THE G.E.U.

Gang Extermination Unit

Conrad Queen

QP Press

MEDFORD, NEW YORK

Copyright © 2019 by Conrad Queen

Created and Produced in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Conrad Queen/Queen Publishing

Medford, NY 11763

www.queenpublishing.pub

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

THE G.E.U./ Conrad Queen. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-9961268-2-3

For America’s last defenders . . .

“Secret operations are essential in war; upon them the army relies to make its every move”

― Sun Tzu, ‘The Art of War’

CONTENTS

THE QUESTION OF VIOLENCE

¥

SURVEILLANCE

RECRUITMENT

TARGETING

VOLUNTEERS

INNER TURMOIL

PRINCIPLES

PERPLEXITY

INVESTIGATION

PLANNING

ON THE RADAR

ASSAULT

SOCIOLOGY AND POLITICS

LEGS AND HEELS

BOYD AVENUE RECKONING

NOT SO FAST . . .

Thank you:

ONE

THE QUESTION
OF
VIOLENCE

“Is

violence the answer?” Decker stared straight ahead, looking at the bare brick wall of their planning room. It was quiet, empty now. There was a slight reverb to his voice, like when talking in an empty apartment or house. He and his co-founding partner sat in office type chairs, leaning back, contemplating plans.

“A colleague of mine . . . a long time ago, not an outwardly dangerous person . . . said, ‘nothing solves a problem like the direct application of violence’.” He let the thought hang for a long moment while he arose and crossed the room to look out the large paned window. “I still spend a good amount of time turning that over internally.” After a few moments of rubbing his chin, the otherwise boring accountant ran a hand through his straight hair, cut close on the sides. He returned to the table, grasped a long neck beer bottle, sipped, brought it down again.

Moving back to the window he lightly smacked his lips, savored the taste of the liquid. “When you’re a kid, bullies don’t stop until you fight back. Or they get confronted by a bigger bully. I’m a Christian, but all that ‘kumbaya’ stuff is crap. As supposedly ‘humane’ beings . . . some of us spiritually guided, a few of us God-fearing . . . we advocate for peace in the morning, and then we turn right around and hypocritically commit violence by nightfall. We celebrate the Prince of Peace every December twenty-fifth, by summer we’re at war.”

“Are you about to preach to me?” Jeff spoke without looking at his friend. He too sipped, but from a tumbler filled with a fine smoky whiskey. There was no reaction from Decker, so he continued the thought. “Peace is the reward of those willing to fight for it. That’s how I see it.” Jeff harrumphed, “Peace is the result of a decisive military victory.”

Decker took the pause as a chance to cut in: “Are you about to bore me with your pagan philosophy?”

“You have a problem with philosophy?” Jeff only very slightly cracked a smile.

“I’m gonna get going. Meeting up with—"

Jeff ignored him and went on. “Contemplate this: Would slavery in this, the former American Republic, have ended without the horrific violence and carnage of the Civil War?” He paused, though the question felt rhetorical. Decker just listened. “Men have fought and waged wars since creation—”

Decker quickly interrupted: “Creation? Oh, so you do believe in God! Welcome my brother!”

“—since the beginning of TIME,” he emphasized the word ‘time’, “for as little as reputation, for as much as a continent . . . for as vaporous as YOUR sacred religion and God. We have killed for cows, land, water, pride, women even . . . and money . . . especially money. Men have killed sometimes just for the hell of it.”

“Another religious reference.” Decker interjected again; Jeff smirked without stopping.

“But we have also killed, ironically, to survive; killed to protect life, and killed for ideals; men have killed for their family, their tribe, their king, their country, and our—well, YOUR God.” Jeff sipped again, let his statement hang. He rose, wandered to the window and looked out at Striver’s Row, a street named after an area in a neighborhood in Former America, a community of people moving up the economic ladder. The street was normal, calm, people about, traffic was light. A young couple sat on a bench at the bus stop in the early sundown light.

“What incredibly terrible beings we are.”

TWO

“So, you want this? To be with us? The rep doesn’t come from being nice! We hit, we hit hard. Anybody, anytime.” Nate looked around, “Anywhere.” With that, he spotted a young man who had refused to acknowledge the Boyd Avenue Gang, who had won praise from local community activist Jeff Jones for resisting the street life and was college bound. The statement in a neighborhood gazette had irked the street thugs. Nate pointed at the young man who did not want the street life.

“The one at the corner. With headphones on.” K Black turned to walk away, didn’t even look at Nate, who picked the target. The street lieutenant in turn went over to a group of three unpredictable and aspiring gang toughs and pointed at the young man, who may have been still a teenager. They acknowledged and started across the two-way street to the intersection, ignoring traffic which had to suddenly stop to avoid running them over.

Meanwhile, Heather, a shy teenager, watched the group come across the street. Her heartbeat quickened with the intuition that something was wrong. She had seen the street guys in the city engage in all manner of crime and assaults, and their approach caused her stomach to drop, she could sense that something bad was imminent. Heather looked around quickly to see who their target may be, and an older teen boy, olive complexion with wavy hair, crossing the street from the other direction was nodding his head to whatever he was listening to in his headphones. She held her breath.

The young man, immersed in his headphone world of music, didn’t notice the group approaching him. As they sprinted up behind him, one of the Boyd Avenue Gang wanna-be’s cocked back and threw the weight of his body behind a punch to the side of the young man’s face. The blow exploded into his world and his headphones were knocked off, jolting him to reality. The other two punched him also, yelling ‘Boyd Avenue Killers!’ repeatedly, and then kicking him when he fell. Immediately there was screaming as Heather and other people rushed to clear themselves of the beat-down. The young man begged for mercy, pleading, ‘What’d I do? What’d I do!’. He curled into a ball, protecting his head with his arms as they stomped at him viciously. ‘Respect K Black m*****f****r!’

To add a finish to the beating, one of the thugs produced a knife, and jabbed the young man several times in his torso, and he screamed terribly. Blood began to soak his clothing as he moaned and screamed, while the three thugs took off still yelling ‘Boyd Avenue Killers!’ In less than a minute they were gone, and the people cowering in various places reappeared, shocked at the sudden burst of violence, and the sight of a young man bleeding profusely in front of them.

Among the onlookers, young Heather descended into a brokenhearted sob. Yet another act of violence in the streets, a regular occurrence that no one could seem to stop. No law enforcement, no appeals to compassion or decency, no fear of retribution seemed to halt or slow down these incidents. It was fearsome to think that she would have to continue navigating this world, all one-hundred and ten pounds of herself, surrounded by vicious hoodlums who could be so callous.

After a while, an ambulance arrived, and she remained in shock as the young man was placed inside. Finding the strength to continue her day, she proceeded to the next street and boarded the bus that would take her home, hopefully it could get down Striver’s Row without a problem.

THREE

Two birds at play in a tree, two small flowers blooming quietly at the edge of a park, an elderly couple slowly shuffling arm in arm, and on an unremarkable bench, two young people with smiles. As the movement of the seasons bringing spring to summer, crested the hill of seasonal change, a young man and woman sat at this bus stop, chatting about the frivolities of youth. As they amused one another with witty flirtatious talk, the two birds above them playfully fluttered away, replaced by several more, all tweeting musically. Squirrels scampered about with found prize, gleeful at the meal found. The young man and woman seemed to be content with one another, each smile evidence that their conversation flowed on two levels, the surface level innocent, but below it the hidden language of romance.

The lean and dark cherry complexioned female, in matching white tennis skirt and top, looked at her male paramour’s face without wavering, she was fully engrossed in their communication, some of it non-verbal. Likewise, the young man’s attention was fully on the girl from down the block, he was relieved she had an interest in him. Their discussion, though it may have been inane, was punctuated by gentle laughter. A connection was occurring beneath the verbal, a connection that was in a realm within the heart, the medium that cannot be described by words or pierced by logic.

Her hand kept gently landing on his, or sometimes missed and rested on his knee. It would linger for the perfect measure of time, long enough to not be construed as innocent, or accidental, and short enough to cause him to hope she would touch him again.

‘Saturday’, as her parents named her, because her family moved into their first apartment on that day and conceived her on that same day of the week, was born on a Saturday, was the child of a newly married couple’s flirtations and desires. And the same flirty gene that brought her parents together, and created her in the womb, had also carried over to her. Though she had no reputation in the street, except for being a good (and sometimes suggestive) dancer at local events, Saturday’s innocent flirtatiousness was the object of many a young man’s attention.

But Shawn was no slouch. A former high school gymnast, now in community college, he was in enviable physical condition. He wanted to major in dance, but that would get him ridiculed or mistaken for gay. His concern had good reason; the art form was dominated by pretty and soft-skinned young males practicing unmanly diets and alternate lifestyles. Instead, he picked physiology, and minored in performance art. Thus, not only was he physically irresistible, he had been coached in the gentle art of drama and how to use it to effect. If the young man’s ripped body didn’t get the girl, his ability to manipulate moods would. As much as Saturday was jealously hated by her peers, Shawn was equally envied by his.

At the same time, a few miles further up the street, a bus rumbled and jolted down Striver’s Row street, picking up and delivering the residents of the different neighborhoods. Aboard it, the good people were subjected to the intimidations of the socially maladjusted deviants who went unchallenged in this city. As men who were either outnumbered or outdated remained silent, a mob of hoodlums raucously dominated the atmosphere in the public transportation vehicle. They cursed loudly, the most vulgar of language that even the most grizzled construction worker would not use in the open.

They pushed one another about, sometimes stumbling against riders who pretended not to be aware of the obvious, hopeful that ignoring the anarchy about them would either cause it to end or at least exclude themselves from being a target. But the silence of the humble passengers only served to empower the group, the realization that fear, a devastating emotion, was present.

For a street thug, fear is the tool of choice, used to control potential targets, silence critics, frighten away scrutiny, and neutralize correction. To achieve this level of intimidation, in a group they exhibit behavior to irritate and offend, just up to the edge of illegality. Enough to annoy, not enough to draw police attention. This would include demonstrations of volatility, to show that the group was prone to unpredictable violence. In a society that had been trained to ‘not get involved’, ‘it’s not worth it’, and, ‘it’s not your job’, the mobs of troublemakers ran unchecked.

Unfortunately for the pacifists, the thugs interpreted their passivity as fear. And in many cases, it is. The antagonists grow bolder. Boldness is necessary for what they do, the nerve to intimidate or threaten a stranger. There is a risk that among a targeted group is someone miscalculated as weak and impotent, but surprisingly is not!

But, if in a group, or alone but armed, the thug’s bravery will increase to frightening levels, and his (sometimes her) natural instinct is to use that demonic boldness to achieve intimidation, dominance, and reap either a material profit through a quick shakedown or establish and bolster a violent reputation with a beating, stabbing, or killing.

The ‘Boyd Avenue Gang’ had achieved that level of reputation and intimidation.

The fifteen or so on the bus were a mix of the newest and the least effective of the gang’s ranks, those whose criminal nature was not yet refined enough to acquire large sums of cash and vehicles to move themselves about, and future thugs who had not yet risen through the ranks. When the bus driver politely asked them to remain in their seats and keep the noise down, they told him to ‘shut the f**k up! Drive this piece o’ shit bus before you have an accident!’. When a middle-aged man pushed off one of the gang members that stumbled against him, he was beaten and thrown out the back door at the next stop. A woman who objected was cursed and spat upon, and a young Heather, seated next to her, receded further into her despondency over the anarchy of her world. The remaining passengers kept silent, the Boyd Avenue gang had made its point.

Four of them decided to get off the bus, the males, to go back and find the man they had beaten and thrown off, they realized they should have robbed him also. The female Boyd Avenue gang members stayed on the bus, they were not into robbery, extortion was more their thing. They were solid street dykes, they could, and at times would, reach the level of violence of their male counterparts, but there was no defying nature and DNA, and so they preferred more cerebral or underhanded methods of crime such as protection rackets, bootlegging, and shoplifting/resale campaigns.

“JC WATTS STREET!” Somehow the frustrated bus driver was still making stop announcements, and one of the unpredictable dykes shouted, “YO! THIS IS US!” The group arose from their various positions scattered about the bus and stumbled out the front and back doors, leaving the driver and remaining passengers and Heather relieved.

They fell out the bus onto and around a bench and rain shelter that covered the bus stop. One of the girls produced a bottle of booze while others lit cigarettes or other manner of illegal tobacco. Their raucous behavior continued, laughing and cursing obnoxiously in the medium blue glow of a recently set sun.

¥

Shawn whispered in Saturday’s ear, and she grinned. The message was meaningless, it was just an excuse to lightly blow on her ear, on the tiny invisible hairs that enable a person to sense a breeze or the direction a sound comes from. She grinned, not so much at the barely intelligible phrase he murmured, as at the sensation of his warm breath tickling her from her ear all the way to her toes. It felt good.

Saturday did what she had not planned, and snaked her arm under his, then back over, took his hand, and interlaced her fingers with his. Shawn had not expected this, looked her in the eye. They held the gaze because both knew that the simple movement, that small act, was as big a step as when Neil Armstrong stepped off the ladder onto the lunar surface. In that moment, Shawn and Saturday were oblivious to all around them, they couldn’t hear the traffic, they didn’t notice anything around them.

And they didn’t notice the Boyd Avenue gang across the street.

“Hey Love!” The young couple did not realize the shouts from the group across the street at the opposite bus stop were directed at them. Or more precisely, Saturday.

“HEY LOVE! OVER HERE!” The cat call was led by a husky man in the standard uniform of the thug, sagging jeans embroidered with bizarre prints front and back, short jacket, also with undecipherable prints, and baseball cap casting a shadow on a semi-tattooed face. The other almost dozen in the group were in variations of this unofficial uniform.

“SWEETHEART! WE TALKING TO YOU!” Shawn’s attention on Saturday broke, and he stared across the street. Saturday followed his stare, and the cat calls grew:

“HEY MA! HEY MA! COME OVER HERE WITH US! WE KNOW HOW TO HAVE A GOOD TIME!” Another joined in: “COME BE FRIENDS WITH US. ‘LEZ’ BE FRIENDS!”

Wordless, the couple just stared, the group was a bit rowdy, they seemed to be intoxicated. Shawn tensed, he wasn’t looking for trouble, though none of them seemed to be physically imposing. In fact, Shawn thought physically they looked a bit hippy down low and up top narrow in the shoulders. ‘Strange looking guys’ he thought to himself. He couldn’t put his finger on it from the distance, some of them looked unusual, it didn’t make sense. Saturday hugged his arm, which he noticed, and his arm muscles tensed, which she noticed.

“Don’t pay attention to that. I know them.”

“You know these clowns?” Shawn’s stare didn’t break.

“Yeah.” Saturday sighed. “Local girls. With the Boyd Avenue gang.”

“GIRLS!” He looked harder, and that was what he now realized didn’t seem right. They were all female. “Are they crazy?”

Across the street, Teri saw the young man’s stare, and in a primal or animal kingdom way, saw it as a challenge. This would not have been normal, but years of street life had altered her feminine psyche to a male-like response to challenge. And just as she donned the ‘male’ role in her homosexual relationships, she felt further compelled to be aggressive, her perception of manliness. Add to those factors, the hormone therapy she had partially undertaken, pushing her genetic disposition to the limits of mental imbalance.

“What’chu lookin’ at son?” Teri began to cross the street, not aggressively, but right toward them. “You think you got her sewn up? You think that’s yours?” As she got closer, she directed her comments at Saturday: “C’mon girl . . . you know you should be wit’ us. We took care o’ that problem right? Me and my peoples had your back when he—” she smirked in his direction, “—wasn’t around.” As she postured in front of them, a few others of the lesbian clique slowly moved across the street also, faking indifference, but the positioning was perfect to encircle and gang up on a victim.

“Teri—” Saturday attempted to speak, Shawn cut her off.

“You know her?” He looked at Saturday in disbelief.

“Yeah she know me.” Teri leaned over to try and kiss Saturday and the young lady turned away. Shawn stood and shoved the husky male impersonation, to which she gasped, “What the hell?”

Before he knew what was happening, a skinny dyke from the gang had flanked to his rear left, attacked, hit him in the back of his head with a bottle, sending the young man stumbling into Teri, and both tripped over one another crashing to the pavement. As Saturday shouted vainly, the gang of crazed lesbians ran over like wolves, kicking and stomping Shawn as Teri weaved herself out of the beating.

Shawn desperately tried to gather himself, if he could grab just one of these crazy girls, he would make them all pay. But the blows to his head had him seeing stars, his vision blurred and muddied, and the pain circuits around his body were overloading. He could feel his blood, even taste it, and that may have been his last sensation as the skinny dike had found another bottle, and just as he had managed to somehow get halfway on his feet, she smashed him on the head again. They began to cheer as he went down.

“YEAH! WHAT NOW? WHAT NOW!” The female wolves kicked him a few more times, while Teri circled back to the screaming Saturday, and slapped her.

“You want us to stop?” She stood in front of the young girl, pointed at her unconscious date. “Lose this cat! He ain’t shit! He couldn’t even hold his own against a bunch o’ bitches! He’s gonna protect you?” She looked at the motionless athlete a moment, then turned back to Saturday. “You REALLY think so?” Then her tone softened: “Boo, you know where you should be . . . c’mon . . . why you playin’ games? I understand you! I can make you comfortable . . . he can’t do that. Besides—” Teri moved closer, took the nervous young woman’s hand, “—I can be that somebody, that someone you need. You ain’t never experienced nothing like what we could be.” She let Saturday’s hand go, turned to walk away. “C’mon ya’ll, let’s be out. Nobody tryin’ to get locked up out here.” Teri turned to Saturday again, walking backwards as the lesbian gang reassembled and headed up the street. “But I understand, your family wouldn’t like us, they wouldn’t like me, you not ready to stand up for yourself.” With that, she turned and followed the group into the distance.

Saturday knelt next to Shawn, as a few strangers appeared, and she put her hand on his back, could feel his body breathing, and began to sob. A man and woman spoke to her, but she was in shock. She could hear the woman speaking to emergency services on a personal device as the man also knelt by Shawn and seemed to be checking him for responsiveness. As he leaned over Shawn, he mumbled, “I have never seen anything like what I just . . .”

FOUR

Äs they sat at the traffic light, Decker engaged in playful talk with his passenger, Jennifer. More honestly, she was his ‘date’, and he was confident the evening had started off well. Jennifer was solidly into their light conversation and seemed relaxed. When she laughed, she would toss her ultra-straight golden blonde hair, and then pull it behind her, which he found visually unignorable. It hung simply, had been clipped perfectly straight across at mid back, and she tossed it from time to time at funny moments, leaving Decker to speculate if the move was deliberately flirtatious. Her mane was a far cry from his low cut semi-rugged light brown hair accessorized with a just as perfect five o’clock shadow.

She sat a quarter turn toward him, seat all the way back so that she was able to cross her right leg over the left, and she interlocked her hands across that right knee, exposed by her white capri pants. Decker was happy that he had bought a coupe with leg room. The signal turned green, and as he accelerated, she looked ahead into the darkening street, then back at him. He glanced at her, made the mistake of meeting her gray eyes that were absolutely hypnotizing, but curious. He focused back on the road as she asked:

“So, what do you do to make accounting exciting?” Again, with the eyes, she was merciless.

“I’m not sure that I do . . . I just do it. If I want excitement, I look at my bank balance. That’s what motivates me.” Decker glanced in the rear-view mirror as they approached another red signal and slowed. “I’m sort of meticulous about numbers, I get satisfaction out of getting things to justify, to marry up, to achieve balance.” With the car stopped, he looked into those disarming eyes again. “I won’t stop until something is right.”

“Ohh! You’re Dudley Do-right! You sound so passionate as you say it. You don’t have to make accounting exciting—for you the process itself is exciting.”

“In a masochistic way, yes.”

“Masochistic!” Jennifer pushed that damn beautiful hair back again, Decker didn’t notice the signal had turned green. “You like to be beaten bad boy?” With that she slapped his shoulder while biting her lower lip. Decker’s attention was no longer on the signal or driving.

“You’re funny—” They both broke into laughter but were interrupted by an obnoxious car horn blowing from behind, the light had turned and because of this beauty next to him he had not noticed.

Just as Decker began to accelerate, an old Chrysler sedan pulled from behind them and accelerated alongside, keeping pace with him for a moment. He glanced to see what the other driver was doing, and the passenger window lowered, and the man in the passenger seat shouted obscenities at them before taking off.

“Ignore them.” He said it out loud more for Jennifer’s edification but probably just as well for himself. “Thugs, looking for trouble.”

Jennifer remained silent as they continued ahead, but the other vehicle had completed passing, swung in front of them, and suddenly braked. Quickly Decker braked to avoid collision, and the sudden change in velocity threw his date forward, and she only avoided being thrown against the cream leather dashboard because of her seatbelt.

“HEY!” Decker shouted out loud, at his windshield, though obviously the occupants of the other vehicle could not hear him. Glancing at Jennifer, her facial expression had changed, the sexy flirtatiousness was gone, the glowing complexion was now beet red, and a buildup of energy between them that Decker had carefully nursed all evening was disrupted. He was now angry. “These assholes! He deliberately did that!”

He pushed down on the gas pedal, the engine on the high-performance car roared, and he was now racing to catch up with that vehicle, which had sped away after inciting the near-collision.

“Decker, what are you doing?” Jennifer looked at him, looked ahead, and back at him. She turned in her seat and adjusted her seatbelt. “You’re chasing them?!”

“I got a few words for them, maybe more than that.”

“Decker . . . there were a bunch of them in there . . . what if they want something more than you’re ready for?”

“I got that covered.” His stare was fixed on the car of jackrabbits speeding in front of them. Ignoring Jennifer sternly repeating his name, each time stronger, within a few seconds he was alongside the other car. Window down, he shouted at the thugs. “Are you stupid?!” There was no response, the midnight blue sedan sat with just the low rumble of obnoxious music vibrating the ground as a sign of life in the vehicle.

“HEY!” Decker extended his left arm out, waving at the tinted window as though trying to get their attention. But Jennifer got his: “Decker, I don’t need you to show me how much man you are.” He turned back toward Jennifer. Looking at his date, she now looked downright scared. Decker realized that pursuing this any further had no upside.

“NO M’MAN--ARE YOU STUPID?!?!”

Turning back to the blue Chrysler sedan, the passenger window was down, the faces within hard to see in the dark, but the pistol being flashed was unmistakable. As Jennifer screamed, the arm holding the weapon began to tilt and pan toward them, and Decker jammed the gas pedal to the floor. The car jerked ahead immediately, the traction of the high-performance tires being worth the money he paid for them, and they were out in front of the thug filled vehicle before the hoodlums could point the weapon out the window.

“DECKER! THEY WERE GOING TO SHOOT US!” Jennifer shouted the words while half-turned in the passenger seat, looking out the rear window. He glanced in the mirror, and though they were driving a high-end sedan, it wasn’t going to keep up with his coupe, and after clearing the next four traffic signals in the moment before each turned red, the brown Nigerian-made sports car turned right on Chappie James Boulevard. Decker accelerated again, then a quick left onto Ninth street, and after throttling down for a few blocks, saw no pursuit.

“You okay?” He looked at his companion, out with him for the first time for an evening on the town, and she had gotten far more excitement than she expected.

“Take me home.” Jennifer turned front and stared straight ahead.

“Okay.” He didn’t say anything else; it was pointless. He thought to himself, ‘This night out isn’t going well’ and inhaled deeply.

“You escalated that. Are you a hothead?”

“I— “, Decker cut himself off and glanced at Jennifer, who was not looking at him with any of the attraction of earlier, the look reminded him of a schoolteacher glaring at a boy shooting spitballs. “I should not have gotten involved with them.” Decker sensed an imminent lecture. “Are you one of these super macho types? You thought you could take them on? A minute ago, you fed me that BS about, ‘if I want excitement, I look at my bank account’”. He grimaced as she mocked his voice. “You think you’re that tough? What made you think you could handle that situation—” suddenly she drew a deep breath and touched her open hand on her chest, “—you have a gun! You have a gun, don’t you? That’s why you, ‘I got this covered’.” She mocked his voice again. “What are you, some sort of enforcer? Taking the law in your own hands? I don’t like that, what makes you judge and jury?” She paused, calmed herself, then started back up. “Freakin’ Judge Dredd. Who in their right mind would do what you just did? I bet you’re one of those gun people from that relic, the old NRA.” She opened his glove compartment, reached in fishing with one hand, and then not finding a weapon there, leaned forward so she could thrust the other hand under her seat and feel around there for a gun. “Where is it? Where’s the gun?”

“What’re you doing?” Decker’s attention went back and forth between the road ahead and Jennifer rifling through possible hiding places in the car. “Look, you wanted to go home, I’m taking you home. I shouldn’t have let the situation go that far . . . but, you don’t have a right to go through my stuff.”

She stopped and glared at him: “Fine!” She raised both hands like someone surrendering. “Don’t shoot.” Her sarcasm was perfect.

‘Well this is over’ he thought to himself as he calmly began to retrace their route back to Jennifer’s residence, and she remained quiet. Not even a minute later, they turned on to Striver’s Row, and partially blocking the lane was someone laying on the pavement with a few people standing around.

“Oh my God.” Jennifer touched Decker’s shoulder, “Slow down.” Decker smirked as he thought to himself, ‘oh--now it’s okay to get involved’, and they rolled up to the scene slowly. Jennifer put down her window.

“Do you need help? I’m a registered nurse.”

“Yes, we do. We called for assistance, but it’s been about ten minutes.” A man in blue jeans and polo shirt answered. “This guy was in a fight and was knocked unconscious. The young lady here is his girlfriend.” They both looked at the young woman who remained on one knee next to her companion, amidst broken glass and splotches of blood on the ground.

“I’ll check him out.” Jennifer quickly exited the sports car, as Decker pulled past the scene and curbed his prized import carefully, avoiding the broken glass. In addition to this, he didn’t want to have to change a tire. By the time he got out, Jennifer was also on one knee next to the victim.

“Did you move him? In any way?”

“No.” The man answered, “That’s where he and the big girl were wrestling and then the other smaller girl cracked him over the head with the bottle. Then they kicked and stomped him.”

“Women did this?” Decker and Jennifer both looked at the witness to the assault by Teri and company.

“Yeah.” The man’s eyes went wide as he continued, and Jennifer returned her focus to the victim, went about listening for breathing, watching his chest, and gently checking his pulse. “Bunch of . . . girls . . . women . . . hard to say, they were young, but very . . . well . . . masculine looking.” The man looked around like he was afraid of being caught doing something. “They were the meanest dykes I’ve ever seen.”

“They were from the Boyd Avenue gang.” Everyone turned to the young woman, who stood, still watching her male friend. “I’ve seen them before.”

“What started it?” No answer came, the young woman went back to one knee, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“What’s his name?” Again, no answer, and Jennifer’s voice became firmer: “Do you want me to help? Do YOU want to help?” She nodded. “What’s your name honey?”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday, I need you to hold his hand. He’s breathing, he has a pulse, I want to see if he is responsive to sound or touch. What’s his name?”

“Shawn.”

Jennifer held the young man’s other hand and spoke his name: “Shawn! Can you hear me?” She tickled the ends of his fingertips and watched his closed eyes. “Shawn, can you hear me?” Examining his upper body, there did not appear to be any deep wounds or breaks, and she touched the side of his face with the back of her hand. At that, there was slight movement. “Shawn! We’re here with you, Saturday is here—” Jennifer gestured at Saturday to join in.

“Shawn . . . honey . . . please answer.” The sound of an ambulance wafted through the night air and there was a collective sigh of relief.

“I think he’s gonna be okay.” Jennifer rose to her feet again. “It looks worse than it is, he’ll be fine honey.”

“Thank you.” Saturday didn’t look up, she kept holding Shawn’s hand.

Decker motioned for the man and woman who had remained silent to move away slightly. “Let’s give them some air.” Then he got their attention again. “You saw this?”

“Yes.” This time the woman spoke, her voice forced its way through a frown. “This city is out of control; it gets worse and worse. This bunch of people, who later turned out to be a bunch of drunk . . . lesbians! Had no idea they could get this violent. They were antagonizing these two from over there. Some words went back and forth, and next thing, it was on. They were a swarm of bees, and he fought, but the bottle to the back of head took him down.” She peeked past the man at Saturday. “Funny thing, after he went down, the big dyke talked to his girlfriend. It was almost like the fight was over her.”

“Never seen anything like it.” The man uttered the phrase absently.

“Well I have.” The woman’s frown tightened. “These gangs, these hoodlums, and now we have girl gangs . . . do they still qualify as girls? They’re wild . . . terrorizing the streets. Decent people can’t be out for a nice evening without this sort of thing happening. They even come into restaurants, theaters, shows, disrupt the atmosphere and if somebody says something, they get threatening and dangerous. Hell, they’re dangerous when they aren’t confronted. Even if they don’t have weapons, there’s always like a dozen or more of them in a group, loud, intimidating, unrestrainable. And volatile! And they always end up hurting someone . . . sometimes killing someone . . . this poor young man is lucky to be alive. And the Mayor has a soft spot for these people—”

“Don’t say, ‘these people’, they’re just like us, just different circumstances.” The man who had remained to assist said the words gently.

The woman frowned. “There’s no real effort to stop them . . . to stop this.” She gestured with one hand at the unconscious Shawn, pushed her thick wavy brown hair back with the other. “It’s terrible. Just terrible . . . this used to be such a nice city.”
There was a long silence, and she looked around as though searching for something.

“We need men. Strong men to step up and get control of things. All of the psychoanalysis has been a waste of time, our massaging of egos and feel-good policy has been nothin’ but a failure. This effort to promote a more nice society, a ‘feel good’ utopia, has excluded what we need the most.” the unknown woman took a deep breath, and admitted to herself it seemed, “We need an enforcer. The police ain’t doing it.”

“Well, remember, they prefer to be called ‘Law Enforcement’.” The woman’s male companion corrected her. “The word ‘Police’ refers to oppressive old American thinking. Terroristic. We formed Austland to get away from that, to have laws that are fair, non-prejudicial, and enforced by progressively trained professionals.”

“Unbelievable what we did. The people in Ranchland have it right.” Decker made the comment without looking at anyone. “We should bring them back, put them in charge. If I had it my way, I’d do it. I’d help clean up this town.”

With that statement, Jennifer looked at Decker, who looked down at the bloodied, but alive, young man. Her gaze returned to Shawn, still mostly unconscious. Her eyes shifted to the worried and tear streaked face of Saturday, and then, back to Decker. He did not know she was staring at him. Jennifer read his expression, felt she could look right into his thoughts, there was a similarity to her father.

Years ago, her father had died, and few men reminded her of him. But right now, looking at Decker, Jennifer saw both the hardness of her long-gone father, and the protectiveness of that same long-lost father. The thought was bittersweet; she loved her late dad but hated his personality. Everything had to be exact with him. He loved numbers and handled all the family’s finances. And he had once viciously beaten a homeless man harassing them during a family outing on the town.

Jennifer felt it was unnecessary, and saw her protective father as a brute, just another Neanderthal man who saw women as possessions. As she matured, they clashed often, he wanted her to be more like her mother, and Jennifer wanted to be nothing like her mother. Mom always deferred to Dad, he was the undebatable head of the household, and Jennifer promised that when it was her turn, she would not be that kind of woman or with that kind of man.

Not breaking her stare at Decker, if he had arrived on scene with the gun she was almost sure he had, how would this scene be different? Would this young man be safe? Would the perpetrators of this act, instead, be the ones on the ground, unconscious? Or would it have been a disaster, an innocent bystander harmed by his weapon and Decker in handcuffs and herself facing a subpoena before grand jury as an accomplice or witness?

While she wandered in thought, the witnessing man and woman drifted into a conversation as the ambulance approached. A female law enforcement officer also arrived and right away talked to Saturday, pen and patrol book in hand, while medical personnel surrounded Shawn with backpacks of life assistance gear. She gave details of his condition when she first arrived, and once they began their work, she decided to get out of the way.

“I’ll wait in the car.” With that she turned, and slowly walked to the sleek coupe, lowered herself in, and sat with the door open. Looking at her, Decker took his turn and could almost read her thoughts. But he wondered where those thoughts were taking her.

The officer had moved to the man and woman who had witnessed the incident. Incredibly, it was over in seconds. They had seen the attack from start to finish and their statement took ten seconds? Before she knew it, the middle-aged couple pointed in Jennifer’s direction. As she approached, Jennifer noticed the woman’s stride was very unfeminine, as were her facial features.

“Miss, I understand you helped the young man in the ambulance?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I need your name and address. Do you have identification?”

“Yes, I do.” Jennifer fished out her nurse’s ID.

“You work at Drew Hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see the assault?”

“I’m afraid not. We came upon this after it already happened. The young man was laid out in the street, the young lady next to him.”

“You’re sure you didn’t see anything?” The officer wrote in her patrol book not looking at Jennifer.

“No.” Decker, watching the exchange, was piqued. The officer almost seemed relieved there was no information. She handed the ID card back and went back to her patrol cruiser where another officer awaited. Strangely, they left.

Why did so many pleasant evenings have to end this way? More and more, the nightly newscast was a recitation of street violence that was growing more frequent, more vicious, more shocking. What could motivate a person, or group of people to explode so dramatically? The young people in these mobs and gangs seemed to act in ultimate desperation, in a finality of action that was inevitable. And the more our utopia feeds love and resources and help, the worse it gets, almost mocking our efforts to establish a humane relationship between metropolitan neighbors.

Had he been hotheaded earlier? Or maybe his solution of no longer allowing trespasses to continue was correct? The evidence was vividly in front of them, and had they happened upon the incident as it was in progress, would Jennifer have faulted him for putting a stop to it? Or, knowing he had a weapon, would she have faulted him for not putting a stop to it?

Then Decker reasserted his will; would he have respected himself for not acting?

FIVE

Äfter scaring the crap out of some dude in a car with his girlfriend, ‘Blaze’ and some prospects for the Boyd Avenue gang found their way to a local mid-grade restaurant. Being a troublemaker was fun but still work, and harassing people, they had worked up an appetite. He didn’t want garbage food, so they parked right in front of ‘Best Breads’, a place that during the midday was a good place to get lunch, and weekday evenings and weekend afternoons a decent meal at a tolerable price for a family. By evening on any of those days, it would be become a social kind of place, and many club goers either started or finished their night there. Unfortunately, by late evening it became a magnet for rowdy thugs, who tended to pick battles with the clean-cut gentlemen there with beautiful young women.

“You got a f*****g table?” Right away the seating host knew they were trouble but chose not to antagonize the four men. They stunk of the plants they smoked earlier.

