, Pastor Wayne Scott Creach and his wife Imogene were getting ready for bed. Pastor Creach was the owner of a nursery called The Plant Farm, and the same piece of property also housed his residence.

An alarm went off indicating that someone was on the property. Since the property was clearly marked as being closed to the public, and since they had an ongoing problem with theft, this warranted some investigation. Pastor Creach looked outside and saw a strange car backed up to one of the buildings in a dark spot, where some outdoor displays sat. He believed the trunk of the car was open. So, not having time to get fully dressed to investigate, he went outside in pants and slippers, holding his Government Model .45 in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

The car on his property was an unmarked Sheriff's vehicle. This was a violation of law right out of the gate, because in Washington State it was illegal for law enforcement to use unmarked cars for anything other than undercover investigations. But as no one had ever challenged the use of these cars to a high enough court to get it settled in case law, law enforcement across the state had come to consider the use of these cars for patrol, traffic enforcement, or any other purpose they wished, to be their God-given right. Not because it was legal, but simply because they could get away with it.

The public-safety issues created by the use of these cars were likewise of little concern to law enforcement. When you can't discern a real cop from a fake one, bad things can happen, and there had been a slew of impersonator and "blue light bandit" cases in Washington and elsewhere because of this. Some of these cases had ended in rapes or murders. And the danger of impersonators wasn't the only reason unmarked cars were supposed to be illegal, as Pastor Creach was about to find out. There was also a very real danger of misidentifying a real cop as someone who was not. And an unidentified cop can be more dangerous than an unidentified impersonator.

Deputy Brian Hirzel sat in the driver's seat of that car, using the computer to work on a report on an earlier traffic incident. He had selected this location to write his report so he could watch another property down the road where there had been a report of problems. He was trespassing, but police tend to consider it their right to park anywhere they please.

Hirzel had a pretty colorful history of his own. As a cop in California, he had once caused a fatality by using a chokehold on someone. Another time, he had been dispatched to a home where a man was having a heart attack. The man's wife and paramedics were already there and attempting to aid him. Then when Hirzel entered the home, the family dog barked at him and Hirzel shot it dead. The woman who resided there lost both her husband and her dog that day.

Neither of those things kept him from getting hired by the Spokane County Sheriff's Office though. In that region, these were resume enhancements. Now he was sitting in an illegally unidentified vehicle, on private property that contained a home and was clearly marked as being closed to the public, in a suspicious dark location that had a high incidence of theft. It's pretty ridiculous not to expect to be investigated by the property owner under such circumstances, but that's what Hirzel did.

Hirzel saw a man approaching with a flashlight and a gun. Had the car been marked, Pastor Creach would have seen the markings with his flashlight, and would have had the sense to at least put his gun away. But he didn't know he was dealing with a deputy, and he walked right up to the window before he finally saw the uniform.

Deputy Hirzel was the only surviving witness to what happened next, but his story had a couple holes. According to his account, he yelled at Pastor Creach repeatedly to drop the weapon as he approached. The pastor's wife however was right inside the house with the window open, listening to what was going on, as was their standard procedure in such instances. She heard none of those commands, but she did clearly hear her husband yelling in fear shortly afterward.

Hirzel stated that after Pastor Creach finally saw the uniform, he backed away from the car, and then the cop got out. His story went on that he ordered the pastor to drop the gun and get down on the ground. Ordering a man to prostrate himself on his own property is a fairly insulting proposition, and Creach evidently felt no such obligation. He did put the weapon away in the back of his waistband, and tell Hirzel that he'd had theft problems there before, but he wasn't getting down on the ground. Most people would consider putting the weapon away to be sufficiently non-threatening behavior. Most would also consider what Creach said to be a clue that they were talking to the property owner, but if Hirzel had surmised that, he knew better than to admit it.

Hirzel's story continued that while he held his gun in his right hand, he drew his baton with his left hand and attacked Creach, swinging to the left and striking him on the left knee, and the man buckled. The forensic examination however showed no mark indicating that he had been struck. Hirzel admitted that the strike had been a poor one. But if it had struck hard enough to make the man buckle, one would expect to see a mark. Anyhow, he then reholstered the baton, and that's when he says Pastor Creach reached behind himself and grabbed his gun. Hirzel said that he saw the butt of the gun, and though he didn't know why he felt that way, he was certain Creach was going to kill him. So he shot the pastor once in the chest with his .45 caliber Glock and killed him.

One problem with that account however was that Creach's gun was unchambered. He wouldn't have had a chance of shooting the deputy had that been his intention, and he knew it. Another problem was that the radio traffic record shows that the bulk of this would have to have taken place within the time frame of ten seconds. And while none of the witnesses heard any of Hirzel's alleged repeated orders, they did hear Pastor Creach shouting something that wasn't completely intelligible, but was in the vein of _what the hell,_ immediately before the shot was fired that killed him.

By Hirzel's account, Pastor Creach had been compliant to the extent that he backed away from the car and put his weapon away so they could talk. But when he asserted his right as the owner of the property not to surrender his gun or to prostrate himself on the ground, he disrespected the authority of a man who had an extensive history of violence toward people who did so. Under those circumstances, _special attention_ was pretty much the only result one could realistically expect.

The aftermath wasn't a dog and pony show this time, it was a full blown circus. No outside review of any kind was permitted. The shooting was investigated by the prosecutor's office and the Sheriff's Department itself. It was also reviewed by the Sheriff's Citizen Advisory Board, which unlike a real Citizen Review Board, had no authority to investigate on their own. That board was only permitted to see information supplied by law enforcement, and was allowed to see no evidence or testimony from the family of the slain man whatsoever. In short, the killing was thoroughly reviewed by the Sheriff and all his buddies, all of whom found Hirzel to have been innocent of wrongdoing.

While people had become more or less accustomed to such occurrences, this was perhaps one too many. It wasn't just the killings, it was also the refusal of the system to hold murdering cops accountable in any way other than to sometimes fire them. Their message to the citizenry was clear, _we can get away with this, and whatever crumbs of satisfaction you get, you can be damn grateful for._ The outrage was building, and a breaking point was fast approaching. People were getting tired of all the special attention that was being lavished upon them and their loved ones.

And some folks were beginning to think that perhaps what people in law enforcement needed was some special attention of their own.

Chapter 9

A Very Bad Time For The Law

#### October, 2009

Horrific trends begin with a single horrific act. That's how such trends as school shootings, workplace shootings, mall shootings, campus shootings, and so on began. These things were all once unthinkable, then they happened, and then they weren't unthinkable anymore. It didn't help matters a bit that the law and private regulations had made all of these places into soft targets where no one could fire back. That just made them all the more inviting.

History has proven that no matter what novel new ways to inflict harm and death somebody thinks of, there will be at least a few people in the world who find that they like the idea. And quite possibly some will be inspired to follow in the killer's footsteps.

This is a fact of life that police in Washington State were about to find themselves on the receiving end of.

* * *

On Halloween night of 2009, a Seattle police officer named Timothy Brenton was parked on the side of a city street in his patrol car, with a young trainee named Britt Sweeney on his passenger side. They had just finished up with a traffic stop and Brenton was reviewing the stop with her.

Then a small white Datsun car pulled up alongside them, and before either officer knew what was happening, bullets were ripping through their patrol car. The driver of that Datsun was Christopher John Monfort, and he had lately made the decision to take his outrage at police to the level of action.

Sitting on the driver's side, Officer Brenton took the brunt of the barrage. Britt Sweeney was grazed but not seriously hurt. The Datsun pulled forward and did a quick U-turn to try and avoid the dash cam, but it didn't turn quickly enough and was caught on camera. As it drove off, Sweeney had the composure to jump out and return fire. She didn't hit Monfort, but she did hit his car once. Then she tried to aid her wounded partner, but it was too late for him. Timothy Brenton died at the scene.

In the aftermath, a lot of heated opinions about the event and police in general were vented. But regardless of their personal views, most everyone who knew or had encountered Officer Brenton agreed that he had been one of the good ones.

* * *

The shockwaves generated by this event were fairly enormous. Never before in Washington State had a police officer been targeted and murdered solely on the basis of being a police officer. The manhunt for the shooter got underway quickly, but everyone in law enforcement knew, that just as had been the case after 9-11, life as they knew it was not the same anymore.

Soon after the shooting, Seattle Police got a tip from an apartment manager. There was a car matching the description of the suspect vehicle that normally parked in the lot of his complex, and after the night of the shooting, it had been covered for the first time.

Three detectives went there to investigate. There, they located the vehicle's owner in the parking lot, as he was leaving his apartment and walking to his car, and that owner was Monfort. The lead detective told him they'd like to ask him a few questions. Monfort's response was to pull a concealed Glock 19, point it in his face and pull the trigger.

Unfortunately for Monfort, all it did was click. While his magazine was fully loaded, he had forgotten to chamber the gun. He turned and ran for the stairwell, but when he was cut off, he tried to fire again. Then the three detectives fired, hitting him once in the head and once in the torso. He would live, but he was now a paraplegic.

Police descended on his apartment and uncovered an orgy of evidence. The evidence included firebombs, the Kel-Tec .223 rifle that was used in the attack, and copies of flyers he had left behind at the scene of an attack he had committed previously. That attack had happened nine days prior to the shooting, when he had firebombed police cars at a maintenance yard in Seattle, in an attempt to lure officers into a deadly boobytrap. Among other things, the flyer said, "These deaths are dedicated to Deputy Travis Bruner. You swear on a solemn oath to protect us from all harm, that includes you. Start policing each other or get ready to attend a lot of police funerals."

Travis Bruner was the deputy who, eleven months earlier, had witnessed the beating of Malika Calhoun by Deputy Paul Schene in a King County jail cell. He had assisted no one at the time other than Schene.

* * *

Randy and Elena's place was cold, and they had a fire going in the woodstove to warm it up. The hide-a-bed couch was opened, and Randy and Elena were under the covers, watching the big-screen TV. On the side of the bed, Ninja was stalking Kemo's tail as she tried to rest. Kemo was being strangely tolerant.

On the TV, a news anchor was revealing the breaking details of the investigation into the life of Chris Monfort. He had no criminal record, and he had a history of youth volunteerism. He had a bachelor's degree in law and justice from the University of Washingon.

He was also a proponent of jury nullification. Randy was a believer in the same concept, but he differed from Monfort in the details of the issue. Jury nullification is the legal concept that a jury has absolute authority to disregard a judge's instructions and acquit a defendant if they believe the law he is charged with violating is unjust, or being unjustly applied. Randy was all in favor of that, but according to the news reports, Monfort, who was half-black, favored acquitting all black defendants of virtually all crimes, to counter racial inequity in the justice system. The problem Randy had with that approach was that when you acquit someone who is guilty of a real crime, it's your neighborhood they're returning to, and your neighbors that they're going to victimize again. That's not what jury nullification is for. Nonetheless, they had quite a few opinions in common.

The anchor was discussing Monfort's left-of-center political leanings as Elena picked up the remote and turned the TV down. "What do you think this means?" she asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Randy replied. "This isn't like anything that's happened before. This guy is a whole different breed of shooter."

"How do you mean?"

"When somebody shoots a cop, it's typically because the cop is engaged in a conflict with them at that moment, or because the person has an ongoing beef of their own with a certain department. This guy had neither."

"What did he have then?"

"The way it looks, his beef was with out-of-control law enforcement in general. It had nothing to do with any quarrels of his own, he was attacking anyone he could find in uniform to avenge other people. This was an act of war." He took a breath, as the news report went on. "I'm worried."

"What about?"

"Trends," he replied. "Remember the guy in Colorado who took over a school room, then sexually assaulted the girls inside and ended up killing one of them?"

Elena frowned with some disgust. "Why would you bring that up?"

"After that happened, there was a copycat in Pennsylvania who did exactly the same thing, only he killed five girls. The first case was the most vile sort of crime you can possibly imagine, and yet it generated a copycat." Elena began to see what he was getting at. "When the unthinkable happens, it's not unthinkable anymore. I think the game has just changed in a very big way."

Randy was more right about that than he had dared to think. The next time someone came calling on the law happened one month later on November 29th.

* * *

Lakewood, Washington was on the south side of Tacoma. Inside a Forza coffee shop in a strip mall here, four Lakewood officers were starting their morning when a man named Maurice Clemmons walked in.

Three of the officers sat at a table by the window while a fourth stood at the counter deciding on what he was going to order. Tina Griswold was working an extra shift to make some money for Christmas. Ronald Owens was working on his laptop, as was Mark Renninger, who was a SWAT team instructor. The one standing at the counter was Greg Richards.

Maurice Clemmons was a 240 pound black man who had come there for a reason, and he didn't waste a lot of time getting down to business. After standing in line briefly, he pulled a Glock 9mm, faced the three cops at the table and shot Tina Griswold in the back of the head. As the baristas behind the counter bolted out the back, his second shot hit Mark Renninger in the temple. When he tried to shoot Ronald Owens however, his pistol jammed. He discarded it and pulled his second weapon, a .38 caliber revolver. During that time Officer Owens was able to jump to his feet and charge the attacker. They grappled as Clemmons continued to fire, and one of those rounds hit Owens in the head. He was the third one killed.

That's when Greg Richards slammed into Clemmons and began his own grappling match. It was close. He knocked away Clemmons's revolver and drew his own .40 caliber Glock to shoot him. The two of them fought their way toward the front door, fighting for possession of the pistol, and during the fight it went off twice. One of the shots hit Clemmons in the back. The second one hit Officer Richards in the head.

Clemmons made his escape with the help of an accomplice who drove his truck for him. Less than twenty minutes after the first 911 call was made, word went out that all four officers had been killed.

* * *

Randy, Elena and Vincent sat at the bar at Bourbon Street, fixed on the television. It was Sunday night and the place was pretty empty, which gave Alicia time to stand behind the bar and watch the scene with them.

If the Monfort shooting had been a regular bomb dropped on the state, this was a bona fide truck bomb. The manhunt for Clemmons was among the most massive that there ever was, and according to the news the police had just gotten a huge tip. Clemmons had gone to the home of an aunt, who after failing to persuade him not to go there, had told police he was coming. Now, as they all watched on the television, the house was surrounded and police were pouring tear gas canisters into the home. No one knew it at the time, but in the morning they would discover that Clemmons had bolted out the back immediately after being seen entering the front.

The door of the tavern opened and Officer Jack Hayward walked in followed by Preston and Zack. The first thing they did on entering was to scan the whole place. They wore the same kind of expressions one expects to see on a character in a zombie movie, where the next monster could come out of any dark corner.

They walked to the bar where Alicia was standing. "Frank around?" Hayward asked her. She replied that he was off that night. "Well, let him know we found a stolen car in your lot." Then the officers looked at the screen and saw what they were watching.

"They've got him in that house, right?" Elena asked.

"It appears that way," Hayward replied without really looking at her, and the three of them turned and walked toward the door.

"I hope it's all over," Elena said. Hayward and the younger Zachary both managed only a courteous nod, but Preston said a real thank-you to her before they went out the door.

Randy and Vincent both turned their eyes toward Elena. It was a little surprising to hear her talk like that to those men. "Under the circumstances I don't think that was out of line," she said.

"Me either," Randy replied. "This is a bad deal. And I don't think it is over."

"Why you say that?" Vincent asked. "This Clemmons guy isn't the same as Monfort was. This guy really is a scumbag."

"He might not have done this for the same reason as Monfort. But the important question is, did he get his inspiration from Monfort?"

No one knew the answer to that, and it would remain a tough question. Subsequent news stories would reveal that Clemmons had talked about killing police officers as far back as May of that year, well before Monfort's attacks. He had also made a couple of failed attempts to attack a police station, but both of them had been after the Monfort attacks. One of those times the police station was closed, the other time he got a flat tire on the way there.

Clemmons had also told his family he considered shooting up a school, or shooting people at random in public, so his murderous intent wasn't limited only to police. Clemmons had a lot more against him too, such as a charge for having sex with a 12-year-old girl. If convicted it was going to be his third strike.

But for quite some time, Clemmons's home had been under surveillance. They weren't discrete about it either, the Seattle police frequently kept a car parked on the street right at his home. Perhaps they realized it, and perhaps they didn't, but what this says to a person is, "We're out to get you." And what that causes the subject of all this attention to think is, "In that case, just maybe I'm out to get you too."

So it could be that this attack was going to happen anyways, and it could also be that Clemmons saw the news of Monfort's attack and finally made the decision that for him, that was the way to go. That's how the copycat effect works.

Only a day later, Clemmons was found by a Seattle cop and killed before anyone had the chance to ask him. But the next time Randy would ask that question would be three weeks later.

* * *

It was four days before Christmas in 2009. David Crable was a bulky man who had ongoing family feuds with his brother, mother and daughter all at once. He had drug and alcohol problems that fueled the conflicts, but still they sometimes got along okay. At various times in the past, pretty much everyone in the family had filed restraining orders against one another.

On this night, David was drunk and out of control again. His 16-year-old daughter Byrona was in the upstairs bedroom. David's brother Jason called the Sheriff's Department to ask them to remove David from the home. Two deputies responded, Sergeant Nick Hauser and Deputy Kent Mundell.

They were invited inside, and things seemed to be going well enough. The deputies offered David a ride elsewhere and he agreed. He went upstairs to grab a few clothes while the deputies waited at the bottom of the stairs.

David came back to the stairs with a bundle of clothes in his arm. Then he reached inside of the clothes, pulled out a pistol and opened up on them. Both officers were hit in the first burst. Nick Hauser went down, but Kent Mundell was able to draw and return fire. He shot David several times, but then David shot him again as well. At that point his daughter Byrona jumped on her father and dragged him to the floor, possibly keeping him from shooting the officers any more. Then while Jason and his girlfriend gave first aid to Hauser, Byrona ran to a neighbor's house to call for help.

Nick Hauser survived and was released just a few days later. Kent Mundell hung on for seven days and then died. In a six-week period, there had now been eight Washington State police officers shot, with six fatalities.

* * *

After the first reports came out, the question on Randy's mind again was where Crable had gotten the idea. Were Monfort and Clemmons part of his inspiration, or would he have come up with this on his own? Much was made of the fact that Crable had nothing to gain by attacking. He was only being asked to leave, and was even being given a ride home.

Randy's question was answered only a couple days after the shooting when some more detailed news reports told of how David Crable had been arrested earlier that month in the midst of another quarrel with his family. Crable had just driven to his home, where deputies were waiting, and he suddenly found multiple guns drawn on him. He was dragged out, put to the ground, and pretty much put through the whole public humiliation spectacle. None of the news stories speculated on how this made Crable feel, or whether the officers who made that arrest in this fashion might have sown the seeds for what happened later.

Randy knew exactly how Crable felt however, because he had been there, and he knew how such treatment makes you feel. It makes you feel furious, humiliated, and vengeful. It makes your thoughts run in the direction of _maybe these sons of bitches really do have it coming_. For such arrests to be committed needlessly at a time when retaliation is becoming a trend could be called "very ill-considered."

Randy considered the context in which all of this had happened, and he was pretty confident that he knew exactly where David Crable had gotten the idea.

* * *

It was one week after the shooting committed by Crable, and it was roll call time at the Forest Hill Police Department again. This was a time of day the officers of this department had stopped looking forward to quite a while ago.

Burt came to the podium and got right to the point. "As most of you are aware, Kent Mundell has passed away." The small number of gasps in the room indicated that not quite everyone had gotten that memo. "This comes to six officers who have died in the last two months in this state. I'm not going to sugar-coat it for you. People are officially gunning for us, and that means additional safety measures are going to be implemented."

"What sort of measures?" Preston asked.

"For starters, all officers will work in pairs. In all contacts, the backup officer will take an aggressive posture."

"You mean hand on the weapon?" Robin inquired.

"I mean weapon to the back of their head if they're giving you any grief whatsoever," Burt replied. "Screwing around time is over."

"With respect sir," Robin said, "if the goal here is officer safety, that might be a little counterproductive. I've been reading through some online forums about this and there are a lot of people who are calling these attacks justified on the basis of just that kind of interaction."

Burt's expression was borderline stunned. "And your point is?"

"My point is that a little more positive interaction might make people less inclined to want to kill us." The reaction in the room was mixed, but Robin had clearly hit a nerve.

Burt lowered his glasses and looked down at her like a stepdad with a really big lecture to hand down. "Sergeant Frisk, I don't know what criminal justice school you went to, but you do not discourage people from doing something by giving them what they want. If there are people talking about what great heroes these cop killers are, do you really think the solution is for us to make nice with them? They're the ones who are going to start seeing things our way, get it?" Burt was close to seething by this point. "So either get on the right side of this issue, or go climb back on your mudflap!" That last line elicited hoots and cheers from several of the men in the room, most prominently Jack Hayward. Robin stayed composed, but her cheeks burned.

Burt returned to his planned curriculum, which centered around how these shootings justified their treating normal encounters as possible threats, and how the presence of a weapon justified any means needed to secure the safety of the officers involved. He wrapped up the meeting, and as everyone started filing out of the lunch room, Hayward walked over to Robin. "Hey Robin," he said, "you do a great job running the gym, and it's great that you made Sergeant. But don't kid yourself, you're here to dress the window. When we need advice on perfect abs we'll come to you, but leave the PR policy to people who know what the hell they're talking about."

Nearby, Preston overheard. He didn't like what he was hearing so he stepped over to butt in. "Speaking of the gym, Jack, isn't it about time for your bi-annual one-minute session in the ring? I'd be happy to give you some work. You bring the heart pills, I'll bring the school."

Hayward cracked a smile, but he had to force it. "Careful what you wish for," he said, and he headed out the door.

"Wanna partner up?" Preston asked Robin.

"Love to."

* * *

The string of shootings of law enforcement officers wasn't quite over, but in this shooting string at least, the deaths were. There would be one more case of a cop being targeted in February of 2010 on Long Beach, the very place where Randy and Elena took their honeymoon, but he would live. In that instance, a man was angered over the fact that his wife's car was being inventoried for towing (i.e. ransacked in public using "inventory" as a pretext for a warrantless search) after she had been arrested for d.u.i. That man had shot the cop in the head from behind with a .25 caliber pistol. The bullet was deflected by his skull enough to save him, though he would have some lifelong problems as a result. After that, the string of targeted attacks had ended.

That was extremely fortunate, because a lot of eyes were on the Western part of Washington State, where the shooting trend had been localized. It was critical that the trend stayed localized, because when physical borders are crossed, psychological borders are crossed as well. If any such targeted attacks had taken place outside of Washington during this time, it would officially have become a national trend, and there might well have been no stopping it from there.

But when the trend had run its course, the general reaction by law enforcement was to change nothing. There were even a number of news stories that described how they had made it a point not to change their policies one way or the other. Publicly, law enforcement was determined not to give any satisfaction to those who saw this as a popular uprising.

And privately, there were some people in law enforcement who wanted to take it even further.

* * *

Randy wasn't without sympathy for what was happening, but at the same time he had a wife to take care of, and he didn't care much for the way that he and she had been targeted for special attention. The traffic stops, the rousts, and the frequent slow cruises down the roads near their home were a problem that had to be dealt with before things got out of control.

Most people in that kind of situation, who don't have solid grounds for a lawsuit, file some complaints that get swept under the mat and then give up. Randy filed the complaints like anyone would, with the police department and with the prosecutor, but he was able to do a little better than the average complainant as well. Randy knew the secret of dealing with public officials. They may not have a reason in the world to care what you think, but there are people whose opinions do matter to them, and those are the people you have to talk to.

Helping him out was a Washington State Supreme Court decision called State V. Flora. That decision spelled out the fact that it is legal to record police in the course of official business, and you don't have to notify them of the recording. Randy had been making extensive use of that decision, recording every encounter that he had with law enforcement, and insisting that Elena do the same. Modern technology made that easy; a quick internet search turned up a ton of spy cameras and recorders to choose from. It also turned up a whole lot of Youtube videos of people putting these things to good use in traffic stops. Randy's and Elena's problems with the law were certainly not unique.

Randy made especially good use of one of those recordings in court. On that tape was an officer trying to coerce a warrantless search of his truck. Underneath the canopy on the back of the truck, the junk was piled a little high. It obstructed the view through the back, which was technically illegal even though there were all sorts of vehicles on the road with no view through the back whatsoever. So the cop said he would have to get out and rearrange everything in his presence, so they could see inside while he was doing it, which of course was only a pretext for a warrantless search. Randy had nothing illegal, but he did have a few cases of rifle and pistol ammo in the back, and he didn't want this cop getting on the radio and howling _THOUSANDS OF ROUND OF AMMO!!!_ as he knew the cop would. So he told the cop to go take a flying leap, he'd fix the problem on his own time. Subsequently he was taken out of the truck and handcuffed, then put through the full roust again. He got a ticket for the obstructed windows, but they didn't get their search.

When he took the ticket to court, he first questioned the officers involved about whether they intended to obtain a warrantless search, and got their answers on the record that they didn't. Then he pulled out the recording proving that they had just lied, on the stand and under oath. The cops in that courtroom were some of the unhappiest people he had ever seen.

He got the ticket dismissed, but the city attorney of course had no interest in charging the cops with either abuse of office or perjury. All was to be swept under the mat again, but not only was Randy ready for that, he was fully prepared to use that fact to clobber the city attorney along with the cops. He made himself an audio compilation proving they had committed perjury and started passing it around. He started with the police department and the sheriff's department, knowing they would do nothing but also knowing it would ruffle some feathers. Then he took it to the Mayor and city council. He also took it to the county prosecutor, and for good measure, the state attorney general as well. He also passed a copy on to the Gazette. He didn't get any real satisfaction out of any of the officials, but a strange thing happened after that. Cops started being a lot nicer, to him and Elena both.

That was how it appeared on the surface anyhow, but underneath some bad blood was simmering. Law enforcement across the state had just taken a real beating. They knew what sort of behavior had led to this string of attacks, but were not about to take any blame. If there's one thing people in authority are incapable of getting their heads around, it's the idea of surrendering power, and far from heeding any of the lessons of recent history, they were anxious to reassert theirs.

When someone took it to them the way Randy just had, it was easy for cops to lump that person into the same category with the people who were firing the live rounds. It reinforced the "us versus them" mentality, and for some cops it even made the typically strained relations between citizen and cop seem like something that was one stage beyond "us versus them."

Something like war.

Chapter 10

Shots Fired

#### May, 2010

Zachary Simmons loved patrol It's what he was made for. The stalk, the capture, the hunt. He was a hunter.

He seldom knew what he'd be hunting next, but something always came along. Burglars, drunk drivers, dope dealers, what have you. Forest Hill wasn't exactly a crime-ridden zone but it had its fair share of wrongdoers, and it was his job to root them out. His job, his authority, his power. The uniform he wore said so, the gun on his hip backed it up. What a life.

When Zack was on duty, he ruled his domain, and God help anyone who didn't respect his authority. He was on a mission to hunt down the guilty, and the unfortunate fact of the matter was that pretty much everyone was guilty of something. It was just a matter of finding out what, and at that he was rapidly becoming an artist. Anyone who interfered with that mission would be quickly face down on the ground and wearing handcuffs. Or worse.

As he shifted in his seat, the butt of his pistol nudged his ribcage, just reminding him it was there. It wasn't your average duty gun. Most cops carried the Glock, in either .40 or .45acp, but Zack felt it necessary to keep something more substantial than average on hand. So he had put down the same amount Randy had paid for his M1A plus the scope, and bought himself a .45 Winchester Magnum. The pistol was a 1911 type made by LAR Grizzly. The cartridge it fired was similar to the regular .45acp only it was longer and heavier duty, and it boosted the power of the .45 auto to that of a .44 magnum. It was like Dirty Harry's gun, but without the need to guess whether you'd fired five or six. Zack knew the day would come when his weapon would be needed, and this gun would insure he did the job right.

Nestled against his ribs, it felt like the gun was reminding him of how neglected it felt. In the four years that Zachary had been on duty, it had never so much as been drawn. It saddened him to think about that. The favorite lunch table topic at the station was the tales of shootings past. The stories of cops who had really faced the moment, seen the elephant, drawn down and shot it out. Some stories were of the ones who had come out on top. Others were of cops who hadn't, and had passed on a lesson to those who would follow, usually in the vein of being faster on the trigger. How he longed to be part of that lore! Jack Hayward was part of it, having been the man who shot Arnold McCaslin, and within the department that made him singularly special.

It was true, there was the occasional bad shoot, ("bad" being defined as having not covered your bases well enough, as Troy Meade had neglected to do), but on balance they took out a lot more riffraff than not. And was it not right that they should have that power over life and death? Were they not the guardians of civilization? He had taken an oath to serve and protect. And while most folks on the civilian side didn't see it this way, people were best served and best protected when everyone was kept in line. He took that job seriously.

Cruising along, he came to a Y in the road where traffic merged. As traffic merged onto the road in front of him, his train of thought was interrupted when he saw it, two cars ahead. The white company truck with the canopy. It was the man who had made a career of making monkeys out of his department, none other than Randolph Gustin.

Jackpot.

* * *

Randy's radio was playing the oldies station as he saw the cruiser merge in behind him. He wasn't worried. There hadn't been any harassment going on for quite a while, and he hadn't done anything lately to incur their wrath again. Not that he wasn't still planning to, just that he hadn't done so lately, and things had settled into more or less an uneasy truce.

The car between him and the cruiser pulled into the left turn lane, leaving nothing between them. As Randy was checking his speed, he drifted over the center line just a little, and the flashing lights came on. _Christ, this is all I need._

There wasn't a good spot to pull over immediately, so he took the next available right turn, which happened to be the entrance to the cemetery. The place was large and wooded, and there wasn't a whole lot in the way of lighting. As he slowed down, he unbuckled his fanny pack holster, and threw it behind the seat of the truck. He didn't want it to be construable as a threat, but he also didn't want to hand it over unnecessarily.

As Randy came to a stop on the right side of the road, he turned his radio down, and also started his micro cassette recorder that was mounted beside the door jamb. The cruiser stopped behind him, and put its spotlight on his mirror. Randy pushed his mirror out so he wouldn't be blinded, and also so the light would maybe reflect back in the cop's face. It was a guaranteed ticket when that happened, but he couldn't help himself. The cop got out and walked to his window. "Evening, Mister Gustin," he began.

"Evening officer," Randy replied. He didn't quite remember the cop's name, but he recognized him as one of the recent recruits from a few years ago. "Can I ask why you pulled me over?"

"You weaved over the line in front of me, but then I think you already knew that. Have you had anything to drink tonight?"

"Nope."

"I saw you hide something behind your seat. What was that?"

"I could refuse to answer that, but I'll be generous. It was my weapon." Randy pointed into his lap. "You'll note that it's not on my belt."

Officer Simmons keyed the microphone to his radio. "Subject has a weapon in the vehicle, request backup." _Oh great, here we go,_ Randy thought. "Mister Gustin, are you recording this stop?"

"You know it."

"That's perfectly fine," Simmons replied. _Like anyone's going to hear it._ "But for officer safety reasons, I'm going to ask you to reach behind the seat and hand the gun holster out to me."

Randy began to hear the first faint sound of an alarm bell. "Did you just ask me to reach into a dark place where you know there's a weapon?"

"I did."

"Well, for everyone's safety, it's staying put and I'm not reaching anywhere." In his mirror, Randy saw a second cruiser pull in behind the first one. Nobody got out though, it just sat there. "If you like, I'll be happy to get out of the truck."

"That won't be necessary," Simmons replied, "just pass the weapon out. Now, please."

_He's keeping the threat alive,_ Randy thought. The alarm bell rang a little louder, as Randy kept his hands firmly on the steering wheel, wishing he had his digital camera recording video instead of just getting audio. "Not happening. The weapon is out of my reach, it's no threat to anyone where it currently sits, and I'm not reaching anywhere."

Simmons leaned closer to the window and lowered his voice to a level that wouldn't be picked up by the dash cam in the second car. "Well, that's just fine then. You just refused a lawful order to surrender a weapon, and that's all I really needed." Randy kept his hands on the wheel, but he felt his first stirring of fear as Simmons stood up straight and grabbed the butt of his gun. "Do NOT reach down there," he shouted.

"What the hell –"

"I said get your hands back in view!"

"My hands are on the steering wheel!"

Simmons drew his oversized gun and put it at low ready, with a two-hand grip. "LAST WARNING!"

It finally struck Randy that this was really happening, and he was about to become the next Niles Meservey. He didn't have a chance either; he had ignored all the preparations for this scenario that they had worked out. His gun was out of reach and there was no backup weapon handy. Even if one was handy, the cop's weapon was in his hand already. He was utterly fucked. Randy turned to face the cop, and saw the weapon raised and pointed straight between his eyes from two feet away.

" _THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!"_ Simmons screamed, and pulled the trigger.

Randy caught a glimpse of his trigger finger moving and ducked. The sound was more deafening than any gunshot he'd ever heard, the bullet parted the hair on the back of his head without hitting him, and crashed out though the passenger door without even slowing down. At that moment, part of him thought that if he stuck his hands out the window where a dash cam could see, the cop couldn't shoot again. But another part remembered the cop words of wisdom he so often heard repeated: _If the first shot is justified, so is the last one_. No matter what he did, Simmons was going to keep shooting until the "threat" was eliminated, that being him.

Unfortunately for Simmons, the monstrous .45 was a little too big for his own good. In the second it took him to recover from the recoil, Randy grabbed his coffee mug and flung it out the window. The coffee was nearly cold but Simmons didn't know that. He put his arm up in front of his face, and then Randy shoved the door open, where it hit Simmons and knocked him backward. The cop tried to line up his weapon again but Randy lunged out of the truck and plowed into him, tackling him to the ground. As he jumped out, his arm hit the radio volume and turned it up. Randy was momentarily surprised to hear _I'm Yours_ playing. The irony of that song playing at this moment was sickening.

He punched the cop on the ground beneath him twice, then knocked his weapon away. They both dove for the gun and Randy got it first. He stood up and moved back, holding the weapon on the cop who sat on the ground. Then he heard another voice over the sound of his radio.

"Simmons!" It was the backup officer, Sergeant Sylvester Frawley. He was moving forward with his own weapon out. _If a weapon is pointed at another cop, no choice, you must shoot._ That was the policy of every department, and the moment Frawley had a clear shot he was going to fire. Randy looked back to Simmons, who was reaching toward the backup weapon in his ankle holster.

There was no fleeing, and no surrendering. If one of them didn't kill him, the other would. So Randy fired. The shot hit Simmons roughly center mass and knocked him flat. "SIMMONS!" Frawley screamed and fired two shots that narrowly missed. Randy swung the weapon up and fired one in return. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely stay conscious, let alone aim, and he missed. Frawley moved toward the cover of Simmons's cruiser. He lined up for a shot at Randy, his aim dead on this time. Randy shot faster, but not straighter. The big round struck the engine compartment and sprayed lead shrapnel beneath the car, where it hit Frawley's legs. The cop jumped from the pain, but the wounds were hardly crippling. He came down on his feet and aimed again. Randy fired one more time and finally connected. This round hit Frawley high on the sternum, plowed through him and severed his spinal column. He dropped like a bag of rocks.

Things became quiet just in time for Randy to hear his and Elena's song finish on the radio in the truck. It was a perfect metaphor for everything he had just lost, and he didn't want to hear it anymore. Randy went to his truck and turned the radio off.

Then he went to where Frawley lay on the ground, and quickly determined he wouldn't be getting back up. A few twitches were all he had left in him, so Randy turned and walked back toward Simmons.

The younger cop was desperately trying to suck air, and making a vain attempt to reach his ankle holster. He saw Randy standing over him and gave it up. "You tried to murder me," Randy said. His head was still spinning so wildly he didn't know what else to say.

"You... brough it on..." Simmons choked out the reply.

"Meaning what, I made you look bad once or twice and that gives you the right to do this?" Simmons turned his eyes away, and Randy took out his phone. "I'll call an ambulance."