“I may have something Sir.” He only met eyes with them for a split second, long enough to be respectful, not long enough to challenge.

One of them let out a ‘yeah’ as the slightly chubby man motioned for their group to follow him. As they swaggered, or more accurately, staggered, to their table, Blaze surveyed the dining room. They stopped at a round table almost dead center of the floor, meant for six, and as they sat, Blaze pointed out: “—Some hot lookin’ bitches in here—ya’ll betta ‘preciate this shit.”

Around the room, a few people had noticed the group enter, and in particular, local businessman Stoney Pritchard, owner of Pritchard security. Building his security company over time had taken him away from a social life, though he’d decided that the new attitudes prevalent among the contemporary women didn’t appeal to him anyhow. He left interaction with the opposite sex alone to focus on his business endeavor, and after finally having employees he could trust, he’d picked this evening to enjoy night life, something he’d not done in years.

So ‘Stone’, as people called him, invited out a mature woman close to his age he’d known for some time, quietly admiring her. He was not tall, so her short stature was perfect for him, and her slim shape was fine, he could see she took care of herself over the years. He was drawn in by her dark brown eyes, which were capped by naturally long eyelashes and gentle eyeshadow. Whenever he spoke, she would rest her head on one hand and smile, fully attentive. She wasn’t ashamed of being beautiful, which was just about taboo in these times, and he was proud to have someone as good looking as ‘Laverne’ with him.

Having lost track of what ‘hip’ people do and where they would do it, he went with the safe choice of dinner. This evening, the choice was a light seafood meal, which they enjoyed with glasses of white wine, and light laughter. It felt good to be with a woman and be relaxed, and he sensed she felt the same way about being with him.

He commented that her hair, of a texture ethnically unidentifiable, was cut short in the back and revealed the nape of her neck, which some men find revealing, while the front piece hung over her right eye, which was flirtatious. The woman smiled, and he asked if the stylist used an upside-down bowl on her head tilted forward to achieve the look. Of course, the observation was said with a smile, and Laverne sneered at first, then laughed because she knew he was being funny. She pointed out that his salt and pepper chin hair was more salt than pepper, and it was his turn to sneer, then admit a laugh.

During their laugh, he noticed the group of men come in, rather rashly, and sit at a table. He recognized the style of dress as the Boyd Avenue gang—they liked matching denim jeans and denim jackets with red caps and white sneakers. They never went anywhere unarmed, and wherever they went, there was usually a problem.

Without hesitation, he took out his personal device and began tapping a message to send to Jeff Jones.

“Hey, no devices.” Laverne, whose complexion was not dark, and not light either, of an undertone difficult to pinpoint, twisted her mouth and stared at the middle-aged man.

“Important.” Without looking up, he half pointed in the direction of the thugs. “Something bad is going to happen.” He moved his eyes without turning his head to glance at the group, then back at his phone.

“Why do you say . . . that . . . is it them?” Laverne looked in the direction Stone indicated, and it only took a second for her to zoom in on the four men at a large table who had the look of mischief and trouble in their eyes.

“Okay . . . they might make a scene. We can get past that.” She watched him type on his device. “So, what are you doing?”

“Calling for help. Backup.”

“Backup?” Laverne looked incredulous, “You’re not the police.”

“No, I’m not.”

One of the men with Blaze spotted a group of three women at another table, all in their late twenties. He stared for a few moments, then got up and went over to them, uninvited. As Stone watched, attempting to read the man’s lips, he seemed to say, ‘wassup ladies’. Judging from their body language, he could not hear all, but could see their reaction, they clearly had no interest. One tried to rebuff the young man politely, but he was persistent.

“He’s going down in flames.” Laverne watched slyly after giving in to where Stone was focused, and she watched just as earnestly as he did. She exclaimed, “OOOH!” as the denim clad goon mouthed a few profanities at the group of women, went back to his table, and fell into his chair roughly. The unruly men now had the attention of most of the diners, disrupting the pleasant atmosphere of the restaurant, and the host approached them. He offered free drinks and politely asked them to keep their banter down, which incensed Blaze.

“Is you crazy? You don’t ask us to do nothing.” Blaze stood up and got chest to chest with the demure man.

“I apologize sir, I do not wish to offend.” He lowered his head slightly and his voice. “I wanted to preserve the ambience.”

The men laughed. “THE AMBIENCE!” The seating host looked embarrassed and apologized more.
“Can’t believe you said that. That is some real bourgeois crap.” He pointed at the bar. “Now get us them m*****f*****n’ drinks.”

As the host of the room shrunk away, one of the young prospects looked around, saw the unapproving looks from most of the diners.

“WHAT’S EVERYBODY LOOKING AT? WE DID SOMETHING WRONG?” Table by table, people looked away, but a group of three, a man and two women, refused. “I SAID, WHAT THE F**K YOU LOOKIN AT?” The man pushed a chair aside and navigated to the trio, and the other two new thugs followed as Blaze sat and grinned.

Stone looked at his device to see if Jeff responded. Time was running out.

The man with the two women stood up from his table, which may have been a bad move because they saw it as a challenge. But it was also wise, because he knew where the situation was going and wasn’t going to be caught sitting. The man didn’t assume a fighting stance, but Stone could see him shifting his weight on his feet; he was preparing to fight.

In a flash, one of the thugs grabbed a beer mug and swung it, but missed as their intended victim was fast, sidestepped the glass vessel, and shoved a table between him and them. Mayhem ensued, women screaming, people scrambling to get out of the way, and furniture being knocked this way and that.

Stone said to Laverne, “Call law enforcement!” and smoothly came to his feet. Blaze had stood and was wading through tables and chairs to the action. If Stone didn’t move quickly this poor fool would not last long in this one versus four fight. Using his security guard training, he came up behind Blaze, put him in a half-Nelson hold and lifted the stocky thug off his feet. Meanwhile, the poor man who stood up for himself and the two women was now absorbing a flurry of blows to the body and head, so Stone lowered Blaze and pushed him into the melee’, effectively muffling their ability to strike. The thugs couldn’t strike the poor soul without also hitting Blaze. Stone then launched himself forward in the air and kicked one of the thugs in a way that caused him to stumble against another, and the two fell.

That left Blaze and one thug standing, versus Stone and the poor innocent man. It was now a fair fight, and the disheveled man came up looking confused at Stone’s presence, but then understood he had a Samaritan helping him when Stone went after Blaze again. The stranger closed with the other thug still standing and faked left, attacked right, driving his elbow into the thug who stumbled backward. Taking the opportunity, he broke for the exit, and the two women at his table hurried in the same direction.

At the same time, Stone flipped a table and pushed it toward Blaze, and began a retreat, throwing a chair, glasses off another table, threw another chair, and Laverne slid sideways out of their booth seeing this. By now there was a stampede of the diners, all of whom wisely knew gunplay was due at any moment, as did Stone. Fortunately, the sudden exodus worked to Laverne’s advantage, she blended with the mad rush, so did Stone, and the thugs were unable to find their target in the mad rush to leave.

Somehow Stone and Laverne found one another fleeing the scene, they made their way to his car up the street, and he held her door, almost ridiculously finding a moment to still be a gentleman, and Laverne snickered warily as he calmly closed the door, went around to his side, and in a moment had them driving away.

SIX

SURVEILLANCE

Ḳ

elvin was in some ways, a mystery man. Everyone knew him, but they really didn’t know him. The few who knew that the ‘K’, in ‘K Black’, was for ‘Kelvin’, weren’t even sure if that was his real name. Since before he was a teen, Kelvin had adopted Boyd Avenue as his neighborhood. He’d hang out on street corners and park benches, and always was out later than everyone else so that he was never seen going home. Did he have a home? If he did, none of the other kids had visited.

As he got older, he made sure to keep moving in his daily tour of the area, widening his circle of associates almost weekly. By age fifteen, he would go from one city block to the next, building relationships that could be manipulated for his street lifestyle, but never in one place long enough for any intimate familiarity to develop. Sometimes he would violate this rule and spend a night at the house of an associate or a loose girl with uncaring parents, but then he’d be on his way again. He made sure to do favors for key people, those who he felt would not question his nomad-like existence. And when there was heat, he’d move on, or eliminate the threat.

Probably K Black’s most valuable street attribute was his unknown and undiagnosed character disorder. He cared for no one. To people around him who thought they were friends or partners-in-crime, their assessment could not be more incorrect. He was only occasionally caring to achieve an end. He learned how to influence minds, and would have been a pimp, but that life wasn’t enough money for him, though he was certainly a cold soul. To Kelvin Briggs, everyone in his orbit was a chess piece to be played or sacrificed.

As he aged to his adult years, his street craft was so savvy that he was probably more powerful than a Senator. His credibility established, he at the same time constructed a modest sized gang to execute his will, and rarely got his hands ‘dirty’. That’s what pawns and knights are for.

Not a tall man, nor particularly handsome, or ugly, he was what a master of the streets needed to be most: indistinct. Though slightly muscular, he was still from all appearances quite average. He dressed very simply, walked very unnoticeably, and often surprised people with his arrival.

When he did want to be noticed, he’d do it with his pistol. He was still amazed how much you can get done when you show a gun and willingness to use it. But, in line with keeping himself out of jail, most times he’d just walk up on the most important person present and indicate that his henchmen should take care of business. After a thorough stomping of his competition, under his direction, everyone present would know he was there, and very quickly nervous thugs would pay him respect. Once he had established his dominance, before long whichever young lady was the ‘hottest’ on the street would throw herself at him.

On this day, K Black drove alone, usually he made sure to have a few guys with him, his own ‘security’. One of the pitfalls of being powerful, he had observed, is that you never belong to yourself. ‘Is this what it’s like being president?’ he had wondered. Always surrounded, never a moment of privacy, or of comfort, not even sure if you’re alone in the bathroom.

To have some space to himself, he dispatched all his people in different directions and drove alone. Just him and the sound system in his black cannibalized truck, pumping up obnoxious music.

SEVEN

Ṫhey followed him for blocks, never too close for the thug to detect, never too far to lose track of him on the dark streets. He stopped from time to time, to talk, to get a look at a woman, but continued his rounds. K Black tended to move very simply, not a fast or aggressive driver, He even tended to obey traffic signals. He clearly did not want the attention of law enforcement.

On Condy avenue, he paused his movement to address a gathering of troublemakers in front of a corner store. Exiting his car, they all showed him a recognizable amount of respect, which was rare for corner hoodlums. They never deferred to anyone, including the store owner who wished they were gone. While the group talked, a young woman passed, and K Black grabbed her arm. She was not amused, and pulled away, and in response he seemed to chastise her for doing so. The action was followed by laughter from the group. They resumed their street corner conference, and the G.E.U. could see the hoods handing something to him one by one. The movement was slick, and in moments he was on the move again.

Stopping again at a different neighborhood park/playground, he sat with a group of men on the green wooden public benches and they rather calmly, unusual for this group. One of this set of hoods disappeared and returned a short while later with a bag full of large beer bottles. As they drank, the conversation grew louder, which intimidated the few other people in the small area, and soon the hoods were by themselves. For K Black, this stop was longer than the last, it must have been for almost an hour.

The discussion was about a new threat to the Boyd Avenue Gang. This threat was less direct: community activism. People in the area were showing signs of resistance, led by a man named Jeff Jones. This ‘Jeff Jones’ was amorphous in his private endeavors, maybe a philanthropist, not able to be tied to any one business. From time to time he participated in local youth mentorship programs, organized non-profit community activities, and gave speeches or lectures. Word had gotten to Black starting a few months ago about this man’s position on crime and gang activity, and his influence in rousing the citizenry to be more resistant to gangs. That meant Black and Boyd avenue.

Last month, Jeff Jones and some do-gooders appeared at a local bar that Boyd Avenue provided ‘security’ to and put two of his guys in the local hospital. Shut the place down a week after that. K Black could stand meaningless anti-crime speeches from weak politicians, but a damned square interfering with his schemes would not be tolerated. His reputation and credibility could come into question, and he figured that this square would have to be dealt with.

The group offered a solution, introduced as a new come-up: ‘Paulie’, who unhesitatingly declared his readiness to be an assassin. The young thug assured K Black that he would be willing to pull the trigger with no regret, a quality that the gang leader appreciated. He saw some of the right qualities in Paulie: shifty, uncaring, volatile. To kill a stranger, a street hood had to be those things. Additionally, Paulie had no roots—no family, no kids, no baby mother, which also meant no conscious. This was Black’s kind of guy, and he charged the young upstart with the hit.

After finishing the loud conference and their beers, the group disbanded, leaving the empties scattered about.

The thug continued to his eventual destination; a dilapidated two story that should have been condemned years ago. Interestingly, every stoop, every lobby, every corner he cruised past, had been populated by hoodlums, but this very humble building he arrived at was not fronted by any of the local riff raff, absent of rats, absent of broken bottles, absent of the evidence of urban decay, distinct in its societal silence.

The building showed through its weathering and age that it had been shingled by at least four contrasting layers of siding, reflecting four periods of existence, and had survived the torture of generations as evidenced by its rightward lean of four degrees. But the shuffling figure smartly approached the building, opened its poorly painted rusty iron fence, closed it behind him, ascended three steps of questionable sturdiness, and opened a door that may have been a simple sheet of unpainted plywood. A disciplined criminal, he entered without looking left or right, a movement as natural as any man returning home from a day at work.

Unfortunately, none of the unit watching knew what was inside, and the hoodlum entered what appeared to be a poor home and closed the door behind him.

EIGHT

Äfter not giving the police any information they could work with, Saturday had found her way to the house on Boyd Avenue, the house where the Boyd Avenue crew did business, the house that was not special in any way. When she came in, Teri, Felicia, and a few other of the dykes who attacked Shawn were there along with some henchmen she was unfamiliar with. Teri directed the naïve young woman.

“Sit down at the table.” She smiled slyly. “Look who’s here! It’s SAT-TUR-DAY! What’s up girl?” The tone was mocking. Saturday crossed the unspectacular room, passing a ratty looking couch, and gently sat at the small table with three unmatched folding chairs around it. Teri roughly slumped into the first of the three chairs. She asked most of the others present to leave, and they all grudgingly and slowly complied as the young woman responded.

“Hey . . . Teri.” Saturday looked around, surveyed the room that wasn’t too dirty, but wasn’t quite clean either.

Teri produced a pack of cigarettes, tapped the brand-new pack against one palm a few times, and peeled away the plastic wrapper. While shaking out the first cigarette, she motioned at one of the other dykes to sit at the second chair, across from the teen and to Teri’s left.

“Did the money help?” She shook out a second cigarette and offered it to Saturday. She refused, watched as one by one the other Boyd Ave people left.

“Yeah, it did.” Saturday, though naïve, still looked cautious. The second dyke fired up a cheap lighter and held it for Teri. Teri extended the pack with one cigarette sticking out to the semi-boyish lesbian and she took it. They both looked at the anxious young woman.

“Relax girl. We good here . . . you got nothing to worry ‘bout.” She drew on the cigarette. “Those people I took care of still f****n’ with you?”

Saturday looked at Teri long before answering. “No.”

“How’s your friend?” This time Teri took a long drag and stared at Saturday. The young athletic woman took a long time to answer, looking at the floor, and around the room again. Teri exhaled a long stream of smoke.

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t been to the hospital since he was first admitted.” Her voice almost cracked. “Why’d you do that? He wasn’t bothering anybody, we were mindin’ our business. His mother is upset . . . why’d you do that?” Saturday’s voice found a small amount of stiffness, though it had no effect on the two manly women across from her.

“Your man—” The unknown dyke spoke looking away from the pretty young woman, almost at nothing, saying the word ‘man’ sardonically, “--ain’t the hero you thought he would be, or what you need.” She looked around to see if any males were still in the room. But just like her most intimate body area, no male inside. She slowly turned toward Saturday and went on: “We are the kind of people . . . we are where a young lady such as yourself should place her trust. Teri here, she’s my mentor, got me set up, got me going.” The reference was unspecific, but the dyke shook the cigarette between two fingers at Teri, only barely, and continued. “This is our time. Used to be, I was like you, building my life around someone that wasn’t committed. To some . . . man.” The last words were barely audible. “There’s no love, no sisterhood, like you’ll find in the ‘house’. That’s what we call it. Yeah, we from the Boyd Avenue crew, yeah, we roll with K Black, but that’s for the money, that means everything. The real deal is, inside of Boyd ave’ is us, and the level of trust and reliability among us is way more than with anyone you ‘think’ is your partner.” She pulled from the cigarette and met eyes with Teri, then leaned back in the cheap folding chair.

“So . . . when do you think I’ma get that back . . . the sixteen hundred I gave you?” Teri leaned forward toward Saturday, elbows on knees, head hung slightly.

Saturday looked surprised at the question.

“S’okay. I know you can’t come up with that, not that quickly.” Teri took the young lady’s hand in her two hands, rubbed her fingers gently, and looked her in the eye. “We’ll work it out.”

NINE

RECRUITMENT

“The

most important part of our development, as people, and as a culture, are our sons.” Jeff let the controversial words sink in. He had been toiling for months with a community organization, and this event was not a fundraiser, but a ‘thank you’ to a concerned citizenry who had contributed financial support, material support, or otherwise. Almost all were specifically interested in ending the constant violence plaguing the city, particularly by gangs.

“There are times that ladies lead the way, but there is no question, if the men in society are lacking, that society will fail.” He the statement sink in. He now had the attention of every ear in the hall. “I have the attention of every woman in this room, and that is with good reason. If you are here, you are obviously a leader in the community, or in business, or some other entity. You are also intelligent and dynamic. You sustain your world, you guide your world, some of you without the contribution of a single male. That is not to be frowned upon or derided. In fact, it is notable, and a testament to the ability of our fairer gender.” He moved from behind the podium and took a few indistinct paces that were nonetheless dramatic. “To survive, you don’t need a man. Or men.” The room was quiet.

“So, we fall back, and by ‘we’, I mean men. And look at us today. Young men with no direction, problems across the city, across the state. Ohhh, the value, or lack of value, is apparent . . . is that what we want?” He looked around quickly. “Is that what you want?” He looked around again, this time met eyes with a few faces, then after a moment balled his fist, held his arm rigid as though curling a dumbbell. “This is a call to arms to men and a clarification to women. Men must be men.” He stepped back to the podium, put one hand in his pocket, gestured with the other. “Not in the sense of pillage, or abuse, or mischief. No. Men must be men, in that retarding a young man’s growth is like keeping a lion from the wild. He will not fully develop, and the pride will suffer for it.

Fully developed men bring to any enterprise the tenets of manhood: competitiveness, protection, and the proper amount of arrogance. Additionally, there is a hunger, a certain fire that only the male possesses. The man is designed to lead, to have impact, to groom. He is not a creature of submissiveness, though he dons that role at certain critical times—like when he struggles to ask a teenaged girl to accompany him to the prom.” Some chuckles went around the room. “Or the moment he sinks to one knee to ask for your hand in marriage.” He took a step to the other side of the platform, looking strategically at women near the front of the room to see the twinkle in their eyes at the mention of the magical moment of a marriage proposal.

“He submits to his employer, but even that is a negotiated arrangement for which he is compensated, and later he uses his capital to become the employer. Later, he is subservient when you point out the deficiencies around the home that need repair, or you question his language in front of the children. The male puts on that role willingly; but it is not his default role—it is a decision he makes to advance his home, his nation, his world.” Jeff picked up a tall glass of water poured for him by the event organizers. “He does it out of love.” A short round of applause followed, and he sipped the cool liquid.

“A young man must be groomed to be all those things. A servant when the situation demands. A protector. A teacher. A student. A judge. A disciplinarian. But most importantly, a leader. That is the male’s quality, and his role.”

“It is not a quality that makes the male superior. In fact, if not governed maturely, it makes us self-destructive, weak before our vices, and ultimately inferior.” Jeff adjusted his voice to a slightly begging tone. “The woman has a unique quality that no amount of science will ever be able to transfer to the male. Conversely, the male has innate qualities that are specific to his gender. I ask you to come back from the contemporary theories that have made the male second--” he shifted on his feet and switched from one hand in his pocket to the other. The movement matched his thoughts. “--and feminized.” He stopped there, looked around the room at the starched and pressed crowd. He was about to delve into the part of his remarks that would either win them over or get him labeled a chauvinist.

“The only time a male should be second is when the ship he is on is sinking and the lifeboats are being filled with women and children. Or, he eats last when there’s enough food for four people and he has a wife and three children. He is second when making the choice between extra sleep and fixing his son’s bicycle. He is second when his wife is pregnant, and he remains second after she has given birth and has no strength.” The room remained silent.

“When is he first? The man is first when the wolves are at the door. At that time, he is first, if your world is to survive, he must be first. When the storm is about your home, he will be first. When a boy looks at his father’s tools, he wishes to be first. When your neighborhood, or city, or country must be rescued, the male must be first.” Jeff stepped from the podium again, moved to the edge of the platform, stepped down to audience level and panned the room. “When the situation calls for a self-sacrifice, the male will be first.” He turned and stepped back onto the dais, moved back behind the podium, and strategically quickened the cadence of his words.

“If he is not first, one of two things occur: Society arrives at its moment of truth, faced with either grand achievement or failure--without men. Which is kind of where we are now, aren’t we?” He paused there and looked for nods of approval. “Any of you ladies present want to willingly face incredible circumstances without men? Yes, some you have done it without men, are capable of survival without men, but would you do it that way deliberately?

Look at the men here. If you ask any of these men, not one would face challenge, even death, without knowing there is a woman at his side or awaiting him on the other side of that test. Soldiers who have a family to protect want to live and thus fight better! Therefore, to fix a home, fix a community, fix a culture, to fix a nation, we have to put the male, the young man, first.” He let the words sink in, searched among the pairs of eyes watching him for disapproval, not that it mattered.

“So, when we gather here with the various community organizations, the youth groups, the representatives in our local government, all with the like-minded goal of putting a wayward city back on track to productiveness, the first look should be at what is going on with the young men.”

He sipped from his water and continued to build his case: “First, we must hold our men to higher standards. Young men are being misled to believe that a low standard of behavior and performance is acceptable. Instead of holding them accountable for their actions, we give the worst among them a pass and force the decent young men clean up the messes made by their peers. Isn’t that the state of our neighborhood now? Our society? What we are doing at this moment? Figuring out how to clean up messes that others have made! This is something we are doing not just with government policy, but culturally. Last year, we celebrated a championship boxer who previously led a life of crime. Did we demand, as part of our accolades, that he make restitution to his previous victims?” Jeff looked for a response, saw none, but went on.

“Second, reward and reprimand. There needs to be more praise and perks for those young men who demonstrate the character we want to see. Right now, we penalize achievement. In our compassion for the circumstances of the troubled, we promote them ahead of the responsible. The cadets at the Charles Young Military Academy had a formal ball, and we barely mention it, it didn’t even make the newspaper. This should have been the event that the young ladies were encouraged to attend. Meanwhile, the music artist who spent his life engaged in street violence, drug sales, that same singer who got into a fight at the nightclub--was the Mayor’s daughter’s prom date and was on the cover of the morning paper. Last year, we watched the city leader skip an appearance with the honor students at the high school, and the next week meet with gang members in the city hall chambers. By doing that, he validated the gangs, and minimized the honor students.

There needs to be a clear path to reward for those who carry themselves as the young men we can be confident in handing our city over to. This is society. We look up, not down. The woman looks up. The woman marries ‘up’. As much as we embrace female drive and achievement, we all want to see her, our society, paired up with someone she looks up to. The champion figure skater doesn’t marry the dogcatcher. Our society is not going to survive men and boys who have been placed on hold to supplant a feminism that results in feckless men, no men, or men turning one to another. And so, for the proud woman, with all of her accomplishments, at the end of that road needs to be a man who is ‘first’.”

Jeff stopped there, let the words sink in, and took in the applause that was not quite unanimous, but still a majority. There were a few blank stares from some of the ladies present and the purse holders at their sides, but most of the women understood, and they nodded in agreement as they clapped, and most of the men stood with their applause. A few men remained seated. He could have continued but he chose to stop there and thanked the entire room for their attendance. After a very short Q&A segment Jeff humbly stepped off the dais.

Post speech he was beset by those who wanted to further discuss his positions. There was a buffet present, and as the attendees broke off into small groups, repartee’ broke out, leading him to laugh with some he knew already, as well as a few new faces. Among the group was a lovely dark-complexioned creature of slightly above average female height, maybe five foot nine inches. He wished he could have a word with only her, and somehow without dismissing the others, conversations continued to flow around them, but the circle thankfully thinned out until it was just him and her.

“I found your lecture to be bold Mr. Jones.” Jeff met her eyes and saw within her gaze an intensity that was greater than expected for a simple conversation. He immediately sensed that she was talking to him for a specific purpose.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve never met you before. Your name is?”

“Autumn Lee.” She held her gaze expectantly, Jeff still found it intense, but also a hint sorrowful.

“Miss Lee—”

“Call me Autumn—”

“—Autumn, I appreciate the compliment. What parts did you find compelling?”

She thought for a moment, found her words. “The part about wolves at the door. Men being first when wolves are at the door. Can a woman handle the wolves?” Jeff didn’t react outwardly, but thought to himself, ‘she’s part of the problem’.

“Yes.” He waited for a reaction. There was none. “If you’re going to fight the wolves, alone, then go ahead.” Now he looked at her expectantly. Autumn wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical, and he went on: “Why then do you need us?”

“But we do need men. I don’t want to fight the wolves; I just want to help. You can’t fight them all. I would rather that men fought the wolves, but the men of this city seem to be unwilling.”

Jeff’s face changed and expressed curiosity, not anger, “Autumn, what are we really discussing here?” Autumn recognized she was going to have to share very personal information. Her eyes watered slightly, but then she frowned.

“My son is in the hospital, he was attacked a few nights ago while he was out with his girlfriend. Attacked by those wolves.

TEN

Ḳ Black closed a second door further within the entryway, this door with an outward opening security gate paired with an inward opening gate. The entryway was a single short space, too long to be a vestibule, too short to be a hallway, but most importantly, to narrow for a tactical team to stack for entry within and blow the door without also injuring themselves. The left and right walls of the space were sheetrock over plywood, so that a zealous police entry team could not simply hammer through the walls, but the occupants on the other side could fire through it. Any Special Reaction Team (SRT) attempting to brazenly come through the front would be shot to pieces from both sides. It was a funnel to death.

“What’s the deal?” ‘K Black’, as he was known, looked at his cronies uncommittedly, none of whom moved. Two males sitting on a ratty sofa holding video game controllers returned the look, looked at one another, then back at him. One, wearing a doo-rag, gestured across the room, then returned his attention to the television, probably the only modern thing in the building. K Black smirked and looked at the two women sitting at a cheap table leaned back in equally cheap chairs.

“What’s up Teri?” As he addressed her, he pulled a pistol from somewhere underneath a light windbreaker and sat it on the island style kitchen counter to his left. “She say anything?”

“Yeah.” Teri, the ‘male’ half of the lesbian couple at the table answered. “Jeff Jones will be at a street fair this Sunday. He likes to walk, at least partway, and he always picks up flowers at a stand on Golden Thirteen Boulevard. But she can’t tell us where he comes from.”

“Okay.” He didn’t say much. “In a minute, let’s go see her—but first, I want to finish up my plan for this f*****g activist Jones.” K Black pointed at Felicia. “Tomorrow, you’re gonna help us.”

“Sure thing Black! Whatchu’ need me to do?” The young woman looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. Black was still amazed that someone as beautiful as Felicia was associated with them and this life, and willing to be this criminal. But he felt no remorse at her corruption.

” You’re gonna be a distraction so that we can hit this clown.”

“Okay.”

“Wear one of those tight jeans that you wear that gets men looking. You’re gonna float past him, give an eye, flirt a bit, you know what to do. While you have his attention, my young gun will blast him while you get out of there.”

“That’s easy.” Felicia seemed unconcerned, while Teri stayed quietly worrisome.

“Alright. Now let’s go talk to your friend downstairs.”

The two women looked at one another, and the other stood. Teri dragged long on a narrow marijuana blunt, playing with the inhaled smoke vapor as her lover Felicia headed for the basement door. They opened the metal fire door, very much like those in city housing projects, and went down the stairs that led to an unfinished basement. The basement was vacant except for a water boiler, oil tank, a covered basement window, and a bedsheet tied to a fill pipe along the opposite wall, hanging across the width of the space.

Teri spoke loudly: “Hey sunshine!” She then pulled the sheet aside and sitting on the mattress was a young woman, probably barely twenty-one by his estimation. K Black was unfamiliar with her. Teri stopped a few steps away from the girl and stood with her arms folded across her bosom that was constantly mushed as flat as possible by sports bras, she folded her arms against the last remnants of evidence she was a woman and looked at Saturday. “How you feelin’?”

The young woman looked at her, glanced at K Black, and spoke: “I did what you wanted me to. I’m not familiar with that guy you had me follow, what I told you is all I know about him.”

“We want to know where he lays his head.”

“I couldn’t do that without being obvious! He was looking around a lot, did you want me to get caught? Just knowing where he goes should be enough.”

“Enough?” Teri hurled an open palm at the young lady, landing a slap that sounded like a thawed-out steak dropped on a quartz counter top. Saturday absorbed the slap but was quite shocked.

“Ain’t enough kiddo. Need more.” Teri passed the blunt to K Black, who didn’t do anything with it, he didn’t like to partake until all his business was done. Teri pointed the index fingers of both hands at Saturday. “We went out our way for you. Went out our way BECAUSE of you. Got me out there fightin’ with some dude . . . I usually just blast and leave. But since we were kind enough not to kill your little play friend, we need more from you.”

“I know, I know. You did somethin’ for me, now I need to do another favor or something for you.” She looked at the floor, then back at Teri. “And I’ll have your money soon . . . I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t duckin’ you. I swear, I’ll get you the money . . . no lie.”

“Okay.” Teri just stared for a long moment, while K Black remained silent, his arms also folded as Teri laid out the situation. “You work for us now. You gonna have to forget your little boyfriend, it’s about takin’ these streets.”

“But he ain’t do nothin’—”

Teri cut her off. “Forget that fake chump! That’s over girl. You wit’us now.”

ELEVEN

Ċomplexion as dark as red wine, skin just as smooth, she eased herself onto the formal high-backed dining chair across the table, set a red suede clutch purse on the thick white tablecloth, for a moment resting her elbow on the table edge, moving her hand upward gracefully to glide a finger across her smooth cheek. Looking at her, as he sat, Jeff unsuccessfully fought back a smile, at first just a hint of a smile that pushed back the forced sternness of his face until it broke into a bit of smirk. She answered with a smile of her own, a genuine natural smile, teeth perfect, lips red, wide mouth.

“Hi. How are you?” He picked up the inverted conical glass, that had been charged with an incorrectly made martini, and sipped modestly. Jeff was happy to be seeing his dinner companion in a more intimate setting, not necessarily romantic, just serene, one on one, and . . . ‘man, even at probably forty, she could still be a beauty queen’ he thought to himself. Good thing he wore a casual suit jacket, the brown/mustard wool material complementing his medium oak complexion.

“Mister Jones.” Autumn stretched his name playfully, which reduced him to a full grin. From her tone, his business-like demeanor dropped three notches. “It’s a . . . pleasure, well, that’s not the word I wish to use right now. Not related to you, you know, given the circumstances but . . . but it’s a pleasure to meet with you for this purpose.” Her head tilted minutely, her natural fluff of hair moving just as much.

“I understand completely. How is your son?”

“Stable condition.” Autumn looked around the restaurant, searching for nothing, to help distract and hold back her emotions. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked, he’ll be back home tomorrow. He’ll be fine.” A half grimace followed the short statement.

“It’s terrible what happened—”

“I don’t want to dwell on that.”

“—but you are—"

“From our quick word at the community event,” She cut him off again before he could say more. “I read between the lines . . . that you’re not just talk and inspiring words . . . that you’re a man of action.” Her eyes had already been locked with his, but at that, they seemed to narrow slightly. “You are serious, are a man of action. Am I correct?”

Jeff thought long and hard before he spoke, despite her hardening quizzical stare. What he said next was a risky gamble. This woman was clearly driven, and intent, but if he was wrong, if she had another purpose—then showing too much too soon would be disastrous.

“Yes.” He had not gone down this road to be hesitant, so he took a careful step. “Action.” He watched for any sort of reaction in her face; there was none. “Good to see you’re still interested . . . that this still matters to you.” He idly pushed the napkin in front of him, looked around, refocused and deliberately kept his eyes locked with Autumn. “And because you are still interested . . .” he leaned back, huffed, then let it fly: “. . . of which I am relieved, we may need to get you involved right away. A woman can be helpful, and effective.” He kept his eyes locked on hers. “Purging the gangs, first and foremost, is dangerous. Obviously. Next there is the acceptance of legal risk. Incarceration. Autumn, they can throw any of us in jail. Alongside those we are at war with. People are forgoing their comfort, risking their life’s work, chancing their freedom—risking their lives in some cases. What are you willing to put on the table and possibly lose?” He stopped to read her eyes, which did not waver. “Don’t get me wrong, please! But are you sure you want to take a chance like this?” He rubbed imaginary sweat on his fingertips. "There’s a lot risk, a lot more possibility of harm.”

Autumn’s stare relaxed before she answered. “I intend to follow through, I’m not letting this go.” The smile returned. “My interest has not faded.”

“Good.” Jeff sipped his martini, grimaced, put it down. “Should be stirred, not shaken . . . kills the flavor.”

“Wouldn’t know.” She looked at him painfully, “I don’t like the hard stuff.”

He switched to his glass of water, looked around. “Tomorrow I’ll meet you at the tea bar on Montford Point Boulevard next to the theater. That will begin your indoctrination.” A moderate gulp followed, and he moved the conversation to another topic.

TWELVE

TARGETING

“T

hat cat right there." The thug pointed at a man about six feet two inches tall, slightly muscular build, medium complexion, bushy eyebrows, hair that was partially straight, but not totally absent of kink. Jeff Jones probably did not know he was being surveilled by one of the city’s worst criminals, the same man he followed the day before.

'K Black', as he was called in streets and on corners, was always on the hunt for hungry talent. He was always also at war with whatever annoyed him that day, hour, or moment. And the man he had pointed out to his lieutenant and two young street soldiers, was a brave, annoying, idealistic idiot who had dared to speak critically about his crew. He was the vanguard of a campaign, made up of people of the area who were growing more and more vocal about the body count in their streets, more and more brokenhearted at the erasing of young lives, and quietly apoplectic at the erosion of culture.