Simmons shook his head. "Too late," he sputtered, saying what Randy had already determined. Then he looked back up. "I wasn't the only one... wanted you," he said. "So 'oes this make me bad?" The answer to that question was on the tip of Randy's tongue, but in a moment like this he didn't have the heart to deliver it. If there was a God in heaven, Simmons would have his answer soon enough. Then as Randy watched, the young cop's gasps grew shorter and faster. "I... 'orry..." Simmons said. Then he exhaled, long and deep, and he didn't inhale again.

Randy dropped the magazine out of the pistol, cleared the chamber and set it down on top of its owner. Then he stood and looked around. There were a few spectators across the street from the cemetery entrance, but they didn't look too alarmed. With all the flashing lights it was impossible to see what was going on, so they most likely assumed everything was under control. Randy was well aware that things were wildly out of control, but he had no idea what to do about it.

Randy walked to Simmon's cruiser and reached inside to grab the radio mike. He had no idea what to say or how to explain this, but he had to say something because there wasn't much chance of keeping this a secret. "This is Randolph Gustin," he began. "Two of you just tried to murder me and they're dead." About fifteen officers scattered around town, half the force, were on duty and they all heard him. Burt was one of them, sitting at his desk and listening on his scanner. Robin and Preston heard while sitting at their table at Forza. Jack Hayward was right smack in the middle of arresting a drunk driver when he heard.

Burt was the first to grab his mike and reply. "Gustin, this is Chief Grandstone. Stay where you are."

Randy knew instinctively that staying put wasn't an option. His recording was his only shred of proof of what had happened, and that would be made to disappear in a heartbeat if he stayed. Though when he thought about it for a second, what was on that tape wasn't nearly enough to guarantee he'd be cleared, at least not with a hostile prosecutor and jury thrown into the mix. If he took this to court he'd be rolling the dice big time. Burt's voice came over the radio again. "Surrender peacefully, and whatever happened, you'll get a fair trial. Are you listening?" _Fair trial?_ Who did he think he was trying to bullshit? The same prosecutor who would be letting Ian Birk off the hook in the near future would pull out the stops to nail Randy to the cross.

_You could either do the blaze-of-glory thing and go out makin' a statement they'll never forget, or live out your life as their favorite zoo animal wishin' you'd done it when you had the chance._ Vincent's words rang loudly in his ears. That was exactly the choice he was looking at right now. It began to sink in that the two cops on the ground were not the only ones whose lives were already over. "Are you there, Gustin?" Burt's voice announced again. "Signal your surrender." In the distance, he heard sirens. They were still a few minutes away, but it was time to do what he was going to do.

Randy keyed the mike again. "It's not going to happen that way," he began. "This was not a case of two bad-apple cops, this was an act of war. Since all of you are going to back the ones who committed it, like you do every time this happens, then this was an act of war committed by your entire department. So now hear this: _I DECLARE WAR._ " Those words held frightful meaning, yet it felt good to finally get them out. "This war is between me and you, the Forest Hill City Police Department, and it will end either when I'm dead, or your entire one department has been eliminated as a threat to the citizens of this town."

Randy dropped the mike and walked over to where Frawley lay. He kneeled down and took all his Glock magazines. Randy had no taste for taking a dead man's weapon, but he had to be real. Extra mags would come in handy. Then he went to his truck, fished out the fanny pack holster from behind the seat and strapped it on, even as he marveled at how completely and irreversibly his life had just changed. All he wanted in the world at that moment was his life back, but it was gone. The only thing he had left to live for was his new mission, and if he didn't get cracking he wouldn't get to keep that either.

The sirens were getting closer. It sounded like two to the south, and one to the north. He'd take the one first.

* * *

To the south of the cemetery, Preston Mintz was the driver of the second car speeding to the scene. Robin Frisk sat on the passenger side. In front of them, Phillip Pevey drove the lead car. All of them were keenly aware of how their own lives had just changed. For the first time ever, they were under a real attack.

Ron Kesling was driving the only other patrol car in the area, and he was further north. His voice came over their radio. "Possible contact," he announced. "White pickup with canopy, driving normally..."

"Fall in behind and wait for backup," Burt ordered him from the station house over the radio.

Robin picked up the mike in her car. "Two cars en route now," she said.

"I read you," Kesling replied. "Passing him now -" The sound of shattering glass blew through the speakers. "Shit!" was his only other word, then came the sound of a metallic clank, squealing tires and a collision.

Preston jammed his gas pedal almost to the floor.

* * *

Ron Kesling was about to pass the white truck in the opposite direction and had just slowed to make his u-turn, when he saw the Glock aimed out the window of the truck in the driver's left hand, and the flashes from the muzzle. The guy had clearly practiced driving and shooting at the same time, because he was good at it. One round hit his windshield, one hit his driver side window, and one came through the door and lodged in his ribcage. His car careened into opposing traffic and hit a van head-on.

Both vehicles hit their brakes before impact, so it wasn't too catastrophic. His airbag popped out of the steering column and knocked him half unconscious, but he snapped back quickly. He made a quick assessment of his wound and determined he wasn't going to die. Then he realized the bullet inside him was the least of his worries as the white pickup backed up right next to his passenger side. The Glock was now in the driver's right hand and aimed much more steadily.

Officer Kesling ducked down, as another burst of bullets came through the passenger door. Most of them struck low, but then one of them hit his right tibia and partly shattered it. He screamed, not being able to help it even though he knew his screams would only alert his attacker that his aim was on. But upon hearing the scream, the driver of the white pickup floored it and sped off. Kesling thought that an angel must have saved him, but it wouldn't be long before he knew better.

* * *

The other two patrol cars arrived less than a minute later. Philip Pevey skidded to a stop, jumped out and ran to Ron Kesling's door. In the car right behind him, Robin called in their location, then she and Preston got out to secure the scene and assist.

Ron swung his legs painfully out the door. "I can't believe I'm still here," he said. "Guy had a clean shot at my head, but he shot way low."

Philip pulled up his pants leg to uncover the wound. "This is pretty ugly," Philip said. "I'd say you're looking at a few months of rehab at least, but there shouldn't be any permanent –" He was cut off mid-sentence as the next burst of shots rang out, and one of them hit Philip in the back of the head. Randy hadn't fled the scene at all, he had circled the block, parked out of view, and walked to a point of cover on the side street right next to them. He was shooting from behind the house on the corner. Officer Pevey slumped to the street, and two of the next three shots went into Ron Kesling's chest cavity. He collapsed next to his partner, and as his consciousness faded amid the sound of continuing gunfire, all he could think was _the sonofabitch honeypotted me._

Robin and Preston had taken cover behind their own car, and they fired from behind the engine compartment. Randy fired back, but quickly realized that sitting still and trading shots would only get him surrounded in short order. So he loaded a fresh clip, and dedicated it to the two remaining police cars, with emphasis on the radiators, engine compartments, and tires. When he was done, he felt pretty sure they wouldn't be giving chase in those cars at least, and he took off running back to his truck.

* * *

Elena didn't have a clue about what was happening until Randy arrived at home. While Randy was engaged in the first official hostilities, she was busy listening to the radio and playing with the cats. Dancing around in the living room to a Mexican tune, she dragged a shoelace back and forth across the floor while Ninja tore after it with her customary ferocity. Kemo chased after it a little more reservedly, and when she collided with Ninja she didn't even get upset. Both cats had their own toys that they treasured, but nothing took the place of good old-fashioned string.

When Randy came peeling into the driveway, she knew something wasn't right. That wasn't like him. She walked out the door to see what was going on and Randy came running to her. "Elena, take your car and get out of here now. Go to Vincent's."

"Randy, why?"

"I just killed at least four cops, and they're coming." Elena tried to absorb what she had just heard, but at this point she was simply unable to. "Everything we talked about, it's happening, and they're coming here to kill me and probably anyone else they find." The sound of sirens reached their ears. It was distant, but gradually moving closer. Randy moved past her, and ran inside to the gun safe.

As Randy spun the dial on the safe, Elena came back to the door. Randy pointed at the keys hanging on their hook. "Grab those and get going!"

"Randy, they'll catch me alone! What'll happen then?" Randy opened the safe and pulled out the M1A Scout. Then he went to the spare bedroom and grabbed his shooting bag, the one that also held his tactical gear. It was heavy, as it held a lot of loaded magazines. He dragged it out toward the door, bringing the rifle too. "Randy?"

She had a point. The cops who came were going to be extremely trigger-happy, and if they caught her alone on an empty road, there was nothing he could do for her. "All right, I'll take you there. But we're leaving now." On an impulse, Randy grabbed the receiver of their cordless phone. For some reason it just seemed like that might come in handy. Then as he headed for the door, Randy looked down and saw the cats staring up at him, knowing something was wrong but not what it was. He took a moment to bend down and pat their heads. "Goodbye kids," he said. Then he and Elena headed out the door, threw everything into the truck, and left their home together for the last time.

* * *

The back road that Randy had selected to take them back into town was dark and twisty, and Randy didn't like being on it. But it wasn't far to Bourbon Street, and once there, Elena would have all the help she needed in getting to Vincent's or wherever else she needed to.

"It was just like I was afraid it would be," Randy began. "One of them tried to shoot me right here in the drivers seat, and he did it right after I told him my gun was behind the seat where I couldn't reach it."

"How did you –"

"I was lucky. He stood too close and that's the only reason I'm here."

"Are you going to give up?" Randy was almost surprised to hear the question, but he knew he shouldn't be. This wasn't some "what if" conversation anymore. This was really happening, and she was scared of losing him.

"It's way too late for that," he said. "I might have been able to after killing the first two that tried to get me, but it would have been no good. You can't shoot a cop and plan on seeing the light of day again. And I already shot a couple more since then too."

"I want to join you then." There happened to be a turnout on the side of the road right in front of them, and Randy hit the brakes and pulled into it.

"Elena, that is absolutely, positively not happening."

"Randy, you're my only lifeline!" she pleaded. "What will happen to me when you're gone? Will I get sucked back to my old life?"

"NO!" he shouted. "Elena, I gave you everything you need. The home is yours, and so is everything else. You make enough money to pay the bills. There's nothing you can do to help me, all you could accomplish is to die with me. And if that happens, then that means I died for nothing. If you love me, you won't make me go out with that on my mind. I know this is scary, but I'm trying to be brave for you, so please be brave for me too."

Elena started to cry, and she leaned closer to clutch his jacket. Randy wanted to comfort her, but the clock was running and keeping her safe was too much more important. He put his arms around her for a moment and then put the truck in gear again.

They pulled back onto the road. Elena did as he asked and tried to be brave, but it wasn't easy. "What if I can't live without you?" she asked. Randy thought of giving the obvious answer, that she'd do it because she had to, that she had lived without him all her life, but his gut told him to keep those answers to himself. Her dependence on him was powerful, and this was a real question that needed a real answer.

He was thinking on that question when he rounded a corner and saw something that puzzled him at first. Up the road a ways he saw yellow parking lights. But there wasn't one set of them, there was three, spread across the road. Suddenly three sets of headlights came on, followed by spotlights, and then overhead red and blue flashing lights. Now he got it.

Randy skidded to a stop. The three patrol cars were about two hundred yards up the road, and beside them were the silhouettes of men. "Roadblock!" Randy said. Elena was frozen in the light, and Randy was feeling a little short on responses himself.

A voice announced from a loudspeaker. "Gustin, step out of the truck now, or you will be shot!" Randy cursed under his breath.

"What do we do?" Elena asked.

"No choice. If I don't give up they'll kill you too." Randy put his hands up. He had just started opening his door when he heard shouting from down the road. It was hard to hear, but they both were able to make out the words _got a weapon._ " _DOWN!_ " he shouted at Elena. They both ducked and a .223 round pierced the windshield right over them.

Randy knew he had made a terrible mistake by bringing Elena with him. Now he was facing the first-round-justified, last-round-justified scenario again, only she was trapped in the truck with him. They had no choice but to fight back, and he had no choice but to let her help now because her life was on the line too. "Grab the laser!" he yelled at her, as he switched his bright headlights on to impede their aim. Elena grabbed the green laser from the glove box as more rifle rounds zinged around them. "Start using it as soon as I shoot!" Randy grabbed the rifle and bolted out the driver's door, across the road and down the embankment. A few shots cracked through the air right behind him.

Once over the bank, he hunkered down and put the rifle to his shoulder. Then he popped up just high enough to aim, and fired a quick five rounds into their vehicles. He didn't hit any of his assailants, but that wasn't the plan. He only wanted them down behind cover where they weren't shooting, and it worked. A rifle round cracking the air right next to you is a scary sound, and it doesn't typically inspire bravery.

As soon as the cops were down though, they were busy finding new positions to shoot from. But that's when Elena got on them with the green laser. She rested it on the dashboard of the truck to steady it, and shined it at the eyes of anyone who looked like they were aiming. One cop by the name of Kelley McDonough tried to get a bead on her from over the top of the engine compartment. After getting dinged with the green light however, he was too blinded to hit anything in the dark for at least five minutes. Not that he'd have the chance to do it then either, Randy's rifle was zeroed dead-on and at this range he couldn't miss. He drilled the cop right through the forehead.

The remaining five cops saw McDonough fall amid a spray of brain matter and realized they were in more serious trouble than they had planned on. So they hunkered down and did some planning of their own. Soon afterward, four of them fired their AR-15's from different positions all at once, while one of them named Ted Blixt bolted into the wooded area alongside the road. It was a powerful barrage, but Randy and Elena were ready and their response was immediate.

Two of the cops, Lisa Towers and Todd Hymes, fired from over their engine compartments, and Elena dinged them in the face with the laser, making it near impossible for them to hit anything. Another cop, Ken Brewer, fired from around the front end of a vehicle, and one named Jose Hernandez shot from underneath. Randy engaged them first. He used the laser sight on his rifle to blind Brewer, the one shooting from the front, then drilled him in the head. He then put the laser on Hernandez, the one underneath the vehicle, and fired. A couple rounds bounced off the pavement in front of the man, spraying him with fragments of lead and asphalt, and then one round connected high in the chest, where it traveled down the length of the prone man. He bled out within a minute

The two firing over the top ducked behind cover to reload. It was hard for Randy to see through all the lights, but he made out the foot of Lisa Towers underneath the engine. When he fired at it, he saw a dark spray come from the ankle, heard screaming and saw her fall. Todd Hymes tried to pull her up but Randy put a round into her head before he was able. Then Randy noted that the last man behind the car had moved back from the solid cover of the engine compartment as he tried to aid her. He put a few rounds through the side of the vehicle and saw him fall beside the others. It happened none too soon either, because his 25 round magazine was empty and all his spares were in the truck.

Randy stood and walked back toward the truck. Inside it, Elena was shaking. "Is that all of them?" she asked.

It wasn't all of them. Officer Ted Blixt charged out of the trees beside the road, and headed down the embankment on the side of the road screaming _FUCKING DIE_ at Randy and blasting his AR-15 at him. Randy's rifle was empty and he was caught in the open, but just as he was about to get nailed, he heard Elena scream _"Wero!"_ and a shot rang out from inside the cab of the truck. Elena had fired her .380 out the window and clipped the maniacal cop's shoulder. He turned his rifle toward her but she fired again, scoring a more solid torso hit. The Gold Dot bullets did their work well and he reeled backward. Elena jumped out of the truck and moved in closer as he tried to retreat. Two more rounds, both on target, and then the man turned to try and run. Elena's fifth round caught him in the kidney, which was an excruciating wound, and the sixth grazed his spine. He fell, partly paralyzed from the jolt to his spine, but still trying to bring the rifle around. Elena did as Randy had taught her, ran up close and took careful aim at his head.

" _Wait!"_ Randy yelled. Then he ran to her and took the .380 from her hand. "You don't want somebody's death on your conscience," he said to her. He was wrong about that actually. Elena had an exceptionally rough background, these people were taking away the only good thing that had ever happened to her, and at that moment she very much did want this man's death on her conscience.

Randy aimed the small pistol, just as Elena had, and Officer Blixt spoke. "I'm down. You've got no justification."

"If the first round is justified, so is the last one," Randy replied. "Your rules, not mine." The sharp report of the pistol ended the discussion.

The slide of the pistol was locked back, with smoke wafting from the muzzle and chamber both. Elena reached out to take it back. "Sorry," Randy said. "Whoever holds this gets the blame for that," he said, pointing at the last man to fall. "You saved my life with this just now. Thank you." Randy looked at the body and noticed the handheld radio. He took it out of its holster and threw it in the truck. That was also something that could be handy.

Elena pointed toward the patrol cars, one of which was pointing straight toward them. "They got me doing it on camera."

"Not for long." They got back into the truck. The cab was pretty well ventilated, and both of them were relieved when it started. The pulled up to the roadblock, and Randy pushed his way between two of the cars, shoving them aside. Once they were on the other side, he got out. He shined his flashlight at the ground and saw what he wanted, some spilled gasoline. He retrieved a pack of matches from his dashboard and flicked one at the gas. There was no huge, dramatic fireball, but the gas burned back to the cruiser it was leaking from and the car began to burn. More burning gas spilled and ran toward the other cars, and the gas began burning up the bodies on the ground that lay too close to the cars as well. Vehicle fires burn hot, and Randy was quite confident that there would be no dash cam videos being recovered from any of these cars.

Randy looked over the scene and realized that the score was already ten to zero. Even if the next cop he encountered got him, this had to be a new record. This wasn't the sort of distinction he had ever wanted. But to give up now would be to hand them another major victory, and help cement their power even further. He wanted that on his head even less.

Randy jumped back in the truck with his wife and they drove on. Then Randy pointed to the glove box. "The camera's in there," he said, and she took it out and handed it to him. "Don't make a sound while I'm filming."

Chapter 11

Choices Are Made

"We've lost contact with the roadblock crew." Esther Keel had just barged into Burt's office to announce the latest news. He was in the midst of a meeting with Jack Hayward and Byron Palmer, and he also had the County Sheriff on speakerphone, so the timing couldn't have been worse.

"Which ones?" Burt asked.

"All of them."

Burt put both fists to his forehead for a moment. "Have you called everyone yet?"

"Not everyone has their phones turned on, but I'm working on it." Esther went back out and closed the door behind her.

If he got all six of them, then that made ten killed so far, all within an hour of the first shot that was fired by Officer Simmons. That was nearly a third of the entire department.

"More bad news?" The voice of the County Sheriff came over the speakerphone.

"Possibly six more lost," Jack Hayward replied.

"We've got our own file on this guy, and he don't seem like the kind of guy to go off the deep end like this," the Sheriff said. "I'm here to help, but I need to know how this got started."

"Sheriff, we have dash cam video from the first backup car," Burt replied. "It clearly shows Officer Simmons warning him not to reach for a weapon. Gustin instigated this, and right now we're not interested in why."

"All right, I'm with you," the sheriff replied. "I've only got so many people on duty at the moment so we'll start with roadblocks around your city limits. When that's taken care of we'll move people into town to help with the search. Have you talked to the Governor about National Guard help?"

"Just how helpless do you think we are?"

"It's not about that. This guy has lots of friends, and if you want to find a needle in a haystack you need boots on the ground."

"We know who his friends are. And we prefer to find him ourselves."

* * *

Inside Bourbon Street, what was happening on the news was all that mattered. Vincent sat at the bar in front of the TV screen, with Alicia and Frank behind the bar in front of him, and every other patron packed in behind him.

A perky, dark-haired reporterette was on the scene at the cemetery. They couldn't show much detail on the screen because the media was apparently being kept back a ways, but there were a lot of flashing lights around the place. She was confirming that there were two officers dead and there were reports of others having been attacked just outside of town.

From time to time, they flashed a picture of Randy, with a caption that read "Prime Suspect."

"Have you talked to them yet?" Alicia asked.

"Their phones are off," Vincent replied. "Both of them. Prob'ly a good idea, they don't want to get tracked."

At the back of the crowd was one of the young men who was present when Elena had almost died in their parking lot. He took a glance out the front window. "Holy fuck, they're here!" he shouted.

* * *

Randy pulled the truck up close to the front door. The cops would be coming by here any time so he had to make this quick.

Vincent was the first one out the door, but everyone else was close behind him. "Randy, what in God's name did you do?"

"Vince, they tried to backshoot me right here in the truck." Randy and Elena both climbed out. "I need you to get Elena someplace safe. And I need you to get these up on Youtube." Randy handed Vincent his camera and tape recorder. "That's a recording of what happened, and my public statement."

"Randy, I ain't lettin' you do this alone."

"Yes you are. One, I need you to keep Elena safe right now. Two, no one can help me, you could only die with me, understand? This is a fight to the finish between me and this department, and I need to be clear about this. No one is invited to join in." Randy grabbed his friend's hand and shook it. "So long, bud." Then he got back in his truck and started it.

"What should we tell them when they come by?" Vince asked.

"Tell them they just missed me, but they won't miss me for long." Randy put it in gear and pulled out onto the road, thinking about what his next move would be. First he had to buy a few things, and after that he'd need to find the next big concentration of city cops. Where would he find that, he wondered? That would be easy.

As everyone watched him go, Frank tapped Vincent on the shoulder. "Come back to the office, I've got a computer with everything you need." Vincent took Elena's arm and they all headed in.

* * *

Randy's first stop was a bank machine, and the second was Wal-Mart. The news of what was happening was still pretty fresh, so unless the store personnel had the news running on the televisions in the electronic section, the chances that they knew who to watch for were slim.

First he picked out a prepaid cellphone. Not just any phone, it was one of the fancy smartphones. He also bought a refill card for it. In the toy section, he picked up a package of party poppers.

Waiting through the checkout line was a little nerve-wracking, but he had been right about the news not having reached the store personnel yet. He paid cash for everything so his bank wouldn't reveal everything he'd just bought. As soon as he was done there, he was off to Home Depot for a quick stop in the plumbing section.

Thank God for stores with late hours.

* * *

Randy's home was under siege, even if no one was home but the cats. Two city police cars blocked his driveway, with four officers hunkered behind them. A little further away on the road that led into his place were three County cars with another six deputies.

Two of the city cops were firing tear gas into the mobile home. Another one periodically announced through the loudspeaker that the place was surrounded and whoever was inside had better come out immediately. They knew perfectly well that no one was home, but they had to go through the motions before breaking the door down.

The fourth officer of the group was a detective who also doubled as the negotiator. He periodically attempted to call inside the house from his cellphone, but all he got was the message machine. As certain as they all were that no one was home, he was more than a little surprised when he called again and Randy answered.

"Hello?" Randy's voice came through the phone as though nothing was wrong.

"Randolph Gustin? This is Detective Trevor Chipman of the Forest Hill Police Department. Are you inside your home?"

"I'm on the home phone, aren't I? What seems to be the problem?"

"Mister Gustin, did you recently shoot ten police officers?"

"Indeed I did. And if you all don't leave my property immediately, you'll be next."

Detective Chipman waved at all the other cops to get their heads down, then spoke back into the phone. "Shall we negotiate on that?"

"One thing first. Inform the county deputies that my beef is with your department, not theirs. So long as they don't point any weapons or take other hostile action toward me, that's how it'll stay."

Chipman got on his radio and informed them, then resumed talking to Randy. "They say message received, and taken under advisement. Now shall we negotiate?"

"Don't see much point in that, but let's hear your opening offer."

"All right, here it is. Surrender peacefully, and I'll personally recommend to the prosecutor that you do not receive the death penalty."

"I call that an insult. Fuck your kind offer and fuck you." Detective Chipman's phone clicked as it disconnected.

"Sounds like his mind is made up," Officer Andrew Bergman said from behind the door on the passenger side. "And that works fine for me."

"I'm making one more attempt first," Chipman replied, and he dialed Randy's phone again.

"What now?" Randy's phone made a crackling sound as he answered.

"I get the sense this is a waste of time, but I thought you might like to make a counterproposal."

"Well first off, here's the problem with your offer. The courts are stacked, my evidence of what happened will somehow be excluded, and even if I don't get the death penalty, there's not a chance in hell I'll ever see the light of day again. So I'm having trouble with seeing the benefit of surrendering."

"And what evidence are you afraid is going to be discounted?"

"My tape recording of one of your boys trying to blow my head off while my hands were on the wheel and my gun was behind the seat of my truck."

"Tell me why I doubt that it happened that way."

"Don't know and don't care. It'll be on Youtube soon, you can hear for yourself."

"Even if that's true, explain how that justifies killing nine more on top of him."

"Because you're all on his side, and you all want to shoot me first chance you get, even knowing what he did. This is war, and your department declared it."

"Mister Gustin, that's not true. A murderer is a murderer, and you can't judge a whole class of people because one murderer happens to belong to them."

Randy's laughter came through the phone, long and genuine. "All right detective," he said, "I'm about to make you the one and only surrender offer that I'm going to make. You ready?"

"I am."

"I want you to call Everett Police Officer Troy Meade a murderer. Do that and I'll come out with my hands up."

Detective Trevor Chipman was a bit shaken by that offer. But a lot was riding on this, and he thought he could do it if it would get Gustin to come out. "That's all?" he asked.

"That's all you have to say, but not to me. You have to call the Gazette and state it for the public record as your personal opinion. Soon as I can call them for confirmation, we have a deal. If you won't say it though, then you're on the side of the murderers and everything you've said to me is a load of shit. The clock is ticking."

Now he was more than a bit shaken. The silence on his phone bored right into the side of his head as he weighed his options. It was true that very little could be done in the way of defending of Troy Meade. He had shot an unarmed man in the back who was boxed in and not going anywhere. His victim, Niles Meservey, had also not attempted to harm anyone, he was merely in a position where he "could" have tried to, which was what Meade had cited as the reason for killing him. The bulk of the public was already calling him a murderer and so there was little to be lost with them. But by and large police were still backing him, even if only with the specious excuses they always used to justify the unjustifiable. If Detective Chipman made such a statement, he'd be a pariah among his own people for the rest of his life.

"Randy," he began, "that's a case that has to be tried in a court, in front of a jury. They're the ones in the position to judge, and there's nothing you or I can say about it that will make any difference."

"I'm not asking for your judgment, I'm asking for your _personal opinion_ , which you are fully entitled to. But is that your answer?"

"I cannot comment on a case I have nothing to do with," Chipman replied. He took a breath, feeling the weight of his answer. The fact was that part of him wanted to say the truth, but a much bigger part of him knew what crossing that line meant. "Is there another option we can discuss?" he asked to break the silence.

"No there isn't," Randy replied, his voice sharp in the phone. "And for that matter, why should I even talk to you? I don't believe you're even here. I think you're sitting safe in some office while your underlings do the dirty work."

"I assure you that I am here."

"Where? I'm looking out and I don't see you."

Chipman stood up beside the car, feeling pretty secure that no accurate rifle shots would be coming through the closed curtains of the mobile home. "See me now?"

"I see you now." The phone crackled again.

"Is your phone's battery running dead?" the detective asked.

"The battery's fine, I'm just at the limit of my range," Randy replied.

Something about that didn't feel right to the detective. Randy's home wasn't that big a place. He turned to his partner on the other side of the car. "You know what the range is on a cordless phone?"

Bergman thought for a second. "If I remember right, mine gets a little over three hundred feet. I tested it once."

Chipman felt his legs begin to buckle under him. The mobile home was only sixty feet long. He looked around the property, which was dimly lit by the moon. Behind Randy's place was a lightly wooded area with a public road on the other side. Down the length of his property however were only a few trees of his own, then a fairly empty adjacent lot, and beyond that, there were some woods.

Right around three hundred feet away. That's where he saw the muzzle flash come from, and then it was too late to duck. The .308 soft point slug blew through both side windows of the patrol car and lifted him off his feet. He landed on his left side with a wound he would never get back up from.

Officer Bergman felt the wind from that slug as it passed him. He ducked low and made a dash to get behind the engine compartment, but another slug hit him in the right buttock and shattered his hip. From his concealment, Randy thought briefly about using him for bait as he had before, but he didn't have time for dawdling. So he put the next shot through his forehead, right underneath the front bumper. At a hundred yards, it was tough to miss.

At the other patrol car, officers Linda Anfinson and Stephen Black had already taken cover behind their engine block, so there wasn't much chance of getting them, especially with the deputies getting ready to open up on him. So he dedicated the rest of his rifle magazine to making sure those five vehicles wouldn't be following him. When he perforated the Sheriff's cars, he was careful to only put his rounds through the grilles and into the engine block, and not to aim at the deputies. But he left the two city cars totaled.

With that done, he swapped rifle magazines, and as he began his retreat, he picked up his cordless phone again. "You still there?" he said.

"What..." came the reply from the dying detective.

"You get my message?"

"What message?" His voice was fading along with his consciousness as he bled out.

"The message is, I'm not really interested in talking."

* * *

Officer Linda Anfinson was fortyish, had been on the job close to eleven years and considered herself pretty cynical. But she was completely unprepared for what she had just seen. Two of her co-workers had just been blown away in front of her, and it didn't look anything like it did on TV. It looked like it hurt, and it looked like they died in terror. All she wanted right then was to be away from there.

Her partner Stephen Black tried to start the car. The engine turned over, but it made noises that clearly indicated it would not be starting. "We're going after him on foot," he said.

Linda pointed at their fallen friends. "What about –"

"Too late for them. Let's go." He got out with his AR-15 and took off running. Not knowing what else to do, Linda followed with her pistol in hand.

They crossed the property to the adjacent lot and approached the dark woods that Randy had fired from. Linda had never seen woods that scared her so much. The dark shapes of the trees reminded her of the trees in the Wizard Of Oz that had come to life and threatened to rip off pieces of Dorothy. (At the age of four, she had considered that to be a bit inappropriate for kids.) "He could be waiting for us in there," she said.

"I hope he is," Stephen replied. Linda was sure at that point her partner would get them both killed. But, she had to be brave, or at least do a good job of pretending she was, and pray for the best.

They heard footsteps up ahead, far enough and fast enough that they could be sure no ambush was waiting. They picked up the pace, and emerged from the wooded area into another clearing. This one had a dirt road heading in from the main road, and they were just in time to see Randy's white truck pulling out. Stephen raised his rifle and got off a few rounds, but it didn't appear likely they hit anything more than trees.

Then they noticed a flickering light nearby. There were a few abandoned vehicles in the area, and something was burning inside the rusting hulk of a pickup truck. They jogged close enough to see what it was, and saw what appeared to be a stack of papers burning in the front seat. "What the hell, is he burning evidence?" Stephen wondered aloud. He walked over and reached for the door.

Linda's husband had been to Iraq and had come back with a lot of stories to share. At the moment Stephen reached for the door Linda started hearing alarm bells, and she tried to shout at him to stop, but it was too late. He grabbed the door handle and pulled, and then a thundering blast came out the side of the truck and blew him to the ground.

Linda covered her face as she was showered with debris and fragments. When she looked, Stephen was climbing to his feet and brushing himself off, seemingly okay aside from the missing right arm.

Stephen noticed it right after Linda did. The whole arm and part of the shoulder was gone, and the stump was spurting freely. The nature of the wound was such that the arm would not be getting reattached. His face was going white, but he still had to know what had just hit him, and he returned to look inside the truck. The blast had put the fire out, and a quick glance revealed that all that was burning was a few magazines and a newspaper.

He tilted the seat forward. Behind it was a two-foot length of two-inch pipe, with a cap on one end and a string laying on the floorboard. It was the kind of string that attaches to a party popper, which can be made into a pretty good pull-string detonator. It was tied to a longer string that was attached to the door. The pipe was blown back against the passenger side now, but had been propped up before and aimed up toward the driver's side. "Fuck me silly, he got me with an IED," he said. Then he stepped back, bent down and picked his arm up off the ground. The image reminded Linda of "Saving Private Ryan." He stared at it with growing comprehension that he was every bit as fucked as he had wanted Randy to be.

Stephen slumped down against the side of the truck with his arm in his lap. Linda looked at the wound and took off her jacket to try and stem the bleeding, but he shook his head. "Can't live without it," he said, his voice growing dim.

Linda acknowledged his wishes and moved back. She didn't want to watch him die too, and he didn't seem to need her comfort. She walked to the tailgate of the truck and sat down, unconcerned about the rust she was getting on the seat of her pants. She weighed her options briefly and then keyed the microphone of her radio. "Randolph Gustin, are you listening? This is Officer Linda Anfinson. You just killed three of my partners at your home. Please respond." There was nothing, not even static. She tried again. "If I quit, will you still come after me?" She had no idea if Randy was listening, but she certainly had the attention of every person with a badge within twenty miles.

"No. Do you quit?" The voice crackled back at her.

"Yes, I quit."

"Accepted. But I think you'd better leave town and not come back."

She took that for what it was, friendly advice offered for her own good. There were a whole lot of cops at that moment who thought less of her than they did of Randy, and she no longer had a home here. She took out her phone to call for one of her kids to come pick her up, when she heard the whispering voice.

"Don't blame you," the voice said.

"Stephen?" She looked around the truck to where her partner sat propped up against the side. His eyes were closed, and the blood flow had almost stopped, as had his breathing.

"Don't blame you one bit," was the last thing he said.

* * *

Officer Stephen Black didn't know it when he died, but his marksmanship had been better than he thought. Randy had a fresh .223 wound crossing his back. It was bleeding and he couldn't even reach it to put direct pressure on it. He had to settle for pressing his back against the seat of the truck, which seriously didn't feel good.

As he drove back toward town again, flashing lights appeared in his mirror and closed in fast. It appeared that one of the Sheriff's Department vehicles he had put a few rounds into was still in operation. And then a second car appeared too, which told Randy that he needed to be more careful with his aim.

This was bad. He couldn't keep driving forever, and when he finally had to stop, his condition was such that things would likely not go as well as it had up until now. But he still had no intention of surrendering.

As the car closed in, Randy got his countermeasures ready. He didn't want to shoot at a Sheriff's Deputy, because that would officially expand the scope of the conflict. Shooting backwards from a moving vehicle was a tad bit difficult anyhow. But he did have his laser, which worked well when shined through a rear-view mirror, and he had his extra large pepper spray canister made for bears. He rolled down his window to shoot the pepper spray out the window, where it would be sucked into the pursuing car through the ventilation, but right then the front car slowed. Randy took another look, and smoke was pouring out from under the hood. It pulled off the road, and flames appeared in the engine compartment. His bullets might not have shut down the engine, but they had at least drained the cooling system, and now this car would be going up in smoke too.

The second car pulled around it and continued the chase. He fired the pepper spray out the window until about half the can was gone. He couldn't see how effectively it was working, but the car did seem to back off a little. Then he picked up the laser and aimed it through the rear-view mirror on his driver's door. He could get the aim fairly close just by sighting down the length of the laser, but he couldn't see where the beam was hitting with all the lights behind him. So he put it more or less on target and moved it back and forth, and then got the result he was looking for. The car veered off the road and into a ditch, one that was deep enough that this car wouldn't be pursuing him any longer either.

The deputies driving it did still have a perfectly good radio however.

* * *

The bulk of the on-duty force in town had been killed already. But the officers from the other shifts were arriving and getting out on the streets to find him. Randy heard their chatter on his stolen police radio. He gathered that they were mostly covering the roads on the East side of town, right between him and city limits.

Randy picked one of the back roads heading into town and found a driveway he could back into. The driveway was lined with trees and he was pretty well hidden. He didn't have to wait long before two city patrol cars sped past him, headed to search the outlying areas. Randy started his truck and sped into town.

Being on city roads again gave him more side roads to disappear on, but a lot of people were watching for him now. And his list of options was pretty narrow. His pain and exhaustion levels were catching up with him, but there wasn't a chance in hell he was going to put any friends in danger by asking them for a hideout. He couldn't flee town without involving other agencies in the hunt for him, which was precisely what he wanted to avoid. There was really only one option left to him, but before he could carry that out he needed a vehicle that didn't have such a big target painted on it.

There was a Toyota dealership in this part of town that Randy was pretty familiar with. He made his way there, and right close by it he saw a vacant house with a "for sale" sign in the yard. That made a good place to park the truck for now. He locked it up and walked over to the dealership lot.

When Randy had been about twenty, he had worked for a local security patrol. Among his duties was that every night, he had to visit this dealership and one other one, and pull on every single car door to check for cars that had been left unlocked. Few were the number of nights when he had not found at least one car that was open, with the keys sitting on the visor.

When he started pulling on doors again, it almost felt like old times. Times when he still had his whole life ahead of him. But he didn't anymore, so he didn't waste time. He began in the section that had the nondescript looking cars, and it wasn't long before he found one. It was an off-white 4-door Camry that was just a few years old, and had its own license plate. The keys were right on the visor.

He drove the car over a couple of curbs to get it out of the lot, then he went back to his truck to get his rifle and gear. Then he headed out toward the scene of his final showdown.

* * *

Unfortunately, some neighbors had noticed the suspicious activity and called 911. Randy got out of there ahead of the arrival of police, but not by much. As he was making a beeline for the department headquarters, he heard chatter on the radio. They had found his truck, and had a general description of the car that he had taken. Employees of the dealership were on their way in to confirm exactly what car was missing. In the meantime, nondescript white cars were the new focus of the search. At least there were more of those on the road than there were company trucks.

The word came over the radio that a similar car had been spotted, and a felony stop was ensuing. Luckily this was happening a good couple miles away, so maybe that would distract them away from him while he made his way to the police station. His plan from there was fairly uncomplicated, and that was to rack up the biggest body count of city uniforms he was able to before buying the farm himself. Under the current circumstances, he didn't expect the score would get that much higher, but it was the only plan left to him. So he continued on with the hope that the ones out on patrol would be distracted enough by the similar cars to allow him to make it there. But his luck didn't turn out to be that good.

He passed a light-colored Chevy Caprice headed the other way, and it whipped a u-turn and flipped on flashing lights in the grille. It was an unmarked car, and it was currently attempting a stop while being used for patrol illegally, but Randy doubted that argument would carry a lot of weight at the moment. He floored it before the pursuing car could get up to speed, put some distance between them, and took a hard right into residential streets. A few zigzags later he had lost the car, but as the radio chatter confirmed, he had tagged himself as the one they were looking for and they were all headed this way.

He rolled down the windows so as to be able to hear the sirens. They were numerous, and closing in. The middle of a neighborhood was the last place he wanted to make his stand, but it was appearing he might not have a choice. The sound of the sirens came closer, from at least three directions, and then he spotted it. It was an open garage door, with nothing parked inside, and he drove into it. He knew he'd regret this, but he was panicking and didn't know what else to do.

Randy killed the engine and jumped out. He searched frantically for a button on the wall and finally found it. He pushed it, and the garage door began to close.

The pain in his back was growing more intense, as was his exhaustion level. And he had a whole new problem to deal with; the fact that he was now a home invader.

Whoever lived here was undoubtedly aware of his presence, so he had to move fast. Whatever that movement was going to be he had no idea, as this was territory he had never planned ahead for. It's a well-accepted premise that home invaders deserve, and need, to be shot on sight.

With his Glock in hand, he opened the door into the home and went through. The hallway was dark, but it led straight to the living room, where he could see light. He emerged into the living room, and a woman was standing there. In her sixties, wearing spectacles, with curly black hair that was graying. She looked at his gun, and he realized it was pointing in her direction. He pointed it away from her and put his other hand up. "I mean you no harm," he said, but as he tried to think of how to explain his presence, he drew a blank. There was no explanation.

That turned out to be a moot issue anyhow, because at that moment there was a loud _POP_ from behind him, and a fiery jolt of electricity ripped through his body. He collapsed, the last tiny bit of his strength gone, and the world started going black.

This could not be good.

Chapter 12

Viral Video

"Sir, you need to see this now," Esther said as she walked into Burt's office. Burt seriously did not feel like being interrupted, but when Esther barged in there was always a reason for it.

She went to his computer and started typing until a video popped up on Youtube. Burt's jaw almost hit the desk when he saw Randy's face appear on the screen.

"My name is Randolph Gustin," he said on the screen. It appeared he was sitting in his pickup and moving while he had recorded this, and holding the camera himself. "Earlier this evening I was attacked by an officer of the Forest Hill Police Department. He tried to set me up for a justified homicide and he almost succeeded. If he had, I'd be dead right now and he'd most likely get promoted. But it didn't happen that way. I killed him in self-defense, and I've killed every cop that's tried to shoot me since that moment too."

"This is not what I wanted, it was forced on me. Now I have to contend with the unfortunate reality that justice is not equal. While a cop could easily get away with killing a citizen under such circumstances, I would not. The same system that lets murdering cops off the hook would do whatever it took to make sure I get the book dropped right on me. There is no point in my surrendering because no matter what choice I make, my life is over."

"I've been waging a peaceful campaign on the issue of out-of-control police for some time. But now that this has happened, the peaceful approach will not help me. Every cop in the Forest Hill Police Department is on the side of the would-be murderer. That means that war has been declared upon me by their entire department. So war is what they get."

"I hereby ask that every citizen and governmental entity leave this conflict between me and the Forest Hill Police Department. You have my word that I will not leave the city limits, and I will not endanger any citizen who doesn't point a weapon at me first, even if it means I die. This one department started this fight willingly. They're all big boys, and capable of taking care of their own messes, so let this one department settle this with me themselves."

At that moment Randy held up his microcassette recorder in front of the camera. "A part of the incident that started all this is on tape. I want you to hear that now. And I want you to understand that I'm not doing this for me, because my fate is already sealed. This is for you. This is to stop the gang of thugs in this town who thinks that a badge is a license to demolish people's lives. If they can do this to me, they can do it to any of you, and I am compelled to make them understand that the time has come when they can no longer do this to people for free. Goodbye now."

The screen went black as Burt sat back in his chair. Then some text appeared on the black screen. It read, "Audio tape of Randolph Gustin Shooting Incident." The tape rehashed what Burt already knew from the dash cam video from the rear vehicle, and one thing that he didn't. Officer Simmons had made an incredibly stupid error by letting himself get taped apparently admitting his intent. Burt was becoming less concerned about the body count and more concerned about the unprecedented publicity nightmare he was looking down the barrel of.

When the audio recording ended, another face appeared on the screen. He didn't recognize her right away, but she identified herself quickly enough.

"My name is Elena Gustin, and I'm Randy's wife. I first met Randy when he saved me from being murdered by this same department. Most of you already know that story."

"Now I want you to hear me. Everything he's told you is God's own truth, so please do what he asks. Don't get involved and don't help him. But don't help this department either. They are every bit the monsters he's ever called them, so let them settle this with my husband themselves." The video ended, frozen on that frame.

Burt reached for his radio, then thought twice about that and took out his cellphone instead. He dialed Jack Hayward, who at that moment was in the outlying areas helping with the search. When he answered, Burt asked, "Jack, you seen that video yet?"

"Yep, just did."

"Get her."

* * *

By the time that phone call happened, Elena was long gone from Bourbon Street. She was riding in the passenger side of Vincent's Bronco on the way to someplace hopefully safe.

"He's gonna be mad you put yourself in the video," Vincent said to her.

"I didn't say anything about me being there or doing any of the shooting. And he's not the only one who has a right to take any risks." She opened her purse and fished around inside, only to remember that she didn't smoke anymore. "You got a cigarette?"

Vincent shook his head slowly. "If there's one thing that'd make Randy think this was all for nothin', it'd be for you to get the idea it was okay to throw your life in the gutter again. I'm not givin' you one."

"It's all over whether I think it's okay or not. They're taking him from me." She stared out the window as they passed through town. "I can't live without him."

* * *

"Chief Grandstone, I saw that video, and I heard the audio, I need to ask you just one question." The governor was on the phone and she didn't sound happy. "What the fuck?"

"Governor, the audio shows Simmons making a questionable remark that can be interpreted in more than one way. I promise you this doesn't tell the whole story."

"How much more do I need to know? Your guys tried to outright murder someone, and it's all on tape. How the hell am I supposed to take your side with that thing all over the news?"

"This is the worst attack on law enforcement ever. Are you telling me that's not a good enough reason?"

"Burt, before this I wanted to send you everything I had, I really did. But there's a court of law and a court of public opinion, and the court of public opinion isn't buying your excuses. I'm getting calls from people who want me to send in the National Guard all right, but they want the Guard to leave this Gustin character alone and arrest you and your whole department instead. And truth be told, I'm giving it some thought."

"That would not take a hell of a lot of manpower right now, but that's a mistake even you don't want to make," Burt said. "Don't you get what's at stake here? This isn't just about his fight with me and my department, this man is challenging the whole foundation of authority. Mine, yours, everyone's. If he is perceived as the winner of this fight, it won't make a bit of difference who started it, because people's respect for us will evaporate down to nothing. We keep people in line by making sure they know that getting on our bad side isn't worth the consequences. You want to start seeing another Chris Monfort cropping up every couple of months? Do you want to live in a world where we're the ones who have to be afraid of them deciding it's time to take some fucked up kind of enforcement action against us?"

"I've got news for you Burt," the governor said, "for me to take your side in this would make me appear as an accessory to attempted murder. And rightfully so. You think that would inspire a lot of good will toward the state?"

"Governor, you need to think longer-term. There is one thing that halts copycats, and that's when the original shooter loses his fight and goes down in flames. Either that happens now, or this could become the next national shooting trend. If that happens, it'll be on your resume for life. So what'll it be?"

There were times when the governor hated her job and this had to be the worst of them. The Forest Hill Police Department had long been one to push the envelope, to see how much they could prod people and get away with it. But Burt was right about everything else too. This situation could balloon into something national. Washington State had long been known as the birthplace of national shooting trends. The school shooting trend that dominated the nineties had originated in Moses Lake. A spurt of mall shootings around the country had started in Tacoma. A spate of campus shootings had begun with young Rebecca Griego being killed at the University of Washington, and the very next one of those had been Virginia Tech.

The last thing she needed was for an insurgency against police to be the next such trend to spring from her state, especially on her watch. It was going to hurt, but something had to be done. "Tell you what I'll do," she began. "I'll assign some National Guard troops to work with the Sheriff's department. They'll help with keeping the town surrounded and sealed off, and they'll be ready to intervene in case of some extraordinary circumstance. Will that suffice?"

"I guess it'll have to. We'd just as soon find him ourselves anyhow, because this can't end peacefully. He has to lose, and it has to hurt, or we'll all be paying the price for a very long time."

"Well, good luck with that. But be advised that afterward, you'll be having a nice long talk with our attorney general." She hung up before Burt could think of a good reply.

* * *

Vincent couldn't take Elena out of town because of all the roadblocks, but there was one place in town where he hoped she'd be okay. It wasn't a place he had ever wanted to visit again, but at the moment what he wanted had to be put aside. "Rosemary is her name," Vincent said. "She's my ex."

"You told us your ex-wife was dead," Elena replied.

"To me, she is. But right now we need help, and she offered it."

They pulled into the driveway of a fairly nice two-story house. "This is a pretty nice place she lives in," Elena said.

"I know. It used to be mine."

Vincent flashed his headlights, and the garage door opened. He drove in and the door closed behind him. "You're gonna have to stay out of view of the neighbors," he told her. They got out, and the door that led into the house opened. In the doorway stood a woman in her mid fifties, wearing an expression that seemed to exude dignity more than anything else Elena could think of. "Hi Rosie," Vincent said. Elena gathered from his voice that he was neither comfortable with, nor happy about being here.

"Vince, you sure got mixed up in a pickle this time," Rosemary replied.

"Don't tell me I'm not allowed to help my friends, okay?"

"If I believed that, do you think I'd have called?" She motioned them to come inside, and they followed her. Once inside the living room, she motioned them to sit on the couch while she went to the kitchen to pour some soft drinks. "I've been looking at all the news on this," she said from the kitchen. "I want to help, but I'm not sure what I can do."

"Elena needs to hide out until tomorrow," Vincent replied. "Then she needs a ride to see their lawyer and he'll take it from there."

Rosemary brought the drinks in on a tray, set them on the coffee table and sat down. "Elena, would you tell me what's going through your mind right now?"

Elena felt a twinge of suspicion. "I'd rather not talk about that, no."

"I understand, but my getting involved sort of depends on it. You can consider me sworn to secrecy."

Elena looked toward Vincent. "Whatever else I might think of her," he said, "she does what she promises."

Rosemary gave Vincent a wink. "You can take his word for that, he knows," she said. "Now if it helps, I'll simplify what it is I want to know. Are you angry or scared?"

Elena didn't hesitate. "I'm angry. I mean... I've never been this angry." It felt strangely good to get that out, and there were a lot more things on her mind she wanted to get out too. Rosemary and Vincent both listened intently as she went on. "All we ever wanted was to live in peace, and they've taken everything from us. He might be dead right now, and if he's not then he will be before this is over, because there's too many of them and they won't stop until he is." She picked up her drink but could only stare into it. The words, however, were flowing pretty freely. "It's way past wrong that they can do this to us, that they can just take everything like this. I hope he kills them all, and I'm glad that I –"

_SMACK!_ Elena was jarred by the hand that came across the back of her head. She hadn't felt such a thing since Armando. She didn't know what to think or how to react, but she looked toward Vincent and saw his own anger, and his finger pointing in her face. "You want to live through this, you don't let your guard down for one bloody second. Hear me?" Vincent felt sick at what he had just done, but he anything less than a real lasting impression would be a disservice to his friends.

Rosemary was pretty stunned herself. "Ordinarily I'd be screaming bloody murder right now," she said. "But he's right, even if he is being a royal prick about it. You have to turn yourself in sometime, and they're going to put you through the wringer like you never imagined."

Elena put her hands to her head and looked down. Fatigue was catching up with her. "I just wish I knew what to do," she said. "He wants me to leave it between him and them, but how can I live with that?"

A glint began to show in Rosemary's eye, one that Vincent had seen before. Every time he had seen it in the past he didn't know whether to be happy or scared, but one or the other was always in order. Rosemary reached out and took Elena's hand. "Let me show you to your room. You need sleep, and you need it now. Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

Rosemary led Elena up the stairs while Vincent waited. She returned shortly afterward, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. "What are you thinking?" Vincent asked her.

"I'm thinking I can help," she replied.

"It could be too late to help already."

"If they had found him, there wouldn't be any hesitation in announcing it. We'd know already," she said. "I can take care of Elena from here, but I need your help too. Gather up his friends, the people he works with, and any witnesses to any situation he's been involved with, and get ready to bring them to me."

Vincent cracked his first smile since arriving. "All right, now you're startin' to scare me. What's on your mind exactly?"

"I'll tell you what's on my mind," she replied. "One, I'm on their side. And two, I miss the spotlight."

For the first time in years, they talked.

* * *

They finished their talk, and Vincent left, heading back toward Bourbon Street. It was late now and he had to get there before closing. There was a ton on his mind. This situation wasn't just getting bloody, it was getting deep. He was so lost in thought that he almost pulled into the lot before noticing the police cruiser parked in the middle of it, with someone bent over the hood.

The cruiser's flashing lights weren't on, probably because they didn't want to make targets of themselves. Vincent passed on by the lot instead of pulling in, then he took the next left. He pulled into an adjacent lot behind the pub, and parked in a spot where he could see what was happening and decide what to do.

He didn't like what he saw. He recognized the young man bent over the hood as one of those who was present the night Elena had almost died in the parking spot right across the fence from where he now sat. Sergeant Byron Palmer had the young man's arm pinned behind him. Jack Hayward was squared off against a gathering group of patrons, his hand on his weapon. He was screaming at them that they'd better start giving up information, or he was going to bring the law down on them like they'd never imagined he could.

Enough was enough. This wasn't just Randy's fight anymore. Vincent reached under his seat and took out his Government .45 in its holster. He undid his belt and strapped it on, then he got out and made his way through the parked cars toward the scene.

It was time these sons of bitches got a taste of their own medicine.

* * *

"You people gonna talk," Jack Hayward screamed, "or do I start slapping cuffs on you?" Hayward faced the angry crowd with his hand on his gun.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" one of the patrons yelled back.

" _THERE ARE THIRTEEN COPS DEAD, DO YOU GET WHAT THAT MEANS?"_ Hayward screamed. "We know they've been here, and as far as I'm concerned you're all complicit." Then Jack unsnapped his gun and drew it. "But maybe I'm still not making myself clear enough."

Alicia stepped to the front of the crowd. "You're seriously threatening us?"

"Here's how it works, little lady." He pointed toward the edge of the crowd, off to his side. "Those guys over there are closing my flank. That's a threat." The men he was referring to stared at one another with astonishment, as Hayward pointed to another man in the crowd. "That man has his hands in his pockets. That's a threat." Then he turned his attention to Alicia. "And as for you, you're showing defiance to an officer of the law. That's a threat too." He leaned down closer to her. "Thirteen of my partners have died tonight, and you're on the side of the man who did it. So you just ask yourself, do you want to roll the dice on who I feel most threatened by right now?"

At that moment Jack Hayward heard a very ominous click, the kind that could only be a safety switch. "I'll tell you exactly who you need to feel threatened by," Vincent said. "If your buddy makes a move, I'll take care of you first and then him. So both of you empty your hands right now."

Byron Palmer apparently didn't hear that part, because he made a move anyways. He released the young man on the hood of the car and swung his weapon toward Vincent, but before Vincent could react there was another weapon being pointed at Palmer. The man with his hands in his pockets had taken them out, and in one of them he was holding a .38 snubnose revolver. "You do what the man just told you," he said, then he flashed a smile at Alicia. "Sometimes they're being paranoid, sometimes they're not."

Both cops had a sudden flash of wisdom and they put their weapons on the ground.

Vincent picked up both weapons and set them on top of a nearby car. "Now both of you, face down on the ground."

"Don't you even think it –"

" _I SAID FACE DOWN ON THE GODDAMN GROUND RIGHT GODDAMN NOW!"_ Vincent was seething, and he was completely serious about pulling the trigger if they didn't do it. "You are under citizen's arrest, refusal to comply with a lawful order will be considered a threat, and I'm not gonna tell you again!" He put his front sight on the center of Hayward's considerable mass, and then they both complied. As Vincent removed their own cuffs from their belts and applied them, a few cheers went up from the crowd. Then Vincent pulled them to their feet and made them sit on the hood of their own car.

"I don't have the words to tell you what a mistake you're making right now," Hayward said.

"You just misrepresented people's actions as threatening," Vincent replied. "That's not a pretend threat, it's a real one, and that's how it's going to be dealt with. Now I need to see your drivers licenses." Hayward began to protest, but Vincent was done screwing around and simply stuck his gun into the cop's ribs. Then he took out his wallet, extracted the license, and did the same with Palmer. He wrote down the information, makng sure to get their home addresses. Any cop can tell you, that sort of info comes in handy.

Then he reached inside the cruiser and popped the trunk release. When Hayward began to scream about that, he said, "This is a search incident to an arrest. You know what that is, right?" Inside the trunk was a big black duffel bag. Vincent unzipped it and fished through it. The duffel was full of tactical gear and spare ammo, and Vincent quickly found what he was looking for. It was a folding combat style knife, of a type that typically sold for fifteen dollars at the Indian smoke shops. It had a curvy blacked blade that was 4 ½" long, was made of a kind of steel that would never hold an edge, and clearly hadn't held one in quite a while.

"Gentlemen, what kind of knife is this?" Vincent asked. They had no answer, so he gave them some help. "Is it the throw-down variety?" Still getting no answer, Vincent addressed the crowd. "For those of you who don't know, a 'throw down' weapon is something they plant on you after they shoot you without justification. Sort of like what happened to one Arnold McCasliin."

"That's a back-up utility knife, you moron..." Hayward growled.

"Really? When's the last time you sharpened it?" Vincent drew the edge across the back of his arm, pressing hard enough that anything with an edge would have cut deep, but no blood appeared. "This thing ain't fit to be used as a tool or a weapon, it's only good for looking like one. And I see you picked a folder this time. You must have wised up after havin' to explain why McCaslin supposedly pulled a straight-blade knife from inside his belt, even though he had no sheath for it."

"His shooting was every bit as justified as yours will be." Hayward's commanding tone fell a little flat, but it did get a rise from Vincent, who replied through clenched teeth.

"You know somethin' Jack, I don't think everybody here has heard the story of exactly how justified that was. Why don't we tell it to them?" Hayward was a little short on responses, so Vincent faced the crowd and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.

* * *

The Tale of Arnold McCaslin, Part One

(as told by Vincent Quigg)

Arnold McCaslin was part of the college hippie crowd. Rode a bike everywhere and went to meetings on saving the Earth. Nothin' wrong with that, most people outgrow it anyhow. But like a lot of them, he was a little snobbish to people who drove, especially if they drove somethin' big. It just so happened at that time that the department had a big Blazer in the fleet, and on that day Hayward was drivin' it.

So Hayward is stopped at a stop sign, and McCaslin comes ridin' up alongside. He gives him a dirty look, and then blows on through the sign like it ain't nobody's business. He was guilty of runnin' a stop sign, but people on bikes do it all the time 'cause it never gets enforced, plus a lot of them figure they're sacrificin' to save the planet so the rules are different for them.

That wasn't what Hayward's problem was with anyhow, it was the snotty I'm-better-than-you look that McCaslin gave him. You just don't look at a cop like that, let alone a cop like Hayward, but then everyone here already knows that. So Hayward flipped his lights on and stopped him next to the park.

Hayward started off by reaming him for running the red light, and McCaslin got a little indignant. He told Hayward that bikes aren't the same thing as cars, and he couldn't believe he was bein' put through this. Hayward told him he better shut up and start showin' a little respect. McCaslin replied that respect was a two-way street, and that's where everything went south.

Hayward launched into the whole interrogation routine. Where you comin' from, where you goin', what are you doin' here, all that happy horseshit. He said he's askin' simple questions, and McCaslin replied that "none of your business" is a simple answer. So Hayward started accusin' him of acting nervous. Now I've been to the same interrogation school that Hayward was, and I know the purpose behind all this. It's to badger a person into feeling and acting scared so you've got somethin' to accuse them of, and to push them to where they get angry and make mistakes. And in this case it worked a little too well.

Hayward accused McCaslin of hiding something, like drugs or weapons, and said he wanted to check his pockets and look inside his coat. McCaslin couldn't believe he was even askin', and he said he didn't consent to warrantless searches. Hayward started demanding to know what he had to hide, and McCaslin said, "Dude, I know my rights!"

That answer was a little on the cliché side, and Hayward started laughin', but not just cause it sounded funny. He was laughin' at McCaslin too, looking down on him, giving him a smirk that said _buddy, you're scum and we both know it, and it's up to me to figure out exactly why you're scum and get some proof._ With the way he stared at McCaslin, he was callin' him a lowlife.

Then Hayward told him that only guilty people stand on their rights like that, and that's when McCaslin finally lost it. He screamed at Hayward, "You wanna see what's in my coat? Then here!" Then he ripped his coat open, and when he did that, the man sitting on this car right here had the excuse he needed. He drew his Glock, pretty damn quick for a cop, and shot Arnold McCaslin through the ribcage.

The shot wasn't placed all that well, and it didn't even put him down right away. McCaslin had a look on his face like this had to be some kind of nightmare he was going to wake up from. Then he realized it wasn't, and he just sat down on the sidewalk and started to cry.

Some of the people who were watchin' the whole thing started yelling at Hayward that he had no goddamn right to do that, and his answer was to warn them they better keep a safe distance. He warned them at gunpoint in order to make sure none of them got close. Then when his buddies all showed up, they escorted everyone way back, because no one ever gets to talk to the shooting victim. No one gets to say goodbye, no one gets to see off their loved ones. The reason for that, you see, is to make sure no one gets their own look at the scene, and no one gets to hear the side of the person who just got shot before they die. In this case, they had to make sure no one was able to see for themselves if McCaslin really had a weapon hidden in his coat or not.

An' that's exactly what they did...

* * *

"...Ain't it, Hayward?" As Vincent finished relating the tale, the anger level of the crowd of bar patrons was elevated to nearly that of lynch-mob category. "I used to be a deputy over in Spokane County. I been there an' I done that, and I know what I'm talking about."

"If you used to be a cop, how come you're not now?" Hayward asked.

"I treated people like human beings, and that just didn't sit well with the establishment."

"What a nice reason," Hayward said. "You ever thought about how you might have contributed to the line of thinking that you don't have to follow commands from a cop? That you can argue and resist on the scene instead of settling it in court later? Do you realize you're part of the problem that led to what's happening tonight?"

"The problem is all you, Hayward," Vincent replied. "But in the current circumstances, I'm going to take a page from your book. From here on forward, my policy is, if you point a weapon at me or any other citizen without clear justification, then I have no choice, I must shoot. And when the smoke clears from that, I'll have to make the same decision about surrendering that Randy had to make."

Hayward wasn't liking this a bit. Nobody talked to a cop like this and got away with it. "If you think this'll get the results you want, you're going to find out how very wrong you are."

The young man holding the revolver held it up. "He's not the only one making that his policy."

"Count me in," Alicia said.

One by one, hands began going up in agreement. As Hayward watched, he was very disturbed to see that a significant number of those hands were holding pistols.

Vincent was pretty surprised by this development himself. He felt torn at that moment, needing the support on one hand, and not wanting to see others risk throwing their lives away on account of his actions on the other. It gave him a new insight into why Randy had insisted everyone stay out of his fight.

Hayward felt his sense of power slipping. It was a feeling that made him sick to his stomach, so he tried to seize a little of it back. "You might have caught us at a bad time, but once this is over there'll be plenty of opportunity to set you all straight. Every one of you who is part of this is going to pay. Do you really think you can humiliate us like this?"

"Well tell me how it feels on the receiving end," Vincent replied. "This is exactly what you put us through at every opportunity, but now you people have pushed things past the breaking point. As for makin' us pay, maybe you'll get that chance. But I'm bettin' that by the time Randy gets finished, you won't be around to make good on that."

Everyone had said their piece, so Vincent locked their guns in the trunk of the patrol car, uncuffed the two cops and sent them on their merry way. They left without further comment, but none was needed. They meant to have revenge for this, and everyone knew it. But whether they'd get that chance was very much in question, because things had just changed again.

They weren't in charge anymore.

Chapter 13

The Doctor's House

Randy's mind began swimming into the early stages of consciousness. Having no memory yet of when he'd last gone to sleep, he felt certain that he was at home, safe in his own bed. Then the nagging sense began to return that things had changed since he'd last been in that particular happy place, with Elena lying beside him, and feeling secure that all was right in the world. The sluggishness with which his brain was awakening reinforced that sense. He could almost see Elena beside him, right where she always was when he opened his eyes, but as his uneasiness grew with his ascent from sleep, the image of her faded and then vanished. Randy finally opened his eyes. Elena, of course, was not there.

He was lying on a couch in a strange house. It was midday, judging by the amount of sunlight filtering through the curtains on the large front windows. It was a big front room with a fireplace.

A woman was sitting in the easy chair across the room from the couch. She was in her sixties, wearing spectacles, and holding Randy's Glock in her lap. She gave him a smile as he noticed her. "Please don't move," she said, and Randy realized that wouldn't be a hard request to go along with, as his arms were behind him and he was wearing handcuffs. "I'll get the doctor." She got up and disappeared down the hall.

What she said was a little surprising, but it made sense as Randy noticed that the pain from the wound in his back, while still substantial, had been reduced to a dull throb. Someone had been busy fixing him up.

As he tried to sit up, the man he was waiting for walked in. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt, was a little younger than his wife, and had black hair that was only beginning to go gray on the fringes. "My name is Doctor Terrence Kletz," he said, "and this is my wife Dorothy. Are you aware that you committed a home invasion here last evening?"

Randy fought to clear his head. Another bad impression was the last thing he needed. "I think you're aware that I've committed much worse than that lately."

"Indeed I am, but there's a difference," the doctor replied. "We are not involved in your conflict, but you've made us involved."

"That's not what I meant to do. I want it to stay between me and them."

"We gathered that from your video," the doctor replied, then shifted in his seat with a look of deep consideration. "How does your back feel right now?"

"Hurts like hell, which is a big improvement. I take it you had something to do with that?"

"You have a four inch laceration across the lower medial part of your back, followed by a shallow three inch penetration wound with an exit out the left side. No nerve damage or serious penetration into muscle tissue. It's been disinfected and stitched up, but you'll need a course of antibiotics."

"You wouldn't have something for pain, would you?"

"You can have Tylenol. We have stronger painkillers too, but I doubt if you'll want those under the circumstances."

"I'll take the Tylenol. Thanks." Dorothy got up and went to the bathroom to get his pills, and Randy decided it was time to start talking business. "Can you tell me why you didn't call 911 right away?"

The doctor considered his answer for a moment. "I learned the hard way once that if you want to treat a bullet wound in a timely manner, you need to do it before the police are involved. So I set about taking care of that first, and while I was working on that was when your video appeared on the news."

"So the video is the reason?"

"You appear to have insights that others don't. And there are some things I need to know."

* * *

At Rosemary's house, Elena hadn't slept nearly as well as Randy had. She had gotten up repeatedly to turn on the TV and try to get some news about Randy, and finally Rosemary had slipped a percocet into her water to make her sleep. The pill did its magic and she didn't awake until late in the morning.

When she finally came downstairs, Rosemary already had breakfast ready. Elena said good morning to her, and headed for the TV again.

"They haven't found him yet," Rosemary said. "They wouldn't waste any time announcing it if they had." Elena didn't disbelieve her, but she stayed in front of the TV, wanting to know for herself. "Please sit down and eat. We have a long day ahead of us." Elena did as she was asked.

It was a pretty fancy breakfast Rosemary had prepared, as though she expected it might be Elena's last good breakfast for a while. "Trying to figure out what to do now?" she asked, and Elena nodded. "I have something in the works, if you're interested."

"What is it?"

"Well, if you want to get people behind you, you have to speak to them. And I mean all of them."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I used to work in media. And I have a lot of friends who still do, more than a few of whom owe me favors." Elena stopped eating as this began to sink in. "If you want a broad audience to tell your side of this to, it's yours."

* * *

Guy Phillips liked the Guard, but he hated guard duty, or so the pun went. He was twenty-six, and liked to be working an assignment he could sink his teeth into. Something like Iraq or Afghanistan, both of which he had been to. He didn't have that kind of patience for standing around waiting for things to happen, and that's what he was currently doing on the East side of Forest Hill.

He was managing a roadblock, where he and five others were checking every car going in or out of town for Randy, and on this back road there weren't very many. Even under the current circumstances people had a hard time with being subjected to a roadblock. But Guy and his team kept their smiles on and did their jobs with the minimum exertion of authority required. Experience had taught him that the less unhappy people were with you, the less likely they were to shoot at you. It was a lesson that he suspected the local police were learning for the first time.

If it weren't for the news reports and radio chatter, you could hardly tell anything was different. Traffic moved about town normally, people went about their business like nothing was wrong.

"Requesting backup, nineteenth and union." The call came over the police scanner and caught Guy's attention. "Request SWAT deployment."

"Dispatch copies, what's happening?"

"Got a van, driver won't open the back up, and I think he's hiding something. Also got some bystanders acting hostile about it."

"Copy, all available units are en route."

Calling SWAT on somebody who wouldn't consent to a warrantless search, with citizens already showing anger about his treatment? If he'd ever pulled something like that in the Middle East he'd have been court martialed.

Guy began to suspect he had an idea what had led to this chain of events.

* * *

Randy was still wearing the handcuffs, but they were in front of him now. That made them a lot less uncomfortable, and made it a lot easier to eat as he sat at their table.

The three of them were having a late lunch, as they watched the latest news on the TV. The news program detailed the continuing manhunt, explaining how the town had been sealed off by the National Guard and other agencies while the local police continued the search. That could be useful to know, Randy thought, if he ever got back to business. Not that it appeared likely he'd be doing so.

Then came the focus on the slain officers. One by one their pictures and names were shown, followed by interviews with grieving family members.

"How does it make you feel, knowing you caused all that?" the doctor asked.

"Sick to my stomach," Randy replied. "I'm glad it's over."

"Over? They're still after you, and they mean to make you suffer for this."

"I know. But my war is over." Randy turned his gaze from the TV to the doctor. "That is what you're making sure of, right?"

"Truthfully, we haven't decided whether to take any sides in this yet."

Randy started feeling a twinge of concern. "Are you getting ready to go Dexter on me?"

The doctor and his wife both laughed, long and loud. "Far from it," the doctor finally said. "But what I do want may not be entirely pleasant either. You've told people that you were set up for murder. And we also know the story of how your wife was nearly killed by the same department. You've been making noise and headlines about this issue for a long time, so you seem to be pretty knowledgeable about this sort of thing. Well, I've got my own story to tell, and I want you to help me understand what happened. It's a story of a young man who arrived on my operating table."

"What was his name?"

The doctor took a deep breath and told him.

* * *

The Tale Of Arnold McCaslin, Part Two

(as told by Doctor Terrence Kletz)

December of 2002 was kind of a shaky time for everyone. It was only a little over a year after 9-11, when they were still broadcasting the rainbow alerts, people were scared of getting anthrax in the mail, and everybody was still out of work because of the economy. Things were tense.

Dorothy and I had just moved to this area less than a year before. I had started work with the Everett Clinic branch in Lake Stevens. On the weekends, when they let me, I did some extra work in the trauma center at Providence Hospital in Everett. It was on one of those nights they had a Life Flight come in with a gunshot victim. His name was Arnold McCaslin.

They wheeled him into the ER with a big police escort around him, and for some reason I didn't have the sense that protecting him was their purpose. When the doors opened and the gurney came through, I could hear a female voice in the hall, yelling at the cops to let her talk to him, but they wouldn't let her get close. I found out later it was his mother.

The aides took him straight toward surgery, but before I could follow, the police wanted to speak to me. I don't remember the fellow's name, but he was one of the senior officers, and he wasn't the one who fired the shot. I remember him telling me that they needed me to concentrate on what I was trained to do, which was to save his life. I very nearly pointed out to him that he was taking time away from that task right then, but I held my tongue. Then he went on to say that they had already collected statements from everyone involved, including the young man who had been shot. They also said he was becoming delirious, rambling, and saying things that didn't make any sense, so it would be counterproductive for me to try to converse with him. I asked him about how long this had been going on, and he said that information was on the EMT report. So, I took him at his word and headed in to get to work.

The EMT report was the first thing I looked at, and that's where I saw that the time of injury had been nearly four hours earlier. I couldn't believe what I was looking at, but there it was. You never, ever make a gunshot victim wait that long for treatment. The official story that I read later was that it took a long time to secure the scene for medics because of the hostile reactions they were getting from members of the public. That didn't make a lot of sense either, because it seems like the last thing an angry bystander would want to do is impede medical care for the victim. But like everyone else, I've been trained to trust the people in charge.

So I headed into the operating room feeling like my mission was fairly clear-cut. But when the young man was in front of me, that's when it didn't seem like things were the way they were supposed to be. For one, he was a lot more lucid that the police had told me he'd be, despite the fact he was barely hanging onto consciousness. And second, the only thing he wanted was to tell me what happened. He was pleading that no one would listen, no one would let him talk, which seemed to directly contradict what I'd been told about everyone's statements having been taken. I had to keep interrupting and telling him my job was a different one, and I had to concentrate on saving his life. I asked him all the questions that we doctors use to both find out what we need to know, and to keep the patient distracted from whatever's happened to them, and it seemed to have the effect I wanted of taking his mind off that subject. When I say that it "seemed" to, what I mean is that it really didn't. He just wasn't saying so out loud anymore.

The anesthesiologist had the needle in his arm and was getting him connected to the IV. This was the part that really terrified me, because you can't operate without anesthesia, and yet with the kind of blood loss he had, it's really easy for anesthesia to kill. It's the nightmare scenario of the trauma surgeon.

The IV drip started, and I asked him to count backwards from 100, like we always do. He made it as far as ninety-seven and stopped. I asked him if everything was ok, and he just looked up at me. He had the look of a person who had just seen everything they ever believed in ripped away from them, and just as the anesthesia kicked in, he said one word to me. That word was...