What had been a promising population was now a chaotic territory dominated by gang lords; but this was not a failed poor country. Since the reformation of the former American Republic into the ‘United People’s Communal States, some cities had managed to sidestep typical problems such as crowding and blight, but many urban areas had regressed into anarchy, similar to third world countries and banana republics, but Austland was a city like yours or mine.

Without hesitation the two youngest in the car exited, one male, the other a very corrupt female. They separated and walked on opposite sides of the street toward the unsuspecting Samaritan, the good man who was unaware that he would be punished for his positive deeds. The first assassin, Felicia, strutted in his direction on the same side of the street, falsely looking at the screen of her personal device, knowing that her dancer’s legs would catch his attention, legs that were prominent in the peach stretch denims she wore. Few men had the discipline to not be drawn in to ogling her in the past, and she was sure that right now would be no different.

Across the street, 'Paulie' as he was called, mimicked her strategy, looking at the blank screen of his personal device, doing nothing, looking up from moment to moment to not trip on the sidewalk, and to track their target. He held the dormant device in his left hand, kept his right hand on the Bratton 21, the Austrian pistol that had a reputation unmatched in the streets, and in particular, this model, that chambered a .40 caliber round. Smuggled into Austland by gunrunners, it was heavier than its Bratton Armsworks brethren that all chambered nine-millimeter rounds, upon impact this bullet would knock the target completely off his feet, no doubt. One hit could be mortal for the victim, not more than two would do the trick.

As the innocent looking, soon to be victim stopped at a display of floral arrangements outside a small flower shop, Felicia, still staring at the screen of her device, altered her course to head right at him, and glanced across the street at Paulie, who was crossing diagonally. She slowed to ensure she was seen, and Jeff Jones saw her. He didn't react like the corner types, his mouth didn't drop open, he just smiled. Felicia smiled back, felt bad inside as the soon to be dead man didn't see Paulie coming from between two parked cars. This was the moment.

Jeff Jones suddenly turned toward Paulie, and Felicia saw the wire in his left ear. The wire that led from Jeff's collar to his ear, the same as secret service agents. She came to a stop, sensed that something wasn't right, and slipped into horror as her intended victim somehow extended his arm outward and toward Paulie, who had frozen. At the end of the Samaritan’s arm, in his hand, was a large pistol. Poor Paulie's right hand was still digging out his Bratton, but Jeff Jones had him cold.

A murderer, that day Paulie would not be.

Squeezing three not so gentle shots into his would-be assassin, two to the body, one to the head, Jeff watched Paulie drop to the ground. The young fool’s body was paralyzed by the trauma to his central nervous system, and the second round had clipped a vertebra. He was done.

Jeff turned back toward the curvy beauty, and he didn't see the golden-brown hair, he paid no attention to her figure that on a normal day he may have admired. No, he smiled at her again and pointed the Sig Sauer weapon. Felicia did not smile back, she was stuck on confusion and fear as she took a step backward, then turned to run.

Jeff pointed the pistol at her plump buttock as she turned to escape, not his normal point of aim, normally he would aim for center mass, the portion of the body from waist to shoulders, and from left to right. But her onion shaped cheeks that morning had broken his heart. This woman whom he did not know should have been there to meet him for a first date Chai or a Mocha, he should have been purchasing a modest orchid for her to take back home, a gift from a kind stranger.

Instead this beauty queen had been twisted to the dark gritty life of the streets, using her natural womanliness for corruption, using her shapely ass for all the wrong things, and was instead there to kill him.

When he fired, the feel of the weapon was just as comforting as the first day he fired it, and the explosion of powder and grain sent the round spiraling at Felicia with deadly precision. At twelve hundred feet per second, eighty-six thousand rpm, when it struck her, a shock wave went through the female urchin's body as the .40 caliber round hit her with the force of a flying cinder block, though barely the size of the tip of a woman’s ring finger. She gasped as her hip shattered and she fell to the sidewalk, feeling as though she had been impaled with a giant hot poker. Jeff stepped forward to shoot her again, but as he aimed to finish her off, the family that owned the store came out and began to beat and kick her. He watched in surprise, had a mind to stop the beating, but the older woman, probably the mother, told him to leave.

“You go away . . . she steal from us. All the time. And beat my daughter bad. Now she pays." The woman waved him away, just as a teenaged girl emerged from a side door of the store with a huge ceramic pot and slammed it down on the head of what had been Felicia. The female assassin's body shuddered and then was still. Blood ran from her lifeless form in three places, and Jeff stared for a moment. The other assassin lay lifeless behind him, and now the street was clear.

In his headset, he could hear chatter, this was not over. Decker, driving an old car, swiftly pulled alongside the line of parked cars, and Jeff jogged around to the passenger side, opened the door and got in. Up the street some of the unit were closing in on the car they had been tracking and heard what was going on inside during this whole episode. Stoney Pritchard was among them and knew that K Black had been following Jeff and was sending a hit squad. He’d used some of the tech his security company purchased to conduct a listening program against the Boyd Avenue people and knew their next steps.

The florist shop had been the launch point for the ambush. Setting that up was easy, the owner was sympathetic to the cause. The street thugs thought they were the hunters, but this time they were the hunted, and Jeff Jones had led them into a trap, and the rest of the Gang Extermination Unit had closed it.

He could see Decker’s mouth moving but wasn’t sure what he was saying. Jeff interrupted.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” He glanced at Jeff as he drove the unremarkable car, the man’s blue eyes looking somewhat gray at that moment.

“You’re praying. Sorry.”

“I’m done.” His tone changed. “Are we ready to pull the plug on this?” Decker rubbed his five o’clock shadow face, blinked a few times.

“You okay?” Jeff could see that his partner was unsettled. “You . . . have a problem with this? You do . . . don’t you—you have a problem with this! We talked this through partner, we agreed that it had to be done. Don’t fall apart on me, I can’t do this alone.”

Decker huffed, as Jeff offered a supporting thought: “Exterminate the pests, the problems in the neighborhood, don’t lose sight of that—”

“I HAVEN’T DAMMIT!” Jeff was surprised by Decker’s sudden explosion, and he looked shocked. “I DO NOT TAKE PLEASURE IN THIS!” Decker drew in a deep breath and turned onto a side street. In his earpiece he could hear the rest of the unit following the plan, so he and Jeff were no longer needed. “I’m not saying it wasn’t necessary, I’m just saying I don’t take pleasure in it. Yes . . . we eliminated two of the Boyd Avenue Gang’s hoodlums, their power is diminished by that much. And as we get more of them, our goal is that they will curtail further activity and maybe repurpose their lives, though we both doubt that. That’s our work, a result of a big risk. But asking me to celebrate this or get satisfaction from our ‘work’ . . . or just treat it like killing bugs, don’t ask me for that.” He took a breath and frowned, staring intently into Jeff’s eyes. “I don’t regret it, not at all, not one bit! But don’t misunderstand me! Wrong, evil, dangerous predators they were; But they were also children of God. Wayward children, but still his children. I know that has no significance for you, Jeff ‘Atheist’ Jones, but it is a spiritual dilemma for me.

“Hey partner, I didn’t mean to offend.” Jeff felt bad for prodding Decker.

“No, you’re okay, we’re okay . . . and this is okay.” He patted the pistol on his hip. “I’m not saying I can’t do this; I’m saying just the opposite; I’m in, these people are the robbers on the highway to Damascus, they are the Goliath. WE are the David with a rock and slingshot. Let’s get more of them—but don’t look for a ‘high five’ from me, cause I’m going to be praying for forgiveness for taking their lives. I will also be praying that their souls are accepted in heaven, and also explaining to God that I am protecting the flock.” He looked at Jeff hard: “That make sense?”

“Sense made. That was fair.” Jeff affirmed the statement with a head nod.

“All right, let’s go.” He put the car in drive, and as Decker drove them away, he asked about the moment the tables turned on Boyd Avenue. “I bet they were shocked. Could you read their faces as you drew down on them?”

“Both looked confused, they sure were shocked. But I was too! You should have seen the hips on the female assassin . . . it hurt to have to do that.”

“Are you kidding? It hurt? She was there to kill you!” Decker looked at Jeff with disdain. “And YOU were questioning ME?” Then he smiled. “She was nice looking though, watched her from behind. All the way up the street. Wow.” It was quiet for a moment.

“What makes young women fall into that life, and those guys? I never understood it.”

“That life is exciting; those people and those men are exciting—and we’re not.” Jeff smirked as he went on: “Are you gonna put her on the back of a motorcycle, ride ninety miles an hour to three different parties and clubs, and try to score the first night? Beat up another guy for her? No!” Jeff grinned at Decker. “He’s fun! She wants that life so she can talk smack to her girls about how much fun she’s having. Even the so-called ‘ladylike’ women hide those fantasies. Men like us believed that garbage we were taught about women wanting stability, nice guys who move slow. Well, nice guys who obey the law and move slow and talk to women respectfully are alone. We have standards, those men don’t. With them, and that lifestyle, she can do whatever comes to mind; but with us, or ‘normal’ society, there is a code of behavior. We’re gonna look at her tattoos as bizarre. That life rewards them far more than ordinary men or an ordinary pursuit would. In that world, that young woman I just shot is a queen, and she’s there because the power she wields over them and through them is hypnotizing. It’s a shame, the streets corrupted her.” Jeff nodded while staring out the window. “She had no idea what was coming--and she paid with her life. We set that up so well, she didn’t have a chance, it wasn’t even fair.”

“Are YOU having regrets?” Decker smirked at his partner.

In some ways it wasn't fair. But Jeff and Decker and the rest of the unit didn’t care, they were past that. The thugs never played fair, and now the fight had come to them with the same violence that they had perpetrated. And with tactics and technical skills, the advantage now belonged to the Gang Extermination Unit, the GEU, a group of vigilantes like no other. But that day, that slightly overcast day, K Black and the other occupant of the expensive SUV escaped, the unit did not satisfy them with death.

They escaped, but that was okay, it would fit into the strategy.

THIRTEEN

VOLUNTEERS

“T

oday, on Golden 13 Boulevard, another shooting. The victims were one unidentified male, and one female whose identity is not being released because she was a minor. The male appeared to be in his early twenties. Both were killed in street violence earlier today. But this story is different. A police spokesperson revealed that these victims were part of a local gang. It would seem, in this case, that their life of crime backfired. Both were in possession of illegal weapons. The police went on to say that they do not know exactly what events led to their public executions, and that an investigation has begun. Tonight’s question: Was this street justice?”

Watching the local newscast, Ulysses reclined on his modest couch, in his modest apartment, can of beer in one hand, TV remote control in the other. It may have been cliché, but it was his reality. Another hard day at the construction site, occasionally punctuated by laughs, occasionally punctuated by a worker taking a fall, and lunchtime highlighted by the well-dressed men and women (especially the women) who walked by. He and his grizzled co-workers gawked at the scene while they leaned against the temporary plywood fence and ate sandwiches from the delicatessen up the street. And this day he had stayed late to finish electrical work, running line and conduits, looking at schematics, more line, more conduits, and more schematics. Ulysses had great interest in it though, and sometimes overdid it, which led to his exhausted position on the couch.

An electrician’s work can be boring, though well paid. Single, with no children, the money went even farther. But there was no escaping that in the eyes of the big world, he was solidly average, facing the struggles of the average. Every day was another climb up the rough face of a cold mountain. Every conduit he pushed through a wall, every reach, every grab . . . even though he wore gloves, was rewarded with scarred knuckles and scarred ego. The occupants of the corporate spaces he wired for electrics had no idea the amount of technical ‘know how’ he had to master to bring enough kilovolts to a step-down substation to power computers, alarm systems, coffee pots, ambient light and a battery of roof mounted 12,000 BTU per hour twenty-five ton air conditioning systems.

His life was unspectacular except for the trips to old Miami with friends. Ulysses longed for something more, to be a part of life that could be captured in recognition and accolades. He volunteered at the hospital, pushing veterans in their chairs from this appointment to that, but as he heard their tales of how they got their scars, he just felt less significant. And as he sat in the waiting room with them, the televisions would be tuned to programs that highlighted people who had done this or that. They seemed to have a higher calling, an inner drive, a real purpose. And after a season, as a volunteer, he walked away with a copper embossed certificate of ‘thank you’, and back to the after-work couch and beer.

So, when he turned on the news, he was shocked, angry, excited, motivated, confused.

The female anchor, in a cream pant suit, men’s haircut, changed her tone to narrate another news item but Ulysses was no longer listening. He went to his window, looked up his street toward the intersection of Golden Thirteen Boulevard and Striver’s Row street. He’d been looking for a life in vacations, and in hospitals, and it had happened probably no more than a mile from his couch. After watching what had been the world’s greatest nation devolve into feuding that relinquished its status, having witnessed the change and not defending his country from the malcontents who ruined it, he at least wanted to set right the immediate world around him, that world being his neighborhood.

This gang, he knew who they were, the ‘Boyd Avenue Gs’, the gang that had killed two of his teenaged friends, the gang that had gotten his cousin pregnant and then into prostitution, that had broken into his father’s store and upstairs apartment and stole things that could not be replaced, like dad’s War medals that were in a drawer with everyday watches, they had finally gotten theirs, and Ulysses was mad because he had not been a part of it.

He wanted a part of this fight, and he wasn’t going to get a piece at home watching television. He sat his half-finished beer on the low coffee table in front of him and headed for the bathroom shower.

FOURTEEN

Ĵeff was a difficult man to overlook. Especially sitting in one of these sharply decorated gourmet tea places that would use a new flavor as justification to charge extra for a cup of hot water with dried leaves dipped in it. He could hear uninspiring conversations all around him, discussing anything from rainforests, to the beauty of dark paisley overlaid on pastel prints, to the meaning of artistic foreign films. He felt lost in this mix, surrounded by men who seemed to be afraid of saying anything to offend, and women who would rat them out if they did. Their attire suggested their goal in life was to be non-threatening, and sexually neutral.

In this room of eunuchs and the women who held their necks by invisible tethers, his non-conformance to their utopian lifestyle stood out. Jeff could have been a decathlete, but a recurring shoulder problem ended that college fantasy. He was handsome, brown skin as rich as caramel and as smooth as Corinthian leather with a thin mustache like Rhett Butler from one of the old black and white movies. He had a flair for gentleman’s clothing style, which became less important as the ambience of the city he had once loved deteriorated to the current state of anti-masculinity. So, his casual brown chino pants with a snug polo shirt, and soft soled chukka boots were quite comfortable for him but not relaxed enough for the shorts and hemp sandals crowd.

He sat off to one side, in a spot where he could see the door, but not be immediately observable, or approachable, without one giving away their intentions. It wasn’t long before she entered.

Autumn was overdressed, or maybe not correctly dressed, for this sort of meeting. She wasn’t outlandishly attired, but where he expected simple denim and maybe a jacket and low boots, she was in tight navy jeans that were not intended for activity, topped by one of those little women’s sport blazers that pinched at the waist, also not really intended for sport, and blue suede open toe booties clacking on the teahouse tile, probably impossible for sport. Not low key at all.

But she sure was pleasant to look at.

She had her hair pulled tight, but then it burst into a sort-of afro puff off the back of her head. But no lipstick, Jeff noted, and surmised that was Autumn’s version of toning down.

She stopped suddenly and scanned the room, and Jeff partially raised a hand, which she spotted after a moment, and weaved herself between high tables toward him. Autumn’s hips amazingly hit nothing, despite their lack of humility when moving, and she quietly settled into a highchair facing him. He did not speak for a moment; Jeff forgot he was there for business.
“We’re meeting for business . . . but you don’t . . . look like that.”

“Wha—I’m a bit much?” She looked at him expectantly, almost smirking.

“Autumn, this is serious. Let’s say right now we were ‘made’—would you be able to move quickly?” At the end of his question he leaned over to the edge of the table to look at her feet, then slowly came up and looked at her expectantly. “You’re coming to meet some of the other partners. Partners who are very serious about this venture.”

“Okay.” Autumn sighed in disappointment.

“But you look incredible.” Before she could react, Jeff took out his personal device and quickly thumbed a message on the small keyboard. In minutes, they were up and out the door.

¥

Shawn shifted his eyes from the television to Saturday as she entered his hospital room, flowers in hand. She smiled, but he sensed something was not right with her. Her approach to his bedside was slow and cautious. Maybe it was his glaring eyes, distrustful of a young lady he thought he knew. For him, there was no longer a basis of trust for her, she’d been engaged in something that he saw as a betrayal.

Saturday did not sit, just stared, and a single tear streamed down her left cheek, to which Shawn turned away and looked out the room window. He looked at the small thin trees in rooftop planters scattered around the skyline, swaying slowly and unchoreographed in the light afternoon breeze. His mind wandered to the incident, the realization that the male impersonator who commanded the attack on him had a relationship to Saturday, the nature of which Shawn was unsure. He was angry.

In truth, he was heartbroken.

He felt her hugging him, she had come to his bedside. Moving a chair close, she sat with her head against his side. But Shawn did not respond. His eyes remained outside the room and the moment, ignoring her touch. The silence was broken by her humble admission:

“Shawn, I’m sorry.”

¥

“Your big dyke runs with the Boyd Avenue group.” Stacy had performed light intelligence work and spoke to her female counterpart with confidence. "K Black is pretty much the man, but he doesn't get his hands dirty. He used to, but after barely beating a case two years ago he lets his people carry the heat and do the work--Like what they tried to do a few days ago, but we were ahead of their unsophisticated . . . behinds.” Stacy was working on not using vulgarity, avoided the other word she would have normally used. “He doesn't do much on a phone, and when he does, his code is tight--we're still trying to figure out what he said a month ago. But we know, he's the man runnin' this. We knew about the hit on Jeff because we got his mechanic’s girlfriend to swing by the shop and ‘visit’—" Stacy smirked and looked out the corner of her eye at Autumn at that but continued: “—and she . . . ummm . . . distracted him, so that we could surreptitiously put a listening device in his vehicle. If it wasn’t for that, we’d be in here mourning for Jeff.”

“I get the bug you planted, but the other information, how do you know all this?”

“I told you. Light intelligence work.” Stacy was not going to reveal how she gathered information, especially to this new addition.

“Alright, so he’s not involved in the actual hits, but he does the targeting?” Autumn stared at his photo pinned on the corkboard. “Exactly.” Stacy turned to Autumn. “He’s never the gun . . . but he calls the shots. And in the case of the attempt on Jeff, he personally supervised. That’s the closest he ever gets. But it all means it was important to him. The community backlash activism is causing Boyd Avenue discomfort.”

“Why pick my son?”

“Don’t know. Your son and girlfriend dared defy them? I have no information, right now I think it was just random, K Black had no reason to go after your boy.”

Stacy moved to a cork board on a perpendicular wall, a wall that demonstrated that this room was separate from the adjoining space, though not totally separate. It was an addition one of the volunteers built, proud of her construction skills, though just a young girl in community college. Autumn followed.

“Here’s what we know. This is their spot, they have others, but this is where K Black and the other major players stay. Anyone there is either a criminal or sympathetic to . . . blankety-blank criminals.” Stacy grimaced as the curse word almost slipped from her mouth. Autumn did not break eye contact.

“Okay.” Stacy looked around the room, found Decker, and motioned for him to come over.

“Autumn has been ‘read in’ and wants to help eradicate these thirsty clowns, can you explain her role?”

Decker began speaking while approaching, he didn’t allow his focus to shift to either of the attractive women.

“You, Mrs. Lee, will be part of the support element moving from here to here . . .” Decker went through her part, making sure the woman understood the limit of her risk. Then he warned her of the violence that would ensue: “Here’s how we’re gonna hit’em.” Decker looked at Autumn deeply, searching her eyes for the slightest waver or unsureness. She did not break the momentary stare—he decided he could go on: “It will be unmerciful. We are not there to entertain pleas for mercy or discuss ‘changing ways’ or one more chance—they missed that. That conversation was for their Parole Officer. We’re exterminating these clowns, and anyone with them.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” The more Decker recited the details, the more satisfied she became, and while he was engrossed in describing his plans, she now looked at him—looking for unsureness. She saw none. He was quite serious, and she liked that.

“Happy to hear . . .” He stopped himself, looked down and reworded: “I’m not happy you’re here, that it came this, but just happy you’re with us—if that makes sense. We are not worshippers of . . . of . . . violence, and we’re not in it for the glory; but if it is what we must do, then we want people who will not hesitate at the moment of truth. And I know that you will be good at this. But . . . to be good at something, your heart must be in it. Don’t be fooled, this is going to be grim business.”

She looked him straight in the eye. “This is business that will get handled, I can’t let it go. I’ve seen enough of this!” Autumn’s low voice became stern, but not loud. “This ridiculous ‘street culture’, this self-destructiveness. I’m not going to be some mother crying in the street because I lost a child to gangs and violence or drug addiction or the penitentiary. I spent four years in the national defense force, I know how to use a weapon—I’m not afraid.” Autumn leaned closer, “Let’s get on with it.” She turned her head toward Stacy and gave an affirmative nod, to silently reaffirm the statement.

Decker moved on, describing another part of the operation: “. . . so when the door gets blown off the hinges, second team will pause by the front door and wait for . . .”

FIFTEEN

Äutumn lay still, nude post-shower, and frustrated; her frustrations were not just physical. Her son lay in a rehabilitation facility, recovering from a brutal beating, healing day by day. All her efforts to singularly keep him from the violence of urban life had failed. It seemed that all her efforts to advance in life had failed and had gotten worse with the loss of her husband. Though not destitute, her social and financial positions had barely advanced.

She thought to herself: ‘I’m climbing a mountain, and even as I fight to get higher, to ascend, to keep going, after gaining an inch, I get thrown back four. I find an occasional flat rock to stand, but they’re narrow and slippery and send me falling to where I started and sometimes further, the work done just before, and long since, both all wasted. And as I look up to climb again, I see birds circling and diving and soaring all the while, enjoying a perfect blue sky, whistling a tune of exuberance, flying in happiness. But those birds are not fowl; they are people on hang-gliders, coming to rest quite gently somewhere at the top of the mountain, the same mountain I climb and suffer upon, they are whisked to the reward of life with seemingly little effort, riding an unseen wind, grinning as the soft caress of favor falls upon them.’

Autumn turned toward the window, entranced by the moonlight coming through the partly open blinds. After an immeasurable segment of time, which tends to happen at night and can be as short as a few minutes or as long as an hour, she continued to contemplate:

‘Favor somehow missed me, despite my silhouette. I climbed the right way, survived the falls, didn’t take the easy way out—and found only the torture of being on the outside looking in, at the bottom looking up. I stand at the back of the line tiptoeing, leaning left and right attempting to see what’s going on up front.’ Her thoughts stopped there. Momentarily she wept, silently. But she knew she could not continue to weep.

‘So . . . I begin again, pulling myself up another rock, promising myself that this time—this time I will be at that plateau, that the cuts and bruises and scars and hurts will heal, the scabs will fall away . . . I will bask in the sunshine that awaits . . . way up there. The sunshine that feeds flowers and warms the skin.’

And with that thought, she faded from consciousness, if she could not have favor, at least she could have sleep.

¥

But Stacy did not sleep. It seemed at times that she didn’t need sleep. She slept, but few had seen it, and no one had ever seen Stacy publicly run out of gas and fade. She always kept going, no matter how late, how tired, until she was within her own bedroom, or at a minimum within her own space. And even then, her shut down process was followed to the letter. Oral hygiene, light facial attention, hair maintenance and a scarf, everything electronic off, and flat on her back on the bed, hands crossed over her stomach.

Tonight, she was nowhere near that. Stacy was working. Working in her own way, doing what she did best—network. Professionally, it helped her as a semi-socialite and event promoter. With the G.E.U., it helped her gather intelligence. In another life she could have been a clandestine service field agent. She could have just as easily been a concert promoter, and she had even planned and promoted the Mayor’s recent inaugural event.

Not tall, a hint chubby, maybe curvy, it depended on the perception of the surveyor, the men who looked at her and either turned away or could not, as to whether her hips and thighs were healthy and alluring, or large and obese, whether her bosom was full and swaying, or heavy and pendulous, whether her calves were femininely defined, or too masculine.

Women, from some circles, saw her stature as average and somewhat dignified, others seeing her physical presence as evidence of questionable self-discipline. Her arms were just a tad bigger than the other girls, enough to give the illusion of feminine muscle, though not defined enough to say she was super-athletic. But they were suitable for the sleeved dresses she wore on the occasion, the flowery numbers she bought two or three at a time, to be ready for whenever it was called for. And despite her only occasional appearances in those dresses, she would highlight the dress every time with a flower in her hair, on one side, always matched to one of the colors in the flower pattern. It was cute, like her.

When Stacy smiled, somehow her teeth were perfect, as white as a businessman’s laundered shirt, and as symmetric as the most perfect pearl necklace. And so, when she spoke, the eye was drawn not to her smooth full cheeks or focused eyes, but to her mouth. Though not trained, she enunciated with the skill of a coached public speaker. Her conversational speech and mouth may have been her greatest asset.

If left alone she would methodically make strategic small talk with a carefully selected ear, one that would not judge her willingness to communicate, or frown at her outgoing nature. Then her strategy would be to open the conversation, if it even qualified as one, to another, maybe a random passer-by, as though sharing an ultra-valuable tidbit. If left alone further, the result would be a forum that seemed to have naturally spawned but had been carefully initiated and manipulated to serve whatever her current purpose or goal was, turning any setting from a hospital waiting room to a cocktail party into her own hunting ground. Stacy Williams was a slick manager of people and expert on how to move them and the topic to what she wanted. The combination made her able to maneuver any social situation to achieve whatever she sought.

In tonight’s situation, Stacy stood at the end of a long bar in a medium lit saloon, chatting without direction with three men. They all had mixed drinks of this or that, each in a different kind of stemware that was supposed to help enhance optimum flavor.

“-so you’re telling me, if you had the opportunity to support a cause from a distance, to be in on something, but not have to get involved, just put some cash down, and your money doubled—“ the tall man shifted and sat his glass so that he could make a gesture with both hands open, moving apart to demonstrate something growing. “—you wouldn’t go for it?”

Just as Stacy took a deep breath to respond, his eyes looked at her cleavage quickly.
She almost didn’t see it. “—and your name is, Sirrrr?” Being half Latin, from a Spanish speaking island, Stacy rolled her ‘r’ sexily. She always used her weapons.

“Ulysses.” He switched his drink from left to right hand, and set it gently on the white marble bar, then turned to her. “Ulysses Van Hawkins”. As he extended his hand, with a gentle smile but quite seriously, the other two men smirked and chuckled. Stacy looked at him, them . . . then back at him.

“That is . . . your . . . real name, right?” She shifted her eyes at his friends. “Are you playin’ with me?” Her face slowly faded from innocent openness to a slight frown as he responded.

“That it is.” Ulysses turned first at one friend, then over his shoulder at the other. “I get that a lot. Some people—”, he looked at his two friends again, “--can’t get past stereotypes.”

“It just seems . . . very . . . well, not black.”

With that, Ulysses’ two companions broke into open laughter.

“Does that mean that I’m not ‘black’ enough?” He fixed his gaze on Stacy, not in a hard way, not even challenging, but expectantly. She looked at him, much taller than her at a little over six feet, deep brown face not remarkable, but not ugly either, and set atop very wide shoulders that carried a dark mustard colored wool blazer. The contrast was perfect.

“No, you’re black enough.” Stacy sipped the last bit of the clear liquid in her slightly conical tumbler, no longer examining the glass that had impressed her twenty minutes ago, nor the mint leaf and slice of lemon.

“Now what’s that mean? You put a lot of emphasis on ‘black’—am I too ‘black’?” Ulysses’ gaze did not break or change. Stacy began to wish there were a few more sips in that tumbler.

“Hey! Make your mind up about how you’re going be offended.” Stacy’s stare went cold, and Ulysses smiled.

“I’m not offended.” Ulysses realized he never asked the woman her name. “And your name is . . .” Stacy didn’t answer, just gave him a momentary angry look and then a complete eye rolling while turning away, then obnoxiously sipped the last of her drink. Ulysses’ two companions saw that, tapped him, said something she couldn’t hear, though it sounded like, ‘down in flames’. She turned back to him with her best bored expression, just as he spoke: “Hey, I’m going to get back to my buddies, but before I go, let me get you another.” She shifted on her feet as he motioned at their glasses when he caught the barkeep’s eye.

“Just making small talk . . . no harm intended.”

“Hmmph.” As the bartender pushed two drinks across the bar, Ulysses slowly and carefully picked hers up and set it before her.

“Enjoy your evening.” With that he put a tip down, gave another gentle smile to Stacy, and turned toward his friends.

She picked up the drink, looked long at Ulysses, the way he interacted with his companions. They laughed but were not loud; the men surveyed the room from time to time but were not classless or adolescent in their review of women; they imbibed a fair amount of alcohol but showed not a trace of belligerence. Stacy rethought her rejection of Ulysses.

“Wow! Trouble in our area again!” One of his companions pointed at the television as the story Ulysses saw earlier was repeated, this time on a different network. Stacy followed their eyes, saw that the reverse ambush of the Boyd Avenue gang made the newscast. She was coyly proud of the news story, two troublemakers were gone, and she had helped make it happen just by networking.

“Yeah, they got they what should have . . . a death sentence.” Ulysses sipped his drink, sat it down somewhat deliberately. “Finally, someone took care of business with a couple of these street thugs. Good. Maybe tomorrow a bunch more will get knocked off.” He continued to stare at the television as he spoke.

“All of our lives we watch them rob and steal, lie and cheat, harm and kill. This is karma! The life they live, that they practice, has come for them, and I’m not the least bit sympathetic.” He picked his weird shaped tumbler up as he went on: “People I know, that we know, have been victimized by this element of our society, and we are content to see them get away with it, to see them the day after their crimes . . . laughing at us. They terrorize neighborhoods, they—” One of the other men mumbled to Ulysses to talk lower, he had gotten a little loud, they all glanced around, and he went on, as Stacy acted disinterested, but strained to hear. “—they are terror masters. We talk about terrorism all the time, is this not terrorism? We fear them and allow them to coerce us into compliance. When they do get nailed, or shot, we question the men who did society a favor and got rid of their asses—”

“Gettin’ loud again.” His friend patted Ulysses on the shoulder, who gave him a sideways glance, but the man did not give in. “Not tellin’ you what to do, partner.”

“Sorry.” He sipped, savored the liquid, took a deep breath.

“So you feel strongly about this?” The other friend stared at Ulysses a moment.

“Nah. Not at all.”

Ulysses looked straight at the TV, and somehow the men began to snicker, the snickering growing to laughter, then hysterical laughter. Even Stacy laughed.

“Hey Ulysses--” Stacy called out to him, to which the three men all turned her way, humorously wide eyed. “—let me buy you a drink.” The men’s faces didn’t change for a moment. Slowly they looked at one another, and Ulysses moved toward her, unsure, like a kid approaching a firecracker that has not popped. “I’m not going to bite.” He still seemed unsure, so she smiled, which reeled him in the rest of the way. “At least not tonight.”

“Thank you for the offer . . . Mrs . . .?”

“Stacy. Just call me Stacy.” She signaled the barkeep, who seemed to be passing time wiping already spotless glasses. “You’re quite passionate about your views on street thugs. Why?”

“Growing up in that area, and still there now, I saw, and still see their work.” He sighed, “Two of my friends were killed by street hoodlums. They weren’t even gang types, but because they wouldn’t show ‘respect’; whatever that is . . . they got jumped. Like, ten on two . . . beat them to death. And the next week they on the street like nothing’s wrong, they basically got away with it.” His face contorted to a frown. “Then they moved on to intimidate some other young people, harassing the young girls, don’t get me started on that.” The unusually slim bartender signaled to Stacy and Ulysses to come retrieve their drinks, and Ulysses stood, but she lightly touched his hand and insisted it was her treat, and Stacy gracefully rose, approached the white marble bar, and in a moment turned around with a slight smile. Ulysses could have sworn she was posing.

Like a gentleman, Ulysses did not sit until she returned. When she sat, even that was graceful, she turned slightly and lowered herself onto the chair, curved posterior leading the way to a soft landing, then turned forward slowly easing both legs together under the mahogany table, angling them only slightly to avoid striking the table edge, knees together, feet together, toes pointed; the movement was all class. Stacy pushed a martini glass across the table as he sat.

“Go on.”

“So, they recruit some of the younger dudes, give them a ‘piece’ to carry. They let them make a little money handling ‘things’. Those young prospects for the gang were now the power brokers in the neighborhood and chased off the ‘good guys’ . . . we couldn’t compete with their stacks of money, and we definitely had no guns. They got their criminalistic hands into anything that moved, beat down anyone who challenged their power.” As Ulysses paused to sip, Stacy took the opportunity as well.

“Last, all the girls in the neighborhood went for the young thugs. Still happens today, but, it’s not just that, the young girls in this are no innocent players . . . the ‘honeys’ who seem hungry, impressed with the money, extra hungry and can be manipulated, they indoctrinate to gang culture, their minds can be twisted to street life. They’re wolves. Next thing, they turn these young girls into hoes for the gang. Dancing in strip clubs, doing stuff for money, prostitutin’. Honestly, some of them want it. That’s the way it looks to me. They got my cousin. The Boyd Avenue gang. I wanted to kill them for that, but I was just a teenager with nothin’—" He curved his right thumb in the direction of the television, “--but today, somebody got their asses.” He looked Stacy in the eye. “Just wish it had been me that did it.” He raised the tumbler to his mouth again.

While Stacy watched him sip from his glass, Ulysses’ friends had sensed that this was becoming a private conversation, and he watched as they moved to the other end of the bar. There were three women there that he suspected they would attempt to make friends with.

“Wow. You’re carrying all that around, your passion is subtle, but seething.” Stacy rolled the dice: “How do you intend to release all that?”

“On the Boyd Avenue gang.” He looked at the TV. “I just need to find those guys. I want to get with them.”

Stacy looked around the room innocently and stirred her drink.

SIXTEEN

INNER TURMOIL

Ṫ

eri stared at the floor, silent.

Alone.

After the failed hit on Jeff Jones, the Boyd Avenue personnel had scattered, expecting a police raid. But Teri didn’t care, she was despondent. Let them come get her. Nothing mattered anymore, she had lost the most important thing in the world, the only person who made her feel complete. She had gone from caring to emotionally lost.

Felicia was dead. The thought pierced Teri’s heart; it was as though she had been shot herself. The young woman who she had laughed with and made love with was now given to eternity, leaving Teri empty and stuck. There was nothing left on the green earth about which she cared. Though she flirted with other girls from time to time, Felicia was who she wanted, and at the same time all the things she wished she could have been but repressed.

In a lost count of tears that rolled down her face, past the side of her mouth, another hung from her oval jaw for only a fraction of a second, and splashed onto a wet spot on the floor that had been created by the tears that preceded it. Her trembling lips barely held onto a cigarette with an inch-long ash at the end, the attempt to calm herself with smoke and menthol having failed.

The two women had formed a strange bond. Teri’s evolution to lesbianism had been gradual, while her childhood friend was imperceptive to the metamorphosis that progressed within her. Teri had grown tall at a young age and found herself often the subject of particularly abrasive peers, and given her size advantage, the easy solution became to punch out the lights of her tormentors, Girl or boy. The power was intoxicating for a twelve-year old who looked like a high school sophomore, and in the roughness of the streets, she became a female enforcer. At the same time, Felicia came to admire her friend who didn’t take any crap from anyone. The goonish friend enabled the curvy Felicia to not have problems with other jealous girls whose feminine shapes had not yet begun to show, and she took Teri wherever she went, almost like a bodyguard.

Teri’s ‘knock’em out’ reputation did not earn her favor with boys romantically, they saw her more as ‘one of us’, rather than, ‘the honeys’. She looked awkward in dresses, which she wore less and less, and her sisterly protection of Felicia had secretly turned into something else. Meanwhile, Felicia never noticed that the friend she admired never seemed interested in boys, who was more comfortable with the neighborhood thugs, in a brotherly way. In Felicia’s mind, in the ghetto, it helps to have connections with the killers, to be on good terms with the hoodlums, so she was cool with it all, and loved Teri like a sister.

The joking back and forth about their relationship had been a source of laughter when they were with friends, but Teri’s protectiveness had extended to Felicia’s choice of males. She was often jealous and found different ways to discredit every one of Felicia’s possible boyfriends. Sometimes it was for the better, sometimes it got in the way of her action. But Felicia felt bad for her friend who could not seem to catch the eye of the opposite sex. It wasn’t until their late teens that she realized--Teri didn’t want the opposite sex.

The playful hugs and touches and butt slaps took on a whole different meaning. The sexy Felicia, whose mantra had been ‘strictly dickly’, was now emotionally tied, but not physically, to another woman, her best friend in the world. In a matter of weeks from that revelation, her frustrations with young men became unnecessary, and her seduction to the taboos of homosexuality began.

Felicia forgot the good moments with males. She and Teri focused instead on their self-congratulatory opinion of being women, worshipping the intrinsic goodness of the female and the sisterhood. When around their peers, the conversation was disdainful of men and tended to highlight male shortcomings. This would be followed by a brand of feminism that disparaged men. If males were not evil or incompetent, they were at a minimum insufferable.

Her focus became her pain and the betrayals that had come from hyper masculinized young men trying to prove themselves or whom were just particularly selfish, or immature and unseasoned. Admittedly, for the young ladies of the area, their environment did not provide the masculinity they needed and unconsciously desired. The kind of young men who were the balance between edge and decorum, between tough and gentlemanly. And if there was one, the streets would either beat it out of him or kill him. So, she forgot the good moments with males, considered how she had endured the bad, and made an assessment: In Teri, Felicia had found dedication, caring, admiration.

Love?

In Felicia, Teri saw the woman that she wished she could have been, naturally beautiful, irresistibly sexy, holding power over the men she simultaneously disliked but wished she could be.

Teri had taken pride in having as her love the most lusted after young woman in the neighborhood. It was a thumb in the eye of every male, a weird superiority, her way of saying ‘ha! I got her over you, she thought I was better than all of you!’. To show how spiteful she was, much of her affection for Felicia was public, particularly in the view and presence of males who clearly were interested in Felicia, and Teri hugged and spoke lovingly to her friend in front of men especially appearing to want to prove a point. At times, it had made Felicia uncomfortable, whose turn to the other side was not as sure, not as radical, and she was not an activist about their way of life. Sometimes, when traveling together, Felicia would try to keep space between them, even sitting apart on the bus, hiding that her partner was another woman. Alternately, even though Teri was her ‘man’, it was satisfying to detect actual men checking her out, even if only to disappoint them as she walked away with her mannish friend.

Still, the two young women pursued their feelings. But the dangerous and intoxicating game of the streets had found them, made them pay, and that was why Teri was despondent: the irreplaceable love of her life had been slain. Felicia was gone forever.

¥

“How’d they know, Black?” The thug looked at K Black with the confusion of a child, searching for a reassuring answer. The ringleader obliged.

“Somebody snitched.” He sat at the table that Teri had last seen Felicia at the day before. “M******F*****s out here talking more than a drunk bum.” Black sneered. “I’ll know soon, who gave us up, but for now, everybody has to lay low.” They were silent for a minute. “At least I know it ain’t you two. At least I know that.” Blaze and Nate nodded looking at the floor, and when Black wasn’t looking glanced at one another and gave silent looks of relief.

“I don’t think it was Teri.” Blaze leaned back in his chair and searched the ceiling.

“That’s obvious.” Nate got up and went to the rust marked refrigerator, opened it, and picked up one long neck bottle of beer in one hand, grabbed two between the fingers of his other hand. “Felicia’s dead man . . . her heart and soul. I highly doubt she woulda threw her own chick away.”

“Damn.” K Black accepted the bottle handed to him, held it out as Nate one handed the bottle opener and popped the cap off. “Can’t believe this.”

“Never knew you cared that much boss—” Nate popped the top off Blaze’s bottle, then sat. “—those two really meant something to you?”
“I was just thinking about Felicia’s ass. Wow.” The men half sighed; half snickered to themselves. “I’m gonna miss looking at that ass.”

“You right Black.” The two henchmen tapped the necks of their bottles in a toast. “To that wonderful ass. Shame she wasted it on Teri. I would’ve made her my main chick.” Nate thought for a second. “What makes a chick go out like that? With another female?”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be some dude’s ‘main’ chick; maybe she wants to be the ‘only’ chick. Like the mess you made tryin’ to be a Mack and got your car keyed and cut up by one of your psychobabes.”

“Aw come on Black! You going soft? On the hoodettes?”

“Alright, maybe Teri just had a strong rap.” Black sipped his brew, gripped the neck tightly. “It’s hard to find a chick like Felicia. Sexy without trying. There’re women who read fashion magazines and go to school to learn what she did naturally. But—” He paused, sipped, went on: “Stop focusin’ on Felicia’s ass--ya’ll forgettin’ we lost two people. I mean, we gotta move on, the hustle don’t stop. Now we gotta take care of Felicia’s mom. And what ‘bout Paulie? His girl and the baby he just had. Normally I would just forget it, losing people is part of the game, but Paulie was a good cat. I was gonna have you two keep bringin’ him up. He had heart. The kind of brave heart you gotta have to do this, to not back down. He ain’t even get a chance to come up.”

“Yeah.” Blaze lit a cigarette. “He got shot by a damn goodie goodie community activist.” He paused, looked around the room searching for nothing. “Who even knew this dude had a gun?” He paused. “Even knew how to use the shit.” He dragged, held the smoke for a few moments, blew it out. “This don’t make sense though. We sent killers—how the hell did they get surprised? This Jones dude . . . how did he pull out first on a cat like Paulie? It don’t make sense. Even if they knew we were coming for him . . . he got’em both. It doesn’t make sense.”

“You right Blaze.” Nate continued staring at the floor.

“We gotta chill for a while.” Black took a long swig of his beer. “And we can’t do it here. If there’s a snitch, then the block is hot. The spot is hot . . . and WE hot. Look, ya’ll clear out, Nate, you and Blaze watch from the other place and see if they watchin’ for us, whoever it is. I’ll come get you once this dies off. If you see Teri before me, let her know.”

They continued to sit silently, reluctant to move, unmotivated to move, but after awhile, K Black arose, went to Nate and Blaze and gently slapped each on the shoulder, and the three men shuffled out a hidden back door that to the rest of the world appeared to be a part of the side of the house under a false bathroom window. A large bush concealed the secret exit, so no one saw their egress, and they separated in different directions.

¥

Teri wore a hooded sweatshirt despite the mild and comfortable outside temperature. She had spent the afternoon furtively making rounds of the neighborhood despite Black’s instructions, tugged by a sudden sense of loneliness. The feeling had washed over her this morning, a feeling that could only be soothed by the reincarnation of her female lover. That possibility being as far away as her own reincarnation, Teri went out, she needed to see and hear people.

A group of young girls came giggling down the street, each showing the first growths of womanhood in clothing that they had outgrown. But there was one who was not as jovial or loud as the others. She seemed lonely among the group as the other girls seemed to talk around and over her, and she occasionally giggled with them though it seemed that the laugh was an act to feel as though she were a part of the jokes going back and forth.

Teri watched the shy teenager, but not obviously, only glancing from time to time. The fair complexioned girl was very slim, and short for her age. Teri would have guessed the teen to be fourteen, but she was sixteen--the age when young ladies are confidently certain they are smarter than the rest of the world. They saw a candy store and rushed in it, but not the little one, she remained at the bus stop.

“They left you huh?” Teri had eased over to the bus shelter and stood close enough to be a normal distance and still speak as though just making small talk. As the occasional car cruised by, the young teen looked at Teri, unsure of what to say, then looked in the direction of the store and said, “Sure did.” She avoided looking at Teri, instead looking at nothing in particular.

“I hate that, immature girls just running off and leaving you alone. My friends did that to me a lot. And one day some guys I didn’t like bothered me at a bus stop just like this one . . . and I was all alone.” Teri sighed and acted as though she were having a deep memory, then came out of it. “I shouldn’t have trusted those girls.” She turned away slightly like she was leaving the comment there, but not really.

“It happens.” The young girl felt a need to be somewhat polite as Teri had shared what seemed to be a personal memory. It made the strange looking woman seem honest, trusting a stranger with such a personal emotion. But really, it was the con of offering trust to get it return. Teri only slightly smirked but cleaned up her expression and queried: “You trust them?”

“I guess.” Teri looked at the petite young girl, could see the innocence and inexperience in her eyes, and she held the gaze for a moment, long enough to hold the girl’s gaze in place. Then she broke the moment with, “You guess? With your friends?” She realized that was too challenging. “I mean are they just acquaintances from school, or your real friends?” Teri looked around aimlessly pretending to be disinterested.

“Yeah, those are my friends.” The young girl turned to look at Teri, not sure what to make of the tall woman. “They’re silly, but they stick with me.”

“Oh, good.” Teri waited a moment. “I got good people I hang with . . . and stick with them to the end.” She noticed the girl was reading a teen magazine with a boy in the cover. “You read that too? I never used to miss an issue! Oh, my name is Teri.” With that, she extended a hand, to which the teenager slowly cautiously met. “Heather.” She tried to look Teri over again but did a poor job of hiding it. “You don’t look like you’re into this sort of thing.”

“I’m into a lot of things, never judge a book—”

“—by its cover. I always say that. Sometimes people judge me.” Heather relaxed her posture somewhat.

“I love that magazine . . . but not that guy on the cover. He’s fake.”

“Really? I think he’s cute.”

“No, I’m not talking about how he looks, I mean . . . he doesn’t seem authentic, like he just goes from girl to girl and doesn’t really get to know them. Taking advantage, treating women like throwaway objects. A guy like him probably judges books by the cover.”

“You think so?” Heather held up the magazine a little closer to look at it.

“Yeah, that’s why I don’t like guys . . . like that. Like . . . I like to talk to people, get to know them first, a lot of guys especially . . . don’t do that. We, meaning females, ladies, women, we’re better than them. Look what we’re doing now, you didn’t turn your back to me, we’re just small talking, and you’ve learned something about me: I didn’t judge you, like you say other people do.” ‘So, don’t judge me’, Teri thought to herself.

“Good point.” Her face remained plain, Teri met her eyes again for a very short moment, looking for something.

“What if everyone were like you? We’d all be friends, a world of people being true to one another.” At that moment, Heather’s loud friends came out of the candy store, and yelled at her to ‘come on!’

“I’m waiting for the bus!”

“No Mrs. corny! We’re going to the arcade! C’mon!” The group looked at them, at Heather, then Teri, then back again.

“What does your boyfriend think of them?” Teri whispered the question though she didn’t really care, she wanted to know if some icky guy was in this young girl’s life, or if she would admit right up front, she wasn’t into boys.

“No boyfriend—look, I’m going with my friends, take care . . . Teri right?”

“Yeah, see you ‘round Heather.”

Teri watched as the girls wandered off, and loneliness settled over her like a dark cloud.

SEVENTEEN

PRINCIPLES

“W

hat’s up love?” The man shifted his weight one foot to another, smiling at the curvy promoter, sneaking looks at her up and down. His teeth were perfect, she didn’t think street thugs saw dentists regularly, so he must’ve had a solid oral hygiene routine. “We gon’ see you again this year?” He had spotted her coming out of a spa salon among a group of shops on Condy Avenue, the strip of stores that all the stylish ladies visited to keep themselves looking nice. Sometimes men would cruise this strip just to birdwatch. It was silly, but the ladies all had fun with it.

“What’ch’all got going?” Stacy returned a genuine smile, glowing in the afternoon sun.

“C’’mom Stace’, our usual! The Dippin’ Hard motorcycle club barbecue affair. You know! We do it every year! You didn’t forget us, did you?” The man playfully smirked.

“Oh yeah . . . it is that time again.” She pushed her hair to one side, careful not to disrupt the little flower she always tucked into her curls. this was perfect information that she didn’t even have to work for, as a spy, it was time to go to work. “Where’s it at? Who’s gonna be there? Can I bring some of my girls?” Stacy playfully rubbed one of his thick arms and was amazed at its size in her hand. His eyes narrowed and mouth formed into a half smirk.

“It’s at another spot over on Atlantic, near the old bread factory. It’s the only two-story house on the block. You’ll see all the bikes out front and on the side. This one we’re trying to keep in-house, last year was nuts with all the local players showing up. We’re still gonna have a DJ, still gonna have the crew from the nightclub there, so you can bring your girls—but no bourgeoisie chicks; we like to loosen things up. But you knew that already.”

Stacy let her hand go down his arm to his hand and held it lightly. “Okay, we’ll swing through, no stuck-up chicks allowed—” She reached for the important nugget, “—I won’t have anyone with me who’ll have a problem with the whole MC club in one room, anyone who freaks out at the sight of a gun. Some of us like men with big guns.” She lightly bit the corner of her lower lip, a deliberate flirtation, but she wanted to know if they’d be armed. “Nah, actually, no big stuff. We don’t want any problems, no need for law enforcement spoiling things.” He looked left and right. “But it wouldn’t matter anyhow; we got a hook in there who will let us know if they try to roll up on us.”

Stacy smiled placidly, and let the conversation roll on as the motorcycle club member flirted and continued to try and impress her with information he should not have shared. Her mind could not forget the revelation of a hook-up in the police department. Does this person know who she is? Suddenly, her work felt twice as dangerous. The conversation ended and she left him standing there, feeling his stare as she walked away, knowing he was watching her, watching her hips switch, the movement of her body from the waist down. She didn’t try to subdue the jiggle; in the light fabric of that day’s lavender sundress it was pointless.

EIGHTEEN

Ṫhe rest of the week in Austland was uneventful, K Black and the Boyd avenue personnel maintained a low profile, while the G.E.U., prepared for their next action. Local law enforcement had no idea of the G.E.U.’s involvement in the Golden Thirteen boulevard shootings, or of their existence for that matter. It was thought to be gang violence and was investigated as such. Since the restructure of America into these loose crime states and corrupt fiefdoms, in many places the law enforcement structure was declawed by loss of infiltration networks, meaning, the penetration of criminal structures to obtain gang intelligence was decimated or thin.

Local merchants and businesspersons were heartened that the cloud of gang violence and crime was being acted upon, though only a limited few knew the identity of the source of retribution. For as long as anyone could remember, the roving bands of young and adult men (and sometimes young women) had dominated this entire section of the city, and wreaked havoc in sections other than their so-called ‘territory’.

They blared music from cars at all hours of the night, smoked pungent dope, urinated wherever the feeling led them, and got into fights that very quickly escalated to gunplay. Some would enter stores and help themselves to whatever they wanted. The police rarely stepped in and when they did, the results were negligible. To avoid accusations of harassment, the patrolmen routinely did nothing, or very little beyond very light admonishments.

The survival strategy for the citizens was to stay out of their way. Ignore them, ignore their trespass, don’t see their crimes, don’t even make eye contact. Contain your losses by allowing the perpetrators to take or do what they want, let them hurry and move on to the next target, the next victim. They are armed, you are not. Even when not armed, the street predators have been in jail lifting weights and can beat you to death with their bare hands and are willing to do it. Take leave of all notions of the standards of public behavior when they obviously and deliberately intimidate the public into acquiescence.

For the first time in what seemed to be an eternity, there was hope, hope that the struggling business owners, the honest people who gave a day’s work every day, the youth who only had the dark menacing clouds of crime and gangs above them, that the universe was reasserting itself to the solid distinction of right over wrong. The elderly who were afraid and somber, saw a ray of sunlight that someone--young enough to do it--was fighting back, rescuing the world that they had helped build.

NINETEEN

“I’m not sure Decker. You seem to have a taste for action.” Jennifer’s words coming through the telephone did not have the same smile that he used to hear in her voice. Decker knew immediately he’d lost her. He’d made the phone call against all instinct and left his comfort zone to get things right with Jennifer, she was way too good looking to let go without a fight. And, he admired her gentle and flirtatious nature, but he needed to retain his own outlook of the world. To compromise what he believed in would lead to the death of his manly spirit, and he wasn’t killing that for ANY woman. He now knew that she was an extreme idealist, but totally the opposite of his brand of idealism. ‘Opposites may attract, but not in this consideration’.

“No . . . that’s, that’s not the case. All I’m saying is, let’s meet up and talk. That’s all.”

“I don’t want to be out with you, and you do something hotheaded. And I definitely don’t want to be around guns. I don’t date cops for that reason. It’s a big thing for me.” Her voice sounded unyielding.

“Guns are—”

“Decker, I saw a good side of you, and you are a good person, but there are things that I am totally against,” her words were tender but seemed final, it was more and more sounding like a break-up, “and I stand by my values, by my principles.”

“Well let me ask you, if I witness something, and no police are near, and I have the ability to act, shouldn’t I? If you were being victimized, shouldn’t I, with my awful gun, protect you? Or, better said, how would you look at me if I did nothing?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s what I mean.” Our city suffers now because good men are doing nothing. Our government has forgotten us. These animals—"

“They’re not animals. They’re people who need a chance. Instead of looking down your clean nose at them, why don’t you help them? What about social programs?”

“Social Programs?!” Decker grew excited. “They had a social program! It was called high school shop class!” He calmed himself. “Everybody gets a chance; the hoodlums blew theirs.”

“Maybe they need a second chance . . . Decker, they don’t have the privileges others do; they didn’t win life’s lottery.”

“Life’s lottery?” Decker reacted stronger than he intended to. “Jennifer, me and my family started out very average for this area, and we saved and stayed away from street culture, and climbed our way up. Rather than leave the neighborhood, run away . . . I bought a small four story and rented apartments. You know what I got back?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Tenants who had money for smoking and drinking and tattoos but not for rent. Police in the lobby because of this problem or that. Hoodlums who engaged in dice gambling and drug sales and violence next door or at the corner. Who suffered? The good people and business owners of the neighborhood who were not a part of their street culture. No sympathy from me. Or mercy. Mercy comes from God. I offer punishment.” Decker realized he’d let his mouth run ahead of his brain. “But you would prefer to let us be harmed, continue to suffer than see one hair on those street punks’ heads harmed.”

“Wow. That was judgmental.”

Decker remained silent; he had no response for Jennifer’s view. Not because he really didn’t, but because he didn’t see the point. First, this was an argument that if he won, he would lose the girl; if he lost, well that would mean giving in and compromising his own principles and beliefs. Also, he never liked being on a telephone for more than a minute. Decker was old-school in that way, conversations should be face to face.

“Can we save this until I can talk to you?”

“We’re talking NOW.” Jennifer’s answers were short, which Decker was unaccustomed to.

“No. Meet me at the tea house.”

“I don’t know . . . are you gonna bring your gun? Take down some bad guys?”

“C’mon Jennifer, don’t over dramatize.”

“No . . . Decker I don’t want to waste your time or mine. I’d prefer not to see you.”

The phone call ended with Decker in shock.

TWENTY

Ŀes Gray read the BRU (blotter roll-up) a second time in the light from the setting sun. He wanted to be left alone in his office and directed his assistant to turn away any visitors. His job as Mayor was becoming tougher by the day, in the middle of two warring factions, he sought balance for his beleaguered city. His law enforcement corps was begging to be unleashed to deal with the anarchy in the streets. But doing that would antagonize the people in the communities. Those areas were often collaterally affected by any law enforcement campaign.

After the terrible and heartbreaking dissolution of the United States into independent city-states and agri-states, each going its own way with the agreement to not interfere with one another’s affairs, rebuilding some aspects of infrastructure had been tenuous. As most of the self-determining minded population moved to the nearby newly formed state of Ranchland, their quiet contributions to society left with them. Most notably their tendency to be big picture thinkers who approached public life in a much more neighborly fashion. As the criminal problem grew, that segment of thinkers who remained were angry at the loss of civility, the shocking violence, and at the laws that punished them for acting.

And so, the Mayor read the report a second time, trying to find a path in the statistics that would satisfy the public and agree with his conscious. But the descriptions of what occurred the day before were not helpful, neither were the admonitions from his former citizens who had moved to Ranchland. In the newspapers there, they were free to criticize him, and they did. Some of those papers were being smuggled into his city. His media people were looking for ways to outlaw or ban them, criminalize the purveyors, and maybe somehow sue the printer in Ranchland.

At least here his network of like-minded journalists and television broadcasters were not spreading the stories of mayhem, though he knew that on the street the people were accusing him of being tolerant of the problems, and on the other side, railing against his past decisions to have police crackdowns. Fortunately, he still had the intelligentsia on his side, and the influencers of public opinion to stand in the gap.

But, the first story in the report kept recapturing his concern: Two gang members ambushed in the street. It wasn’t much different from any other gang incident, but the timing was strange, eight thirty in the morning. Hoods sleep late, normally gang violence would happen beginning in the afternoon, and through the night. Does this mean they’re getting ambitious?

TWENTY ONE

“That’s them right there!” From a rooftop, a portion of the GEU passed around binoculars to look at all the Boyd avenue gang leadership. They watched K Black, Nate, Blaze, and Teri. “This is incredible! Right there, on the corner . . . like nothing’s wrong!” Ulysses was apoplectic and mocked them, “Naahhh, no one shot a couple of our guys, we’re good, we out here . . . WHAT!” He bit his lip harder than intended, “The nerve of these nuckas!”

The group of anti-thugs looked up Golden Thirteen Boulevard at the corner of Robert Smalls street, watching a five-minute chance meeting that seemed to last for an eternity. Ulysses tapped Autumn, gestured that she should follow him, and they disappeared down the stairwell back into the building. Having not noticed their departure, Jeff and Decker continued to observe.

“We have waited a very, very long time for this.” Jeff looked at his longtime friend, then back at the subjects of their surveillance. “They’re all together in one place. We stumbled on this by accident! With a new compatriot, to enjoy a moment, and an opportunity we waited months for . . . happens by accident. You got that high-tech camera with you?”

“Sure do.” Decker turned to go to his bag, noticed that Ulysses and Autumn had disappeared. “Where’d those two go?” Jeff and Stone didn’t respond, and Decker continued to fish around in a small canvas bag until he came out up with the camera. “Got it.”

Below them, on the third floor, a more purposeful conversation was taking place.

“Is that a launch tube?” Autumn looked at the device, clearly not a military production, but not many things look like a fifty-millimeter mortar.

“Yeah it is.” Ulysses handed the improvised section of metal pipe, reinforced with welded rings of steel, to Autumn. It was solid in her hands, but not too heavy for the former communications specialist, National Defense Force. Autumn had been part of the NDF’s ‘Best Commo Team’ fifteen years before, a competition that challenged communications specialists to be the best in their field. Dropped off by an all-terrain vehicle in the wilderness of what used to be a military installation in what was still mostly Wisconsin, Autumn and two male Soldiers spent twenty-four hours straight, on the move, each carrying a load: hers a rucksack containing a frequency hopping radio, and in her arms a heavy crew served weapon capable of firing twelve hundred rounds per minute. Another Soldier carried a medium distance antenna that when assembled could broadcast ten miles in any direction, and his issued carbine. The third had a rucksack full of batteries and extra ammunition, and his carbine that was also fitted with a grenade launcher. They were tasked with moving from location to location, setting up, receiving, transmitting, breaking down, and moving again, sometimes under fire, mostly hungry, and always tired.
Autumn could handle taking the improvised mortar tube to the roof.

“You’re gonna calibrate this thing?” She examined it approvingly. “You know, maybe one day make it usable?”

“Should be all set.” Ulysses didn’t look at her as he grabbed a square metal plate from underneath a sofa. “This morning I was on the roof tweaking it; bubbles aligned, sight picture, even put out a pole out on the corner and then a hundred meters out in different directions. With all the other parking signs and traffic signals and poles for other stuff no one will ever notice it being there. Here we go.”

Autumn looked at the base plate marked around the edge with ‘tick’ marks like on a protractor. “You’ve been busy.” It was just as much a question as it was a statement.

“A little.” He led her out the apartment to the stairwell. “Take that to the roof, I have to get something. Meet you up there.” With that, Autumn started up the stairs while Ulysses disappeared in the other direction.

Back on the roof, Jeff, Decker and Stone continued watching the meeting. Jeff became more curious about the absence of Autumn and Ulysses.

“Those two still gone?”

Decker turned around, then back again. “Hmmph. Don’t know.” He looked at Jeff and grinned. “Maybe he’s running off with your chick.”

“Stop it.” Jeff smirked. “He’s into Stacy, she’s more of the build he seems to like.” Stone pretended not to hear.

“Yeah, that dog likes meat on his bones . . . hmmph . . . he likes his women well fed.” Decker pointed a finger at Jeff: “But that doesn’t mean he’s not checkin’ out Autumn. She’s got curves too. That’s why you bagged her.”

“I didn’t ‘bag’ Autumn. We’re friends—”

Decker broke into open laughter as Jeff glared at him and Stone kept a straight face. “—and I’m surprised at the way you speak of women; you’re a religious man.”

“Okay ‘Mr Proper’, I admit that was impolite.” Decker put on an English accent: “You’re courting Lady Autumn.”

“That’s better.” Still, Jeff’s glare did not break.
Decker continued the English accent: “Have you deflowered the maiden?”

Jeff sneered at his partner, then turned and raised the binoculars to his eyes again. “We’re done with this topic.”

¥

On the corner, Nate and Blaze had somehow run into one another. First Nate had stopped because he saw Tone, and while talking to him, Rayquan, joined the discussion about the dormant period the Boyd Street gang was experiencing. No sooner had they accidentally met than Blaze drove by and circled back. They could not resist the urge to gather, this was a fraternity of criminals that had seen each other through a crucible of street hustles and violence, arrests, and trouble with the penal system.

“We gonna stay low? How much longer?” ‘Rayquan’, or ‘Quan’ as they called him for short, chewed on a cinnamon stick, his tool to quit a cigarette habit he’d tried for years to defeat.

“Until we know how we gettin’ snitched on.” Ya’ll saw how the situation with Felicia and Paulie went down—” Nate was cut off by Quan.

“Yeah.” Quan bit the stick harder. “Paulie was a solid man for the team. That bothered me.”

“And that Felicia . . . whew . . . that was a solid piece right there. I could have watched her walk away a hundred times over.” Tone seemed to be in dreamland.

“Respect the dead, player.” Nate looked at Tone sideways for a long moment, “She was one of us.”

“My fault.” The hoodlum looked at the ground.

“She did have a nice ass though.” With that the four men exchanged head nods. Quan spotted K Black’s all black four door vehicle and got the group’s attention. “Ain’t that Black?”

They all turned as K Black pulled his SUV behind Blaze’s burgundy classic Maxima, put down his passenger window, and summoned them over. As they approached, Nate realized Teri was in the car with him. He whispered over his shoulder, “Hey, stop talkin’ about Felicia’s ass.”

Looking into the car, K Black appeared angry.

“So this is laying low?” The group was silent for a moment, then Tone spoke, “K, it wasn’t their fault, they were drivin’ by and I stopped them.” K Black looked directly at Tone: “Fall back! I’m talking to them! Not chu’! You an underboss now? I’m talking to these two right here—” He leaned past Teri and pointed two fingers at Nate and Blaze. “—unless you want their job. You think you ready for that? To take heat from me? I’ll give you some heat right now. You want it?”

“I’ll . . . wait my turn Black. I spoke outta pocket.”

K Black didn’t react for a moment, just stared at Tone. He suddenly straightened, shut the vehicle off, and exited. Coming around the front of the car they all looked frightened as he motioned to Teri to get out as well.

“You a good man Tone, just remember your time will come. Nate, Blaze, and Teri—” He jabbed a thumb in her direction, “—they been out here and know how the game works. It ain’t all candy, you all know that, and last week proved it. We can’t be slippin’ and get knocked by the state or shot up by some other team. You gots to understand that.”

The group all nodded and relaxed some, K Black wasn’t here to straighten anyone out.

“F**k if I know the future, but I know that I got a good team. Ya’ll a good squad, right?” They all nodded again. “But that don’t mean that we invincible, that shit last week proved that. And it doesn’t help if my main commanders ain’t following shit I was specific about.” They all tensed again. “I’m taking a chance right now, being out here like this, on the spot like this. And so are you! You think this is smart? Safe?” He looked at Blaze, cupped the back of his neck and pulled him close as Teri looked up and away, Nate’s eyes grew big, and Tone and Rayquan kept their gaze low. “Is it?” He shouted this time: “IS IT?!”. Black let him go, and they all exhaled.

“Somebody snitched on us. No way that stupid assed community activist just happened to have a piece and get two of our people that easy. Any ideas?” One at a time he looked at each of the group, “I trust you—no, I take that back. The only person I trust is me—I expect you, my commanders, to find out how this happened. If you can’t, maybe it’s time to replace some folks.” He waited, watched for facial reactions. “Any ideas?”

“We need to be out here to find out.” Nate spoke cautiously, “We can’t get to how shit fell apart if we hidin’. If you trust us—I mean, expect us, to get this worked out, we gotta be out here doin’ it.” He then took a breath and went on, “And stoppin’ our hustle ain’t helping.”

K Black rolled his eyes, but looked at his henchmen, saw their unease, saw their concern, but also saw their lack of understanding of what he suspected. Their organization had somehow been compromised and a mistake now would most definitely result in jail time or death. He had to get them to buy into his strategy.

“We still don’t know how they knew we were coming. That’s enough to make me step back. Ya’ll act like we hurtin’ if we lay for a minute.” Black again looked at each of the semi-circle of henchmen, and henchwoman (sort of).

“Black, even with our hustle, we not much different than working people; take one week off? Us standing here will be fine, but some of the new jacks are one hustle from homeless!” He caught himself, resumed more calmly. “You got yours set up, but what ‘bout our people? They gon’ fall back and do nothing til’ their ribs start showing? And then we lose OUR credibility . . . cause we not feedin’ em.”

“I’m trying to keep us from getting busted. Why are you not understanding this? We worked hard to get this crime family going, and nobody’s taking us down, or taking me down being stupid.” He looked at his crime lieutenants as they looked at him. “Just stay quiet. Damn.” Again, he looked the group over. They remained obediently silent.

¥

Stone now had the binoculars and was watching the Boyd Avenue gang. Decker and Jeff turned as Autumn emerged from the roof stairwell alcove with what appeared to be a sizeable section of pipe. It was odd to watch her approach carrying the metal tube while wearing mid-calf heeled boots, jodhpurs and button up blouse, with a colorful chiffon scarf around her neck blowing in the breeze.

“What are you doing with that?” Jeff looked askance at the pipe while Decker snickered.

“I guess he wants to show you what he’s been working on . . . I think it’s part of a homemade mortar. Reminds me of my days back in the National Defense.” She held the tube up: “It’s the same size as a sixty-millimeter mortar tube the infantry used to carry. Ulysses just gave it to me, told me to bring it up.” After a moment she added, “He was a mortars gunner. Or as he claims, a ‘Bastard child of the Infantry.”

“What is a mortar, and why is this significant . . . now?”

“Dude, do you know anything?” Decker snickered again. “Mortars are like a mini cannon, but it doesn’t fire straight, it shoots way up and the round drops in on the target. BOOM!”

“Hmmm.”

“Usually can fire a mile or two. Sets up quick, breaks down quick. Is that right Autumn?”

“Just about. But Ulysses is the expert, he was a gunner. The gunner is usually the Soldier fastest at setting the compensation and sight picture and getting it sighted in. At least that’s what I know, but I wasn’t Infantry, I was communications.” She pushed her hair out of her face in the rooftop breeze. “He was the eleven charlie.”

“What?”

“In National Defense Force, Infantry has a designation, a number and letter that denotes the occupa—” Autumn stopped, looked at the two men who had no idea what she was talking about. "—never mind.”

The group returned to looking through binoculars at the Boyd Avenue gang leadership gathered on the corner, and when Decker held the glasses, Jeff eased a step back to look at Autumn.

He let his eyes go over her from head to toe and back up again, taking in the thick brown hair, the sharp and only slightly round shoulders, the slim but strong looking arms. His survey of her landscape measured her back, which was lean, and the back of her neck, which was as smooth as the frosting on Belgian chocolate cake in a bakery window. Ignoring the clinking behind him, Jeff continued to Autumn’s waist.

She happened to lean forward on the edge of the roof parapet, and Jeff was able to appreciate the ratio between her waist and hips. There was no question that she was engaged in a serious and committed fitness program, one that held her waist to probably twenty-six inches. Her torso then made a distinct and clear widening to hips that would throw the surest hands if not tracing their outline slowly. But he did not lose track, and his gaze followed those curves around to the most pretty posterior he’d ever seen. This feature sat upon two strong thighs, thighs that through the thick spandex jodhpurs exposed muscular definition, ‘cuts’ that continued down to her calves, and disappeared into her boots.

His gaze was broken by Ulysses crossing his line of vision, not quickly, but definitely deliberately, and the former Soldier moved to the parapet edge, leaned and turned his head in the direction of the gang meeting they were watching. After a long moment he went back to whatever he was doing, and Jeff went back to what he was doing.