* * *

"...Planted." Doctor Kletz had just finished a story he had clearly wanted off his chest for a very long time. It was a story that had weighed him down for a long time, and now having been told, would have to be dealt with. "You know how the rest of it ends. The anesthesia combined with blood loss was too much, and he didn't wake up."

Randy wore the look of a detective who had just seen a lot of pieces fall into place, and he didn't like the picture that was coming together. "Did you talk to the family or their lawyer about this?" Randy asked.

"No."

"Anyone else?"

"No one."

"That's exactly what they were hoping for."

The doctor nodded slowly. "I sort of had that sense. After they told me the kid had given his statements to them already, and that nothing I could add would be of any value to the investigation, I took them at their word."

Randy spent a moment considering how to say what had to be said next. This doctor was perhaps a little on the naïve side, but was a good man, and it wasn't going to be easy for him to hear. "Sometime soon you need to do a web search on the terms 'police' and 'let him bleed out.'"

"Why is that?"

"You get a lot of results on that search. This happens so much in cases of questionable shootings that it's more or less their standard operating procedure now," Randy said. "If McCaslin had lived, it would have been a nightmare for this department. He'd have exposed their lies about what he did and whether he was armed. He would have sued them, and when the dirt came out there would have been a much bigger uproar than what there was. Citizens would have demanded that some people get fired at the very least. As it is now, people are angry, but the department can file it away under the heading of 'every shooting looks questionable to someone.' But if he'd lived, this police department would have seen their stranglehold on power slipping away from them. So they had to prevent that from happening at all costs."

"And what do you figure that entailed exactly?"

"It meant keeping the medics from reaching him until they were sure enough that he wouldn't live. And it meant making sure no one heard his side of things before he died." It hit Doctor Kletz pretty solidly to hear that he'd been a willing participant in that. And he didn't need to be told that coming forward with all this likely would have made a difference. But Randy offered him a little bit of saving grace. "This isn't all your fault though," he said.

"Why not?"

"You're a doctor. You're the professional whose job is saving the people they bring you, and you can only work with what they give you. Handling the case right is supposed to be their job, and getting that job right is what you're supposed to be able to trust them to do."

The doctor clenched the gun in his hand, tight enough to make Randy nervous. "It's beyond wrong," he said. Randy could offer no disagreement, but he could not absolve the doctor any further either. The truth of the matter was that listening to the young man's story while working to save him would not have been that hard a thing to do.

By this time it was getting late in the afternoon, and Randy decided he had been an intruder here long enough. Perhaps some good would come of this visit, but as it stood he had brought quite a bit of grief into this home.

"I think it's time you made that call," Randy said.

"Is that what you really want me to do?"

Randy shook his head. "No. After they get me they're going to hold this up as another victory, and things around here might be even worse than they were before. But I fought to the finish, and I never gave up. That'll have to do."

"You have any idea what's in store for you afterward?"

"I don't expect that'll be an issue." The doctor and his wife both raised their eyebrows. "Soon as they show up, I'll walk out the front door, and it'll all be over quick." Randy smiled. He was actually beginning the like the idea of it all being over.

"Suicide by cop?"

"I think that's what they call it."

"You'll be leaving your wife alone," Dorothy chimed in.

"What could I do for her by expecting her to spend her best years visiting me in prison?" Randy asked. "All I could accomplish is to rob her of the rest of her life."

"Have you consulted with her on that?" Terrence asked. Randy looked up from the table and met his eyes. The man was beginning to sound like a doctor again. "I've had patients talk of suicide, and it's not always the terminal ones. Some of them are just too scared to fight. Scared of the diagnosis, scared of the bills, scared of how their loved ones will suffer, and scared that whatever happens isn't really going to be in their hands. You know what I tell them about?"

By this point, Randy was indeed interested. "No, but please tell me."

"I tell them about that Kyle Huff character," he said, and that raised Randy's eyebrows. "I'm referring to the sonofabitch in Seattle who was pissed off at the world and therefore decided to kill those six kids at a party. You'll recall that the moment he saw a cop coming to arrest him, he blew his own brains out." Randy recalled that pretty vividly. It was a case that he had cited himself in contending with the officials in his construction company who wanted to impose a gun ban on their workers. "That's the kind of person who kills themselves," the doctor went on. "He could have surrendered, and lived, but you know why he wouldn't?"

"Why?"

"It's because it would mean facing up to what he did," the doctor replied. "There's a comparison to be drawn between that and those patients of mine. My patients weren't just scared of what they were up against, they were scared of why it had happened. They were afraid that if some act of God had been wrought upon them, that they might be fighting to hold onto a life that was in some way unworthy. Well I spend my time curing illness and finding its cause, and I'm here to tell you God has nothing to do with it. The shit just happens, and it doesn't discriminate, and God neither causes nor cures. But God did give us the brains to figure why things happen and how to fix them, both in medicine and in our worldly affairs, and to fail to draw upon that knowledge to make things right is the only really unworthy thing you can do." Randy understood, but he didn't like where he was being trapped. "Kyle Huff killed himself because he knew he was wrong. So the question is, are you wrong?"

"I don't believe so," Randy replied. "but what can I do at this point?"

"You know things that others don't," Terrence said. "Things that can help people. You have to make people hear these things, however is necessary. That, my friend, is your calling."

Randy began to feel the crushing responsibility settle back on his shoulders. The doctor was right. This was a war he could not just walk away from, in any fashion. If they took him alive, he'd have to live, and he'd have to justify his actions, no matter what the outcome. "I see your point, and you're right," he said. "If you make that call now, I can get that underway."

"I've thought about this long enough, and I see no reason for us to get involved in this. You're an injured man who arrived at my door and got treatment. That's the extent of my responsibility, and the circumstances are none of our business." Dorothy got up from her seat with a smile and undid Randy's handcuffs. It felt good to have his hands free again. The doctor turned Randy's Glock over in his hand and held it up. "You've sworn to leave citizens out of this, right?"

"It's on the Internet, so it has to be true," Randy replied.

The doctor laughed, and then handed his gun back to him. Randy hefted it and it felt strangely light. "You'll probably want to reload it, just please do it after you leave," the doctor said. Randy stared at him with a look that said _are you insane?_ "We don't really know how to use those things. It seemed safer."

* * *

Elena had never seen the inside of a TV studio before. It was impressive. The lights, the equipment, and the amount of technospeak going around was almost enough to take her mind off what she was getting ready to do. There were papers being passed, information conveyed, plans and preparations going on, all being done in the name of their ongoing mission to inform. This place was cool.

She was standing in the corridor outside a small interviewing studio that had only two chairs inside. She could hear the regular news broadcast being run from down the hall, and the subject of Randy's conflict was just coming up.

Rosemary was in a nearby office, talking to a few executives. She emerged and pointed into the interview room. "We'll be on in five minutes, so take the seat on the left. You know what you're going to say?" Elena nodded. "Be very careful where you tread now. Confession is good for the soul, but it'll piss your lawyer off something awful."

* * *

Randy watched the news on the television as he stared out the front window of the house. The broadcast was detailing the door-to-door search being currently employed, and the flashing blue lights several blocks away bore this out. The search was coming in his direction, and it was time to get moving.

The doctor walked up with a couple pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "This is cephalexin, enough antibiotic to get you by for the next twelve hours. We can't give you more because..."

"It could be traced back to you. Don't worry, I won't let that happen either." Randy swallowed the two pills. "Besides, I've got antibiotics with my gear. I order them off the web."

"You do _what???"_ The horror in the doctor's voice was unmistakable. "Did no one ever tell you that between the questionable quality of internet drugs, and the fact that people who are not under the care of a physician typically fail to take the entire course, that all new manners of resistant pathogens are coming to life? Are you trying to create Super-MRSA and wipe out humanity?"

Randy was a trifle taken aback, but he didn't miss the irony that he was being screamed at for this while he was, in fact, in the midst of trying to wipe out a significant patch of humanity. "I promise to finish the entire course," Randy said. "Assuming I live that long."

"I guess that'll have to do." The doctor sighed and shook his head, and as he did so the news program caught his attention. "Hey, isn't that your wife?"

Randy looked at the TV and was stunned to see that in fact, his wife was there. She was sitting in a chair across from a woman he'd never seen before. "Turn it up!" Dorothy already had the remote in her hand and was doing so. Rosemary's voice was the first they heard.

"...We're joined by Elena Gustin, the wife of Randolph Gustin, who is currently the subject of an extensive manhunt. Elena, I understand you have a side to this story you'd like to share."

The camera view shifted to a close-up of Elena, with her name in the caption beneath. "I want to say that my husband didn't start this fight," she said. "He was attacked first, and he has been every step of the way. We both were."

"You both were attacked?"

"That's right. I'm talking about the roadblock."

Randy heard those words and fell to his knees screaming.

* * *

Jack Hayward was less than a quarter of a mile from where Randy was, and he was busy managing the search when his phone began vibrating. He didn't want to take the call, but a look at the outside screen told him it was his chief, so he figured he'd better. "Hayward, this is Burt," the voice came through. Gustin's wife is doing an interview on KXMQ right now. We're notifying Seattle PD, how fast can you be there?"

"Not fast enough." Hayward started his car, lit up the overhead lights and floored it.

* * *

Elena knew she was doing the right thing, but that didn't ease the ball of lead she could feel in her stomach right then. The admission she had just made could very well be the end of her life as well as Randy's, and she knew what that would do to him. She was going to have to toe this line very carefully from here on out.

"So you were with him at the roadblock scene, is that correct?" Rosemary was already beginning to questioning the wisdom of this, but she had to go on with it.

"Yes it is. He came home to try and get me out of there because he didn't want them catching me alone at home. They had already tried to shoot him in the back once, and he was afraid of what they might do to me to get back at him."

"What was it like when he came home and you first found out about this?"

"It was... like it wasn't really happening. It was just a normal night at the house for me. I had some music on, I was cleaning the place and playing with the cats. Then he came peeling in."

"What did he tell you at first?"

"Only that the cops had tried to kill him, he had shot some of them, and that I had to get out of there before they showed up. He didn't have time for any details or smalltalk, he just pointed at the car keys and told me to get going."

"How did you take all of this at first?"

"At first, it felt like any other emergency. I mean, we all have emergencies, and when they happen, we deal with them and then life goes on. But then it started sinking in that this emergency was different."

"How so?"

Elena wasn't sure exactly what the right words were, but after thinking about what these events meant for her life, they came to her. "This was the end of everything," she said.

There had been a time or two in Rosemary's life when she had felt just that way, and she wished more than ever she could take this pain away from Elena. "What happened then?" she asked.

"I had enough sense to know that I didn't want to get caught alone on a country road any more than I did at home. So I told Randy he had to get me somewhere safe."

"How did he feel about that under those circumstances?"

"He didn't like that idea a bit. He knew they were going to try to kill him on sight and I'd be in the crossfire. But he weighed the options and decided to try."

"So you left home together. Did he tell you more about what happened then?"

"Yes. He told me that one of them had tried to shoot him in the back right there in his drivers seat, after he had told the cop his own gun was put away out of reach."

"How did he survive?"

"I don't know exactly. He only said the cop stood too close."

"What happened after that?"

"Well, I already knew the answer to this question because of the gear and weapons he had grabbed at the house, and the conversations we'd had about this subject in the past. But I asked him if he planned to turn himself in."

"It sounds as if the answer to that question was decided well in advance."

"It wasn't like we decided that's how it'd go, but we had given it a lot of consideration. You see, there's a big difference between a cop shooting a citizen and a citizen shooting a cop, even if it is in self-defense. A cop will always get out of the charges somehow. We've been seeing a lot of that lately. But if one of us shoots one of them, even in self-defense? It's like Randy says, if it's you who does it, your life is over."

"Which means..."

"There's not a lot of point in surrendering."

"What about a jury trial? Wouldn't that be a fair way to resolve it?"

"They can find too many gullible people to stack the jury with. People who believe all the 'cops are heroes' nonsense. People who believe they can't do any wrong, and if they do then you're just supposed to bend over and play along, and then settle it in court later. People like that will vote you guilty no matter what the cop did to threaten you, and finding twelve of them in a crowd is the easiest thing in the world."

"Elena, I'm going to have to challenge you a little bit here. What if Randy had thrown the gun down after shooting the first one, the one you say really tried to kill him? Assuming that's what happened, isn't that the only one he really needed to shoot?"

"What if he did that, and the next one killed him anyways? He'd be dead now, and the cop who did it would walk. And even if he was taken alive he'd still have to face the stacked jury. He did what he did, and because of that he's still alive, and he's not going to settle this in court. He's going to settle this in Dodge."

Rosemary took a deep breath. "So tell us what happened at the roadblock."

"Well, he was driving me into town, and we came around a corner and there it was. Three cars with men pointing rifles at us. We stopped about a couple hundred yards away."

"What did Randy do?"

"He tried to surrender. It wasn't what he wanted to do, but he knew if the shooting started that I'd probably die. So he stuck his hands out the window for all of them to see, and can you guess what happened?"

"What?"

"One of the cops down the road screamed that he had a weapon, and they opened up on us. So you see, he did try to surrender once, and that's what it got him."

"What did Randy do then?"

"He dealt with it, and he kept me safe. That's all I can say about it."

"And what did you do during this?"

Elena paused, considering her answer. This was the ground she had to tread very carefully on if Randy's choices were to amount to anything. "I stood by my man," she finally said. "And that's all I can say about that."

Rosemary sighed with a bit of relief. "What would you like to see happen now?"

"I'd like to see the police admit they were wrong. I'd like to see them give this up, cut their losses, and let us have our lives back. But they'll never do that. They'll never tolerate you or me thinking that they're anything less than gods over us, because that's what power does to people. And you'll never see one of them oppose the actions of their department either, or call the back-shooters among them murderers. So Randy will have to keep fighting them. They want people to believe they're omnipotent, so that people will be too scared to challenge them, but fact is that they're not. You see what the score is already. And I know Randy, he's got a lot of dirty tricks up his sleeve that they haven't seen yet. If God wants him to, he might just get them all, and I hope he does. These sons of bitches took everything away from us over nothing, and _I hope he does."_

As Elena finished that sentence, the sound of commotion came from down the hall. Seconds later Elena's worst fear came true as a dozen police officers marched into the room. As if this wasn't distressing enough, Jack Hayward was at the front of the group. Rosemary got up and tried to step in front of them but was shoved aside. Elena jumped up and backed away behind the chair, but it proved to be no barrier. Hayward knocked it aside as well, then he and one of the Seattle cops slammed her up against the back wall. From there, Hayward grabbed her right arm, locked it out straight, and they flung her to the floor with their weight on top of her.

There was the sound of a snap, and then Elena screamed like she seldom ever had in her rather brutal life.

Chapter 14

Back To Business

Randy saw it happen on the television, as did all of Western Washington. Elena was brutally slammed to the floor, there was a grotesque sound of something breaking, and then came the screams.

The strange thing was, the doctor and his wife seemed to be taking it harder than Randy was. Randy was, without a doubt, boiling over with rage, but he was comparatively composed. Terrence and Dorothy however, were completely beside themselves. Randy knew what to expect from such thugs, so what he had just seen didn't really come as a great surprise. His hosts had no such preparation.

Hayward had held her in an armlock as they took her down, with one hand holding her wrist and the other braced against her elbow to force her to the floor. It's a type of takedown that, if done properly, puts the person down, under control and ready to be handcuffed. Done improperly however, something breaks. In Elena's case, that something was her elbow breaking the wrong direction. It's one of the most incredibly painful types of fractures there is, and while she would eventually get the full use of her arm back, she had surgery and a long road of physical therapy ahead of her.

Despite what had just happened, the Seattle cops pulled her arms behind her and cuffed them, with her screaming the whole time. Then Jack Hayward stepped up to the camera to address it. "Randolph Gustin, I hope you're watching."

Doctor Kletz's eyes widened with recognition. "Mother of God, that's the same man who killed McCaslin..."

"You heard the things your wife just said," Hayward went on. "She is now complicit in the murders of every cop you've killed already, and she'll also be complicit in every murder you commit from here on forward. Give yourself up while you can. Do it in a public place if you're worried about getting shot. But every round you fire at a cop is going to be more time on her sentence too, so you'd better end this now."

* * *

Hayward stepped away from the camera. The station took that moment to cut to commercial, but the cameramen kept filming the scene. One cop was holding Rosemary back, as she watched with tears streaming down her cheeks. Then the Seattle cops dragged Elena to her feet and out of the room.

Hayward walked out of the room alongside the commander of the Seattle cops. "Put her in my car," he said. "She's going back to our jail."

"She'll be going to Harborview first, then she's going to King County lockup," came the reply.

"She's complicit in the murders of police officers in my town," Hayward retorted.

"That might be, but she was arrested here, and you've got enough PR issues going on without holding her up as a hostage."

* * *

In the garage of the Kletz home, Randy climbed back into his recently acquired Toyota, as the residents of the home stood by to see him off. "Mister and Mrs. Kletz," he said, "it's been wonderful meeting you. Please remember what you just saw on the TV and never breathe a word of our meeting to anyone. You don't want to be her."

Dorothy smiled. "If I was her, I'd be pretty confident that rescue was coming."

Randy managed a smile, though he didn't share her optimism. "I don't think you want to be at home when that search comes by," he said. "They're trained to spot fibbers."

"That works out fine for me," the doctor replied. "I have to be getting to work anyways, and Dorothy can tag along to help out. It's looking like a busy night."

Randy got into the car, and Terrence pushed the button to raise the door. He waved the Kletz's goodbye, pulled out into the dusk, and the door closed behind him.

* * *

Preston Mintz was in a hurry to get back to work, but he had time for one stop. He had just gotten the only sleep he'd had in the last thirty-six hours, and it amounted to four hours. That wasn't going to cut it, so he needed some pick-me-up. And hopefully a smile to go with it.

He walked into the Forza coffee shop that had been the stronghold of the Forest Hill police force since it had opened nearly a decade ago. It felt like home, as it always had. It was the place where they worked on their laptops, and swapped news and stories from their latest shift. It was kind of their sanctum. Like doughnut shops used to be, but without all the wisecracks.

He sat down in their customary booth, which he had to himself. At that point in time he was unaware of what had just been broadcast on the news, and was being rebroadcast ad nauseum. But the employees and patrons in the shop had seen it.

Cindy was working, and he was thankful to see that. A barista's real job was to brighten your day with a smile and some meaningless chat. Some did it better than others, and Cindy was the longtime pro. She came to his table. "Headed back to work?" she asked.

"Yep. The point came at around noon today when I finally had to get a little bit of sleep."

"How's the search coming?"

"They know approximately what part of town he's in, so it's being scoured."

"I've seen. They're pulling the stops right out to get him, aren't they?"

Preston wasn't sure, but he didn't think her voice sounded all that supportive right then. "Well, after what this guy has done to us, I think it's pretty understandable."

"I'm sure his wife would agree wholeheartedly." Preston didn't know what she meant by that, but he would before long. "So what can I get you?"

"I guess I'll have my usual, only with three shots instead of two."

"Sure thing," she said. She took out her pen and began to reach for the notepad in her apron pocket, then suddenly paused. "Just so you know, I have to reach in my pocket to get my notepad."

That was the point where the hints stopped being subtle. "Cindy?"

"I just don't want there to be any misunderstandings."

Something was amiss all right, but Preston still had no idea what it was. His voice lowered down to that of a puppy that wants forgiveness. "Cindy, it's me."

"I know. And I don't feel safe right now."

There it was for all to see, and all saw. Preston looked around the establishment, and though no eyes were on him directly, he was nonetheless the center of attention. There was an unwelcome elephant in the room, and he was it. That's when the TV on the wall finally caught his attention.

It showed Elena being slammed yet again, complete with horror-movie sound effects, and it was the first Preston had seen or heard of this. Only after the clip ran this time, it was followed by a reporter who described how the incident was getting a great deal of comparison to a similar one that took place after Hurricane Katrina. Then a second clip ran, showing a 58-year-old Patricia Konie being similarly bodyslammed by two California Highway Patrolmen who had generously volunteered their assistance after the disaster. After this woman had refused to leave her home during a forced evacuation, the two cops had tricked her into showing them her small pearl-handled revolver, so they could construe her as a threat and thus justify their attack. In this case, the elderly woman's shoulder had been broken.

Preston glanced only momentarily at the door, which appeared more inviting going out than it had coming in. Cindy caught that and she moved. Just a tiny bit to her left, but the meaning was plain enough. She was getting out of his way. Preston thought back on the amount of time that had been spent here, in this very booth, among friends, and he couldn't believe this was happening in his time of greatest need. He had just been shown the door.

Preston Mintz wasn't the world's most socially astute man, but he knew how to take a hint. He got up from his seat and left, never to return.

* * *

Randy knew what his next move would be; he just didn't know exactly where he would make it. It was going to be close to where the search was coming through though, so he drove back and forth on the residential streets, looking for what he needed.

It was really hard to concentrate on business after what he had just seen happen to Elena. Randy was a long-term thinker, so he was able to keep it in perspective that while Elena might be seriously hurt now, she would get better, and life would go on for her. At least that was true as far as her injuries were concerned, but what about the things she had said on TV? Clearly she had made the effort not to make any specific admissions, but was that enough to save her? If she were found to be complicit in killing cops, that might not result in all of her remaining years being spent behind bars, but it would certainly polish off the good ones in a hurry. He wished to God that she had laid low as he had asked her to, and let him do the sacrificing. But at the same time, he had to admit to himself, he was proud of her. And one thing was for certain; the image in his mind would go far toward keeping his trigger finger from wavering.

Randy began to turn a corner and nearly froze as he saw a patrol car with lights flashing up the street. It was moving slowly down the street toward him, with four cops in SWAT gear walking behind it. They were walking in pairs, going house to house on each side of the street banging on doors. Randy corrected his course just in time and continued on past, praying they didn't notice the stolen car.

This was where he wanted to be, now if he could just find... and there it was, the sign he wanted to see. _For Sale._ And vacant. Randy drove to the end of the block, hung a left and went into the alley behind the house.

* * *

Robin and Preston didn't like what they were doing. The house-to-house search they were engaged in amounted to little more than a show for the cameras. It wasn't like they had a right to storm inside of every home and search it. All they could do was question people at the door and look for signs they were hiding something. If there weren't any, they had no choice but to move on. If there were, then the truth was that there were any number of possible things a person would be hiding from a cop If no one answered, it was _This door's locked, move on to the next one_.

This was just a show, but it wasn't only for the cameras. It was also about letting people know who was still in charge. Robin and Preston didn't consider that to be a productive direction to be going under the circumstances, but then it wasn't like their department was having a great deal of luck at that particular objective either.

Preston looked at the next house, which didn't look like a good prospect. It was for sale and appeared vacant, which meant that no one would answer and they would have no choice but to move on. And if the man they were looking for did happen to be inside, all he had to do was stay quiet and he had no worries.

Preston tapped Robin's shoulder and pointed at the house. "Think we should hit that one?"

Robin shook her head. "I don't see any point." They had almost passed it when the front room light came on, illuminating the curtains. "What do you know, somebody is home," she said.

The walked to the door, took positions to the sides, then Preston pounded on it. "Police, open the door please," he shouted. The only reply they heard was an older sounding, unintelligible voice. He pounded again and repeated his command a little louder.

"Can't understand ye, jes' come in!" came the reply. Preston tested the doorknob and it was unlocked. They glanced at each other and shrugged. They had a lot of ground to cover and needed to get moving, so they opened the door and stepped inside.

Seeing Randy appear from behind the door, aiming his Glock, was so unexpected that it didn't even register for a moment as being real. When he said, "Inside, NOW!" then it registered. Their M-4 carbines were at low ready, but even that wasn't ready enough for this. Gustin could pop both their skulls before they could get a shot off, so they stepped inside and Randy closed the door behind them.

Once they were inside, he said, "Rifles on the floor, now," and they complied. "Pistols too," he said, and they slowly removed their pistols with their left hands and put them down too. Randy waved them back from their weapons. "Put your 'cuffs on," he said.

"We already disarmed," Preston replied.

"You'll be wearing them in ten seconds or else." They didn't quite do it in ten seconds, but it was close enough that neither of them got shot.

"What do you want from us?" Robin asked.

"These." Randy took their department-issued cellphones from their belts. While he was at it, he noticed Preston's fancy lighter in his shirt pocket, and he plucked that out too. It just seemed like a use for that might come along.

"I've got to ask you something Randy," Preston said. "What the fuck? I went to school with you. You were always a small-time troublemaker, but now you think you have a right to be a mass murderer?"

"I remember you too, Preston," Randy replied. "As older kids went, you were one of the decent ones. You weren't one of the bullies. But now you work for one of the most rogue departments in the whole fucking state, and you're right on board with them. Not only are you one of the bullies, you're one of the worst." Randy began scrolling through information on Robin's phone.

"Randy, give this up," Robin said. "We're not the ones who tried to murder you, and we're not the ones who hurt your wife."

"No, but you stand by the people who did, don't you?"

"That's not true..." she replied, but her voice trembled as she did.

Randy didn't find what he wanted in Robin's phone so he started searching through Preston's. "That so?" he asked her. "You can both prove it now. Call Troy Meade a murderer."

Both of the cops searched their thoughts for the right thing to say. They were fully cognizant that their lives might be saved by giving him the answer he wanted, but there were certain things that cops just didn't do. Calling another cop a murderer was right up close to the top of that list. "What are you offering us, exactly?" Preston asked.

"A chance to prove you're with the people, and not with the monsters who think they own the people." As Randy fished through the information on Preston's phone, he saw something he liked and smiled. "Ahh, that's what I need." He put the phone in his shirt pocket.

"Look, that's a complicated case," Preston said.

"I figured that's what you'd think," Randy said, and then he swung his Glock in a wide circle and struck Robin on the side of the head with the solid steel top of his pistol. She fell to the floor, almost completely unconscious.

Preston stared with horrified disbelief, but before he could react Randy tackled him, knocking him down into a corner inside the empty house. The cop was lying turned to the right, and Randy jammed the muzzle of his Glock just under his armpit, which was unprotected by the vest. He braced his left hand against the back of the slide and pulled the trigger.

The noise level was pretty low, as the muzzle blast went into his torso, and since he was holding the slide shut, none of the noise escaped from the ejection port either. But the damage done by the shot was gruesome to the point of being downright inhumane. Preston would have no final words, he would only have half a minute of agonized convulsions.

Randy had no more time to spend on him, so he turned his attention to Robin, and kneeled down beside her. This was going to be an extremely hard test of his resolve. There's beautiful, and then there's really, really beautiful, and the second category was the one she fit into. Firm, fit, shapely, and she had the face of an angel, even if there was blood dripping down her cheek from where he had hit her. Randy caught himself trying to think of excuses not to do it and put a halt to that train of thought.

Robin became cognizant again. She saw what had happened to Preston, and she watched as his consciousness faded, and the light went out of his eyes. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she looked at Randy with pure, absolute hatred.

"How about that question?" he asked her.

"Murder is always wrong, and what you just did was murder. There's your goddamn answer." Her answer was a little vague, but it was perhaps tangled enough to find a loophole in, if he thought about it long enough. But part of him had to be honest too. There was a level of cold-bloodedness he just couldn't go beyond. "So are you going to kill me, or what?" she asked.

"No, I'm not. You're not one of the monsters. But you wear their uniform, and you take their side, and today nobody does that for free." Randy lowered the pistol to her left knee and pulled the trigger. This time the muzzle blast was full volume, as were the screams that followed.

"Kneecapping" was something that mobsters typically did with a .22 caliber pistol. That's all it took to shatter the kneecap and permanently cripple the joint, while inflicting a kind of pain that the strongest of men cannot endure. Randy's .40 caliber pistol did substantially worse. Fortunately, his aim was a little low, so the knee joint itself was mostly spared. But the top of Robin's tibia was demolished to the point where her lower leg would have to be amputated.

The news for her wasn't all bad though. For one thing, she was alive, which was more than a lot of her comrades could say. And with the joint mostly intact, doctors would eventually be able to fit her with a prosthetic leg that allowed her knee to bend, enabling her to walk almost normally with practice. But her days of jumping, stretching, and running triathlons were over.

After the ordeal had been put behind her, she left police work and took up personal training. In the course of that work she finally met the man she would marry, a like-minded individual who had both been to Iraq, and was a fitness buff who couldn't shut up about Joe Weider and amino acids. And while she lost the top spot as the gym hardbody, she remained a strikingly beautiful woman.

All in all, it wasn't a half bad deal.

* * *

Out in front of the house, the patrol car driver and the other two SWAT cops who were conducting searches had been growing concerned for some time, and the sound of the unmuffled shot finally alerted them that something actually was wrong.

Darren Tomlin and Raymond Ward were the two men wearing the helmets and body armor, while Ralph Waterbury drove the patrol car. Darren didn't know if the shooter intended to hole up inside or escape out the back, so he shouted at Ralph to drive around into the alley and cover the back until backup arrived.

Ralph floored it and sped around into the alley. Sure enough, the white Camry they were looking for was pulling out from behind the house and headed out the other end of the alley. He floored it again, intending to ram the car, but the car's driver stepped on it too. And strangely, he took the time to throw what looked like a piece of garbage out the window and onto the road.

Ralph couldn't be distracted though, the man they wanted was right in front of him and there was no way in hell he was getting away. The Camry pulled onto the road, with Ralph closing in behind him, and that's when he heard the noises. Something was hitting the inside of his wheel well, and his steering was suddenly becoming shaky. He floored it one last time in an attempt to hit the car, but his steering wheel was pulling too hard to the left and he couldn't get up to speed. He watched in agony as the Camry zoomed ahead and turned onto a side street, disappearing from view.

Having little choice, he stopped on the side of the road and called for backup cars to find him and pursue. Then he got out to see what had happened. What he found was a piece of high strength twine, with pieces of metal tied to it down the length. The pieces of metal, he would find out later, were half-moon shaped chunks of handrail pipe, which had been taken out of the ends of the pipes by a coping machine so the handrail pieces could be fit together. Two of these pieces, welded together crossways and pointing away from each other, made an excellent four-pointed tire popper. These particular ones had been made in a welding shop, the same one operated by Randy's construction company.

* * *

Randy didn't feel so good. What he had just done had been hideously cruel, on a level he had never thought himself capable of. Those screams, and the way she had looked at him, were burned into his memory with every bit as much vividness as the image of what had happened to Elena.

But he had to keep his mind on business. Leaving that house might not have been such a great move, because it was a perfectly good place to polish off some more of them. But things had changed when they had gone after Elena with the intent of hurting her. They had made a statement when they did that, so now he had to make one in return. After all, making a statement was what this whole thing was about.

Randy glanced at the address he had looked up in Preston's phone. Then he pulled up Google Maps on his smartphone and entered it. Pretty quickly a red dot appeared, along with directions.

Handy gadgets, these phones.

* * *

The Forest Hill police didn't have any helicopters, but Seattle did. And they had one on call, waiting for word of a sighting. As soon as word had come in, it was off the helipad and en route.

* * *

Randy kept an ear tuned to his police radio, and he did pretty well at avoiding other patrol cars. His choice of a Camry had been a good one. There were a couple sightings of such cars, with felony stops ensuing, but neither of them was him. He was halfway to his destination when he heard the beating of the helicopter blades. And unlike the ground units, it hadn't zeroed in on the wrong car.

Randy stepped on the gas, hoping he might make it to his destination before he was cut off. But the chopper flew up right overhead and hit him with its spotlight. Randy realized he had only alerted the pilots that they had the right car.

"Target sighted," the voice came over the radio.

"Copy, stay on him while we cut off his escape routes," came the reply.

"There's no way he's getting away from us," the pilot responded.

What that pilot had just said rather ticked Randy off. Who the hell did they think they were chasing? He was the guy who had already set the new record for police officers killed, and fully intended to double it before the night was over. He was only running from them now because it suited his purposes. He decided that perhaps another lesson was in order.

Randy stopped in the middle of the residential street. He picked up the police radio and keyed the mike. "You people sure about that? Let's just see." He dropped the radio, grabbed the M1A Scout, and put in the magazine that contained tracer rounds. Then as the chopper hovered closer, he got out, swung the rifle upward and fired one shot.

The glowing red tracer round went right up in front of the cockpit and hit the rotor blades. There was a _ding_ that was audible even over the noise, and the bullet careened off to the side and disappeared into the blackness. Randy didn't expect that would do any real damage, but suddenly the sound of the chopper changed. The beating of the rotors wasn't so rhythmic anymore, and the helicopter itself began to shift back and forth, looking less and less stable as it began trying to back away from the line of fire. Randy raised the rifle again, and put the crosshair right on the engine.

"That's a Seattle chopper, it's not from this town!" Randy looked over and saw an older man who had stopped and jumped out of his car. "Your fight isn't with them, remember?"

"They joined in on their side though."

"All they are is eyes in the sky, and you took care of that already. They didn't try to shoot you, so let 'em go." Randy considered that for a second, which was just enough time for the chopper to get turned around and headed away. Which was just as well, because expanding the conflict would bring a much bigger hammer down on him before he was ready for it. Besides which, crashing a helicopter into a residential neighborhood would make for some lousy PR.

"If you ever meet those pilots, tell them they owe you their lives," Randy yelled back, then he got back in the car and left.

Chapter 15

Escalation

Ruby Grandstone liked being home by herself. Most of the time anyhow. Twenty-five years of raising kids before getting them all out of the nest had the effect of giving one an appreciation for peace and quiet. The fact that her police chief husband had always run his home in much the same way he ran his department was a substantial contributor to her appreciation for solitude as well.

He did a hard job, so to some extent it was understandable. Every complaint about his officers and every bad news story all landed on his desk. The buck stopped with him, most of the time anyhow. Sometimes there were ways to pass it on to the city attorney, or sometime he could just misread the law to justify himself and his department. Misreading laws was something he was pretty good at. Oftentimes though, his job ended with him coming home in a bad mood. But there were good times to be had with him too. His drinking was more or less under control and he hadn't actually hit her in quite a while.

On this night, like most people in the region, she couldn't take her eyes off the TV. At this moment they were showing video of the helicopter. Some enterprising soul had a camera trained on it as the tracer had struck the rotor, and that video shot was being repeated over and over. She was so engrossed in what she was watching that she didn't even hear the car stop in front of the house, nor did she notice the approaching footsteps until they were right up to the door. She did hear the door being kicked though. That was a little tough to miss, especially with some of her porcelain knick-knacks falling off the shelves and shattering.

She started reaching for her phone, but not nearly quick enough. The next kick blew the door wide open.

* * *

Burt was back on the road again. There weren't enough officers left to require a full-time coordinator at the base. So he had gotten behind the wheel of Jack Hayward's patrol car and joined the search himself, with Jack riding shotgun.

Burt felt his phone vibrate and took it out. He looked at the screen with no small amount of irritation, as it read "Home," and then he answered it. "Ruby, this is a really bad time –"

"This isn't Ruby."

Burt almost dropped the phone. As he was getting his grip back, he had to slam his brakes as he almost rear-ended a car at the intersection in front of them. He put the phone back up to his ear. "Are you where my phone says you are?"

"There's a far more relevant question to be asked," Randy's voice replied. "Am I to understand that family members are valid targets in this dispute of ours?"

"You better not have hurt her..."

"Your sergeant broke my wife's arm. Did you think that might not come back to bite you?"

"That was not a sanctioned action."

"But it won't be punished either, will it?"

"Let her go."

"Or what, you'll shoot me?" Burt left his siren off so Randy wouldn't hear, but he flipped his overheads on and started speeding toward home. "Burt, I've watched how you operate for many years, and now I'm playing by your rules. And your rules are that anything goes, so long as some fucked up excuse can be fabricated. Well, take a listen to mine. Your wife is guilty of providing material support to a public criminal enterprise."

"What support?"

"Did she make you breakfast this morning?" Indeed she had. "As such she is subject to citizen's arrest and action to prevent future involvement and support of hostilities conducted against the citizenry. And preemption is all the rage these days, isn't it?"

"None of this is her fault."