He resumed looking her over, he’d stolen glances here and there, but never studied the way he was now. He brought his eyes back up to a side view of her face, to an uncontested look at her profile, staring at her intensely without her knowing. There is something revealing about observing a person from the side and slightly back, different from looking head-on into the eyes. Even from the side, her eyes were deep, but exciting, and he knew then that she was multi-dimensional, had done many things and was capable of many more things, she was the kind of woman who would get better with time. Jeff realized he wanted to see that evolution, and that the only way would be to lay claim the way a gentleman should.
Stone gestured to Jeff to take the binoculars, and he stepped forward, took the device and leaned slightly over the roof edge to look at the meeting.

“Imagine if we could wipe them out right now—“ Jeff’s statement was interrupted by Autumn asking Ulysses in an alarmed voice: “That thing is hot?” Jeff turned, lowering the binoculars to see what was going on, to see what Ulysses was doing with that damned ‘mortar’ thing, and was surprised to see the former Soldier in a wide stance alongside the tube, propped with a makeshift bipod. He held what appeared to be a small blue football shaped bomb above the tube opening. Ulysses grinned, “Heh heh! Cover your ears!”

“WHAT ARE YOU DO—!?”

The group stood frozen as he yelled “Hang!” and dropped the modified-at-home missile into the tube. Instantly there was the sound of a metal clang, a ‘whumpf’, and a shock wave went through them all as the round shot out, up, and away.

“YEAH!” Ulysses seemed to leap up in one bound and to the roof edge, looking down the avenue toward the gang meeting, Jeff, Decker, and Autumn still frozen where they stood.

¥

Teri heard the sound first, looked upward first, then the eyes of the other thugs followed. The sound grew quickly, closed fast, and with a ‘whoosh’ the group was rocked by a single jarring explosion. The blast was in the street, literally on the double yellow line that separated traffic, opposite K Black’s large car. The explosion was close enough to send a shock wave through them, stagger them until they fell, but not close enough to inflict injury. The parked and double-parked cars absorbed any shrapnel but did not stop the Boyd gang from being stunned.

“OHHH SHIT! YO NATE, YO NATE, YOU OKAY?” Blaze had managed to remain on his feet and watched his partner Nate roll slowly on the sidewalk. “TERI! WHAT ‘BOUT YOU? BLACK?" Teri had fallen into a sitting position leaning against the passenger door of Black’s SUV, stunned at the world that seemed to be sideways. K Black had already risen to his hands and knees, and Tone was squatting a few feet away braced against the light pole. Rayquan had already started moving away from the scene, stumbling around the corner, and there were foggy screams and yells from up and down the street.

“I don’t think I’m hurt. Check Teri!” K Black looked around, up and down the street, then upward toward rooftops. “They droppin’ bombs on us now . . . this is why we lay low!” He looked at Blaze. “You understand now? And guess what—this ain’t the m*****f****n’ police . . . this is somebody else!” With that, Teri struggled silently to her feet with Blaze’ help, and he pushed her into his car.

“Yo Black, you go! I’ll take care of this, just go!” The two thugs gave one another a quick look, and Black gingerly made his way around to the driver side of his car while still looking upward at rooftops. Pulling open the door, he seemed to start the car before he was fully in, and just as quickly, pulling away before he slammed the door shut.

Blaze then scooped up Nate, who was now on one knee but holding his ears, and they stumbled over to his car, not as deftly as K Black, but fumbled through getting in and then speeding away. Tone and Rayquan both cleared the scene next in different directions, they knew one another to be uninjured and how to reconvene later. They were all gone before the sound of sirens floated through the air.

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR F*****G MIND!?” Decker shouted the question that sounded more like a confirmed statement.

“Isn’t this what we were looking to do?” Ulysses came back with his question while Autumn looked at the makeshift mortar, mouth open. She finally found words: “I didn’t think you were actually going to—”

“We gotta go. Now!” Stone, who usually took instructions rather than issue them, was forceful. “Jeff, law enforcement will be around here hot. He has to get rid of that thing, and we have to clear this roof. Right now!”

Jeff peeked over the parapet, and turned back toward the group, who were not awaiting his instruction.

“Don’t touch the barrel!” Ulysses took off his shirt and used it to lift the tube which Autumn had already separated from the plate and tripod. Decker ran to the stairwell door, held it open, and in less than a minute they were gone.

TWENTY TWO

PERPLEXITY

“P

eople of Austland, I speak to you with genuine concern, and so I choose to speak to you directly, as I am ultimately responsible for your safety. Today, our city experienced a bombing incident. Fortunately, there were no injuries. But make no mistake, what happened was an intolerable escalation of violence that should be occurring on some foreign battlefield, not within our city. There is no purpose that allows for the creation and use of military inspired weapons, to employ these devices amongst our citizens, to initiate open warfare with reckless unconcern for public safety. This is the work of madmen, madmen who must be stopped, and they must be identified and brought to justice.”

With that, the Mayor of Austland, Les Gray, gathered the pages of his speech as the television camera shot faded out. Aides came in as production assistants removed his lapel microphone. Portable studio lights shut off and he grunted, the lighting gels removed while he tried to rise and leave though he was not yet completely disconnected. His daughter, who was also a part of his publicity team, led him away as the last wires fell from his dark blue suit. They briskly navigated cameras, producers, cables, picking up security along the way, through corridors, down brightly lit but plain cream-colored stairwells, more security, and into the parking garage with his armored SUV not even fifteen feet away.

¥

“WE’RE THE PROBLEM?” Ulysses exploded at the television; he couldn’t believe his ears. “BOYD AVE GANG ISN’T THE PROBLEM?” His eyes widened so much the white was visible all around. “IT’S US? IT’S US!”

Decker went to the muscular construction worker, who was tensed from head to toe, carefully put a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t be serious.”

“Hell yeah! They should be talking about how maybe these jerks will get the message, that people aren’t taking it anymore!”

“Ulysses, you blew up a street corner with a missile . . . you were expecting accolades?”

“Well . . . Yes! Why not?”

“Why not?” Decker looked at Ulysses the way a scientist looks at a new organism. “That was an explosion man! A mass casualty device! We all want to exterminate these people, but not even I would go that far.” Decker exhaled, calmed himself. “That wasn’t the extreme we were looking for.”

“You have a problem with this? I thought this is what the GEU was about? Aren’t we at war with them?”

“Yeah, with them—not the whole damned city! That thing could’ve hit the wrong people . . . then we’d be responsible for unintended deaths.”

“You didn’t say anything . . . while I was setting it up.”

“I didn’t know it was operational!” Decker rose his eyebrows. “I thought you were showing it off . . . I didn’t think you were going to fire it!”

Jeff jumped back in: “How’d you get the round? That’s . . . like a cannon round right? An explosive! You can’t pick that up . . . anywhere!”

“It’s a repacked training round.” Ulysses started the statement somewhat ashamed but stiffened his back as he stood and became proud as he went on. “I had a few from my defense force days.”

“Don’t they keep track of that, explosives?”

“Yes. But these did not have an explosive charge, originally. So, when we went to the range for training, a practice fire, we were given these rounds that only have a flash and bang charge. While firing, if the command ‘fire for effect’ is given, which means shoot as much as often as you need to, to effect damage on the target, if there’s more than two teams firing, there’s no way to keep track if a mortar team didn’t use all their ordnance. So, from time to time, I would stash a round.”

“You could get put away a LONG time for that.” Stone looked at Ulysses with a smirk after making the statement.

“Yeah.” He answered without looking back at Stone.

“And then you get a hold of some commercial grade ingredients and repack it?” Stone raised an eyebrow waiting for an answer.

“Not commercial. Military grade, but yeah”

“You could get put away a VERY long time for that.” Stone looked away nodding in disapproval.

“Yeah.”

TWENTY THREE

“Get that skank outta here!” Autumn was furious. Coming through the door, the first thing she saw sitting before her on the living room sofa was Shawn, bandaged but home from the hospital. She’d left him up in his bedroom napping, but he had found the strength to come downstairs, which initially brought on her smile. But as she entered the room, she could see next to him was Saturday, the source of the current problem.

The tale had come to light, the group of male impersonators that had beaten her son unconscious were friends of Saturday, or if not friends, associates. The pretty young lady had borrowed money and accepted a favor from the sinister dykes, and they, or the one she now knew to be Teri of Boyd Avenue, wanted their due. Shawn was unknowingly mixed into this street crap, but for him to further associate with her was unacceptable.

“Young lady, I want you to leave now. I’m not going to ask again.” Autumn looked at Saturday then to Shawn. “I can’t belieeeeve—”, she let the word stretch with a disdain that could not be missed, “--you let this guttersnipe—”, Autumn sneered at the young woman, “--in MY house. Didn’t you tell me it was her dyke buddies who attacked you?” As she finished the question, she slowly set her bag on a tiny French table, not taking her eyes off the young couple. They equally watched her.

“Why aren’t you moving?” Autumn locked eyes with Saturday, unimpressed with the young woman’s physique. Her young body may be athletic, but so was Autumn, and the young lady would be no match for an older woman’s treachery.

“Mom . . . please . . . there’s more to this—”

“Get out now.” Autumn reached into her handbag and produced a low-profile Taurus pistol, small enough to conceal, but still deadly. As the couple’s eyes went big, she racked the slide, put one hand on her left hip and threw that same hip to the side in a model-like pose, and hung her right arm on the other side with the small gun in hand, trigger finger resting outside the trigger guard. She looked like a movie poster.

“This better be good.”

Big eyed, Saturday slowly spoke: “Those girls are not my friends, I’m not in their ‘gang’. I just know them from the neighborhood. That’s all.”

“Shawn says it seemed like you two had a relationship.”

Saturday sighed, to which Autumn smirked and Shawn looked surprised.

“You a carpet muncher?”

“Mom!” Shawn covered his face with his hand.

“She wanted to start something with me. I do not have . . . any interest.”

“Then why are you talking to her?”

“Mrs. Lee, the streets are tough. Tougher than when you were young—”

“Careful.”

“—I don’t mean it like that, no disrespect Mrs. Lee. But . . . they run the neighborhood . . . Boyd Avenue crew, you roll with them, or they eat you. And then Teri, that’s her name, Teri, would always come and talk to me at the bus stop. I thought it was strange, but I didn’t want to be rude, and it turned into her wanting me to come hang out with them. She never said anything too forward or aggressive, she never disrespected me or anything like that, so I thought she was okay.

Then I hit a bad time. I was short on cash and she lent me money, said she was helping me because we were just ‘friends’. But that’s how they suck you in, slowly, just being ‘friends’, then, when you have a problem, here they come to ‘help’. It’s different . . . when a guy is into you, you know it right away, mostly they make their intentions clear, or at least, you can figure it out. But these dykes are like wolves; they find wounded people, and follow them around pretending to be platonic friends, but keep hanging on until they’re close enough that you can’t push them away without losing a friend. And there’s repercussions.”

“Repercussions?”

“Yeah. Like if you realize they’re slowly sucking you into their lifestyle, and try to pull away, they gang up on you. Not physically, but a mental game. Criticism, accusations, ostracized. It’s like a cult. Then they introduce self-doubt, that you can’t handle the world without them . . . that you can’t trust men, or other girls you might have beef with. They offer protection! No one tries to mess with you when you’re with someone like Teri. In my case, once I was friends with her, my problems in the neighborhood died off. But by then, it’s too late, they have you. Female wolves.”

Shawn looked shocked. “I didn’t know this. Is that’s what it’s like?”

“Yes. Have you ever noticed that when you see a lesbian couple, the ‘female’ one obviously has a self-esteem problem? Really small, or really big, or butt-ugly, or goofy looking . . . or stupid? I mean, there’s exceptions, I’ve seen a few dykes with hot looking girlfriends, but that’s rare. They accept you no matter what—anything goes. Men don’t. And that’s another of their ways in.”

“Were you involved with her or not?” Autumn wanted the main question answered, but also wanted to hear this out. None of this went on when she was young. The dyke was usually a rare occurrence, she could count exactly one that she knew of when she was young.

“NO!” Saturday grew exasperated, “But what I’m trying to tell you is that knowing one helps! It’s like being in jail, if people THINK you’re with a dyke they leave you alone—no more worrying about getting jumped by a gang of girls, the dyke chick will do your fighting for you! And some guys like it, because they think that if a girl is with a dyke, then she’ll do a three-way or weird sex.” Shawn, despite his complexion, turned red, as his mother’s stare shifted to him. “So, NO! I wasn’t involved with her—but it doesn’t hurt to have a dyke on your payroll.” She calmed. “I owe Teri, K Black, and the Boyd Avenue people seventeen hundred dollars.” At the mention of the name ‘K Black’, Autumn’s attention picked up. He was the one the G.E.U. was tracking. “Because of that, when she saw me with Shawn, she’s like, ‘he didn’t lend you money, we did; he didn’t handle your beef, we did. So you should be with us’. It was like Shawn wasn’t even there. Sorry this happened.”

“Sorry? This weirdo stuff nearly got my son killed.”

“Mrs. Lee, I didn’t ask for this, I am not involved with these people. If anything, I need help to get away from them.”

Autumn looked at the young lady a moment and there was silence. ‘Saturday, if that is her real name’ Autumn thought to herself, seemed to not be of the street culture. She sat erect like the girls at the Condolezza Rice Academy, there wasn’t a cascade of slang and curses falling out of her mouth, and she wasn’t pocked with tattoos. Her demeanor was very respectful. This was no gang girl. This was a decent young lady who foolishly got caught up in a street game she could not control.

“Who are your parents? Do they know about your troubles?”

“My father is a harbor pilot, sometimes he stays at work for days, so I hid this from him. My mother is a retired schoolteacher and is away visiting family. She doesn’t know about this either.” She lowered her head and her voice cracked. “I thought I could handle this myself.”

“Get them on the phone. I’ll help you make some money—legally--to pay these hoodlums off, get you out of this. But I need you to tell me something.”

TWENTY FOUR

“This wasn’t the police. No way. Artillery! Artillery? They almost got us! Just like that!” Teri snapped her fingers. “This is war shit. Military shit. Yo Black, we gotta get these m*****f*****s!” Teri suddenly looked sad. “Probably the same people who killed Felicia.”

“What?” K Black suddenly had a revelation. “This ain’t the police. They will do some scandalous shit . . . but . . . but not this. We got a big problem to solve. This was someone with some kind of know-how.”

Nate looked up. “What? How . . . why? I know military dudes, they not worried ‘bout us, some of them come home, can’t find money, but they crazy aggressive, so they want to get on with us.” Nate was shaking as he spoke. “These blocks are ours. Everyone we know, our main rivals, either wouldn’t or couldn’t do this, and whoever coulda done this we don’t know of—”

“The organizer.” K Black cut him off. “This dude isn’t the harmless sheep we thought he was. We were looking at this all wrong. We had the whole area sewn up, even law enforcement wasn’t steppin’ up. But the whole time, who’s been speaking up?”

“The activist.” Teri shook her head in a moment of realization.

“This Jeff Jones guy.” K Black bit his lip and affirmed the thought. “It’s gotta be him.”

“One man is puttin’ it on us like this?” Nate still had not stopped shaking. “Him?”

“It’s him.” Black rubbed his chin, but then shook his index finger at Nate: “But you right . . . he’s not alone. We gotta find out who’s with him.”

“You should talk to that promoter chick . . . see what she knows. He must have a secret army, and if he does, there has to be someone out there that knows about it.” Nate produced a cigarette, Black lit it for him.

TWENTY FIVE

Ḧe had driven for four hours, from a major highway, to a local road, to this dirt road, to a point in the woods that was only known to an amateur gunsmith from Ranchland and a few wild coyotes. The man awaiting him was leaning back against a pickup truck, a shotgun propped against his hip. As Ulysses exited his older model Indian Motors ‘Himalayan’ SUV, the man did not move.

“Jake?” He waited for a response, only received a nonchalant nod. “Thank you for meeting me halfway.” Ulysses removed an envelope from the cargo pocket of his utility pants, opened the rear of the vehicle and left it open. Turning, he approached the man slowly, holding out the payment for his purchase to illustrate he was not a threat. There surely was, somewhere, a backup with a scoped rifle pointed at his heart, with instructions to shoot Ulysses if anything seemed amiss.

“Not a problem. But why don’t you just leave that place? They won’t let a man protect himself, we gotta meet in the woods like criminals or something. That’s why I won’t go past the border. In Ranchland you have the original freedoms those dummies in Austland revoked.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have a big city—”

“Don’t need one neighbor.” Jake smirked at Ulysses. “We ain’t here begging y’all for nuttin’. And we ain’t ask for your big cities . . . we got what we need. Live off the land and our hands. Fishin’, growin’ food, raisin’ cattle and ranchin’, and huntin’. Specially huntin’. But in your city, you can’t even get a damned gun or knife to protect yourself or hunt. Livin’ off artificial food. So, you come to Ranchland—you came to me . . . remember?”

Ulysses let it go, this simple man who had built his life around self-sustenance, around surviving on his own, and from within a handmade shed had manufactured a pistol, a hunting rifle, and most importantly, a recoilless rifle with ammunition. He might not be rich, but he would never go hungry, and anyone who came to rob him probably would not live to tell about it.

“You win. Here’s your cash.”

“Why thank you! It is truly a pleasure doing business!” After a second he snickered just a bit and let out: “You do have some good lookin’ ladies there though. Well, at least the ladies who are still ladies.” With that, he smirked, and the outdoorsman slapped the side panel of his pickup truck, and two men who had been laying in the vehicle bed arose, each with a rifle at the ready. Ulysses froze. “Easy fellas! Let’s get this gentleman’s merchandise loaded up!” He pointed at the Indian made car, “Put it right in the back!” The man grinned as his cohorts slung their weapons, picked up the various weapons parts and carried them over and loaded them in. “You ain’t gonna find better workmanship than that piece right there!”

“The M80?”

“Yeah. When you sent your message, I was actually impressed that someone from over that side knew what it was! Let me tell you: this thing was a pleasure to machine, and even more fun to test it! Have fun with that!”

“Thanks again Jake.”

“Ahhh, it’s nothin’. But tell me, your truck, that’s a ‘Himalayan’ right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a rare vehicle, only a few left on the road. Good transport, them Indian mechanics in Maharashtra got it right with that line. But, you sure you wanna use that for the drive back? Makes you easy to spot.”

Ulysses sighed. “That’s what I got . . . it’s all I got.”

“I tell you what. I believe in what you’re doing. And so do some folks back in Austland. I’m gonna make a phone call and make sure you don’t get stopped.”

Ulysses was stunned. “Thanks . . . Jake.”

TWENTY SIX

INVESTIGATION

“Is

this the work of policemen?” The Mayor looked one after the other at his chief of police, the deputy chief of police, the internal affairs chief, and the local federal investigations director. None had an answer, the sizable office remained dead silent. Mayor Gray turned to the military liaison to his right.

“Everyone, this is Colonel Ferrara of the National Defense Force.”

The military officer, in a simple charcoal gray semi dress uniform, at the mention of his name and title, sat upright, then relaxed slightly. There was an uncanny mixing of his closely cut salt and pepper hair, a stylist couldn’t have done it better. His build was visibly lean, but not bulky, a soccer player’s physique. He nodded acknowledgement to Mayor Gray.

The mayor turned back to his staff and went on: “He commands the local defense regiment, and among his units is an explosives forensic team, they call it E-F-T for short, it’s part of a larger Military Law Enforcement unit. They conduct investigations of all sorts involving explosive weapons and ordnance. In performance of his duty, he’s been to many dangerous places along with his personnel, and he has some of his people on standby to assist.” Mayor Gray gestured to Chief Troup to his left, “I called him because Chief Troup’s early reports indicate that the device that exploded on the boulevard was ‘very similar’ to a military weapon.” He stopped, let the thought sink in. “Chief, can you expound?”

“Yes your Honor.” The police chief adjusted in his chair, causing the wood to creak just a little. “Yesterday, we received as many as ten emergency calls about an explosion on Golden Thirteen Boulevard. Several patrol officers responded along with the explosives/incendiary unit, and their analysis indicates that the device that was used was similar to a military weapon. We’ve never seen anything like it, and that is not meant in a sense that it was some sort of superweapon. We’re just stating that this is the kind of thing is not normally encountered on a city street. Most importantly, it was not planted, or thrown . . . the impact area indicates it was possibly a projectile.”
Everyone remained quiet.

“I don’t need to explain the significance of that. I recommended to the Mayor at that point that we needed help, maybe some experts from National Defense, who will know what we’re looking at.” The Chief gestured to Mayor Gray.

“Thanks Chief.” He nodded at his rigid Chief of Police, a man of rock solid demeanor who rarely broke his professional behavior, and saw that, that same sternness, must have been humbled to recommend bringing in the Defense Force.

“Working with the National Defense personnel, we seek to have their team examine the residue and fragments and give us an assessment.” The Mayor momentarily turned to the Defense Force commander, then back to his gathered staff. “Colonel, thank you for getting here quickly, and for spinning up a team of forensic techs to work with our police. I want your personnel to provide technical assistance in determining the nature of this device. Our department has bomb experts, and is quite capable, but as Chief Troup just described, this was a device that seemed to perform like a military weapon. We want your team to look at what occurred and what is left of the, the . . . rocket . . . chief?”

“Yes, your honor.” The Chief remained stone faced, turned slightly toward the crisp but moderately decorated military officer. “Can you help us Colonel Ferrara?”

“Good morning your honor, official staff.” He made eye contact with all present, then answered Chief Troup. “Yes Chief. Our ordnance team does this kind of analysis in many different environments as part of their job description.” The officer glanced toward Mayor Gray. “We can help. I’m looking forward to working with the chief here—"

“Likewise.”

“—and showcasing how my people can be an asset to your department. We want to keep their technical skills sharp with real-world scenarios . . . this provides us with hands-on training that will be mutually beneficial.” With that, the Colonel resumed a seated at attention pose, only letting his eyes shift, shifting to see how receptive the Mayor’s advisors would be to the suggestion.

“Colonel, how soon can your team begin work, and do we need to provide anything?"

“We can start this afternoon, provided . . .” There was a slight pause, “. . . the city picks up a portion of the funding, such as lodging and per diem.”

The Mayor turned to his advisor from the budget office, who first rolled his eyes, then sighed.

“Marty, we need this.” Mayor Gray focused intently on the city’s chief accountant.

“Sure Les, we can do it . . . we’ll pick up the tab.” The small man took off his glasses and looked out a window, sighed again.

“Is that the only hurdle?” There was no response from the group. “Good. It’s reassuring to find out that even the National Defense wants to know who’s picking up the tab for dinner.” There were a few snickers and snorts, and the Mayor ended the meeting. “Okay staff, get with the Colonel and his assistant—”

“Adjutant your honor.” Colonel Ferrara corrected him politely.

“I beg your pardon Colonel.” He refocused on his staff. “Work out the details for this so that they may come in immediately.”

With that, the discussion broke into sidebars, and little by little the officials departed. The police chief deliberately delayed his departure, told his driver to wait for him at the elevator bank. Thankfully, he was able to time his exit along with Colonel Ferrara, who had pulled away from his adjutant momentarily to talk to the Chief Accountant. His body language was noticed, as the Colonel detected that Chief Troup wanted to talk privately.

“Colonel, I have a special request.”

“Anything Chief.”

“Is there a way you can do a database search and identify any local former or current military personnel, particularly those with experience with this kind of device?”

The Colonel raised both eyebrows, stared at the police chief, who did not back down. “You want me to . . . investigate . . . Soldiers? Our own? Investigate, implicate, and give up . . . Veterans?” The Colonel’s stare became hard. “You want to knock on the doors of men and women who are, or have, sacrificed for the country?” His face tightened even more, “Are you f*****g kidding me Chief? We came to help! And now, I should help you . . . target warfighters and veterans?” His glare did not change. “Does your mayor know you’re asking me this?”

“Colonel, I have to.” Chief Troup maintained eye contact with the angry military officer. “You heard the preliminary research . . . this wasn’t a simple homemade bomb. Who else should I look at? Who would have the know how?”

“Do you have an anti-sedition team? Send them after some of the known threats you invite to live here in your socialist utopia!" Colonel Ferrara turned to walk away, but the police chief moved in his way, which brought a look of surprise.

“If it were a simple stupid bomb, I would.” The chief looked around and lowered his voice. “You heard the description of the device. That wasn’t just a bomb. And I’ll share this with you—” He looked around again, “We have surveillance video of the scene . . . though the aim was off, the impact was near a group of local gang members. That same gang had two of its members killed on Golden Thirteen Boulevard a few days ago, again by mysterious unidentified attackers.” The Chief leaned in close, tried to speak without moving his mouth too much, “I have a hunch this is a gang battle. We already know that the gangs try to recruit young troops after their discharge from national defense. It only makes sense to investigate it. Who else would have the guts and the know how to do this and almost hit target? A lot of people can make a bomb. Some can make a rocket. How many can make a bomb, put it on a rocket, and hit target? Colonel, do you think I want to send officers out after veterans? For no reason?”

“You think someone with military training did this.” Colonel Ferrara said the words more like a statement than a question.

“It’s likely.”

TWENTY SEVEN

PLANNING

Ön Striver’s Row street, in their apartment converted to an operations center, the leadership of the officially unknown Gang Extermination Unit sat silently, arranged around the room in various positions of relaxation, each in their own thoughts. One was missing. Stacy had not yet arrived, but she was critically needed at this time. If anyone knew what the public’s reaction was, the street level reaction, it would be her, even more than Jeff. Stacy would be able to extract the raw opinion of ordinary citizens, while Jeff was tuned into people who were more socially, culturally and politically active.

Jeff was not worried in the danger sense; his worry was in the anti-criminal campaign being shut down, leaving the gangs free to terrorize with impunity. It had taken long to carefully find like-minded people who were willing to risk everything to carry out their vigilante work. Amazingly, or thankfully, the GEU had formed without a single leak. No one knew how it existed, but people knew that something existed, something that was targeting the gangs and making them pay.

Simultaneously, Decker thought about the day he met Jeff at a real estate seminar. They both were angered that investing in their own neighborhood was a losing deal because of poor property appreciation rate. You could not hope to sell real property when prospective buyers were stepping over crime scene tape. Not unless you were ready for a small profit margin, or in it for a very long term hoping that things got better. Jeff surmised that left local investors, and the need to rent out apartments.

Decker himself had gone out on a limb, purchased a four-story brownstone with a price tag of one million, five hundred thousand, and lost it a year and a half later because of bum tenants. It nearly broke him financially, and he was adamant about attacking the problem at the source. Though he smiled through his problems, and rarely showed his rage, Decker blamed the ‘undesirables’ as he called them, for how they dragged down any neighborhood they landed in.

Next to him, Autumn’s mind was on her son, Shawn, home recovering from injuries from the gang beating he suffered. Thankfully, he was alive, no permanent damage, but just the thought that he had been mauled by a gang was upsetting. But a mob of violent lesbians? It was shocking. Women hurt my son? She was angry enough to act. She’d watched some of her friends mourn the loss of sons or other family members to the streets and had lost faith in community leadership, city officials, and law enforcement that seemed to be okay with it.

Hearing Jeff speak at a public function, she had read between the lines that he was different, and further discussion suggested that he was part of a group that was going to take real action. She’d never envisioned this, but she was satisfied that it turned out to be this—and was ready to commit harm to what she perceived as an imminent threat to her son, herself, and the public.

Ulysses stewed while leaning back in his chair, he’d gotten in the fight, and now he was being criticized for doing what he thought they were here to do. He’d watch the Boyd Avenue gang for years, and surmised them to be earthly demons, deserving of only the most horrible fates and violence that could be imagined and brought to their reality. They had corrupted an entire neighborhood, destroyed lives, taken lives, and struck fear into those who wanted no part of the street game. He’d never had the ability and opportunity to do anything about it, but now, older, stronger, wiser, and even angrier, he felt it was his calling to kill every one of them, regardless of other considerations. ‘Damn right I dropped a mortar on their asses—I’ll do it again with or without permission.’

Approaching their location, Stacy glanced around nervously as she neared the building where unbeknownst to the neighbors, the G.E.U. was headquartered. She put on her signature smile, wore the usual flower in her hair, but closer watch would detect that her stride was different, that her internal balance was off. The men she passed still turned to sneak a look at her, but she avoided their glances and broke eye contact with people she knew a bit more abruptly than she normally would. Stacy carried a fear that had to be masked.

For all intents and purposes, Stacy was a spy. She utilized her status as a socialite and promoter to gather information about the gangs, gangs who had no clue about her true allegiance. They were complacent when faced with her bright smile and glowing complexion, and curious about her full figure, which allowed her to deftly extract small bits that could be aggregated to a solid nugget of intelligence to act upon.

The same could be said for her relationships with local law enforcement that she also mined for just the smallest bits of data. The police were far more disciplined with their operational security. But they were also not perfect, ultimately most were men, and in the male testosterone environment she could just wait for the macho males to compete to show how important they were. After careful manipulation she would get at least a name of a subject or an investigation from a macho man wanting to show he was the truly pivotal piece in the crime prevention/criminal justice puzzle.

But in either case, discovery would be disastrous. Either group would be furious if her motives were revealed, the former group would kill her, and the latter would find a way to ruin her near-celebrity social life and income.

Stacy unlocked the door to the apartment, entered briskly while shutting the door behind her, and traveled through the empty rooms, populated with only a few pieces of furniture and decorations obtained from the local second-hand store. Reaching the last and smallest bedroom, she flicked the light switch on the wall four times, waited.

“That must be Stacy.” Jeff acknowledged the unspectacular sconce on the wall that flashed and pointed at Decker. He rose, went to a rear room in the apartment, opened the closet, and lowered a telescoping aluminum stair that led through an opening in the floor to the apartment below. Carefully, and almost sideways, he descended the narrow stair in the darkness, and at the bottom he unlocked the door using the variable cylinder lock that secured it. He opened the door, and once Stacy held it, he turned and re-ascended the same stair he had come down, again almost sideways to accommodate his long legs and wide shoulders. She then entered the closet, applied the lock and spun the cylinders. Still in the dark, she climbed the stair almost sideways behind Decker, getting her sexy hips though the trap door would be tough.

“Look who’s here!” Jeff acknowledged Stacy as Decker returned to his original seat. Stacy made a face that communicated she’d had a tough day, took a seat next to Autumn. “Tough day?”

“You’re joking right? It’s getting tense out there—on the street.” She huffed, “And in there—in police headquarters.” Stacy sat back, pushed her hair back, threw a sardonic look at Ulysses. “Blowing up street corners gets people concerned, and it makes cops in precincts really unpredictable.” She let out a breath, “The Mayor has brought in outside consultants. Not sure who, but it must be an entity with more expertise than the city. In the meantime, the Explosives and Incendiary group is already looking at what they call, ‘evidence’. But no one knows what to make of It, to our advantage. We might want to stay quiet for a while. I do know, they will probably be watching ‘Boyd Avenue’ gang and any other major players in the street game.”

“We’re going to seize the advantage.” Everyone looked up at Jeff, who was not even bothering to make any eye contact. He began scribbling notes on the medium sized whiteboard, “This gives us the opportunity to go after some of the less organized thugs, the loose cannons. Doing that will send a message to the less organized hood element that they too are targets, they will not get away, that the big-name crews are not the only criminals being looked at.”

It was quiet for a moment, and the entire group was unsure. Internally they all questioned if it was a good idea, but no one spoke.

“Everyone’s clearly excited.” The statement was droll. Jeff’s eyes jumped from face to face.

“Let’s go with that.” Suddenly, Decker gestured to Jeff to go on, and he did.

“We know that Saturday’s weather is forecast for eighty degrees, light breeze, clear skies. Thugs like getting out in good weather. Stacy, any of the local troublemakers planning anything?”

“Big ride for ‘Dippin’ Hard’ motorcycle club. One of their members is also a DJ, at the place on DuBois boulevard. I’m good with him, I talk up the club, they put me on the VIP list.” She only glanced at Decker a second, only long enough for him to notice. “Anyhow, ‘Dippin Hard’ is the same motorcycle club that robbed and beat up a couple of Sailors last month after a traffic dispute. They’re not a gang per se—”

“Bunch of guys on motorcycles, wearing leather jackets with their group name on it, beating people up--isn’t a gang?” Ulysses looked shocked.

“Ulysses, you’re new to this . . . wait to comment until you understand what we’re doing a little more.” Jeff looked the new G.E.U. member in the eye, not glaring, but enough to let him know he had spoken out of turn.

“Sorry, but I just don’t get that.” He threw a quick look around the group and then met eyes with Jeff again: “Not tryin’ to be a smart ass. I . . . I just don’t get that.”

Jeff looked at Decker, then Stacy, and for a moment an unspoken conversation took place among the three. “We’re here to do exactly what we said Ulysses—by the way we need to get you a name, I like Greek literature, but ‘Ulysses’ doesn’t work well over the radio. Plus, if our signal is picked up, your name is uncommon enough to stand out. I’d bet there aren’t too many ‘Ulysses’ runnin’ around Aust.” The GEU leader refocused. “We are here to exterminate thugs, but there is a process of analysis we follow: classification, surveillance, and eventually targeting. Calling everyone gathered in a group a ‘gang’ will send us in too many directions and is not productive.”

“Okay Jeff. I’m just really wanting to get at these guys.” Ulysses leaned far back in his chair and exhaled.

“Understood. You’ll get your chance soon. But not if we’re impulsive or undisciplined or emotional.” Jeff smiled at Ulysses, then at Decker and Stacy. He went on: “So, over on Smalls Street, we have this bunch of troublemakers that we’re already familiar with. Like Stacy said, ‘Dippin Hard’, they’re not really organized into anything, they’re just a bunch of hoodlums centralized to the group of apartments and an old two-story house there. Over the years they’ve killed a few people, robbed lots more, and intimidated the decent people who don’t have the resources to leave. We’re gonna hit them, we just need an opportunity when they’re all together. Stacy?”

“After a big ride, they throw a big barbecue and later that night some may hit the club. But the barbecue is what it’s all about. The whole group will be there, the girlfriends will be there, friends and friends of friends will be there. All in one spot.”

“Are there ever children at this thing? Or anyone else we don’t want to target?”

“Never”

“Ulysses, you’re getting your shot at this. You wanted action, you’re going in.”

He sat up straight and looked around, then at Jeff. “Sure thing, what do you want me to do?”

“Get in. Get us in. You’re point man, requires a certain amount of boldness—”

“I know what a point does.” Ulysses cut him off, stood up. “I know a few people, I’ll get in, but I don’t know about how to get the rest of the team in. And I’m not sure what you’re willing to do, to let me go off-leash, being the new guy.”

“No leash. We want violence. This is a kill mission. Anyone there is the problem or friends with the problem.”

“What does the property look like? Need to know how it’s laid out. I know where it is, I’ve passed that spot before, but I’ve never seen it up close or inside.

“There’s a gate, one gate to the yard.” Stacy answered as she moved to the whiteboard, picked up an erasable marker and started sketching. “The gate is right next to the side of the house, and the yard has a six-foot wood fence all around.” While she half-turned to draw, Ulysses focused more on her shape than the whiteboard, but no one noticed as she went on: “Anyone in the yard with their back to the far end would see any entry coming through the house or the gate on the side.”

“So why are we doing a frontal assault?” Ulysses’ question caused everyone to look at one another. “Does any of the fence face a wood line or abandoned property?”

“Yes.” Stacy answered again. “Empty lot, some dumped cars back there.”

“Perfect . . . concealment for approach. Let’s do that.”

“I can show up and influence their set-up, ensure they’re facing the house.”

“No Stacy.” Decker spoke up. “You’re our secret agent. We don’t want you near any action or situation where you may be injured, or even worse, they figure you out. When we hit’em, they may start to wonder about anyone not an actual part of their crew, especially if you’re the only one not getting shot. Your role is to get the information.” Decker stared at the socialite long, he knew she longed to do more. “And that is more important than what you could do operationally. We lose you . . . we can’t see.”

There was silence for a long moment as the room of vigilantes retreated into thought. They just as quickly came out of those thoughts. Autumn broke the silence.

“What am I doing?”

Jeff pointed at the layout of the backyard. “This is tentative . . . to be updated.” He drew arrows as he spoke. “Wherever the ladies are, zoom in on them.”

“Oh, I can’t handle the men?”

“No, you can, but I want you to focus on their ‘girlfriends’ because we will probably overlook them because they are women . . . even though we now know that some of these street chicks are more gangster than the men. Some will come at us like men, and we will hold back because they’re female. You won’t do that.” He paused drawing. “You’re not okay with that reasoning?”

“You cleaned it up.” She shifted her crossed legs. “But it makes sense. You guys, especially gentlemen, don’t appreciate the sheer unpredictability of women and our potential for violence. You let conniving women get away with murder, especially if we’re good looking.”

Stacy broke into muffled snickering.

Jeff ignored Stacy and went on. “You handling the females also makes for a better look; don’t want the inevitable street talk that somebody’s chick got lit up by a man. Even though they’re way past playing the, ‘I’m a girl’ card, it’ll look bad. You taking one or more of them down shows that even the women of our society are involved, have had enough. Our legitimacy will go way up.” He drew a line in the drawing from the gate to a rear corner of the outdoor space depicted. “So, to answer your question, your job is to head for that corner, clear it, then scan the yard for any other threats.” He looked her in the eye. “Eliminate the threats.” Jeff let the words sink in. “When we clear out, it will be over the back fence and through the abandoned lot. You get hit, we can handle one casualty, bring a vehicle around. Two get hit, we got a big problem. We want fast, violence of action. Thirty seconds and we’re out.” He stated for no one in particular, “Always less than a minute! A minute or more increases the chance of something going wrong! Remember—thirty seconds, we pull out. Autumn, you’ll provide rear security for everyone going over the fence, then you’ll be helped over. You will be the last out. That’s how we test you.”

TWENTY EIGHT

ON THE RADAR

“Sir

, this is what we have so far.” The science department officer directed Chief Troup’s attention to a monitor on the conference room wall. “This photograph is of the impact area of this missile, the term we’re using for the time being.”

“Not much of a crater. I remember that from my walk through. Go on.”

“Right Sir. He used a laser pointer to imagine circles around the point of impact. “But, if we look at the pavement, it was scored by the explosion. The pattern indicates it came from that direction.” On the remote, he pushed the button that advanced the next photograph. “This came from somewhere up Golden Thirteen Boulevard . . .. not more than a mile and a half, or about twenty-five hundred meters.”

“Really?” Chief Troup looked around at one of the local commanders, “And still no witnesses? Nobody saw nothin’? Anything?”

The science officer waited, then went on: “Sir, this—” he advanced the next photo, “—is the chemical breakdown of the residue sample we collected from the splatter pattern. It contains the pattern chemical signatures that we have seen in arson, but it also contains what is referred to as compound ‘B’—”

“—a military grade explosive.” Chief Troup finished the man’s sentence for him and threw Colonel Ferrara a glance. The military officer smirked slightly. There was silence as the assembled group of high-ranking law enforcement officials waited for his reaction. “I remember the arson, incendiary, combustible and explosives course from when I was a new police Sergeant.” The husky man grunted. “Keep going.”

“Sir, the next four photos are of bomb fragments

“All indications are that this was a military weapon.” He looked around the room at the various commanders and Colonel Ferrara, they one by one nodded in agreement. “Thank you, science officer Dorn.” The man stood back and to the side of the monitor, retrieved a notebook from his lab coat pocket. “Do we have input from the defense force team?”

“Yes Police Chief.” Colonel Ferrara motioned to a young, unassuming, not tall but physically solid young man of dark complexion, who moved toward the monitor. “This is Staff Sergeant Neal, the NCOIC, Non-Commissioned Officer—”

“I know, you don’t have to explain.”

“—in Charge of the EFT team—”

“—and I know what that is. Let’s get on with it.”

As Sergeant Neal began, Colonel Ferrara gave the police chief a dirty look. “Good afternoon Sir. Uh, getting right in, the fragments in this photo appear to be from a M766 mortar training round. This kind of round is not usually packed with a full charge, just a ‘flash and bang’ for practice firing. But it is possible that it may have been recovered, refurbished . . . and re-employed.” He looked from the police chief to the Colonel, then continued. “It is possible to modify the round for a full high explosive or anti-personnel capability. Given the small amount of shrapnel found on scene, the evidence is consistent with high explosive.”

The Sergeant cleared his throat. “Also, the mortar is not a line of sight weapon. Sir, that may explain the lack of witnesses. The operators of the mortar would not need to be in the open, the firing position could have been set up almost anywhere without a roof, or on a roof: an alley, loading dock, fenced parking area . . . anywhere. It sets up and breaks down in minutes, so it is highly mobile, and essentially why it is popular in Infantry doctrine. I would venture that whoever did this was not static, they, and the device, are most likely gone.”

Chief Troup didn’t respond at the Sergeant’s pause. He just held the lower part of his face for a long moment, appeared to be thinking. “Where can this be obtained?”

“Sir, a mortar tube can be improvised from almost any metal cylinder, though the safety of this when fired would vary depending on the complementary metallurgy employed. Well made, reinforced, it will fire as well as any professionally manufactured launch tube; poorly made, it could fail and kill the entire mortar team.” He let that sink in. “As far as the round, it may have been acquired from a training site, or as early as the point of manufacture.”

“Chief, point of manufacture is unlikely.” Colonel Ferrara added. “There is a stringent process of accountability, and ordnance is tracked from manufacture to delivery at a Defense Force base or training site. Stealing a round before or during shipment, it is not likely. Stealing ordnance would require a lot of cooperation between too many people. But, we’re looking into it. We have already begun an audit of orders and deliveries from three ammunition contractors, and when I get the results I’ll share them with you.”

“Thank you Colonel.”

“Go on Sergeant Neal.”

“Unfortunately, there are at least ten practice ranges from across the newly re-formed republic, in several uncooperative states, processing about a thousand trained mortar teams a year.”

The police Chief turned to his commanders. “Okay, you guys know what to do from here; in your districts, look through your records for any previously apprehended Defense Force Soldiers with this kind of experience. Or explosives arrests.” He looked to the Sergeant. “Anything else?”

“No Sir.”

“Tell me Sergeant, what does your gut tell you?”

Sergeant Neal took a deep breath, snuck a glance at Colonel Ferrara, who gave a slight nod. “Sir, I was a mortarman. In an urban setting, in a city with structures packed as dense as this, my team would have been unanimous in using a rooftop firing position. Judging from the accuracy of the first and only round, your perpetrator is probably what we call a ‘gunner’, and a really good one. To be able to put a first round almost dead on target requires expertise at sighting in the weapon. I would bet there’s at least two unexplained targeting poles out there.”

“Targeting poles. What’s that?”

“To get proper compensation through the sight for a mortar, the procedure is to stand up a targeting pole fifty meters away from the firing position, and another maybe a hundred fifty after that in different directions, but the most probable direction of fire. This enables the gunner to align the leveling bubbles and compensation—” Sergeant Neal stopped because the police chief was visibly lost. “—sorry Sir. Mortaring and collective fires is a very scientific process.”

“Clearly. I thought it was just pointing and shooting the damn thing.”

“So . . . basically you may want to see if there’s any unexplained poles or physical standouts on Golden Thirteen Boulevard. If you find them, you’re close to the original firing position.” The Non-Commissioned Officer stood back at the position of ‘at ease’.

“That’s it?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Thank you Sergeant.” He turned to the Colonel. “Colonel, can your man here go along as an adviser?” He saw the Defense Force officer’s hesitancy. “Not an active role, no weapon or sidearm, just to assist in locating possible firing locations and identifying anything we may come across. And asking questions during any interviews.”

“Allowable . . . but this trooper cannot be put in the line of fire if there’s any trouble.”

With that Chief Troup stood, and the room followed. “Agreed. Colonel Ferrara, if you could stay back?”

“Sure thing Chief.”

“Okay, go do police work everyone.” They all saluted, he returned the salute, and the room began to mill about and empty. The military officer leaned to the Chief and whispered.

“I already know what you want Chief . . .”

TWENTY NINE

Ṫhe church was quite modern, the grounds were pristine. Decker and Jeff had arrived at the melon colored brick building early for Sunday morning service, sat themselves in a burgundy velvet cushioned pew on right side, about midway between the entryway and the altar. Jeff stared up at a giant picture window that was admitting ambient light, then squinted looking at the ceiling woodwork. It was flawless. Both men had made small talk with congregants pre-service, who all bragged of the building improvements made from sudden anonymous donations. The service began on time, and the choir led the congregation and guests in a marching hymn. By the time the pastor began to deliver his sermon, Jeff had lost interest while Decker was totally consumed.

It was an amazing paradox between the two of them. Jeff, the community focused individual, held little regard for religion and saw the worship of deity as a waste of time. Oppositely, Decker was always in pursuit of monetary gain, saw the greater community as meaningless without business ownership by the members of the community, but somehow also saw the church and religion as a centering of any construction of a functioning culture. It was a stretch of conventional wisdom, but it had been a time of conventional ideas being stretched.

In the dissolution of the United States, many ideas had been turned upside down, or right-side up. Probably the wisest idea to prevail was to separate, to get all the varying factions who craved to fight away from one another. Ranchland formed to the west, almost all rural and most of the suburbs, with only a large town as it’s center. Many of the city’s people went there, especially those who valued distance from government. And there were many other similar re-formed states across the continent.

Oppositely, here, the city and a portion of its suburb became Austland. The name was a nod to the Nordic countries of Europe where the progressive social order was thought to be perfect. But here, the different strata, cultures, and ethnicities left ‘social order’ open to very broad interpretations. It was modern, a center for art and innovation, and an amazing society to live in, but plagued by the inadmission that it was not perfect, and in some ways, in jeopardy.

But no matter what state, faced with the problems of awkward restructurings of governments, populations, and cultures, one thing remained constant: the church. Jeff looked at Decker, who was one of the men who saw the church as a stabilizing agency in the confusion of change.

“Does this mean anything to you?” He whispered under his breath, “I mean, the message.” Jeff waited a moment, went on. “I come here with you on the occasional Sunday, but it means nothing to me. I pray the prayers, sing the songs, I . . .” He looked around to see if he could be heard or was disturbing anyone, “. . . listen to every word, but it just means nothing to me. And the more I try to understand, the more the purpose escapes me.”

Decker panned his eyes left, not moving his head. "Thank you, but now is not the time for one of your atheist dissertations. Please . . . for God’s sake, be polite." The words came out snippy. His focus shifted back to the front of the church, then back to Jeff. "Maybe it does nothing for you . . . but it means something to me. I feel the spirit. After some of the blood we’ve spilled, can you let me have that?"

“So, as I always say, this is your coping mechanism.” Decker did not respond, Jeff looked at his partner, sensed that he had irked him, and left the conversation there.

The congregation sang about salvation and the afterlife, and to be polite, Jeff went along with it, mouthing the words to the songs, but not really singing, feigning attention to the minister, but only half-listening. He attempted to reconsider what the older man said from his pulpit, on and on about a corresponding theme to the hymns, about how a good person should allow an unseen entity to look after their problems, to have faith that ‘God’ would get them through.

At service’s end, Decker nodded in agreement and looked genuinely satisfied in the sermon. Jeff wondered why he was not feeling what Decker was, maybe he was too scientific, or too cold personally. He couldn’t understand how Decker stuck with this.

THIRTY

ASSAULT

Ṫ

here is a certain ambience to a city street cookout. Different from the gentleness of nice neighbors in the suburbs complimenting the sauce on the singed meats and vegetables, a far cry from the children playing with a cute dog in the grass, an urban barbecue is just as competitive and tough as a basketball game. The aroma of the meat will be surpassed by the sheer amount of noise emanating from the street or building or home hosting the event. At least three men standing around the grill will argue which of them is the better cook, ‘move out the way, you don’t know what’chu doin’, laughing at each other’s metaphors for how good a plate they made last year was. ‘Them ribs was so good it made the addicts put their pipes down and eat’, followed by hysterical laughter.

There will be four tables present: one for the thirty to fifty year old men to play chess, the so-called ‘originals’ because they were gang members since their childhood; a table of men all ages focused on dominoes; a table of ‘Spades’ players or ‘bidwist’ for the more refined, arguing about talking over the table; and a table a little off from the action where women will gather to whisper about a woman present, who may or may not know she is being whispered about.

On this day, there was also a corner diagonal from the yard area entry gate where the weed smokers gathered, comparing the various grades of marijuana each was toking, discussing the merits of ‘good weed’. Also on this day, thankfully, no children were present, though some of the attendees were certainly underage, attracted by the loud music, the boisterous racket that could be heard while passing, and the motorcycles parked everywhere.

‘Dippin’ Hard’ motorcycle club had a reputation for knowing how to have fun, and if there was a problem, or ‘beef’ as they called it, how to handle business. Given their reputation, some of the local teens sought to become ‘prospects’, the newest members of the club, and to show off the tricks they could do on bikes, on ATVs, on anything with wheels and a motor. They wanted to be a part of this ‘almost’ gang, to wear the black leather vest with the sky-blue logo of a rider leaning his bike at about forty-five degrees in a hard turn. ‘Dippin Hard’ held a great deal of influence on the neighborhood, and the local young men wanted membership to the club more than they wanted anything else. Equally, the young girls all wanted to be with one of the guys who seemed to defy criticism, police, good manners, and kicked the shit out of anyone who suggested good behavior.

Ulysses dressed modestly that day, he let his pants sag a bit, wore the doo-rag that he never wore outside his bedroom, and blended in with a few unknowns just outside the fence. He hadn’t shaped his facial hair, he remained as indistinct as possible, and somehow, he made his way into the yard that easily had fifty people milling about, none of whom noticed his entrance. ‘This is a good potato salad’ he thought to himself, he had the nerve to help himself at a table completely covered by a cheap picnic blanket and mismatched pots of this and that, and even grabbed a burger from an aluminum pan set down next to him by a chubby thug wearing an apron, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He studiously reviewed the outdoor space, the positioning of the players, and used his personal device, which was not strange, to update the layout for the rest of the GEU. Beautifully, the DJ was way too loud, which would aid the coming assault.

Ulysses unlatched the gate and held it open, which didn’t attract protest because it should have been open anyhow. Jeff, slightly hunched with a Heckler & Koch UMP submachine gun, attempted to come right through, expecting Ulysses to hold the gate for him, but the newest GEU member had already turned to a man smoking a joint, whom he had heard bragging about, ‘beating them stupid assed sailor boys’. He lifted the Bratton Armsworks pistol that was tucked into a low-profile holster on his waist and put the front sight on the man’s chest. A yell screeched from a female voice as he pulled the trigger from about twenty feet away. The nine millimeter round entered the thug’s chest at an angle, through his red t-shirt emblazoned with the image of a rapper in jail, through his skin, through his heart, glanced off his spine, exited underneath his armpit, re-entered his body at the right triceps muscle and exited again. There was no sound of pain beyond a slight wince and he hit the ground soundlessly.

At the same time, Jeff, somewhat annoyed at Ulysses, but remaining focused, had shoved the gate open with his left hand, returned it to an underhand position on the front grip of his short barreled automatic weapon, and pointed at three thugs gathered near the grill to the left, his sector of responsibility. They planned that he would go left upon entry, and he did. His UMP had been modified to fire .45 caliber rounds, which was expensive for the weapon and ammunition.

But the expenditure was worth it, as the effect of the heavy caliber rounds was devastating. He sprayed at least twelve rounds in less than two seconds at them. They had been in a tight semi-circle, so almost every round hit target at chest level, the men never had time to react, and the slugs were merciless on impact. Their insides were turned to shredded roast beef, and they fell immediately with loud grunts of pain. Continuing, Jeff could hear Ulysses’ weapon popping to his right. He combat stepped, carefully taking fifteen inch steps past the grill to the far left corner.

After Jeff, next through the gate was Stone, and he proceeded along the right side fence, he carried a modified Heckler & Koch MP-5 with dot sight, though in the close quarters and daylight it wasn’t needed. The middle-aged man, unlike Jeff who preferred to point and shoot, looked down his barrel anyway, shooting at thug after thug who moved. One went for a baseball bat, another lifted his shirt and reached in his waistband, but the first was stopped by a bullet to his spine, the other by a center mass hit that threw him onto a card table covered with dominos. Stone stopped halfway along the fence, turned left, and in three seconds the first wave of the assault had created a three-position firing configuration that turned the backyard into a killing field. The older man aimed at the DJ set-up that had been vacated, but refrained from blowing it away, the music was so loud it helped mask the gunfire.

On the other side of the rear fence, Decker and Autumn hunched on old chairs that had been prepositioned, waiting for their moment to go in. They had been dropped off at the far end of the abandoned lot, and wound their way past rusted out old cars, dumped washing machines and stacks of worn out tires. Each had stumbled and tripped and even fallen over the old bricks scattered about on their way to the assault. But now, in the afternoon sun, they were prepared to go in at the agreed eight seconds after first shots.

Hearing Ulysses’ first round, they counted to eight, rose and looked over the wood fence that had been painted white, but was beginning to show signs of age. They could see the confused and panicked crowd backing toward them, and a few of the thugs recovering from their initial shock and seeking concealment behind tables or reaching for their pistols.

“ONE!” Using Jeff’s simple radio call-sign, he spoke firmly into his wrap-around microphone: “We have good vision from this side, we’re not coming over, we’ll put down fire from this side of the fence.” He turned to his left, shouted to Autumn, “SHOOT FROM HERE, DON’T GO OVER!” Seeing her acknowledgment, a head nod, he gripped his semi-automatic with both hands, leaned further over the fence and looked down to ensure no one was under his position, then raised his long barrel Smith & Wesson pistol, and pointed at one of the hoodlums about ten yards away wearing a leather vest with the ‘Dippin’ Hard’ logo. His aim steady, Decker fired. The man’s back arched and he fell to a knee while a different man and woman alternately to his left and right jerked their heads around to see where the shot came from. As the thug fell over, Decker hit him again, but it was not necessary. Meanwhile, Autumn put her sights on the woman to the man’s left, also wearing a leather vest with the ‘Dippin’ Hard’ logo on it, her head wrapped in a bandanna.

In a split second, as her fingertip exerted the necessary five pounds of pressure on the trigger, she made the mental decision that this was ‘it’. This was the moment that she had asked for and would not be possible to come back from. As the bullet left the gun, she knew that the act would change her life, and maybe even her soul, almost as much as the life of her target. But there was no time for concern over being a monster, a killer, or menace to society, this was happening, and she was a part of it. To forfeit now would be treason. Autumn rationalized that she was ending a problem that would make life better for her son and for her.      

The female thug was struck in her left thigh by Autumn’s round, and she screamed as she looked from Decker’s position to Autumn’s. Her leg kicked out from under her and she rolled onto her back, and the two women now met eyes through the pandemonium. Autumn fired again, missing, hitting the dirt next to the woman, and the female thug’s eyes widened, she may have figured out at that point that the bullets were meant for her, that she was not an unintended victim. She attempted to crawl to a table to hide but Autumn fired another round that hit her other thigh, this time entering from the rear and exiting through her quadriceps, a few inches above the knee. She was immobilized and screaming. Autumn saw another target and switched her fire to a male who was still focused on the first wave, oblivious to, or ignoring the action behind him. She missed with her first shot, which startled him, but her next shot hit his shoulder, and the lefthanded man dropped his simple, but large revolver. He too turned as he fell, and met eyes with Autumn, who fired again and hit the laying man in his stomach. His arms went back over his head and he moved no more.

By now, fifteen seconds had elapsed, and Jeff peeled back from his position on the left side of the backyard, this time pointing his weapon at the windows and patio door of the home as he retreated, Stone executing the same movement from his flanked position. Ulysses was still sniping anyone in a leather vest from his kneeling position at the gate, scanning left and right as his comrades passed behind him and out to the street, Jeff and Stone now scanning for any threats among the parked cars and motorcycles. Ulysses then backtracked out, firing a few times to keep the motor cyclers’ heads down. He stopped next to the first thug he had shot and took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, sat it on the man’s torso. Then, from the same pocket, he produced a small throwing knife, and stabbed the note to the man. He resumed his backward movement, pulling the gate with one hand as he exited, turned to an old SUV that had pulled up behind them, and in one leap was inside.

From the other side of the backyard, when Decker saw Ulysses pulling the gate shut, he waved at Autumn to pull back, and then he too fired a few rounds to keep the thugs’ heads down. Once he heard the car carrying the first wave take off, he hopped down off the chair, and picked up a soda can filled with engine oil and liquefied butane, stuffed with a cloth which was hanging out to one side. Using the torch, he lit it, threw it over the fence, retrieved a second and tossed that over as well. Immediately black smoke rose and thickened, and he turned to run through the abandoned lot. Seeing Autumn ahead of him covering his movement, he stopped to light another of the prepositioned amateur smoke bombs to conceal their departure, and then they both disappeared through the mess of rubble and junk.

In less than thirty seconds the Gang Extermination Unit had assaulted ‘Dippin’ Hard’, inflicted over twenty casualties, and disappeared.

THIRTY ONE

Ĵennifer found her way to the police station, taking time out of her busy schedule. After seeing the news, she had a hunch about the perpetrators, or at least one of them, and she was going to share it with the proper officials. There had been a call for anyone with information to come forward, promising a reward. The desk sergeant had another officer lead her to a detective who was waiting at his desk in a high walled cubicle.

“Miss Pond, we appreciate you coming forward. If you’re okay with getting right to business, explain to me how you came across this information.”

He offered a bottled water which Jennifer refused, and she dove right in: “Guy I was out with—”

“Name?” The officer did not look up, kept his focus on the notepad he was holding.

“Decker . . . Alcott --drives one of those new Nigerian sports cars, he seemed to have a, ‘I’m gonna take the law into my own hands’ attitude.” She stopped, waited for a reaction. There was none.

“Go on.” He still did not look up. Jennifer fought back frustration.

“And he keeps a gun in his car.” At that, the officer looked up.

“What kind?” He rose his eyebrows.

“I don’t know.” Jennifer felt a first twinge of frustration escaping as the officer smirked.

“Then how do you know he had a weapon? Was it a pistol, revolver, something bigger?”

“We got into a confrontation with some gang guys, and he went after them in their car. What was he going to do, by himself? When I asked if he had a gun, he never denied it.”

The man wrote down something in a yellow notepad, looked at her expectantly. “You sure you don’t know what kind of gun? A color, a size, anything?”

“I don’t know . . . the kind that shoots bullets!”

“Do you know how he came to have it in his possession?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“That’s it?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

The detective put down his notepad, smirked again in disappointment. “We’ll be in touch with you Miss Pond. Thank you.”

“You’ll be in touch? That’s . . . it?” Jennifer looked exasperated.

“If that’s all you have, then . . . well, that’s all we have.”

“I just told you, I have a feeling he’s a part of this.” They looked at each other and she realized he wasn’t reacting to her revelation.

“DO SOMETHING!”

The detective exhaled lightly in frustration. “That’s not enough information to be classified as a ‘tip’ related to the incident in question. Do you have any specific information of his involvement in this bomb or explosion? Or anything solid tying him to a crime?”

“No. I thought having a gun was a crime! Isn’t that why we separated ourselves from the Neanderthals in Ranchland?”

“Mrs. Pond, I appreciate your suspicion, but I need information that ties this person to the incident in question. Information I can work with legally. Think again, did he say anything, did you see anything, find anything?”

Jennifer only nodded negatively, looked away at the cubicle wall in disgust.

“Okay.” He looked down at the two lines of notes he had taken. “We’ll check out the owners of Nigerian made sportscars and look into the possible illegal weapon, but nowadays, a person mad about crime is pretty common.”

Jennifer stared at the detective, which he returned with a blank expression. Her stare shifted to the pictures of his family amongst the papers on the desk, up to the soft cubicle fabric with a picture of him shaking hands with that damned police chief, both men grinning.

“Miss Pond, if you find out anything we can use—” Before he could finish, Jennifer arose wordlessly, turned and stormed away without looking back, without a ‘goodbye’, past the other work areas, some in use and some empty. She burst out the stationhouse door, past two startled officers coming up the stone steps, and stomped down the street.

¥

Decker stepped carefully from the shower and onto the soft rug awaiting his wet feet. Moving to the mirror over the sink, he looked at himself in the steamed reflection and reviewed every feature of his face. From straight brown hair to squared jaw to furry arched eyebrows, he was happy with his appearance. His skin was a mix of olive and cream, but in the summer, it would tan smoothly and almost glow. Atop his physique that wasn’t terribly large, but still lean and moderately muscular, like a soccer player, his visual presentation was solid.

He’d never had a problem with attention from the opposite sex, though he sometimes blew it with his opinionated nature, and now he was done with Jennifer. His beliefs, both spiritual and political, were a constant dating hurdle. He should have gone to Ranchland, where the women were more in line with him mentally. But he was a city boy at heart, and the thought of a life without the energy of city life was depressing. So, he remained in Austland, frustrated much as he was this evening.

After his post shower routine, Decker put on a light pajama pant and t-shirt, and sat on a small chair on his terrace. He’d broken his own dating rule and been way to inviting to Jennifer on a first date, but she was so good-looking that he weakened in the face of her beauty. Normally he wouldn’t show off the coupe right away, and he surely wouldn’t have called her so quickly almost begging to see her.

‘Oh well. Men being judged by the women they kill themselves to build a world for. What’s the point?’

THIRTY TWO

Štacy stood at a high bar table in the specialty shop, nursing a cup of coffee while waiting for word from her associates. Not wearing the usual sundress, she was in black leggings, black sneaker pumps, orange shimmer top and a black bolero jacket. Hair curly, with usual flower, shimmery orange lipstick that matched her top. A club scene girl needed to always look the part, even in an obscure coffee shop there were the party crowd types who may see her. Part of her identity was to be seen as the personality to take cues from. And of course, even here, scattered about were faces she recognized and whom recognized her.

She looked down at the cup of hot brown liquid, saturated with cream and other flavors to the extent some would say it wasn’t really coffee anymore, but it smelled divine, and for her it was perfect. Stacy had grown to enjoy gourmet java more and more over the years, it almost became a ritual for her, it had to be sweetened and flavored a certain way, at perfect temperature, and every sip had to be savored and appreciated. Coming out of her daydream fascination with the simple, she raised the cup to sip, and K Black of the Boyd Street gang was walking right toward her.

He tended to move in a very indistinct manner and didn’t advertise his dangerousness, so no one around seemed to know that one of the city’s most infamous terrors was in their midst. In the streets, the streets on the bad side of the city, everyone knew who he was. But here, in the land of the pre-occupied and self-righteous, he was unknown and unnoticed.

“Hey, Miss Lady!” He spoke first, and Stacy was happy she was on the opposite side of table because he tended to either put at least one hand on or hug every woman he greeted.

“Hey Black!” The enthusiasm was fake, but she was a good actress, and if her work was to be possible, like all spies she would have to maintain false relationships.

“How are things?” He smiled wide, looked at her bosom and back up again. “You still got it. Ain’t nuttin’ changed.” Despite his criminal nature, Stacy admitted to herself that he was not unattractive. K Black looked around before speaking lower: “When are we, me and you, you and me, gonna get together? I could swing by your next affair and pick you up.” He sniffed. “If you up to being with a man like me.”

“A man like you?” The words came out partially curious, but closer to sarcastic. For a moment, they were distracted by the siren on a passing ambulance.

“Yeah . . . like me . . . you know what I’m talking about. You’re the accepted society chick, but me, the ruffian, the public menace . . . that might tarnish your rep. Can you get away with that in your world? That’s how I meant it. Oh, you thought I was talking my ego?”

“Never know with you Black.” She let the words come out without watching her tone. But she did look at her watch, Ulysses would be here soon, and this was unexpected. Gauging her response, he looked a little sideways at her, but after a moment returned to a grin.

“I just came to get some fancy coffee, I gotta handle business. But . . . when is your next affair?”      

“I’m not telling you! Last time you came with those hoodlums and I got shut down early.”

“I apologized for that, remember—”

“I lost money for that Black.” She turned serious, “Your apologies? Tell me, what would you do if someone messed up your money like that?”
K Black sighed, looked around and reached into his pocket. Before Stacy could get scared at what he was reaching for, he withdrew a wad of money.

“Here’s a ‘g’. Does that help?” She just looked at the bills he had separated from the rest, folded and extended to her. A thousand in cash that did not have to be reported to the socialists in the damned tax administration was difficult to turn down.

“Put your money away Black.” The man looked offended. “I make my own, and this doesn’t get a message to them, your ruffians. You appease me with this, and the next event I have they show up and do it again? No. Thanks, but no thanks. Put a leash on your boys.” They met eyes; Stacy realized that she had talked herself into a confrontation that she had not intended.

K Black stared back at Stacy, seriously contemplating slapping what he considered to be a stupid bourgeois chick testing his gangster level. He wouldn’t accept her attitude around his stomping grounds, but here in the elite coffee shop straightening her out would draw more attention than he wanted. Black had shot a few people for less. In a rare display of restraint, he smiled again.

“Why you talkin’ to me like that?” He slowly put the money away, looked around, and Stacy tensed. “You think I’m a punk.”

“No Black . . . it’s not like that. You know what I do, and getting my event shut down because of trouble will ruin my reputation. I can lose my following easily. I have to make sure anything I promote is on point. Isn’t that why you came out to my party, because of what you heard on the street?”

“Yeah, I guess . . .” He straightened, looked around, and moved to his right to deliberately bump into a man passing by. The impact caused the unsuspecting medium sized man to drop a coffee that splashed on both of them.

“WHAT THE F**K?” Black took a napkin off the table, started wiping himself. “You just f****d up my shoes!” He looked down at his feet, and the other man, in simple blue jeans, college sweatshirt, and scruffy haircut followed the thug’s gaze.

“I’m sorry bro, I didn’t see you.” The man looked confused.

“Didn’t SEE me?” Black tightened his face to a sneer that focused on the unknown man, who reacted by easing backward.

“Let . . . let me get you a tea . . . okay? On me.”

“Yeah, sure.” He resumed wiping himself while the man headed for the barista. Black looked at Stacy and grinned. “I’ll catch you another time Stacy.” With that he turned to leave, not waiting for her response, or the tea. She sighed in relief. The gangster walked out the shop, looked right, went left, and was gone.

And in the same instant, in came Ulysses. The two men missed one another by seconds. Stacy watched the muscular construction worker in gentleman’s casual clothes go to the counter and get in line behind the scruffy man bullied by K Black. Ulysses’ posture was strong, and even through an ordinary plaid shirt and khaki pants his physique was evident. Yet, Ulysses didn’t seem to be an aggressive sort, in normal situations, like here, none of his inner anger was visible. Almost immediately as Stacy made this observation, he seemed to comment out loud about something sports related on the shop’s TV screen. The male cashier and the bullied stranger responded, and in moments they were complete strangers chatting.

Being a promoter, Stacy admired that moment. He was outgoing. He would not be intimidated by her celebrity; should he accompany her to a society event, he would not be lost in a room if she were not next to him. She rarely entertained romance, but with the two occasions when she did, the first attempt was a man who only wanted her as a trophy and demanded that she remain on his arm; the next attempt was a quiet brooding introvert who would stand against a wall the entire evening and not interact, making her feel guilty for leaving him alone. In comparison, Ulysses would be just fine.

Then she realized—she was daydreaming about Ulysses with her.

At that moment the unknown man turned away from the counter and gestured in Stacy’s direction, before she could look away, and headed her way with the special cup of specially priced tea. Ulysses’ eyes followed the man’s intended path through the zigzag of bistro tables and his visual search reached Stacy’s table before the cup of tea did. She smiled nervously, and the stranger looked confused that K Black was gone, but also relieved. Stacy accepted the drink, promised that the intended recipient would receive it, and the man headed for the door of the shop. As he exited, Ulysses slowly made his way to her with his own cup.

They met eyes. He partially smiled. She didn’t respond, just remained locked into his gaze as he pulled up in front of her. She was relieved he was here, which also meant the assault went well.

“Well?”

He didn’t answer right away, sipped his tea, looked around.

“Well?” Stacy asked again.

“Done.” He was uneffusive. “I’m going home after this.” He broke her inquisitive stare and looked down at his tea.

“Something bothering you?” Ulysses picked up the cup of tea, sipped twice, and met eyes with Stacy again as he sat it carefully on the small round table. “I wanted Boyd Avenue.”

“I know, but they’re being watched—”

“—I know, the whole mortar thing brought on surveillance, that’s my fault. But I got in this to get the Boyd Avenue gang. Particularly. But today, I risked my life, injury, and freedom to take down some other thugs. Those weren’t the guys I had a problem with. I mean . . . I don’t regret it, they needed to be handled, but . . . I came into this with a specific target in mind. You know this, I told you day one.”

“Hmmm.” Stacy sipped her tea, shifted her weight. “You won’t be happy until you get them. Until WE get them.” She smiled halfway. “You just missed him.”

Ulysses looked confused, then angry. “Missed who?”

“K Black. He was just here.” Stacy pointed at Ulysses. “Where you’re standing.”