"My wife was innocent too, but you still hurt her in order to hurt me. And right now, at this very moment, it's time for you to hear what I heard." Burt felt a twinge of nausea during the moment of silence that followed, and then his fear was borne out. The sound of a gunshot came through the phone, followed by screaming that was unmistakably his wife. Then Randy came back on one last time before he cut the phone line. "What do you think of phony justifications now?"

Burt looked over at Jack Hayward, and by the barest of margins he restrained himself from smashing the phone on the side of his head.

* * *

Randy didn't feel bad about what he had done this time. Which was fortunate, because he had no time for distractions.

He was back on the road again, headed for what might be the hill he died on. He had sent his message regarding the threatening of loves ones, and now there was just one message he had to finish sending. For that he needed a good spot for a last stand, and he had just the place in mind.

He picked up Preston's phone and turned it on. Having been turned off for a while, the phone was locked now, but that didn't make any difference. He just wanted the phone to be tracked.

* * *

When Burt skidded to a stop in front of his own house, two other patrol cars were already there. He jumped out and ran for his front door, but Byron Palmer cut him off.

"Hold up, Burt..."

"My wife is shot!"

"No she isn't." Burt's expression was stunned and incredulous. "He made her a deal that if she faked being shot in the foot, he wouldn't really do it. She's okay."

Part of Burt still wanted to go inside and see, but part of him also wanted to go off on her for what she had just put him through, even if she had done it to save herself a major body part. With what remained of his force standing there watching, that would have to wait until later.

"There's more news too," Palmer went on. "Preston's phone is on and they're tracking it. It's near the river."

Burt started thinking like a leader again. "All right, here's how we're going to do it. Communications will be by phone only, on the two-way radio setting. We're going to converge, in silent mode. If we can catch him in the open, we'll mow the sonofabitch down."

* * *

Randy remembered this place from when he was a kid. Many a war had been fought here, using such high-tech weaponry as water balloons, rubber-tip darts, and snowballs. His dad had given him strict orders to stay out of it, but like many well-meaning parental directives, this one had gone in one ear and out the other.

Part of him was surprised to see it still standing. The place had been a firetrap for decades. It was a sawmill that had been closed way back in the seventies, even before the spotted owl controversy had shut down most of the others during the eighties.

He pulled up in front of the building that used to house the planer mill. He popped the trunk and grabbed his bag of gear out of it. He set that down, then got back in the car and backed it away from the buildings to a spot where it probably wouldn't get destroyed unnecessarily. It was probably fully insured, but all the same, there was no reason not to get it back to the rightful owners in one piece if possible. Plus he wanted it to be visible. So before he got out, he turned the emergency flashers on, in a place where they could be seen for at least a mile.

Here I am, you bastards. Come and get me.

* * *

All the unmarked cars in their fleet were moving in from the West, driven mostly by what was left of their SWAT team. Some of the cars were the semi-recognizable Crown Victoria's and some weren't, but the hope was that it might allow them to get close enough to get the first shots in.

Burt and his group were coming up from the south, spread out on all the back roads there were. Hayward still rode shotgun in Burt's car, but he was keeping his mouth shut now. He was starting to feel the heat for the things he had done lately, and now he just wanted his chance at redemption. That meant getting the first shot on target when they found Gustin.

Both groups spotted the flashing lights at about the same time. They knew a trap when they saw one and stopped well away. Burt announced to the group over the Motorola phones that had replaced their radios. "Everyone bring your rifles and approach on foot. If that car is in the middle of his kill zone, then he's in the building right back behind it."

Everyone did as ordered. The area was fairly desolate, with enough trees, brush, and other small buildings to provide cover for their approach. Gradually they worked their way into positions surrounding the front of the building, cloaked in darkness.

Burt and Jack stood together behind a small shack that was fairly close to the car with the flashing lights. Hayward shook his head with some dismay. "Well, now what?" he inquired of his boss. "We can't shoot him if he doesn't reveal himself, and we can't walk out there without being right in his line of fire. He could be inside of any of those windows or holes in that building. We should have some cars up here to spotlight the building and blind him."

"Really? I don't suppose you've noticed how well our cars are holding up to gunfire, have you?" Burt fired back. "Why don't you just go get his attention?"

"Sure thing." Only Hayward didn't go anywhere to do it, he shouted from where he was. "Gustin! It's me, the guy you saw on TV with his hands on your wife. You gonna try and get me or what?"

Burt knew exactly what was coming and he dove down out of the way. There are a lot of misconceptions about the use of cover, and even some seasoned pros can't get over them all. One of them is that if you can't see through it, you must not be able to shoot through it. Unfortunately for Jack Hayward, the cover he stood behind was fairly small, made entirely of decaying wood, and he himself was a pretty big target. A burst of rifle rounds coming through it could scarcely miss him, and it didn't. Randy fired eight rounds into the structure. Two of them penetrated where Burt had been standing before he had wisely hit the ground, and one of them went through the spot where Hayward still was. The sergeant jumped back with a short scream, and put his hands to his ribcage. He couldn't see the blood but he could feel it, warm, wet, and sticky. He dropped to his knees, and looked around while trying to figure out what he was supposed to do next.

The return fire started pouring in. Half of the SWAT team moved in with their weapon lights trained on the spot the shots had come from, while the others stayed back and stayed concealed in case a shot of opportunity came along. Burt got up to direct the assault, and he turned to his bleeding sergeant on the way out. "Dumbass," was the only word he had for him.

Burt took the time to radio a call for medical help. Then.as he and his men moved in, he thought it odd that there was no return fire coming out of the building. Gustin had been pretty dedicated up to this point, and he had drawn them here himself. So why would he –

There was the sound of a _whoosh,_ and Burt had his answer. A streak of fire flew straight up from a skylight and into the sky, and three hundred feet up it popped open and deployed a parachute flare. Now they were all illuminated, mostly caught in the open, and more blinded by the flare than Gustin was by their weapon lights. It didn't take long for Randy to capitalize on this.

His first shot, taken from another hole in the wall, struck Darren Tomlin directly in the helmet. Ballistic helmets are great for stopping pistol rounds, but heavy rifle calibers, not so much. After seeing what the already-expanded slug had done to his skull after penetrating the helmet, no one would even attempt resuscitation.

* * *

Inside the building, Randy heard Burt scream at his officers to take cover, and he heard them scramble to comply. They were in such a hurry that he only got off one more shot at them, and it missed his target clean. With more return fire imminent, he moved back and behind some solid machinery to figure out his next move. As bullets peppered the building again, he remembered an upstairs office, that used to have a mirror hanging on a closet door.

There was something he had always wanted to try.

* * *

Andy was 13 years old, and he was seriously blowing his first chance to impress a girl. Erica was his 12-year-old friend from Forest Hill Middle School, and he had brought her here for a little late-night adventuring, in much the same manner as the buildings only other occupant had done about three decades in the past. Instead of that though, they were hunkered down in a corner, praying for their lives.

They had been in the middle of a game of hide-and-seek when Randy showed up. Erica had agreed that if he found her in five minutes, he might get a kiss on the cheek. At Andy's age, that was a pretty powerful motivator. He was down to two minutes remaining when the unknown man walked into the building. At first Andy thought it was a homeless man, until he saw the silhouette of a rifle being unslung.

Erica saw him too. She poked her head out from her hiding place and waved Andy into it with her. "That's that guy!" she whispered.

"I know. We have to stay hid," he had replied.

Erica agreed, but she had a slightly better idea too. She took out her phone and sent a text to her father. All it said was, _Im @ sawml nd hlp_. Her teenage text-speak was a little vague unfortunately. If it had included some more info her father might have known he needed to call 911 and ask if the police would be so thoughtful as to not shoot his daughter and her young friend. As it was he didn't really know if anything was actually happening. Because he knew so little though, he also didn't call her back for fear of alerting the wrong person to her presence. But he did jump in his car and start heading in the direction of the sawmill.

* * *

"Cease fire!" Burt's men had been firing blindly into the building and burning up their ammo, so he had to call a halt to it.

An ambulance had arrived and the medics were loading Jack Hayward into it. He appeared to have some lung collapse issues going on so they had strapped a ventilator mask to his face.

Raymond Ward, the second in command of the SWAT team who had taken over on Darren Tomlin's demise, shouted to Burt. "We're ready to enter the building."

"Negative on that," Burt yelled back. "Your body armor won't stop a .308, and we've got other options. Load up your tear gas guns."

From right next to Raymond, another SWAT cop named Ralph Waterbury shouted out. "Movement, top floor!" They all looked, and indeed the blind was being pulled open. When it was out of the way, they clearly saw Randy standing in the window, aiming his rifle at them. Just as they opened up on him, the green light of his rifle-mounted laser came out the window, utterly wrecking the night vision of whomever it hit in the eyes.

The rifle fire poured in through the window, shattering the glass, but the green laser beam coming out seemed largely unaffected. It continued shining around until almost everyone with a rifle had been hit in the eyes at least once. Gustin had to be wearing some hellacious body armor, Burt thought. It was maddening that he hadn't been put down already, so Burt finally drew his own .40 caliber Glock and put a burst of his own into the window. Finally the green light went out.

* * *

This was going to be one fancy shot. The incoming fire had just abated, and Randy looked at what was left of the mirror, which wasn't much. It was made of plastic, so it hadn't shattered outright, but every hit had knocked another little piece out of it until there wasn't enough left to use. He had propped it up in front of the window against some old cabinet drawers. It was set at an angle, which allowed him to stand safely to the side of the window, while giving the appearance to those outside that he was standing right in it.

He had done the best he could at dazzling the riflemen outside with his laser, and he had a pretty good fix on the location of one in particular. He could only plan on having time to get one shot off at best, and it was now or never.

He stepped into the window, swung his rifle around, put the crosshairs on target as fast as he could and fired. Then he jumped back, just as another fusillade came pouring in. He wouldn't get to see for himself, but SWAT officer Jeff Wright had been hit in the throat. His spine had been snapped clean, and though his body lay thrashing with violent convulsions, the man himself was long gone.

Then Randy heard Burt shouting. He couldn't make out much of what he said, but he did catch the words "tear gas." He decided this would be a good time to grab his gas mask.

He ran back down the stairs to the ground floor where his duffel bag waited, and as he reached the bottom he saw the faint light of a cellphone coming from a dark corner of the building. It was almost certainly a SWAT cop who had made his way in through the back, but even under the circumstances Randy knew better than to shoot without being certain. He swung his rifle up and lit up the area with his weapon light. "If you're not one of them, you better say so now!"

It was a young, terrified female voice that answered. _"Don't kill us!"_

SWAT cops could be tricky, but not that tricky. Randy ran down to where they were and put his light on the two petrified kids. "What in the _hell_ are you doing in this place?" he almost screamed. "Don't you know this place is a firetrap, and it's full of rotted boards you could fall through, and... and..."

"Rats?" Andy offered.

"Yeah, rats!" Randy began to fear he was going to die while delivering one of his father's lectures. "This is so screwing up my plans..." Randy heard a voice shouting on the other side of the girl's phone. "Who is that?" he asked.

"It's my dad."

"Give me that." He took the phone. "Hello?"

"Mister, these kids are NOT a part of your fight!" the voice replied.

"I know that, and I'm going to get them out of here. Call 911 and tell them to let these kids out." He handed the phone back to the girl, and right then they heard something hit the outer wall. The thing broke through the wall and bounced around inside the place, making a hissing sound after it stopped. Randy shined his light at it and saw green gas rising from the spot. "Aw, sonofabitch." Randy ran to his duffel bag and grabbed the police radio. "Attention police, there are two kids inside of here. I call a cease fire to let them get out." Randy waited a few seconds for the response, and then it came. Four more tear gas canisters blew through the walls and windows. The air started becoming unbreatheable in a hurry, and something else happened too that he didn't notice right away.

CS tear gas is generated by chemicals that burn in order to release and spread the gas from the canister it's contained in. Of course that process makes the canister hot, sometimes hot enough to start fires. These types of canisters were made famous by their use on the Branch Davidians in Waco, the day their building went up in flames. But even since then their use has scarcely abated, even though they've started a great many other fires besides that one.

Inside the sawmill, one of these canisters landed right in the middle of a very old pile of sawdust next to the back wall. Soon after that it was smoldering, and within minutes the flames had come to life.

Randy grabbed his gas mask from his duffel bag. It was a German surplus mask that would protect him adequately, but fighting and shooting while wearing one of these things was not the preferable way to go. The two kids had no masks, but he still had to use the one for himself. Just like on an airplane when the oxygen masks drop, you can't help anyone else if you're out of commission yourself.

Randy pulled the two kids up behind a solid piece of machinery close to the front entrance. Then he made his last attempt to send them out. "Police, I'm sending these kids out the front door now," he shouted into the radio. Then he moved up to the front door himself, pulled it open and then hit the floor just to be on the safe side.

It was a good move, because another burst of gunfire came in through the front. Either they didn't believe him or they just didn't care. Either way, he couldn't send the kids out. Randy crawled back behind the machine the kids were hiding behind.

It wasn't looking good for them, as the tear gas was getting thick and breathing becoming impossible. They didn't have much time as it was, and to make things even better, flames were now creeping up the back wall. Randy's childhood battleground was going up in smoke a big hurry.

There was only one other remote possibility, a place even he and his friends had never dared to explore as kids. He didn't even know if it was still there, or still accessible, but these kids were now looking to him to save them and there weren't a lot of options. He grabbed their hands and led them to a stairwell that went into a basement. It was completely dark down those stairs, but Randy's weapon light illuminated the way.

The air down there was somewhat preserved, which was very fortunate. The smoke, carbon monoxide, and tear gas made the air up above pretty much unsurvivable, even with a mask. With the flames shooting up the inside of the building, and the impending collapse and resulting heatwave, this temporary shelter they had found wasn't going to be far behind.

Andy and Erica were beginning to recover from the gas and smoke, so Randy pulled his mask off to talk to them. "Kids, I can't tell you how sorry I am I got you into this."

"Why wouldn't they let us come out?" Erica cried.

Randy had a number of answers to that, but wrecking their sense of justice at this age would be worse than breaking the news about Santa Claus. "Listen to me," Randy said. "I had plans on making this place my last stand, but I'm giving that up because I have to get you out of here. You have to stay close and listen to me though. Understand?" The kids nodded, not having to be told twice. "Good. Now let's get busy."

* * *

The flickering light of the flames grew brighter and bigger, until the inside of the place was fairly well engulfed. As Burt watched the fire with his men, a white Ford Taurus sped down the road into the parking lot, and a black-haired thirtysomething man jumped out.

"Did you get the two kids out of there?" he shouted.

Burt was a bit surprised to hear there actually were kids in there. "Exactly what the hell were they doing in there?" was his answer.

The man screamed in agony and rage, at the top of his lungs. Then he ran back to his car and popped the trunk. He grabbed a pair of leather work gloves, a crowbar, and a full-face painter's respirator that functioned not unlike Randy's gas mask. He ran toward the front entrance, but Raymond Ward and a couple other SWAT cops cut him off. "The fire department is on their way, they'll handle this."

"Fucking bullshit, they'll be toast before they get here!" Erica's father shoved his way past the men and continued on, for a good ten steps before he was felled by the Taser probes that were fired into his back by one of the SWAT cops. The man might have been adequately equipped and prepared to save some lives, and he might have been in a better position than the fire department was at the moment, but he had failed to observe a principal tenet of authority. Never, ever try to do a public official's job for him, or you will face their wrath.

If somebody dies as a result of that, too fucking bad.

Chapter 16

Just When You Thought It Was Safe

11:51 P.M.

The bespectacled face standing over Sergeant Jack Hayward was calm and reassuring, and that went a long way toward making him feel that he was in good hands. "Hello sir," the man said, "My name is Doctor Terrence Kletz."

The intensive care unit at the Forest Hill Clinic was having an amazingly slow night, considering all that was going on. Most of the recipients of Randy's attention had been outright fatalities, and thus had never made it here. The rest of the town seemed to have no interest in being a part of the action, and was thus staying indoors, which took a big bite out of their business overall. Jack Hayward had the ICU pretty much to himself.

"We need to get you further stabilized before you can go into surgery," the doctor went on. "You need to be aware that you have perforations in both lungs, and you'll have to stay on this ventilator for a while. Do you understand?"

Hayward nodded, then he reached up and lifted the mask to speak. _"Am I gonna live?"_ he stammered out, then put the mask back on himself.

Doctor Kletz smiled. "Nothing else vital has been hit, so barring anything really unexpected, you should be okay." He was glad that Hayward still had his ability to speak. He'd be needing that.

* * *

When the word went out of Randy's demise, all the other agencies and authorities that had remained outside the fray converged on the scene to take control. The State Patrol and Sheriff's Department arrived with over a dozen cars each and began squabbling over jurisdiction. The FBI had some investigators on scene to look into possible civil rights violations, but they left the jurisdictional fighting to the local boys. The fire department was gradually getting the blaze under control, but it might be days yet before the wreckage was sifted through to recover bodies.

The police in Forest Hill had suffered some unprecedented losses, but on the flip side of the coin, they had also given men and women in uniform an enormous black eye. Bigger, many of them felt, than they deserved, especially during a time when they faced a real possibility of attacks on police becoming the next major shooting trend. They weren't about to let this small town department have free reign to cover up their own misdeeds any further, especially after leaving two kids inside of the place to burn while possibly knowing of their presence. That sort of thing made for bad PR. People in uniform stuck together to an enormous extent, but this department was really testing the limits of that loyalty.

There was one thing all of these agencies did agree on though, and that was that the time had come for Burt and what remained of his department to vacate the scene entirely. They got their way on that too.

* * *

The cars pulled into the parking lot, and the remainder of the Forest Hill Police Department filed into the building. "Lunchroom, everyone," Burt said to them as they headed in.

Inside the lunchroom, everyone sat while Burt took his customary place at the front.

"I think it's safe to say we've had a bad couple of nights," he began.

"Bad couple of fucking nights?" Raymond Ward, the newly promoted SWAT commander, didn't sound like he considered that a fair description. "Like last night didn't cost us enough lives, today we had to lose three more before we could get the fucker?"

"Don't forget about Robin," Ralph Waterbury added.

"Robin's alive," another female officer named Carol Roden replied. "But they're cutting her leg off as we speak." Some of the men in the room seemed more disturbed by that than they were by the news of their fallen comrades. They had gotten a lot of enjoyment from staring at those legs.

"I copped a feel on that leg once," one of the younger SWAT cops named Owen Hubbs said. "She stuck her fingernail in my eye, and it was totally worth it." There was a moment of silence at that.

"So how 'bout some words of wisdom, Chief?" Raymond asked. "Even if this did have to happen sometime, why us? Why our department? What's the fucking point we're supposed to take away from this?"

"Point?" Burt replied. "There isn't any point."

"How about not trying to shoot motorists in the back?" one of the officers named Sean Merey offered. "That's what started all this."

"Hold it right there," Burt said. "First off, even if that happened the way Gustin said, it doesn't justify trying to wipe out a department. Second, this started for him a long time before then. Look at the weapons he chose and the gear he put together. He had been preparing for years already, and that shit wasn't for home defense. He was arming up for a confrontation with us, and waiting for the right excuse to come along."

"So maybe the real question is, what brought that about?" Raymond asked. "Why'd he feel the need to arm up like that?"

Sergeant Byron Palmer chimed in. "Well, his view would be that our actions brought it about. He was unhappy about our enforcement protocols."

"Which is no excuse at all," Burt said. "There's no way for us to do this job while keeping everyone happy, it's in the job description. But the world is full of people who have neither been there nor done that, yet they come loaded with criticism. Sometimes they even come with some wild views on what they're justified in doing to show their objections. Well, the law spells out what's justified. Shut up, do as you're told, and settle it in court later if you don't like what happened."

"Have you looked at the blog wars going on in the newspaper comment sections? Fewer and fewer people are willing to listen to that view," Raymond said.

"We'll deal with that as we go," Burt replied. "The important thing right now is that we did what we had to, and we didn't back down. We kept after him, and it may have cost us a lot, but we got him. He lost, and nobody wants to follow in the footsteps of the loser." Burt let that settle in for a moment. "There's enough extra help in town to take over for us until tomorrow. I want everyone here to write up a preliminary report and then go home."

* * *

"Wake up, Sergeant Hayward." Getting to sleep with this infernal machine strapped to his face had been a nightmare already, so those didn't come as welcome words. "I need to ask you some questions."

Hayward struggled back to consciousness, which wasn't easy between the painkillers in his bloodstream and the oxygen level in his blood that kept him perpetually lightheaded. He opened his eyes and turned them to the doctor who stood over him.

"They'll be flying you to the Harborview Trauma Center for surgery," he went on. "But before you go I need to know a few things." Doctor Kletz pulled a stool over beside the bed and sat down on it. Hayward saw a face peeking into the room, then closing the door. It was an older, dark-haired woman who wasn't wearing a nurse's uniform. It was almost like she was standing guard out there.

"It's good that they got you here as fast as they did. It makes my job a lot easier when the patient arrives before the blood loss makes saving them too difficult. They must have considered you a top priority, wouldn't you say?" Hayward managed a small nod. "You're not the first patient of notoriety to arrive on my table. Are you familiar with the name of Arnold McCaslin?" Hayward's eyes widened, at least to the extent that he was able to manage it. "That was a sad case. His wound was completely survivable, but his medical care was delayed so long that he really had little right to be breathing when he arrived on my table. He died on my table in the same hospital your department escorted him to." Hayward's eyes showed clear memory of that day.

"But before that happened, not only was he breathing, he was talking." Now the sergeant was beginning to feel concern. "He wanted to tell me about what had happened. He said that he hadn't been allowed to talk to anyone else. But one of your officers had told me earlier that I could only focus on treating him, and that anything he might try to tell me would be of no value anyways. I have to admit, it seemed to make sense at the time, so I told the young man that I had to be a professional and focus only on what I was trained to do. He seemed to understand. Part of him did anyhow, the other part was heartbroken."

The bellows of the ventilator machine pumped up and down rhythmically. As much as he hated the sound already, Hayward began to realize how comforting it was. "I've recently heard it opined," Doctor Kletz went on, "that he was intentionally kept from receiving my care until it was too late. Is there any truth to that?"

Jack Hayward's apprehension had now morphed into real fear. He had been on the giving end of many an interrogation, and he knew how to use fear against people. Whether this doctor intended it or not, he was making some fairly professional use of it himself. Hayward felt trapped. The truth was out of the question, and lying to this man could be a colossal mistake in his position, so he opted for silence. The doctor looked him in the eye and nodded, seemingly satisfied that he had his answer.

"These are modern times," he said, "and yet it seems like the more things change, the more they stay the same, in ways I don't understand. Case in point, the old saying that dead men don't talk. Honestly, why haven't we outgrown that? Why not just do your job right and never have to bring that up? I don't understand it." He rolled his stool back for a moment, to glance at the entrance. Nothing had changed, the door was cracked open and Dorothy was right outside. "I don't understand barbarism, or why anyone would end somebody's life just to assert their control over them," he continued. "And you know what else I don't understand?" Hayward was on the edge of his seat waiting for that answer, as the doctor moved closer and stared him in the eye. "Why it is, despite all of our great technological advances and our power to think ahead, that we still leave things like this within easy reach of delirious patients." Doctor Kletz lifted his hand up in front of Jack Hayward, and in it he was holding a plug. A power plug.

He took Hayward's hand, put the plug in it, and closed it tightly. "First, do no harm. That's the oath I took. Subject to interpretation." Hayward looked up above him. The lights on the machine were off, the bellows had stopped, and with it the forced air to his mask. With no power to the machine, there was nothing to power any alarm either. "I wouldn't hear Arnold McCaslin's confession," the doctor continued, "and I've always regretted that. I'll hear yours though, but I suggest you make it quick."

Hayward pulled the mask away from his face, and his gasps for air became gradually shallower as his lungs began to close up within his ribcage. _"I... guilty,"_ he managed to say. _"And I... sorry."_ Those were the only words he could manage in time.

"I confess that I'm not a religious man," Doctor Kletz said. "But if I'm wrong about that, then you go before God with the truth on your lips. That ought to count." The doctor got up and walked out of the room. Much to Hayward's surprise, as his consciousness began to fade, those words actually did what no justification, real or imagined, had ever done for him. They gave him peace.

* * *

With the small, pointy knife blade inside the Gerber multi-plier tool, the hollow point of the forty-caliber slug was bored out deeper. Then the Zippo lighter was disassembled. The wheel was removed, and from beneath it, the tiny, cylindrical shaped flint was taken out. The rest of the lighter was discarded, and the flint was inserted into the deepened hollow point of the slug. Lead shavings around the bored hole were packed in around the flint, and compressed down to hold it in place.

It was crude, but it only had to work once.

* * *

The television was distracting. Having to write reports was always an annoyance, but doing so while watching a never-ending stream of news reports about the heavy-handedness and incompetence of your own department was closer to unendurable. Interviews were being conducted with citizens of Forest Hill, and such colorful phrases as _jack-booted thugs_ and _Barney Fife's_ were being tossed about freely. Those who didn't have their own offices had little choice but to endure it.

The faces of Andy and Erica, the two kids who were inside the building that had gone up in flames, were shown alongside of interviews with their grieving parents. Recordings of the police radio traffic had already been released, proving that Randy had tried to warn the police and let the kids come out. They played a phone response from the Chief stating that the kids had actually been hostages, no matter what Gustin had said, and that their deaths had been his doing. Then they showed Erica's father, who had spoken to Randy, being asked about that statement, and in between the tears and curses of rage, he was able to communicate that Burt's answer didn't fly with him in any fashion.

All anyone wanted was to finish the goddamn paperwork and be out of there.

* * *

Burt hated interviews, and this night was especially full of them. Unfortunately for him he had bought into the job of being the official representative, so he did it anyways.

He was sitting in his office, on the phone with an Associated Press reporter, and the questions weren't friendly. _Did one of your officers really try to murder him? Did they really try to shoot him as he surrendered? Was there really a campaign of harassment before all of this? How do you explain breaking a defenseless woman's arm? How could you not let those kids escape the building?_ Burt answered them all with the same types of official lines that had always served him well in the past. This time around though, the masses didn't seem to be buying them like they used to.

"The thing that people need to take away from this," he finally said, "is that when you target and murder police officers, they're going to get you. They're going to pull out the stops to do it too. We got Christopher Monfort, we got Maurice Clemmons, and now we got Randolph Gustin too. And when the smoke clears from this, it's going to be business as usual again. Because we're not giving murderers what they want. All that would accomplish is to insure there would only be more murder."

He hung up the phone. That answer was going to have to suffice until tomorrow, because it was time for him to go home.

There was a knock on his office door, then it opened and Carol Roden stepped in. Her face was red and tears were on her cheeks. "What's the matter now?" Burt asked.

"Nothing's the matter, there's pepper spray in the building."

* * *

Burt hustled down the corridor toward the lunchroom, and it was clearing out in a hurry. "Did somebody discharge pepper spray?" he demanded, and no one had an answer. "All right, we've got a leaking canister somewhere. Everybody out front now." No one needed to be told twice.

As everyone evacuated, Burt returned to his office and grabbed his gas mask from a drawer. He pulled it on, took out his flashlight, and began his search. He went first to the tactical supply room where most of it was kept. But upon lifting his mask momentarily, the smell there was no stronger than it was anywhere else. He moved into the locker rooms, first the men's and then the women's, but nothing seemed unusual there either. He tried the bathrooms, and then went back to the lunchroom. It was possible someone had a canister in a lunch bag that had gotten triggered, so he began to look through those.

The news was still on the television, and the words "Breaking News" appeared in a caption as he continued his search. "We have just received a report," the pretty blonde face on the screen announced, "that the two missing children from the sawmill blaze in Forest Hill have been found alive."

Burt shot up straight, and went to the TV to watch.

The camera view shifted to a shot of the two kids being examined by paramedics. The boy was pointing at a nearby Sheriff's Deputy and apparently telling the firemen to keep him away. "It is unknown how they escaped, and at this time they are refusing to speak to authorities. Fire officials are saying that it is apparent however that sewer tunnels played a part in their escape."

The anchorwoman went on about the amazing recovery, and then Burt had a most disturbing thought come into his head. He shined his flashlight up toward the ceiling, and saw a very light white mist coming out of one of the ventilation ducts. He followed the duct along the ceiling, to where it connected to the central ventilation system, which was located on the roof. It would be discovered later that a smartphone purchased at Wal-Mart had been used to pull up a satellite view of the building and locate the ventilation intake, where a pepper spray grenade could be lobbed, but right then Burt didn't have a second to waste wondering about such details.

He grabbed the microphone of his radio as he bolted for the front door. "Everyone back in the building now! NOW!" He ran through the hall, into the lobby, pulled his gas mask off and then burst out through the front door of the building.

What he saw was like a surreal scene from a zombie movie. Smoke drifted through the lot, generated by smoke bombs that had been set off in advance on the upwind side. A pickup truck sat parked just outside the parking lot, it's bright headlights illuminating the smoke and the people within it. It had recently been stolen from a driveway where it had been left warming up. All of Burt's remaining officers were spread out in the parking lot, facing a lone man who stood in front of that truck, silhouetted in the headlights. He was holding an M1A Scout rifle, wearing a Glock pistol, and loads of magazines. His clothes were partially burnt, the left side of his face was blackened from smoke, and his pant legs were soaked. Burt's people were frozen.

"Shoot him! _SHOOT HIM_!" Burt screamed. His officers grabbed for their guns, and Randy swung his rifle up and opened fire.

The officers all dove for cover, as Randy had already found he could rely on them to do. Randy fired wildly, or so it appeared to them at first. He fired in enough different directions that they all felt the need for solid cover, and so they ducked behind and under their patrol cars. As slugs slammed into the cars, making the engine blocks ring, some of them attempted to crawl low to get a shot from underneath. Burt was raising his own pistol as a rifle round hit the bricks beside him. A small fragment of the bullet jacket struck the white of his left eye, just deep enough to become imbedded. He screamed and lurched back inside the door.

As soon as all the cops had ducked behind cover, the shots came a little slower, and they all struck the cars. He was using the sights on top of his scope so he could fire quickly, and the shots hit the cars mostly close to the rear ends. One cop still in full SWAT gear named Henry Engel attempted to draw a bead on his kneecaps from beneath the rear end of a cop car. A rifle round struck the gas tank, and sprayed him in the face with fuel. A couple others actually got off shots from beneath a car, but a few rifle rounds hitting the pavement in front of their faces and spraying them with asphalt made them drop that plan in a hurry.

"Stay where you are," Byron Palmer yelled at the others. "His clip's almost empty." A few more shots, and a few more impacts on vehicles, and his prediction came true. Randy had made a mess of their vehicle fleet, and spilled gasoline was everywhere, but he hadn't hit a single officer.

Pretty much as he had intended.

As twelve cops stood and raised their weapons, Randy threw the M1A aside. It landed on the asphalt with a loud clatter that hurt his ears. At the very least the scope was knocked out of zero, but he didn't figure that would be a factor any longer. As the vengeance-thirsty police officers drew beads on him, Randy brought up his own Glock and drew his bead. Not at any living target though, he aimed for the asphalt beneath the cars and fired.

Right into the gasoline.

The Zippo lighter flint that was jammed into the nose of the slug sparked on impact, ignited the gas, and seven cop cars were engulfed in a ball of fire. A few of the cops were engulfed along with them. The gas tank that Henry Engel was still beneath burst, spraying him with even more burning fuel. He jumped to his feet screaming, completely engulfed in fire. That provided another momentary distraction, but then the cops turned their attention back to the man who was advancing to kill them.

Randy raised his pistol as he marched forward and yelled, _"HERE COMES PAPA!"_

Randy broke right at a full sprint and fired a burst at the ones who still stood in the open. While most of the others ran for new cover, Carol Roden, Ralph Waturbury, and Raymond Ward stood their ground in the open and returned fire. Unfortunately for them, Randy was able to hit targets while on the run better than they were able to hit moving targets while under fire. Carol Roden wore no vest, and one round connected with her aorta. Another round hit Ralph Waterbury in the vest, where it was stopped. Randy reversed directions on a dime, now sprinting to the left, and stuck his gun out to his right. He aimed lower, and a hit below the vest took out Ralph's femoral artery. The man dropped to the ground and began to bleed out.

Raymond Ward saw how this was progressing, so he dived behind a car that wasn't burning. A couple rounds struck the pavement beneath the car, spraying his legs with debris and fragments, some of which broke skin. He jumped up to return fire and Randy drilled him in the head.

Randy's regular clip ran empty, so he quickly dropped it and loaded in a 30 rounder. The eight cops who were still in fighting condition had taken new positions of cover behind other cars, and they now prepared to fire. Complicating his plans further, the burning Henry Engel came running from the right, screaming and waving his burning arms. So Randy broke left this time to avoid him and fired another burst, making the other cops duck again. Some of the others were preparing to fire from underneath the cars again, so Randy put another burst underneath the cars to dissuade them from that. Then he dropped on his right side, flipped on the weapon light and took more careful aim. The first shot hit Sean Merey square in the forehead. Right next to him, Chris Mesen stood and tried to fire over the hood. Randy put another aimed shot into his ankle, blowing it to fragments. He screamed and fell on his right side, where he found himself staring straight at Randy's next shot from beneath the engine compartment. That one didn't miss either.

Sergeant Byron Palmer saw how this was playing out and he didn't like it. He shouted, "All at once, NOW!" then he and the other five remaining stood to fire all at once. But the best feature of the big clips Randy was using was that it allowed for generous amounts of suppressive fire. He bolted to the right again while pouring another burst into the two cars they stood behind, and it worked. Three of the cops ducked again, and the ones who hadn't still couldn't hit him. He continued on to another car and took some cover of his own. He didn't waste a second putting it to proper use though, he dropped on his side and fired beneath the car and into people's legs. Lori Freye was hit in the foot and Lawrence Ridge was struck in the shin. Both fell to the ground screaming.

The other four got a proper bead this time and poured rounds both underneath the car, and above him where they would strike him if he tried to stand. Randy scooted behind the front wheels where he had cover from both the wheel hubs and the engine, and he swapped magazines while bullets rang the metal all around him. Then he prepared to fire again, this time doing it old school. He poked his head around the front end and fired a more carefully aimed burst at the four cops. Byron Palmer was hit in the right shoulder, and he dropped down behind the car, his right arm made permanently useless. Palmer thought quick and screamed to the three others who were still on their feet. "Do what he's doing, charge him!"

They gave it a go, but they didn't have Randy's level of practice at it. Cory McCarson, Owen Hubbs, and Lance Hubbs charged at him from three directions, one on each side and one straight on. The two coming from the sides intended to run right around his cover and bury him in fire, so he didn't have time to waste. Randy leaped to his feet and into the open, charged Lance Hubbs, the one on his right, and poured a burst into him. Then he ran up and grabbed the mortally wounded man to use as a human shield while he dispensed with Cory McCarson.

Owen Hubbs saw the manner in which his dying brother was being used and went berserk. "That's my brother!" He began a sprint straight at Randy. " _You fucking killed my brother!_ " It didn't seem right to use a man's brother as a shield, so he dropped Lance, took careful aim at the wildly shooting man and fired one shot straight into his chest. Owen stopped for just a moment, then raised his gun again, and Randy planted another one. Owen looked at his already-fallen brother and considered his next step for another second. Then he raised the gun a third time, and this time Randy finished out the magazine on him. He finally dropped.

Randy changed mags and walked up close to the man. "No need to be lonely, you can have a spot of ground right next to him." He shot Owen once in the head.

Randy took a look around the scene. Most of his opposition was dead, but some were only wounded. Unfortunately the nature of his mission precluded the taking of prisoners. So he moved in and dispatched the remainder of the force.

There was just one more outside the building who was still alive, and that was Henry Engel, who had been engulfed in burning fuel, and pretty much still was. He had finally fallen, and was on his back convulsing. His skin was blackened and he was barely recognizable anymore. Randy approached, put a bead on his forehead, then hesitated. "You know what?" he asked. "You're actually not one of the bad ones. I'm gonna let you live." Engel wouldn't live, of course, but Randy figured it's the thought that counts. He turned away and walked to the road to pick up his rifle.

* * *

Esther Keel plucked at the metal fragment in Burt's eye, but it wasn't easy with him shouting, cursing her and yanking his head away every time she tried. But they both sensed that time was running short, so Esther finally got a firm grip on it and yanked. It came, along with a small white piece of eyeball and a hearty scream, but it was out and Burt could see again.

When Burt had calmed himself from that, he told Esther to find a safe place while he made ready for the attack. She went to where she had always felt safest, behind the bulletproof glass at the front desk. Burt went down the hall to the weapons locker to dig up a shotgun.

* * *

Randy opened the front door of the building and stepped into the lobby. Since the door was plate glass, they probably hadn't seen the point in trying to lock it. He caught movement behind the protective glass at the front counter and walked over to it. "I have an appointment to speak with the chief," he said.

Esther wasn't biting. She sat in her chair and remained quiet, even after Randy leveled the rifle at the glass. "You know this glass is only made to stop pistol rounds, right?" Esther seemed to recall hearing that once, long ago, but the subject hadn't come up since then. But there wasn't much she could do about it now.

Randy wasn't getting any service, so he decided to let himself in. He fired one round into the glass, shooting at an angle just to be on the safe side. The glass stopped it, but there was a crater halfway through. Randy fired one more, and glass fragments sprayed him in the face, luckily missing his eyes. He covered his face and blasted several more rounds, finally blowing a halfway respectable hole through it.

Esther was now beneath a back counter, no longer feeling the slightest bit safe. Which was not unfounded, because Randy wasn't feeling especially merciful. He poked the rifle through the hole toward her. "You armed?"

She shook her head. "I don't carry a gun and I don't hurt anyone."

"No, you just give the directions to the people who do," Randy shot back. "There a weapon in here anyplace at all?" She shook her head again, and he had to give her the benefit of the doubt. "Lucky you." Randy swung the rifle to the right and poked the muzzle into the button that opened the door. It buzzed, and he grabbed the handle.

* * *

The pepper spray had mostly been cleared by the ventilation system, which was fortunate. There was enough left to cause some irritation, especially in Burt's injured eye, but he could at least breathe.

" _BURT! HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT YOUR LAST WORDS ARE GOING TO BE?"_ Gustin's voice boomed through the hall at him, and then a blast of gunfire followed it. The walls were far less bullet resistant than the glass at the front, and every rifle round penetrated several, blowing chunks of sheet rock, wood, and all other manners of debris through the air. _"I RECOMMEND 'FUCK YOU,' OR 'SEE YOU IN HELL!'"_ The voice moved closer, and Burt readied his shotgun, as a few more rounds plowed through the building. _"'TELL MY WIFE I LOVE HER' WILL NOT GET YOU REMEMBERED BY ANYONE. YOU GOT THAT?"_

Gustin was almost there, and Burt needed him to show himself. Plus, there was a comeback on the tip of his tongue he couldn't keep to himself any longer. "Well if those are my choices," he shouted back, "then fuck you Gustin, I'll see you in Hell." Randy heard where his voice came from and moved closer to the door. "And if it's not too much trouble, tell my wife I love her!"

Randy raised an eyebrow. "Very well stated!" he shouted in reply, then he opened the gunfight with a salvo fired through the wall into the room. Burt knew that Randy was trying to make him go to ground though, and he didn't do it. He saw where the rounds came through and put one round of buckshot through the wall in return. But Randy had just leapt into the doorway, and he began firing from there. Burt had no choice but to hit the floor, but as he did so he fired another round wildly.

This time he got lucky though. Some wood and plaster debris blew out of the ceiling where the buckshot hit and sprayed Randy in the face. Randy recovered quickly, but Burt capitalized just a little bit faster. He fired another round, which went wide left, but a couple pellets hit Randy's right forearm. The impact and the pain made Randy spin partway to the right, and then Burt put his next shot right on target.

Into his back.

Randy landed on the floor with a thud, as powerful tingling jolts rocked his entire spinal column. Burt got his breathing under control, then got up and approached with his shotgun trained on Randy's head. He fully intended to pull the trigger the moment Randy made any kind of move. As his rifle was still in his right hand, it wouldn't be hard to justify, even if his right arm didn't appear to be much use at the moment. He moved up a little too close, and that's when Randy moved.

His left hand shot out and grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. But instead of twisting it away, he pulled it closer, straight toward his head. "You still lose," he said. "You've lost everything, just like I have, and I took it from you. Not only that, I proved you're not so mighty, and that's something people will never forget." He let that sink in for a second. "You don't own us anymore. Now send me on my fucking way."

Burt's thoughts went back to some of Randy's own words. _Copycat shooters are inspired when the original shooter gets what he wants._ Randy wasn't suicidal, and would never shoot himself like the typical mass shooter would, but he was perfectly fine with going out in a blaze of glory. What if he gave Randy what he wanted, and that proved to be the inspiration that the copycats who were waiting in the wings needed? If any more like him were to spring up, this really could become the next national shooting trend, and he couldn't risk that. Besides which, the last thing on Earth he wanted was to give Gustin what _he_ wanted.

Burt pulled the muzzle of his shotgun back. Part of him hated the idea of mercy, but part of him felt grim satisfaction at knowing that revenge would be dished out over a much longer period of time.

"No such luck for you," he said.

Chapter 17

The Settling Of Dust

Young Andy and Erica were still waiting to be released by the Sheriff's deputies, who continued to insist that they couldn't go yet because the paramedics had not cleared them as being okay. Their parents were all there by this time, and they were howling with protest, because it was obvious what the real reason was. The kids weren't talking about Randy, and that put them on the wrong side of things.

Finally a deputy approached the scene and told them that Randy had been shot and captured. Erica wouldn't believe it at first, but her mother checked the news on her phone and it was true. The deputy told them that if they would talk about what happened, they could go home. There didn't seem to be any more argument against it.

With a news camera trained on them, they told of how Randy had tried to call a cease-fire to let them get out. They told of how the cops had shot the door full of holes when it moved, and how they would have died if they had actually tried to use it. They described their terror at being caught inside a burning building with no way out, and no one they could call to get them out. Then they told the story of how Randy had stepped up to save them, and how he had delivered.

Randy had known of a sewer grate in the basement of the building, but had never known for certain where it led. Together they had worked it loose, pulled it free, and gone inside, not a minute too soon. Burning wood and debris had poured down and choked off their last remaining pocket of breathable air.

They were in a sewer line that hadn't been used in decades, which led into lines that were still being used. It was not a fun journey. The smell was overpowering, the rats were terrifyingly huge, and Erica had to be carried most of the way. When Randy was too tired, Andy had carried her. So it had gone through seemingly endless amounts of tunnel until they had found a way out.

The deputy asked them why they didn't call 911 when they were free. Andy replied that they had already been saved. From the police, not by them. It didn't make much sense to call for help from people who might be the good guys, and then again might not.

* * *

Randy had substantial internal bleeding, and he could have easily died after waiting a far shorter time than Arnold McCaslin had waited. The Sheriff's deputies and State Patrol officers who converged on the Forest Hill Police Department building were more than a bit puzzled as to why Burt considered his medical care to be such a priority. They had wanted to spend more time securing the scene. Lots more. Burt got his way though, and it was fortunate that he did. Because while the shooting was over, Randy's work was far from finished.

He was loaded into a Life Flight helicopter for transport to Harborview Trauma Center in Seattle. A State Patrol commander was assigned to ride with him. His name was Kyle, and he had some venting of his own to do.

The helicopter ascended over Forest Hill, but Randy didn't have much of a view. He was still wearing handcuffs behind his back, despite his wounds, and his comfort appeared to be low priority. Randy had a clear view of the State Patrolman who sat next to him though. Judging by the look on his face, this man would have been perfectly happy to slide the door open and roll his gurney right out of it.

"I'll bet you feel pretty accomplished right now," the man shouted over the noise of the aircraft. Randy stayed silent. "Do you have any idea what you may have started? We're getting threats pouring into police departments all over the country. Serious ones." Randy hadn't been aware of that, and it didn't give him any joy. That bit of news made him even more scared than the numbness in his legs did. "You know this could take off and turn into a war? Is that what you wanted to be famous for? 'Cause it's happening."

Randy found his voice. "There's another way this could go. But you need to listen to me." Officer Kyle reached into his vest pocket, took out a small voice recorder and held it up before Randy. Randy nodded okay, and he turned it on.

* * *

#### Illinois, 6:45AM

Dennis Freman had been following the story of Randy's war with an obsessive level of interest. He was in his mid-fifties, always seemed to be battling ailments, and he was also battling his own Sheriff.

Dennis had taken up the cause of property rights after he had dug a well on his property without the County's permission. He had filed his paperwork, gone through the process, but the county did nothing but delay and delay. He didn't have money to sue them, so he finally took things into his own hands. Since then, the Sheriff's Department had been a frequent visitor. A visitor that typically came bearing threats of enforcement action.

On this morning, Dennis had decided that attempts at peaceful resolution just weren't getting the message across. He had made what was intended to be his final posting on his blog, then gone to his gun cabinet, and locked and loaded. He was almost ready to go when his doorbell rang.

" _Dennis, this is the Sheriff. Open the door."_ Sonofabitch. He had figured on having more time than that. _"Listen to me carefully Dennis. I am not here to fight with you, but I read your blog and we need to talk. Please come to the door."_

Dennis took a peek out his back window to see how badly he was surrounded. He saw nothing. He looked out the front window and saw one car, with only one deputy standing next to the passenger side. He weighed the possibilities. On the one hand, the sheriff might have Lon Horiuchi, or some local facsimile thereof, waiting in the trees for him to open his door, in which case he'd just as well put some buckshot through it now. Or, the sheriff might be telling the truth. It was a toss-up, but he was a believer that when someone tries to do the right thing, you ought to give him the chance. He decided to put down the shotgun, stick his .357 in his back waistband, and roll the dice.

He opened his front door, and indeed the sheriff was standing there alone. "Good morning, Dennis," the sheriff began.

"'Mornin' Sheriff."

"I'd like this conversation to be off the record. But at the same time I advise you not to cop to anything." Dennis nodded. "I'd like to propose a solution to our disagreement. My department will cease all enforcement action until your case has gone completely through the court process. Your well is already dug, and court is the right place for this to be settled. In exchange, you agree to abide by the final ruling. And you can appeal it as far as you like."

"You serious about this?"

"I'm serious. I ask only one thing in return."

"What's that?"

"That you take down that latest blog posting, and replace it with one about this conversation. I want you to tell people that we can be reasonable when we want to."

Dennis was pretty well stunned by this point. He had fully expected this to be his last day on Earth, and the sheriff had just come to his door with different news. "That Gustin fella done shook things up, didn't he?" Dennis asked.

"There's a lot more at stake at this moment than just what happens here between us, so we can't afford to do business as usual," the Sheriff replied. "Wildfires start with one spark, and the grass is really dry right now."

* * *

Randy awoke from surgery to be told he was partially paralyzed. He would have some movement and feeling in his legs, but he was going to be in a wheelchair for some time at least. Randy thought to himself that Burt had indeed inflicted the greater cruelty by not killing him.

He spent a couple weeks at Harborview under guard, and then went to King County lockup. He was arraigned shortly afterward, and the court appointed an attorney for him named Brett Milner. It was an uncomfortable day in court to say the least, for being only an arraignment. The media packed the hallways, numerous cops packed the courtroom, and sitting at the front of them was Robin Frisk. When Randy was wheeled in, he spotted her quickly, wearing her uniform and sitting in her own wheelchair. He saw her missing left leg and felt a boulder land in his gut. She said nothing the whole time, but she stared at him with a level of hatred he had never witnessed, and she never took her eyes off him until they wheeled him out.

During his time in lockup, they didn't allow him any contact at all with Elena. No notes, no letters, no news of her condition, no nothing, even though she was practically right across the hall from him in the women's wing of the jail. After they both had lawyers though, they were able to pass messages through them.

The King County prosecutor had a mountain of evidence to sift through, from Randy's past writings and rants, to his encounters with law enforcement, to the amount of preparation he had made for this conflict. He didn't figure a conviction for Randy was going to be any problem at all. Nor would the death penalty.

But where Elena was concerned, while it seemed pretty clear that she had fired some shots of her own at the roadblock incident, the level of proof he needed for a conviction wasn't there. The gun was hers, the fingerprints and DNA on the shell casings were hers, but that didn't prove she fired it. So he gave Randy's lawyer an offer to pass on: testify against Elena, and he would drop the death penalty.

Elena was in favor of it. Randy had saved her so many times that she felt she owed him one, and it was her turn to do some sacrificing. The sentence would be long, but not her entire life. And as long as they both lived, they could write and call each other from time to time, and still have some measure of a life with each other.

Randy thought it over, but only briefly. He had a lot invested in giving her a life, and he wasn't going to see it ruined when his own life was as good as over in any case. Besides which, the situation that had led to her being in this mess was not her doing. He gave his lawyer a message to pass on to her, that simply said: _Elena, you have to let me do the right thing by you._

* * *

The jail staff was professional, for the most part. They wheeled him to and from the shower, brought his meals, delivered his mail on time. They got him to his physical therapy sessions, where he eventually made enough progress that he was able to walk with a walker. But underneath the surface, there was none of the cordiality that was afforded to the other inmates. Those inmates were there for correction; Randy was only there to be put down.

But one day, one of them brought him a newspaper. "We just had a major argument over whether you should see this," the burly officer told Randy. "I won, but not by much." On the second page was an article about the threats to law enforcement that had emerged after the battle in Forest Hill. They hadn't come to pass, and the threats had pretty much stopped coming in. This was being attributed to the fact that law enforcement agencies that had been the subject of these threats had been making acts of conciliation with their communities. This wasn't entirely a voluntary thing. As Randy had noted many times, people in power don't give up power voluntarily. But with the attacks by Chris Monfort and Maurice Clemmons, animosity toward police had been taken to a whole new level. With what Randy had done, it had gone to a whole new level beyond that. There were decent cops and good departments around the nation that didn't want to be dragged into a situation where a national insurgency against police became established, and they were leaning hard on the heavy-handed departments to clean up their acts. The overall result was that rather than shootings between police and citizens spiraling out of control, they had taken a sharp nosedive.

The departments involved with this found that it didn't even take that much of an effort. Burt had been dead wrong in his belief that giving Randy what he wanted would lead to copycats, because the people who were angry with law enforcement weren't in the same category with other types of mass shooters. All that the average citizen really wanted from law enforcement was the same thing that Randy did, and that was some kind of assurance that they were really on the same side.

Buried toward the bottom of the article was a brief mention that a Washington State Patrol memorandum had been broadcast nationwide the day after Randy's capture. It stated that this had been the advice of the Forest Hill cop killer.

* * *

The news in Washington State from the months following Randy's war wasn't all good however. On August 30th of 2010, a Seattle police officer named Ian Birk stopped at an intersection as a man named John T. Williams was crossing the street in front of him. Williams was 50 years old, alcoholic, and was also a Native American woodcarver by trade, from the First Nations tribe. In his hands he was holding a piece of wood that was his current carving project, and also a 3" bladed folding knife. His attention was consumed by the project he was working on at that moment. It wasn't hard to discern what was going on at the moment, as Birk would state repeatedly that he saw Williams "carving up that board."

Most of what happened next was caught on the dash cam, though the actual shooting took place out of view of it. Ian Birk got out of his car and approached, swaggering with what could be described as a "gangland strut." When he stepped into the frame of the dash cam, his gun was already drawn and in his hand. Many people would later consider these two items of fact to constitute "premeditation." Birk never identified himself as a police officer. He approached Williams, walked up to within ten feet of him, and shouted, "Hey, put the knife down!" He repeated his command twice more very quickly and then fired five times, hitting Williams with four of those rounds. The length of time between his first command and his first shot was four seconds.

Birk would claim that Williams had turned to face him with the knife, but that claim would fall apart when the autopsy showed that the four bullets had entered his back and his right side. Birk would also claim that his shooting was justified because Williams displayed "pre-attack indicators," including a threatening posture and a "thousand yard stare." The numerous witnesses to the shooting disputed these claims unfailingly however. They included one woman who said immediately after the shooting, "What happened? He didn't do anything."

Birk had replied, "Ma'am, he had a knife and he wouldn't put it down."

With the sole exception of the county prosecutor, who again declined to press criminal charges, nobody bought that excuse, including Birk's own department. This was one hopeful sign that came out of the incident. The report that came from the Firearms Review Board included the statement, "In a real sense, Officer Birk created the situation which he claims he had to use deadly force to get out of."

While the knife had been open when Birk first spotted him, it was found after the shooting in a closed position. Later on, Williams's brother would tell about how their father had taught them to always close their knife before talking to someone up close. Williams had, in fact, been trying to respect the officer's authority, he just wasn't doing it quickly enough to satisfy Officer Birk.

There was little question that it had been a rough year for police in Washington. But while some of them had heeded the lessons to be learned, others had not. And it was apparent from this incident that some cops still had it on their minds that what they really needed to do was to reassert their power to fire at will.

* * *

"Elena Gustin, please come to the door." The female guard shouted out across the communal room of the jail. Elena had her things packed and was ready to go. This wasn't her first trip to jail, and she knew the drill.

Her lawyer had told her this was coming. Contrary to what the interrogating police and the prosecutor's office had wanted her to believe, she had interjected sufficient disclaimers into everything she had said. Not by much, but it was enough. She had clammed up at the right time, which wasn't easy for her. News that she had likely killed a cop made her the center of attention, and many of the other female inmates wanted to hear her tell them about it. Bragging about her exploits had long been a part of her life, and she had to bite her tongue hard.

Meanwhile, over on his side of the building, Randy had laughed at the offer to trade the death penalty for selling her out. The prosecutor finally had no choice but to announce that he had insufficient evidence to charge her.

She was led to a changing room, where she was given back the clothes and possessions she had on the day they had seized her at the news station. Changing wasn't easy with her arm still in a cast, but she managed. Then she was taken downstairs to the discharge processing area. There, she waited with a few other inmates for the door to be opened. She wasn't the only one in the room, but she was the only one the correction officers had eyes on. She could feel their stares and it hurt. Part of her wanted to shout at them, _you people tried to murder us, what the hell did you expect?_ But she didn't.

Finally the buzzer sounded. The door to the parking garage outside was opened, and as they all watched her, she walked out.

* * *

Elena took a taxi home. As the cab pulled into the driveway, she expected the place to look like a catastrophe, having heard about how it had been ransacked by deputies. It didn't though. The lawn was cut, and the mess was cleaned up. And there was a Bronco in the driveway, Vincent's.

The front door opened and Vincent came out of it, followed shortly by Rosemary. "Hey sweetheart!" he said, then walked up to give her a hug. "Couldn't let you show up without some kind of welcome." Elena embraced him, then looked back and forth between him and Rosemary.

"Are you two..."

"Don't read too much into this," Vincent said, "but we're talking, and that's a lot more'n we could say before. We'll see what happens from there."

"This whole thing sort of made us see sides of each other we haven't seen in quite a long time," Rosemary interjected, then she flashed Vincent a smile.

Vincent took Elena's hand and pulled her toward the door. "Come on in, food's waiting."

* * *

They had made her some ceviche', the Mexican seafood salad that Elena had tried to feed Randy from time to time. Much as she loved it herself though, Randy always picked out the shrimp and the avocados for himself and let her eat the rest. Rosemary's version wasn't exactly perfect, but it was passable, and it tasted wonderful to her.

They had done a lot of cleaning for her, but a lot remained. The deputies had torn through everything. The front of the gun safe had been cut completely off, and it had been completely cleaned out. Not one of Randy's guns or even one round of ammunition remained on the premises. Both of their computers were gone too, but they had full drive encryption installed and she thought it would be amusing to see if they could crack the passwords. Not that it would net them anything worse than a little homemade porn if they did.

Her biggest worry though, on the home front at least, was the cats. "We think they're still around," Vincent said when she asked. "Something's been coming in to eat their food anyhow, but if it's them they won't show hide or hair for us."

Elena's head began to sink with a look of despair. "What is it?" Rosemary asked.

"I'm all alone here. I can't live alone." Vincent and Rosemary got the sense that she really might not be able to do this herself.

"We'll take you to visit Randy tomorrow, 'kay?" Vincent said. "And I'll spend the night in the motorhome. You're not gonna be alone."

* * *

After Rosemary went home, and Vincent retired to the motorhome, Elena spent some time calling the cats before giving up and going to bed. Sleep wasn't going to come easily, because she couldn't feel safe anymore. She looked at the wall panels that had been pried open and then nailed back shut, and the photos of her and Randy that they had torn off the wall. There were people who could come here in the night and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Not only that, Randy wasn't here to stop them anymore either. They'd taken him away from her, over a fight they had started themselves.

She thought about whether she could handle the responsibilities of life without him. She had never carried such a weight before in her life. But Randy had been right about this too. The property was paid off, and the bills weren't more than she could afford. Other than coping with her fear of being alone, there wasn't really that much to it, once she got the hang of it. She decided she'd have to knuckle down and do it, because for her to lose everything Randy had given her would break his heart.

Her heart jumped as she heard a sound out in the hallway. Was that Vincent? The sound moved closer, and then it began to sound familiar as it slithered through the hole Randy had cut in the bottom of the bedroom door. Then she felt something land on the foot of the bed and she turned on the lamp.

Kemo was sitting there, and she didn't look good. There was a gash on the side of her neck that had begun to heal, and some other bite marks. A second later, Ninja jumped up and sat beside the other cat. Ninja had some claw marks too, but Kemo had gotten the worst of it by far. That was odd because Ninja was the one who wanted to play with everything in sight, including the dangerous critters. Kemo knew better, and she wasn't interested in socializing with other critters anyhow, which meant she could only have gotten hurt like that while protecting Ninja. This was undoubtedly the age of looking out for one another.

She put her arms out to them. "Come here babies," she said, and they came to her. She'd have to get them to the vet first thing in the morning, but at least she could sleep now. Finally, something had gone right.

* * *

Vincent drove Elena to the jail in the afternoon to see Randy, but he stayed in the waiting area while she went ahead. He'd been there himself already, and this was to be their visit. Elena checked in at the desk, emptied her pockets, and then they gave her a key to take down the hall to a row of doors. She opened one, and went inside the booth. There, she had to wait a few minutes because of the assistance Randy needed. But then, though she was horrified to see him in a wheelchair, she saw his face on the other side. He smiled with joy at seeing her, and everything felt almost okay again. He was wheeled into the booth and the door closed behind him. They picked up their phone receivers.

"Hey, sweetheart," Randy began.

"Hey baby. How they treating you?"

"Like shit. But they paid for the privilege, didn't they?"

Elena smiled. "I just got home yesterday."

"I don't want to know what it's like..."

"It's not that bad. Vincent and Rosemary fixed most of the damage, so it looks okay, other than the safe being cut in half."

"What about the kids?"

"They came home last night. They're a little messed up but they'll be okay." Randy breathed a huge sigh of relief. "How about you?" she asked.

"Well, chances are decent that I'll walk again to some degree anyhow," he replied.

"How about..."

"Still works." Elena breathed her own big sigh of relief. "But if we ever get the chance again, odds are that you'll be doing most of the work," he said. Elena was perfectly fine with that.

"So what's your lawyer saying?" she asked.

"Well, he's got some ideas on how to fight this. He wants me to see a couple of shrinks, so we can try to play the angle that the police drove my paranoia level too high by their own actions."

"What do you think of that?"

"I have a little different idea," he said as Elena listened closely. "Even if he is able to get me out of the death penalty, my life is over. I can't ever come home to you again. So I'm thinking, plead guilty, get the death penalty, skip all the drama and be done with this as fast as possible."

Elena threw the receiver against the shatterproof glass. Then she stood up and turned away with tears of rage on her cheeks. Randy shouted from the other side of the glass, but she couldn't hear. Finally she sat back down and picked the receiver back up. Thankfully it wasn't broken.

"Elena, there's nothing left to fight for!" Randy tried to tell her.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "Are you the man I married? Are you the man who told me that I have a place in this world, and that I have to justify it?" Randy was taken aback. He hadn't seen this side of her since the roadblock incident. "If what you did wasn't wrong, then why would you say that it was? This is your life now. This is the job you bought into, and you have to see it through or this has all happened for nothing." Elena fought to steady her voice. "You're going on trial Randy, and you have to tell people why it is that what you did was the right thing."

"Elena, the system is rigged. We're going to lose no matter what."

"Fuck the system, and fuck winning. You'll lose the case, but you'll keep your good name. And I'll keep mine."

Randy had already heard a similar message from a wise physician, and he tended to share that view himself, but he was tired of fighting and was beginning to hope for an easy out. The woman he loved wasn't going to give him one though.

* * *

Elena came back out to the waiting area where Vincent was. He stood up and they started down the long hallway to the exit together. "What'd you talk about?" he asked.

"His trial."

"How you feeling about that?"

"It's going to be one fuck of a good show."

Chapter 18

Trial of the Millennium

For the first time in many months, Randy woke up with a measure of anticipation mixed in with his dread. His name had been dragged through the proverbial mud and raked over the proverbial coals for a very long time, and this was the day he began returning the favor.

* * *

"I think we could do pretty well, if you would follow my approach." Brett Milner, the court-appointed attorney, had found a dream client in Randy, but he wasn't enjoying the job nearly as much as he should have been. Randy had his own ideas for conducting his defense, and attorneys don't like being told how to do their job any more than anyone else does. "We could whittle your sentence down to some time in prison, some time in Western State, and quite possibly we can get you out while you're still young enough to get your dick hard. You need to consider this," he said.

Randy _was_ considering it, as he had been doing frequently for months. He could be out while there was still a little bit of life to be lived. He had little doubt that Elena would be waiting. Would that not be the best thing to do for her? Give her something to live for, some thread of hope to hang on for, even if it was a long way down the road?

"It would mean admitting to them that I'm a paranoid nutjob," Randy said.

"The actual terminology involved is a bit more couth than that."

"In the court of law, yes, in the court of public opinion, not so much," Randy replied. "This would also mean admitting that the Forest Hill Police did nothing to bring about what happened."

"We can color their actions as having fueled your paranoia, but what the court and the jury will want to see before considering leniency is contrition. That only happens when you take the blame, at least for your own part in what happened, and not when you heap it on everyone else."

Randy had been questioning the court's choice of lawyers for him ever since the voir dire process of jury selection. He had done jury duty himself once before. During that experience he had been amazed by the malleability of the minds that can be found on a jury. Some people in jury pools come to the courtroom with their minds made up about the case, and they typically get excused. Others, many others, come with their own opinions of varying sorts, but in the end will believe pretty much whatever they're told. Those are the ones who are selected with the greatest frequency. Real critical thinkers are the rarest breed of juror who actually gets selected.

During jury selection for Randy's trial, Brett had been just a bit too accommodating to the prosecution's desire for that second type of juror. Randy wanted people with strong opinions, whatever they might be. Those are the people who are willing to ask the hard questions and demand real answers. They're the ones who will vote against the crowd and stand by their choice. They were also the people who would have best identified with Randy's admittedly black-and-white views. But Brett seemed to believe that malleability would work in their favor. Maybe it would have, if Randy considered his approach to be a viable one.

"Brett," Randy began, "we've had this talk many times, so I'll break it down. There are people, including my wife, who are looking to me to do what needs to be done, because nobody else will. What needs to be done is for the truth to be told, and I will not defend myself with anything else other than the truth."

"And that truth is?"

"That this needed to happen."

Brett looked down at his stack of paperwork and sighed. "That truth is what you'll be standing on when they put the rope around your neck. But I'll do the best I can with it."

* * *

As the early phases of the trial progressed, the prosecution had been running amok. They had heavily researched Randy's past blog postings, online comments, and other writings. They had a stack of photographs of Randy's weapons, cases of ammunition, and tactical gear. He had brought out all the experts from the Sheriff's Office and State Patrol who had examined evidence.

There was also the fact that Randy had once killed a man on his property. However justified it may have been at the time, it wasn't helpful now. And every little thing about him had been misrepresented in ways Bill Clinton couldn't get away with.

Now it was Randy's turn to fire back, and he wanted to start it off properly. "The defense calls Randolph Gustin to the stand," Brett announced to the courtroom. The gasp in the room was collective and huge. Such a move was legal suicide, if not actual suicide. As Elena watched from the front row immediately behind him, Randy stood with the help of his walker and made his way to the stand. He sat down and was sworn in.

"Mister Gustin," Brett began, "you've elected to take the stand early in the trial."

"I have."

"And did you do so against my advice?"

"I most certainly did."

"Would you tell us the reason for that?"

"I see nothing to be gained here by playing games of legal strategy. With my actions I made a statement. Now it is incumbent upon me to explain what I did and why I did it. I intend to do so very candidly, and the only thing I want in exchange for that is the same candor from the people I bring up here to question." Randy knew what the chances of that happening were, but he also knew it couldn't hurt for the jury to see the difference between plain speaking and smarminess.

Brett continued his questioning. "I realize there was a lot of buildup that led to this episode, but I'd like to begin with the night the first shots were fired. Would you describe in your own words what happened?"

"I was pulled over by Officer Zachary Simmons," Randy began. Then, moment by moment, he recounted the tale of how the young officer had tried to cajole him into making threatening moves. He described how, after failing at that, the officer had tried to shoot him in his seat, fully intending to dig up his own gun afterward to plant on him. He told of how after he had disarmed the first cop, he was charged by a second one, and threatened with being shot with the first cop's backup weapon.

He then told about how he had shot them both.

At that point, Brett turned it over to the prosecutor to cross-examine him. That was the way Randy wanted it, because he had a pretty good idea what would be asked, and it was the prosecutor he wanted to drop these answers on.

"Mister Gustin," the prosecutor began, "You stated that you disarmed Officer Simmons and held his own weapon on him."

"That's correct."

"Why then was it necessary to shoot him?"

"The policy of almost every department is that if a weapon is pointed at another officer, they have no choice, they must shoot."

"And that meant you were imminently about to be shot by Sergeant Sylvester Frawley?"

"Correct again."

"Yet you shot Simmons first. Exactly how do you justify that?"

"He had a backup weapon. If I had turned the weapon I was holding away from him, I'd have been pointing it at Frawley, and department policy would then have left Simmons with no choice but to shoot me for that," Randy replied. "Even though they initiated the attack, or at least Simmons did, the fact that I took protective measures left them with no alternative but to kill me, according to their policies. So I quickly formulated a similar policy of my own."

"What policy is that?"

"Neither compliance or not being a real threat worked to save Niles Meservey, or Wayne Scott Creach, or John T. Williams, and it wasn't working to save me either. So my new policy is, that if I believe my death or the death of another innocent person at the hands of a law enforcement officer is likely to be imminent, and without justification, then I have no choice, I must shoot."

The anger at that statement from the cops who were sitting in the courtroom was quite palpable.

* * *

Randy had gone on to talk further about justifications, and this time he used the most recent high-profile case of Ian Birk as his example. He told of how Birk had walked to within ten feet of John T. Williams, and then claimed his close proximity as a justification. He told of how Birk had claimed to see such "pre-attack indicators" as a set jaw and stern expression. No one else had seen those things, but he had cited them as justifications anyways. Randy also brought up an instance of his own when he had placed his hands on the steering wheel during a stop, and the cop had written in his report later that Randy had "gripped the wheel with an icy, steely glare..." It was sad but true, he noted, that there was simply nothing one could do that they would not somehow construe as a threat. And it was finally coming back to bite them.

Now that court was out again, he sat in the small visiting room where he and his attorney were allowed to meet in private. "You've done a pretty good job," Brett said to Randy, "of justifying the first two.

"Well, at least that's a start."

"You're not going to do so well after this point though, because of a couple of things. First is the number of people, especially jurors, who will give cops the benefit of the doubt no matter what. Second, there's no real reason you couldn't have surrendered after that first incident."

"Is that what you really believe?"

"I'm sorry, but it is. You can't justify killing people who aren't actively threatening you, and you shouldn't try to. The jury will turn on you if you do."

"This isn't about the jury, remember?"

"From my perspective, it is." That was the crux of their disagreement. Lawyers are tacticians, and their scorecards are made up of wins and losses. Losing on principle isn't in their DNA, and there's a reason for that. People who shell out money for lawyers are typically most interested in winning.

Randy thought hard about what his answer should be. "Brett, I want to thank you for all you've done," he said. "But you're fired."

* * *

"I call Officer Robin Frisk to the stand." Randy made the announcement, and it was Burt who personally wheeled her to the stand and helped her into the chair. He gave Randy a friendly little smirk as he returned to his seat.

Randy stood with the help of his walker and approached the stand, as Robin's expression of hatred returned. He spoke softly. "Officer Frisk, how's your recovery coming?"

"How is that any of your business?"

"It's not, I just wanted to know. But that doesn't mean you have to tell me." Randy took a step back from the stand to give her the space she clearly wanted. "I'd like to talk about the shooting of Arnold McCaslin that took place here in Forest Hill several years ago."

"Objection, your honor," the prosecutor said. "This bears no relevance to the current case."

"Your honor, it is very relevant and very important to understand how a police department responds internally to an officer involved shooting."

"Very well," the judge said. "Overruled, for now."

Randy went on with his questioning. "Were you with the department at that time?"

"I was. Had been for a few years."

"Do you remember how you first found out about the incident?"

"I was working the swingshift, and this happened on days. The first I heard of it was on the radio while I was on the way to work that night."

"Was McCaslin still alive at that time?"

"I heard that he had died after I got to work."

"Can you describe the atmosphere of the department on that day?"

Robin thought for a moment. "I guess you could say it was a little bit electrified. We don't have an officer involved shooting very often."

"Can you describe the very first account you heard of what happened?"

"The first account was that it was clearly justified. McCaslin had grabbed a knife from inside his coat and charged Jack Hayward with it, and he had no choice but to shoot."

"What was the response among the officers to that news?"

"They hated to see someone get killed, but felt that Hayward had no choice and had done a good job."

"But after that, the story started to change, didn't it?"

"Yes, it did."

Randy picked out a news clipping from his handful of papers. "A few days later this article appeared, describing how witnesses had come forward to tell about how McCaslin had been argumentative, but had not made any threatening move other than to pull open his coat. How did people in your department respond to that?"

"Well, they didn't much really. There wasn't much talk about it."

"Did anyone at all talk about it?"

"A few people. They said there's always differing accounts when something like this happens."

"I'll grant you, there's some truth to that," Randy said. "But the bad news kept coming, didn't it?"

"Yes. The news stories came out about how our officers spent so much time securing the scene that by the time they let the EMT's have him, it was too late to save his life."

"And that wasn't all, was there?"

"No. His family blew up when they saw pictures of the knife that was found on him. They said he didn't own anything like it and he certainly never carried one He was a professional pacifist."

"What sort of reaction did that cause in the department?"

"Well, Hayward was under a lot of fire. So everyone sort of circled the wagons to protect him."

"How so?"

"We had to stand up for him. We testified in the inquiries, and we pooled our brainpower to come up with arguments for him to use to defend himself."

"Did it matter that he might be guilty?"

"Jack Hayward was a righteous prick, and I didn't even get along with him that well myself. But he was one of us, and at the time, that mattered more."

Randy was a bit surprised by how freely she spoke. "You're being pretty candid with your answers," he said.

"Well, I guess I'm a little bit like you in that regard. I don't really have anything left to lose by saying what's on my mind."

"I hear you," Randy said as he nodded with understanding. "Everybody's going to get a big earful of what's on my mind for sure. So now's your chance to tell me, what's on yours?"

Robin thought about her answer. But not for long, because she knew what it was. "We look out for each other," she said. "Is that such a bad thing? Nobody's perfect, nobody gets everything right. Is that a reason to throw good people to the wolves? We don't think so, so we protect each other. I think you have a pretty good idea what I'm talking about, don't you?" He certainly did. In the front row, Elena shifted uncomfortably at the veiled mention of that subject. "If truth is really as important to you as you claim it is, then you could prove it now by telling the truth about whether your wife had a hand in killing Ted Blixt."