“Why was he this close to you?” A second time, within the space of ten minutes, Stacy considered she might get slapped.

“Because he wanted to flirt.” Stacy introduced a possible consolation. “I held him in place—if you’d come in here one minute sooner, he was here for the taking.”

“How?”

“He just showed up. I wasn’t here for him . . . just a wild chance you each come in, missed one another by less than a minute.” She sipped her coffee, Ulysses exhaled and stared at the ceiling. “And we spoke. Remember, I’m a well-known entertainment and party promoter. Thugs like entertainment too. Do the math.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” He downed the rest of his tea, the calmness he sought had somewhat been achieved. “Take care.”

“You’re headed home now?” As he turned to leave, Stacy reached out and patted the rear of his shoulder.

“Yeah.” He gave her a last look, and Stacy saw his disappointment, and he saw her caring. She felt compelled, though it was not a sudden emotion, to ask him a question.

“Can I come?”

THIRTY THREE

SOCIOLOGY AND POLITICS

“We

cannot have this continued campaign of violence on our city. We have to stop this.” Mayor Gray was very concerned about what was now clearly a war being waged in the streets, what he saw as HIS streets. The population could not be allowed to feel that a rogue band of vigilantes was running unchecked, but more importantly, it could not appear that these ‘vigilantes’ were taking action because he was not.

“Your honor, we have to address this gang problem. That’s why they’re out there. Because we’re not. Just riding around avoiding doing real police work to improve public relations is negligent. In a sane world, we’d be guilty of nonfeasance. Things are getting worse and worse. For instance, you, on the newspaper front page, chastising the zeal a young officer has for law and order is endangering the public.” Chief Troup leaned back in the comfortable burgundy buttoned leather seat, unbuttoned his dress uniform. “They don’t see the support from city hall, just condemnation. If I were a patrol officer . . . in this climate . . . I’d park on a side street and read the paper for my shift. And I’ve caught guys doing that, I have disciplined good motivated policemen, killed their morale. This idea of smiling and waving and then looking the other way from a patrol cruiser is not going to save the city. The drive and wave campaign is not how crime is prevented.”

“So your department can be the vigilantes instead?” The Mayor focused on Chief Troup. “Then I’m on the news explaining police shootings. Haven’t we been down this road? It’s been almost a year since we’ve had any controversy. Have you forgotten the tragedy outside that nightclub? The anger, the riot, the lawsuit? You want to go back to that?”

“Sir, that shooting was after a bad brawl that put several people in the hospital. I told you to let us shut down that club, and especially that promoter, but you won’t. Pull her cabaret license. Shut Stacy Williams down. But you can’t see objectively because of how she put together your inauguration event, with all of your bleeding-heart celebrities.” The Chief inhaled, raised an eyebrow. “I notice she’s a lot younger than you, but you’ve been really really nice to her—”

“Watch yourself Chief. I ain’t gonna take it.”

There was long silence as the two men, both in their late fifties, weighed their thoughts, their next words.

“I want this group of violent desperadoes apprehended. It will stop the violence, appease the people in the ghettos, and you get to announce a major achievement of law enforcement work. Everybody wins.”

“Yeah. Everybody wins.”

“Do I hear sarcasm Chief?” There was no reaction.

“You’re okay with this? With these wild men bombing street corners, mass shootings at backyard barbecues?”

“No Sir!” He dropped formality. “Les, I want to fight crime; not citizens. But we brought this on! How long were the people going to lay down, do nothing? If I were a man in this city, I’d be hopping mad, not just at the thugs running around terrorizing everyone, but at the emasculation by district government. By your office! Responsible men are forced to be unarmed, unresponsive, and unprotected, by the very administration—” he gestured at the Mayor “--that took an oath to uphold fairness and justice.”

“Don’t’ you tell me about fairness and justice!” Mayor Gray almost shouted, louder than intended, but with the correct level of indignation. “You’re so wrapped up in your authority, that you can’t see anything that questions the certainness of the world, the idea that maybe we have it wrong and those people have it right. Well, why don’t you just go kill them all? And let the vigilantes run wild.” The Mayor turned to the Chief. “I have a constituency that I answer to; every time one of your galloping officers shoots someone, I have to hear it from people demanding the police be pulled back, that I fire you—hope you’re not forgetting that part, by the way—” he nodded at the Chief to get his agreement, “—and that in the next election I should be sent from whence I came.” He sat back, calmed himself, went on. “Many of these thugs you paint with a broad brush in these neighborhoods didn’t have the chances that you or I may have had, and in many cases, they were cheated, or left out. Life’s lottery did not find them—”

“Les, you are one of these people who think that positions in life were given out randomly. There was no give-away that they were left out of. There were no secret passwords to admit some and rebuke others. For instance, my, and your, assistant Chief, grew up with a janitor dad. But that janitor raised his son, raised him right, and after thirty years of police work, he’s next in line for the department, behind me. What lottery did he win?” The Mayor was about to comment, but Chief Troup stopped him: “Let me finish! He grew up like you and me, in a time when things weren’t ‘relative’. The rules were in black ink on white paper, and people made choices. And they lived with the result of those choices. They, and we, didn’t blame vague circumstances or vaporous conspiracies. And like us, the Assistant Chief made a decision, the decision that led to him today being next in line, behind me, to run this department.” Chief Troup got up suddenly and went to the large office window and looked out at nothing. “The gang members, the thugs . . . they made their choice. And now, decent men, men with guts, that we seem to have lost, forgotten, and overlooked . . . are making their choice.” He turned, sat back down.

“They are vigilantes, and they are wrong.” Mayor Gray was firm in his tone, there was no unsureness in his statement. He followed with an even firmer proclamation. “Put an end to this, or Ralph Rodriguez will be Chief sooner than you would like.”

THIRTY FOUR

LEGS AND HEELS

Ä

s he led Stacy down the long hallway to his apartment, she slowly examined the nondescript paintings decorating the walls. His residence was not fancy, but it wasn’t a flophouse either, and some of the more artistically fluent neighbors in the building had asked permission from the managing agent to spruce up the shared areas. The result was the matte finish brown-gray lobby and green upper hallways peppered with art and the occasional indoor plant. It was nice, and a touch that Ulysses would not have achieved. Sometimes you do need artsy people.

Slowly she wandered along, and he enjoyed being able to look Stacy over, which seemed to be just as visually pleasant as the first time he saw her. He’d never kept company with a woman so feminine. The young women he’d been forced to choose from in his younger days all tended to have been influenced by fads, and thus had lost their ladylike nature, from the way they spoke, to their public behavior to their manner of dress. He had longed for a romantic interest who was a lady, valued the art of being a lady, who had no desire to take on masculine traits.

He desired a feminine woman because, though a blue-collar man as they call it, Ulysses always got out of his work clothes once he was home, and would groom himself, the way he was raised that a man should. He expected his female companion to the same, but in a feminine sense. He showered, shaved, put on appropriate clothing for the occasion or errands, and in his travels conducted himself respectfully. Yes, he was rough, though rarely vulgar, but once his workday was done, he put that away and carried himself with a more proper masculinity.

Looking at Stacy’s form, tip toeing once and again to examine the art pieces that were centered slightly above her eye level, his breath was taken away by the amazing curvature of her legs, from posterior, to thighs, to the strong calves, to her feet that demi-pointed. There was some dance in her past, and it showed.

Suddenly his mouth was dry.

Stacy must have felt his gaze, she looked at him, grinned, and resumed looking at the art. But she unconsciously, or consciously, knew she had his full attention, and tossed her thick curled tresses. In public that move would have been performed to clear the shiny locks from obstructing her vision, but here, now, it was a deliberately sinister flirtation. Looking at a black and white piece on the right wall, she locked her hands behind her, pulling downward like she was stretching, but really, it was to poke out her full chest—very unfair on her part, but Stacy knew how to be sexy. Not that she wasn’t naturally, but she knew how to turn it up even more than her natural aura of sensuousness.

She spent enough time looking at the paintings that Ulysses wondered if the woman were stalling. But Stacy was using her female nature to build up energy, to allow him to admire her, to anticipate. She was feeling quite stirred within, and this moment of sensual tension, knowing that he was admiring her, though they had never touched, was just as stimulating to her as it was to Ulysses. In a world where the lust between two people could be so crass and animal-like, the power of the attraction between her and him cerebrally was far more exciting.

She floated to where he stood, and he forced himself to turn away and unlock his apartment door. Once open, he stepped in only partway, held the door open for her, and extended his arm indicating she should enter. Stacy paused, looked into the waiting apartment, and crossed the threshold. She stopped again, right in front of him, relieved that that bridge had been crossed, and her heart pumping because another bridge was waiting to be crossed. She turned her head to meet eyes with Ulysses, who gestured again, and she smiled as she continued in. He gently closed the door behind them.

The EFT team pulled up at Number 40, Golden Thirteen Boulevard. They were bored to death. The officers had patrolled three other residential buildings of varying size along the two-block portion they suspected, not getting a single ‘hit’ from their equipment or the law enforcement working dog assisting their search. Officer Dorn and Staff Sergeant Neal were searching for evidence of the source of the mortar attack, helped by six patrol officers who were pulled off their regular assignments to assist with the search and interview task. Not quite a tactical search operation, Neal split off with three of the officers and an airborne element test equipment pack, Dorn with the other three officers and the dog. They leapfrogged through the floors of each building working their way up, and then converging on the roof each time.

Dorn thought to himself, ‘we’re not going to find anything here’, as they entered the gray-brown lobby of the building. The place was not ritzy, but it was pretty decent, not the kind place with hoods hanging out in the lobby like some of the surrounding locations. The ceramic tile lobby was clean, unmarred, and pleasantly smelled of plants. It was obvious this place was resided by tenants of a slightly more caring stripe, he doubted that a person who constructs explosive devices would center himself here.

They carried out their work methodically, each team taking a floor, not disturbing anyone by knocking on doors, just walking the halls, and asking questions of anyone they happened to come across already outside their apartment. Dorn thought about his days as a patrol officer, looked at the three with him, and pitied them. They still have to do this crap, he thought to himself, day in, day out. He had a specific function that he trained for, and no longer was tied to this vertical patrol stuff. His hunger for action in the street was gone, he preferred the mental aspect of doing this kind of police work.

“Hey, Officer Cathay, you bored yet?” He directed his question to the officer who appeared to have the most time on the job, a tall reddish-brown complexioned man with only the hint of a stomach, and as much hair as department regulation would allow.

“Sort of.” He looked at Officer Dorn curiously, assessing if the lightness of his question meant they could have a casual exchange. “Hey Dorn, how’d you get into the science department? I’ve never seen anyone interview for that . . . I mean, you obviously have a physics background . . . but . . . let me spit this out right--what I really mean is, was it a hook-up?”

The question never got answered, the working dog, nicknamed, “Sergeant Bishop”, stopped at an apartment door and laid on all fours at the ready, facing it. The officers looked at one another.

“Team two?” Dorn spoke gently into his radio in as non-alarming a voice as possible.

“This is two.”

“We’re gonna order lunch. You want in?”

One floor above on seven, Officer Tabitha Singh nodded at Neal, who repeated the head movement. “Yeah.” With that, the female officer signaled the other two officers to hold position, while she and Staff Sergeant Neal headed for the stairwell. “Just two for now.” The prearranged radio conversation was code for a ‘hit’ with either the working dog or the air tester.

“Copy.” Dorn watched as the three officers with him positioned themselves on either side of the door, but a few steps back so that they could not be observed through the peephole or take fire through the wall of undetermined composition and thickness. A few moments passed, and Neal and Singh eased out of the near stairwell onto the sixth floor, looked one way and then the other and approached Team One.

Science Officer Dorn pointed at the door, which was unnecessary with ‘Sergeant Bishop’ already doing that. Weaving in between the strategically positioned team, Officer Cathay raised the air tester to chest level and activated the device. After a very quiet minute, a light on the device flashed and Cathay looked at the screen.

“Definitely lunchtime. What do you want?”

“We’re ordering roast beef.” With that, one of the officers rubbed and patted Sergeant Bishop, and gently guided the working dog away to stand-off distance. In their silence, a conversation could be heard within the apartment, and light music. Dorn pushed the doorbell.

¥

“Arghh—who is this?” Ulysses sat his half-consumed beer on the high counter between his tiny kitchen and moderate sized living room. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone, let me see who this is.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind if any of your friends drop by—for a little while.” As he took his first step, she touched his shoulder. “Make it a very short while.” The two met eyes again, and Ulysses forced himself to go to the door. Looking out the peephole, there was a law enforcement officer there. He threw his voice to Stacy, “It’s the police.” ‘They’ve got us’, he thought to himself and his heart sank, and she looked panicked.

“Uhhh, can I help you?” He opened the door and asked the question slowly, noticing a second officer off to the side. The man’s hand was resting sort of close to his sidearm, but not on it, trying to look harmless.

“Sorry to bother you Sir, but we are conducting patrols in this area related to the explosion that occurred a block away last week—are you aware of that incident?”

“Not really.” Ulysses kept his face unemotive, didn’t flinch, nothing. “Some neighbors told me about it.”

“Well, our investigation has narrowed the source of the of the device to this building.”

“Really?” His surprise was believable. “What kind of device was it?”

“Sir, I’m only allowed to share what is already public knowledge. It was an explosive device.” As Dorn spoke, Cathay watched for any signs of deceptiveness. “Anyhow, do you mind if we look around your apartment?”

“Sure . . . sure . . . but I have company.”

“That’s fine Sir. We won’t be long.” Ulysses stepped back, held the door wider, and watched the first two officers enter, and then two more he had not seen. He sighed in relief to himself—all of his materials were in a storage room under a friend’s name.

As the officers entered the modest apartment, they were immediately in the living room, where Stacy stood leaning partially over the high counter. She had both hands lightly wrapped around a crystal flute topped off with white wine alongside the bottle it came from, and was surprised, but remained silent as Officer Dorn explained: “We apologize for interrupting your evening Miss, but we are investigating possible sources of an explosion in the area last week.

Stacy looked at Ulysses, which was caught by Dorn and Cathay. “Here? The thing on the news?” She was not as clean in her act as Ulysses.

“Yes, Miss. Do you have any knowledge?” Ulysses imperceptibly held his breath. If Stacy answered incorrectly, in less than thirty seconds they could be in handcuffs. “No . . . I don’t. I don’t live here, just visiting.”

Ulysses remained still. As did Stacy.

The next moments were then tough for Dorn and Cathay, and Neal as well, who watched the exchange from the doorjamb while the apartment look-around concluded. The two officers who had casually poked around gave negative nods to Science Officer Dorn as they brushed past to leave.

“We stopped here Sir, because we have an enforcement working dog outside, trained to detect certain chemicals and their residues. The dog indicated that your apartment was a source of substances like those associated with an explosive device. But, obviously, we found nothing. Our apologies.”

“I guess that’s satisfactory.” Ulysses kept his response short. The officers looked at each other for an awkward moment, then Officer Cathay decided the conversation was complete.

“Sorry to intrude Mr—”

“Van Hawkins.”

“Mr . . . Van Hawkins . . . really, that’s your name?”

Before he could speak Stacy answered. “It is.” She smiled coyly at them. “Really.” Ulysses frowned, as the officers looked at her. Stacy returned the look as she picked up her glass to sip. They all looked back at Ulysses expectantly.

“That’s my name.”

“Sorry for the intrusion Mr Van Hawkins. I’d like to tell you more, but that could give away information that is confidential to our investigation. Again, Sir, pardon our intrusion.”

Officer Singh looked at Stacy for an uncomfortable moment. “Aren’t you the event promoter? You sponsor mini-concerts and parties, right?”

Stacy was momentarily stunned, and they all looked at her, but all for different reasons. Ulysses’ heartbeat skipped. “In fact I do. You’ve been to one of my—”

“I was one of the responding officers at the one a month ago, a place called ‘Club Savage’ right? Big brawl that wound up on the news?”

Stacy rolled her eyes and looked away from the manly female officer. “And the police shooting.” Her tone turned snide. “That may or may not have been necessary.”

Another awkward silence. Ulysses was dying inside. ‘Please let them leave’.

“Ohh yeaaahh. You helped plan the Mayor’s thing. I remember you.” Officer Cathay examined her unintentionally.

“Ohh.” Officer Dorn nodded. Yet another awkward silence. Ulysses’ heart had not yet resumed beating. But now Science Officer Dorn decided the conversation was complete.

“We have to move on. Enjoy your evening Miss—”

“Williams.” He turned to Ulysses,

“—and Sir.”

Offering an ushering pleasantry, Ulysses calmly moved toward the door with “Officers, be safe out there”, and they followed. Opening the door, they eased out, and he gently closed the door behind them. The whole mood of the evening had changed.

¥

“What d’ya think?” Dorn mumbled the question to Cathay.

“Post an officer here. I’d get a court approval and come back.”

“Really?” Dorn thought for a second while Cathay signaled the other officers to continue the patrol.

“There was nothing.”

“The dog. Dogs don’t lie. Equipment confirmed it. Didn’t you see the girlfriend’s reaction when you mentioned the incident? She telegraphed.” Officer Cathay stopped, swung out his spread left hand slowly towards Officer Dorn’s midsection to stop him, and looked him in the eye. “You’ve been off the street too long. She knew something or knew that he knew something. We should put a man outside to watch, but we also should have gotten an authorization first, before searching. If he or her were our culprit, and we put a man right at the door now, we’ll get nothing. They’re spooked now.”

“I disagree. Nothing about those two said to me they blew up a street corner.” Dorn resumed walking while admitting, “But you’re right, maybe we can come back.”

THIRTY FIVE

Autumn rang the doorbell to Jeff’s apartment, and exhaled. She had called him to review the plan for tomorrow’s action, a flimsy excuse to see him. The truth was, wanting to be a responsible mother, she had turned off certain aspects of her personal needs, most notably, relationship needs with the opposite sex. After losing Shawn’s father to street violence, a perpetual liar who had misled her in her youth and she followed in her young girl arrogance, Autumn overcorrected by focusing exclusively on being a single mother. But with Shawn older, and herself also, Autumn’s internal systems were re-engaged. And upon seeing, and hearing Jeff speak at a public forum on community strengthening, she was immersed in a complete crush.

His uncomplicated masculine nature she found irresistible, and his presence the same. He wasn’t outlandishly built, just the perfect physique to look good in a suit. His chestnut skin played against her mahogany complexion perfectly, she could almost see them in pictures together. He, a little taller than her, she fantasized wearing her favorite high shoes when with him, or some of the snazzy hats up in her closet.

Jeff opened the door and beheld the masterpiece of beauty before him.

She smiled, a perfectly wide smile, perfect teeth and lips, perfect cheeks, bright eyes. Her hair was shiny, almost like silk, and thick. Posture perfect as usual, she wore a long red themed print dress that showed her class, style, but the pinched waist also showed her hourglass. In her right hand, another of her signature clutch purses, cream colored, and in the other, a plain paper bag with handles.

Jeff didn’t say a word, he was stunned.

Autumn lifted the paper bag to eye level to break his stare. He snapped out of his shock, commented on her beauty and his surprise, and motioned for her to enter. Taking the bag as she strutted past him, Jeff looked her up and down again. She stopped, and turned an about face, waiting for him to direct her. She was now in his space, and though she had a purpose, it would still be him leading the way. Autumn was confident Jeff would lead someplace she was desirous to go.

To ensure that, and not pulling punches, for the evening Autumn wore a fresh pair of shoes, brown alligator skin open toe bootie shoes crossed with four suede buckles. Four inches tall. The intent was to add a little scandal to the class of the dress. ‘I’m such a bad girl she thought to herself’.

Upon transitioning to the central area of the split-level apartment, which was impressively large, he pointed at a white leather sofa down in a sunk-in area. As she headed for it, and daintily click-clacked down the two steps, she was also surprised by a thick pile white rug, and, oh my! A floor to ceiling pole! What could that possibly be for? Immediately, her image of Jeff was substantially altered, he wasn’t as stiff as she thought. But Autumn remained purposed and sat on the immaculate sofa. For effect, she crossed her legs and let that shoe show, the sexy but expensive shoe that had set her back three hundred dollars.

Meanwhile, Jeff set about doing what cavemen do.

The joke in Ranchland was that the men there had returned to the Neanderthal ways of courting, whereas a male would club a female over the head and drag her back to his cave. Well, half of his work was done, Autumn had delivered herself to his cave. But he would still need to hit her over the head. So, Jeff was fashioning a club to hit Autumn over the head with, the club that modern men use: a mix of gin, bourbon, and muddled lime, with sweetened lime syrup, shaken with ice and then strained into a high ball glass over frozen ceramic drink cubes to keep it cold—his modern take on Neanderthalism.

He looked at her and smiled, she smiled back. A few more moments and he brought the liquid cavemen’s club to Autumn, she tasted it, and smacked her lips and tongue at the tartness of the cocktail.

“You know I prefer wine, right?” She smirked. “I told you last week I’m not much for the hard stuff.” Jeff took a short sip from his glass and set it on an end table, then picked up the remote that was there, and Autumn was satisfied that out of nowhere jazz music gently filled the room.

“I have a few bottles of wine . . . Chardonnay with the shrimp? Or Pinot Noir to pair with the rib tips?” She nodded her appreciation, and said, “Let’s try the Chardonnay. That shouldn’t be too sweet—” She sipped the drink he made for her and added, “— because this already is.” Jeff reached for her glass and she held it away from him, took another sip, and grinned. Autumn hummed along as the full and intent voice of Norah Jones warmly filled the room.

Jeff returned to the kitchen and lifted the take-out food containers from the paper bag Autumn had presented, one by one grinning at the portions of hot food that included grilled shrimp, a few pork rib tips, sautéed asparagus, and some fried things that appeared to be a starch or bread. A few more moments, and he had it all spread out on the counter, and Autumn wandered over, taking an indirect route so as to continue exploring the place with her eyes. It was, quite simply, the home of a successful and tasteful, but adventurous man. No man gets a place this meticulously laid out, with a pole (!) without very clear intentions, which is to make sophisticated girls comfortable enough to do his will.

The pole that continued far upward to a soaring ceiling was not a modest effect, and Autumn didn’t mind. She’d tried the poledance class at the local dance studio, and it was challenging and fun, but she stopped because of the fear that someone with a big mouth might see her, gossip about it, and embarrass her son. Autumn wisely knew how important a mother’s public face would be to a son.

Nonetheless, she’d gained a respect for the art form, which required tight physical conditioning of a more feminine nature, and all the instructors of the art form tended to be in very good shape. There was even a male instructor, whose body was like Adonis’, but he was one of the unbearably flamboyant alternate lifestyle types. Then, she wondered for a moment if Jeff used the pole himself, for if he did, it would mean she made a gross miscalculation.

Jeff produced two pieces of white china, spooned the food onto the plates and placed them in his oven to warm, closing his eyes and taking in the aroma dramatically. That done, he smiled at Autumn, and made small talk.

“This is an interesting way to spend a night before an assault.” He made the statement with a tone that suggested a detailed response was necessary.

“You have a better way to relax nerves than food and wine?” Autumn didn’t look at him as she answered. Jeff inhaled.

“Okay.”

“I have a sketch of the house.” She made the statement very casually.

“The house?”

“Boyd Avenue’s house.”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME!” Jeff caught his tone. “Stop.”

Autumn retrieved her purse and extracted a folded slip of paper, handed it to Jeff. “Here you go.”

He looked it over, it was very rough drawn, but indicated where rooms were, where stairs were. “Wow.” He looked at Autumn suspiciously. “How’d you get this?”

“My son’s girlfriend.”

“Ohhh.” Jeff found his device on the counter and captured a picture of the diagram with it. “I’m sending this to the whole team. We’ll go over it in the morning. Good work.”

They made their way through very innocent conversation, but the mood was far from that. She appreciated his form, that could now be taken in without concern about the rest of the GEU, and he did the same, amazed at yet another ‘look’ she put together.

Soon, the reheated food came out, and using padded oven gloves, he placed them on the counter, again savoring the aroma. Pushing forward the plasticware, they ate slowly, but now their conversation turned in a different direction. Autumn was curious about the pole’s presence, whom was it for? Thankfully, he stated that it was ‘fun at parties’. ‘What kind of parties?’. ‘Like this one’. She smirked.

Asking permission, she approached it, slowly at first, and leapt on. Autumn slid completely to the floor and fell, having not calculated that her long dress would be between her thigh and the smooth metal, and not have traction or grip or friction. Jeff laughed, not a snicker or muffled snort, but complete laughter, and then he got up and helped her to her feet.

Autumn lifted her dress some, much to his surprise, and underneath had on boyshorts and a halter type brassiere. Revealing her bare legs confirmed a physique in stunning condition for a woman probably over forty years. She may not have completed the poledance class at the gym, but she still managed to run fifteen miles a week and ride a bicycle on weekends. Undeterred, she leapt onto the pole again, wrapping her legs around and pulling herself upward with both hands, inching her way like a caterpillar until she reached a pretty good height.

Stunned again, Jeff sat to watch.

Autumn knew her skill level wasn’t enough to go completely aerial, but she still managed to do a few spins, arms out, and then again legs out, toes demi-pointed. She came down into a decent split, and Jeff applauded as they then broke into laughter. Standing, she fixed her dress back, and he took her hand, led her to the large glass door that slid open to his terrace. They stepped out to look at the night sky and sipped from their crystals in silence.

He turned to look at her, which she felt, and she turned to him, to be appreciated, which he did. Jeff smiled, and she posed confidently, there was a unified purpose between them that there was no need to rush, they both knew where this was going and that it was going to be quite pleasant getting there.

THIRTY SIX

‘Black’ sat in a dark corner of the bar, slouched back, puffing circles of cigarette smoke in the glow of a very dim red light. On either side of him, a young and another really young exotic dancer also sat, both smoking cigarettes. ‘Candy’, as one was called, let her hand wander in his lap gently, while the other, ‘China’, rubbed the back of his neck.

He opened his eyes just as Tabitha Singh approached, and he sat up sensing her urgency.

“Um, Black . . . I gotta tell you somethin’.” She glanced at the girls, and K sent them away. She didn’t speak right away, and each moment she didn’t, meant it was that much more important.

“Is DiFresco good?” K Black asked the question carefully, Tabitha was one of ‘Dippin Hard’s’ people led by the legendary former hood known as DiFresco. The stupid city law enforcement department didn’t know she was part of his motorcycle club.

“Yeah.” She looked around.

“Why are you here?”

“Today I was part of a search for the party responsible for the explosion a few days ago.”

“That almost killed me.”

“That really was you? Holy . . .” Tabitha sat up straight, then leaned forward again.

“And?” The suspense was irritating.

“We had reason to believe it came from an apartment building on G Thirteen.”

“The Boulevard? A building?” He thought for a moment. “Which one?”

“Forty. But Black . . . we had reason to check a particular apartment.” Tabitha huffed. “Your chick was there.”

“My chick? Who’s that?”

“The promoter girl. With some guy . . . real chiseled type.”

K Black stared at Tabitha before breaking his momentary stunned silence. “What are you telling me?”

“Your chick was in the apartment where the attempt to kill you came from. That’s a hell of a coincidence ain’t it?”

He sat back, still staring at Officer Singh, reverse informant. ‘Black’ went into his pocket, took out several bills and gave them to her. “Thanks.” With that, he stood, headed for the door, but letting his route to exit take him by the bar, where he handed an older man a few bills of cash. As he left, the two young exotic dancers faded into the corner where Tabitha sat.

¥

“I don’t think we’re cool now. It ain’t safe out here yet.” Black was explaining why he had one by one summoned his Boyd Street crew back to the house, though not all had arrived yet. “But there’s a bigger problem. That scene over at ‘Dippin’ Hard’ was not from street beef. There’s a group of vigilantes working out here. Probably with that community activist.”

“You sure Black?” Nate had a bike and knew the bike groups well. “Dippin’ hard had some enemies out here. Let’s just let them have it out with whoever it is, so we can focus on our thing.” Over by the basement door, Teri nodded in agreement.

“Okay.” The idea annoyed Black. “But tell me, who’d they have beef with?” He lit a cigarette. “Specifically.” There was a moment as Nate and Teri searched their memories. Quan didn’t waste his mental energy and just switched on the television and game console.

“It could be anyone, it could be the West street goons, they ride and hustle . . . or, it could be the Tar Burners club . . . I don’t know, I’m just sayin’ they—”

“So, you don’t know. But you tell me we in the clear, off the strength of ‘it could be this, it could be that’.” Nate shut up at that. “Did you read the newspaper story? No! Cuz ya’ll don’t read! Nate, you a lieutenant, supposedly with your ear to the streets, and you don’t know the whole deal.”

“It was fast, in and out.” Teri came out with the answer. “Over in about thirty seconds. One of the hit men jabbed a note to one of the victims with a knife. It read, ‘Give up the street life or die’. That’s not the usual. Black is right, we might have a problem.”

“At least Teri’s got some of it.” Black looked at Nate who remained quiet, and then glared at Quan. “But still not all. There was a female shooter. Not a young chick either. What gang does that sound like?” Nate remained silent. “None that I know. And I talked to DiFresco, top man—yeah, I spoke to him, DiFresco of ‘Dippin Hard’. Cause he was confused by something. He’s got someone at the police, and that person knew nothing of this coming. Their informant would have known. That means this wasn’t any kind of secret SWAT team or anything like that. There’s something going on that don’t feel right, that note proves it. Ever since we tried to hit that Jeff Jones guy the first time, and the episode last week. Hear me, I didn’t want to bring you all here . . . we shouldn’t even be here now, but I needed to talk to everyone and put the word out. I think something’s coming and we need to be ready.”

THIRTY SEVEN

BOYD AVENUE RECKONING

Ṫ

he recoilless rifle was mounted inside of a delivery truck, the side of the vehicle emblazoned with the words, “Direct and Swift: deliveries right to your door”. Ulysses painted it himself, it was his personal message and dark humor. Otherwise the vehicle was not much different from any other box truck.

Similarly unnoticeable, was a young observer named Tyler they had posted in an apartment four blocks away. This young observer, a weekend hunter who made regular trips to Ranchland, sat leaning against a wall furthest away from the room’s partially open window. Through binoculars, Tyler looked at a young man somewhat like himself across the street from the target house, a young man who seemed to be waiting for something. Maybe waiting for a ride.

But the G.E.U., nor Tyler were fooled—he was a lookout.

Stone drove the truck at a normal speed, they were only a block away from their target, the Boyd Avenue gang’s hangout. He scanned the street and surroundings as they approached, while inside, Jeff and Decker stood shakily, holding onto the cargo rails. Ulysses sat on a crate behind the surplus M18 light artillery piece, proud of his acquisition skill, and eager to put the weapon to use. Not a large device, it could be broken down into parts and carried by two men but could still fire a deadly effective explosive round.

To his left, Autumn sat on another crate. She was holding a round of high explosive ammunition, and inside the crate were three more (HE) rounds, and one armor piercing (AP) round. They would keep blasting at the hideout’s door until it was down or obliterated, but after five rounds they would have to clear out regardless of success. Cannon fire was going to attract attention of the entire neighborhood and of course, law enforcement. And they found out that the police were employing equipment to triangulate and locate explosions, thanks to Ulysses’ mortar.

By now, Tyler had risen his hunting rifle equipped with a 20 x 50 scope to a steady seated firing position. The barrel rested on a bag of rice, maybe yellow rice, which sat on the table he was behind, and was receded from the window so that the barrel was not exposed. As the delivery truck with the assault team crossed the intersection before the house, he exhaled, and as his lungs emptied of carbon dioxide, and paused before drawing in oxygen, he lightly squeezed the trigger. The Boyd Avenue lookout fell as the seven-millimeter round from Tyler’s rifle entered his chest right at the heart.

Tyler wished he could nail a deer with the same accuracy.

Stone let out a deep, deep breath after easing the truck to a stop across the street from the house, point blank range for the mini cannon. Grabbing his rifle, he opened the driver door, calmly exited facing away from the location, and threw a blanket over the dead lookout. Looking around again, the sidewalks were clear, no traffic in sight. They had picked the right day, the right time, thugs don’t like getting up early.

He circled all the way around the rear of the truck to the left-side cargo door, unlocked it, threw the double action handle mechanism that held it shut, and opened it, gently walking the heavy door to the fully open position. After giving the firing team quiet looks, he retreated to the rear of the truck.

Ulysses looked down the sights of the M18, though this close it wasn’t necessary. Still, he put the sight right on the lock of the house door. While he did that, Autumn took a last look at the rear end of the weapon, made sure it was lined up with an opening they’d deliberately cut into the opposite wall of the cargo area to allow the back blast of the rifle to exhaust safely. She slapped him on his right shoulder.

Ulysses pulled the trigger, there was an audible click that almost sounded like a misfire, and the small cannon fired. The impact was instant, the high explosive round blew part of the first door of the Boyd Avenue hideout into several pieces, destroying it completely. Jeff and Decker leaned away from the weapon in opposite directions, their ears ringing, inside the truck the muzzle blast was deafening. Unfazed, Autumn opened the smoking breech, used a multi-tool to pry the shell casing out, reloaded it while looking at the hideout entrance, searching for movement. Seeing none, she closed the breech, slapped Ulysses on his shoulder, and he fired again, the armor piercing round traveling right through the inner door.

“NO! H-E!” Ulysses shouted at her as Autumn realized the mistake she’d made, and this time after prying out the hot shell casing, she loaded a H-E round. She slapped Ulysses on the shoulder, he fired again, and the high explosive round blew the inside door into fragments.

¥

K Black had been discussing with Nate the huge news of what had happened at the ‘Dippin’ Hard’ cookout. Teri was in the basement with two of the dykes she was helping to bring up, plotting on their next step with Saturday. Quan was relaxing on the ratty couch playing a video game. The multi-gender thugs did not hear the truck pull up outside, it was a gentle morning as far as they were concerned. There were only a few more Boyd Avenue personnel present in the old house.

The first small high explosive round from the GEU recoilless rifle had not penetrated the combined sheetrock and plywood walls though it obliterated the outer door, and it shocked them. The absolute power of the blast was so stunning that they froze after the initial jolt. The armor piercing round that Autumn accidentally loaded next for the shot at the inner door was not fired in vain, though it went right through the door. It ricocheted slightly, hit K Black’s right elbow, he had been standing near the never used kitchen, and the AP round tore off the man’s arm at that joint and threw him against a far wall, before continuing out the rear of the building.

Teri rushed up the stairs and came through the basement door. Nate still stood in shock, and Quan rose up off the couch just as the third shot, this time the high explosive round that Autumn correctly loaded up for Ulysses, blasted the inner door. Shards of wood and metal shrapnel peppered the two men and thick Lesbian. Quan fell onto a small piece of the door that was blown inward on the floor, and Nate dove behind the couch, and Teri’s rolls of fat absorbed the shards that hit her.