This was indeed becoming uncomfortable, but his answer to that was ready too. "If I were the prosecutor in this court," he asked, "would you have advised Jack Hayward that honesty was the way to go?" She had to shake her head no. "There's still a big difference between how honesty from cops and honesty from citizens is treated by the law. So assuming my wife did have something to do with that, let's see how honesty works out for me before we revisit that issue. Would you consider that fair enough?"

"Sure thing."

Randy decided it was time to move on to his final topic of questioning. "Now I'd like to ask how familiar you are with the shooting of Niles Meservey."

"As familiar as anyone else who's followed it."

"You remember the general scenario was that he was boxed in, capable of some property damage but incapable of escaping or hurting anyone, right?"

"As I recall, yes."

"And you recall that he was shot in the back seven times by Officer Troy Meade, correct?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"I asked you this question once before, and your answer was a little vague, so here it is again. Was that murder?"

One could have heard the proverbial pin drop at that moment. It was a question that just didn't get asked in certain kinds of company.

"That case was investigated and tried, and I had no involvement in that process."

"I'm asking your personal opinion."

The prosecutor stood. "Your honor, this has no connection of any kind to the case at hand."

"Your honor, exactly what I seek to establish with this question is how police react to a questionable killing by another cop," Randy replied.

"Very well then, overruled. But watch your step," the judge replied.

Randy turned his attention back to Robin. "Well, how about it? Meservey didn't have to be killed, and yet he was killed, quite intentionally. So was that murder?"

The witness stand was starting feeling like a trap to Robin. On one hand, it was tough to justify what Meade had done. On the other hand, blue doesn't break blue, and certainly not for a cop killer like the one who was questioning her. "His actions were found to be within the scope of his duties," she said.

"I kind of need a yes or no on this."

"He was found not to be acting in self-defense though."

"Still waiting."

"He was fired," she said, her voice beginning to shake.

"Yes, he eventually did get fired. But that didn't happen until after the legal action was over, and the right of cops to gun down citizens had stood the courtroom test again. Now, I'd like the next word you speak to be a yes or a no."

Finally she was backed into a corner from which there was no escape. "Police have enforcement duties that not everyone understands," she said, "and sometimes that enforcement comes from a gun. It wasn't good judgment, but it wasn't murder."

Randy had been expecting more or less that answer, but it still frosted him inside to hear it spoken. He wasn't the only one either. The crowd in the courtroom was pretty mixed, and included a lot of people who shared outrage over that particular killing. A low smattering of "oooh's" sounded through the courtroom, but the cops in the room remained pretty silent.

"Officer Frisk," Randy went on, "my next question will be a much simpler one. Were the 9-11 attacks murder?"

"Are you comparing the Meade case to 9-11"

"Not at the moment, just please answer."

"Of course they were murder."

"Would you say that's a universal consensus?"

"I'd say it's a pretty broad one."

"Why do you suppose it's so hard to find people in the Muslim community who will publicly call it murder?" Robin sat silent for a moment. "How about fear of reprisal or being ostracized? Would those be reasons?"

"Yes, those would be reasons."

"How about fear of violating their community?"

"Yes, that too."

"And how about the possibility that many of them actually identify to some degree with the ones among them who commit the murders, or at least enough of them do to keep pressure on the ones who don't? Would that have something to do with it?"

Robin hated Randy now even more than she did at the moment the doctors had told her she was losing her leg. But she didn't have an answer.

"Whatever the reasons may be," Randy continued, "the bulk of them won't call the murderers among them for what they are, and whether it's true or not, that creates a pretty strong appearance that they're really all in it together. In exactly the same manner as this, you're refusing to do the same thing right now, and that creates the impression that you're actually on the side of cops who commit murder too. So are you starting to see the comparison?"

Still, she had no answer.

* * *

"I never really fancied myself as a lawyer," Randy said from behind the visiting booth glass.

"You did wonderful," Elena replied. "I was watching the jury baby, and they did _not_ see this coming. Neither did the press people."

Randy cracked a smile. That was something he had needed to hear. "So you think we might have a chance after all?" he asked her.

"I don't know," she replied, "but you're doing what you set out to do. You're showing them. So what's next?"

"Robin Frisk was an important part of this, but she was the warm-up," he replied. "Next up is the star of the show."

* * *

"I call Police Chief Burt Grandstone to the stand," Randy announced. The chief got up from his seat behind the prosecutor's table and walked to the stand. He was sworn, and Randy approached with the help of his walker.

"Chief Grandstone, I've been waiting a long time for the chance to question you under oath."

"Well, you'll likely never get this chance again, so I hope you make the most of it."

"Indeed I shall," Randy replied. "Several years ago, I became the subject of a lot of special attention from your department. You happen to recall any of this?"

"Why, yes I do."

"You remember the inordinate number of traffic stops, the rousts and roadside interrogations, the spying on my home, and the questioning of people who knew me?"

"All of the above. You got our attention with your sudden embracing of constitutionalist anti-police activities. And it appears to me that all that attention has proved to be warranted."

"You're aware of how that sort of attention can affect a person, aren't you?"

"How do you mean, exactly?"

"I'm talking about how it can drive a person's paranoia level, and his sense that people are conspiring against him."

"Hadn't really given that much thought."

"Did the Seattle Police give it much thought when they parked a car regularly outside the home of Maurice Clemmons, for several months before he killed four cops in Lakewood? I would have thought that law enforcement might have learned something from that example."

"Sorry, don't recall any memos to that effect."

"And how about when Pierce County Deputies took down David Crable in a humiliating and threatening manner, just a few weeks before he shot two of them and killed one? What really surprises me about that case is that they made that arrest _after_ the attacks committed by Chris Monfort and Maurice Clemmons. Does that seem to you like an advisable thing to do?"

"You're speaking in hindsight again. I couldn't say without having been there to assess the immediate threat," Burt replied.

"Well, with regard to my own case, here's what I'd really like to know. Did you fear a confrontation between your department and me, or did you hope to provoke one?"

"Why on Earth would we provoke a confrontation?"

"To simplify the process of getting rid of me, perhaps?" Burt looked at Randy with a quizzical expression, like he had no idea what he was talking about. "Burt, just this once, why don't you cut the smarmy bullshit and say what's on your mind? You know you want to."

That was the button that Burt had long hoped would never be pushed, out of fear that it might work. And work it did. "In this line of work," he began, "we deal with problems. It's all we do, day in and day out."

"But your hands are tied half the time, aren't they?"

"That's very true."

"I realize that following the law can be a damned inconvenience. So you find ways around the rules, don't you?"

"Indeed, there are times when we do."

"Tell me about your public humiliation spectacles."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm referring to the incidents when your officers surround people with lots of flashing lights, handcuff them needlessly, put them through a roust, deliver monologue lectures and threats of all manners of enforcement action, and do it all on display for the public. This happens just about everywhere to some degree, but for your department it used to seem like a nightly show. What was the purpose of that?"

"I think the incidents you refer to were what we would call a normal investigation pursuant to a stop."

"I've experienced these 'normal investigations' myself at the hands of your department. Show the slightest lack of willingness to bend over on demand, and suddenly you're being screamed at, accused of threatening them, taken to the ground and handcuffed. So let's be candid about why that happens. There's an unofficial policy amongst police that anyone who doesn't show complete respect and compliance will have the weight of the law dropped on them. Isn't there?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh yes you do. And that unofficial policy states that these people will be intimidated, threatened, and publicly humiliated, doesn't it?"

"Again, you are mistaken."

"And the purpose of this humiliation tactic is to keep the public too frightened to question your omnipotence, isn't it?"

"No such policy exists."

"Oh yes it does." Randy took a second to collect himself. "Now I want to know, is this the policy that Zachary Simmons was enforcing when he escalated my traffic stop so he could shoot me?"

"You're asking the wrong person. He never had the chance to tell me, and I'm not a clairvoyant."

"Maybe not, but he told me before he died that many of you wanted a piece of me. Is there any truth to that?"

"All the officers I know of who might have leaned in that direction seem to be unavailable for comment."

"So what's your explanation for what he said?"

"Your recording didn't seem to catch that part of the conversation. But I'll be generous and assume you're telling the truth." Burt shifted in his seat, just a little. "We take issue with people who don't respect the law."

"Does that include lawmen who don't respect the law?"

"I'm answering your first question right now, do you mind?" Burt shot back. Randy motioned for him to continue. "For example, you've complained a lot about the attention you got from us. What you omit is the fact that you made us the subject of your attention before that happened. You tried to change the laws to tie our hands even further in dangerous situations. On your blog site and in the comment wars, you publicly called us lawbreakers, and every other manner of scoundrel short of puppy-sacrificing Satanists. Did you ever consider what sort of effect that might have on us?"

"My hope was that it would have the effect of motivating you to start respecting the law again. In hindsight, I suppose that was being pretty optimistic. But I'd like you to tell me now exactly what you hoped to accomplish with your harassment campaign against me."

"Simple, really. It was to motivate you to start respecting law enforcement again."

"By 'respecting', do you mean letting your department run amok, completely unopposed again?" Burt just smiled and shook his head slowly. "Burt, let me break this down for you. Your department has, in fact, always been willing to break the law. Laws on threatening, detaining, searching, harassing, falsifying charges, perjury, and even shooting people. You never admit to wrongdoing of any kind, you never accept accountability, and the criminal justice system is complicit in making sure you never get held accountable. Does this happen because you believe police have rightful power over life and death, and that the actual law is only an impediment to your power that needs to be circumvented?"

"No one is above the law, as I think you're going to find out," Burt replied. "But as far as that goes, staying completely within the law is every bit as tricky for us as it is for you. The difference is that when we're acting with good faith to fulfill our objective of keeping the public peace, we need to have a little leeway. Because if every little technicality is enough to get a criminal off, there isn't a whole lot of law enforcement going on, is there?"

"What you just said makes perfect sense, _if_ you're acting with good faith. But the verdict on that has been in for a long time already. Sometimes you are, and sometimes you aren't. And when you aren't, then you frankly haven't earned citizens' respect."

"Even if so, it's still a better idea to sort these disagreements out in court later."

"If you're the ones breaking the law, why is that exactly?"

"Of all people, Mister Gustin, you should know," Burt replied.

"Well, there we have it. Your answer to my question is, because you've got the bigger hammer to drop," Randy stated.

"That we do," Burt said. "Back in that station, you asked me what my last words were going to be, remember? Well now that shoe is on your foot. What are your last words going to be?"

"I haven't really given that any thought. But if I pick something, you'll be the first to know."

* * *

"I call Randolph Gustin to the stand," the prosecutor said in the courtroom. It was a few days later, and Randy's long-awaited moment had finally come. He made his way to the stand with his walker, sat down and was sworn.

"Mister Gustin," the prosecutor began, "please tell me how you feel about sitting where you are."

"Truthfully? This is the same county in the same state that wouldn't kill Gary Ridgeway, so how much trouble can I really be in?"

"I'd suggest you refrain from being flippant Mister Gustin, this is very different."

"I know it is. The people I killed wore uniforms, and that made them eminently more important than fifty young women, right?"

"Mister Gustin, let's get down to business. I want to know why you believe you were justified in killing all those people. We've heard your story about the first two you killed, but now I'd like to talk about the next thing you did. You could have surrendered, but instead you sought out more patrol cars and killed some of the officers driving them."

"Do you happen to recall what happened when I tried to surrender at the roadblock incident?"

"That was after you had openly declared war. Before you did that, you could have driven to another jurisdiction to surrender if you feared being shot on sight in Forest Hill. So what made you feel you had a right to declare war instead?"

"They committed the first act of war in their attack against me. I merely reciprocated."

"You're talking about the act of one officer, two at most."

"You can't separate them. Every time an officer does something like this, they're backed by every other officer, even when everyone knows they're guilty. After the first incident, the rest of them were coming after me, but they weren't coming after the ones who attacked me. Like it or not, they were all in this together."

"So you feel that gave you a right to shoot anyone with a police uniform, is that correct?"

"When a foreign army attacks, we don't deal with them case-by-case. We shoot anyone who wears the wrong uniform. Police all wear the same uniform, they're all under the same command, and they're all on the same side. Against us."

"So your position is that because of one man's actions, that the Forest Hill Police Department became an attacking army?"

"My position is this. There is, in fact, a war between citizens and police going on. It's a shooting war, and it wasn't started by us. The only thing I did differently was to treat it like one."

"It sounds as if it's become pretty easy for you to think of them all as monsters. Do you really think we'd be better off without them?"

"I think that police are a necessary evil that's becoming more evil and less necessary all the time. But let's try an experiment to see if I'm wrong." Randy motioned toward the large group of police officers sitting in the rows behind the prosecutor's table. "I will recant my case and change my plea to guilty if just one of the officers in this room will do one thing, and that is to stand up and state, as their opinion, that Troy Meade is a murderer. This is a serious offer, and it's not a hard position to justify. The Snohomish County Prosecutor even said so."

Randy waited, and all the spectators in the room looked toward the contingent of officers. But none of them stood to take him up on his offer, including Robin.

"The reason none of them will take me up on this is because, in their minds, there's no such thing as an unjustified shooting of a citizen by a cop," Randy said. "But don't say I never made you an offer."

The prosecutor fired back his retort. "No offer would be necessary if you had only stopped shooting officers after defending yourself, assuming it really happened that way."

"Therein lies problem number two. You see, you're on their side, not mine. And the same system that lets murdering cops off the hook will screw over a citizen who shoots one however it has to."

"Really? Did you forget that Troy Meade was charged with murder?"

"No, I didn't forget, but recall the chronology of what happened. At first, after the killing of Niles Meservey, the prosecutor in Snohomish County wasn't going to charge him with anything. The public reaction to that was 'what the hell?' Then the prosecutor charged him with manslaughter. The public reaction to that was, 'excuse me, manslaughter?' After that he finally filed a charge of second degree murder."

"And that doesn't please you?"

"Well, we know from that course of events that he wasn't excited about charging Meade to begin with. So the next question is, how hard would it be for a friendly prosecutor to help stack the jury in favor of the defense, or otherwise botch his own case?"

"And your point is?"

"My point is that justice and accountability only apply to citizens. Cops get a free pass no matter what they do, even when people die, and there's always some kind of way to make that happen."

"You forget that Meade was fired from his job."

"That's correct, he was fired. Ian Birk lost his job too. I've been there, and I feel for them. You see, I myself was once fired, so I know what it's like. But I was fired for misreading a blueprint. To think that I could get a job as a cop, needlessly end somebody's life with a gun, and get exactly the same penalty. Tell me, is that what would have happened to Zachary Simmons if he'd succeeded in murdering me? Would my wife have had to accept that as justice, like the families of Niles Meservey and John T. Williams did? This is how it happens when a cop commits murder. The family gets a settlement, the cop possibly gets fired, but criminal liability is out of the question because in your eyes, the right of a cop to gun down a citizen must always be vindicated."

"And what has this to do with how you yourself are being treated by the system?"

"Not a thing. You've pulled all the stops out to make sure I go to the chair, like I always knew you would. Losing a job or paying a settlement isn't going to be accepted as justice in my case, is it?"

"It most assuredly is not."

"And there we have it. So what exactly would be the point of surrendering, when I can opt to go out making a nice loud statement about who's right and who's wrong?"

"For one, you'd live."

"Assuming I didn't go to the chair for defending myself, yes, I'd live. As your favorite zoo animal either until I die, or I'm too old to ever be a threat again. If you want people in my shoes to surrender, you'll have to do better."

"I'm afraid we can't do better for someone who considered himself to be at war with us."

"I've got news for you. Right at this moment, I'm giving the system a fair chance to get this right. But as soon as it fails to do so, which I know it will, then we're still at war."

* * *

The time came for closing arguments. The prosecutor stood first and approached the jury. He went on much as Randy had expected, calling him delusional in his views and justifications, and pouring it on about how he had brought the whole situation about himself. He finished with photo handouts of all the officers Randy had killed, and their caskets.

When Randy's turn came, he told the jury about Arnold McCaslin, and how any of them or any of their loved ones could be the next such person. He then read to them the names of all the people who had been killed by law enforcement over recent years, naming only the people whom most would agree the cops had no business shooting. Then Randy pointed out that even if all of his own shootings were unjustified, the cops were still way ahead in that department.

The jury retired and spent close to four days deliberating. It was a torturous time for Elena, who worried and wrung her hands nonstop. Randy was quite a bit more assured of the outcome. He wasn't happy about it, but he saw no reason for fretting.

Finally they were all called back into court for the verdict. They began with the two charges for the killings of Zachary Simmons and Sylvester Frawley, and Randy almost fell out of his chair when they announced he was not guilty of murdering those two. In the chair behind him, Elena clapped and was giddy with hope. Randy knew better though, and he was right. The jury found him guilty of murder for each of the other twenty-seven officers who were killed, and the maiming of Robin Frisk. Elena began to crumple as she listened, but Randy only turned and gave her a smile. _We already knew this,_ that smile said.

The judge set a date for sentencing and adjourned the court. The deputy who was escorting Randy began to wheel him toward the side exit, as everyone else began to filter toward the main entrance. Another deputy was wheeling Robin Frisk toward the front entrance, and Randy and Robin traded a solemn glance on the way past each other. .

Near the doors, the media people clamored with questions for people. Most of the cops they spoke to expressed something along the line of an intent to celebrate.

On the way out, Robin came before the horde of reporters, and she held up her hand to be stopped. They peppered her with questions. _How do you feel about the verdict? Will you be able to move on from here? Is this vindication for your department?_

Robin didn't even hear the questions. She was fighting back tears as she prepared herself for what had to be said. Her voice was broken, and sounded anything but eloquent, but her words hit the courtroom like a bomb.

" _It's my opinion,"_ she began, _"that Troy Meade is a murderer."_ The clamor was immediate and intense. The reporters hovering over her were fumbling for good follow-up questions, but she waved for her escort to push her on out the door. The cops in the room stared after her in shock, knowing perfectly well that what she had said was true, but wishing it hadn't been spoken aloud by someone in uniform. Especially at this time.

Near the side exit, Randy heard what she said along with everyone else, and he watched the scene intently. The deputy escorting him asked, "What you thinking right now?"

Randy had heard the pain in Robin's voice as she had said those words. This had been some very hard-won progress, but that's what it was. Progress.

"I'm thinking, just maybe this wasn't all for nothing," he replied.

Chapter 19

Of Endings And New Beginnings

Death row didn't seem like such a bad place once you got used to it. There wasn't a whole lot to do, but at least it was relatively quiet, compared to the rest of the prison anyhow.

After his sentencing, (death, as if there had ever been any question) Randy had gone to the state prison in Monroe, which was only about a ten-mile drive north from Forest Hill. That was pretty fortunate for Elena. They had checked him in, given him his prison clothes, and taken him to the capital punishment wing, aka Death Row. There he was introduced to Captain Earl Foster, the man who ran that wing. Foster was an older man, with short white hair and a white moustache, but he was pretty built for his age too. He was a pleasant enough man, but businesslike. He brought Randy into his office at the end of the cell block, and had the guards wait outside.

"Please have a seat," he told Randy, and they sat down for what Randy assumed would be his _Bridge On The River Kwai_ welcome speech. "My name is Earl Foster, and I'm the commanding officer of this section of the prison. You're not the first celebrity we've had here." That was a fact. "I want you to know that your reasons for being here will not affect how you are treated. We get the worst of the worst, and accepting that is part of our job. The odds are that you and our staff here are going to be acquainted for a long time while your case goes through the appeal process, so we want to get things off on the right foot."

"There won't be any appeals," Randy said.

"People win on appeal all the time. You sure about that?"

"One day in court is all I wanted."

"Well, that is between you and the courts. But to finish what I was saying, we like things quiet and calm here. As a professional courtesy, I want you to know that our staff will not treat you badly. They will do their part to make your stay comfortable, and all we ask in return is that you do your part not to make their jobs troublesome."

Randy nodded. The man had a likeable personality that was hard to say no to. But at the same time, his business was not yet concluded. "Sir, I'm grateful for the welcome. But at the same time, you are no doubt aware that I suspended my hostilities against the system in order to give it a chance to fix the things it did wrong. It failed to do so. You're part of the same system, and your purpose here is finish the job of putting me to sleep, so let's not pretend to be friends. As a professional courtesy, I need to inform you that hostilities have resumed."

Earl's face showed clear disappointment. This wasn't how he wanted things to be, but that's what he had to work with. "Very well Mister Gustin, we can do it that way too. Violent inmates are something we have a lot of practice contending with." He pushed a button on his desk, and two enormous prison guards stepped inside the door.

"I'll promise to be peaceful until I'm shown to my cell," Randy said. "After that, keep your guard up." The way he struggled to his feet with the help of his walker made that warning look a little on the empty side. But at the same time, Earl noted, he said it like he meant it.

* * *

That had been many months ago. Since then things had settled into a more or less comfortable routine, and there were even things to look forward to. For one, Elena was coming today, as she did every week. That kept Randy from seriously considering trying to make good on the promise he had made when he arrived. Losing Elena's visits would be losing the very last thing he had to live for, so he played it civil. Up to a point anyhow.

Randy was trying to get some writing done, and it wasn't easy. Pens and paper were for Stone Age people. He'd have sold his soul for a keyboard and a screen to work with, anything at all. This manually-applied-font nonsense was just plain barbarism, but he had to make do. There was still work to be accomplished.

He wasn't sure what it was he was working on, at least not precisely. He knew that he still had some things to say to the world, so he put those ideas down, and tried to keep some order to them. He'd know what to do with them when the time came.

Dale Arbogast came to the door of Randy's cell with his lunch. He was perhaps the beefiest guard in the prison. One of the beefiest guys Randy had ever seen, to tell the truth. "Lunch, mister Gustin," he said as he set the tray on the shelf in the cell door. Randy said nothing. He'd eat the food because he had to eat, and he'd wear the clothes because he had to wear something, but he wouldn't so much as talk to them unnecessarily. They were still enemies.

"What'cha working on? Still won't tell me?" Dale showed the professional courtesy that was required of him, but underneath it seemed like he was always waiting for the chance to bust somebody's chops. "Should I maybe come in and see for myself?"

That got a reaction, as much of one as they could get from Randy anyhow. He stared out the door at the man with a simple look that said _Buddy, I wouldn't._ Dale cracked a smile in return, one that said _I could if I wanted to. And you couldn't stop me._

Randy knew he could only get one more of them at best. He had an idea that when the time came to make good on his promise, he knew who to call on.

* * *

"I don't want to seem like I don't appreciate all they've done," Elena said through the phone, from the other side of the glass in the visiting booth. "They've done so much to help. Vince has been especially great. He's fixed everything the cops broke, and a bunch of other stuff that's broke since then too."

Elena was talking about their circle of friends, most of whom coagulated at Bourbon Street. They had all been very concerned about Elena's ability to handle life on her own with no one looking after her, so they had been taking turns staying in their motor home on the property, so she wouldn't be left alone there. Their willingness to keep an eye on her had been a tremendous source of relief for Randy.

"So what's the matter then?" he asked her.

"They're not really helping anymore. I've got it all under control, and the motor home has pretty much turned into the neighborhood party house. I kind of want the place to myself again."

Randy was still nervous about her being alone there. He had always feared that after the life she had suffered through before meeting him, she would never really achieve independence. But she wanted it now, and he could never stop worrying until she had it.

"Vince is coming by tomorrow," he told her. "I'll talk to him, and let him do the evicting so you don't have to."

"No, I can do it," she replied. "I don't want to seem like I'm not really grateful." Randy began to feel that his task of saving her might really be completed now. "So how they treating you here? That dickhead guard still giving you trouble?"

"It's not that bad. Just the old game of keeping the inmates in their place. But that Veronica chick is a slightly different matter. I think she's one of those twisted bitches who's turned on by the idea of fucking people who are about to die." Randy was referring to the one female guard who worked this wing. She was a dark-haired fortysomething who looked her age, but in a perfectly doable kind of way.

Elena didn't see the humor in that at all. She started seething. "I swear to fucking God if she touches you..."

"Calm yourself!" Randy mentally kicked himself for not knowing better than to make a crack like that. One of those traits shared by most or all Spanish women was completely insane levels of jealousy. "I promise you, she knows better than to walk in here by herself. They all do," he told her.

"Would you really do it?"

Randy shrugged. "They're getting ready to kill me, aren't they?"

* * *

Before she left, Elena dropped off some writing supplies for Randy at the front desk. She had asked Randy why he wanted her to pick them up for him, since they gave inmates writing supplies for free. His answer was simply that he wanted nothing from them. Being in conflict as they were, there would be no favors asked. And when the time came, none given. Before they finished him off, he fully intended to get one more.

That was where he stood in principle at least. He was pretty familiar now with how it felt to have lost his own life, and his desire to inflict that feeling on others wasn't what it used to be. Randy wasn't dead yet, but this was certainly no life. He worked on his writings, he traded barbs with the guards, and he waited for Elena's visits. She was his only real link to the life he once had. She told him about that life when she came to visit. It was still there, just a short drive away. The home, the cats, the job, and the friends. All that was missing from the scene was him, because he was here in this place. Everything was gone but the visits, and the news.

Thinking about it gave him a terrible case of hindsight. What if he had stopped the killing after the first two, the ones who had really attacked him? Would things be different? While Elena could only dwell on the guilty verdicts, it had amazed him to no end that there had been a couple of acquittals mixed in. Would he be free if he had stopped at that point and found a way to surrender?

It was certainly possible, but watching the legal system at work had made him pretty cynical about it too. Chances were just as good that the jury had given him those acquittals because they could afford to. If there hadn't been so many others they could hang him on, it would be silly to expect it to happen that way. Because when you challenge authority, authority will fuck you over however it has to.

Randy had always known that's how it was, and now he was living it.

* * *

So it went for a long time. Outside of the walls of the prison, life went on without him, and Elena was there every single week to keep him updated. She told him about how things were between Vincent and Rosemary, the latest shenanigans at Bourbon Street, and the letters she and their friends had written to defend his name. She told him that she was taking night classes after getting off work at her restaurant job. Journalism, of all things.

One day she brought him a news article, and had the guards deliver it to him as he walked to the visiting booth. He read it as he sat on his side of the glass. It was a story about a near-shooting in Tennessee. A sheriff's deputy had arrested a drunk driver, pretty much without incident. But the man's equally intoxicated brother wasn't being so cooperative. In fact, he was fighting like hell to take over the wheel, and threatening to shoot anyone who tried to stop him. The lone deputy had his gun out at that point, but the already-arrested man in the patrol car kept screaming that his brother was full of shit, there was no gun in the car. It took a hand being fractured with an ASP baton to get the second drunk under control, but the deputy did it with no bloodshed, and indeed there had been no gun in the car.

Far from being commended for it though, the deputy was reprimanded for not putting his own safety first. When asked by the local newspaper why he did what he did, when the shooting would have been found justified, he answered, "That man had four brothers and they're all shooters. I didn't want my town to be the next Forest Hill."

Randy looked up from the article, his mind spinning. He put the phone receiver back to his ear.

"Baby, that man's alive because of you," his wife said. "You did some good in the world."

* * *

Randy didn't get a lot of sleep that night. He stared at the white-painted ceiling, with the overhead light that never went out. It was tough enough to keep telling himself he was justified, without throwing in questions about balance. Was there such a thing as a right to sacrifice people if it meant saving others, even if you were saving many times more?

In war, there had historically always been commanders who had to knowingly send soldiers to their deaths, in diversionary attacks and such, because the math stated that the greater number would survive that way. Did that make it right to make someone face certain death rather than simply sharing the risks with everyone else?

Randy had never believed so. He believed it was selling them out to do so, and you never sold out the innocent, or people who were on your side. And some of the cops he had killed had not really been part of the problem at all, other than their failure to quit the corrupt department. Was it worth having taken their lives if it meant others would live?

Well, was it?

* * *

Randy awoke to the sound of jangling keys. His eyes cracked open, and he saw Veronica at the door to his cell. She was holding some paperwork and sliding the key into the lock. She was alone.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"You've got some paperwork from the court of appeals," she replied.

"There's not going to be any appeal, and you know you're not supposed to come in here alone."

"It's also been quite a while since anyone's looked at your cell." She began to turn the key.

Randy sat up on his bed. "Just put the papers on the door. Go get help if you want to come in."

"Why? You still figure on getting one of us?" She smiled mischievously. "I think we both know you don't really have it in you to do that." She turned the key and the door unlocked.

Randy grabbed the handle of his walker and stood. "I swear to _fucking_ God I am serious, if you are so _STUPID_ as to walk in here alone, you are going to _PULL_ the _LUCKY GODDAMN FUCKING NUMBER!_ " Randy grabbed the hardcover novel he had been reading and threw it at her, but it was deflected by the bars. " _NOW LOCK THAT MOTHERFUCKING DOOR YOU STUPID BITCH!_ " Randy began advancing, such as he was able to, and she yanked the door shut. It took a few moments of fumbling with the keys to get it locked, but she did it, and Randy gave her the time she needed to get it done.

Veronica stood back from the door, as Earl Foster came running to her aid. Then Randy turned around, went back to his cot and lay down, facing the wall.

Veronica never spoke to him again.

* * *

Randy knew something would be coming down for this, but not what it would be. It probably wouldn't be fun though.

He didn't like himself much for what he had done. But at the same time, he wasn't going to use any trickery, or be in any way dishonest about the fact that this was still war. He was still fully intent on getting another one. He just didn't want it to be her.

Things were quiet until after lunch. In the early afternoon two guards showed up at his door and unlocked it. "Come with us Mister Gustin," one of them said. "And if you'd like to try and get one of us now, that's completely okay." Randy considered it briefly and decided against. When he made his attempt, it was going to be a serious one.

They took him down the hall to Earl Foster's office and showed him in. The cell block commander himself was standing in front of his desk. "What's this?" Randy asked, "Are we doing the five-minutes-in-a-room thing?"

"Just have a seat," Earl replied. Randy sat, and the commander sat behind his desk. The guards closed the door and left them alone, but they were undoubtedly right outside. "Veronica is taking a week off without pay for trying to walk in there alone. I hope you're happy about that."

"Well, it could've been worse."

"I know. You probably could have gotten her, but you warned her instead. I want you to know that I'm grateful to you for doing that."

"It doesn't mean anything has changed."

"I know that, and I believe you're serious about what you say you want to do, if you're able to. We take a lot of precautions around here but anything is possible. I certainly don't want to see that happen, and I also don't want to see what might happen to you in the attempt. So I want to make a deal with you to drop that nonsense."

Randy gave up a small laugh. "Come on, you don't make deals with death row inmates."

"Not normally. The typical inmate gets here by raping and murdering defenseless people."

"Look, my war was originally just with the one department that started all of this, but now it includes any agency that takes hostile action against me. Right now that's you. So what do you want? You want me to just sell out my principles?"

"That's exactly what I want you to do, and I don't expect it to be cheap," Earl replied. Randy put his hands to his face and shook his head with disbelief. "It's pretty easy for you to lump us all in the category of evil, isn't it?" Foster asked.

"You're finishing the work of the man who tried to shoot me in the back. So how else would you like me to call this?"

"I presume that you know what we do here," Foster said. Executions in Washington were so few and far between that Randy couldn't remember when the last one was, but he knew. "On very rare occasions, we take the worst of the worst and we put them down. Do you think we shouldn't be doing that?"

"I think when your job requires you to kill somebody who's only guilty of defending themselves, then that somebody might just have a problem with that."

"So what would you like us to do?"

"What I'd do if I were in your shoes. Refuse the job."

"Well, that isn't going to happen. We do a job that needs to be done here. I might have my own reservations about your case, but I don't get to make that call. This is a job where other people make the decisions."

"That's exactly what the Nazi's tried to say at –"

"Don't go digging up Nazi's on me. Did you yourself not carry out some questionable executions? Did you not kill at least a few people who only wanted to bring you in alive?" There were a few who came to mind. "Here's what I'm telling you. I see where you're coming from. And I want you to see where I'm coming from. I don't like being a part of what's happened to you, but there's nothing I can do to save you, do you understand that?" Randy did understand. "We don't make deals with murdering scum in this place, but I'm making a deal with you. I'm selling a piece of my principles too, so just tell me what you want in exchange for yours."

Randy could scarcely believe the man was making such an attempt at pacifying him, but he thought he'd throw something on the table just for the fun of it. "All right then, how about some all-nighters with my wife?"

"We can do that."

Randy had the first real laugh he'd had in a very long time. "You can _not_ do that."

"Mister, we get away with shit in this place that would have the public screaming if they knew. Don't tell me what we can't do, and don't tell me your principles are going to be that cheap either. Now what else do you want?"

Randy thought about that for a second. "Well, first, to know the real reason you're doing this. I don't think it's just because of the threat."

Earl glanced around, as if to make sure no one was listening. "You remember that article your wife brought you, about the guy in Tennessee?" Randy nodded. "There's been other cases that haven't made the news. Lots of them. You'll never see this in print, but we estimate that on balance, you've saved a couple hundred lives, cops and citizens both."

It finally dawned on Randy that the man was serious. He was technically still part of the problem, but he also wanted to make peace, and he was willing to go a big extra mile to do it too. It was something Randy had never in his life expected, and it seemed to him that such an effort should not be spat upon.

So they negotiated.

* * *

It was a week and a half later when the guards came for Randy. They took him on a long walk to a solitary confinement cell with a solid door. They showed him in, and locked the door behind him.

Elena was waiting.

Randy had little remaining sense of what time it was, or even what day of the week it was, but it was a Friday night and she was dressed for it. She had a red dress with no straps that Randy had never seen before, and had to have been picked up just for the occasion. She had silver earrings and a necklace that he had given her long ago. She was wearing the contact lenses that made her eyes blue, which she had always loved but Randy had never seen the point in, because he had always liked her eyes just as they were. He had to admit though that they looked pretty nice.

"Hi baby,' she said as she came to him. He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed the walker aside, then they embraced. And kissed. He hadn't smelled her hair in a very long time and it was wonderful. Her beauty was so out-of-place here that it reminded him of times he'd been on a construction site, working with a crew of dirty ironworkers, when some cute girl came walking through. The girl wouldn't look out of place anywhere else, but amid the dirt and grunge and the filthy hardhat-wearing construction workers, she'd stand out in a way that made concentrating on work impossible.

"They let me bring anything I wanted to," Elena said, and she pointed toward a paper grocery bag sitting on the cot. They sat down and she opened it up. The first thing she pulled out was a wine bottle.

"Bubbly?" Randy asked. "But I hate bubbly!"

"I know, that's why I replaced it with Jack Daniels and Sprite." Randy hugged her again, and Elena poured a couple glasses.

Randy downed the first one in one shot. "What else is in there?" he asked. Elena pulled out an MP3 player and turned it on. It began playing the familiar strumming sounds of the song that had always been theirs, and Randy's smile fell from his face. "Sweetheart, that song's kind of been ruined for me. It was playing on the radio when all this started." He reached for the player, but Elena stopped him.

"Baby, this is our song. And I'm taking it back for us." She put the music player out of his reach, and then began to slip her dress down. Suddenly it made no difference whatsoever to Randy what song was playing.

Elena gave Randy back a big part of the life that had been stolen from them. And Randy showed her that he wasn't nearly as crippled as everyone believed.

* * *

Earl Foster was true to his word. He wasn't able to pull this off for them every weekend, but he typically managed it a couple times a month. Randy had also negotiated for a laptop, and Earl supplied that as well. It wasn't much of one, just a small netbook with Word installed on it, but for his final writings it was all Randy needed. The archaic method of pen and paper that had gone out in the twentieth century just was not going to cut it for what he needed to do. As soon as he had all his work thus far typed into his encrypted computer folders, he shredded the papers and flushed them, to make sure they stayed private until he wanted them released.

The last thing Randy had wanted was actually harder to pull off than the first two. It was one full pot of real coffee every day, with mocha-flavored creamer. The smell of good coffee in the halls of the cellblock elicited some real shouts of anger.

With the new agreement in place, things were a lot different. He could talk to the prison staff in a civil tone, which took a lot more stress off of him than he had expected. If he needed something, he could ask. He could let his guard down around them, and they could do the same. Sometimes they could even have real conversations.

He found out things about them that always felt unexpected. Dale, the beefy guard whom he's always considered the bully of the place, had actually grown up being the lanky runt in school who took most of the gratuitous beatings. It wasn't until after graduating that he had hit the gym devotedly to make sure he wouldn't have to live through that again. And Randy had to admit, while he typically carried an air of "I'm ready to trash your ass" around him, he never did more to anyone than was required.

Earl himself had two daughters who had both joined the Army. He was extremely proud of both, but one was already gone, having been killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. His other daughter had narrowly dodged a few of them too. Randy could see how tortured he was as he told about how he had begged her to come home, and cried when she told him how it would make her feel to abandon her comrades and the cause her sister had died for.

To Randy, it was almost surreal to hear such things coming out of people who wore uniforms. Randy hated uniforms. They made people look like monsters. He had tried with almost complete success to exterminate an entire group of them. But inside of those uniforms, in some cases at least, were real human beings.

It gave him a lot to think about.

* * *

Randy didn't have any ideas for his last meal, but Elena did. She wanted him to request a meal brought to him by her, so that's what he did. This would be the only chance she'd ever have to cook him a meal again, so she didn't want to let it slip by.

In his cell, they had a Mexican dinner she had made at the restaurant and brought to him. Randy marveled at how perfectly everything was prepared, considering how hard it must have been making this meal. They had enormous barbecue beef burritos with vegetables and rice inside, some smaller tacos on the side, and a big bowl of _ceviche._ The Mexican seafood salad still wasn't Randy's favorite, but he ate it with a smile anyways. Elena was the one who would have to remember this meal. .

They talked about little stuff. Ninja had gotten bitten yet again while trying to play with a baby raccoon, but as usual she'd be okay. Elena was now working on a two-year degree in her journalism classes. The Forest Hill Police Department had still not reconstituted, and the Sheriff's Department had taken over patrolling the town. And Randy told her about what was on his laptop, and he gave her the password she would need for retrieving it when the time came.

They finished their meals and put them aside. "Elena," Randy said, "I really need to know if you'll be okay without me."

"Randy, how does anyone ever know if they'll be okay forever?" she replied. "Did everything turn out okay for you? You had to roll your dice, and I have to roll mine. But you gave me everything I need, and I've got all your friends to call if I need help. I can handle this now." That was as much comfort as Randy could ask for.

"They're coming for me pretty soon, so please listen," Randy went on. "I don't want you to be there when it happens." Elena's tears began, and he put his arms around her. "I need to go out like a soldier, and I can't do that if I have to see you in pain. So we need to say goodbye here."

Randy held his wife as long as he was able to. She was the one he loved, the one he had given everything for. There had been many times he had asked himself if he would do things different if he could. But as he held her, he thought of what it would have done to her to see him killed senselessly with no justice for what had happened, or disgraced and put on parade after giving up his fight. That thought gave him his answer. From the moment the shooting had begun at least, there wasn't one bloody thing he would do differently.

Dale came and informed them that Elena had to leave before it was time, and they had another ten minutes. Then he left them alone. Everything Randy and Elena needed to say had been said, so they spent that time kissing like teenagers on ecstasy. When their time was up, to Randy's surprise, it was Veronica who came to escort Elena out. Again, she violated the rule about opening the door with no assistance standing by. Randy guessed that it was her way of saying she was right all along.

Elena didn't want to go of course, but it only took some gentle tugging from Veronica, and Randy releasing her to get her to comply. As they parted for the last time, Randy said a simple _goodbye._ Elena blew him a kiss and said _goodbye, my Wero._

As Veronica walked her to the lobby, she mentioned her previous incident in Randy's cell. "He told me about that," Elena replied to her. "At the time he was serious about getting one more, but he liked you enough that he didn't want it to be you."

* * *

Less than an hour later, Randy was strapped to the gurney in the execution room. The gurney was tilted up and he was facing the glass. On the other side of the glass, the viewing room was mostly filled with cops, and families of cops he had killed. But there was one friendly face among them, Vincent's. He sat toward the back.

Burt sat toward the front.

The guards had come for him almost thirty minutes after Elena had been escorted out. That was time they could have spent together, and that pissed Randy off to no end. But, it wasn't like he'd be filing a grievance in the morning.

Earl was at the front of the group of guards who had come to his cell door. He had told Randy stand and come forward, and Randy had responded by standing unsupported and kicking his walker aside. That had exactly the effect he was looking for. Earl's surprise was unmistakable, as was that of the other guards. Randy had pulled a big one over them, and had he intended them harm, it was far more likely he could have pulled it off than they had suspected. But the way he had revealed his hand indicated that wasn't the case.

He took his final walk with no assistance, and shortly thereafter found himself where he was now. Ready to face the music. The needle had been inserted into his arm and taped into place, but not connected to anything yet.

Earl held up a sheet of paper and read out loud the death decree. Then he turned to Randy. "Mister Gustin," he asked, "do you have any final acts of war you wish to perform?"

Randy didn't see that coming. He stared at Earl, completely perplexed. "You ask me that now?" Earl nodded, and Randy answered him. "I do not. You met my price, and it was high."

Earl smiled in return. "Do you have any final words?"

"My last statement has been recorded for release."

"Is there anything you wish to say now?"

Now he understood. This was a nod to Burt. Randy looked through the glass and saw the man with the black-rim glasses smiling with anticipation. _What's it gonna be, Gustin?_ the smile said. _Fuck you? See you in hell? Come on, the suspense is killing me!_

Randy really hadn't given it any thought, and improv wasn't his strong suit. But something came to him from out of the blue. Whether it really fit the moment he couldn't be sure, but he stared straight at Burt and let him have it.

"I cannot say enough good things about the Springfield M1A," Randy said.

Burt cursed from behind the glass. Randy heard nothing, but was pretty sure he could make out the word _motherfucker_ on his lips. In the back row, Vincent raised his fist and shook it once.

The gurney was rolled back from the glass and lowered flat. The needle was connected to the machine that held the lethal drugs, and when Earl gave the order, the button was pushed.

Randy closed his eyes. His final wish was between him and his maker. _God, keep Elena safe,_ _and give her happiness,_ Randy thought to himself _. Give peace to those I've crossed paths with, living and dead._ He inhaled deeply for the last time, and for being prison air, it tasted pretty sweet. _And please let me leave this world a better place than it was when I got here._

Randy went to sleep, and there he stayed.

Chapter 20

Last Words

From the Forest Hill Gazette:

Editor's note: Immediately following last night's execution, we were presented with this last written statement by his newly widowed wife. We understand the contentious nature of this issue, but upon review and consideration we determined that the thoughts and motivations of a person such as Mr. Gustin should be known, in order that it might help to avert repeat episodes. We have therefore elected to run this in its entirety. –Forest Hill Gazette Editorial Board

The Final Statement of Randolph Gustin

By Randolph Gustin

Life is about the choices we make, and I've had a lot of time to think about mine. It's a very hard thing to look back upon what led me to where I am now. I've ended lives and inflicted a lot of pain. At times I've wondered if this could all be traced back to one bad choice that necessitated others, but I don't believe it can. What happened is a lot more complicated than that.

May of 2010 was, of course, where the long-running feud between myself and the Forest Hill Police Department spilled into violence. I faced a choice at that time: fight back, or quite possibly die at the hands of the law. There was a lot that led up to this event however, and there was also a lot of history that led me to make the choice that I did at that time, as well as the choice to continue fighting after the initial incident. What troubles me now is that I may have had a greater hand in what preceded the killings than I've admitted to myself.

My first encounter with law enforcement that I clearly recall happened when I was a boy. My father's name was George Gustin, and while driving home one day we were stopped by a young deputy whose name was none other than Burt Grandstone. What happened during that stop shaped my perception of lawmen for the rest of my life. To say that Deputy Grandstone was abusive would not do it justice. He humiliated my father, on the side of the highway, in plain view of the public and right in front of his son.

Things changed after that, for both my father and I. He had brought me up to respect the law, and now that was a tougher case to make. Trust of public officials became an issue, as neither of us had as much of it to spare as we did before. It goes without saying that being rousted in a traffic stop does not justify bloodshed. But it can start the ball rolling in the wrong direction.

As I grew older, the memory of that day led me to watch police more closely. What happened to my father and I was by no means isolated or uncommon, and the character traits displayed by Deputy Grandstone turned out to be the norm for police officers rather than the exception, at least while on duty. Chief among those traits that I perceived with greater frequency was a willingness to lie. Lie about their reasons for stopping you, fabricate "safety" issues to conduct searches and otherwise violate your rights, lie in court and fabricate evidence, and even lie about and misrepresent the very laws they are supposed to enforce and abide by themselves.

And as I learned myself, on occasion they will even kill you, then lie about their reasons for doing that.

Is there anything worse you can do to someone than to lie about them? To destroy their character and reputation for something that isn't true? To leave the mark of "attempted cop killer" affixed to their gravestone forever?

Everyone remembers the video of Elio Carrion being shot in the back as he complied with an officer's orders to get up off the ground. Everyone found it disturbing. But you have to think about exactly what the incident meant to understand how truly horrifying it was. Carrion did his fair share to aggravate the situation, though at no time did he threaten anyone. But Deputy Ivory Webb wanted to shoot him anyways, so he did more than to simply misrepresent something Carrion did. He actually tricked Carrion into making a move that he could misconstrue as threatening. Had it not been caught on tape, he'd have gotten away with it clean, with the full support of his department.

This incident is only the tip of the iceberg. In recent years, some others who have been maimed or killed senselessly at their hands include Tyisha Miller, Rick Camat, Otto Zehm, Randall Privasky, Miles Murphy, Oscar Grant, Christopher Harris, Michael McCloskey, Daniel Wasilchen, Niles Meservey, Pastor Wayne Scott Creach, Aaron C. Campbell, John T. Williams, and Douglas Ostling, among many others. And of course, there was our own local case of Arnold McCaslin.

So what does this say about the real state of relations between citizens and police? The answer to that is simple and terrifying: folks; this can happen to you. In February of 2010, a detective from East Palo Alto in California named Rod Tuason advocated to other officers in an online cop forum that they should shoot people who legally carry pistols openly, and they should do it by proning them out on the ground and then firing when the person makes a furtive movement. The lesson to take away from that is that being innocent and being compliant do not insure you'll survive an encounter with a cop who has it in his head that you've got it coming.

That fact led me to ask myself far in advance what I would do if I believed a cop was about to murder me in this fashion. We are continually told that you must obey the "lawful orders" of the officer, and if you do so then everything will be fine. But does that mean a person being attacked by one has no right to protect themselves? Or to protect another person who is being gunned down by one without justification? Are we really obligated to let them have their way with our lives, and settle it in court later? Clearly, my answer to that question is no. Your right to live supersedes any law.

But having successfully defended yourself from rogue law enforcement officers, you face certain realities. Chief among them is the fact that the same system that lets murdering cops off the hook will come after you with a vengeance. They will conspire, lie, and do whatever it takes to make sure that you'll either go to the chair, or if not, that you won't see the light of day again until you're too old for there to be any point in it. In any case, your life will be over.

It was that reality that led me to decide against surrendering, because there seemed to be no point in it. Not surrendering carried enormous ramifications. It meant war. But the question to be asked is this: when armed agents of the government are killing people at will, and the courts and the politicians and their own peers will not hold them into account, what is our recourse? Is war not the appropriate remedy? That's how I saw it, and that's how I called it. I limited the scope of my war to one department, the department that had actually attacked me, and I'm glad it worked out that way at least.

But during the trial, there was a question that Chief Grandstone asked me, one that has given me pause. He brought up my own activism in the area of police reforms, and the sometimes-vitriolic nature of the things I said, and he asked me how I supposed that made them feel. It's a good question, and it's given me a lot to consider.

I've only experienced the citizen's side of this conflict, so that's the only perspective I can speak to. On that side of things, I can tell you about how police abuses make us feel. They make us feel like we can't believe them, like we can't trust them, and like we're not on the same side. They make us feel that there is no one we can call for help who is actually interested in providing it. There is much they could be doing differently in this regard.

But I have to admit now that there's another side to this equation. There are things that citizens, even good citizens who mean well, do to incur the mistrust of lawmen, and to likewise make them feel alienated from the rest of us. I myself am guilty of some of those things.

Among those things, I was too quick to criticize and attack his department. Being on the same side is a two-way street, and I should have spoken to them first about my issues, as a fellow concerned citizen, rather than lambasting first and asking questions later. In doing so I could have assured them I only want the same things they want, or at least should want, good relations between them and the public that are conducted within the law. In truth, I have serious doubts as to how well this would have worked. The us vs. them mentality has been entrenched since long before I arrived on the scene. I would at least have been able to say, however, that I didn't exacerbate relations needlessly.

On the flip side, there are things that lawmen need to do in order to do their part. First, respect the law. Far too many of them feel the law doesn't really apply to them, or that it's too big of an impediment to doing their jobs. But a lack of respect for the law by lawmen is precisely what creates the condition known as "diminished respect for the law" amongst the rest of us. After all, if the law doesn't respect the law, why should anyone else?

So if the law says you don't have a right to search someone, then that's it, you don't have a right to search. Quasi-legal excuses don't give you a right, they only incur anger. Also, if you don't have real cause to detain a person or demand identification, that person has a right to walk away and be left alone. If you feel that you or the law has been disrespected, too bad. They are within their rights, and you are not. If you don't respect theirs, they have no reason to respect yours.

One thing that police absolutely must learn respect for is the right of citizens to be armed, in public and on their property. It seems like every time an unjustified shooting comes along, there are questionable claims made that the person held a weapon or something that looked like a weapon, and that automatically made them a threat that warranted their killing. It just isn't so.

As one example, open-carrying pistols is a right in this state, and everyone knows it, yet we keep seeing stories of people who are surrounded and drawn down on without cause for doing nothing more than to exercise that right. Every one of the people this happens to faces the fear that one of the involved officers is going to be a bit too eager to tug on their trigger, and if it happens, there will be no more accountability for their death than there has been for anyone else's. And it's not as if this outcome hasn't been on the minds of at least some cops, as demonstrated by Detective Rod Tuason.

That is only one aspect of this particular problem too. In Seattle, John T. Williams was killed for holding a small folding knife along with the piece of wood he was carving with it. And the only reason he didn't put it down within the four seconds that Ian Birk gave him was because he wanted to close it first. In Spokane, Pastor Wayne Scott Creach was killed for holding a pistol while investigating a suspiciously parked unmarked car on his own property. Simple, legal possession of a weapon, with no threats involved, was used as the excuses for both of these killings.

No one expects that cops are going to get it right every single time. We also understand that criminal elements and tendencies exist everywhere, including within police departments. But what is really pushing this issue over the edge is accountability. It is the fact that almost no matter how heinous the crime committed by the cop, the department will fight tooth and nail to make sure they are found justified and face no consequences. And the prosecutors who are supposed to make sure this never happens are only too happy to help.

The more they shoot people without cause, and the more the system conspires to keep them free of accountability, the more people like myself there will be who begin to think that perhaps what they need is a few casualties of their own.

So if you wear a uniform and a badge, it's time to start thinking about whose side you're on. We understand camaraderie, and the need to work as a team. We understand your need to feel that your partner has your back, and isn't the one you need to fear is looking over your shoulder. But when your partner breaks the law to the detriment of a citizen, that's where all obligations of loyalty end. Your credibility and your integrity are determined by who you take sides with at that point. When you are confronted with this choice, you have to choose to do the right thing.

Protecting the safety and rights of the citizen is the reason your job exists, so that's where your first and foremost loyalty needs to lie. Many of you are in fact decent people, but when the bullies among you cross the line, you nearly always line up on their side rather than the side of the citizen who was violated. This is what makes it appear you're all against us, and that in turn is what makes people believe there is no one they can call for help who really wants to provide it. Truth matters, so be willing to tell it. The bullies among you are not worth sticking up for, and taking their side when they hurt people will only serve to help create my successors.

When people call you for help, at least have the courtesy to act like you're interested in helping them. When you're busting someone's chops, don't just cite the laws they're breaking and the authority they're disrespecting, make them see the people they're hurting. This is how you tell people that you're on their side. You may not always be the hero, but you should never be the villain.

With regard to the true purpose of my actions, a great deal of speculation has been made, and I'd like to clarify why I elected to go to war. As I described earlier, surrender was not a viable option for me, but there was more to it than that too. Crime is not an acceptable thing, and it was my view that this department had crossed the line with their behavior into becoming a criminal organization. There is only one way to really send the message that such crimes are unacceptable, and that is to fight them. Sometimes in courts of law, sometimes in the court of public opinion, and sometimes in acts of self-defense, or even war. This is how you put such individuals and organizations on notice that what they do is unacceptable, in a way they can't so easily hide from.

I've seen news stories since then that indicate my actions may have had this effect. There have been stories of killings that have been averted, both of citizens and police officers, that likely even outnumber the number of lives that were taken here. It would be a great comfort to me if I could believe that on balance I had saved lives, but at the same time, I won't hide behind numbers to justify what I've done. Is it about balance? Or is it about doing the right thing in each instance, by every other person? Does the greater good really justify sacrificing people who haven't volunteered to be sacrificed?

I myself don't believe that it does, and therein lies my biggest problem with what I did. I lumped the entire department into the same category, and they didn't all deserve to be there. Some of them had tried to talk me into surrendering rather than shooting first, but I killed them anyways. It's true they all wore the same uniform, and all were engaged in tracking me down. But they didn't all support the actions of the ones who first attacked me, and they didn't all intend to kill me on sight.

I have to be a little bit fair to myself and point out that many police officers do believe in the occasional sacrifice of an innocent person, be it their rights or their life, to keep their stranglehold on power secure. The name of Jack Hayward comes to mind as an example of that mentality. Officers like that make examples of people who challenge them, whether those people were right to challenge them or not. It's wrong that they do so, but when I did the same thing myself, I must concede that I brought my own fight down to their level.

The real enemy we all must contend with is extremist thinking. This can be defined simply as the belief that one's cause justifies the killing or sacrificing of innocent people. It's the kind of thinking that gave rise to the Taliban, the Nazi's, and many other manners of murderers. Its existence perpetuates the urge in people to retaliate in kind. Wherever it springs up, it must be quickly recognized and called for what it is before it results in something bad happening. This kind of thinking is wrong in every case, as the killing of innocent people is never justified. I certainly wouldn't put myself in the same category with the Taliban, but I myself am guilty of it too. Being civilized is about putting this kind of barbarism behind us, and as civilized people, we can and must do better than this. It means keeping in mind that we're all on the same side together, and it means being willing to admit when we or our comrades are wrong, so that things can be made right. I am not the only one who failed at these things in this instance by a longshot. However I am one of those who did, and because of that I accept my fate.

The future still lies ahead, and even though I won't be a part of it, it's all that matters to me anymore. The Forest Hill Police Department will eventually be reconstituted. No man and no city can save the whole world, but we can take what's been learned here and create an example for others to follow. From the ground up we can build a new department that does the right thing, values the people it serves above all else, and in turn is valued by those people too. It's true this might be a lofty vision, but if it doesn't happen, then all these lives have been lost for nothing.

This is my last wish for you. God bless.

\--Randolph Gustin

### Epilogue

Kim Trang had yet to decide if he liked this new job. It wasn't what he had ever really pictured himself doing with his life, but like his Vietnamese mother had always told him, callings come from places you'd never expect. And when they come, it's not a good idea to turn your back on them. So while he wasn't sure if he liked the job yet, there did seem to be potential.

The twenty-one year old man was sitting in the passenger seat of a police cruiser, in full uniform, next to Chief Grandstone. It was something of an honor to be riding with the chief, or so he understood it. He was one of many new-hires for the department, and as such he needed an experienced officer to show him the ropes. But as the department was still a bit limited on experienced officers, the chief was doing a lot of the training rides himself.

Nearly a year after the execution of the mass murderer of the Forest Hill Police Department, the department was finally being reconstituted, and Kim was happy to be a part of it. It was like being a part of history, a player in a new chapter of a book that had a lot of people following it. It was a part that carried a lot of responsibility, because if this train went down the same track as the last one, it could well be headed for an identical wreck.

"See that place?" Burt told him. Kim looked over and saw Bourbon Street. It was before noon and the parking lot was pretty empty, and to Kim the place looked fairly unremarkable.

"Is that our hangout or something?" His Asian accent was noticeable, but not overtly, as he had done the bulk of his growing up in the U.S.

"Nope, that's a place where troublemakers hang out. It's been a while since they've gotten the attention they need, but we'll be stopping in there quite a bit in the near future."

"That what the old department used to do?"

Burt cracked a smile. "Kid, this _is_ the old department."

Kim nodded with understanding, as he took out his personal phone to check the screen. He pushed a few buttons and put it away.

"I'm sure you know the history of this town and this department, everybody does," Burt went on. "The thing about dealing with mass murderers is you have to make sure they don't get what they want, or you'll encourage more of the same. Gustin himself had some things to say on that before all the shit started. Like for one example, what school shooters want is to see helpless people flee in terror, so they can feel powerful and in control. What prostitute killers want, among other things, is to feel like they can get away with anything. You get the drift." Kim nodded as he listened. He certainly did get the drift. "What Randy Gustin wanted was to change the whole way we do business. He wanted to put himself and the rabble we have to contend with on top of the pecking order. That just isn't the way police work gets done. The whole country is watching to see how this turns out. If he were to win this, it would be the beginning of the end for our position in society. That's not going to happen on my watch."

As Kim took all of that in, a call came in on the radio. Nothing much, just a 911 hangup call, but it was they who were closest to respond. Burt stepped on the gas as they drove to the location of the call.

"So I get to be part of a great experiment?" Kim asked.

"Indeed you do."

They drove to the fringes of the city limits where houses were fewer and further between. They came to the one they were looking for and Burt was surprised to see a _For Sale_ sign from one of the local realty companies in front of it. He pulled into the driveway and stopped.

The place had enough trees on both sides that the view from the surrounding properties was pretty obscured. The garage door was open just a couple of feet, and the bottom of a car could be seen inside. Not much of a car, it appeared to be a run down import of some kind, and they couldn't see the license plate. And, the front door of the place was ajar.

Burt radioed to dispatch that they were checking it out, and they got out of the car. Burt took the lead as they walked to the door, and he drew his Glock.

"Is that necessary yet?" Kim asked.

"If there's one thing to be learned from that episode with Gustin, it's what can happen when you don't shoot quick enough," came Burt's reply.

He nudged the door open and looked inside. Seeing nothing but an empty front room, he called out. "Police, whoever is in here come to the door," he said. Then he stepped inside and Kim followed.

The house was a two-story with a basement, and it was creaky. The uncarpeted floorboards, he had no doubt, were announcing his presence to whomever might be inside. He rounded a corner into the dining room, and had to wonder about that no more.

A Government .45 was leveled at him from the corner to the right. "Don't fuckin' move," the man holding it said, and Burt quickly recognized him as Vincent. Burt prepared to make a move anyways, when a second voice came out of the other corner.

"Don't listen to Vince," Elena said as she held her new .380 on Burt's head. "Just make your move now."

By Burt's estimation, they hadn't seen Kim yet, and the rookie was in a good position to get Vincent at least. Burt pointed his gun upward so he'd at least live long enough to give Kim the chance, then he began to back out of the dining room. Vince moved to follow, and that put him right into position. Burt heard the sound of Kim drawing his weapon, but there was no shot. He turned to see what the holdup was, and Kim's weapon was staring him straight in the eye.

"Randy Gustin was my godfather," Kim said, and a sense of blackness fell on Burt like a landslide. Vincent took Burt's pistol, and then the chief faced his rookie.

"Seriously, et tu?"

"Randy's father spared my grandfather in the war. They became great friends, and Randy was a great friend to my mother too." Kim didn't look the least bit like the passive young man who had made Burt wonder if he was really up to this job. He looked pissed. "When you go after a man who has friends, don't be surprised if they come back with a grudge."

Vincent motioned for Burt to put his gun down on the floor, and he did. Then Burt turned his attention back to Vincent and Elena. "So you set this all up for revenge?"

"Randy got all the revenge any man has a right to ask for," Vincent replied "This is all about you."

"How so?"

"Randy wiped the slate clean for us, all except for you and the ones he allowed to live. But you're fixin' to fill that slate back up with all the same shit we had to contend with before. We just can't have that."

Burt began to have some difficulty with breathing. "Just how you figure on getting away with this?"

"That's easy," Elena replied, "we're going to make up a phony, bullshit excuse for wasting your worthless ass. But we're doing it for a good cause, so that makes it okay." Elena's gangster side was coming back to the surface, and it didn't look like it wanted to play. "And it gets even better. I'm writing the headline myself." She might be kidding about that, and she might not. Elena had been hired by the Gazette only a few months before. For the most part, she had done only fluff pieces, but she was gradually working her way into the crime-reporting department.

"The story we came up with," Vincent interjected, "is that you entered the house with a drawn weapon without identifying yourself. The person inside, who was merely looking at the house for sale, saw the gun first, panicked and fired, killing you."

"You think they'll accept that as your reason for killing me?"

"Actually it wasn't us, it was a lone black male wearing a tie," Vincent replied.

Burt pointed at Kim. "So how are you going to explain his survival?"

"That's easy," Vince went on. "After the guy realized what he'd done, he pistol-whipped Kim, left him cuffed to the banister and fled."

"They're not going to buy this shit."

"I guess you hadn't heard," Kim replied. "They never question the word of a cop."

That's when it finally dawned on Burt that this was completely, utterly real. He backed slowly toward the center of the living room of the empty house. The three of them followed him with weapons aimed, Vincent on his right, Kim on his left, and Elena right in front. She was holding a shiny stainless gun that was nearly identical to the Colt Mustang she had lost, but it wasn't another Mustang, as those had been discontinued by Colt years before. This was a Sig Sauer P-238, which was a very close reproduction of the Mustang.

"You're using your own gun even? They'll get ballistics off of that," Burt said.

"We'll be picking up the brass," Vincent replied. "And the ammo's frangible, so there won't be any ballistics to match. So with all the explanation out of the way, you have any last words?"

"This fucking sucks."

All their eyebrows went up. "That's it?" Vincent asked.

"That's it. Write it down and make sure they carve it on my fucking gravestone."

"I'll write it there myself, in lipstick," Elena said.

"That'll do."

Then Elena held up her gun for him to see. "They took my last .380," Elena said, "but I got a new one. It's not as pretty, but you know what it has that my last one didn't?"

"What?"

She pointed at the night sights on top of the gun with her left hand. "Three dots. You know what three dots means?"

Having worked on a gang task force, Burt knew exactly what it meant, and the three-dot tattoo on her left hand bore out the fact that she meant it. But he still wanted to hear her say it, so he motioned her to do so.

" _My, Crazy, Life_ ," she said. Then Elena stuck the gun right up to the bridge of his nose and pulled the trigger. The shot was perfect. It blew his glasses in half, and Burt hit the creaky hardwood floor on his back, the two halves of his glasses lying on the floor beside his head. He was dead without ever having felt what hit him.

Elena couldn't take her eyes off what she had done, but Vincent's mind was still on business. He took out a cellphone and handed it to Kim. "Gimme the other one," he said, and Kim handed back the prepaid phone they had done their signaling with.

"You remember how to take the memory card out of the dash cam?" Kim asked.

"We'll get it," Vincent replied, then he tugged on Elena's arm. "We gotta go."

"You think Randy's happy about this?" Vincent saw that Elena's eyes had tears in them, and he put his hands on her shoulders.

"I think he knows it had to be done. So no one else would have to do what he had to do." Vincent picked Burt's pistol up off the floor and turned his attention to Kim.

"Ah, this is the part I've been waiting for," Kim said.

"Sorry bud, but we gotta get this on the road," Vincent said. "So what you gonna do after this?"

"Want to hear something funny? I kind of like this job now. There's some promise here, so I might just keep it for a while. Besides, somebody has to come out to question you guys about this."

"Well, it'll be nice to have an excuse to visit without bein' sneaky," Vincent said. "And you want to hear somethin' even funnier? I think this is shapin' up to be a department I could work for."

Vincent made sure his finger was off the trigger and pulled back his arm. Kim closed his eyes, but kept his smile right where it was.

* * *

They left Kim cuffed to the banister, where he would be found shortly by officers investigating why they had dropped out of touch. Then they took the car that Vincent had paid cash for in a town halfway across the state, drove it to where their own cars were parked, and abandoned it there. From there they wasted no time in vacating the area for home.

Elena had a lot to think about on the way home, not the least of which was the fact that she'd have to help write the story about this herself, just as soon as the Gazette called her about it. That would be tough to do with a straight face. She could handle it though. Now she could handle anything.

Business was finally taken care of. Ever since Randy had been taken from her, what had kept her going was her will to make sure that his death, and the deaths of those that he and she had killed, had not been for nothing. Things were now going to play out as they would. A new chief would be selected, and the man who was currently first in line for that position would be a lot more amenable to working with the public than his predecessor was. There was hope on the horizon, but her part in this was finished, so now she had to get back to her own life.

And that life had a big hole in it. There was no question that she had a lot going for her now, more than she had ever dreamed of having, and she had Randy to thank for that. She had her own home, she had friends, and she had a good paying job that wasn't in the service industry. What she didn't have though was her husband. She had everything he had to give her, and that was a lot, but she didn't have him. Nor had any suitable replacements come along, and it wasn't because she wasn't open to the idea. Elena knew Randy would never want her to spend her life alone mourning him. She had been on a few dates since his death, but it didn't seem like anybody would ever measure up. But then again, maybe she was just aiming too high.

She was so lost in thought that she scarcely noticed the Sheriff's patrol car passing her in the other direction. But when it pulled a U-turn and flipped on its overhead lights, then she noticed. "Oh Christ, what now..." she said, as she pulled over and stopped. Her scanner was still on, and what had happened earlier hadn't been discovered yet, so this couldn't have anything to do with that. Besides which, their tracks were covered as well as they possibly could be. She hoped.

The young deputy got out and walked to her window. He was in his early thirties with jet-black hair, and as much as Elena detested uniforms, his didn't look bad on him. His nametag read E. Bowles. "Hello ma'am, can I see your license and registration please," he began pleasantly enough. But as Elena knew too well, that was often just the calm before the storm. She gave him the papers as he continued. "I pulled you over today because you didn't have your seatbelt on," he said.

"Oh, you are NOT serious..."

"I'm afraid I am," he replied, his smile still intact.

"Come on, do you really think we need the nanny state to tell us how to do every little thing?"

"In truth, I don't. I have plenty of reservations of my own about that law, and in fact I usually don't write those tickets. But at the same time, I once personally knew two brothers who went off a road and rolled down an embankment. They both got thrown from their truck and crushed underneath, and they both would've been fine if they'd had their seatbelts on. That's just one example of many I could give you."

He asked her to wait while he took her papers back to his car. While she waited, she searched her memory for a time when a cop had offered a real reason for doing something in the way that he just had, and came up empty. This was new.

E. Bowles returned with her paperwork, and to Elena's dismay, another sheet of paper too. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to give you a citation on the seatbelt."

"Does this have something to do with who I am?"

"You mean your being the wife of Randy Gustin? Not at all. I've only been working here for a few months and that was all before my time. The reason I'm writing it for you is because of the amount of time I've spent working accidents. I've had to see the crushed skulls and ribcages, and I've also had to see a few people out of this world. It's not a fun part of this job. I believe in free choice and all that, but given the choice between respecting your right to decide, and keeping you all in one piece, I'll have to go with the second option."

E. Bowles handed her the ticket and bade her good day. As he walked back to his patrol car, Elena stuck her head out the window. "Thank you," she shouted back to him.

He stopped and turned around, not quite sure what he'd just heard. "I'm sorry?"

"I said thank you."

He walked back to Elena's window. "I just wrote you the ticket, what in the world are you thanking me for?"

Elena got the sense this wasn't something he was accustomed to. "I know you wrote me the ticket, but you didn't try to interrogate me, or make me let you search the car, or look down on me, or make me feel mistreated in any way. And you had a real reason to give me the ticket too. I just think that when a cop does his job like a professional, you ought to say thanks. So thank you."

E. Bowles had _does not compute_ written all over his face. Elena knew this was a thankless job even for the best among them, but apparently not to what extent. The cop looked around, almost like he wanted to see if anyone was looking. Then he reached in and snatched the ticket back from her. "Gimme that," he said. "Just please wear the belt."

Now it was Elena's turn to be stunned, but she wasn't so stunned that she had neglected to do a ring check as he reached in. It came up negative.

"Wait," she said, and he stopped again. She had to do this now because she'd never have the nerve again. She grabbed one of her cards out of her purse, got out of the car, and held it out to him.

"What's that?"

"It's my card." He took it from her slowly, with a puzzled expression. "It's got my number on it."

E. Bowles broke a smile, and the way he looked at her changed. Not by much, but Elena was a woman and thus knew when she was being checked out. The cop took a look at the card and then put it in his shirt pocket. Then he tipped his hat to her and went on his way.

Elena got back in the car, put her seatbelt on and began driving home again, her mind spinning. Life had a way of taking you places you never expected. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, but almost always, it seemed like things worked out the way they were supposed to.

"Oh Randy, I hope you're not mad," she said out loud.

The End

### Afterword

I hope you've enjoyed my tale. Whether you did or not though, chances are that you're wondering what would lead somebody to write a story like this, so perhaps a little explanation is in order.

As you might have guessed, I've been the subject of special attention by law enforcement myself. There's nothing special about that at all, as many, many people have had that experience. It's from that experience that I'm able to describe what it does to a person. How it makes them feel, and how it affects their views on what they consider justified.

As many others have as well, I've witnessed exactly how much respect the average law enforcement officer has for the law. The answer is, not much. I've witnessed their willingness to misconstrue facts against people, and fabricate justifications for the use of force. It tends to make a person cynical.

The idea for this book had been kicking around in my head for years since all of this happened. But when the string of attacks on law enforcement began in Washington State, starting in 2009 with Christopher Monfort, I scrapped the idea. I had no wish to have a hand in putting such ideas into the head of the wrong person (and still don't) and I felt that law enforcement had likely learned their lesson anyhow.

But that turned out not to be so. In cases of egregious shootings committed by police officers before and since that episode, shootings which are, in the opinion of this writer, clearly murder, there is still no criminal accountability to be had. Nor has much of anything else changed. It's full steam ahead for the status quo.

People in law enforcement need to understand what sort of a position they are painting people into. The abusive methods used during routine encounters, and the lack of helpfulness when help is really needed, send a clear message that we're not on the same side. The willingness to lie about people, and treat them as subhuman, are what generate the animosity they experience daily. And then there are the shootings. All in all, there's not a great deal of reason to feel safe or comforted in the presence of police. And it's a sad reality that you'd have to be insane to call 911 as anything other than a last resort.

So I wrote this book in the hope of helping people on all sides understand the nature of the problem, and what has to be done about it. And to motivate them to pay attention to the lesson, I also wanted people to understand just what sort of things could happen if some meaningful changes aren't made. Some very bad things have happened already, on both sides of the issue. But it can always get worse.

That isn't my hope however. My hope is that this book might encourage people to relearn the lost art of civility, rather than driving one another into a corner from where they feel they have no choice but to lash out. Because, no bullshit, that could be bad. Anyone who studies the history of shooting trends can tell you, what happened in Washington State in 2009 and 2010 could easily go national if it were to happen again.

So with that all said, if you, the reader, happen to be a police officer of the kind who would have felt at home in the Forest Hill Police Department, try this little experiment. Spend a few days treating people like human beings, and see if it doesn't make a difference.

If you're a person who has suffered at the hands of police, and the sort of scenario in this book has begun looking attractive, my advice to you is simple. Get help.

Or alternatively, you can do what I did and use their dirty deeds to sell your own book.

Best to all.

Thomas A. Young

October, 2011