¥

“GO!” Jeff peeked to see if the door was gone, and it was, and he shouted the order as he leapt out of the truck, Decker behind him. Stone advanced from where he was standing, Ulysses rose up from behind the recoilless rifle, and together the four men headed into the house two by two, meaning two charged while two provided overwatch, doing this successively. Autumn came out of the truck next, pistol tucked into her pants in a low-profile holster, and an Esse Izula knife in a low-profile sheath strapped to her thigh. If on her first meeting with the G.E.U. she had been inappropriately attired, today she was geared up, and the lavender colored knife strapped to her thigh completed the look. But this stuff wasn’t just for looks, though her role was to guard the truck and cover the team’s exit from the house.

Somehow, going in, all four men bypassed Teri as she staggered out the little building, and let her go by. Autumn saw opportunity and ran at her withdrawing the small knife from its polymer sheath.

Teri opened her eyes in time to see Autumn running at her with the small concealable knife in hand. She staggered to her right, causing Autumn to abort the angled stab move she was attempting, and Teri, now scared into full consciousness, took off up the street. Autumn braked on her feet, but with her momentum having been committed to the initial thrust, it took her a half-second to change direction, which was when Teri took off.

The terrified female thug looked back over her shoulder to see a woman with a knife coming at her. Not knowing Autumn was the angry mother of her victim, it was clear she was hostile. Teri opened herself out to a full sprint, which was probably an ordinary trot for normal sized people, but impressive for a woman probably an even one hundred pounds overweight. The chase didn’t last more than a couple of seconds, as Autumn shoved Teri from behind. Teri fought to keep her balance, but once the majority of her two hundred and fifty pounds had leaned past the center of her body’s axis of rotation, no amount of effort was going to defy physics, and down she went.

Even as she went down, Autumn launched herself once more, knife still in hand, but this time led with her foot, in a boot, not a masculine men’s boot, nor a high heel boot, but still a feminine boot made from leather with a solid flat sole and hard heel, and when her foot in that boot stomped down on Teri’s head, it was like a mallet on an anvil.

Autumn continued stomping at Teri maniacally, then kicking, then more stomping, ignoring Teri’s cries. She was in a rage and saw the leader of the dyke gang that attacked her son, and a gang member who had participated in a wave of terror that changed a city. Teri had also corrupted many a young woman, and for Autumn this moment was the culmination of her involvement in this campaign of retribution. Autumn grabbed a handful of Teri’s short locked hair, pulled tight, put her knee in the moaning woman’s back, pulled Teri's head so that her throat was stretched, and in one motion jammed the knife around and in. Teri’s body jerked, but Autumn held tight, held the handle of the blade tight, and looked back at the assault scene as she felt blood run across her hand.

Ulysses rushed into the Boyd Avenue gang’s hangout, and though he had an assault type rifle, he transitioned to his pistol to negotiate the blasted out but narrow building entry. To his left he saw Quan half laying against what was left of the door on the floor, and without a word or anger, he politely shot the man twice. He kept moving, quick, because Jeff had preceded him into the building, and he wanted K Black just as much as the GEU leader did.

¥

At the police stationhouse, science officer Dorn was startled by officer Singh who entered his laboratory abruptly. The female officer’s facial expression looked urgent.

“Is there a problem?”

“The sonar team just picked up two explosions.” Dorn looked at the officer, eyes wide open waiting for more. “On Boyd Avenue.”

“EVERYBODY GRAB YOUR STUFF! WE GOTTA MOVE NOW!” He slammed a cabinet shut, opened another and retrieved his service pistol.

“Hey Sergeant Neal, I’m gonna call the Chief from the car! I recommend you notify your commander.”

“Will do!”

In just a few moments they were rushing down a corridor, Science Officer Dorn, SGT Neal, and six officers wearing body armor under their shirts.

“Dorn, what’s our ETA?”

“This early, light traffic, no more than a few minutes.” As they burst out a push bar door, he pointed at a grey sedan. “That one!” They headed for the vehicle, and in seconds they were inside, shifted into gear, and fell in behind two large police SUVs with lights and sirens raising the alarm. The mini convoy swerved out the enclosed parking area, and as they weaved down the street, a thought came to Science Officer Dorn.

“Hey Neal!”

“What?”

“If we get there while this is still hot, stay in the car.”

“I’ll try.”

“No . . . Neal, if anything happens to you, they’ll hang me. You gotta stay out of the line of fire.”

Sergeant Neal sighed. “Okay.” He looked out the passenger side window and mumbled, “Even though I’ve been to combat.”

Dorn didn’t hear him, extracted his personal device from a jacket pocket, and held down number three on the screen, a pre-set for the police chief.

“Sir! This is officer Dorn. We’re on the way to a location pinpointed by the detection team, two explosions or muzzle blasts on Boyd Avenue!” He jerked the wheel after almost sideswiping a parked car.

“Okay Dorn! Good man! Let me know what you find when you arrive on scene!”

The call complete, Dorn focused on his driving, noticed that the Staff Sergeant was bracing himself against the seat and door using both hands.

¥

Inside the house, Jeff saw K Black laying against the far wall, moaning terribly, but was unsure of who else was down the stairs to his left. He motioned to Decker to peek down the stairs quickly while he pointed his weapon at the basement opening. By now, Ulysses and Stone were inside, and Stone spotted Nate’s hand, holding a pistol, rise from behind the sofa. The unemotional man pumped a series of rounds into the couch, where he imagined Nate was, and the hand dropped. He combat-stepped to the end of the sofa to confirm Nate was dead, looked back at Ulysses, who understood the look. Ulysses searched the room with his eyes and focused on the moaning Black.

Decker, meanwhile, signaled to Jeff the stairwell was clear, and the GEU leader pointed at Stone. Stone, in turn broke Ulysses’ focus on K Black and motioned to follow him to the opening. He reached into a cargo pocket on his pants and came out with one of the improvised smoke bombs they preferred. Next, he quickly dug out a cigar torch in another pocket, used it to light the improvised device. Just before the burning fuse reached the propellant, Stone threw it down the stairwell, but at an angle so that it bounced off a wall and rebounded around a corner into the unseen room.

Within moments, coughing and gagging could be heard, and then the two men tiptoed down the steps to the first landing. They next went back into cargo pockets on their pants and came out with diving goggles and drywall respirators, put those on, and continued.

Stone hit the basement floor without stopping, and in the semi-thick black and yellow and white smoke saw movement to his left near an oil tank. He looked down his sights, even at this close range, and popped two quick rounds into the human form hunched over, and as whoever it was flung themselves to the floor in an involuntary muscle spasm, he popped one more round into its head, whoever it was. At the same time, Ulysses went right, and walked right into the other female thug, who immediately swung at him blindly. Her lucky punch caught him in his temple, and he stumbled sideways, exclaiming, “Shit!”

Stone whipped around, saw a large form in the cloud, and a smaller form. He aimed at the smaller form, but was unsure of what he was seeing, and held his fire. “Shoot this bastard!” He saw the larger form, who had to be Ulysses, pointing at the smaller, and he fired, causing the female thug to jerk suddenly to the side. By now, Ulysses had recovered, and he went after her, over and over kicking her midsection viciously.

“Just shoot! We don’t have time for this!” Stone shouted the instruction, and Ulysses used his pistol to triple tap three bullets into whoever this was he was fighting. There was silence.

“Is that it?” He looked around the thick haze, thought to himself that maybe the smoke wasn’t such a good idea.

“I don’t know, but we gotta go.”

“I can’t see! No smoke next time!”

Stone turned for the stairs, shouted upward, “Two coming out!” Over his shoulder to Ulysses under his breath he mumbled, “I don’t like it either, but it’s the only option we had.”

“Two coming up!” Jeff shouted the proper response, and Jeff turned toward K Black, who was barely conscious but quite incoherent in his pain. He went over to the captain thug, intending to punch and beat him, but then his own conscious tugged him. He drew his pistol, that same Sig Sauer classic that he carried since he and Decker began this enterprise, the one he’d defended himself with the week before, pointed it at K Black’s face, and before the thug could muster the words, ‘are you gonna shoot me?’, fired and killed him.

“What’re you doin’?” Ulysses emerged from the stairs just as the shot was fired, and looked at Jeff in shock, standing over the horribly mangled K Black, the man he wanted to extinguish with his own hand.

“This bothers you?” His eyes were wide with disbelief, and almost mocking. “I thought this is what you were here for!”

“It doesn’t bother me! He was supposed to be mine! You send me to the basement to BS with two underlings while you got the prize? This was personal! I just wanted him myself . . . I wanted to give him the same mercy my friend got; the same as my cousin got. He was supposed to suffer!” Ulysses stared at Jeff hard, tensed, and everyone froze, but Jeff had had enough.

“You’ve been a problem since we picked you up, you know that? He’s done! We did it! Doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger, we got it done. But it must be your way, ‘the odds be damned, put all the chips in’. Since the mortar episode we should have left you out!”

“You couldn’t’ve made this raid happen without me!”

Decker cut in and became the voice of reason: “Have this argument later! We have to go!” He was looking at the timer on his watch, they had been there two minutes, way too long. “Let’s go! Now!”

Meanwhile, the three police vehicles carrying science officer Dorn, Staff Sergeant Neal, and six well-armed officers turned onto Boyd Avenue at breakneck speed, kicking up dust and litter. The few people on the street stopped and watched the mini convoy race by at an even more urgent speed than the usual at which they responded to emergency calls.

Autumn could hear the sirens approaching, and ran to the gate of the house, shouted toward the now open entrance. “WE ARE WAAAY PAST! LET’S GO! THEY’RE ALMOST HERE!” Looking around, she saw a man with a dog watching from a far corner. “WE HAVE TO GO . . . NOW!”

The four men suddenly rushed out the house, Stone heading for the cab of the truck, Jeff diving into the cargo area first and helping the others in. The vehicle was moving as they pulled Jeff inside last. Stone tried to look as normal as possible as they turned the first corner off Boyd Avenue, as the police turned onto Boyd behind them.

THIRTY EIGHT

Ṫhe Mayor, Chief Troup, Colonel Ferrara, and a host of the city staff watched the monitor in Mayor Gray’s office in silence. Mayor Gray felt defeat, Chief Troup felt impotent, Colonel Ferrara felt indifferent. Their positions all abutted one another, from the Mayor’s aim of not letting these vigilantes steal the spotlight, to the Chief’s goal of not losing his job, to the Colonel being both dismayed but impressed at the level of civilian tactical inventiveness. They all wanted the campaign they had no control over to end, but for different reasons.

The news feed showed a complete mess on Boyd Avenue, in and around a location that was thought to be an abandoned addict’s flophouse but was actually headquarters for the Boyd Avenue gang. The news crew alternated video of bloody heaps inside, one outside, large wood splinters and debris everywhere. There were onlookers behind an improvised perimeter and the Assistant Chief could be seen in the background directing and conversing with other personnel. He took out his personal device, punched in a number, and looked around as he rose it to his ear.

Chief Troup’s device buzzed. “This you Ralph?”

“Yes Sir.” Troup looked at the Mayor, who figured the person Chief Troup was talking to had to be the same man who could be seen on camera. “Six dead Sir. Three male, three females. One of the females was killed away from the main crime scene by a medium sized blade or cutting instrument, the rest of the victims from gunshot wounds. We don’t have identities yet.”

“What about the shooters?”

“Nothing Sir. Nothing yet . . . just shell casings all over the place. Evidence of at least two explosions. Believe it or not, we found several recently burned homemade smoke bombs. We must have just missed them, the smoke haze was still fresh, one smoke bomb was still hot.” The Mayor and Colonel Ferrara perked up, though they could only hear one side of the conversation. Chief Troup transferred the communication to a conference call speaker.

“Assistant Chief, I have you on speaker, we’re in the Mayor’s office.” That was his way of warning Ralph Rodriguez to be careful before he spoke. “Are these smoke bombs similar to what was found at the cookout massacre?”

“Exactly sir.”

The Mayor exclaimed the words as a question: “Smoke bombs? Chief Rodriguez, are these like the stupid little round things you can get at the amusement park?”

“Not exactly Sir, these were made using homemade chemicals, pretty noxious stuff. As the Department Chief stated, exactly alike the devices used at the cookout incident.” After no response the man went on. “But this location seems to have been a stash house of some sort, we found a concealed exit in the back, a few weapons, some mattresses, but no sign of homestead; the fridge was empty.”

“Homemade smoke bombs?” The Mayor mused out loud, then suggested, “Well, they’re not professionals--”

“If you don’t mind Sir, let us make that determination.” With that, Chief Troup turned off the conference speaker and returned the call to his device. He didn’t want too much said toa the mixed company present. “I took you off speaker Ralph. What else you got?”

“Hang on Sir.” There was the sound of someone speaking to the Assistant Chief, they all looked back at the monitor and as the on-scene reporter rattled on, they could see Chief Ralph Rodriguez conversing with a lieutenant. There was a flurry of activity suddenly as he gestured wildly and every officer present ordered all present, including the news crew, to clear the area.

“Chief?” His tone was more alarmed this time.

“Yeah, what’s going on? We’re on pins and needles over here, we can see on the news you’re pushing the crowd back and expanding your cordon.”

“We found either a large caliber rifle round or a small caliber unexploded explosive round.”

“WHAT?” Chief Troup took the receiver away from his head, covered the mouthpiece, and mouthed to his colleagues, ‘They found an explosive round’.

“Ralph, call Science Officer Dorn—"

“He’s here Chief. He’s the one who found it.” At that moment, a second call came in on Chief Troup’s device. He looked at the screen, it showed the face of Officer Dorn. “Chief Rodriguez, I gotta take another call. Keep me informed.”

“Yes Sir.” Troup tapped his screen. “Dorn? What d’ya have?”

“A small artillery type round, I haven’t seen one of these in ages. Staff Sergeant Neal from National Defense Force thinks it’s a fifty-five-millimeter round for a light artillery rifle, like an old school recoilless rifle. Sir, I don’t think those are even made anymore.”

“Anything else Dorn?”

“That all for now Sir. I’ll update you and Assistant Chief Rodriquez whenever I can.”

“Solid work Dorn.” Chief Troup disconnected, let out a deep breath.

“You gonna fill us in?” The Mayor looked at his police chief very annoyed.

Chief Troup looked at Colonel Ferrara. “What’s a recoilless rifle?” The military officer looked surprised. “Science Officer Dorn found an unexploded round in an earthen area behind the incident location. There was a hole straight through every wall of the house . . . it must’ve passed through without exploding. A dud maybe?”

“A recoilless rifle is a light infantry small artillery piece that can be disassembled and carried short distances or mounted on small vehicles. But they’re ancient, no modern force uses it anymore. You might find one—” At that moment Colonel Ferrara’s personal phone rang, he extracted it from a black portfolio next to him, raised his finger to tell everyone to let him take the call. There were a series of ‘uh huhs as he stood and moved to a corner. After two minutes he was back.

“That was our explosives tech. He says the round was definitely a recoilless rifle round, and that it was armor piercing.” He let out a deep breath, “Your Honor, Chief, you may not be dealing with professionals, but you’re definitely not dealing with amateurs either. I’m going to see how far our administrative people have gotten scouring the active and formerly active rolls for military personnel who live in the area.”

The senior military officer resumed his earlier thought: “But as I was saying, recoilless rifles—you can find them among collectors of military surplus, usually out in rural areas, out in the ‘sticks’. But I’d bet this came from Ranchland. Same for the ammunition, there’s guys out there who machine the rounds themselves. For a modest price, all kinds of weapons like this can be acquired. I’d guess that’s how this one was procured by your vigilante squad.”

Everyone sat quietly except for Chief Troup and Colonel Ferrara, both of whom became busy on their personal devices directing subordinates.

THIRTY NINE

Štone drove the truck into an alleyway that led to a poorly paved area behind an electronics store, parked beneath a slight overhang that hid the truck, and the GEU hopped out and set about surrounding the vehicle with garbage and junk. Within minutes it looked like part of the mess. They put a large canvas bag holding the rifles into an old boring looking pickup truck, which Stone started and drove off, taking the recoilless rifle’s tripod. Ulysses broke down the M80 recoilless rifle into the parts, giving each member of the team a piece, giving Jeff a silent middle finger with his, and they quietly split up, leaving the open area in different directions.

Stone headed north, pulled into a driveway about three miles away, and stashed the heavy bag with the rifles in a detached garage. He pulled out again, stopped at a prearranged backyard, threw the tripod over the fence and kept driving.

Jeff drove off in an embarrassingly modest hatchback car, the kind students in a state college would use to go buy pizza and beer in. After traveling a mile east, he entered a fence builder’s shop, handed his piece of the barrel to an apprentice who put it on a forklift and lifted it to a high storage shelf. He backed out, drove to Chappie James boulevard and parked, leaving the key in it. Someone would come get it later.

Decker walked south, taking his piece that included the breech and waited at an intersection, lighting a cigarette though he was not a smoker. In thirty seconds, a pickup truck pulled out of the gas station across the street, stopped at the light, ensuring to be last in the line of cars. He turned and walked toward and into the Jackson avenue underpass. As he neared the bottom, the pick-up stopped next to him, he walked to it, sat his piece in the truck’s bed, and resumed walking as the unknown pick-up took off when the traffic signal changed. He threw the cigarette to the ground.

Ulysses rode west on a bicycle at a leisurely pace, and when he passed through a preset spot in the park, exchanged head nods with a young Park’s Department worker in a drabby green jumpsuit uniform. He then stopped at the public toilet a few yards away, went in, and left the bag in a stall. After he left, the young man went in, retrieved the bag that still smelled of gunpowder, the most incriminating evidence, and disappeared into the woods behind the building. As Ulysses rode away, still at a leisurely pace, the young man dropped the bag into a pre-dug hole that only he knew the location of and refilled the hole with dirt.

Autumn also headed west and boarded a public transit bus headed in that direction. She sat in the back of the unusually empty bus, and after it crossed a bridge that passed over the Lucky Rock River, she got off at the first stop. Not detecting any surveillance or pursuit, Autumn walked back onto the bridge, and threw her knife and the remaining smoke bombs into the water below. Afterwards, instead of following instructions to depart, she stayed for a long while and watched the river.

¥

There are unforeseen results of a statement or act. Though an Army may be victorious, the reaction may be with either praise or scorn. The citizenry had had enough of the constant reports of gang violence coming out of the bad side of the city, but this ‘GEU’, this self-appointed band of hit men knocking off criminals, was frightening to some, electrifying to others. As a result, the Chief of Law Enforcement, at the behest of the mayor, ordered his department to follow every lead they had. And so did the remnants of the Boyd Avenue Gang.

By that evening, Colonel Ferrara delivered to Chief Troup a roster of every discharged member of the National Defense Force in the city. The investigation team filtered the list by tips they received and hit nothing. Then they filtered it by the possible launch sites for the mortar attack and saw a flag for a former Soldier: Ulysses Van Hawkins. Science officer Dorn’s tactical search had found nothing after the working dog and explosives detector both gave positive readings. The privacy laws would not allow further investigation without tangible evidence, so the tip was not followed further.

A team was constituted, led by science officer Dorn, and he returned to the man’s apartment door along with officer Singh, with a tactical team close by. With no answer, and no signs of activity, the team breached the door to the apartment only to find it empty. A complete search found nothing, this time not even a ‘hit’ from testing equipment. The building maintenance staff had no idea of Mr. Van Hawkins’ whereabouts, and neighbors said the friendly grinning man had not mentioned anything of significance.

A digital profile request was ordered, showing that his personal device switched off network that morning, and a similar request to local transportation hubs revealed no travel plans. At the moment, Ulysses was unlocatable.

Tabitha Singh broke away from the team to ‘check something out’.

An hour after the constable force departed, a short distance away Tone eased his car into a space under a low tree and across the street from Stacy William’s apartment. He nodded at Tabitha Singh, who pulled away in her cruiser, sending a report to her superiors that there was no sign of the Stacy Williams. Tone sat waiting and watching, the curvy promoter would not be difficult to spot. If she was with this ‘Ulysses’ person, that meant she was a traitor, had double-crossed the Boyd Avenue Gang and K Black. With his cronies dead, he would make her pay.

But how long would he have to wait?

FORTY

NOT SO FAST . . .

Ä

s they staged around the corner from 1330 Robert Smalls Avenue, the detectives in a van pointed through the front window to a cream colored Nigerian ‘Crosswind’, the sportscar manufactured in Nigeria by a new auto company raising their nation’s profile to ‘first-world’ status, but more importantly, the car that was owned by Decker of the Gang Extermination Unit. Jennifer Pond nodded, affirming that that was the fancy vehicle he owned. She was then escorted from the surveillance van to a car not participating in the raid, as the officers remaining in the van strapped on weapons holsters and ballistic protection. She was getting the last laugh after being blown off by the detective she spoke to a few days before. After Boyd Avenue mess, they revisited Mrs. Pond and with further research determined that the Boyd Avenue gang owned a vehicle similar to the one they had gotten into a traffic dispute with, and that it was the Boyd Avenue girls who beat up the victim Jennifer and Decker eventually helped.

It didn’t help that Tabitha Singh submitted fake tips that Decker had been observed by neighbors mixing motor oil and liquified butane on his terrace.

The law enforcement apprehensions team pulled their vehicle into an open space in front of the newly refinished building, exited the van from the opposite side, and tactically stacked three officers facing toward the nose of the van and three toward the tail. Decker, sitting on his first-floor apartment mini terrace sipping coffee, watched the van curiously and was surprised when a voice called out to him through a megaphone, demanding his surrender. He did not expect this, and the sun shining on him now had new meaning.

It was to be his last daylight as a free man.

Decker sat his coffee down, raised his hands slowly, and law enforcement officers streamed from either side of the vehicle, the first team with their weapons pointed at him. They moved to positions flanking the left, right, and front of the terrace. The second team entered the building and a few moments later could be heard over the radios telling the first team to scale the terrace and enter the apartment.

A well-equipped tactical officer managed to get a foot on the railing around the garden below, stepped up on that, to get a hand hold onto the terrace rail, pulled himself up, and as he carefully lifted a leg over and onto the terrace floor, the two men met eyes. The man saw in Decker’s eyes the resignation of a soul to its fate, the heartbreak of a lost dream, and a life that would not be as it was ever again. In the officer’s eyes Decker saw pity, saw empathy, saw compassion, even as he raised his short-barreled assault rifle and kept it pointed, Decker knew the man, didn’t want to approach him that way, it was the training that a possible threat is never treated with complacency until under control or neutralized. Decker could see the other two officers perform the same maneuver and now all three had him surrounded. The first officer motioned to the other two, who disappeared through the terrace patio doors, and then the other three in the hallway were in his apartment, searching. The detectives exited the van and approached the terrace, guns drawn, and Decker remained motionless.

The detectives addressed Decker by name again, thanked him for surrendering without incident, and asked him to slowly rise and be handcuffed. Decker stood slowly, looked at the first officer, who whispered ‘please’; and he calmly responded ‘okay’ as he stood to surrender, looking straight ahead; the officer whispered, ‘we don’t want to, we understand, but we have to’; and Decker whispered, ‘I know’.

¥

Shawn and Saturday watched the news alert in shock. Shawn was amazed at how the karma he had often heard spoken of had found the proper victims. The gangs in the city and the loose hoodlums with no gang affiliation had ruined everyday life and torn down culture. But someone had stepped up and taken their violence back to those bad actor’s doorstep. Maybe a night out could be safe and fun again, maybe violence could be something that only happens on some faraway battlefield.

Saturday was stunned that people she knew, her tormentors, were in the news, killed by the lifestyle they led. It was scary to wonder that if she had been at the ‘house’ she would be on the news too, her picture among the slayings. But the thought was overridden by the one thousand five hundred dollars she had hidden to pay back the Boyd Avenue crew. They were not going to collect. That money was going to pay for a dance class, and a gift for Shawn and a gift for his mother. And with a final smile of relief, she relaxed onto Shawn’s shoulder as he wordlessly pressed a remote-control button, tuning in to a movie.

¥

Stone watched from his office across the street as Decker was led into the station house in handcuffs. This was a terrible turn, that a good man such as Decker, who had a high degree of commitment to the resurgence of the city culture and its real estate infrastructure, and to the neighborhood, would be the one to be crucified for attempting to restore order to the city. In his opinion, the mayor was worthless and had no solution, the police were handcuffed by the administration, the people were afraid, and Decker had been one-half of the brain trust that took action.

Stone thought of the time Decker had ministered to him; though not a man of the cloth, he helped Stone recover his inner spirit after a divorce that nearly broke him. Decker was a God-fearing man, and he was going to need that now, more than he ever had before. ‘The bleeding-heart politicians and activists of the city are going make an example of him, he may very nearly be nailed to a cross like the Jesus of that bible he read to me’. But right now, staring brokenhearted because he could do nothing for Decker, Stone was sobered. That man is now alone, alone as one is when they are born, and as when they die.

Also sobering, this meant the end of the Gang Extermination Unit. Decker was a key component, so anyone or anything associated with him would come under surveillance and investigation. Activity would now be foolish and impossible.

With that, Stoney Pritchard sat at his desk and reviewed the newest security contract offer for his company.

FORTY ONE

First, Mayor Gray and Chief Troup were briefed in private by the detectives who apprehended Decker. There was a tip from a former girlfriend, and video of the suspect purchasing the components in the next county a week before. They had meticulously examined the residue from the cheap pyrotechnic, and in an incredible stroke of luck, the brand used was a new mix of ingredients that no other retailer would sell due to instability, only one shop had taken a chance on the new product. Decker had wisely paid with cash, but he could not elude five detectives on overtime going through forty-eight hours of video in almost ten hours. The Mayor summoned his chief of staff to prepare mayoral awards for the detectives involved for ‘good law enforcement work’.

Next, he listened to science officer Dorn describe the encounter at Ulysses’ apartment. He was piqued at the revelation that the woman who had planned his inaugural event was also the same woman who had been in a possible suspect’s apartment. He didn’t want to believe she could be involved in the violence, and cash register receipts confirmed she was at a local tea house during two of the incidents, and a witness could confirm her presence at the precinct for another.

But Chief Troup insisted that his objectivity was compromised, he’d seen the way the mayor looked at the curvaceous younger woman, probably the most alluring he had been around in his stale life. Mayor Gray dismissed it as the Chief having a bias against her. They had both been savaged in newspapers because of the incident at one of her parties that resulted in a brawl and one of his officers shooting a partygoer. The Mayor laid down his edict: The Chief would be commended publicly, keep his job, but he would also keep his officers off Stacy Williams.

The Mayor asked everyone to leave, it had been a long twenty-four hours; he stole a long nap in a large walk-in closet, warning only his thinly framed male assistant. He directed the frail man to not bother him, any business could wait. An hour later he awoke groggily and went out to the outer office to find out if anything had transpired. The assistant pointed at a row of chairs, now empty except for a lone visitor: Jeff Jones.

When the high-voiced man summoned, Jeff popped to his feet and approached the Mayor wearing a humble smile. The two men shook hands, Jeff’s grip confident, the Mayor’s grip unsure, and they retreated to his office. Jeff congratulated him on the city’s success in capturing one of the vigilantes, while Mayor Gray noted that Jeff’s speeches and activism derided gangs, and he’d thought the activist would have been happier about the murder of the Boyd Avenue people. Jeff chided the Mayor by citing that he didn’t believe in answering violence with violence, words he uttered with no conviction.

Mayor Gray looked at him sideways, and there was a long silence. He’d only met Jeff once before, and it was only for a moment at a public event. The few communications with the G.E.U. founder after that were by other means. It was better that way; the relationship between them, or the apparent lack of that, enabled him plausible deniability.

He then inquired about the business with the mortar attack on K Black—the incident had forced him into a tough position without warning. Jeff explained that a new and overzealous team member had acted without permission, but the man had since been reined in. ‘Unfortunately,’ he confirmed, ‘operations are suspended indefinitely’, describing the heightened sensitivity of the public to some sort of street war taking place. Mayor Gray admitted he was okay with the development, that he just allowed the Boyd Avenue gang take-down to happen because of the problems they caused for Stacy Williams. He seemed to dream as he said her name and wanted an assurance that she had not been involved in any of the attacks, which Jeff gave. Jeff was relieved that he had no clue about Ulysses.

Seizing his opportunity, Jeff inquired about Decker; what could be done to rein in his department that had custody of Decker in a holding pen. The Mayor sighed, provided no answer, which caused the air between them to suddenly grow stale. Jeff rose to leave.

“I cannot intervene at present. It would be counter to everything I said publicly and could expose us all. Me, you, Stacy, and whoever else you recruited. We knew that there was a chance that you could lose someone, or even yourself. When the time is right, I’ll do what I can, but right now, we have to take this on the chin.”

“No, he—Decker . . . is taking it on the chin. We’re just watching. Doing nothing.”

“What would you recommend?”

“If you bring the Chief in—”

“Are you kidding? Crazy?” The mayor’s shoulders slumped as he made an admission: “I did this to save my political future. The more people who know that, the more I risk exposure. We, the progressive thinkers of Austland, made a mistake in judgement.”

“Mistake? Mistake!” Jeff’s face screwed into a rarely displayed frown.

“Jones, we thought that by now these problems would have worked themselves out, that by saturating some of the challenged neighborhoods and peoples with leniency and charity that the people there would trust in us, and thereby follow the model of progressivism that turns away from destructive behaviors—”

“Wrong.” Jeff bit his lower lip on the right side of his mouth

“— and we were wrong. That’s why I let you and your group operate. But the think tank that enabled my election would hang me if I were to cut your friend loose. They are unable to admit that our utopia has not lived up to the promised vision and see your group as even worse than the gangs.”

“The chief is part of this progressive think tank?”

“No. Actually, he’s partial to vigilantes running around. We’ve had arguments about it. But I have these bleeding hearts on my back, so I threatened his job to make things look good. If you people hadn’t gone this far, it could have all went away. But my hand is forced, so I leaned on him to make arrests, and this apprehension bolsters the law enforcement approval from the more intellectual public. If I got your guy out, the chief would feed me to them. Jeff, I cannot offer cover for your partner. Be happy it isn’t you.”

“You’re out of your mind. This is a mess of you people’s making. Get my guy out of your jail. I watched your interest in Stacy, and how very far that goes. You protected your friend . . . now I want to protect mine.”

“No.”

The men stared at one another. Jeff was not going to leave that office without something to help Decker, and the Mayor could see that. But Mayor Gray was not going to risk his political life, and Jeff could see that. The silence was intense, their thoughts were like tectonic plates colliding, but neither wanted the impending earthquake.

FORTY TWO

In the back corner of a restaurant on Booker T Concourse, Autumn described her admiration of Jeff Jones, and Stacy hers of Ulysses Van Hawkins. The plan was to leave word at an open website discussion board of everyone’s status, but one of the four men had not checked in as agreed, and the two women were concerned. That concern was not alleviated when Stacy looked at one of the televisions mounted in the serene establishment and saw the ‘news flash alert’, with a graphic that read, suspect in gang war captured.

She tapped Autumn who turned to see as well, and they gasped at the sight of Decker in handbraces being led into a stationhouse by law enforcement officers. They looked at one another, and at the same time in low volume closed their eyes in despair emitting, “NO!”.

“We’re not going back to our apartments.” Stacy looked down at her food, suddenly she was no longer hungry.

“Yeah, good idea.” Autumn took out her personal device, called her son. As she listened to the ringing on the other end, she whispered to Stacy, ‘I won’t say too much’. Shawn answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

She was relieved he answered. “Shawn, I want you to leave the house.”

“What? You told me to stay in, not to go out.”

“I know. Look, I can’t waste time. Pack a bag, go to your Uncle’s place outside Austland. Do you have money?”

“Yes.” There was a pause. “This is weird.”

“I know. Do it.” Autumn hung up, sighed. What next?

“Let’s get a room, chill out a couple days. Do some girl shit like eat ice cream, drink wine, watch TV, and talk about men.”

“That’s a plan.” They summoned the server, paid their bill and briskly exited the restaurant.

¥

Jeff knelt at the altar in the empty church, it was open for some reason, and he was right up front at the altar. When he and Decker began their campaign to wipe out the gangs, deep inside he thought that if anything happened, it would be to him, not his partner. Jeff felt a guilt that consumed him, and he remembered Decker discussing the holy principle of forgiveness. If his friend could risk it all, the least he could do would be to appeal to the man’s God. He didn’t know what to say to this mysterious God, but he said a lot. At some point, the pastor ofsaw him, came over and rested a hand on his shoulder, and prayed with him.

Then he was alone again, and he continued to beg for mercy for his friend, from a God he himself denied existed most of his adult life. He’d made fun of Christians, ridiculed spiritual beliefs, and laughed at sanctuaries. But now, he wanted Decker free more than he wanted to win a debate he had sought for years with the religious believers. If doing this would get Decker free, Jeff was willing to give it a try; he knew that in the holding cell in the stationhouse the God-Fearing man was doing the same thing.

After a time, he felt he had asked for all he could, and drifted out the empty sanctuary. The prayer helped him calm the emotion he had been overcome with, and he knew that he would try the prayer thing again very soon. It was comforting. Jeff nuzzled his head into a soft brown porkpie hat, looked over his shoulder casually, and walked. By now the afternoon sun had given way to the orange blue of dusk, and he merged into the moderate shuffle of evening rush hour, fading into the anonymity of society.

END

Thank you:

This work would not have been complete without help. First, Christopher Dorn (NYPD, SGT US Army, member VFW post 8300), with whom I enjoyed premium tobacco and fine spirits while reviewing some of the story’s technical aspects. Second, Derrick Culpepper (NYCT), whose past life in a gang and on the streets of Brooklyn, and willingness to read objectively, made him a uniquely qualified evaluator of realness.

Their contributions to the technical, tactical, and cultural authenticity of this story were invaluable.

Thank you, to my wife Pam, who was once again my cheerleader throughout the creative process, and the critical eye I needed at the end.

Additional thanks to JoAnn Henn (Worthy Matron OES), and Jason Neal (SGT US Army, VFW post 8300), for a great picture of me at a book signing that I use to this very day.

www.queenpublishing.pub

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Conrad Queen’s previous work is, “(I Was) Never Quite Black Enough”, his self-published memoir. He resides in Suffolk County New York with his wife and children. He is also a retired First Sergeant, United States Army, holds an associate degree in Counter-Terrorism and is a current employee of New York City Transit.